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diff --git a/old/fsaga11.txt b/old/fsaga11.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7716e54..0000000 --- a/old/fsaga11.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,40522 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forsyte Saga, Complete, by John Galsworthy -#38 in our series by John Galsworthy - -Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the -copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing -this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. - -This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project -Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the -header without written permission. - -Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the -eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is -important information about your specific rights and restrictions in -how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a -donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. - - -**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** - -**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** - -*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** - - -Title: The Forsyte Saga, Complete - -Author: John Galsworthy - -Release Date: August, 2003 [EBook #4397] -[This file was last updated on June 22, 2003] - -Edition: 11 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, COMPLETE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> -With proofing assistance from Fredrik Hausmann - - - - -FORSYTE SAGA--Complete - -By John Galsworthy - - - -Contents: - Volume 1. The Man of Property - Volume 2. Indian Summer of a Forsyte - In Chancery - Volume 3. Awakening - To Let - - - -[Spelling conforms to the original: "s's" instead of our "z's"; -and "c's" where we would have "s's"; and "...our" as in colour -and flavour; many interesting double consonants; etc.] - - -FORSYTE SAGA - -I. THE MAN OF PROPERTY - -By John Galsworthy - - - -VOLUME I - - - -TO MY WIFE: - -I DEDICATE THE FORSYTE SAGA IN ITS ENTIRETY, -BELIEVING IT TO BE OF ALL MY WORKS THE LEAST -UNWORTHY OF ONE WITHOUT WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT, -SYMPATHY AND CRITICISM COULD NEVER HAVE -BECOME EVEN SUCH A WRITER AS I AM. - - - - -PREFACE: - -"The Forsyte Saga" was the title originally destined for that -part of it which is called "The Man of Property"; and to adopt it -for the collected chronicles of the Forsyte family has indulged -the Forsytean tenacity that is in all of us. The word Saga might -be objected to on the ground that it connotes the heroic and that -there is little heroism in these pages. But it is used with a -suitable irony; and, after all, this long tale, though it may -deal with folk in frock coats, furbelows, and a gilt-edged -period, is not devoid of the essential beat of conflict. -Discounting for the gigantic stature and blood-thirstiness of old -days, as they have come down to us in fairy-tale and legend, the -folk of the old Sagas were Forsytes, assuredly, in their -possessive instincts, and as little proof against the inroads of -beauty and passion as Swithin, Soames, or even Young Jolyon. And -if heroic figures, in days that never were, seem to startle out -from their surroundings in fashion unbecoming to a Forsyte of the -Victorian era, we may be sure that tribal instinct was even then -the prime force, and that "family" and the sense of home and -property counted as they do to this day, for all the recent -efforts to "talk them out." - -So many people have written and claimed that their families were -the originals of the Forsytes that one has been almost encouraged -to believe in the typicality of an imagined species. Manners -change and modes evolve, and "Timothy's on the Bayswater Road" -becomes a nest of the unbelievable in all except essentials; we -shall not look upon its like again, nor perhaps on such a one as -James or Old Jolyon. And yet the figures of Insurance Societies -and the utterances of Judges reassure us daily that our earthly -paradise is still a rich preserve, where the wild raiders, Beauty -and Passion, come stealing in, filching security from beneath our -noses. As surely as a dog will bark at a brass band, so will the -essential Soames in human nature ever rise up uneasily against -the dissolution which hovers round the folds of ownership. - -"Let the dead Past bury its dead" would be a better saying if the -Past ever died. The persistence of the Past is one of those -tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies, coming cocksure -on to the stage to mouth its claim to a perfect novelty. - -But no Age is so new as that! Human Nature, under its changing -pretensions and clothes, is and ever will be very much of a -Forsyte, and might, after all, be a much worse animal. - -Looking back on the Victorian era, whose ripeness, decline, and -'fall-of' is in some sort pictured in "The Forsyte Saga," we see -now that we have but jumped out of a frying-pan into a fire. It -would be difficult to substantiate a claim that the case of -England was better in 1913 than it was in 1886, when the Forsytes -assembled at Old Jolyon's to celebrate the engagement of June to -Philip Bosinney. And in 1920, when again the clan gathered to -bless the marriage of Fleur with Michael Mont, the state of -England is as surely too molten and bankrupt as in the eighties -it was too congealed and low-percented. If these chronicles had - -been a really scientific study of transition one would have dwelt -probably on such factors as the invention of bicycle, motor-car, -and flying-machine; the arrival of a cheap Press; the decline of -country life and increase of the towns; the birth of the Cinema. -Men are, in fact, quite unable to control their own inventions; -they at best develop adaptability to the new conditions those -inventions create. - -But this long tale is no scientific study of a period; it is -rather an intimate incarnation of the disturbance that Beauty -effects in the lives of men. - -The figure of Irene, never, as the reader may possibly have -observed, present, except through the senses of other characters, -is a concretion of disturbing Beauty impinging on a possessive -world. - -One has noticed that readers, as they wade on through the salt -waters of the Saga, are inclined more and more to pity Soames, -and to think that in doing so they are in revolt against the mood -of his creator. Far from it! He, too, pities Soames, the -tragedy of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable tragedy -of being unlovable, without quite a thick enough skin to be -thoroughly unconscious of the fact. Not even Fleur loves Soames -as he feels he ought to be loved. But in pitying Soames, readers -incline, perhaps, to animus against Irene: After all, they think, -he wasn't a bad fellow, it wasn't his fault; she ought to have -forgiven him, and so on! - -And, taking sides, they lose perception of the simple truth, -which underlies the whole story, that where sex attraction is -utterly and definitely lacking in one partner to a union, no -amount of pity, or reason, or duty, or what not, can overcome a -repulsion implicit in Nature. Whether it ought to, or no, is -beside the point; because in fact it never does. And where Irene -seems hard and cruel, as in the Bois de Boulogne, or the Goupenor -Gallery, she is but wisely realistic--knowing that the least -concession is the inch which precedes the impossible, the -repulsive ell. - -A criticism one might pass on the last phase of the Saga is the -complaint that Irene and Jolyon those rebels against property-- -claim spiritual property in their son Jon. But it would be -hypercriticism, as the tale is told. No father and mother could -have let the boy marry Fleur without knowledge of the facts; and -the facts determine Jon, not the persuasion of his parents. -Moreover, Jolyon's persuasion is not on his own account, but on -Irene's, and Irene's persuasion becomes a reiterated: "Don't -think of me, think of yourself!" That Jon, knowing the facts, can -realise his mother's feelings, will hardly with justice be held -proof that she is, after all, a Forsyte. - -But though the impingement of Beauty and the claims of Freedom on -a possessive world are the main prepossessions of the Forsyte -Saga, it cannot be absolved from the charge of embalming the -upper-middle class. As the old Egyptians placed around their -mummies the necessaries of a future existence, so I have -endeavoured to lay beside the, figures of Aunts Ann and Juley and -Hester, of Timothy and Swithin, of Old Jolyon and James, and of -their sons, that which shall guarantee them a little life here- -after, a little balm in the hurried Gilead of a dissolving -"Progress." - -If the upper-middle class, with other classes, is destined to -"move on" into amorphism, here, pickled in these pages, it lies -under glass for strollers in the wide and ill-arranged museum of -Letters. Here it rests, preserved in its own juice: The Sense -of Property. - -1922. - - - - -THE MAN OF PROPERTY - -by JOHN GALSWORTHY - - - - -"........ You will answer -The slaves are ours ....." --Merchant of Venice. - - - - -TO EDWARD GARNETT - - - - - -PART I - - -CHAPTER I - -'AT HOME' AT OLD JOLYON'S - - -Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the -Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight--an upper -middle-class family in full plumage. But whosoever of these -favoured persons has possessed the gift of psychological analysis -(a talent without monetary value and properly ignored by the -Forsytes), has witnessed a spectacle, not only delightful in -itself, but illustrative of an obscure human problem. In plainer -words, he has gleaned from a gathering of this family--no branch -of which had a liking for the other, between no three members of -whom existed anything worthy of the name of sympathy--evidence of -that mysterious concrete tenacity which renders a family so -formidable a unit of society, so clear a reproduction of society -in miniature. He has been admitted to a vision of the dim roads -of social progress, has understood something of patriarchal life, -of the swarmings of savage hordes, of the rise and fall of -nations. He is like one who, having watched a tree grow from its -planting--a paragon of tenacity, insulation, and success, amidst -the deaths of a hundred other plants less fibrous, sappy, and -persistent--one day will see it flourishing with bland, full -foliage, in an almost repugnant prosperity, at the summit of its -efflorescence. - -On June 15, eighteen eighty-six, about four of the afternoon, the -observer who chanced to be present at the house of old Jolyon -Forsyte in Stanhope Gate, might have seen the highest -efflorescence of the Forsytes. - -This was the occasion of an 'at home' to celebrate the engagement -of Miss June Forsyte, old Jolyon's granddaughter, to Mr. Philip -Bosinney. In the bravery of light gloves, buff waistcoats, -feathers and frocks, the family were present, even Aunt Ann, who -now but seldom left the comer of her brother Timothy's green -drawing-room, where, under the aegis of a plume of dyed pampas -grass in a light blue vase, she sat all day reading and knitting, -surrounded by the effigies of three generations of Forsytes. -Even Aunt Ann was there; her inflexible back, and the dignity of -her calm old face personifying the rigid possessiveness of the -family idea. - -When a Forsyte was engaged, married, or born, the Forsytes were -present; when a Forsyte died--but no Forsyte had as yet died; -they did not die; death being contrary to their principles, they -took precautions against it, the instinctive precautions of -highly vitalized persons who resent encroachments on their -property. - -About the Forsytes mingling that day with the crowd of other -guests, there was a more than ordinarily groomed look, an alert, -inquisitive assurance, a brilliant respectability, as though they -were attired in defiance of something. The habitual sniff on the -face of Soames Forsyte had spread through their ranks; they were -on their guard. - -The subconscious offensiveness of their attitude has constituted -old Jolyon's 'home' the psychological moment of the family -history, made it the prelude of their drama. - -The Forsytes were resentful of something, not individually, but -as a family; this resentment expressed itself in an added -perfection of raiment, an exuberance of family cordiality, an -exaggeration of family importance, and--the sniff. Danger--so -indispensable in bringing out the fundamental quality of any -society, group, or individual--was what the Forsytes scented; the -premonition of danger put a burnish on their armour. For the -first time, as a family, they appeared to have an instinct of -being in contact, with some strange and unsafe thing. - -Over against the piano a man of bulk and stature was wearing two -waistcoats on his wide chest, two waistcoats and a ruby pin, -instead of the single satin waistcoat and diamond pin of more -usual occasions, and his shaven, square, old face, the colour of -pale leather, with pale eyes, had its most dignified look, above -his satin stock. This was Swithin Forsyte. Close to the window, -where he could get more than his fair share of fresh air, the -other twin, James--the fat and the lean of it, old Jolyon called -these brothers--like the bulky Swithin, over six feet in height, -but very lean, as though destined from his birth to strike a -balance and maintain an average, brooded over the scene with his -permanent stoop; his grey eyes had an air of fixed absorption in -some secret worry, broken at intervals by a rapid, shifting -scrutiny of surrounding facts; his cheeks, thinned by two -parallel folds, and a long, clean-shaven upper lip, were framed -within Dundreary whiskers. In his hands he turned and turned a -piece of china. Not far off, listening to a lady in brown, his -only son Soames, pale and well-shaved, dark-haired, rather bald, -had poked his chin up sideways, carrying his nose with that -aforesaid appearance of 'sniff,' as though despising an egg which -he knew he could not digest. Behind him his cousin, the tall -George, son of the fifth Forsyte, Roger, had a Quilpish look on -his fleshy face, pondering one of his sardonic jests. Something -inherent to the occasion had affected them all. - -Seated in a row close to one another were three ladies--Aunts -Ann, Hester (the two Forsyte maids), and Juley (short for Julia), -who not in first youth had so far forgotten herself as to marry -Septimus Small, a man of poor constitution. She had survived him -for many years. With her elder and younger sister she lived now -in the house of Timothy, her sixth and youngest brother, on the -Bayswater Road. Each of these ladies held fans in their hands, -and each with some touch of colour, some emphatic feather or -brooch, testified to the solemnity of the opportunity. - -In the centre of the room, under the chandelier, as became a -host, stood the head of the family, old Jolyon himself. Eighty -years of age, with his fine, white hair, his dome-like forehead, -his little, dark grey eyes, and an immense white moustache, which -drooped and spread below the level of his strong jaw, he had a -patriarchal look, and in spite of lean cheeks and hollows at his -temples, seemed master of perennial youth. He held himself -extremely upright, and his shrewd, steady eyes had lost none of -their clear shining. Thus he gave an impression of superiority -to the doubts and dislikes of smaller men. Having had his own -way for innumerable years, he had earned a prescriptive right to -it. It would never have occurred to old Jolyon that it was -necessary to wear a look of doubt or of defiance. - -Between him and the four other brothers who were present, James, -Swithin, Nicholas, and Roger, there was much difference, much -similarity. In turn, each of these four brothers was very -different from the other, yet they, too, were alike. - -Through the varying features and expression of those five faces -could be marked a certain steadfastness of chin, underlying -surface distinctions, marking a racial stamp, too prehistoric to -trace, too remote and permanent to discuss--the very hall-mark -and guarantee of the family fortunes. - -Among the younger generation, in the tall, bull-like George, in -pallid strenuous Archibald, in young Nicholas with his sweet and -tentative obstinacy, in the grave and foppishly determined -Eustace, there was this same stamp--less meaningful perhaps, but -unmistakable--a sign of something ineradicable in the family -soul. At one time or another during the afternoon, all these -faces, so dissimilar and so alike, had worn an expression of -distrust, the object of which was undoubtedly the man whose -acquaintance they were thus assembled to make. Philip Bosinney -was known to be a young man without fortune, but Forsyte girls -had become engaged to such before, and had actually married them. -It was not altogether for this reason, therefore, that the minds -of the Forsytes misgave them. They could not have explained the -origin of a misgiving obscured by the mist of family gossip. A -story was undoubtedly told that he had paid his duty call to -Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester, in a soft grey hat--a soft grey -hat, not even a new one--a dusty thing with a shapeless crown. -"So, extraordinary, my dear--so odd," Aunt Hester, passing -through the little, dark hall (she was rather short-sighted), had -tried to 'shoo' it off a chair, taking it for a strange, -disreputable cat--Tommy had such disgraceful friends! She was -disturbed when it did not move. - -Like an artist for ever seeking to discover the significant trifle -which embodies the whole character of a scene, or place, or -person, so those unconscious artists--the Forsytes had fastened by -intuition on this hat; it was their significant trifle, the detail -in which was embedded the meaning of the whole matter; for each -had asked himself: "Come, now, should I have paid that visit in -that hat?" and each had answered "No!" and some, with more -imagination than others, had added: "It would never have come into -my head!" - -George, on hearing the story, grinned. The hat had obviously -been worn as a practical joke! He himself was a connoisseur of -such. "Very haughty!" he said, "the wild Buccaneer." - -And this mot, the 'Buccaneer,' was bandied from mouth to mouth, -till it became the favourite mode of alluding to Bosinney. - -Her aunts reproached June afterwards about the hat. - -"We don't think you ought to let him, dear!" they had said. - -June had answered in her imperious brisk way, like the little -embodiment of will she was: "Oh! what does it matter? Phil -never knows what he's got on!" - -No one had credited an answer so outrageous. A man not to know -what he had on? No, no! What indeed was this young man, who, in -becoming engaged to June, old Jolyon's acknowledged heiress, had -done so well for himself? He was an architect, not in itself a -sufficient reason for wearing such a hat. None of the Forsytes -happened to be architects, but one of them knew two architects -who would never have worn such a hat upon a call of ceremony in -the London season. - -Dangerous--ah, dangerous! June, of course, had not seen this, -but, though not yet nineteen, she was notorious. Had she not -said to Mrs. Soames--who was always so beautifully dressed--that -feathers were vulgar? Mrs. Soames had actually given up wearing -feathers, so dreadfully downright was dear June! - -These misgivings, this disapproval, and perfectly genuine -distrust, did not prevent the Forsytes from gathering to old -Jolyon's invitation. An 'At Home' at Stanhope Gate was a great -rarity; none had been held for twelve years, not indeed, since -old Mrs. Jolyon had died. - -Never had there been so full an assembly, for, mysteriously -united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms -against a common peril. Like cattle when a dog comes into the -field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared -to run upon and trample the invader to death. They had come, -too, no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they -would ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of -wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way: 'What are you -givin'? Nicholas is givin' spoons!'--so very much depended on the -bridegroom. If he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, -it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect -them. In the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by -a species of family adjustment arrived at as prices are arrived -at on the Stock Exchange--the exact niceties being regulated at -Timothy's commodious, red-brick residence in Bayswater, -overlooking the Park, where dwelt Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester. - -The uneasiness of the Forsyte family has been justified by the -simple mention of the hat. How impossible and wrong would it -have been for any family, with the regard for appearances which -should ever characterize the great upper middle-class, to feel -otherwise than uneasy! - -The author of the uneasiness stood talking to June by the further -door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance, as though he found -what was going on around him unusual. He had an air, too, of -having a joke all to himself. George, speaking aside to his -brother, Eustace, said: - -"Looks as if he might make a bolt of it--the dashing Buccaneer!" - -This 'very singular-looking man,' as Mrs. Small afterwards called -him, was of medium height and strong build, with a pale, brown -face, a dust-coloured moustache, very prominent cheek-bones, and -hollow checks. His forehead sloped back towards the crown of his -head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like foreheads seen -in the Lion-house at the Zoo. He had sherry-coloured eyes, -disconcertingly inattentive at times. Old Jolyon's coachman, -after driving June and Bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to -the butler: - -"I dunno what to make of 'im. Looks to me for all the world like -an 'alf-tame leopard." And every now and then a Forsyte would -come up, sidle round, and take a look at him. - -June stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity--a little -bit of a thing, as somebody once said, 'all hair and spirit,' -with fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose -face and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair. - -A tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the -family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at -these two with a shadowy smile. - -Her hands, gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the -other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of -all men near were fastened on it. Her figure swayed, so balanced -that the very air seemed to set it moving. There was warmth, but -little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft. - -But it was at her lips--asking a question, giving an answer, with -that shadowy smile--that men looked; they were sensitive lips, -sensuous and sweet, and through them seemed to come warmth and -perfume like the warmth and perfume of a flower. - -The engaged couple thus scrutinized were unconscious of this -passive goddess. It was Bosinney who first noticed her, and -asked her name. - -June took her lover up to the woman with the beautiful figure. - -"Irene is my greatest chum," she said: "Please be good friends, -you two!" - -At the little lady's command they all three smiled; and while -they were smiling, Soames Forsyte, silently appearing from behind -the woman with the beautiful figure, who was his wife, said: - -"Ah! introduce me too!" - -He was seldom, indeed, far from Irene's side at public functions, -and even when separated by the exigencies of social intercourse, -could be seen following her about with his eyes, in which were -strange expressions of watchfulness and longing. - -At the window his father, James, was still scrutinizing the marks -on the piece of china. - -"I wonder at Jolyon's allowing this engagement," he said to Aunt -Ann. "They tell me there's no chance of their getting married -for years. This young Bosinney" (he made the word a dactyl in -opposition to general usage of a short o) "has got nothing. When -Winifred married Dartie, I made him bring every penny into -settlement--lucky thing, too--they'd ha' had nothing by this -time!" - -Aunt Ann looked up from her velvet chair. Grey curls banded her -forehead, curls that, unchanged for decades, had extinguished in -the family all sense of time. She made no reply, for she rarely -spoke, husbanding her aged voice; but to James, uneasy of -conscience, her look was as good as an answer. - -"Well," he said, "I couldn't help Irene's having no money. -Soames was in such a hurry; he got quite thin dancing attendance -on her." - -Putting the bowl pettishly down on the piano, he let his eyes -wander to the group by the door. - -"It's my opinion," he said unexpectedly, "that it's just as well -as it is." - -Aunt Ann did not ask him to explain this strange utterance. She -knew what he was thinking. If Irene had no money she would not -be so foolish as to do anything wrong; for they said--they said-- -she had been asking for a separate room; but, of course, Soames -had not.... - -James interrupted her reverie: - -"But where," he asked, "was Timothy? Hadn't he come with them?" - -Through Aunt Ann's compressed lips a tender smile forced its way: - -"No, he didn't think it wise, with so much of this diphtheria -about; and he so liable to take things." - -James answered: - -"Well, HE takes good care of himself. I can't afford to take the -care of myself that he does." - -Nor was it easy to say which, of admiration, envy, or contempt, -was dominant in that remark. - -Timothy, indeed, was seldom seen. The baby of the family, a -publisher by profession, he had some years before, when business -was at full tide, scented out the stagnation which, indeed, had -not yet come, but which ultimately, as all agreed, was bound to -set in, and, selling his share in a firm engaged mainly in the -production of religious books, had invested the quite conspicuous -proceeds in three per cent. consols. By this act he had at once -assumed an isolated position, no other Forsyte being content with -less than four per cent. for his money; and this isolation had -slowly and surely undermined a spirit perhaps better than -commonly endowed with caution. He had become almost a myth--a -kind of incarnation of security haunting the background of the -Forsyte universe. He had never committed the imprudence of -marrying, or encumbering himself in any way with children. - -James resumed, tapping the piece of china: - -"This isn't real old Worcester. I s'pose Jolyon's told you -something about the young man. From all I can learn, he's got no -business, no income, and no connection worth speaking of; but -then, I know nothing--nobody tells me anything." - -Aunt Ann shook her head. Over her square-chinned, aquiline old -face a trembling passed; the spidery fingers of her hands pressed -against each other and interlaced, as though she were subtly -recharging her will. - -The eldest by some years of all the Forsytes, she held a peculiar -position amongst them. Opportunists and egotists one and all-- -though not, indeed, more so than their neighbours--they quailed -before her incorruptible figure, and, when opportunities were too -strong, what could they do but avoid her! - -Twisting his long, thin legs, James went on: - -"Jolyon, he will have his own way. He's got no children"--and -stopped, recollecting the continued existence of old Jolyon's -son, young Jolyon, June's father, who had made such a mess of it, -and done for himself by deserting his wife and child and running -away with that foreign governess. "Well," he resumed hastily, -"if he likes to do these things, I s'pose he can afford to. Now, -what's he going to give her? I s'pose he'll give her a thousand -a year; he's got nobody else to leave his money to." - -He stretched out his hand to meet that of a dapper, clean-shaven -man, with hardly a hair on his head, a long, broken nose, full -lips, and cold grey eyes under rectangular brows. - -"Well, Nick," he muttered, "how are you?" - -Nicholas Forsyte, with his bird-like rapidity and the look of a -preternaturally sage schoolboy (he had made a large fortune, -quite legitimately, out of the companies of which he was a -director), placed within that cold palm the tips of his still -colder fingers and hastily withdrew them. - -"I'm bad," he said, pouting--"been bad all the week; don't sleep -at night. The doctor can't tell why. He's a clever fellow, or I -shouldn't have him, but I get nothing out of him but bills." - -"Doctors!" said James, coming down sharp on his words: "I've had -all the doctors in London for one or another of us. There's no -satisfaction to be got out of them; they'll tell you anything. -There's Swithin, now. What good have they done him? There he -is; he's bigger than ever; he's enormous; they can't get his -weight down. Look at him!" - -Swithin Forsyte, tall, square, and broad, with a chest like a -pouter pigeon's in its plumage of bright waistcoats, came -strutting towards them. - -"Er--how are you?" he said in his dandified way, aspirating the -'h' strongly (this difficult letter was almost absolutely safe in -his keeping)--"how are you?" - -Each brother wore an air of aggravation as he looked at the other -two, knowing by experience that they would try to eclipse his -ailments. - -"We were just saying," said James, "that you don't get any -thinner." - -Swithin protruded his pale round eyes with the effort of hearing. - -"Thinner? I'm in good case," he said, leaning a little forward, -"not one of your thread-papers like you!" - -But, afraid of losing the expansion of his chest, he leaned back -again into a state of immobility, for he prized nothing so highly -as a distinguished appearance. - -Aunt Ann turned her old eyes from one to the other. Indulgent -and severe was her look. In turn the three brothers looked at -Ann. She was getting shaky. Wonderful woman! Eighty-six if a -day; might live another ten years, and had never been strong. -Swithin and James, the twins, were only seventy-five, Nicholas a -mere baby of seventy or so. All were strong, and the inference -was comforting. Of all forms of property their respective healths -naturally concerned them most. - -"I'm very well in myself," proceeded James, "but my nerves are -out of order. The least thing worries me to death. I shall have -to go to Bath." - -"Bath!" said Nicholas. "I've tried Harrogate. That's no good. -What I want is sea air. There's nothing like Yarmouth. Now, -when I go there I sleep...." - -"My liver's very bad," interrupted Swithin slowly. "Dreadful -pain here;" and he placed his hand on his right side. - -"Want of exercise," muttered James, his eyes on the china. He -quickly added: "I get a pain there, too." - -Swithin reddened, a resemblance to a turkey-cock coming upon his -old face. - -"Exercise!" he said. "I take plenty: I never use the lift at the -Club." - -"I didn't know," James hurried out. "I know nothing about -anybody; nobody tells me anything...." - -Swithin fixed him with a stare: - -"What do you do for a pain there?" - -James brightened. - -"I take a compound...." - -"How are you, uncle?" - -June stood before him, her resolute small face raised from her -little height to his great height, and her hand outheld. - -The brightness faded from James's visage. - -"How are you?" he said, brooding over her. "So you're going to -Wales to-morrow to visit your young man's aunts? You'll have a -lot of rain there. This isn't real old Worcester." He tapped the -bowl. "Now, that set I gave your mother when she married was the -genuine thing." - -June shook hands one by one with her three great-uncles, and -turned to Aunt Ann. A very sweet look had come into the old -lady's face, she kissed the girl's check with trembling fervour. - -"Well, my dear," she said, "and so you're going for a whole -month!" - -The girl passed on, and Aunt Ann looked after her slim little -figure. The old lady's round, steel grey eyes, over which a film -like a bird's was beginning to come, followed her wistfully -amongst the bustling crowd, for people were beginning to -say good-bye; and her finger-tips, pressing and pressing against -each other, were busy again with the recharging of her will -against that inevitable ultimate departure of her own. - -'Yes,' she thought, 'everybody's been most kind; quite a lot of -people come to congratulate her. She ought to be very happy.' -Amongst the throng of people by the door, the well-dressed throng -drawn from the families of lawyers and doctors, from the Stock -Exchange, and all the innumerable avocations of the upper-middle -class--there were only some twenty percent of Forsytes; but to -Aunt Ann they seemed all Forsytes--and certainly there was not -much difference--she saw only her own flesh and blood. It was -her world, this family, and she knew no other, had never perhaps -known any other. All their little secrets, illnesses, -engagements, and marriages, how they were getting on, and whether -they were making money--all this was her property, her delight, -her life; beyond this only a vague, shadowy mist of facts and -persons of no real significance. This it was that she would have -to lay down when it came to her turn to die; this which gave to -her that importance, that secret self-importance, without which -none of us can bear to live; and to this she clung wistfully, -with a greed that grew each day! If life were slipping away from -her, this she would retain to the end. - -She thought of June's father, young Jolyon, who had run away with -that foreign girl. And what a sad blow to his father and to them -all. Such a promising young fellow! A sad blow, though there -had been no public scandal, most fortunately, Jo's wife seeking -for no divorce! A long time ago! And when June's mother died, -six years ago, Jo had married that woman, and they had two -children now, so she had heard. Still, he had forfeited his -right to be there, had cheated her of the complete fulfilment of -her family pride, deprived her of the rightful pleasure of seeing -and kissing him of whom she had been so proud, such a promising -young fellow! The thought rankled with the bitterness of a -long-inflicted injury in her tenacious old heart. A little water -stood in her eyes. With a handkerchief of the finest lawn she -wiped them stealthily. - -"Well, Aunt Ann?" said a voice behind. - -Soames Forsyte, flat-shouldered, clean-shaven, flat-cheeked, -flat-waisted, yet with something round and secret about his whole -appearance, looked downwards and aslant at Aunt Ann, as though -trying to see through the side of his own nose. - -"And what do you think of the engagement?" he asked. - -Aunt Ann's eyes rested on him proudly; of all the nephews since -young Jolyon's departure from the family nest, he was now her -favourite, for she recognised in him a sure trustee of the family -soul that must so soon slip beyond her keeping. - -"Very nice for the young man," she said; "and he's a good-looking -young fellow; but I doubt if he's quite the right lover for dear -June." - -Soames touched the edge of a gold-lacquered lustre. - -"She'll tame him," he said, stealthily wetting his finger and -rubbing it on the knobby bulbs. "That's genuine old lacquer; you -can't get it nowadays. It'd do well in a sale at Jobson's." He -spoke with relish, as though he felt that he was cheering up his -old aunt. It was seldom he was so confidential. "I wouldn't -mind having it myself," he added; "you can always get your price -for old lacquer." - -"You're so clever with all those things," said Aunt Ann. "And -how is dear Irene?" - -Soames's smile died. - -"Pretty well," he said. "Complains she can't sleep; she sleeps a -great deal better than I do," and he looked at his wife, who was -talking to Bosinney by the door. - -Aunt Ann sighed. - -"Perhaps," she said, "it will be just as well for her not to see -so much of June. She's such a decided character, dear June!" - -Soames flushed; his flushes passed rapidly over his flat cheeks -and centered between his eyes, where they remained, the stamp of -disturbing thoughts. - -"I don't know what she sees in that little flibbertigibbet," he -burst out, but noticing that they were no longer alone, he turned -and again began examining the lustre. - -"They tell me Jolyon's bought another house," said his father's -voice close by; "he must have a lot of money--he must have more -money than he knows what to do with! Montpellier Square, they -say; close to Soames! They never told me, Irene never tells me -anything!" - -"Capital position, not two minutes from me," said the voice of -Swithin, "and from my rooms I can drive to the Club in eight." - -The position of their houses was of vital importance to the -Forsytes, nor was this remarkable, since the whole spirit of -their success was embodied therein. - -Their father, of farming stock, had come from Dorsetshire near -the beginning of the century. - -'Superior Dosset Forsyte, as he was called by his intimates, had -been a stonemason by trade, and risen to the position of a -master-builder. - -Towards the end of his life he moved to London, where, building -on until he died, he was buried at Highgate. He left over thirty -thousand pounds between his ten children. Old Jolyon alluded to -him, if at all, as 'A hard, thick sort of man; not much -refinement about him.' The second generation of Forsytes felt -indeed that he was not greatly to their credit. The only -aristocratic trait they could find in his character was a habit -of drinking Madeira. - -Aunt Hester, an authority on family history, described him thus: -"I don't recollect that he ever did anything; at least, not in my -time. He was er--an owner of houses, my dear. His hair about -your Uncle Swithin's colour; rather a square build. Tall? No-- -not very tall" (he had been five feet five, with a mottled -face); "a fresh-coloured man. I remember he used to drink -Madeira; but ask your Aunt Ann. What was his father? He--er-- -had to do with the land down in Dorsetshire, by the sea." - -James once went down to see for himself what sort of place this -was that they had come from. He found two old farms, with a cart -track rutted into the pink earth, leading down to a mill by the -beach; a little grey church with a buttressed outer wall, and a -smaller and greyer chapel. The stream which worked the mill came -bubbling down in a dozen rivulets, and pigs were hunting round -that estuary. A haze hovered over the prospect. Down this -hollow, with their feet deep in the mud and their faces towards -the sea, it appeared that the primeval Forsytes had been content -to walk Sunday after Sunday for hundreds of years. - -Whether or no James had cherished hopes of an inheritance, or of -something rather distinguished to be found down there, he came -back to town in a poor way, and went about with a pathetic -attempt at making the best of a bad job. - -"There's very little to be had out of that," he said; "regular -country little place, old as the hills...." - -Its age was felt to be a comfort. Old Jolyon, in whom a -desperate honesty welled up at times, would allude to his -ancestors as: "Yeomen--I suppose very small beer." Yet he would -repeat the word 'yeomen' as if it afforded him consolation. - -They had all done so well for themselves, these Forsytes, that -they were all what is called 'of a certain position.' They had -shares in all sorts of things, not as yet--with the exception of -Timothy--in consols, for they had no dread in life like that of -3 per cent. for their money. They collected pictures, too, and -were supporters of such charitable institutions as might be -beneficial to their sick domestics. From their father, the -builder, they inherited a talent for bricks and mortar. -Originally, perhaps, members of some primitive sect, they were -now in the natural course of things members of the Church of -England, and caused their wives and children to attend with some -regularity the more fashionable churches of the Metropolis. To -have doubted their Christianity would have caused them both pain -and surprise. Some of them paid for pews, thus expressing in the -most practical form their sympathy with the teachings of Christ. - -Their residences, placed at stated intervals round the park, -watched like sentinels, lest the fair heart of this London, where -their desires were fixed, should slip from their clutches, and -leave them lower in their own estimations. - -There was old Jolyon in Stanhope Place; the Jameses in Park Lane; -Swithin in the lonely glory of orange and blue chambers in Hyde -Park Mansions--he had never married, not he--the Soamses in their -nest off Knightsbridge; the Rogers in Prince's Gardens (Roger was -that remarkable Forsyte who had conceived and carried out the -notion of bringing up his four sons to a new profession. -"Collect house property, nothing like it," he would say; -"I never did anything else"). - -The Haymans again--Mrs. Hayman was the one married Forsyte -sister--in a house high up on Campden Hill, shaped like a -giraffe, and so tall that it gave the observer a crick in the -neck; the Nicholases in Ladbroke Grove, a spacious abode and a -great bargain; and last, but not least, Timothy's on the -Bayswater Road, where Ann, and Juley, and Hester, lived under his -protection. - -But all this time James was musing, and now he inquired of his -host and brother what he had given for that house in Montpellier -Square. He himself had had his eye on a house there for the last -two years, but they wanted such a price. - -Old Jolyon recounted the details of his purchase. - -"Twenty-two years to run?" repeated James; "The very house I was -after--you've given too much for it!" - -Old Jolyon frowned. - -"It's not that I want it," said James hastily; it wouldn't suit -my purpose at that price. Soames knows the house, well--he'll -tell you it's too dear--his opinion's worth having." - -"I don't," said old Jolyon, "care a fig for his opinion." - -"Well," murmured James, "you will have your own way--it's a good -opinion. Good-bye! We're going to drive down to Hurlingham. -They tell me June's going to Wales. You'll be lonely tomorrow. -What'll you do with yourself? You'd better come and dine with -us!" - -Old Jolyon refused. He went down to the front door and saw them -into their barouche, and twinkled at them, having already -forgotten his spleen--Mrs. James facing the horses, tall and -majestic with auburn hair; on her left, Irene--the two husbands, -father and son, sitting forward, as though they expected -something, opposite their wives. Bobbing and bounding upon the -spring cushions, silent, swaying to each motion of their chariot, -old Jolyon watched them drive away under the sunlight. - -During the drive the silence was broken by Mrs. James. - -"Did you ever see such a collection of rumty-too people?" - -Soames, glancing at her beneath his eyelids, nodded, and he saw -Irene steal at him one of her unfathomable looks. It is likely -enough that each branch of the Forsyte family made that remark as -they drove away from old Jolyon's 'At Home!' - -Amongst the last of the departing guests the fourth and fifth -brothers, Nicholas and Roger, walked away together, directing -their steps alongside Hyde Park towards the Praed Street Station -of the Underground. Like all other Forsytes of a certain age -they kept carriages of their own, and never took cabs if by any -means they could avoid it. - -The day was bright, the trees of the Park in the full beauty of -mid-June foliage; the brothers did not seem to notice phenomena, -which contributed, nevertheless, to the jauntiness of promenade -and conversation. - -"Yes," said Roger, "she's a good-lookin' woman, that wife of -Soames's. I'm told they don't get on." - -This brother had a high forehead, and the freshest colour of any -of the Forsytes; his light grey eyes measured the street frontage -of the houses by the way, and now and then he would level his, -umbrella and take a 'lunar,' as he expressed it, of the varying -heights. - -"She'd no money," replied Nicholas. - -He himself had married a good deal of money, of which, it being -then the golden age before the Married Women's Property Act, he -had mercifully been enabled to make a successful use. - -"What was her father?" - -"Heron was his name, a Professor, so they tell me." - -Roger shook his head. - -"There's no money in that," he said. - -"They say her mother's father was cement." - -Roger's face brightened. - -"But he went bankrupt," went on Nicholas. - -"Ah!" exclaimed Roger, "Soames will have trouble with her; you -mark my words, he'll have trouble--she's got a foreign look." - -Nicholas licked his lips. - -"She's a pretty woman," and he waved aside a crossing-sweeper. - -"How did he get hold of her?" asked Roger presently. "She must -cost him a pretty penny in dress!" - -"Ann tells me," replied Nicholas," he was half-cracked about her. -She refused him five times. James, he's nervous about it, I can -see." - -"Ah!" said Roger again; "I'm sorry for James; he had trouble with -Dartie." His pleasant colour was heightened by exercise, he swung -his umbrella to the level of his eye more frequently than ever. -Nicholas's face also wore a pleasant look. - -"Too pale for me," he said, "but her figures capital!" - -Roger made no reply. - -"I call her distinguished-looking," he said at last--it was the -highest praise in the Forsyte vocabulary. "That young Bosinney -will never do any good for himself. They say at Burkitt's he's -one of these artistic chaps--got an idea of improving English -architecture; there's no money in that! I should like to hear -what Timothy would say to it." - -They entered the station. - -"What class are you going? I go second." - -"No second for me," said Nicholas;--"you never know what you may -catch." - -He took a first-class ticket to Notting Hill Gate; Roger a second -to South Kensington. The train coming in a minute later, the two -brothers parted and entered their respective compartments. Each -felt aggrieved that the other had not modified his habits to -secure his society a little longer; but as Roger voiced it in his -thoughts: -'Always a stubborn beggar, Nick!' - -And as Nicholas expressed it to himself: - -'Cantankerous chap Roger--always was!' - -There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes. In that -great London, which they had conquered and become merged in, what -time had they to be sentimental? - - - - -CHAPTER II - -OLD JOLYON GOES TO THE OPERA - - -At five o'clock the following day old Jolyon sat alone, a cigar -between his lips, and on a table by his side a cup of tea. He -was tired, and before he had finished his cigar he fell asleep. -A fly settled on his hair, his breathing sounded heavy in the -drowsy silence, his upper lip under the white moustache puffed in -and out. From between the fingers of his veined and wrinkled -hand the cigar, dropping on the empty hearth, burned itself out. - -The gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to -exclude the view, was full of dark green velvet and -heavily-carved mahogany--a suite of which old Jolyon was wont to -say: 'Shouldn't wonder if it made a big price some day!' - -It was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more -for things than he had given. - -In the rich brown atmosphere peculiar to back rooms in the -mansion of a Forsyte, the Rembrandtesque effect of his great -head, with its white hair, against the cushion of his high-backed -seat, was spoiled by the moustache, which imparted a somewhat -military look to his face. An old clock that had been with him -since before his marriage forty years ago kept with its ticking a -jealous record of the seconds slipping away forever from its old -master. - -He had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one -year's end to another, except to take cigars from the Japanese -cabinet in the corner, and the room now had its revenge. - -His temples, curving like thatches over the hollows beneath, his -cheek-bones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there -had come upon his face the confession that he was an old man. - -He woke. June had gone! James had said he would be lonely. -James had always been a poor thing. He recollected with -satisfaction that he had bought that house over James's head. - -Serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the -fellow thought of was money. Had he given too much, though? It -wanted a lot of doing to--He dared say he would want all his -money before he had done with this affair of June's. He ought -never to have allowed the engagement. She had met this Bosinney -at the house of Baynes, Baynes and Bildeboy, the architects. He -believed that Baynes, whom he knew--a bit of an old woman--was -the young man's uncle by marriage. After that she'd been always -running after him; and when she took a thing into her head there -was no stopping her. She was continually taking up with 'lame -ducks' of one sort or another. This fellow had no money, but she -must needs become engaged to him--a harumscarum, unpractical -chap, who would get himself into no end of difficulties. - -She had come to him one day in her slap-dash way and told him; -and, as if it were any consolation, she had added: - -"He's so splendid; he's often lived on cocoa for a week!" - -"And he wants you to live on cocoa too?" - -"Oh no; he is getting into the swim now." - -Old Jolyon had taken his cigar from under his white moustaches, -stained by coffee at the edge, and looked at her, that little -slip of a thing who had got such a grip of his heart. He knew -more about 'swims' than his granddaughter. But she, having -clasped her hands on his knees, rubbed her chin against him, -making a sound like a purring cat. And, knocking the ash off his -cigar, he had exploded in nervous desperation: - -"You're all alike: you won't be satisfied till you've got what -you want. If you must come to grief, you must; I wash my hands -of it." - -So, he had washed his hands of it, making the condition that they -should not marry until Bosinney had at least four hundred a year. - -"I shan't be able to give you very much," he had said, a formula -to which June was not unaccustomed." Perhaps this What's-his- -name will provide the cocoa." - -He had hardly seen anything of her since it began. A bad -business! He had no notion of giving her a lot of money to -enable a fellow he knew nothing about to live on in idleness. -He had seen that sort of thing before; no good ever came of it. -Worst of all, he had no hope of shaking her resolution; she was -as obstinate as a mule, always had been from a child. He didn't -see where it was to end. They must cut their coat according to -their cloth. He would not give way till he saw young Bosinney -with an income of his own. That June would have trouble with the -fellow was as plain as a pikestaff; he had no more idea of money -than a cow. As to this rushing down to Wales to visit the young -man's aunts, he fully expected they were old cats. - -And, motionless, old Jolyon stared at the wall; but for his open -eyes, he might have been asleep.... The idea of supposing that -young cub Soames could give him advice! He had always been a -cub, with his nose in the air! He would be setting up as a man -of property next, with a place in the country! A man of -property! H'mph! Like his father, he was always nosing out -bargains, a cold-blooded young beggar! - -He rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking -his cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. They were not bad at the -price, but you couldn't get a good cigar, nowadays, nothing to -hold a candle to those old Superfinos of Hanson and Bridger's. -That was a cigar! - -The thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to -those wonderful nights at Richmond when after dinner he sat -smoking on the terrace of the Crown and Sceptre with Nicholas -Treffry and Traquair and Jack Herring and Anthony Thornworthy. -How good his cigars were then! Poor old Nick!--dead, and Jack -Herring--dead, and Traquair--dead of that wife of his, and -Thornworthy--awfully shaky (no wonder, with his appetite). - -Of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, -except Swithin, of course, and he so outrageously big there was -no doing anything with him. - -Difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! Of -all his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was -the most poignant, the most bitter. With his white head and his -loneliness he had remained young and green at heart. And those -Sunday afternoons on Hampstead Heath, when young Jolyon and he -went for a stretch along the Spaniard's Road to Highgate, to -Child's Hill, and back over the Heath again to dine at Jack -Straw's Castle--how delicious his cigars were then! And such -weather! There was no weather now. - -When June was a toddler of five, and every other Sunday he took -her to the Zoo, away from the society of those two good women, -her mother and her grandmother, and at the top of the bear den -baited his umbrella with buns for her favourite bears, how sweet -his cigars were then! - -Cigars! He had not even succeeded in out-living his palate--the -famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of -him, said: "Forsyte's the best palate in London!" The palate that -in a sense had made his fortune--the fortune of the celebrated -tea men, Forsyte and Treffry, whose tea, like no other man's tea, -had a romantic aroma, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. -About the house of Forsyte and Treffry in the City had clung an -air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special -ships, at special ports, with special Orientals. - -He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! -these young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had -gone into every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes -sat up all night over it. And he had always chosen his agents -himself, prided himself on it. His eye for men, he used to say, -had been the secret of his success, and the exercise of this -masterful power of selection had been the only part of it all -that he had really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability. -Even now, when the business had been turned into a Limited -Liability Company, and was declining (he had got out of his -shares long ago), he felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that -time. How much better he might have done! He would have -succeeded splendidly at the Bar! He had even thought of standing -for Parliament. How often had not Nicholas Treffry said to him: - -"You could do anything, Jo, if you weren't so d-damned careful of -yourself!" Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a racketty -chap! The notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of -himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a -steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he -had been too careful of himself. - -He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, -and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one -foot and the other, and helping himself by the bannister. The -house was too big. After June was married, if she ever did marry -this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go -into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozen servants -eating their heads off? - -The butler came to the ring of his bell--a large man with a -beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old -Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to -dine at the Club. - -How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the -station? Since two? Then let him come round at half-past six! - -The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one -of those political institutions of the upper middle class which -have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps -in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing -vitality. People had grown tired of saying that the 'Disunion' -was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet -disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to -well-constituted Clubmen. - -"Why do you keep your name on?" Swithin often asked him with -profound vexation. "Why don't you join the 'Polyglot'? You can't -get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin' a bottle -anywhere in London;" and, dropping his voice, he added: "There's -only five hundred dozen left. I drink it every night of my -life." - -"I'll think of it," old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think -of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance -fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. He -continued to think of it. - -He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the -political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to -them as 'wretched stuff,' and it afforded him pleasure to -continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his -own. He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined -it many years ago when they refused to have him at the 'Hotch -Potch' owing to his being 'in trade.' As if he were not as good -as any of them! He naturally despised the Club that did take -him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City-- -stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers--what not! Like most men -of strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set -small store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he -followed their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he -thought them 'a common lot.' - -Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the -recollection of his defeat at the 'Hotch Potch'; and now in his -thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have -been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod -way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not -known what they were doing in keeping him out. Why! they had -taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a -member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years -ago. - -He had not been near the 'Disunion' for months, and the house had -undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow on old -houses and old ships when anxious to sell them. - -'Beastly colour, the smoking-room!' he thought. 'The dining-room -is good!' - -Its gloomy chocolate, picked out with light green, took his -fancy. - -He ordered dinner, and sat down in the very corner, at the very -table perhaps! (things did not progress much at the 'Disunion,' -a Club of almost Radical principles) at which he and young Jolyon -used to sit twenty-five years ago, when he was taking the latter -to Drury Lane, during his holidays. - -The boy had loved the theatre, and old Jolyon recalled how he -used to sit opposite, concealing his excitement under a careful -but transparent nonchalance. - -He ordered himself, too, the very dinner the boy had always -chosen-soup, whitebait, cutlets, and a tart. Ah! if he were -only opposite now! - -The two had not met for fourteen years. And not for the first -time during those fourteen years old Jolyon wondered whether he -had been a little to blame in the matter of his son. An -unfortunate love-affair with that precious flirt Danae Thorn- -worthy (now Danae Pellew), Anthony Thornworthy's daughter, had -thrown him on the rebound into the arms of June's mother. He -ought perhaps to have put a spoke in the wheel of their marriage; -they were too young; but after that experience of Jo's -susceptibility he had been only too anxious to see him married. -And in four years the crash had come! To have approved his son's -conduct in that crash was, of course, impossible; reason and -training--that combination of potent factors which stood for his -principles--told him of this impossibility, and his heart cried -out. The grim remorselessness of that business had no pity for -hearts. There was June, the atom with flaming hair, who had -climbed all over him, twined and twisted herself about him--about -his heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of -tiny, helpless things. With characteristic insight he saw he -must part with one or with the other; no half-measures could -serve in such a situation. In that lay its tragedy. And the -tiny, helpless thing prevailed. He would not run with the hare -and hunt with the hounds, and so to his son he said good-bye. - -That good-bye had lasted until now. - -He had proposed to continue a reduced allowance to young Jolyon, -but this had been refused, and perhaps that refusal had hurt him -more than anything, for with it had gone the last outlet of his -penned-in affection; and there had come such tangible and solid -proof of rupture as only a transaction in property, a bestowal or -refusal of such, could supply. - -His dinner tasted flat. His pint of champagne was dry and bitter -stuff, not like the Veuve Clicquots of old days. - -Over his cup of coffee, he bethought him that he would go to the -opera. In the Times, therefore--he had a distrust of other -papers--he read the announcement for the evening. It was -'Fidelio.' - -Mercifully not one of those new-fangled German pantomimes by that -fellow Wagner. - -Putting on his ancient opera hat, which, with its brim flattened -by use, and huge capacity, looked like an emblem of greater days, -and, pulling out an old pair of very thin lavender kid gloves -smelling strongly of Russia leather, from habitual proximity to -the cigar-case in the pocket of his overcoat, he stepped into a -hansom. - -The cab rattled gaily along the streets, and old Jolyon was -struck by their unwonted animation. - -'The hotels must be doing a tremendous business,' he thought. A -few years ago there had been none of these big hotels. He made -a satisfactory reflection on some property he had in the -neighbourhood. It must be going up in value by leaps and bounds! -What traffic! - -But from that he began indulging in one of those strange -impersonal speculations, so uncharacteristic of a Forsyte, -wherein lay, in part, the secret of his supremacy amongst them. -What atoms men were, and what a lot of them! And what would -become of them all? - -He stumbled as he got out of the cab, gave the man his exact -fare, walked up to the ticket office to take his stall, and stood -there with his purse in his hand--he always carried his money in -a purse, never having approved of that habit of carrying it -loosely in the pockets, as so many young men did nowadays. The -official leaned out, like an old dog from a kennel. - -"Why," he said in a surprised voice, "it's Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! -So it is! Haven't seen you, sir, for years. Dear me! Times -aren't what they were. Why! you and your brother, and that -auctioneer--Mr. Traquair, and Mr. Nicholas Treffry--you used to -have six or seven stalls here regular every season. And how are -you, sir? We don't get younger!" - -The colour in old Jolyon's eyes deepened; he paid his guinea. -They had not forgotten him. He marched in, to the sounds of the -overture, like an old war-horse to battle. - -Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves -in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the -house. Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his -eyes on the curtain. More poignantly than ever he felt that it -was all over and done with him. Where were all the women, the -pretty women, the house used to be so full of? Where was that -old feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great -singers? Where that sensation of the intoxication of life and -of his own power to enjoy it all? - -The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! -That fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any -voices to sing it. Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat -watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at his heart. - -From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in -its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak -about old Jolyon. He was as upright--very nearly--as in those -old times when he came every night; his sight was as good--almost -as good. But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion! - -He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even -imperfect things--and there had been many imperfect things--he -had enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself -young. But now he was deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his -philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all -done with. Not even the Prisoners' Chorus, nor Florian's Song, -had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness. - -If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had -wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. And Jo -was no longer a social pariah. He was married. Old Jolyon had -been unable to refrain from marking his appreciation of the -action by enclosing his son a cheque for L500. The cheque had -been returned in a letter from the 'Hotch Potch,' couched in -these words. - - -'MY DEAREST FATHER, - -'Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might think -worse of me. I return it, but should you think fit to invest it -for the benefit of the little chap (we call him Jolly), who bears -our Christian and, by courtesy, our surname, I shall be very -glad. - -'I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as ever. - -'Your loving son, - - 'Jo.' - - -The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable chap. -Old Jolyon had sent this reply: - - -'MY DEAR JO, - -'The sum (L500) stands in my books for the benefit of your boy, -under the name of Jolyon Forsyte, and will be duly-credited with -interest at 5 per cent. I hope that you are doing well. My -health remains good at present. - -'With love, I am, -'Your affectionate Father, - -'JOLYON FORSYTE.' - - -And every year on the 1st of January he had added a hundred and -the interest. The sum was mounting up--next New Year's Day it -would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! And it is difficult to -say how much satisfaction he had got out of that yearly -transaction. But the correspondence had ended. - -In spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly -constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of his class, -of the continual handling and watching of affairs, prompting him -to judge conduct by results rather than by principle, there was -at the bottom of his heart a sort of uneasiness. His son ought, -under the circumstances, to have gone to the dogs; that law was -laid down in all the novels, sermons, and plays he had ever read, -heard, or witnessed. - -After receiving the cheque back there seemed to him to be -something wrong somewhere. Why had his son not gone to the -dogs? But, then, who could tell? - -He had heard, of course--in fact, he had made it his business -to find out--that Jo lived in St. John's Wood, that he had a -little house in Wistaria Avenue with a garden, and took his wife -about with him into society--a queer sort of society, no doubt-- -and that they had two children--the little chap they called Jolly -(considering the circumstances the name struck him as cynical, -and old Jolyon both feared and disliked cynicism), and a girl -called Holly, born since the marriage. Who could tell what his -son's circumstances really were? He had capitalized the income -he had inherited from his mother's father and joined Lloyd's as -an underwriter; he painted pictures, too--water-colours. Old -Jolyon knew this, for he had surreptitiously bought them from -time to time, after chancing to see his son's name signed at the -bottom of a representation of the river Thames in a dealer's -window. He thought them bad, and did not hang them because of -the signature; he kept them locked up in a drawer. - -In the great opera-house a terrible yearning came on him to see -his son. He remembered the days when he had been wont to slide -him, in a brown holland suit, to and fro under the arch of his -legs; the times when he ran beside the boy's pony, teaching him -to ride; the day he first took him to school. He had been a -loving, lovable little chap! After he went to Eton he had -acquired, perhaps, a little too much of that desirable manner -which old Jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and -at great expense; but he had always been companionable. Always a -companion, even after Cambridge--a little far off, perhaps, owing -to the advantages he had received. Old Jolyon's feeling towards -our public schools and 'Varsities never wavered, and he retained -touchingly his attitude of admiration and mistrust towards a -system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had -not himself been privileged to partake.... Now that June had -gone and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a -comfort to see his son again. Guilty of this treason to his -family, his principles, his class, old Jolyon fixed his eyes on -the singer. A poor thing--a wretched poor thing! And the -Florian a perfect stick! - -It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays! - -In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of -a stout and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to -be his own. His route lay through Pall Mall, and at the corner, -instead of going through the Green Park, the cabman turned to -drive up St. James's Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through -the trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in -turning, however, he found himself opposite the 'Hotch Potch, ' -and the yearning that had been secretly with him the whole -evening prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He would go -in and ask if Jo still belonged there. - -He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to -dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in -London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that -had caused him all his life to be better served than most men. - -"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?" - -"Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?" - -Old Jolyon was taken aback. - -"His father," he said. - -And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace. - -Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his -hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met -him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face--a -narrower replica of his father's, with the same large drooping -moustache--decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was -terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so -terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. -Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said: - -"How are you, my boy?" - -The son answered: - -"How are you, Dad?" - -Old Jolyon's hand trembled in its thin lavender glove. - -"If you're going my way," he said, "I can give you a lift." - -And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night -they went out and stepped into the cab. - -To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. 'More of a man -altogether,' was his comment. Over the natural amiability of -that son's face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had -found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. -The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression -was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. -He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in -the course of those fifteen years. - -To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a -shock--he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed -hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well -remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed. - -"You look well, Dad." - -"Middling," old Jolyon answered. - -He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into -words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know -what was his financial position. - -"Jo," he said, "I should like to hear what sort of water you're -in. I suppose you're in debt?" - -He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess. - -Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice: - -"No! I'm not in debt!" - -Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had -run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been -sulky with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to -Stanhope Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook -his head. - -"June's not here," said his father hastily: "went of to-day on a -visit. I suppose you know that she's engaged to be married?" - -"Already?" murmured young Jolyon'. - -Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the -first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for -a shilling. - -Placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse -secretly on the underneath and hurried away. - -Old Jolyon turned the key softly in the lock, pushed open the -door, and beckoned. His son saw him gravely hanging up his coat, -with an expression on his face like that of a boy who intends to -steal cherries. - -The door of the dining-room was open, the gas turned low; a -spirit-urn hissed on a tea-tray, and close to it a cynical -looking cat had fallen asleep on the dining-table. Old Jolyon -'shoo'd' her off at once. The incident was a relief to his -feelings; he rattled his opera hat behind the animal. - -"She's got fleas," he said, following her out of the room. -Through the door in the hall leading to the basement he called -"Hssst!" several times, as though assisting the cat's departure, -till by some strange coincidence the butler appeared below. - -"You can go to bed, Parfitt," said old Jolyon. "I will lock up -and put out." - -When he again entered the dining-room the cat unfortunately -preceded him, with her tail in the air, proclaiming that she had -seen through this manouevre for suppressing the butler from the -first.... - -A fatality had dogged old Jolyon's domestic stratagems all his -life. - -Young Jolyon could not help smiling. He was very well versed in -irony, and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. The -episode of the cat; the announcement of his own daughter's -engagement. So he had no more part or parcel in her than he had -in the Puss! And the poetical justice of this appealed to him. - -"What is June like now?" he asked. - -"She's a little thing," returned old Jolyon; they say she's like -me, but that's their folly. She's more like your mother--the -same eyes and hair." - -"Ah! and she is pretty?" - -Old Jolyon was too much of a Forsyte to praise anything freely; -especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration. - -"Not bad looking--a regular Forsyte chin. It'll be lonely here -when she's gone, Jo." - -The look on his face again gave young Jolyon the shock he had -felt on first seeing his father. - -"What will you do with yourself, Dad? I suppose she's wrapped up -in him?" - -"Do with myself?" repeated old Jolyon with an angry break in his -voice. "It'll be miserable work living here alone. I don't know -how it's to end. I wish to goodness...." He checked himself, and -added: "The question is, what had I better do with this house?" - -Young Jolyon looked round the room. It was peculiarly vast and -dreary, decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that -he remembered as a boy--sleeping dogs with their noses resting on -bunches of carrots, together with onions and grapes lying side by -side in mild surprise. The house was a white elephant, but he -could not conceive of his father living in a smaller place; and -all the more did it all seem ironical. - -In his great chair with the book-rest sat old Jolyon, the -figurehead of his family and class and creed, with his white head -and dome-like forehead, the representative of moderation, and -order, and love of property. As lonely an old man as there was -in London. - -There he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the -power of great forces that cared nothing for family or class or -creed, but moved, machine-like, with dread processes to -inscrutable ends. This was how it struck young Jolyon, who had -the impersonal eye. - -The poor old Dad! So this was the end, the purpose to which he -had lived with such magnificent moderation! To be lonely, and -grow older and older, yearning for a soul to speak to! - -In his turn old Jolyon looked back at his son. He wanted to talk -about many things that he had been unable to talk about all these -years. It had been impossible to seriously confide in June his -conviction that property in the Soho quarter would go up in -value; his uneasiness about that tremendous silence of Pippin, -the superintendent of the New Colliery Company, of which he had -so long been chairman; his disgust at the steady fall in American -Golgothas, or even to discuss how, by some sort of settlement, he -could best avoid the payment of those death duties which would -follow his decease. Under the influence, however, of a cup of -tea, which he seemed to stir indefinitely, he began to speak at -last. A new vista of life was thus opened up, a promised land of -talk, where he could find a harbour against the waves of -anticipation and regret; where he could soothe his soul with the -opium of devising how to round off his property and make eternal -the only part of him that was to remain alive. - -Young Jolyon was a good listener; it was his great quality. He -kept his eyes fixed on his father's face, putting a question now -and then. - -The clock struck one before old Jolyon had finished, and at the -sound of its striking his principles came back. He took out his -watch with a look of surprise: - -"I must go to bed, Jo," he said. - -Young Jolyon rose and held out his hand to help his father up. -The old face looked worn and hollow again; the eyes were steadily -averted. - -"Good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself." - -A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his, heel, marched -out at the door. He could hardly see; his smile quavered. Never -in all the fifteen years since he had first found out that life -was no simple business, had he found it so singularly -complicated. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -DINNER AT SWITHIN'S - - -In Swithin's orange and light-blue dining-room, facing the Park, -the round table was laid for twelve. - -A cut-glass chandelier filled with lighted candles hung like a -giant stalactite above its centre, radiating over large -gilt-framed mirrors, slabs of marble on the tops of side-tables, -and heavy gold chairs with crewel worked seats. Everything -betokened that love of beauty so deeply implanted in each family -which has had its own way to make into Society, out of the more -vulgar heart of Nature. Swithin had indeed an impatience of -simplicity, a love of ormolu, which had always stamped him -amongst his associates as a man of great, if somewhat luxurious -taste; and out of the knowledge that no one could possibly enter -his rooms without perceiving him to be a man of wealth, he had -derived a solid and prolonged happiness such as perhaps no other -circumstance in life had afforded him. - -Since his retirement from land agency, a profession deplorable in -his estimation, especially as to its auctioneering department, he -had abandoned himself to naturally aristocratic tastes. - -The perfect luxury of his latter days had embedded him like a fly -in sugar; and his mind, where very little took place from morning -till night, was the junction of two curiously opposite emotions, -a lingering and sturdy satisfaction that he had made his own way -and his own fortune, and a sense that a man of his distinction -should never have been allowed to soil his mind with work. - -He stood at the sideboard in a white waistcoat with large gold -and onyx buttons, watching his valet screw the necks of three -champagne bottles deeper into ice-pails. Between the points of -his stand-up collar, which--though it hurt him to move--he would -on no account have had altered, the pale flesh of his under chin -remained immovable. His eyes roved from bottle to bottle. He -was debating, and he argued like this: Jolyon drinks a glass, -perhaps two, he's so careful of himself. James, he can't take -his wine nowadays. Nicholas--Fanny and he would swill water he -shouldn't wonder! Soames didn't count; these young nephews-- -Soames was thirty-one--couldn't drink! But Bosinney? - -Encountering in the name of this stranger something outside the -range of his philosophy, Swithin paused. A misgiving arose -within him! It was impossible to tell! June was only a girl, in -love too! Emily (Mrs. James) liked a good glass of champagne. -It was too dry for Juley, poor old soul, she had no palate. As -to Hatty Chessman! The thought of this old friend caused a cloud -of thought to obscure the perfect glassiness of his eyes: He -shouldn't wonder if she drank half a bottle! - -But in thinking of his remaining guest, an expression like that -of a cat who is just going to purr stole over his old face: Mrs. -Soames! She mightn't take much, but she would appreciate what -she drank; it was a pleasure to give her good wine! A pretty -woman--and sympathetic to him! - -The thought of her was like champagne itself! A pleasure to give -a good wine to a young woman who looked so well, who knew how to -dress, with charming manners, quite distinguished--a pleasure to -entertain her. Between the points of his collar he gave his head -the first small, painful oscillation of the evening. - -"Adolf!" he said. "Put in another bottle." - -He himself might drink a good deal, for, thanks to that -prescription of Blight's, he found himself extremely well, and he -had been careful to take no lunch. He had not felt so well for -weeks. Puffing out his lower lip, he gave his last instructions: - -"Adolf, the least touch of the West India when you come to the -ham." - -Passing into the anteroom, he sat down on the edge of a chair, -with his knees apart; and his tall, bulky form was wrapped at -once in an expectant, strange, primeval immobility. He was ready -to rise at a moment's notice. He had not given a dinner-party -for months. This dinner in honour of June's engagement had -seemed a bore at first (among Forsytes the custom of solemnizing -engagements by feasts was religiously observed), but the labours -of sending invitations and ordering the repast over, he felt -pleasantly stimulated. - -And thus sitting, a watch in his hand, fat, and smooth, and -golden, like a flattened globe of butter, he thought of nothing. - -A long man, with side whiskers, who had once been in Swithin's -service, but was now a greengrocer, entered and proclaimed: - -"Mrs. Chessman, Mrs. Septimus Small!" - -Two ladies advanced. The one in front, habited entirely in red, -had large, settled patches of the same colour in her cheeks, and -a hard, dashing eye. She walked at Swithin, holding out a hand -cased in a long, primrose-coloured glove: - -"Well! Swithin," she said, "I haven't seen you for ages. How are -you? Why, my dear boy, how stout you're getting!" - -The fixity of Swithin's eye alone betrayed emotion. A dumb and -grumbling anger swelled his bosom. It was vulgar to be stout, to -talk of being stout; he had a chest, nothing more. Turning to -his sister, he grasped her hand, and said in a tone of command: - -"Well, Juley." - -Mrs. Septimus Small was the tallest of the four sisters; her -good, round old face had gone a little sour; an innumerable pout -clung all over it, as if it had been encased in an iron wire mask -up to that evening, which, being suddenly removed, left little -rolls of mutinous flesh all over her countenance. Even her eyes -were pouting. It was thus that she recorded her permanent -resentment at the loss of Septimus Small. - -She had quite a reputation for saying the wrong thing, and, -tenacious like all her breed, she would hold to it when she had -said it, and add to it another wrong thing, and so on. With the -decease of her husband the family tenacity, the family -matter-of-factness, had gone sterile within her. A great talker, -when allowed, she would converse without the faintest animation -for hours together, relating, with epic monotony, the innumerable -occasions on which Fortune had misused her; nor did she ever -perceive that her hearers sympathized with Fortune, for her -heart was kind. - -Having sat, poor soul, long by the bedside of Small (a man of -poor constitution), she had acquired, the habit, and there were -countless subsequent occasions when she had sat immense periods -of time to amuse sick people, children, and other helpless -persons, and she could never divest herself of the feeling that -the world was the most ungrateful place anybody could live in. -Sunday after Sunday she sat at the feet of that extremely witty -preacher, the Rev. Thomas Scoles, who exercised a great -influence over her; but she succeeded in convincing everybody -that even this was a misfortune. She had passed into a proverb -in the family, and when anybody was observed to be peculiarly -distressing, he was known as a regular 'Juley.' The habit of her -mind would have killed anybody but a Forsyte at forty; but she -was seventy-two, and had never looked better. And one felt that -there were capacities for enjoyment about her which might yet -come out. She owned three canaries, the cat Tommy, and half a -parrot--in common with her sister Hester;--and these poor -creatures (kept carefully out of Timothy's way--he was nervous -about animals), unlike human beings, recognising that she could -not help being blighted, attached themselves to her passionately. - -She was sombrely magnificent this evening in black bombazine, -with a mauve front cut in a shy triangle, and crowned with a -black velvet ribbon round the base of her thin throat; black and -mauve for evening wear was esteemed very chaste by nearly every -Forsyte. - -Pouting at Swithin, she said: - -"Ann has been asking for you. You haven't been near us for an -age!" - -Swithin put his thumbs within the armholes of his waistcoat, and -replied: - -"Ann's getting very shaky; she ought to have a doctor!" - -"Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Forsyte!" - -Nicholas Forsyte, cocking his rectangular eyebrows, wore a smile. -He had succeeded during the day in bringing to fruition a scheme -for the employment of a tribe from Upper India in the gold-mines -of Ceylon. A pet plan, carried at last in the teeth of great -difficulties--he was justly pleased. It would double the output -of his mines, and, as he had often forcibly argued, all -experience tended to show that a man must die; and whether he -died of a miserable old age in his own country, or prematurely of -damp in the bottom of a foreign mine, was surely of little -consequence, provided that by a change in his mode of life he -benefited the British Empire. - -His ability was undoubted. Raising his broken nose towards his -listener, he would add: - -"For want of a few hundred of these fellows we haven't paid a -dividend for years, and look at the price of the shares. I can't -get ten shillings for them." - -He had been at Yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he -had added at least ten years to his own life. He grasped -Swithin's hand, exclaiming in a jocular voice: - -"Well, so here we are again!" - -Mrs. Nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened -jollity behind his back. - -"Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte! Mr. and Mrs. Soames Forsyte!" - -Swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable. - -"Well, James, well Emily! How are you, Soames? How do you do?" - -His hand enclosed Irene's, and his eyes swelled. She was a -pretty woman--a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her -teeth! Too good for that chap Soames! - -The gods had given Irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that -strange combination, provocative of men's glances, which is said -to be the mark of a weak character. And the full, soft pallor of -her neck and shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her -personality an alluring strangeness. - -Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife's neck. The -hands of Swithin's watch, which he still held open in his hand, -had left eight behind; it was half an hour beyond his -dinner-time--he had had no lunch--and a strange primeval -impatience surged up within him. - -"It's not like Jolyon to be late!" he said to Irene, with -uncontrollable vexation. "I suppose it'll be June keeping him!" - -"People in love are always late," she answered. - -Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks. - -"They've no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!" - -And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive -generations seemed to mutter and grumble. - -"Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin," said -Irene softly. - -Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a -five-pointed star, made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at -the star. He had a pretty taste in stones; no question could -have been more sympathetically devised to distract his attention. - -"Who gave you that?" he asked. - -"Soames." - -There was no change in her face, but Swithin's pale eyes bulged -as though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight. - -"I dare say you're dull at home," he said. "Any day you like to -come and dine with me, I'll give you as good a bottle of wine as -you'll get in London." - -"Miss June Forsyte--Mr. Jolyon Forsyte!... Mr. Boswainey!..." - -Swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice: - -"Dinner, now--dinner!" - -He took in Irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her -since she was a bride. June was the portion of Bosinney, who was -placed between Irene and his fiancee. On the other side of June -was James with Mrs. Nicholas, then old Jolyon with Mrs. James, -Nicholas with Hatty Chessman, Soames with Mrs. Small, completing, -the circle to Swithin again. - -Family dinners of the Forsytes observe certain traditions. There -are, for instance, no hors d'oeuvre. The reason for this is -unknown. Theory among the younger members traces it to the -disgraceful price of oysters; it is more probably due to a desire -to come to the point, to a good practical sense deciding at once -that hors d'oeuvre are but poor things. The Jameses alone, -unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park Lane, are -now and then unfaithful. - -A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to -the subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first -entree, but interspersed with remarks such as, "Tom's bad again; -I can't tell what's the matter with him!" "I suppose Ann doesn't -come down in the mornings?"--"What's the name of your doctor, -Fanny?" "Stubbs?" "He's a quack!"--"Winifred? She's got too many -children. Four, isn't it? She's as thin as a lath!"--"What -d'you give for this sherry, Swithin? Too dry for me!" - -With the second glass of champagne, a kind of hum makes itself -heard, which, when divested of casual accessories and resolved -into its primal element, is found to be James telling a story, -and this goes on for a long time, encroaching sometimes even upon -what must universally be recognised as the crowning point of a -Forsyte feast--'the saddle of mutton.' - -No Forsyte has given a dinner without providing a saddle of -mutton. There is something in its succulent solidity which makes -it suitable to people 'of a certain position.' It is nourishing -and tasty; the sort of thing a man remembers eating. It has a -past and a future, like a deposit paid into a bank; and it is -something that can be argued about. - -Each branch of the family tenaciously held to a particular -locality--old Jolyon swearing by Dartmoor, James by Welsh, -Swithin by Southdown, Nicholas maintaining that people might -sneer, but there was nothing like New Zealand! As for Roger, the -'original' of the brothers, he had been obliged to invent a -locality of his own, and with an ingenuity worthy of a man who -had devised a new profession for his sons, he had discovered a -shop where they sold German; on being remonstrated with, he had -proved his point by producing a butcher's bill, which showed that -he paid more than any of the others. It was on this occasion -that old Jolyon, turning to June, had said in one of his bursts -of philosophy: - -"You may depend upon it, they're a cranky lot, the Forsytes--and -you'll find it out, as you grow older!" - -Timothy alone held apart, for though he ate saddle of mutton -heartily, he was, he said, afraid of it. - -To anyone interested psychologically in Forsytes, this great -saddle-of-mutton trait is of prime importance; not only does it -illustrate their tenacity, both collectively and as individuals, -but it marks them as belonging in fibre and instincts to that -great class which believes in nourishment and flavour, and yields -to no sentimental craving for beauty. - -Younger members of the family indeed would have done without a -joint altogether, preferring guinea-fowl, or lobster salad-- -something which appealed to the imagination, and had less -nourishment--but these were females; or, if not, had been -corrupted by their wives, or by mothers, who having been forced -to eat saddle of mutton throughout their married lives, had -passed a secret hostility towards it into the fibre of their -sons. - -The great saddle-of-mutton controversy at an end, a Tewkesbury -ham commenced, together with the least touch of West Indian-- -Swithin was so long over this course that he caused a block in -the progress of the dinner. To devote himself to it with better -heart, he paused in his conversation. - -From his seat by Mrs. Septimus Small Soames was watching. He had -a reason of his own connected with a pet building scheme, for -observing Bosinney. The architect might do for his purpose; he -looked clever, as he sat leaning back in his chair, moodily -making little ramparts with bread-crumbs. Soames noted his dress -clothes to be well cut, but too small, as though made many years -ago. - -He saw him turn to Irene and say something and her face sparkle -as he often saw it sparkle at other people--never at himself. He -tried to catch what they were saying, but Aunt Juley was -speaking. - -Hadn't that always seemed very extraordinary to Soames? Only -last Sunday dear Mr. Scole, had been so witty in his sermon, so -sarcastic, "For what," he had said, "shall it profit a man if he -gain his own soul, but lose all his property?" That, he had -said, was the motto of the middle-class; now, what had he meant -by that? Of course, it might be what middle-class people -believed--she didn't know; what did Soames think? - -He answered abstractedly: "How should I know? Scoles is a -humbug, though, isn't he?" For Bosinney was looking round the -table, as if pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and -Soames wondered what he was saying. By her smile Irene was -evidently agreeing with his remarks. She seemed always to agree -with other people. - -Her eyes were turned on himself; Soames dropped his glance at -once. The smile had died off her lips. - -A humbug? But what did Soames mean? If Mr. Scoles was a humbug, -a clergyman--then anybody might be--it was frightful! - -"Well, and so they are!" said Soames. - -During Aunt Juley's momentary and horrified silence he caught -some words of Irene's that sounded like: 'Abandon hope, all ye -who enter here!' - -But Swithin had finished his ham. - -"Where do you go for your mushrooms?" he was saying to Irene in a -voice like a courtier's; "you ought to go to Smileybob's--he'll -give 'em you fresh. These little men, they won't take the -trouble!" - -Irene turned to answer him, and Soames saw Bosinney watching her -and smiling to himself. A curious smile the fellow had. A -half-simple arrangement, like a child who smiles when he is -pleased. As for George's nickname--'The Buccaneer'--he did not -think much of that. And, seeing Bosinney turn to June, Soames -smiled too, but sardonically--he did not like June, who was not -looking too pleased. - -This was not surprising, for she had just held the following -conversation with James: - -"I stayed on the river on my way home, Uncle James, and saw a -beautiful site for a house." - -James, a slow and thorough eater, stopped the process of -mastication. - -"Eh?" he said. "Now, where was that?" - -"Close to Pangbourne." - -James placed a piece of ham in his mouth, and June waited. - -"I suppose you wouldn't know whether the land about there was -freehold?" he asked at last. "You wouldn't know anything about -the price of land about there?" - -"Yes," said June; "I made inquiries." Her little resolute face -under its copper crown was suspiciously eager and aglow. - -James regarded her with the air of an inquisitor. - -"What? You're not thinking of buying land!" he ejaculated, -dropping his fork. - -June was greatly encouraged by his interest. It had long been -her pet plan that her uncles should benefit themselves and -Bosinney by building country-houses. - -"Of course not," she said. "I thought it would be such a -splendid place for--you or--someone to build a country-house!" - -James looked at her sideways, and placed a second piece of ham in -his mouth.... - -"Land ought to be very dear about there," he said. - -What June had taken for personal interest was only the impersonal -excitement of every Forsyte who hears of something eligible in -danger of passing into other hands. But she refused to see the -disappearance of her chance, and continued to press her point. - -"You ought to go into the country, Uncle James. I wish I had a -lot of money, I wouldn't live another day in London." - -James was stirred to the depths of his long thin figure; he had -no idea his niece held such downright views. - -"Why don't you go into the country?" repeated June; "it would do -you a lot of good." - -"Why?" began James in a fluster. "Buying land--what good d'you -suppose I can do buying land, building houses?--I couldn't get -four per cent. for my money!" - -"What does that matter? You'd get fresh air." - -"Fresh air!" exclaimed James; "what should I do with fresh air," - -"I should have thought anybody liked to have fresh air," said -June scornfully. - -James wiped his napkin all over his mouth. - -"You don't know the value of money," he said, avoiding her eye. - -"No! and I hope I never shall!" and, biting her lip with -inexpressible mortification, poor June was silent. - -Why were her own relations so rich, and Phil never knew where the -money was coming from for to-morrow's tobacco. Why couldn't they -do something for him? But they were so selfish. Why couldn't -they build country-houses? She had all that naive dogmatism -which is so pathetic, and sometimes achieves such great results. -Bosinney, to whom she turned in her discomfiture, was talking to -Irene, and a chill fell on June's spirit. Her eyes grew steady -with anger, like old Jolyon's when his will was crossed. - -James, too, was much disturbed. He felt as though someone had -threatened his right to invest his money at five per cent. -Jolyon had spoiled her. None of his girls would have said such a -thing. James had always been exceedingly liberal to his -children, and the consciousness of this made him feel it all the -more deeply. He trifled moodily with his strawberries, then, -deluging them with cream, he ate them quickly; they, at all -events, should not escape him. - -No wonder he was upset. Engaged for fifty-four years (he had -been admitted a solicitor on the earliest day sanctioned by the -law) in arranging mortgages, preserving investments at a dead -level of high and safe interest, conducting negotiations on the -principle of securing the utmost possible out of other people -compatible with safety to his clients and himself, in -calculations as to the exact pecuniary possibilities of all the -relations of life, he had come at last to think purely in terms -of money. Money was now his light, his medium for seeing, that -without which he was really unable to see, really not cognisant -of phenomena; and to have this thing, "I hope I shall never know -the value of money!" said to his face, saddened and exasperated -him. He knew it to be nonsense, or it would have frightened him. -What was the world coming to! Suddenly recollecting the story of -young Jolyon, however, he felt a little comforted, for what could -you expect with a father like that! This turned his thoughts -into a channel still less pleasant. What was all this talk about -Soames and Irene? - -As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been -established where family secrets were bartered, and family stock -priced. It was known on Forsyte 'Change that Irene regretted her -marriage. Her regret was disapproved of. She ought to have -known her own mind; no dependable woman made these mistakes. - -James reflected sourly that they had a nice house (rather small) -in an excellent position, no children, and no money troubles. -Soames was reserved about his affairs, but he must be getting a -very warm man. He had a capital income from the business--for -Soames, like his father, was a member of that well-known firm of -solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte--and had always been very -careful. He had done quite unusually well with some mortgages he -had taken up, too--a little timely foreclosure--most lucky hits! - -There was no reason why Irene should not be happy, yet they said -she'd been asking for a separate room. He knew where that ended. -It wasn't as if Soames drank. - -James looked at his daughter-in-law. That unseen glance of his -was cold and dubious. Appeal and fear were in it, and a sense of -personal grievance. Why should he be worried like this? It was -very likely all nonsense; women were funny things! They -exaggerated so, you didn't know what to believe; and then, nobody -told him anything, he had to find out everything for himself. -Again he looked furtively at Irene, and across from her to -Soames. The latter, listening to Aunt Juley, was looking up, -under his brows in the direction of Bosinney. - -'He's fond of her, I know,' thought James. 'Look at the way he's -always giving her things.' - -And the extraordinary unreasonableness of her disaffection struck -him with increased force. - -It was a pity, too, she was a taking little thing, and he, James, -would be really quite fond of her if she'd only let him. She had -taken up lately with June; that was doing her no good, that was -certainly doing her no good. She was getting to have opinions of -her own. He didn't know what she wanted with anything of the -sort. She'd a good home, and everything she could wish for. He -felt that her friends ought to be chosen for her. To go on like -this was dangerous. - -June, indeed, with her habit of championing the unfortunate, had -dragged from Irene a confession, and, in return, had preached the -necessity of facing the evil, by separation, if need be. But in -the face of these exhortations, Irene had kept a brooding silence, -as though she found terrible the thought of this struggle carried -through in cold blood. He would never give her up, she had said -to June. - -"Who cares?" June cried; "let him do what he likes--you've only -to stick to it!" And she had not scrupled to say something of -this sort at Timothy's; James, when he heard of it, had felt a -natural indignation and horror. - -What if Irene were to take it into her head to--he could hardly -frame the thought--to leave Soames? But he felt this thought so -unbearable that he at once put it away; the shady visions it -conjured up, the sound of family tongues buzzing in his ears, the -horror of the conspicuous happening so close to him, to one of -his own children! Luckily, she had no money--a beggarly fifty -pound a year! And he thought of the deceased Heron, who had had -nothing to leave her, with contempt. Brooding over his glass, -his long legs twisted under the table, he quite omitted to rise -when the ladies left the room. He would have to speak to Soames- --would have to put him on his guard; they could not go on like -this, now that such a contingency had occurred to him. And he -noticed with sour disfavour that June had left her wine-glasses -full of wine. - -'That little, thing's at the bottom of it all,' he mused; -'Irene'd never have thought of it herself.' James was a man of -imagination. - -The voice of Swithin roused him from his reverie. - -"I gave four hundred pounds for it," he was saying. "Of course -it's a regular work of art." - -"Four hundred! H'm! that's a lot of money!" chimed in Nicholas. - -The object alluded to was an elaborate group of statuary in -Italian marble, which, placed upon a lofty stand (also of -marble), diffused an atmosphere of culture throughout the room. -The subsidiary figures, of which there were six, female, nude, -and of highly ornate workmanship, were all pointing towards the -central figure, also nude, and female, who was pointing at -herself; and all this gave the observer a very pleasant sense of -her extreme value. Aunt Juley, nearly opposite, had had the -greatest difficulty in not looking at it all the evening. - -Old Jolyon spoke; it was he who had started the discussion. - -"Four hundred fiddlesticks! Don't tell me you gave four hundred -for that?" - -Between the points of his collar Swithin's chin made the second -painful oscillatory movement of the evening. - -"Four-hundred-pounds, of English money; not a farthing less. I -don't regret it. It's not common English--it's genuine modern -Italian!" - -Soames raised the corner of his lip in a smile, and looked across -at Bosinney. The architect was grinning behind the fumes of his -cigarette. Now, indeed, he looked more like a buccaneer. - -"There's a lot of work about it," remarked James hastily, who was -really moved by the size of the group. "It'd sell well at -Jobson's." - -"The poor foreign dey-vil that made it," went on Swithin," asked -me five hundred--I gave him four. It's worth eight. Looked -half-starved, poor dey-vil! - -"Ah!" chimed in Nicholas suddenly, "poor, seedy-lookin' chaps, -these artists; it's a wonder to me how they live. Now, there's -young Flageoletti, that Fanny and the girls are always hav'in' -in, to play the fiddle; if he makes a hundred a year it's as much -as ever he does!" - -James shook his head. "Ah!" he said, "I don't know how they -live!" - -Old Jolyon had risen, and, cigar in mouth, went to inspect the -group at close quarters. - -"Wouldn't have given two for it!" he pronounced at last. - -Soames saw his father and Nicholas glance at each other -anxiously; and, on the other side of Swithin, Bosinney, still -shrouded in smoke. - -'I wonder what he thinks of it?' thought Soames, who knew well -enough that this group was hopelessly vieux jeu; hopelessly of -the last generation. There was no longer any sale at Jobson's -for such works of art. - -Swithin's answer came at last. "You never knew anything about a -statue. You've got your pictures, and that's all!" - -Old Jolyon walked back to his seat, puffing his cigar. It was -not likely that he was going to be drawn into an argument with an -obstinate beggar like Swithin, pig-headed as a mule, who had -never known a statue from a---straw hat. - -"Stucco!" was all he said. - -It had long been physically impossible for Swithin to start; his -fist came down on the table. - -"Stucco! I should like to see anything you've got in your house -half as good!" - -And behind his speech seemed to sound again that rumbling -violence of primitive generations. - -It was James who saved the situation. - -"Now, what do you say, Mr. Bosinney? You're an architect; you -ought to know all about statues and things!" - -Every eye was turned upon Bosinney; all waited with a strange, -suspicious look for his answer. - -And Soames, speaking for the first time, asked: - -"Yes, Bosinney, what do you say?" - -Bosinney replied coolly: - -"The work is a remarkable one." - -His words were addressed to Swithin, his eyes smiled slyly at old -Jolyon; only Soames remained unsatisfied. - -"Remarkable for what?" - -"For its naivete" - -The answer was followed by an impressive silence; Swithin alone -was not sure whether a compliment was intended. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -PROJECTION OF THE HOUSE - - -Soames Forsyte walked out of his green-painted front door three -days after the dinner at Swithin's, and looking back from across -the Square, confirmed his impression that the house wanted -painting. - -He had left his wife sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, her -hands crossed in her lap, manifestly waiting for him to go out. -This was not unusual. It happened, in fact, every day. - -He could not understand what she found wrong with him. It was -not as if he drank! Did he run into debt, or gamble, or swear; -was he violent; were his friends rackety; did he stay out at -night? On the contrary. - -The profound, subdued aversion which he felt in his wife was a -mystery to him, and a source of the most terrible irritation. -That she had made a mistake, and did not love him, had tried to -love him and could not love him, was obviously no reason. - -He that could imagine so outlandish a cause for his wife's not -getting on with him was certainly no Forsyte. - -Soames was forced, therefore, to set the blame entirely down to -his wife. He had never met a woman so capable of inspiring -affection. They could not go anywhere without his seeing how all -the men were attracted by her; their looks, manners, voices, -betrayed it; her behaviour under this attention had been beyond -reproach. That she was one of those women--not too common in the -Anglo-Saxon race--born to be loved and to love, who when not -loving are not living, had certainly never even occurred to him. -Her power of attraction, he regarded as part of her value as his -property; but it made him, indeed, suspect that she could give as -well as receive; and she gave him nothing! 'Then why did she -marry me?' was his continual thought. He had, forgotten his -courtship; that year and a half when he had besieged and lain in -wait for her, devising schemes for her entertainment, giving her -presents, proposing to her periodically, and keeping her other -admirers away with his perpetual presence. He had forgotten the -day when, adroitly taking advantage of an acute phase of her -dislike to her home surroundings, he crowned his labours with -success. If he remembered anything, it was the dainty -capriciousness with which the gold-haired, dark-eyed girl had -treated him. He certainly did not remember the look on her face- --strange, passive, appealing--when suddenly one day she had -yielded, and said that she would marry him. - -It had been one of those real devoted wooings which books and -people praise, when the lover is at length rewarded for hammering -the iron till it is malleable, and all must be happy ever after -as the wedding bells. - -Soames walked eastwards, mousing doggedly along on the shady -side. - -The house wanted doing, up, unless he decided to move into the -country, and build. - -For the hundredth time that month he turned over this problem. -There was no use in rushing into things! He was very comfortably -off, with an increasing income getting on for three thousand a -year; but his invested capital was not perhaps so large as his -father believed--James had a tendency to expect that his children -should be better off than they were. 'I can manage eight -thousand easily enough,' he thought, 'without calling in either - -Robertson's or Nicholl's.' - -He had stopped to look in at a picture shop, for Soames was an -'amateur' of pictures, and had a little-room in No. 62, -Montpellier Square, full of canvases, stacked against the wall, -which he had no room to hang. He brought them home with him on -his way back from the City, generally after dark, and would enter -this room on Sunday afternoons, to spend hours turning the -pictures to the light, examining the marks on their backs, and -occasionally making notes. - -They were nearly all landscapes with figures in the foreground, a -sign of some mysterious revolt against London, its tall houses, -its interminable streets, where his life and the lives of his -breed and class were passed. Every now and then he would take -one or two pictures away with him in a cab, and stop at Jobson's -on his way into the City. - -He rarely showed them to anyone; Irene, whose opinion he secretly -respected and perhaps for that reason never solicited, had only -been into the room on rare occasions, in discharge of some wifely -duty. She was not asked to look at the pictures, and she never -did. To Soames this was another grievance. He hated that pride -of hers, and secretly dreaded it. - -In the plate-glass window of the picture shop his image stood and -looked at him. - -His sleek hair under the brim of the tall hat had a sheen like -the hat itself; his cheeks, pale and flat, the line of his -clean-shaven lips, his firm chin with its greyish shaven tinge, -and the buttoned strictness of his black cut-away coat, conveyed -an appearance of reserve and secrecy, of imperturbable, enforced -composure; but his eyes, cold,--grey, strained--looking, with a -line in the brow between them, examined him wistfully, as if they -knew of a secret weakness. - -He noted the subjects of the pictures, the names of the painters, -made a calculation of their values, but without the satisfaction -he usually derived from this inward appraisement, and walked on. - -No. 62 would do well enough for another year, if he decided to -build! The times were good for building, money had not been so -dear for years; and the site he had seen at Robin Hill, when he -had gone down there in the spring to inspect the Nicholl -mortgage--what could be better! Within twelve miles of Hyde Park -Corner, the value of the land certain to go up, would always -fetch more than he gave for it; so that a house, if built in -really good style, was a first-class investment. - -The notion of being the one member of his family with a country -house weighed but little with him; for to a true Forsyte, -sentiment, even the sentiment of social position, was a luxury -only to be indulged in after his appetite for more material -pleasure had been satisfied. - -To get Irene out of London, away from opportunities of going -about and seeing people, away from her friends and those who put -ideas into her head! That was the thing! She was too thick with -June! June disliked him. He returned the sentiment. They were -of the same blood. - -It would be everything to get Irene out of town. The house would -please her she would enjoy messing about with the decoration, she -was very artistic! - -The house must be in good style, something that would always be -certain to command a price, something unique, like that last -house of Parkes, which had a tower; but Parkes had himself said -that his architect was ruinous. You never knew where you were -with those fellows; if they had a name they ran you into no end -of expense and were conceited into the bargain. - -And a common architect was no good--the memory of Parkes' tower -precluded the employment of a common architect: - -This was why he had thought of Bosinney. Since the dinner at -Swithin's he had made enquiries, the result of which had been -meagre, but encouraging: "One of the new school." - -"Clever?" - -"As clever as you like--a bit--a bit up in the air!" - -He had not been able to discover what houses Bosinney had built, -nor what his charges were. The impression he gathered was that -he would be able to make his own terms. The more he reflected on -the idea, the more he liked it. It would be keeping the thing in -the family, with Forsytes almost an instinct; and he would be -able to get 'favoured-nation,' if not nominal terms--only fair, -considering the chance to Bosinney of displaying his talents, for -this house must be no common edifice. - -Soames reflected complacently on the work it would be sure to -bring the young man; for, like every Forsyte, he could be a -thorough optimist when there was anything to be had out of it. - -Bosinney's office was in Sloane Street, close at, hand, so that -he would be able to keep his eye continually on the plans. - -Again, Irene would not be to likely to object to leave London if -her greatest friend's lover were given the job. June's marriage -might depend on it. Irene could not decently stand in the way of -June's marriage; she would never do that, he knew her too well. -And June would be pleased; of this he saw the advantage. - -Bosinney looked clever, but he had also--and--it was one of his -great attractions--an air as if he did not quite know on which -side his bread were buttered; he should be easy to deal with in -money matters. Soames made this reflection in no defrauding -spirit; it was the natural attitude of his mind--of the mind of -any good business man--of all those thousands of good business -men through whom he was threading his way up Ludgate Hill. - -Thus he fulfilled the inscrutable laws of his great class--of -human nature itself--when he reflected, with a sense of comfort, -that Bosinney would be easy to deal with in money matters. - -While he elbowed his way on, his eyes, which he usually kept -fixed on the ground before his feet, were attracted upwards by -the dome of St. Paul's. It had a peculiar fascination for him, -that old dome, and not once, but twice or three times a week, -would he halt in his daily pilgrimage to enter beneath and stop -in the side aisles for five or ten minutes, scrutinizing the -names and epitaphs on the monuments. The attraction for him of -this great church was inexplicable, unless it enabled him to -concentrate his thoughts on the business of the day. If any -affair of particular moment, or demanding peculiar acuteness, was -weighing on his mind, he invariably went in, to wander with -mouse-like attention from epitaph to epitaph. Then retiring in -the same noiseless way, he would hold steadily on up Cheapside, a -thought more of dogged purpose in his gait, as though he had seen -something which he had made up his mind to buy. - -He went in this morning, but, instead of stealing from monument -to monument, turned his eyes upwards to the columns and spacings -of the walls, and remained motionless. - -His uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces -take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the -vast building. His gloved hands were clasped in front over the -handle of his umbrella. He lifted them. Some sacred inspiration -perhaps had come to him. - -'Yes,' he thought, 'I must have room to hang my pictures. - -That evening, on his return from the City, he called at -Bosinney's office. He found the architect in his shirt-sleeves, -smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan. Soames refused a -drink, and came at once to the point. - -"If you've nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to -Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site." - -"Are you going to build?" - -"Perhaps," said Soames; "but don't speak of it. I just want your -opinion." - -"Quite so," said the architect. - -Soames peered about the room. - -"You're rather high up here," he remarked. - -Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of -Bosinney's business would be all to the good. - -"It does well enough for me so far," answered the architect. -"You're accustomed to the swells." - -He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; -it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. Soames -noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction. - -"What do you pay for an office like this?" said he. - -"Fifty too much," replied Bosinney. - -This answer impressed Soames favourably. - -"I suppose it is dear," he said. "I'll call for you--on Sunday -about eleven." - -The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a -hansom, and drove him to the station. On arriving at Robin Hill, -they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the -site. - -It was the 1st of August--a perfect day, with a burning sun and -cloudless sky--and in the straight, narrow road leading up the -hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust. - -"Gravel soil," remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the -coat Bosinney wore. Into the side-pockets of this coat were -thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer- -looking stick. Soames noted these and other peculiarities. - -No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have -taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these -eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain -satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must -inevitably profit. If the fellow could build houses, what did -his clothes matter? - -"I told you," he said, "that I want this house to be a surprise, -so don't say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until -they're carried through." - -Bosinney nodded. - -"Let women into your plans," pursued Soames, "and you never know -where it'll end." - -"Ah!" Said Bosinney, "women are the devil!" - -This feeling had long been at the--bottom of Soames's heart; he -had never, however, put it into words. - -"Oh!" he Muttered, "so you're beginning to...." He stopped, but -added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: "June's got a -temper of her own--always had." - -"A temper's not a bad thing in an angel." - -Soames had never called Irene an angel. He could not so have -violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret -of her value, and giving himself away. He made no reply. - -They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A -cart-track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the -chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border -of a thick wood. Tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough -surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the -hate of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a countless -succession of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs. - -Soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he -stopped. It was the chosen site; but now that he was about to -divulge the spot to another he had become uneasy. - -"The agent lives in that cottage," he said; "he'll give us some -lunch--we'd better have lunch before we go into this matter." - -He again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall -man named Oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed -them. During lunch, which Soames hardly touched, he kept looking -at Bosinney, and once or twice passed his silk handkerchief -stealthily over his forehead. The meal came to an end at last, -and Bosinney rose. - -"I dare say you've got business to talk over," he said; "I'll -just go and nose about a bit." Without waiting for a reply he -strolled out. - -Soames was solicitor to this estate, and he spent nearly an hour -in the agent's company, looking at ground-plans and discussing -the Nicholl and other mortgages; it was as it were by an -afterthought that he brought up the question of the building -site. - -"Your people," he said, "ought to come down in their price to me, -considering that I shall be the first to build." - -Oliver shook his head. - -The site you've fixed on, Sir, he said, "is the cheapest we've -got. Sites at the top of the slope are dearer by a good bit." - -"Mind," said Soames," I've not decided; it's quite possible I -shan't build at all. The ground rent's very high." - -"Well, Mr. Forsyte, I shall be sorry if you go off, and I think -you'll make a mistake, Sir. There's not a bit of land near -London with such a view as this, nor one that's cheaper, all -things considered; we've only to advertise, to get a mob of -people after it." - -They looked at each other. Their faces said very plainly: 'I -respect you as a man of business; and you can't expect me to -believe a word you say.' - -Well, repeated Soames, "I haven't made up my mind; the thing will -very likely go off!" With these words, taking up his umbrella, -he put his chilly hand into the agent's, withdrew it without the -faintest pressure, and went out into the sun. - -He walked slowly back towards the site in deep thought. His -instinct told him that what the agent had said was true. A cheap -site. And the beauty of it was, that he knew the agent did not -really think it cheap; so that his own intuitive knowledge was a -victory over the agent's. - -'Cheap or not, I mean to have it,' he thought. - -The larks sprang up in front of his feet, the air was full of -butterflies, a sweet fragrance rose from the wild grasses. The -sappy scent of the bracken stole forth from the wood, where, -hidden in the depths, pigeons were cooing, and from afar on the -warm breeze, came the rhythmic chiming of church bells. - -Soames walked with his eyes on the ground, his lips opening and -closing as though in anticipation of a delicious morsel. But -when he arrived at the site, Bosinney was nowhere to be seen. -After waiting some little time, he crossed the warren in the -direction of the slope. He would have shouted, but dreaded the -sound of his voice. - -The warren was as lonely as a prairie, its silence only broken by -the rustle of rabbits bolting to their holes, and the song of the -larks. - -Soames, the pioneer-leader of the great Forsyte army advancing to -the civilization of this wilderness, felt his spirit daunted by -the loneliness, by the invisible singing, and the hot, sweet air. -He had begun to retrace his steps when he at last caught sight of -Bosinney. - -The architect was sprawling under a large oak tree, whose trunk, -with a huge spread of bough and foliage, ragged with age, stood -on the verge of the rise. - -Soames had to touch him on the shoulder before he looked up. - -"Hallo! Forsyte," he said, "I've found the very place for your -house! Look here!" - -Soames stood and looked, then he said, coldly: - -"You may be very clever, but this site will cost me half as much -again." - -"Hang the cost, man. Look at the view!" - -Almost from their feet stretched ripe corn, dipping to a small -dark copse beyond. A plain of fields and hedges spread to the -distant grey-bluedowns. In a silver streak to the right could be -seen the line of the river. - -The sky was so blue, and the sun so bright, that an eternal -summer seemed to reign over this prospect. Thistledown floated -round them, enraptured by the serenity, of the ether. The heat -danced over the corn, and, pervading all, was a soft, insensible -hum, like the murmur of bright minutes holding revel between -earth and heaven. - -Soames looked. In spite of himself, something swelled in his -breast. To live here in sight of all this, to be able to point -it out to his friends, to talk of it, to possess it! His cheeks -flushed. The warmth, the radiance, the glow, were sinking into -his senses as, four years before, Irene's beauty had sunk into -his senses and made him long for her. He stole a glance at -Bosinney, whose eyes, the eyes of the coachman's 'half-tame -leopard,' seemed running wild over the landscape. The sunlight -had caught the promontories of the fellow's face, the bumpy -cheekbones, the point of his chin, the vertical ridges above his -brow; and Soames watched this rugged, enthusiastic, careless face -with an unpleasant feeling. - -A long, soft ripple of wind flowed over the corn, and brought a -puff of warm air into their faces. - -"I could build you a teaser here," said Bosinney, breaking the -silence at last. - -"I dare say," replied Soames, drily. "You haven't got to pay for -it." - -"For about eight thousand I could build you a palace." - -Soames had become very pale--a struggle was going on within him. -He dropped his eyes, and said stubbornly: - -"I can't afford it." - -And slowly, with his mousing walk, he led the way back to the -first site. - -They spent some time there going into particulars of the -projected house, and then Soames returned to the agent's cottage. - -He came out in about half an hour, and, joining Bosinney, -started for the station. - -"Well," he said, hardly opening his lips, "I've taken that site -of yours, after all." - -And again he was silent, confusedly debating how it was that this -fellow, whom by habit he despised, should have overborne his own -decision. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A FORSYTE MENAGE - - -Like the enlightened thousands of his class and generation in -this great city of London, who no longer believe in red velvet -chairs, and know that groups of modern Italian marble are 'vieux -jeu,' Soames Forsyte inhabited a house which did what it could. -It owned a copper door knocker of individual design, windows -which had been altered to open outwards, hanging flower boxes -filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little -court tiled with jade-green tiles, and surrounded by pink -hydrangeas in peacock-blue tubs. Here, under a parchment- -coloured Japanese sunshade covering the whole end, inhabitants -or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious -while they drank tea and examined at their leisure the latest -of Soames's little silver boxes. - -The inner decoration favoured the First Empire and William -Morris. For its size, the house was commodious; there were -countless nooks resembling birds' nests, and little things made -of silver were deposited like eggs. - -In this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at -war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily -on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an -investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, in -accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive -daintiness had caused Soames in his Marlborough days to be the -first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy -waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in -public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to -dust his patent leather boots before a great multitude assembled -on Speech Day to hear him recite Moliere. - -Skin-like immaculateness had grown over Soames, as over many -Londoners; impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of -place, a tie deviating one-eighth of an inch from the -perpendicular, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone -without a bath for worlds--it was the fashion to take baths; and -how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them! - -But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in wayside -streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair -body. - -In this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the -wall. As in the struggle between Saxon and Celt still going on -within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive -temperament had had forced on it a conventional superstructure. - -Thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of -other houses with the same high aspirations, having become: 'That -very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite -individual, my dear--really elegant.' - -For Soames Forsyte--read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or -Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middle class -Englishman in London with any pretensions to taste; and though -the decoration be different, the phrase is just. - -On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin -Hill, in the dining-room of this house--'quite individual, my -dear--really elegant'--Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A -hot dinner on Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common -to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had -laid down the rule: 'The servants must give us hot dinner on -Sundays--they've nothing to do but play the concertina.' - -The custom had produced no revolution. For--to Soames a rather -deplorable sign--servants were devoted to Irene, who, in defiance -of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a -share in the weaknesses of human nature. - -The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but -rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without -a cloth--a distinguishing elegance--and so far had not spoken a -word. - -Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had -been buying, and so long as he talked Irene's silence did not -distress him. This evening he had found it impossible to talk. -The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, -and he had made up his mind to tell her. - -His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; -she had no business to make him feel like that--a wife and a -husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since -they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been -thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as -he did, making money for her--yes, and with an ache in his heart- --that she should sit there, looking--looking as if she saw the -walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up -and leave the table. - -The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms-- -Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an -inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his -acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high -frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. Under that -rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange -contrast with her dark brown eyes. - -Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its -deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured -glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything -prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue -among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, had -no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of -exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was -his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out -his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very secrets of -her heart. - -Out of his other property, out of all the things he had -collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, -he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none. - -In this house of his there was writing on every wall. His -business-like temperament protested against a mysterious warning -that she was not made for him. He had married this woman, -conquered her, made her his own, and it seemed to him contrary to -the most fundamental of all laws, the law of possession, that he -could do no more than own her body--if indeed he could do that, -which he was beginning to doubt. If any one had asked him if he -wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him -both ridiculous and sentimental. But he did so want, and the -writing said he never would. - -She was ever silent, passive, gracefully averse; as though -terrified lest by word, motion, or sign she might lead him to -believe that she was fond of him; and he asked himself: Must I -always go on like this? - -Like most novel readers of his generation (and Soames was a great -novel reader), literature coloured his view of life; and he had -imbibed the belief that it was only a question of time. - -In the end the husband always gained the affection of his wife. -Even in those cases--a class of book he was not very fond of-- -which ended in tragedy, the wife always died with poignant -regrets on her lips, or if it were the husband who died-- -unpleasant thought--threw herself on his body in an agony of -remorse. - -He often took Irene to the theatre, instinctively choosing the -modern Society Plays with the modern Society conjugal problem, so -fortunately different from any conjugal problem in real life. He -found that they too always ended in the same way, even when there -was a lover in the case. While he was watching the play Soames -often sympathized with the lover; but before he reached home -again, driving with Irene in a hansom, he saw that this would not -do, and he was glad the play had ended as it had. There was one -class of husband that had just then come into fashion, the -strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly -successful at the end of the play; with this person Soames was -really not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, -would have expressed his disgust with the fellow. But he was so -conscious of how vital to himself was the necessity for being a -successful, even a 'strong,' husband, that be never spoke of a -distaste born perhaps by the perverse processes of Nature out of -a secret fund of brutality in himself. - -But Irene's silence this evening was exceptional. He had never -before seen such an expression on her face. And since it is -always the unusual which alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his -savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs with -the silver sweeper. When she had left the room, he filled his. -glass with wine and said: - -"Anybody been here this afternoon?" - -"June." - -"What did she want?" It was an axiom with the Forsytes that -people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. "Came -to talk about her lover, I suppose?" - -Irene made no reply. - -"It looks to me," continued Soames, "as if she were sweeter on him -than he is on her. She's always following him about." - -Irene's eyes made him feel uncomfortable. - -"You've no business to say such a thing!" she exclaimed. - -"Why not? Anybody can see it." - -"They cannot. And if they could, it's disgraceful to say so." - -Soames's composure gave way. - -"You're a pretty wife!" he said. But secretly he wondered at the -heat of her reply; it was unlike her. "You're cracked about -June! I can tell you one thing: now that she has the Buccaneer -in tow, she doesn't care twopence about you, and, you'll find it -out. But you won't see so much of her in future; we're going to -live in the country." - -He had been glad to get his news out under cover of this burst of -irritation. He had expected a cry of dismay; the silence with -which his pronouncement was received alarmed him. - -"You don't seem interested," he was obliged to add. - -"I knew it already." - -He looked at her sharply. - -"Who told you?" - -"June." - -"How did she know?" - -Irene did not answer. Baffled and uncomfortable, he said: - -"It's a fine thing for Bosinney, it'll be the making of him. I -suppose she's told you all about it?" - -"Yes." - -There was another pause, and then Soames said: - -"I suppose you don't want to, go?" - -Irene made no reply. - -"Well, I can't tell what you want. You never seem contented -here." - -"Have my wishes anything to do with it?" - -She took the vase of roses and left the room. Soames remained -seated. Was it for this that he had signed that contract? Was -it for this that he was going to spend some ten thousand pounds? -Bosinney's phrase came back to him: "Women are the devil!" - -But presently he grew calmer. It might have, been worse. She -might have flared up. He had expected something more than this. -It was lucky, after all, that June had broken the ice for him. -She must have wormed it out of Bosinney; he might have known she -would. - -He lighted his cigarette. After all, Irene had not made a scene! -She would come round--that was the best of her; she was cold, but -not sulky. And, puffing the cigarette smoke at a lady-bird on -the shining table, he plunged into a reverie about the house. It -was no good worrying; he would go and make it up presently. She -would be sitting out there in the dark, under the Japanese -sunshade, knitting. A beautiful, warm night.... - -In truth, June had come in that afternoon with shining eyes, and -the words: "Soames is a brick! It's splendid for Phil--the very -thing for him!" - -Irene's face remaining dark and puzzled, she went on: - -"Your new house at Robin Hill, of course. What? Don't you -know?" - -Irene did not know. - -"Oh! then, I suppose I oughtn't to have told you!" Looking -impatiently at her friend, she cried: "You look as if you didn't -care. Don't you see, it's what I've' been praying for--the very -chance he's been wanting all this time. Now you'll see what he -can do;" and thereupon she poured out the whole story. - -Since her own engagement she had not seemed much interested in -her friend's position; the hours she spent with Irene were given -to confidences of her own; and at times, for all her affectionate -pity, it was impossible to keep out of her smile a trace of -compassionate contempt for the woman who had made such a mistake -in her life--such a vast, ridiculous mistake. - -"He's to have all the decorations as well--a free hand. It's -perfect--" June broke into laughter, her little figure quivered -gleefully; she raised her hand, and struck a blow at a muslin -curtain. "Do you, know I even asked Uncle James...." But, with a -sudden dislike to mentioning that incident, she stopped; and -presently, finding her friend so unresponsive, went away. She -looked back from the pavement, and Irene was still standing in -the doorway. In response to her farewell wave, Irene put her -hand to her brow, and, turning slowly, shut the door.... - -Soames went to the drawing-room presently, and peered at her -through the window. - -Out in the shadow of the Japanese sunshade she was sitting very -still, the lace on her white shoulders stirring with the soft -rise and fall of her bosom. - -But about this silent creature sitting there so motionless, in -the dark, there seemed a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as -if the whole of her being had been stirred, and some change were -taking place in its very depths. - -He stole back to the dining-room unnoticed. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -JAMES AT LARGE - - -It was not long before Soames's determination to build went the -round of the family, and created the flutter that any decision -connected with property should make among Forsytes. - -It was not his fault, for he had been determined that no one -should know. June, in the fulness of her heart, had told Mrs. -Small, giving her leave only to tell Aunt Ann--she thought it -would cheer her, the poor old sweet! for Aunt Ann had kept her -room now for many days. - -Mrs. Small told Aunt Ann at once, who, smiling as she lay back on -her pillows, said in her distinct, trembling old voice: - -"It's very nice for dear June; but I hope they will be careful-- -it's rather dangerous!" - -When she was left alone again, a frown, like a cloud presaging a -rainy morrow, crossed her face. - -While she was lying there so many days the process of recharging -her will went on all the time; it spread to her face, too, and -tightening movements were always in action at the corners of her -lips. - -The maid Smither, who had been in her service since girlhood, and -was spoken of as "Smither--a good girl--but so slow!"--the maid -Smither performed every morning with extreme punctiliousness the -crowning ceremony of that ancient toilet. Taking from the -recesses of their pure white band-box those flat, grey curls, -the insignia of personal dignity, she placed them securely in her -mistress's hands, and turned her back. - -And every day Aunts Juley and Hester were required to come and -report on Timothy; what news there was of Nicholas; whether dear -June had succeeded in getting Jolyon to shorten the engagement, -now that Mr. Bosinney was building Soames a house; whether young -Roger's wife was really--expecting; how the operation on Archie -had succeeded; and what Swithin had done about that empty house -in Wigmore Street, where the tenant had lost all his money and -treated him so badly; above all, about Soames; was Irene still-- -still asking for a separate room? And every morning Smither was -told: "I shall be coming down this afternoon, Smither, about two -o'clock. I shall want your arm, after all these days in bed!" - -After telling Aunt Ann, Mrs. Small had spoken of the house in the -strictest confidence to Mrs. Nicholas, who in her turn had asked -Winifred Dartie for confirmation, supposing, of course, that, -being Soames's sister, she would know all about it. Through her -it had in due course come round to the ears of James. He had been -a good deal agitated. - -"Nobody," he said, "told him anything." And, rather than go -direct to Soames himself, of whose taciturnity he was afraid, he -took his umbrella and went round to Timothy's. - -He found Mrs. Septimus and Hester (who had been told--she was so -safe, she found it tiring to talk) ready, and indeed eager, to -discuss the news. It was very good of dear Soames, they thought, -to employ Mr. Bosinney, but rather risky. What had George named -him? 'The Buccaneer' How droll! But George was always droll! -However, it would be all in the family they supposed they must -really look upon Mr. Bosinney as belonging to the family, though -it seemed strange. - -James here broke in: - -"Nobody knows anything about him. I don't see what Soames wants -with a young man like that. I shouldn't be surprised if Irene -had put her oar in. I shall speak to...." - -"Soames," interposed Aunt Juley, "told Mr. Bosinney that he -didn't wish it mentioned. He wouldn't like it to be talked -about, I'm sure, and if Timothy knew he would be very vexed, -I...." - -James put his hand behind his ear: - -"What?" he said. "I'm getting very deaf. I suppose I don't hear -people. Emily's got a bad toe. We shan't be able to start for -Wales till the end of the month. There' s always something!" -And, having got what he wanted, he took his hat and went away. - -It was a fine afternoon, and he walked across the Park towards -Soames's, where he intended to dine, for Emily's toe kept her in -bed, and Rachel and Cicely were on a visit to the country. He -took the slanting path from the Bayswater side of the Row to the -Knightsbridge Gate, across a pasture of short, burnt grass, -dotted with blackened sheep, strewn with seated couples and -strange waifs; lying prone on their faces, like corpses on a -field over which the wave of battle has rolled. - -He walked rapidly, his head bent, looking neither to right nor, -left. The appearance of this park, the centre of his own -battle-field, where he had all his life been fighting, excited no -thought or speculation in his mind. These corpses flung down, -there, from out the press and turmoil of the struggle, these -pairs of lovers sitting cheek by jowl for an hour of idle Elysium -snatched from the monotony of their treadmill, awakened no -fancies in his mind; he had outlived that kind of imagination; -his nose, like the nose of a sheep, was fastened to the pastures -on which he browsed. - -One of his tenants had lately shown a disposition to be -behind-hand in his rent, and it had become a grave question -whether he had not better turn him out at once, and so run the -risk of not re-letting before Christmas. Swithin had just been -let in very badly, but it had served him right--he had held on -too long. - -He pondered this as he walked steadily, holding his umbrella -carefully by the wood, just below the crook of the handle, so as -to keep the ferule off the ground, and not fray the silk in the -middle. And, with his thin, high shoulders stooped, his long -legs moving with swift mechanical precision, this passage through -the Park, where the sun shone with a clear flame on so much -idleness--on so many human evidences of the remorseless battle of -Property, raging beyond its ring--was like the flight of some -land bird across the sea. - -He felt a--touch on the arm as he came out at Albert Gate. - -It was Soames, who, crossing from the shady side of Piccadilly, -where he had been walking home from the office, had suddenly -appeared alongside. - -"Your mother's in bed," said James; "I was, just coming to you, -but I suppose I shall be in the way." - -The outward relations between James and his son were marked by a -lack of sentiment peculiarly Forsytean, but for all that the two -were by no means unattached. Perhaps they regarded one another -as an investment; certainly they were solicitous of each other's -welfare, glad of each other's company. They had never exchanged -two words upon the more intimate problems of life, or revealed in -each other's presence the existence of any deep feeling. - -Something beyond the power of word-analysis bound them together, -something hidden deep in the fibre of nations and families--for -blood, they say, is thicker than water--and neither of them was a -cold-blooded man. Indeed, in James love of his children was now -the prime motive of his existence. To have creatures who were -parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved, -was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was -left that could give him pleasure, but--saving? The kernel of -life was in this saving for his children. - -Than James Forsyte, notwithstanding all his 'Jonah-isms,' there -was no saner man (if the leading symptom of sanity, as we are -told, is self-preservation, though without doubt Timothy went too -far) in all this London, of which he owned so much, and loved -with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. He -had the marvellous instinctive sanity of the middle class. In -him--more than in Jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments -of tenderness and philosophy--more than in Swithin, the martyr to -crankiness--Nicholas, the sufferer from ability--and Roger, the -victim of enterprise--beat the true pulse of compromise; of all -the brothers he was least remarkable in mind and person, and for -that reason more likely to live for ever. - -To James, more than to any of the others, was "the family" -significant and dear. There had always been something primitive -and cosy in his attitude towards life; he loved the family -hearth, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling. All his -decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family -mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of -other families of similar fibre. Year after year, week after -week, he went to Timothy's, and in his brother's front -drawing-room--his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing -his clean-shaven mouth--would sit watching the family pot simmer, -the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered, -refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort. - -Beneath the adamant of his self-preserving instinct there was -much real softness in James; a visit to Timothy's was like an -hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving he -himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn -on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to -him to think of them exposed to the treatment of the world, in -money, health, or reputation. When his old friend John Street's -son volunteered for special service, he shook his head -querulously, and wondered what John Street was about to allow it; -and when young Street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart -that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special -object of saying: He knew how it would be--he'd no patience with -them! - -When his son-in-law Dartie had that financial crisis, due to -speculation in Oil Shares, James made himself ill worrying over -it; the knell of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. It took -him three months and a visit to Baden-Baden to get better; there -was something terrible in the idea that but for his, James's, -money, Dartie's name might have appeared in the Bankruptcy List. - -Composed of a physiological mixture so sound that if he had an -earache he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional -ailments of his wife and children as in the nature of personal -grievances, special interventions of Providence for the purpose -of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in -the ailments of people outside his own immediate family, -affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver. - -His universal comment was: "What can they expect? I have it -myself, if I'm not careful!" - -When he went to Soames's that evening he felt that life was hard -on him: There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding about -in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was -ill--he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had -called there three times now without her being able to see him! -And this idea of Soames's, building a house, that would have to -be looked into. As to the trouble with Irene, he didn't know -what was to come of that--anything might come of it! - -He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of -being miserable. It was already half-past seven, and Irene, -dressed for dinner, was seated in the drawing-room. She was -wearing her gold-coloured frock--for, having been displayed at a -dinner-party, a soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at -home--and she had adorned the bosom with a cascade of lace, on -which James's eyes riveted themselves at once. - -"Where do you get your things?" he said in an aggravated voice. -"I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That -rose-point, now--that's not real!" - -Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error. - -And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her -deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No -self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: -He didn't know--he expected she was spending a pretty penny on -dress. - -The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene -took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames's usual -place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly -there, so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of -the day; and she began to talk to him about himself. - -Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that -steals upon a fruit in the, sun; a sense of being caressed, and -praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single -caress or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was -agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did -not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and, -on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it -was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never -drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine -merchant know that he had been swindled. - -Looking up from his food, he remarked: - -"You've a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you -give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn't wonder if it was worth -money!" - -He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on -the wall opposite, which he himself had given them: - -"I'd no idea it was so good!" he said. - -They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene -closely. - -"That's what I call a capital little dinner," he murmured, -breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; "nothing heavy--and -not too Frenchified. But I can't get it at home. I pay my cook -sixty pounds a year, but she can't give me a dinner like that!" - -He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor -did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook -himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures. - -James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the -wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt -quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing; -she listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were -saying; and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from -her bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was -leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised against the -top--her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips, -swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover. -Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed. - -It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her -attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness -to fall on James. He did not remember ever having been quite -alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd -feeling crept over him, as though he had come across something -strange and foreign. - -Now what was she thinking about--sitting back like that? - -Thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been -awakened from a pleasant dream. - -"What d'you do with yourself all day?" he said. "You never come -round to Park Lane!" - -She seemed to be making very lame excuses, and James did not look -at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding -them--it would mean too much. - -"I expect the fact is, you haven't time," he said; "You're always -about with June. I expect you're useful to her with her young -man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she's -never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn't like it, I fancy, -being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she's always -hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here -every day. Now, what do you think of him? D'you think he knows -his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the -grey mare was the better horse!" - -The colour deepened in Irene's face; and James watched her -suspiciously. - -"Perhaps you don't quite understand Mr. Bosinney," she said. - -"Don't understand him!" James humied out: "Why not?--you can see -he's one of these artistic chaps. They say he's clever--they all -think they're clever. You know more about him than I do," he -added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her. - -"He is designing a house for Soames," she said softly, evidently -trying to smooth things over. - -"That brings me to what I was going to say," continued James; "I -don't know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why -doesn't he go to a first-rate man?" - -"Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!" - -James rose, and took a turn with bent head. - -"That's it'," he said, "you young people, you all stick together; -you all think you know best!" - -Halting his tall, lank figure before her, he raised a finger, and -levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment -against her beauty: - -"All I can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call -themselves, they're as unreliable as they can be; and my advice -to you is, don't you have too much to do with him!" - -Irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange -provocation. She seemed to have lost her deference. Her breast -rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands -inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips -of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at -James. - -The latter gloomily scrutinized the floor. - -"I tell you my opinion," he said, "it's a pity you haven't got a -child to think about, and occupy you!" - -A brooding look came instantly on Irene's face, and even James -became conscious of the rigidity that took possession of her -whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing. - -He was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most -men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify himself -by bullying. - -"You don't seem to care about going about. Why don't you drive -down to Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then. -At your time of life you ought to take an interest in things. -You're a young woman!" - -The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous. - -"Well, I know nothing about it," he said; "nobody tells me -anything. Soames ought to be able to take care of himself. If -he can't take care of himself he mustn't look to me--that's all." - -Biting the corner of his forefinger he stole a cold, sharp look -at his daughter-in-law. - -He encountered her eyes fixed on his own, so dark and deep, that -he stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration. - -"Well, I must be going," he said after a short pause, and a -minute later rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as -though he had expected to be asked to stop. Giving his hand to -Irene, he allowed himself to be conducted to the door, and let -out into the street. He would not have a cab, he would walk, -Irene was to say good-night to Soames for him, and if she wanted -a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to Richmond any -day. - -He walked home, and going upstairs, woke Emily out of the first -sleep she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it -was his impression things were in a bad way at Soames's; on this -theme he descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that -he would not sleep a wink, he turned on his side and instantly -began to snore. - -In Montpellier Square Soames, who had come from the picture room, -stood invisible at the top of the stairs, watching Irene sort the -letters brought by the last post. She turned back into the -drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if -listening. Then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten -in her arms. He could see her face bent over the little beast, -which was purring against her neck. Why couldn't she look at him -like that? - -Suddenly she saw him, and her face changed. - -"Any letters for me?" he said. - -"Three." - -He stood aside, and without another word she passed on into the -bedroom. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -OLD JOLYON'S PECCADILLO - - -Old Jolyon came out of Lord's cricket ground that same afternoon -with the intention of going home. He had not reached Hamilton -Terrace before he changed his mind, and hailing a cab, gave the -driver an address in Wistaria Avenue. He had taken a resolution. - -June had hardly been at home at all that week; she had given him -nothing of her company for a long time past, not, in fact, since -she had become engaged to Bosinney. He never asked her for her -company. It was not his habit to ask people for things! She had -just that one idea now--Bosinney and his affairs--and she left -him stranded in his great house, with a parcel of servants, and -not a soul to speak to from morning to night. His Club was -closed for cleaning; his Boards in recess; there was nothing, -therefore, to take him into the City. June had wanted him to go -away; she would not go herself, because Bosinney was in London. - -But where was he to go by himself? He could not go abroad alone; -the sea upset his liver; he hated hotels. Roger went to a -hydropathic--he was not going to begin that at his time of life, -those new-fangled places we're all humbug! - -With such formulas he clothed to himself the desolation of his -spirit; the lines down his face deepening, his eyes day by day -looking forth with the melancholy which sat so strangely on a -face wont to be strong and serene. - -And so that afternoon he took this journey through St. John's -Wood, in the golden-light that sprinkled the rounded green bushes -of the acacia's before the little houses, in the summer sunshine -that seemed holding a revel over the little gardens; and he -looked about him with interest; for this was a district which no -Forsyte entered without open disapproval and secret curiosity. - -His cab stopped in front of a small house of that peculiar buff -colour which implies a long immunity from paint. It had an outer -gate, and a rustic approach. - -He stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head, -with its drooping moustache and wings of white hair, very -upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a -little angry. He had been driven into this! - -"Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte at home?" - -"Oh, yes sir!--what name shall I say, if you please, sir?" - -Old Jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave -his name. She seemed to him such a funny little toad! - -And he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double, -drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the -little maid placed him in a chair. - -"They're all in the garden, sir; if you'll kindly take a seat, -I'll tell them." - -Old Jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked -around him. The whole place seemed to him, as he would have -expressed it, pokey; there was a certain--he could not tell -exactly what--air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends -meet, about everything. As far as he could see, not a single -piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. The walls, -distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with -water-colour sketches; across the ceiling meandered a long crack. - -These little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should -hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than -he could have said, to think of a Forsyte--his own son living in -such a place. - -The little maid came back. Would he please to go down into the -garden? - -Old Jolyon marched out through the French windows. In descending -the steps he noticed that they wanted painting. - -Young Jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog Balthasar, -were all out there under a pear-tree. - -This walk towards them was the most courageous act of old -Jolyon's life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous -gesture betrayed him. He kept his deep-set eyes steadily on the -enemy. - -In those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that -unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality of fibre that made, -of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation. -In the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the -neglect of everything else, they typified the essential -individualism, born in the Briton from the natural isolation of -his country's life. - -The dog Balthasar sniffed round the edges of his trousers; this -friendly and cynical mongrel--offspring of a liaison between a -Russian poodle and a fox-terrier--had a nose for the unusual. - -The strange greetings over, old Jolyon seated himself in a wicker -chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees, -looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man. - -They were unlike, as though recognising the difference set -between them by the circumstances of their births. Jolly, the -child of sin, pudgy-faced, with his tow-coloured hair brushed off -his forehead, and a dimple in his chin, had an air of stubborn -amiability, and the eyes of a Forsyte; little Holly, the child of -wedlock, was a dark-skinned, solemn soul, with her mother's, grey -and wistful eyes. - -The dog Balthasar, having walked round the three small flower- -beds, to show his extreme contempt for things at large, had also -taken a seat in front of old Jolyon, and, oscillating a tail -curled by Nature tightly over his back, was staring up with -eyes that did not blink. - -Even in the garden, that sense of things being pokey haunted old -Jolyon; the wicker chair creaked under his weight; the -garden-beds looked 'daverdy'; on the far side, under the smut- -stained wall, cats had made a path. - -While he and his grandchildren thus regarded each other with the -peculiar scrutiny, curious yet trustful, that passes between the -very young and the very old, young Jolyon watched his wife. - -The colour had deepened in her thin, oval face, with its straight -brows, and large, grey eyes. Her hair, brushed in fine, high -curves back from her forehead, was going grey, like his own, and -this greyness made the sudden vivid colour in her cheeks -painfully pathetic. - -The look on her face, such as he had never seen there before, -such as she had always hidden from him, was full of secret -resentments, and longings, and fears. Her eyes, under their -twitching brows, stared painfully. And she was silent. - -Jolly alone sustained the conversation; he had many possessions, -and was anxious that his unknown friend with extremely large -moustaches, and hands all covered with blue veins, who sat with -legs crossed like his own father (a habit he was himself trying -to acquire), should know it; but being a Forsyte, though not yet -quite eight years old, he made no mention of the thing at the -moment dearest to his heart--a camp of soldiers in a shop-window, -which his father had promised to buy. No doubt it seemed to him -too precious; a tempting of Providence to mention it yet. - -And the sunlight played through the leaves on that little party -of the three generations grouped tranquilly under the pear-tree, -which had long borne no fruit. - -Old Jolyon's furrowed face was reddening patchily, as old men's -faces redden in the sun. He took one of Jolly's hands in his -own; the boy climbed on to his knee; and little Holly, mesmerized -by this sight, crept up to them; the sound of the dog Balthasar's -scratching arose rhythmically. - -Suddenly young Mrs. Jolyon got up and hurried indoors. A minute -later her husband muttered an excuse, and followed. Old Jolyon -was left alone with his grandchildren. - -And Nature with her quaint irony began working in him one of her -strange revolutions, following her cyclic laws into the depths of -his heart. And that tenderness for little children, that passion -for the beginnings of life which had once made him forsake his -son and follow June, now worked in him to forsake June and follow -these littler things. Youth, like a flame, burned ever in his -breast, and to youth he turned, to the round little limbs, so -reckless, that wanted care, to the small round faces so -unreasonably solemn or bright, to the treble tongues, and the -shrill, chuckling laughter, to the insistent tugging hands, and -the feel of small bodies against his legs, to all that was young -and young, and once more young. And his eyes grew soft, his -voice, and thin-veined hands soft, and soft his heart within him. -And to those small creatures he became at once a place of -pleasure, a place where they were secure, and could talk and -laugh and play; till, like sunshine, there radiated from old -Jolyon's wicker chair the perfect gaiety of three hearts. - -But with young Jolyon following to his wife's room it was -different. - -He found her seated on a chair before her dressing-glass, with -her hands before her face. - -Her shoulders were shaking with sobs. This passion of hers for -suffering was mysterious to him. He had been through a hundred -of these moods; how he had survived them he never knew, for he -could never believe they were moods, and that the last hour of -his partnership had not struck. - -In the night she would be sure to throw her arms round his -neck and say: "Oh! Jo, how I make you suffer!" as she had done a -hundred times before. - -He reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into -his pocket. 'I cannot stay here,' he thought, 'I must go down!' -Without a word he left the room, and went back to the lawn. - -Old Jolyon had little Holly on his knee; she had taken possession -of his watch; Jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show -that he could stand on his head. The dog Balthasar, as close as -he might be to the tea-table, had fixed his eyes on the cake. - -Young Jolyon felt a malicious desire to cut their enjoyment -short. - -What business had his father to come and upset his wife like -this? It was a shock, after all these years! He ought to have -known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a -Forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! And -in his thoughts he did old Jolyon wrong. - -He spoke sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their -tea. Greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father -speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little Holly -looking back over her shoulder. - -Young Jolyon poured out the tea. - -"My wife's not the thing today," he said, but he knew well enough -that his father had penetrated the cause of that sudden -withdrawal, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so -calmly. - -"You've got a nice little house here," said old Jolyon with a -shrewd look; "I suppose you've taken a lease of it!" - -Young Jolyon nodded. - -"I don't like the neighbourhood," said old Jolyon; "a ramshackle -lot." - -Young Jolyon replied: "Yes, we're a ramshackle lot."' - -The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog -Balthasar's scratching. - -Old Jolyon said simply: "I suppose I oughtn't to have come here, -Jo; but I get so lonely!" - -At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his -father's shoulder. - -In the next house someone was playing over and over again: 'La -Donna mobile' on an untuned piano; and the little garden had -fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end, -whereon basked a crouching cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily -down on the dog Balthasar. There was a drowsy hum of very -distant traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out -everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top -branches still gilded by the sun. - -For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old -Jolyon rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming -again. - -He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable place; and he -thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence -for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that -no one entered from one week's end to another. - -That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned -by half; she gave Jo a bad time he knew! And those sweet -children! Ah! what a piece of awful folly! - -He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little -houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the -prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort -or kind. - -Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes--had set -themselves up to pass judgment on his flesh and blood! A parcel -of old women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though -to drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had -dared to ostracize his son and his son's son, in whom he could -have lived again! - -He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed -Society's behaviour for fifteen years--had only today been false -to it! - -He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story, -with all his old bitterness. A wretched business! - -He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native -perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way. - -After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to -the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when -June was out--it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not -yet come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing -to do. - -The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He -disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze, -travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: 'Group -of Dutch fishing boats at sunset'; the chef d'oeuvre of his -collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He -was lonely! He oughtn't to complain, he knew, but he couldn't -help it: He was a poor thing--had always been a poor thing--no -pluck! Such was his thought. - -The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his -master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his -movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had -given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members--of the -family--, especially those who, like Soames, had been to public -schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could -he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded to him -as: 'Uncle Jolyon's Nonconformist'; George, the acknowledged wag, -had named him: 'Sankey.' - -He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the -great polished table inimitably sleek and soft. - -Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak-- -he had always thought so--who cared about nothing but rattling -through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or -goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn't care a pin -about his master! - -But then against his will, came one of those moments of -philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes: - -After all why should the man care? He wasn't paid to care, and -why expect it? In this world people couldn't look for affection -unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next--he -didn't know--couldn't tell! And again he shut his eyes. - -Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking -things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back -seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his -operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his -master's presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the -silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He -appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, -which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard -droop over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for -over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there -was a look of contempt: - -After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn't much -left in him! - -Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His -orders were 'dinner at seven.' What if his master were asleep; he -would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! -He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at -half-past eight! - -In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup -tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the. -table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher -company into the room, he said in a solemn voice: - -"Dinner is on the table, sir!" - -Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the -table to eat his dinner. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -PLANS OF THE HOUSE - - -Forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that -extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish -delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would -not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, -property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with -them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of -other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte -is inconceivable--he would be like a novel without a plot, which -is well-known to be an anomaly. - -To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed -one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life -surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives -that do not belong to them. - -His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a -plate, was his name, 'Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,' were -not those of a Forsyte.--He had no sitting-room apart from his -office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the -necessaries of life--a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit -case, novels and slippers. The business part of the room had the -usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeon-holes, a round oak -table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of -large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had -twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt. - -He was believed to have a bedroom at the back. - -As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it -consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, -together with an odd fee once in a way, and--more worthy item--a -private annuity under his father's will of one hundred and fifty -pounds a year. - -What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. -It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of -Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies-- -a well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney's uncle by -marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts -if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his -brother-in-law. - -"An odd fellow!' he would say: 'always spoke of his three eldest -boys as 'good creatures, but so dull'; they're all doing -capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one he liked. -I've heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: 'My -dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you're thinking -of! But I didn't follow his advice; not I! An eccentric man! -He would say to Phil: 'Whether you live like a gentleman or not, -my boy, be sure you die like one! and he had himself embalmed in -a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. Oh, -quite an original, I can assure you!" - -Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain -compassion: "He's got a streak of his father's Byronism. Why, -look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; -going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for -what?--to study foreign architecture--foreign! What could he -expect? And there he is--a clever young fellow--doesn't make his -hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could -have happened--keep him steady; he's one of those that go to bed -all day and stay up all night, simply because they've no method; -but no vice about him--not an ounce of vice. Old Forsyte's a -rich man!" - -Mr. Baynes made himself extremely pleasant to June, who -frequently visited his house in Lowndes Square at this period. - -"This house of your cousin's--what a capital man of business--is -the very thing for Philip," he would say to her; "you mustn't -expect to see too much of him just now, my dear young lady. The -good cause--the good cause! The young man must make his way. -When I was his age I was at work day and night. My dear wife -used to say to me, 'Bobby, don't work too hard, think of your -health'; but I never spared myself!" - -June had complained that her lover found no time to come to -Stanhope Gate. - -The first time he came again they had not been together a quarter -of an hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was -a mistress, Mrs. Septimus Small arrived. Thereon Bosinney rose -and hid himself, according to previous arrangement, in the little -study, to wait for her departure. - -"My dear," said Aunt Juley, "how thin he is! I've often noticed -it with engaged people; but you mustn't let it get worse. -There's Barlow's extract of veal; it did your Uncle Swithin a lot -of good." - -June, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face -quivering grimly, for she regarded her aunt's untimely visit in -the light of a personal injury, replied with scorn: - -"It's because he's busy; people who can do anything worth doing -are never fat!" - -Aunt Juley pouted; she herself had always been thin, but the only -pleasure she derived from the fact was the opportunity of longing -to be stouter. - -"I don't think," she said mournfully, "that you ought to let them -call him 'The Buccaneer'; people might think it odd, now that -he's going to build a house for Soames. I do hope he will be -careful; it's so important for him. Soames has such good taste!" - -"Taste!" cried June, flaring up at once; "wouldn't give that for -his taste, or any of the family's!" - -Mrs. Small was taken aback. - -"Your Uncle Swithin," she said, "always had beautiful taste! And -Soames's little house is lovely; you don't mean to say you don't -think so!" - -"H'mph!" said June, "that's only because Irene's there!" - -Aunt Juley tried to say something pleasant: - -"And how will dear Irene like living in the country?" - -June gazed at her intently, with a look in her eyes as if her -conscience had suddenly leaped up into them; it passed; and an -even more intent look took its place, as if she had stared that -conscience out of countenance. She replied imperiously: - -"Of course she'll like it; why shouldn't she?" - -Mrs. Small grew nervous. - -"I didn't know," she said; "I thought she mightn't like to leave -her friends. Your Uncle James says she doesn't take enough -interest in life. We think--I mean Timothy thinks--she ought to -go out more. I expect you'll miss her very much!" - -June clasped her hands behind her neck. - -"I do wish," she cried, "Uncle Timothy wouldn't talk about what -doesn't concern him!" - -Aunt Juley rose to the full height of her tall figure. - -"He never talks about what doesn't concern him," she said. - -June was instantly compunctious; she ran to her aunt and kissed -her. - -"I'm very sorry, auntie; but I wish they'd let Irene alone." - -Aunt Juley, unable to think of anything further on the subject -that would be suitable, was silent; she prepared for departure, -hooking her black silk cape across her chest, and, taking up her -green reticule: - -"And how is your dear grandfather?" she asked in the hall, "I -expect he's very lonely now that all your time is taken up with -Mr. Bosinney." - -She bent and kissed her niece hungrily, and with little, mincing -steps passed away. - -The tears sprang up in June's eyes; running into the little -study, where Bosinney was sitting at the table drawing birds on -the back of an envelope, she sank down by his side and cried: - -"Oh, Phil! it's all so horrid!" Her heart was as warm as the -colour of her hair. - -On the following Sunday morning, while Soames was shaving, a -message was brought him to the effect that Mr. Bosinney was -below, and would be glad to see him. Opening the door into his -wife's room, he said: - -"Bosinney's downstairs. Just go and entertain him while I finish -shaving. I'll be down in a minute. It's about the plans, I -expect." - -Irene looked at him, without reply, put the finishing touch to -her dress and went downstairs. He could not make her out about -this house. She had said nothing against it, and, as far as -Bosinney was concerned, seemed friendly enough. - -From the window of his dressing-room he could see them talking -together in the little court below. He hurried on with his -shaving, cutting his chin twice. He heard them laugh, and -thought to himself: "Well, they get on all right, anyway!" - -As he expected, Bosinney had come round to fetch him to look at -the plans. - -He took his hat and went over. - -The plans were spread on the oak table in the architect's room; -and pale, imperturbable, inquiring, Soames bent over them for a -long time without speaking. - -He said at last in a puzzled voice: - -"It's an odd sort of house!" - -A rectangular house of two stories was designed in a quadrangle -round a covered-in court. This court, encircled by a gallery on -the upper floor, was roofed with a glass roof, supported by eight -columns running up from the ground. - -It was indeed, to Forsyte eyes, an odd house. - -"There's a lot of room cut to waste," pursued Soames. - -Bosinney began to walk about, and Soames did not like the -expression on his face. - -"The principle of this house," said the architect, "was that you -should have room to breathe--like a gentleman!" - -Soames extended his finger and thumb, as if measuring the extent -of the distinction he should acquire; and replied: - -"Oh! yes; I see." - -The peculiar look came into Bosinney's face which marked all his -enthusiasms. - -"I've tried to plan you a house here with some self-respect of -its own. If you don't like it, you'd better say so. It's -certainly the last thing to be considered--who wants self-respect -in a house, when you can squeeze in an extra lavatory?" He put -his finger suddenly down on the left division of the centre -oblong: "You can swing a cat here. This is for your pictures, -divided from this court by curtains; draw them back and you'll -have a space of fifty-one by twenty-three six. This double-faced -stove in the centre, here, looks one way towards the court, one -way towards the picture room; this end wall is all window; You've -a southeast light from that, a north light from the court. The -rest of your pictures you can hang round the gallery upstairs, or -in the other rooms." "In architecture," he went on--and though -looking at Soames he did not seem to see him, which gave Soames -an unpleasant feeling--"as in life, you'll get no self-respect -without regularity. Fellows tell you that's old fashioned. It -appears to be peculiar any way; it never occurs to us to embody -the main principle of life in our buildings; we load our houses -with decoration, gimcracks, corners, anything to distract the -eye. On the contrary the eye should rest; get your effects with -a few strong lines. The whole thing is regularity there's no -self-respect without it." - -Soames, the unconscious ironist, fixed his gaze on Bosinney's -tie, which was far from being in the perpendicular; he was -unshaven too, and his dress not remarkable for order. -Architecture appeared to have exhausted his regularity. - -"Won't it look like a barrack?" he inquired. - -He did not at once receive a reply. - -"I can see what it is," said Bosinney, "you want one of Little- -master's houses--one of the pretty and commodious sort, where the -servants will live in garrets, and the front door be sunk so that -you may come up again. By all means try Littlemaster, you'll -find him a capital fellow, I've known him all my life!" - -Soames was alarmed. He had really been struck by the plans, and -the concealment of his satisfaction had been merely instinctive. -It was difficult for him to pay a compliment. He despised people -who were lavish with their praises. - -He found himself now in the embarrassing position of one who must -pay a compliment or run the risk of losing a good thing. -Bosinney was just the fellow who might tear up the plans and -refuse to act for him; a kind of grown-up child! - -This grown-up childishness, to which he felt so superior, -exercised a peculiar and almost mesmeric effect on Soames, for he -had never felt anything like it in himself. - -"Well," he stammered at last, "it's--it's, certainly original." - -He had such a private distrust and even dislike of the word -'original' that he felt he had not really given himself away by -this remark. - -Bosinney seemed pleased. It was the sort of thing that would -please a fellow like that! And his success encouraged Soames. - -"It's--a big place," he said. - -"Space, air, light," he heard Bosinney murmur, "you can't live -like a gentleman in one of Littlemaster's--he builds for -manufacturers." - -Soames made a deprecating movement; he had been identified with a -gentleman; not for a good deal of money now would he be classed -with manufacturers. But his innate distrust of general -principles revived. What the deuce was the good of talking about -regularity and self-respect? It looked to him as if the house -would be cold. - -"Irene can't stand the cold!" he said. - -"Ah!" said Bosinney sarcastically. "Your wife? She doesn't like -the cold? I'll see to that; she shan't be cold. Look here!" he -pointed, to four marks at regular intervals on the walls of the -court. "I've given you hot-water pipes in aluminium casings; you -can get them with very good designs." - -Soames looked suspiciously at these marks. - -"It's all very well, all this," he said, "but what's it going to -cost?" - -The architect took a sheet of paper from his pocket: - -"The house, of course, should be built entirely of stone, but, as -I thought you wouldn't stand that, I've compromised for a facing. -It ought to have a copper roof, but I've made it green slate. As -it is, including metal work, it'll cost you eight thousand five -hundred." - -"Eight thousand five hundred?" said Soames. "Why, I gave you an -outside limit of eight!" - -"Can't be done for a penny less," replied Bosinney coolly. - -"You must take it or leave it!" - -It was the only way, probably, that such a proposition could have -been made to Soames. He was nonplussed. Conscience told him to -throw the whole thing up. But the design was good, and he knew -it--there was completeness about it, and dignity; the servants' -apartments were excellent too. He would gain credit by living in -a house like that--with such individual features, yet perfectly. -well-arranged. - -He continued poring over the plans, while Bosinney went into his -bedroom to shave and dress. - -The two walked back to Montpellier Square in silence, Soames -watching him out of the corner of his eye. - -The Buccaneer was rather a good-looking fellow--so he thought-- -when he was properly got up. - -Irene was bending over her flowers when the two men came in. - -She spoke of sending across the Park to fetch June. - -"No, no," said Soames, "we've still got business to talk over!" - -At lunch he was almost cordial, and kept pressing Bosinney to -eat. He was pleased to see the architect in such high spirits, -and left him to spend the afternoon with Irene, while he stole -off to his pictures, after his Sunday habit. At tea-time he came -down to the drawing-room, and found them talking, as he expressed -it, nineteen to the dozen. - -Unobserved in the doorway, he congratulated himself that things -were taking the right turn. It was lucky she and Bosinney got -on; she seemed to be falling into line with the idea of the new -house. - -Quiet meditation among his pictures had decided him to spring the -five hundred if necessary; but he hoped that the afternoon might -have softened Bosinney's estimates. It was so purely a matter -which Bosinney could remedy if he liked; there must be a dozen -ways in which he could cheapen the production of a house without -spoiling the effect. - -He awaited, therefore, his opportunity till Irene was handing the -architect his first cup of tea. A chink of sunshine through the -lace of the blinds warmed her cheek, shone in the gold of her -hair, and in her soft eyes. Possibly the same gleam deepened -Bosinney's colour, gave the rather startled look to his face. - -Soames hated sunshine, and he at once got up, to draw the blind. -Then he took his own cup of tea from his wife, and said, more -coldly than he had intended: - -"Can't you see your way to do it for eight thousand after all? -There must be a lot of little things you could alter." - -Bosinney drank off his tea at a gulp, put down his cup, and -answered: - -"Not one!" - -Soames saw that his suggestion had touched some unintelligible -point of personal vanity. - -"Well," he agreed, with sulky resignation; "you must have it your -own way, I suppose." - -A few minutes later Bosinney rose to go, and Soames rose too, to -see him off the premises. The architect seemed in absurdly high -spirits. After watching him walk away at a swinging pace, Soames -returned moodily to the drawing-room, where Irene was putting -away the music, and, moved by an uncontrollable spasm of -curiosity, he asked: - -"Well, what do you think of 'The Buccaneer'?" - -He looked at the carpet while waiting for her answer, and he had -to wait some time. - -"I don't know," she said at last. - -"Do you think he's good-looking?" - -Irene smiled. And it seemed to Soames that she was mocking him. - -"Yes," she answered; "very." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -DEATH OF AUNT ANN - - -There came a morning at the end of September when Aunt Ann was -unable to take from Smither's hands the insignia of personal -dignity. After one look at the old face, the doctor, hurriedly -sent for, announced that Miss Forsyte had passed away in her -sleep. - -Aunts Juley and Hester were overwhelmed by the shock. They had -never imagined such an ending. Indeed, it is doubtful whether -they had ever realized that an ending was bound to come. -Secretly they felt it unreasonable of Ann to have left them like -this without a word, without even a struggle. It was unlike her. - -Perhaps what really affected them so profoundly was the thought -that a Forsyte should have let go her grasp on life. If one, -then why not all! - -It was a full hour before they could make up their minds to tell -Timothy. If only it could be kept from him! If only it could be -broken to him by degrees! - -And long they stood outside his door whispering together. And -when it was over they whispered together again. - -He would feel it more, they were afraid, as time went on. Still, -he had taken it better than could have been expected. He would -keep his bed, of course! - -They separated, crying quietly. - -Aunt Juley stayed in her room, prostrated by the blow. Her face, -discoloured by tears, was divided into compartments by the little -ridges of pouting flesh which had swollen with emotion. It was -impossible to conceive of life without Ann, who had lived with -her for seventy-three years, broken only by the short interregnum -of her married life, which seemed now so unreal. At fixed -intervals she went to her drawer, and took from beneath the -lavender bags a fresh pocket-handkerchief. Her warm heart could -not bear the thought that Ann was lying there so cold. - -Aunt Hester, the silent, the patient, that backwater of the -family energy, sat in the drawing-room, where the blinds were -drawn; and she, too, had wept at first, but quietly, without -visible effect. Her guiding principle, the conservation of -energy, did not abandon her in sorrow. She sat, slim, -motionless, studying the grate, her hands idle in the lap of her -black silk dress. They would want to rouse her into doing -something, no doubt. As if there were any good in that! Doing -something would not bring back Ann! Why worry her? - -Five o'clock brought three of the brothers, Jolyon and James and -Swithin; Nicholas was at Yarmouth, and Roger had a bad attack of -gout. Mrs. Hayman had been by herself earlier in the day, and, -after seeing Ann, had gone away, leaving a message for Timothy-- -which was kept from him--that she ought to have been told sooner. -In fact, there was a feeling amongst them all that they ought to -have been told sooner, as though they had missed something; and -James said: - -"I knew how it'd be; I told you she wouldn't last through the -summer." - -Aunt Hester made no reply; it was nearly October, but what was -the good of arguing; some people were never satisfied. - -She sent up to tell her sister that the brothers were there. -Mrs. Small came down at once. She had bathed her face, which was -still swollen, and though she looked severely at Swithin's -trousers, for they were of light blue--he had come straight from -the club, where the news had reached him--she wore a more cheerful -expression than usual, the instinct for doing the wrong thing -being even now too strong for her. - -Presently all five went up to look at the body. Under the pure -white sheet a quilted counter-pane had been placed, for now, more -than ever, Aunt Ann had need of warmth; and, the pillows removed, -her spine and head rested flat, with the semblance of their -life-long inflexibility; the coif banding the top of her brow was -drawn on either side to the level of the ears, and between it and -the sheet her face, almost as white, was turned with closed eyes -to the faces of her brothers and sisters. In its extraordinary -peace the face was stronger than ever, nearly all bone now under -the scarce-wrinkled parchment of skin--square jaw and chin, -cheekbones, forehead with hollow temples, chiselled nose--the -fortress of an unconquerable spirit that had yielded to death, -and in its upward sightlessness seemed trying to regain that -spirit, to regain the guardianship it had just laid down. - -Swithin took but one look at the face, and left the room; the -sight, he said afterwards, made him very queer. He went -downstairs shaking the whole house, and, seizing his hat, -clambered into his brougham, without giving any directions to the -coachman. He was driven home, and all the evening sat in his -chair without moving. - -He could take nothing for dinner but a partridge, with an -imperial pint of champagne.... - -Old Jolyon stood at the bottom of the bed, his hands folded in -front of him. He alone of those in the room remembered the death -of his mother, and though he looked at Ann, it was of that he was -thinking. Ann was an old woman, but death had come to her at -last--death came to all! His face did not move, his gaze seemed -travelling from very far. - -Aunt Hester stood beside him. She did not cry now, tears were -exhausted--her nature refused to permit a further escape of -force; she twisted her hands, looking not at Ann, but from side -to side, seeking some way of escaping the effort of realization. - -Of all the brothers and sisters James manifested the most -emotion. Tears rolled down the parallel furrows of his thin -face; where he should go now to tell his troubles he did not -know; Juley was no good, Hester worse than useless! He felt -Ann's death more than he had ever thought he should; this would -upset him for weeks! - -Presently Aunt Hester stole out, and Aunt Juley began moving -about, doing 'what was necessary,' so that twice she knocked -against something. Old Jolyon, roused from his reverie, that -reverie of the long, long past, looked sternly at her, and went -away. James alone was left by the bedside; glancing stealthily -round, to see that he was not observed, he twisted his long body -down, placed a kiss on the dead forehead, then he, too, hastily -left the room. Encountering Smither in the hall, he began to ask -her about the funeral, and, finding that she knew nothing, -complained bitterly that, if they didn't take care, everything -would go wrong. She had better send for Mr. Soames--he knew all -about that sort of thing; her master was very much upset, he -supposed--he would want looking after; as for her mistresses, -they were no good--they had no gumption! They would be ill too, -he shouldn't wonder. She had better send for the doctor; it was -best to take things in time. He didn't think his sister Ann had -had the best opinion; if she'd had Blank she would have been -alive now. Smither might send to Park Lane any time she wanted -advice. Of course, his carriage was at their service for the -funeral. He supposed she hadn't such a thing as a glass of -claret and a biscuit--he had had no lunch! - -The days before the funeral passed quietly. It had long been -known, of course, that Aunt Ann had left her little property to -Timothy. There was, therefore, no reason for the slightest -agitation. Soames, who was sole executor, took charge of all -arrangements, and in due course sent out the following invitation -to every male member of the family: - - -To........... - -Your presence is requested at the funeral of Miss Ann Forsyte, in -Highgate Cemetery, at noon of Oct. 1st. Carriages will meet at -"The Bower," Bayswater Road, at 10.45. No flowers by request. - -'R.S.V.P.' - - -The morning came, cold, with a high, grey, London sky, and at -half-past ten the first carriage, that of James, drove up. It -contained James and his son-in-law Dartie, a fine man, with a -square chest, buttoned very tightly into a frock coat, and a -sallow, fattish face adorned with dark, well-curled moustaches, -and that incorrigible commencement of whisker which, eluding the -strictest attempts at shaving, seems the mark of something deeply -ingrained in the personality of the shaver, being especially -noticeable in men who speculate. - -Soames, in his capacity of executor, received the guests, for -Timothy still kept his bed; he would get up after the funeral; -and Aunts Juley and Hester would not be coming down till all was -over, when it was understood there would be lunch for anyone who -cared to come back. The next to arrive was Roger, still limping -from the gout, and encircled by three of his sons--young Roger, -Eustace, and Thomas. George, the remaining son, arrived almost -immediately afterwards in a hansom, and paused in the hall to ask -Soames how he found undertaking pay. - -They disliked each other. - -Then came two Haymans--Giles and Jesse perfectly silent, and very -well dressed, with special creases down their evening trousers. -Then old Jolyon alone. Next, Nicholas, with a healthy colour in -his face, and a carefully veiled sprightliness in every movement -of his head and body. One of his sons followed him, meek and -subdued. Swithin Forsyte, and Bosinney arrived at the same -moment,--and stood--bowing precedence to each other,--but on the -door opening they tried to enter together; they renewed their -apologies in the hall, and, Swithin, settling his stock, which -had become disarranged in the struggle, very slowly mounted the -stairs. The other Hayman; two married sons of Nicholas, together -with Tweetyman, Spender, and Warry, the husbands of married -Forsyte and Hayman daughters. The company was then complete, -twenty-one in all, not a male member of the family being absent -but Timothy and young Jolyon. - -Entering the scarlet and green drawing-room, whose apparel made -so vivid a setting for their unaccustomed costumes, each tried -nervously to find a seat, desirous of hiding the emphatic -blackness of his trousers. There seemed a sort of indecency in -that blackness and in the colour of their gloves--a sort of -exaggeration of the feelings; and many cast shocked looks of -secret envy at 'the Buccaneer,' who had no gloves, and was -wearing grey trousers. A subdued hum of conversation rose, no -one speaking of the departed, but each asking after the other, as -though thereby casting an indirect libation to this event, which -they had come to honour. - -And presently James said: - -"Well, I think we ought to be starting." - -They went downstairs, and, two and two, as they had been told off -in strict precedence, mounted the carriages. - -The hearse started at a foot's pace; the carriages moved slowly -after. In the first went old Jolyon with Nicholas; in the -second, the twins, Swithin and James; in the third, Roger and -young Roger; Soames, young Nicholas, George, and Bosinney -followed in the fourth. Each of the other carriages, eight in -all, held three or four of the family; behind them came the -doctor's brougham; then, at a decent interval, cabs containing -family clerks and servants; and at the very end, one containing -nobody at all, but bringing the total cortege up to the number of -thirteen. - -So long as the procession kept to the highway of the Bayswater -Road, it retained the foot's-pace, but, turning into less -important thorough-fares, it soon broke into a trot, and so -proceeded, with intervals of walking in the more fashionable -streets, until it arrived. In the first carriage old Jolyon and -Nicholas were talking of their wills. In the second the twins, -after a single attempt, had lapsed into complete silence; both -were rather deaf, and the exertion of making themselves heard was -too great. Only once James broke this silence: - -"I shall have to be looking about for some ground somewhere. -What arrangements have you made, Swithin?" - -And Swithin, fixing him with a dreadful stare, answered: - -"Don't talk to me about such things!" - -In the third carriage a disjointed conversation was carried on in -the intervals of looking out to see how far they had got, George -remarking, "Well, it was really time that the poor old lady -went." He didn't believe in people living beyond seventy, Young -Nicholas replied mildly that the rule didn't seem to apply to the -Forsytes. George said he himself intended to commit suicide at -sixty. Young Nicholas, smiling and stroking a long chin, didn't -think his father would like that theory; he had made a lot of -money since he was sixty. Well, seventy was the outside limit; -it was then time, George said, for them to go and leave their -money to their children. Soames, hitherto silent, here joined -in; he had not forgotten the remark about the 'undertaking,' and, -lifting his eyelids almost imperceptibly, said it was all very -well for people who never made money to talk. He himself -intended to live as long as he could. This was a hit at George, -who was notoriously hard up. Bosinney muttered abstractedly -"Hear, hear!" and, George yawning, the conversation dropped. - -Upon arriving, the coffin was borne into the chapel, and, two by -two, the mourners filed in behind it. This guard of men, all -attached to the dead by the bond of kinship, was an impressive -and singular sight in the great city of London, with its -overwhelming diversity of life, its innumerable vocations, -pleasures, duties, its terrible hardness, its terrible call to -individualism. - -The family had gathered to triumph over all this, to give a show -of tenacious unity, to illustrate gloriously that law of property -underlying the growth of their tree, by which it had thriven and -spread, trunk and branches, the sap flowing through all, the full -growth reached at the appointed time. The spirit of the old -woman lying in her last sleep had called them to this -demonstration. It was her final appeal to that unity which had -been their strength--it was her final triumph that she had died -while the tree was yet whole. - -She was spared the watching of the branches jut out beyond the -point of balance. She could not look into the hearts of her -followers. The same law that had worked in her, bringing her up -from a tall, straight-backed slip of a girl to a woman strong -and grown, from a woman grown to a woman old, angular, feeble, -almost witchlike, with individuality all sharpened and sharpened, -as all rounding from the world's contact fell off from her--that -same law would work, was working, in the family she had watched -like a mother. - -She had seen it young, and growing, she had seen it strong and -grown, and before her old eyes had time or strength to see any -more, she died. She would have tried, and who knows but she -might have kept it young and strong, with her old fingers, her -trembling kisses--a little longer; alas! not even Aunt Ann could -fight with Nature. - -'Pride comes before a fall!' In accordance with this, the -greatest of Nature's ironies, the Forsyte family had gathered for -a last proud pageant before they fell. Their faces to right and -left, in single lines, were turned for the most part impassively -toward the ground, guardians of their thoughts; but here and -there, one looking upward, with a line between his brows, -searched to see some sight on the chapel walls too much for him, -to be listening to something that appalled. And the responses, -low-muttered, in voices through which rose the same tone, the -same unseizable family ring, sounded weird, as though murmured in -hurried duplication by a single person. - -The service in the chapel over, the mourners filed up again to -guard the body to the tomb. The vault stood open, and, round it, -men in black were waiting. - -From that high and sacred field, where thousands of the upper -middle class lay in their last sleep, the eyes of the Forsytes -travelled down across the flocks of graves. There--spreading to -the distance, lay London, with no sun over it, mourning the loss -of its daughter, mourning with this family, so dear, the loss of -her who was mother and guardian. A hundred thousand spires and -houses, blurred in the great grey web of property, lay there like -prostrate worshippers before the grave of this, the oldest -Forsyte of them all. - -A few words, a sprinkle of earth, the thrusting of the coffin -home, and Aunt Ann had passed to her last rest. - -Round the vault, trustees of that passing, the five brothers -stood, with white heads bowed; they would see that Ann was -comfortable where she was going. Her little property must stay -behind, but otherwise, all that could be should be done.... - -Then severally, each stood aside, and putting on his hat, turned -back to inspect the new inscription on the marble of the family -vault: - - -SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ANN FORSYTE, -THE DAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE JOLYON -AND ANN FORSYTE, WHO DEPARTED -THIS LIFE THE 27TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER, -1886, AGED EIGHTY-SEVEN YEARS AND FOUR DAYS - - -Soon perhaps, someone else would be wanting an inscription. It -was strange and intolerable, for they had not thought somehow, -that Forsytes could die. And one and all they had a longing to -get away from this painfulness, this ceremony which had reminded -them of things they could not bear to think about--to get away -quickly and go about their business and forget. - -It was cold, too; the wind, like some slow, disintegrating force, -blowing up the hill over the graves, struck them with its chilly -breath; they began to split into groups, and as quickly as -possible to fill the waiting carriages. - -Swithin said he should go back to lunch at Timothy's, and he -offered to take anybody with him in his brougham. It was -considered a doubtful privilege to drive with Swithin in his -brougham, which was not a large one; nobody accepted, and he went -off alone. James and Roger followed immediately after; they also -would drop in to lunch. The others gradually melted away, Old -Jolyon taking three nephews to fill up his carriage; he had a -want of those young faces. - -Soames, who had to arrange some details in the cemetery office, -walked away with Bosinney. He had much to talk over with him, -and, having finished his business, they strolled to Hampstead, -lunched together at the Spaniard's Inn, and spent a long time in -going into practical details connected with the building of the -house; they then proceeded to the tram-line, and came as far as -the Marble Arch, where Bosinney went off to Stanhope Gate to see -June. - -Soames felt in excellent spirits when he arrived home, and -confided to Irene at dinner that he had had a good talk with -Bosinney, who really seemed a sensible fellow; they had had a -capital walk too, which had done his liver good--he had been -short of exercise for a long time--and altogether a very -satisfactory day. If only it hadn't been for poor Aunt Ann, he -would have taken her to the theatre; as it was, they must make -the best of an evening at home. - -"The Buccaneer asked after you more than once," he said -suddenly. And moved by some inexplicable desire to assert his -proprietorship, he rose from his chair and planted a kiss on -his wife's shoulder. - - - - - -PART II - - -CHAPTER I - -PROGRESS OF THE HOUSE - - -The winter had been an open one. Things in the trade were slack; -and as Soames had reflected before making up his mind, it had -been a good time for building. The shell of the house at Robin -Hill was thus completed by the end of April. - -Now that there was something to be seen for his money, he had -been coming down once, twice, even three times a week, and would -mouse about among the debris for hours, careful never to soil his -clothes, moving silently through the unfinished brickwork of -doorways, or circling round the columns in the central court. - -And he would stand before them for minutes' together, as though -peering into the real quality of their substance - -On April 30 he had an appointment with Bosinney to go over the -accounts, and five minutes before the proper time he entered the -tent which the architect had pitched for himself close to the old -oak tree. - -The accounts were already prepared on a folding table, and with -a nod Soames sat down to study them. It was some time before he -raised his head. - -"I can't make them out," he said at last; "they come to nearly -seven hundred more than they ought" - -After a glance at Bosinney's face he went on quickly: - -"If you only make a firm stand against these builder chaps you'll -get them down. They stick you with everything if you don't look -sharp.... Take ten per cent. off all round. I shan't mind it's -coming out a hundred or so over the mark!" - -Bosinney shook his head: - -"I've taken off every farthing I can!" - -Soames pushed back the table with a movement of anger, which sent -the account sheets fluttering to the ground. - -"Then all I can say is," he flustered out, "you've made a pretty -mess of it!" - -"I've told you a dozen times," Bosinney answered sharply, "that -there'd be extras. I've pointed them out to you over and over -again!" - -"I know that," growled Soames: "I shouldn't have objected to a ten -pound note here and there. How was I to know that by 'extras' -you meant seven hundred pounds?" - -The qualities of both men had contributed to this notinconsider- -able discrepancy. On the one hand, the architect's devotion -to his idea, to the image of a house which he had created and -believed in--had made him nervous of being stopped, or forced -to the use of makeshifts; on the other, Soames' not less true -and wholehearted devotion to the very best article that could be -obtained for the money, had rendered him averse to believing that -things worth thirteen shillings could not be bought with twelve. - -I wish I'd never undertaken your house," said Bosinney suddenly. -"You come down here worrying me out of my life. You want double -the value for your money anybody else would, and now that you've -got a house that for its size is not to be beaten in the county, -you don't want to pay for it. If you're anxious to be off your -bargain, I daresay I can find the balance above the estimates -myself, but I'm d----d if I do another stroke of work for you!" - -Soames regained his composure. Knowing that Bosinney had no -capital, he regarded this as a wild suggestion. He saw, too, -that he would be kept indefinitely out of this house on which he -had set his heart, and just at the crucial point when the -architect's personal care made all the difference. In the -meantime there was Irene to be thought of! She had been very -queer lately. He really believed it was only because she had -taken to Bosinney that she tolerated the idea of the house at -all. It would not do to make an open breach with her. - -"You needn't get into a rage," he said. "If I'm willing to put -up with it, I suppose you needn't cry out. All I meant was that -when you tell me a thing is going to cost so much, I like to-- -well, in fact, I--like to know where I am." - -"Look here!" said Bosinney, and Soames was both annoyed and -surprised by the shrewdness of his glance. "You've got my -services dirt cheap. For the kind of work I've put into this -house, and the amount of time I've given to it, you'd have had to -pay Littlemaster or some other fool four times as much. What you -want, in fact, is a first-rate man for a fourth-rate fee, and -that's exactly what you've got!" - -Soames saw that he really meant what he said, and, angry though -he was, the consequences of a row rose before him too vividly. -He saw his house unfinished, his wife rebellious, himself a -laughingstock. - -"Let's go over it," he said sulkily, "and see how the money's -gone." - -"Very well," assented Bosinney. "But we'll hurry up, if you -don't mind. I have to get back in time to take June to the -theatre." - -Soames cast a stealthy look at him, and said: "Coming to our -place, I suppose to meet her?" He was always coming to their -place! - -There had been rain the night before-a spring rain, and the earth -smelt of sap and wild grasses. The warm, soft breeze swung the -leaves and the golden buds of the old oak tree, and in the -sunshine the blackbirds were whistling their hearts out. - -It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable -yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand -motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his -arms to embrace he knows not what. The earth gave forth a -fainting warmth, stealing up through the chilly garment in which -winter had wrapped her. It was her long caress of invitation, to -draw men down to lie within her arms, to roll their bodies on -her, and put their lips to her breast. - -On just such a day as this Soames had got from Irene the promise -he had asked her for so often. Seated on the fallen trunk of a -tree, he had promised for the twentieth time that if their -marriage were not a success, she should be as free as if she had -never married him! - -"Do you swear it?" she had said. A few days back she had -reminded him of that oath. He had answered: "Nonsense! I -couldn't have sworn any such thing!" By some awkward fatality he -remembered it now. What queer things men would swear for the -sake of women! He would have sworn it at any time to gain her! -He would swear it now, if thereby he could touch her--but nobody -could touch her, she was cold-hearted! - -And memories crowded on him with the fresh, sweet savour of the -spring wind-memories of his courtship. - -In the spring of the year 1881 he was visiting his old school- -fellow and client, George Liversedge, of Branksome, who, with -the view of developing his pine-woods in the neighbourhood of -Bournemouth, had placed the formation of the company necessary -to the scheme in Soames's hands. Mrs. Liversedge, with a sense -of the fitness of things, had given a musical tea in his honour. -Later in the course of this function, which Soames, no musician, -had regarded as an unmitigated bore, his eye had been caught by -the face of a girl dressed in mourning, standing by herself. The -lines of her tall, as yet rather thin figure, showed through the -wispy, clinging stuff of her black dress, her black-gloved hands -were crossed in front of her, her lips slightly parted, and her -large, dark eyes wandered from face to face. Her hair, done low -on her neck, seemed to gleam above her black collar like coils of -shining metal. And as Soames stood looking at her, the sensation -that most men have felt at one time or another went stealing -through him--a peculiar satisfaction of the senses, a peculiar -certainty, which novelists and old ladies call love at first -sight. Still stealthily watching her, he at once made his way to -his hostess, and stood doggedly waiting for the music to cease. - -"Who is that girl with yellow hair and dark eyes?" he asked. - -"That--oh! Irene Heron. Her father, Professor Heron, died this -year. She lives with her stepmother. She's a nice girl, a -pretty girl, but no money!" - -"Introduce me, please," said Soames. - -It was very little that he found to say, nor did he find her -responsive to that little. But he went away with the resolution -to see her again. He effected his object by chance, meeting her -on the pier with her stepmother, who had the habit of walking -there from twelve to one of a forenoon. Soames made this lady's -acquaintance with alacrity, nor was it long before he perceived -in her the ally he was looking for. His keen scent for the -commercial side of family life soon told him that Irene cost her -stepmother more than the fifty pounds a year she brought her; it -also told him that Mrs. Heron, a woman yet in the prime of life, -desired to be married again. The strange ripening beauty of her -stepdaughter stood in the way of this desirable consummation. -And Soames, in his stealthy tenacity, laid his plans. - -He left Bournemouth without having given himself away, but in a -month's time came back, and this time he spoke, not to the girl, -but to her stepmother. He had made up his mind, he said; he -would wait any time. And he had long to wait, watching Irene -bloom, the lines of her young figure softening, the stronger -blood deepening the gleam of her eyes, and warming her face to a -creamy glow; and at each visit he proposed to her, and when that -visit was at an end, took her refusal away with him, back to -London, sore at heart, but steadfast and silent as the grave. He -tried to come at the secret springs of her resistance; only once -had he a gleam of light. It was at one of those assembly dances, -which afford the only outlet to the passions of the population of -seaside watering-places. He was sitting with her in an -embrasure, his senses tingling with the contact of the waltz. -She had looked at him over her, slowly waving fan; and he had -lost his head. Seizing that moving wrist, he pressed his lips to -the flesh of her arm. And she had shuddered--to this day he had -not forgotten that shudder--nor the look so passionately averse -she had given him. - -A year after that she had yielded. What had made her yield he -could never make out; and from Mrs. Heron, a woman of some -diplomatic talent, he learnt nothing. Once after they were -married he asked her, "What made you refuse me so often?" She had -answered by a strange silence. An enigma to him from the day -that he first saw her, she was an enigma to him still.... - -Bosinney was waiting for him at the door; and on his rugged, -good-looking, face was a queer, yearning, yet happy look, as -though he too saw a promise of bliss in the spring sky, sniffed a -coming happiness in the spring air. Soames looked at him waiting -there. What was the matter with the fellow that he looked so -happy? What was he waiting for with that smile on his lips and -in his eyes? Soames could not see that for which Bosinney was -waiting as he stood there drinking in the flower-scented wind. -And once more he felt baffled in the presence of this man whom by -habit he despised. He hastened on to the house. - -"The only colour for those tiles," he heard Bosinney say,--"is -ruby with a grey tint in the stuff, to give a transparent effect. -I should like Irene's opinion. I'm ordering the purple leather -curtains for the doorway of this court; and if you distemper the -drawing-room ivory cream over paper, you'll get an illusive look. -You want to aim all through the decorations at what I call -charm." - -Soames said: "You mean that my wife has charm!" - -Bosinney evaded the question. - -"You should have a clump of iris plants in the centre of that -court." - -Soames smiled superciliously. - -"I'll look into Beech's some time," he said, "and see what's -appropriate!" - -They found little else to say to each other, but on the way to -the Station Soames asked: - -"I suppose you find Irene very artistic." - -"Yes." The abrupt answer was as distinct a snub as saying: "If -you want to discuss her you can do it with someone else!" - -And the slow, sulky anger Soames had felt all the afternoon -burned the brighter within him. - -Neither spoke again till they were close to the Station, then -Soames asked: - -"When do you expect to have finished?" - -"By the end of June, if you really wish me to decorate as well." - -Soames nodded. "But you quite understand," he said, "that the -house is costing me a lot beyond what I contemplated. I may as -well tell you that I should have thrown it up, only I'm not in -the habit of giving up what I've set my mind on." - -Bosinney made no reply. And Soames gave him askance a look of -dogged dislike--for in spite of his fastidious air and that -supercilious, dandified taciturnity, Soames, with his set lips -and squared chin, was not unlike a bulldog.... - -When, at seven o'clock that evening, June arrived at 62, -Montpellier Square, the maid Bilson told her that Mr. Bosinney -was in the drawing-room; the mistress--she said--was dressing, -and would be down in a minute. She would tell her that Miss June -was here. - -June stopped her at once. - -"All right, Bilson," she said, "I'll just go in. You, needn't -hurry Mrs. Soames." - -She took off her cloak, and Bilson, with an understanding look, -did not even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran -downstairs. - -June paused for a moment to look at herself in the little -old-fashioned silver mirror above the oaken rug chest--a slim, -imperious young figure, with a small resolute face, in a white -frock, cut moon-shaped at the base of a neck too slender for her -crown of twisted red-gold hair. - -She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by -surprise. The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of -flowering azaleas. - -She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney's -voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying. - -"Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and -now we shan't have time!" - -Irene's voice answered: "Why not at dinner?" - -"How can one talk...." - -June's first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to -the long window opening on the little court. It was from there -that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their -backs to her, their faces buried in the goldenpink blossoms, -stood her lover and Irene. - -Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the -girl watched. - -"Come on Sunday by yourself--We can go over the house together." - -June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It -was not the look of a coquette, but--far worse to the watching -girl--of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much. - -"I've promised to go for a drive with Uncle...." - -"The big one! Make him bring you; it's only ten miles--the very -thing for his horses." - -"Poor old Uncle Swithin!" - -A wave of the azalea scent drifted into June's face; she felt -sick and dizzy. - -"Do! ah! do!" - -"But why?" - -"I must see you there--I thought you'd like to help me...." - -The answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from -amongst the blossoms: "So I do!" - -And she stepped into the open space of the window. - -"How stuffy it is here!" she said; "I can't bear this scent!" - -Her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces. - -"Were you talking about the house? I haven't seen it yet, you -know--shall we all go on Sunday?"' - -From Irene's face the colour had flown. - -"I am going for a drive that day with Uncle Swithin," she -answered. - -"Uncle Swithin! What does he matter? You can throw him over!" - -"I am not in the habit of throwing people over!" - -There was a sound of footsteps and June saw Soames standing just -behind her. - -"Well! if you are all ready," said Irene, looking from one to -the other with a strange smile, "dinner is too!" - - - - -CHAPTER II - -JUNE'S TREAT - - -Dinner began in silence; the women facing one another, and the -men. - -In silence the soup was finished--excellent, if a little thick; -and fish was brought. In silence it was handed. - -Bosinney ventured: "It's the first spring day." - -Irene echoed softly: "Yes--the first spring day." - -"Spring!" said June: "there isn't a breath of air!" No one -replied. - -The fish was taken away, a fine fresh sole from Dover. And -Bilson brought champagne, a bottle swathed around the neck with -white.... - -Soames said: "You'll find it dry." - -Cutlets were handed, each pink-frilled about the legs. They were -refused by June, and silence fell. - -Soames said: "You'd better take a cutlet, June; there's nothing -coming." - -But June again refused, so they were borne away. And then Irene -asked: "Phil, have you heard my blackbird?" - -Bosinney answered: "Rather--he's got a hunting-song. As I came -round I heard him in the Square." - -"He's such a darling!" - -"Salad, sir?" Spring chicken was removed. - -But Soames was speaking: "The asparagus is very poor. Bosinney, -glass of sherry with your sweet? June, you're drinking nothing!" - -June said: "You know I never do. Wine's such horrid stuff!" - -An apple charlotte came upon a silver dish, and smilingly Irene -said: "The azaleas are so wonderful this year!" - -To this Bosinney murmured: "Wonderful! The scent's -extraordinary!" - -June said: "How can you like the scent? Sugar, please, Bilson." - -Sugar was handed her, and Soames remarked: "This charlottes -good!" - -The charlotte was removed. Long silence followed. Irene, -beckoning, said: "Take out the azalea, Bilson. Miss June can't -bear the scent." - -"No; let it stay," said June. - -Olives from France, with Russian caviare, were placed on little -plates. And Soames remarked: "Why can't we have the Spanish?" -But no one answered. - -The olives were removed. Lifting her tumbler June demanded: -"Give me some water, please." Water was given her. A silver tray -was brought, with German plums. There was a lengthy pause. In -perfect harmony all were eating them. - -Bosinney counted up the stones: "This year--next year--some time." - -Irene finished softly: "Never! There was such a glorious sunset. -The sky's all ruby still--so beautiful!" - -He answered: "Underneath the dark." - -Their eyes had met, and June cried scornfully: "A London sunset!" - -Egyptian cigarettes were handed in a silver box. Soames, taking -one, remarked: "What time's your play begin?" - -No one replied, and Turkish coffee followed in enamelled cups. - -Irene, smiling quietly, said: "If only...." - -"Only what?" said June. - -"If only it could always be the spring!" - -Brandy was handed; it was pale and old. - -Soames said: "Bosinney, better take some brandy." - -Bosinney took a glass; they all arose. - -"You want a cab?" asked Soames. - -June answered: "No! My cloaks please, Bilson." Her cloak was -brought. - -Irene, from the window, murmured: "Such a lovely night! The -stars are coming out!" - -Soames added: "Well, I hope you'll both enjoy yourselves." - -From the door June answered: "Thanks. Come, Phil." - -Bosinney cried: "I'm coming." - -Soames smiled a sneering smile, and said: "I wish you luck!" - -And at the door Irene watched them go. - -Bosinney called: "Good night!" - -"Good night!" she answered softly.... - -June made her lover take her on the top of a 'bus, saying she -wanted air, and there sat silent, with her face to the breeze. - -The driver turned once or twice, with the intention of venturing -a remark, but thought better of it. They were a lively couple! -The spring had got into his blood, too; he felt the need for -letting steam escape, and clucked his tongue, flourishing his -whip, wheeling his horses, and even they, poor things, had -smelled the spring, and for a brief half-hour spurned the -pavement with happy hoofs. - -The whole town was alive; the boughs, curled upward with their -decking of young leaves, awaited some gift the breeze could -bring. New-lighted lamps were gaining mastery, and the faces of -the crowd showed pale under that glare, while on high the great -white clouds slid swiftly, softly, over the purple sky. - -Men in, evening dress had thrown back overcoats, stepping -jauntily up the steps of Clubs; working folk loitered; and women- --those women who at that time of night are solitary--solitary and -moving eastward in a stream--swung slowly along, with expectation -in their gait, dreaming of good wine and a good supper, or--for -an unwonted minute, of kisses given for love. - -Those countless figures, going their ways under the lamps and the -moving-sky, had one and all received some restless blessing from -the stir of spring. And one and all, like those clubmen with -their opened coats, had shed something of caste, and creed, and -custom, and by the cock of their hats, the pace of their walk, -their laughter, or their silence, revealed their common kinship -under the passionate heavens. - -Bosinney and June entered the theatre in silence, and mounted to -their seats in the upper boxes. The piece had just begun, and -the half-darkened house, with its rows of creatures peering all -one way, resembled a great garden of flowers turning their faces -to the sun. - -June had never before been in the upper boxes. From the age of -fifteen she had habitually accompanied her grandfather to the -stalls, and not common stalls, but the best seats in the house, -towards the centre of the third row, booked by old Jolyon, at -Grogan and Boyne's, on his way home from the City, long before -the day; carried in his overcoat pocket, together with his -cigarcase and his old kid gloves, and handed to June to keep till -the appointed night. And in those stalls--an erect old figure -with a serene white head, a little figure, strenuous and eager, -with a red-gold head--they would sit through every kind of play, -and on the way home old Jolyon would say of the principal actor: -"Oh, he's a poor stick! You should have seen little Bobson!" - -She had looked forward to this evening with keen delight; it was -stolen, chaperone-less, undreamed of at Stanhope Gate, where she -was supposed to be at Soames'. She had expected reward for her -subterfuge, planned for her lover's sake; she had expected it to -break up the thick, chilly cloud, and make the relations between -them which of late had been so puzzling, so tormenting--sunny and -simple again as they had been before the winter. She had come -with the intention of saying something definite; and she looked -at the stage with a furrow between her brows, seeing nothing, her -hands squeezed together in her lap. A swarm of jealous -suspicions stung and stung her. - -If Bosinney was conscious of her trouble he made no sign. - -The curtain dropped. The first act had come to an end. - -"It's awfully hot here!" said the girl; "I should like to go -out." - -She was very white, and she knew--for with her nerves thus -sharpened she saw everything--that he was both uneasy and -compunctious. - -At the back of the theatre an open balcony hung over the street; -she took possession of this, and stood leaning there without a -word, waiting for him to begin. - -At last she could bear it no longer. - -"I want to say something to you, Phil," she said. - -"Yes?" - -The defensive tone of his voice brought the colour flying to her -cheek, the words flying to her lips: "You don't give me a chance -to be nice to you; you haven't for ages now!" - -Bosinney stared down at the street. He made no answer.... - -June cried passionately: "You know I want to do everything for -you--that I want to be everything to you...." - -A hum rose from the street, and, piercing it with a sharp -'ping,' the bell sounded for the raising of the curtain. June did -not stir. A desperate struggle was going on within her. Should -she put everything to the proof? Should she challenge directly -that influence, that attraction which was driving him away from -her? It was her nature to challenge, and she said: "Phil, take -me to see the house on Sunday!" - -With a smile quivering and breaking on her lips, and trying, how -hard, not to show that she was watching, she searched his face, -saw it waver and hesitate, saw a troubled line come between his -brows, the blood rush into his face. He answered: "Not Sunday, -dear; some other day!" - -"Why not Sunday? I shouldn't be in the way on Sunday." - -He made an evident effort, and said: "I have an engagement." - -"You are going to take...." - -His eyes grew angry; he shrugged his shoulders, and answered: "An -engagement that will prevent my taking you to see the house!" - -June bit her lip till the blood came, and walked back to her seat -without another word, but she could not help the tears of rage -rolling down her face. The house had been mercifully darkened -for a crisis, and no one could see her trouble. - -Yet in this world of Forsytes let no man think himself immune -from observation. - -In the third row behind, Euphemia, Nicholas's youngest daughter, -with her married-sister, Mrs. Tweetyman, were watching. - -They reported at Timothy's, how they had seen June and her fiance -at the theatre. - -"In the stalls?" "No, not in the...." "Oh! in the dress -circle, of course. That seemed to be quite fashionable nowadays -with young people!" - -Well--not exactly. In the.... Anyway, that engagement wouldn't -last long. They had never seen anyone look so thunder and -lightningy as that little June! With tears of enjoyment in their -eyes, they related how she had kicked a man's hat as she returned -to her seat in the middle of an act, and how the man had looked. -Euphemia had a noted, silent laugh, terminating most disappoint- -ingly in squeaks; and when Mrs. Small, holding up her hands, said: -"My dear! Kicked a ha-at?" she let out such a number of these that -she had to be recovered with smelling-salts. As she went away -she said to Mrs. Tweetyman: - -"Kicked a--ha-at! Oh! I shall die." - -For 'that little June' this evening, that was to have been 'her -treat,' was the most miserable she had ever spent. God knows she -tried to stifle her pride, her suspicion, her jealousy! - -She parted from Bosinney at old Jolyon's door without breaking -down; the feeling that her lover must be conquered was strong -enough to sustain her till his retiring footsteps brought home -the true extent of her wretchedness. - -The noiseless 'Sankey' let her in. She would have slipped up to -her own room, but old Jolyon, who had heard her entrance, was in -the dining-room doorway. - -"Come in and have your milk," he said. "It's been kept hot for -you. You're very late. Where have you been?" - -June stood at the fireplace, with a foot on the fender and an arm -on the mantelpiece, as her grandfather had done when he came in -that night of the opera. She was too near a breakdown to care -what she told him. - -"We dined at Soames's." - -"H'm! the man of property! His wife there and Bosinney?" - -"Yes." - -Old Jolyon's glance was fixed on her with the penetrating gaze -from which it was difficult to hide; but she was not looking at -him, and when she turned her face, he dropped his scrutiny at -once. He had seen enough, and too much. He bent down to lift -the cup of milk for her from the hearth, and, turning away, -grumbled: "You oughtn't to stay out so late; it makes you fit for -nothing." - -He was invisible now behind his paper, which he turned with a -vicious crackle; but when June came up to kiss him, he said: -"Good-night, my darling," in a tone so tremulous and unexpected, -that it was all the girl could do to get out of the room without -breaking into the fit of sobbing which lasted her well on into -the night. - -When the door was closed, old Jolyon dropped his paper, and -stared long and anxiously in front of him. - -'The beggar!' he thought. 'I always knew she'd have trouble with -him!' - -Uneasy doubts and suspicions, the more poignant that he felt -himself powerless to check or control the march of events, came -crowding upon him. - -Was the fellow going to jilt her? He longed to go and say to -him: "Look here, you sir! Are you going to jilt my grand- -daughter?" But how could he? Knowing little or nothing, he -was yet certain, with his unerring astuteness, that there was -something going on. He suspected Bosinney of being too much at -Montpellier Square. - -'This fellow,' he thought, 'may not be a scamp; his face is not a -bad one, but he's a queer fish. I don't know what to make of -him. I shall never know what to make of him! They tell me he -works like a nigger, but I see no good coming of it. He's -unpractical, he has no method. When he comes here, he sits as -glum as a monkey. If I ask him what wine he'll have, he says: -"Thanks, any wine." If I offer him a cigar, he smokes it as if it -were a twopenny German thing. I never see him looking at June as -he ought to look at her; and yet, he's not after her money. If -she were to make a sign, he'd be off his bargain to-morrow. But -she won't--not she! She'll stick to him! She's as obstinate as -fate--She'll never let go!' - -Sighing deeply, he turned the paper; in its columns, perchance he -might find consolation. - -And upstairs in her room June sat at her open window, where the -spring wind came, after its revel across the Park, to cool her -hot cheeks and burn her heart. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -DRIVE WITH SWITHIN - - -Two lines of a certain song in a certain famous old school's -songbook run as follows: - -'How the buttons on his blue frock shone, tra-la-la! -How he carolled and he sang, like a bird!....' - -Swithin did not exactly carol and sing like a bird, but he felt -almost like endeavouring to hum a tune, as he stepped out of Hyde -Park Mansions, and contemplated his horses drawn up before the -door. - -The afternoon was as balmy as a day in June, and to complete the -simile of the old song, he had put on a blue frock-coat, -dispensing with an overcoat, after sending Adolf down three times -to make sure that there was not the least suspicion of east in -the wind; and the frock-coat was buttoned so tightly around his -personable form, that, if the buttons did not shine, they might -pardonably have done so. Majestic on the pavement he fitted on a -pair of dog-skin gloves; with his large bell-shaped top hat, and -his great stature and bulk he looked too primeval for a Forsyte. -His thick white hair, on which Adolf had bestowed a touch of -pomatum, exhaled the fragrance of opoponax and cigars--the -celebrated Swithin brand, for which he paid one hundred and -forty shillings the hundred, and of which old Jolyon had unkindly -said, he wouldn't smoke them as a gift; they wanted the stomach -of a horse! - -"Adolf!" - -"Sare!" - -"The new plaid rug!" - -He would never teach that fellow to look smart; and Mrs. Soames -he felt sure, had an eye! - -"The phaeton hood down; I am going--to--drive--a--lady!" - -A pretty woman would want to show off her frock; and well--he was -going to drive a lady! It was like a new beginning to the good -old days. - -Ages since he had driven a woman! The last time, if he -remembered, it had been Juley; the poor old soul had been as -nervous as a cat the whole time, and so put him out of patience -that, as he dropped her in the Bayswater Road, he had said: "Well -I'm d---d if I ever drive you again!" And he never had, not he! - -Going up to his horses' heads, he examined their bits; not that -he knew anything about bits--he didn't pay his coachman sixty -pounds a year to do his work for him, that had never been his -principle. Indeed, his reputation as a horsey man rested mainly -on the fact that once, on Derby Day, he had been welshed by some -thimble-riggers. But someone at the Club, after seeing him drive -his greys up to the door--he always drove grey horses, you got -more style for the money, some thought--had called him 'Four- -in-hand Forsyte.' The name having reached his ears through that -fellow Nicholas Treffry, old Jolyon's dead partner, the great -driving man notorious for more carriage accidents than any man in -the kingdom--Swithin had ever after conceived it right to act up -to it. The name had taken his fancy, not because he had ever -driven four-in-hand, or was ever likely to, but because of -something distinguished in the sound. Four-in-hand Forsyte! Not -bad! Born too soon, Swithin had missed his vocation. Coming -upon London twenty years later, he could not have failed to have -become a stockbroker, but at the time when he was obliged to -select, this great profession had not as yet became the chief -glory of the upper-middle class. He had literally been forced -into land agency. - -Once in the driving seat, with the reins handed to him, and -blinking over his pale old cheeks in the full sunlight, he took a -slow look round--Adolf was already up behind; the cockaded groom -at the horses' heads stood ready to let go; everything was -prepared for the signal, and Swithin gave it. The equipage -dashed forward, and before you could say Jack Robinson, with a -rattle and flourish drew up at Soames' door. - -Irene came out at once, and stepped in--he afterward described it -at Timothy's--"as light as--er--Taglioni, no fuss about it, no -wanting this or wanting that;" and above all, Swithin dwelt on -this, staring at Mrs. Septimus in a way that disconcerted her a -good deal, "no silly nervousness!" To Aunt Hester he portrayed -Irene's hat. "Not one of your great flopping things, sprawling -about, and catching the dust, that women are so fond of nowadays, -but a neat little--" he made a circular motion of his hand, "white -veil--capital taste." - -"What was it made of?" inquired Aunt Hester, who manifested a -languid but permanent excitement at any mention of dress. - -"Made of?" returned Swithin; "now how should I know?" - -He sank into silence so profound that Aunt Hester began to be -afraid he had fallen into a trance. She did not try to rouse him -herself, it not being her custom. - -'I wish somebody would come,' she thought; 'I don't like the look -of him!' - -But suddenly Swithin returned to life. "Made of" he wheezed out -slowly, "what should it be made of?" - -They had not gone four miles before Swithin received the -impression that Irene liked driving with him. Her face was so -soft behind that white veil, and her dark eyes shone so in the -spring light, and whenever he spoke she raised them to him and -smiled. - -On Saturday morning Soames had found her at her writing-table -with a note written to Swithin, putting him off. Why did she -want to put him off? he asked. She might put her own people off -when she liked, he would not have her putting off his people! - -She had looked at him intently, had torn up the note, and said: -"Very well!" - -And then she began writing another. He took a casual glance -presently, and saw that it was addressed to Bosinney. - -"What are you writing to him about?" he asked. - -Irene, looking at him again with that intent look, said quietly: -"Something he wanted me to do for him!" - -"Humph!" said Soames,--"Commissions!" - -"You'll have your work cut out if you begin that sort of thing!" -He said no more. - -Swithin opened his eyes at the mention of Robin Hill; it was a -long way for his horses, and he always dined at half-past seven, -before the rush at the Club began; the new chef took more trouble -with an early dinner--a lazy rascal! - -He would like to have a look at the house, however. A house -appealed to any Forsyte, and especially to one who had been an -auctioneer. After all he said the distance was nothing. When he -was a younger man he had had rooms at Richmond for many years, -kept his carriage and pair there, and drove them up and down to -business every day of his life. - -Four-in-hand Forsyte they called him! His T-cart, his horses had -been known from Hyde Park Corner to the Star and Garter. The -Duke of Z.... wanted to get hold of them, would have given him -double the money, but he had kept them; know a good thing when -you have it, eh? A look of solemn pride came portentously on his -shaven square old face, he rolled his head in his stand-up -collar, like a turkey-cock preening himself. - -She was really--a charming woman! He enlarged upon her frock -afterwards to Aunt Juley, who held up her hands at his way of -putting it. - -Fitted her like a skin--tight as a drum; that was how he liked -'em, all of a piece, none of your daverdy, scarecrow women! He -gazed at Mrs. Septimus Small, who took after James--long and -thin. - -"There's style about her," he went on, "fit for a king! And -she's so quiet with it too!" - -"She seems to have made quite a conquest of you, any way," -drawled Aunt Hester from her corner. - -Swithin heard extremely well when anybody attacked him. - -"What's that?" he said. "I know a--pretty--woman when I see one, -and all I can say is, I don't see the young man about that's fit -for her; but perhaps--you--do, come, perhaps--you-do!" - -"Oh?" murmured Aunt Hester, "ask Juley!" - -Long before they reached Robin Hill, however, the unaccustomed -airing had made him terribly sleepy; he drove with his eyes -closed, a life-time of deportment alone keeping his tall and -bulky form from falling askew. - -Bosinney, who was watching, came out to meet them, and all three -entered the house together; Swithin in front making play with a -stout gold-mounted Malacca cane, put into his hand by Adolf, for -his knees were feeling the effects of their long stay in the same -position. He had assumed his fur coat, to guard against the -draughts of the unfinished house. - -The staircase--he said--was handsome! the baronial style! They -would want some statuary about! He came to a standstill between -the columns of the doorway into the inner court, and held out his -cane inquiringly. - -What was this to be--this vestibule, or whatever they called it? -But gazing at the skylight, inspiration came to him. - -"Ah! the billiard-room!" - -When told it was to be a tiled court with plants in the centre, -he turned to Irene: - -"Waste this on plants? You take my advice and have a billiard -table here!" - -Irene smiled. She had lifted her veil, banding it like a nun's -coif across her forehead, and the smile of her dark eyes below -this seemed to Swithin more charming than ever. He nodded. She -would take his advice he saw. - -He had little to say of the drawing or dining-rooms, which he -described as 'spacious"; but fell into such raptures as he -permitted to a man of his dignity, in the wine-cellar, to which -he descended by stone steps, Bosinney going first with a light. - -"You'll have room here," he said, "for six or seven hundred -dozen--a very pooty little cellar!" - -Bosinney having expressed the wish to show them the house from -the copse below, Swithin came to a stop. - -"There's a fine view from here," he remarked; "you haven't such a -thing as a chair?" - -A chair was brought him from Bosinney's tent. - -"You go down," he said blandly; "you two! I'll sit here and look -at the view." - -He sat down by the oak tree, in the sun; square and upright, with -one hand stretched out, resting on the nob of his cane, the other -planted on his knee; his fur coat thrown open, his hat, roofing -with its flat top the pale square of his face; his stare, very -blank, fixed on the landscape. - -He nodded to them as they went off down through the fields. He -was, indeed, not sorry to be left thus for a quiet moment of -reflection. The air was balmy, not too much heat in the sun; the -prospect a fine one, a remarka.... His head fell a little to one -side; he jerked it up and thought: Odd! He--ah! They were -waving to him from the bottom! He put up his hand, and moved it -more than once. They were active--the prospect was remar.... -His head fell to the left, he jerked it up at once; it fell to -the right. It remained there; he was asleep. - -And asleep, a sentinel on the--top of the rise, he appeared to -rule over this prospect--remarkable--like some image blocked out -by the special artist, of primeval Forsytes in pagan days, to -record the domination of mind over matter! - -And all the unnumbered generations of his yeoman ancestors, wont -of a Sunday to stand akimbo surveying their little plots of land, -their grey unmoving eyes hiding their instinct with its hidden -roots of violence, their instinct for possession to the exclusion -of all the world--all these unnumbered generations seemed to sit -there with him on the top of the rise. - -But from him, thus slumbering, his jealous Forsyte spirit -travelled far, into God-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those -two young people, to see what they were doing down there in the -copse--in the copse where the spring was running riot with the -scent of sap and bursting buds, the song of birds innumerable, a -carpet of bluebells and sweet growing things, and the sun caught -like gold in the tops of the trees; to see what they were doing, -walking along there so close together on the path that was too -narrow; walking along there so close that they were always -touching; to watch Irene's eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the -heart out of the spring. And a great unseen chaperon, his spirit -was there, stopping with them to look at the little furry corpse -of a mole, not dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat -untouched by the rain or dew; watching over Irene's bent head, -and the soft look of her pitying eyes; and over that young man's -head, gazing at her so hard, so strangely. Walking on with them, -too, across the open space where a wood-cutter had been at work, -where the bluebells were trampled down, and a trunk had swayed -and staggered down from its gashed stump. Climbing it with them, -over, and on to the very edge of the copse, whence there -stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which came -the sounds, 'Cuckoo-cuckoo!' - -Silent, standing with them there, and uneasy at their silence! -Very queer, very strange! - -Then back again, as though guilty, through the wood--back to the -cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never -ceased, and the wild scent--hum! what was it--like that herb -they put in--back to the log across the path.... - -And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make -noises, his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her -pretty figure swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up -with such strange, shining eyes, slipping now--a--ah! falling, -o--oh! sliding--down his breast; her soft, warm body clutched, -her head bent back from his lips; his kiss; her recoil; his cry: -"You must know--I love you!" Must know--indeed, a pretty...? -Love! Hah! - -Swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him. He had a taste in his -mouth. Where was he? - -Damme! He had been asleep! - -He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint -in it. - -Those young people--where had they got to? His left leg had pins -and needles. - -"Adolf!" The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep -somewhere. - -He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously -down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming. - -Irene was in front; that young fellow--what had they nicknamed -him--'The Buccaneer?' looked precious hangdog there behind her; -had got a flea in his ear, he shouldn't wonder. Serve him right, -taking her down all that way to look at the house! The proper -place to look at a house from was the lawn. - -They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to -encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing -there for, talking--talking? They came on again. She had been, -giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no -wonder, over a house like that--a great ugly thing, not the sort -of house he was accustomed to. - -He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable -stare. That young man looked very queer! - -"You'll never make anything of this!" he said tartly, pointing at -the mansion;--"too newfangled!" - -Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin -afterwards described him to Aunt Hester as "an extravagant sort -of fellow very odd way of looking at you--a bumpy beggar!" - -What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not -state; possibly Bosinney's, prominent forehead and cheekbones and -chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with -Swithin's conception of the calm satiety that should characterize -the perfect gentleman. - -He brightened up at the mention of tea. He had a contempt for -tea--his brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by -it--but he was so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, -that he was prepared to drink anything. He longed to inform -Irene of the taste in his mouth--she was so sympathetic--but it -would not be a distinguished thing to do; he rolled his tongue -round, and faintly smacked it against his palate. - -In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like -moustaches over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork of -a pint-bottle of champagne. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at -Bosinney, said: "Why, you're quite a Monte Cristo!" This -celebrated novel--one of the half-dozen he had read--had produced -an extraordinary impression on his mind. - -Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to -scrutinize the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that -he was going to drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he -took a sip. - -"A very nice wine," he said at last, passing it before his nose; -"not the equal of my Heidsieck!" - -It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he -afterwards imparted at Timothy's in this nutshell: "I shouldn't -wonder a bit if that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!" - -And from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge -with the interest of his discovery. - -"The fellow," he said to Mrs. Septimus, "follows her about with -his eyes like a dog--the bumpy beggar! I don't wonder at it-- -she's a very charming woman, and, I should say, the pink of -discretion!" A vague consciousness of perfume caging about -Irene, like that from a flower with half-closed petals and a -passionate heart, moved him to the creation of this image. "But -I wasn't sure of it," he said, "till I saw him pick up her -handkerchief." - -Mrs. Small's eyes boiled with excitement. - -"And did he give it her back?" she asked. - -"Give it back?" said Swithin: "I saw him slobber on it when he -thought I wasn't looking!" - -Mrs. Small gasped--too interested to speak. - -"But she gave him no encouragement," went on Swithin; he stopped, -and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed Aunt -Hester so--he had suddenly recollected that, as they were -starting back in the phaeton, she had given Bosinney her hand a -second time, and let it stay there too.... He had touched his -horses smartly with the whip, anxious to get her all to himself. -But she had looked back, and she had not answered his first -question; neither had he been able to see her face--she had kept -it hanging down. - -There is somewhere a picture, which Swithin has not seen, of a -man sitting on a rock, and by him, immersed in the still, green -water, a sea-nymph lying on her back, with her hand on her naked -breast. She has a half-smile on her face--a smile of hopeless -surrender and of secret joy. - -Seated by Swithin's side, Irene may have been smiling like that. - -When, warmed by champagne, he had her all to himself, he -unbosomed himself of his wrongs; of his smothered resentment -against the new chef at the club; his worry over the house in -Wigmore Street, where the rascally tenant had gone bankrupt -through helping his brother-in-law as if charity did not begin at -home; of his deafness, too, and that pain he sometimes got in his -right side. She listened, her eyes swimming under their lids. -He thought she was thinking deeply of his troubles, and pitied -himself terribly. Yet in his fur coat, with frogs across the -breast, his top hat aslant, driving this beautiful woman, he had -never felt more distinguished. - -A coster, however, taking his girl for a Sunday airing, seemed to -have the same impression about himself. This person had flogged -his donkey into a gallop alongside, and sat, upright as a -waxwork, in his shallopy chariot, his chin settled pompously on a -red handkerchief, like Swithin's on his full cravat; while his -girl, with the ends of a fly-blown boa floating out behind, aped -a woman of fashion. Her swain moved a stick with a ragged bit of -string dangling from the end, reproducing with strange fidelity -the circular flourish of Swithin's whip, and rolled his head at -his lady with a leer that had a weird likeness to Swithin's -primeval stare. - -Though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffian's presence, -Swithin presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. -He laid his whip-lash across the mares flank. The two chariots, -however, by some unfortunate fatality continued abreast. -Swithin's yellow, puffy face grew red; he raised his whip to lash -the costermonger, but was saved from so far forgetting his -dignity by a special intervention of Providence. A carriage -driving out through a gate forced phaeton and donkey-cart into -proximity; the wheels grated, the lighter vehicle skidded, and -was overturned. - -Swithin did not look round. On no account would he have pulled -up to help the ruffian. Serve him right if he had broken his -neck! - -But he could not if he would. The greys had taken alarm. The -phaeton swung from side to side, and people raised frightened -faces as they went dashing past. Swithin's great arms, stretched -at full length, tugged at the reins. His cheeks were puffed, his -lips compressed, his swollen face was of a dull, angry red. - -Irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch she gripped it -tightly. Swithin heard her ask: - -"Are we going to have an accident, Uncle Swithin?" - -He gasped out between his pants: "It's nothing; a--little fresh!" - -"I've never been in an accident." - -"Don't you move!" He took a look at her. She was smiling, -perfectly calm. "Sit still," he repeated. "Never fear, I'll get -you home!" - -And in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to -hear her answer in a voice not like her own: - -"I don't care if I never get home!" - -The carriage giving a terrific lurch, Swithin's exclamation was -jerked back into his throat. The horses, winded by the rise of a -hill, now steadied to a trot, and finally stopped of their own -accord. - -"When"--Swithin described it at Timothy's--"I pulled 'em up, -there she was as cool as myself. God bless my soul! she behaved -as if she didn't care whether she broke her neck or not! What -was it she said: 'I don't care if I never get home?" Leaning over -the handle of his cane, he wheezed out, to Mrs. Small's terror: -"And I'm not altogether surprised, with a finickin' feller like -young Soames for a husband!" - -It did not occur to him to wonder what Bosinney had done after -they had left him there alone; whether he had gone wandering -about like the dog to which Swithin had compared him; wandering -down to that copse where the spring was still in riot, the cuckoo -still calling from afar; gone down there with her handkerchief -pressed to lips, its fragrance mingling with the scent of mint -and thyme. Gone down there with such a wild, exquisite pain in -his heart that he could have cried out among the trees. Or what, -indeed, the fellow had done. In fact, till he came to Timothy's, -Swithin had forgotten all about him. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -JAMES GOES TO SEE FOR HIMSELF - - -Those ignorant of Forsyte 'Change would not, perhaps, foresee all -the stir made by Irene's visit to the house. - -After Swithin had related at Timothy's the full story of his -memorable drive, the same, with the least suspicion of curiosity, -the merest touch of malice, and a real desire to do good, was -passed on to June. - -"And what a dreadful thing to say, my dear!" ended Aunt Juley; -"that about not going home. What did she mean?" - -It was a strange recital for the girl. She heard it flushing -painfully, and, suddenly, with a curt handshake, took her -departure. - -"Almost rude!" Mrs. Small said to Aunt Hester, when June was -gone. - -The proper construction was put on her reception of the news. -She was upset. Something was therefore very wrong. Odd! She -and Irene had been such friends! - -It all tallied too well with whispers and hints that had been -going about for some time past. Recollections of Euphemia's -account of the visit to the theatre--Mr. Bosinney always at -Soames's? Oh, indeed! Yes, of course, he would be about the -house! Nothing open. Only upon the greatest, the most important -provocation was it necessary to say anything open on Forsyte -'Change. This machine was too nicely adjusted; a hint, the -merest trifling expression of regret or doubt, sufficed to set -the family soul so sympathetic--vibrating. No one desired that -harm should come of these vibrations--far from it; they were set -in motion with the best intentions, with the feeling, that each -member of the family had a stake in the family soul. - -And much kindness lay at the bottom of the gossip; it would -frequently result in visits of condolence being made, in -accordance with the customs of Society, thereby conferring a real -benefit upon the sufferers, and affording consolation to the -sound, who felt pleasantly that someone at all events was -suffering from that from which they themselves were not -suffering. In fact, it was simply a desire to keep things -well-aired, the desire which animates the Public Press, that -brought James, for instance, into communication with Mrs. -Septimus, Mrs. Septimus, with the little Nicholases, the little -Nicholases with who-knows-whom, and so on. That great class to -which they had risen, and now belonged, demanded a certain -candour, a still more certain reticence. This combination -guaranteed their membership. - -Many of the younger Forsytes felt, very naturally, and would -openly declare, that they did not want their affairs pried into; -but so powerful was the invisible, magnetic current of family -gossip, that for the life of them they could not help knowing all -about everything. It was felt to be hopeless. - -One of them (young Roger) had made an heroic attempt to free the -rising generation, by speaking of Timothy as an 'old cat.' The -effort had justly recoiled upon himself; the words, coming round -in the most delicate way to Aunt Juley's ears, were repeated by -her in a shocked voice to Mrs. Roger, whence they returned again -to young Roger. - -And, after all, it was only the wrong-doers who suffered; as, for -instance, George, when he lost all that money playing billiards; -or young Roger himself, when he was so dreadfully near to -marrying the girl to whom, it was whispered, he was already -married by the laws of Nature; or again Irene, who was thought, -rather than said, to be in danger. - -All this was not only pleasant but salutary. And it made so many -hours go lightly at Timothy's in the Bayswater Road; so many -hours that must otherwise have been sterile and heavy to those -three who lived there; and Timothy's was but one of hundreds of -such homes in this City of London--the homes of neutral persons -of the secure classes, who are out of the battle themselves, and -must find their reason for existing, in the battles of others. - -But for the sweetness of family gossip, it must indeed have been -lonely there. Rumours and tales, reports, surmises--were they -not the children of the house, as dear and precious as the -prattling babes the brother and sisters had missed in their own -journey? To talk about them was as near as they could get to -the possession of all those children and grandchildren, after -whom their soft hearts yearned. For though it is doubtful -whether Timothy's heart yearned, it is indubitable that at the -arrival of each fresh Forsyte child he was quite upset. - -Useless for young Roger to say, "Old cat!" for Euphemia to hold up -her hands and cry: "Oh! those three!" and break into her silent -laugh with the squeak at the end. Useless, and not too kind. - -The situation which at this stage might seem, and especially to -Forsyte eyes, strange--not to say 'impossible'--was, in view of -certain facts, not so strange after all. Some things had been -lost sight of. And first, in the security bred of many harmless -marriages, it had been forgotten that Love is no hot-house -flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour -of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a -wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within -the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms -outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and -colour are always, wild! And further--the facts and figures of -their own lives being against the perception of this truth--it -was not generally recognised by Forsytes that, where, this wild -plant springs, men and women are but moths around the pale, -flame-like blossom. - -It was long since young Jolyon's escapade--there was danger of a -tradition again arising that people in their position never cross -the hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having -love, like measles, once in due season, and getting over it -comfortably for all time--as with measles, on a soothing mixture -of butter and honey--in the arms of wedlock. - -Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. -Soames reached, James was the most affected. He had long -forgotten how he had hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of -chestnut hue, round Emily, in the days of his own courtship. He -had long forgotten the small house in the purlieus of Mayfair, -where he had spent the early days of his married life, or rather, -he had long forgotten the early days, not the small house,--a -Forsyte never forgot a house--he had afterwards sold it at a -clear profit of four hundred pounds. - -He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and -doubts about the prudence of the match (for Emily, though pretty, -had nothing, and he himself at that time was making a bare -thousand a year), and that strange, irresistible attraction which -had drawn him on, till he felt he must die if he could not marry -the girl with the fair hair, looped so neatly back, the fair arms -emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair form decorously -shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference. - -James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through -the river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced -the saddest experience of all--forgetfulness of what it was like -to be in love. - -Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he -had forgotten. - -And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his -son's wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, -straightforward appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as -a ghost, but carrying with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror. - -He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use -than trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of -daily in his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be -nothing in it. It was all their nonsense. She didn't get on -with Soames as well as she might, but she was a good little -thing--a good little thing! - -Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a -nice little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact -tone, licking his lips, "Yes, yes--she and young Dyson; they tell -me they're living at Monte Carlo!" - -But the significance of an affair of this sort--of its past, its -present, or its future--had never struck him. What it meant, -what torture and raptures had gone to its construction, what -slow, overmastering fate had lurked within the facts, very naked, -sometimes sordid, but generally spicy, presented to his gaze. He -was not in the habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions, or -generalizing at all about such things; he simply listened rather -greedily, and repeated what he was told, finding considerable -benefit from the practice, as from the consumption of a sherry -and bitters before a meal. - -Now, however, that such a thing--or rather the rumour, the breath -of it--had come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which -filled his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it -difficult to draw breath. - -A scandal! A possible scandal! - -To repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he -could focus or make it thinkable. He had forgotten the -sensations necessary for understanding the progress, fate, or -meaning of any such business; he simply could no longer grasp the -possibilities of people running any risk for the sake of passion. - -Amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the -City day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, -and in their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate -dinners, and played games, as he was told, it would have seemed -to him ridiculous to suppose that there were any who would run -risks for the sake of anything so recondite, so figurative, as -passion. - -Passion! He seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such -as 'A young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted -together' were fixed in his mind as the parallels of latitude are -fixed on a map (for all Forsytes, when it comes to 'bed-rock' -matters of fact, have quite a fine taste in realism); but as to -anything else--well, he could only appreciate it at all through -the catch-word 'scandal.' - -Ah! but there was no truth in it--could not be. He was not -afraid; she was really a good little thing. But there it was -when you got a thing like that into your mind. And James was of -a nervous temperament--one of those men whom things will not -leave alone, who suffer tortures from anticipation and -indecision. For fear of letting something slip that he might -otherwise secure, he was physically unable to make up his mind -until absolutely certain that, by not making it up, he would -suffer loss. - -In life, however, there were many occasions when the business of -making up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was -one of them. - -What could he do? Talk it over with Soames? That would only -make matters worse. And, after all, there was nothing in it, he -felt sure. - -It was all that house. He had mistrusted the idea from the -first. What did Soames want to go into the country for? And, if -he must go spending a lot of money building himself a house, why -not have a first-rate man, instead of this young Bosinney, whom -nobody knew anything about? He had told them how it would be. -And he had heard that the house was costing Soames a pretty penny -beyond what he had reckoned on spending. - -This fact, more than any other, brought home to James the real -danger of the situation. It was always like this with these -'artistic' chaps; a sensible man should have nothing to say to -them. He had warned Irene, too. And see what had come of it! - -And it suddenly sprang into James's mind that he ought to go and -see for himself. In the midst of that fog of uneasiness in which -his mind was enveloped the notion that he could go and look at -the house afforded him inexplicable satisfaction. It may have -been simply the decision to do something--more possibly the fact -that he was going to look at a house--that gave him relief. -He felt that in staring at an edifice of bricks and mortar, of -wood and stone, built by the suspected man himself, he would be -looking into the heart of that rumour about Irene. - -Without saying a word, therefore, to anyone, he took a hansom to -the station and proceeded by train to Robin Hill; thence--there -being no 'flies,' in accordance with the custom of the -neighbourhood--he found himself obliged to walk. - -He started slowly up the hill, his angular knees and high -shoulders bent complainingly, his eyes fixed on his feet, yet, -neat for all that, in his high hat and his frock-coat, on which -was the speckless gloss imparted by perfect superintendence. -Emily saw to that; that is, she did not, of course, see to it-- -people of good position not seeing to each other's buttons, and -Emily was of good position--but she saw that the butler saw to -it. - -He had to ask his way three times; on each occasion he repeated -the directions given him, got the man to repeat them, then -repeated them a second time, for he was naturally of a talkative -disposition, and one could not be too careful in a new -neighbourhood. - -He kept assuring them that it was a new house he was looking for; -it was only, however, when he was shown the roof through the -trees that he could feel really satisfied that he had not been -directed entirely wrong. - -A heavy sky seemed to cover the world with the grey whiteness of -a whitewashed ceiling. There was no freshness or fragrance in -the air. On such a day even British workmen scarcely cared to do -more then they were obliged, and moved about their business -without the drone of talk which whiles away the pangs of labour. - -Through spaces of the unfinished house, shirt-sleeved figures -worked slowly, and sounds arose--spasmodic knockings, the -scraping of metal, the sawing of wood, with the rumble of -wheelbarrows along boards; now and again the foreman's dog, -tethered by a string to an oaken beam, whimpered feebly, with a -sound like the singing of a kettle. - -The fresh-fitted window-panes, daubed each with a white patch in -the centre, stared out at James like the eyes of a blind dog. - -And the building chorus went on, strident and mirthless under the -grey-white sky. But the thrushes, hunting amongst the fresh- -turned earth for worms, were silent quite. - -James picked his way among the heaps of gravel--the drive was -being laid--till he came opposite the porch. Here he stopped and -raised his eyes. There was but little to see from this point of -view, and that little he took in at once; but he stayed in this -position many minutes, and who shall know of what he thought. - -His china-blue eyes under white eyebrows that jutted out in -little horns, never stirred; the long upper lip of his wide -mouth, between the fine white whiskers, twitched once or twice; -it was easy to see from that anxious rapt expression, whence -Soames derived the handicapped look which sometimes came upon his -face. James might have been saying to himself: 'I don't know-- -life's a tough job.' - -In this position Bosinney surprised him. - -James brought his eyes down from whatever bird's-nest they had -been looking for in the sky to Bosinney's face, on which was a -kind of humorous scorn. - -"How do you do, Mr. Forsyte? Come down to see for yourself?" - -It was exactly what James, as we know, had come for, and he was -made correspondingly uneasy. He held out his hand, however, -saying: - -"How are you?" without looking at Bosinney. - -The latter made way for him with an ironical smile. - -James scented something suspicious in this courtesy. "I should -like to walk round the outside first," he said, "and see what -you've been doing!" - -A flagged terrace of rounded stones with a list of two or three -inches to port had been laid round the south-east and south-west -sides of the house, and ran with a bevelled edge into mould, -which was in preparation for being turfed; along this terrace -James led the way. - -"Now what did this cost?" he asked, when he saw the terrace -extending round the corner. - -"What should you think?" inquired Bosinney. - -"How should I know?" replied James somewhat nonplussed; "two or -three hundred, I dare say!" - -"The exact sum!" - -James gave him a sharp look, but the architect appeared -unconscious, and he put the answer down to mishearing. - -On arriving at the garden entrance, he stopped to look at the -view. - -"That ought to come down," he said, pointing to the oak-tree. - -"You think so? You think that with the tree there you don't get -enough view for your money." - -Again James eyed him suspiciously--this young man had a peculiar -way of putting things: "Well!" he said, with a perplexed, -nervous, emphasis, "I don't see what you want with a tree." - -"It shall come down to-morrow," said Bosinney. - -James was alarmed. "Oh," he said, "don't go saying I said it was -to come down! I know nothing about it!" - -"No?" - -James went on in a fluster: "Why, what should I know about it? -It's nothing to do with me! You do it on your own -responsibility." - -"You'll allow me to mention your name?" - -James grew more and more alarmed: "I don't know what you want -mentioning my name for," he muttered; "you'd better leave the -tree alone. It's not your tree!" - -He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. They entered -the house. Like Swithin, James was impressed by the inner -court-yard. - -You must have spent a douce of a lot of money here," he said, -after staring at the columns and gallery for some time. "Now, -what did it cost to put up those columns?" - -"I can't tell you off-hand," thoughtfully answered Bosinney, "but -I know it was a deuce of a lot!" - -"I should think so," said James. "I should...." He caught the -architect's eye, and broke off. And now, whenever he came to -anything of which he desired to know the cost, he stifled that -curiosity. - -Bosinney appeared determined that he should see everything, and -had not James been of too 'noticing' a nature, he would -certainly have found himself going round the house a second time. -He seemed so anxious to be asked questions, too, that James felt -he must be on his guard. He began to suffer from his exertions, -for, though wiry enough for a man of his long build, he was -seventy-five years old. - -He grew discouraged; he seemed no nearer to anything, had not -obtained from his inspection any of the knowledge he had vaguely -hoped for. He had merely increased his dislike and mistrust of -this young man, who had tired him out with his politeness, and in -whose manner he now certainly detected mockery. - -The fellow was sharper than he had thought, and better-looking -than he had hoped. He had a--a 'don't care' appearance that -James, to whom risk was the most intolerable thing in life, did -not appreciate; a peculiar smile, too, coming when least -expected; and very queer eyes. He reminded James, as he said -afterwards, of a hungry cat. This was as near as he could get, -in conversation with Emily, to a description of the peculiar -exasperation, velvetiness, and mockery, of which Bosinney's -manner had been composed. - -At last, having seen all that was to be seen, he came out again -at the door where he had gone in; and now, feeling that he was -wasting time and strength and money, all for nothing, he took the -courage of a Forsyte in both hands, and, looking sharply at -Bosinney, said: - -"I dare say you see a good deal of my daughter-in-law; now, what -does she think of the house? But she hasn't seen it, I suppose?" - -This he said, knowing all about Irene's visit not, of course, -that there was anything in the visit, except that extraordinary -remark she had made about 'not caring to get home'--and the story -of how June had taken the news! - -He had determined, by this way of putting the question, to give -Bosinney a chance, as he said to himself. - -The latter was long in answering, but kept his eyes with -uncomfortable steadiness on James. - -"She has seen the house, but I can't tell you what she thinks of -it." - -Nervous and baffled, James was constitutionally prevented from -letting the matter drop. - -"Oh!" he said, "she has seen it? Soames brought her down, I -suppose?" - -Bosinney smilingly replied: "Oh, no!" - -"What, did she come down alone?" - -"Oh, no!" - -"Then--who brought her?" - -"I really don't know whether I ought to tell you who brought -her." - -To James, who knew that it was Swithin, this answer appeared -incomprehensible. - -"Why!" he stammered, "you know that...." but he stopped, suddenly -perceiving his danger. - -"Well," he said, "if you don't want to tell me I suppose you -won't! Nobody tells me anything." - -Somewhat to his surprise Bosinney asked him a question. - -"By the by," he said, "could you tell me if there are likely to -be any more of you coming down? I should like to be on the -spot!" - -"Any more?" said James bewildered, "who should there be more? I -don't know of any more. Good-bye?" - -Looking at the ground he held out his hand, crossed the palm of -it with Bosinney's, and taking his umbrella just above the silk, -walked away along the terrace. - -Before he turned the corner he glanced back, and saw Bosinney -following him slowly--'slinking along the wall' as he put it to -himself, 'like a great cat.' He paid no attention when the young -fellow raised his hat. - -Outside the drive, and out of sight, he slackened his pace still -more. Very slowly, more bent than when he came, lean, hungry, -and disheartened, he made his way back to the station. - -The Buccaneer, watching him go so sadly home, felt sorry perhaps -for his behaviour to the old man. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -SOAMES AND BOSINNEY CORRESPOND - - -James said nothing to his son of this visit to the house; but, -having occasion to go to Timothy's on morning on a matter -connected with a drainage scheme which was being forced by the -sanitary authorities on his brother, he mentioned it there. - -It was not, he said, a bad house. He could see that a good deal -could be made of it. The fellow was clever in his way, though -what it was going to cost Soames before it was done with he -didn't know. - -Euphemia Forsyte, who happened to be in the room--she had come -round to borrow the Rev. Mr. Scoles' last novel, 'Passion and -Paregoric', which was having such a vogue--chimed in. - -"I saw Irene yesterday at the Stores; she and Mr. Bosinney were -having a nice little chat in the Groceries." - -It was thus, simply, that she recorded a scene which had really -made a deep and complicated impression on her. She had been -hurrying to the silk department of the Church and Commercial -Stores--that Institution than which, with its admirable system, -admitting only guaranteed persons on a basis of payment before -delivery, no emporium can be more highly recommended to Forsytes- --to match a piece of prunella silk for her mother, who was -waiting in the carriage outside. - -Passing through the Groceries her eye was unpleasantly attracted -by the back view of a very beautiful figure. It was so -charmingly proportioned, so balanced, and so well clothed, that -Euphemia's instinctive propriety was at once alarmed; such -figures, she knew, by intuition rather than experience, were -rarely connected with virtue--certainly never in her mind, for -her own back was somewhat difficult to fit. - -Her suspicions were fortunately confirmed. A young man coming -from the Drugs had snatched off his hat, and was accosting the -lady with the unknown back. - -It was then that she saw with whom she had to deal; the lady was -undoubtedly Mrs. Soames, the young man Mr. Bosinney. Concealing -herself rapidly over the purchase of a box of Tunisian dates, for -she was impatient of awkwardly meeting people with parcels in her -hands, and at the busy time of the morning, she was quite -unintentionally an interested observer of their little interview. - -Mrs. Soames, usually somewhat pale, had a delightful colour in -her cheeks; and Mr. Bosinney's manner was strange, though -attractive (she thought him rather a distinguished-looking man, -and George's name for him, 'The Buccaneer'--about which there was -something romantic--quite charming). He seemed to be pleading. -Indeed, they talked so earnestly--or, rather, he talked so -earnestly, for Mrs. Soames did not say much--that they caused, -inconsiderately, an eddy in the traffic. One nice old General, -going towards Cigars, was obliged to step quite out of the way, -and chancing to look up and see Mrs. Soames' face, he actually -took off his hat, the old fool! So like a man! - -But it was Mrs. Soames' eyes that worried Euphemia. She never -once looked at Mr. Bosinney until he moved on, and then she -looked after him. And, oh, that look! - -On that look Euphemia had spent much anxious thought. It is not -too much to say that it had hurt her with its dark, lingering -softness, for all the world as though the woman wanted to -drag him back, and unsay something she had been saying. - -Ah, well, she had had no time to go deeply into the matter just -then, with that prunella silk on her hands; but she was 'very -intriguee'--very! She had just nodded to Mrs. Soames, to show her -that she had seen; and, as she confided, in talking it over -afterwards, to her chum Francie (Roger's daughter), "Didn't she -look caught out just? ...." - -James, most averse at the first blush to accepting any news -confirmatory of his own poignant suspicions, took her up at once. - -"Oh" he said, "they'd be after wall-papers no doubt." - -Euphemia smiled. "In the Groceries?" she said softly; and, -taking 'Passion and Paregoric' from the table, added: "And so -you'll lend me this, dear Auntie? Good-bye!" and went away. - -James left almost immediately after; he was late as it was. - -When he reached the office of Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte, he -found Soames, sitting in his revolving, chair, drawing up a -defence. The latter greeted his father with a curt good-morning, -and, taking an envelope from his pocket, said: - -"It may interest you to look through this." - -James read as follows: - - -309D, SLOANE STREET, -May 15. - -'DEAR FORSYTE, - -'The construction of your house being now completed, my duties as -architect have come to an end. If I am to go on with the -business of decoration, which at your request I undertook, I -should like you to clearly understand that I must have a free -hand. - -'You never come down without suggesting something that goes -counter to my scheme. I have here three letters from you, each -of which recommends an article I should never dream of putting -in. I had your father here yesterday afternoon, who made further -valuable suggestions. - -'Please make up your mind, therefore, whether you want me to -decorate for you, or to retire which on the whole I should prefer -to do. - -'But understand that, if I decorate, I decorate alone, without -interference of any sort. - -If I do the thing, I will do it thoroughly, but I must have a -free hand. - -'Yours truly, - -'PHILIP BOSINNEY.' - - -The exact and immediate cause of this letter cannot, of course, -be told, though it is not improbable that Bosinney may have been -moved by some sudden revolt against his position towards Soames-- -that eternal position of Art towards Property--which is so -admirably summed up, on the back of the most indispensable of -modern appliances, in a sentence comparable to the very finest in -Tacitus: - - -THOS. T. SORROW, Inventor. -BERT M. PADLAND, Proprietor. - - -"What are you going to say to him?" James asked. - -Soames did not even turn his head. "I haven't made up my mind," -he said, and went on with his defence. - -A client of his, having put some buildings on a piece of ground -that did not belong to him, had been suddenly and most irritat- -ingly warned to take them off again. After carefully going into -the facts, however, Soames had seen his way to advise that his -client had what was known as a title by possession, and that, -though undoubtedly the ground did not belong to him, he was -entitled to keep it, and had better do so; and he was now -following up this advice by taking steps to--as the sailors say-- -'make it so.' - -He had a distinct reputation for sound advice; people saying of -him: "Go to young Forsyte--a long-headed fellow!" and he prized -this reputation highly. - -His natural taciturnity was in his favour; nothing could be more -calculated to give people, especially people with property -(Soames had no other clients), the impression that he was a safe -man. And he was safe. Tradition, habit, education, inherited -aptitude, native caution, all joined to form a solid professional -honesty, superior to temptation--from the very fact that it was -built on an innate avoidance of risk. How could he fall, when -his soul abhorred circumstances which render a fall possible--a -man cannot fall off the floor! - -And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable -transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to -water rights), had occasion for the services of a safe man, -found it both reposeful and profitable to confide in Soames. -That slight superciliousness of his, combined with an air of -mousing amongst precedents, was in his favour too--a man would -not be supercilious unless he knew! - -He was really at the head of the business, for though James still -came nearly every day to, see for himself, he did little now but -sit in his chair, twist his legs, slightly confuse things already -decided, and presently go away again, and the other partner, -Bustard, was a poor thing, who did a great deal of work, but -whose opinion was never taken. - -So Soames went steadily on with his defence. Yet it would be -idle to say that his mind was at ease. He was suffering from a -sense of impending trouble, that had haunted him for some time -past. He tried to think it physical--a condition of his liver-- -but knew that it was not. - -He looked at his watch. In a quarter of an hour he was due at -the General Meeting of the New Colliery Company--one of Uncle -Jolyon's concerns; he should see Uncle Jolyon there, and say -something to him about Bosinney--he had not made up his mind -what, but something--in any case he should not answer this letter -until he had seen Uncle Jolyon. He got up and methodically put -away the draft of his defence. Going into a dark little -cupboard, he turned up the light, washed his hands with a piece -of brown Windsor soap, and dried them on a roller towel. Then he -brushed his hair, paying strict attention to the parting, turned -down the light, took his hat, and saying he would be back at -half-past two, stepped into the Poultry. - -It was not far to the Offices of the New Colliery Company in -Ironmonger Lane, where, and not at the Cannon Street Hotel, in -accordance with the more ambitious practice of other companies, -the General Meeting was always held. Old Jolyon had from the -first set his face against the Press. What business--he said-- -had the Public with his concerns! - -Soames arrived on the stroke of time, and took his seat alongside -the Board, who, in a row, each Director behind his own ink-pot, -faced their Shareholders. - -In the centre of this row old Jolyon, conspicuous in his black, -tightly-buttoned frock-coat and his white moustaches, was leaning -back with finger tips crossed on a copy of the Directors' report -and accounts. - -On his right hand, always a little larger than life, sat the -Secretary, 'Down-by-the-starn' Hemmings; an all-too-sad sadness -beaming in his fine eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like -the rest of him, giving the feeling of an all-too-black tie -behind it. - -The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having -elapsed since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining -expert, on a private mission to the Mines, informing them that -Pippin, their Superintendent, had committed suicide in -endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years' silence, to -write a letter to his Board. That letter was on the table now; -it would be read to the Shareholders, who would of course be put -into possession of all the facts. - -Hemmings had often said to Soames, standing with his coat-tails -divided before the fireplace: - -"What our Shareholders don't know about our affairs isn't worth -knowing. You may take that from me, Mr. Soames." - -On one occasion, old Jolyon being present, Soames recollected a -little unpleasantness. His uncle had looked up sharply and said: -"Don't talk nonsense, Hemmings! You mean that what they do know -isn't worth knowing!" Old Jolyon detested humbug. - -Hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained -poodle, had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: "Come, -now, that's good, sir--that's very good. Your uncle will have -his joke!" - -The next time he had seen Soames he had taken the opportunity of -saying to him: "The chairman's getting very old!--I can't get him -to understand things; and he's so wilful--but what can you -expect, with a chin like his?" - -Soames had nodded. - -Everyone knew that Uncle Jolyon's chin was a caution. He was -looking worried to-day, in spite of his General Meeting look; he -(Soames) should certainly speak to him about Bosinney. - -Beyond old Jolyon on the left was little Mr. Booker, and he, too, -wore his General Meeting look, as though searching for some -particularly tender shareholder. And next him was the deaf -director, with a frown; and beyond the deaf director, again, was -old Mr. Bleedham, very bland, and having an air of conscious -virtue--as well he might, knowing that the brown-paper parcel he -always brought to the Board-room was concealed behind his hat -(one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed top-hats which -go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh cheeks, and -neat little, white whiskers). - -Soames always attended the General Meeting; it was considered -better that he should do so, in case 'anything should arise!' He -glanced round with his close, supercilious air at the walls of -the room, where hung plans of the mine and harbour, together with -a large photograph of a shaft leading to a working which had -proved quite remarkably unprofitable. This photograph--a witness -to the eternal irony underlying commercial enterprise till -retained its position on the--wall, an effigy of the directors' -pet, but dead, lamb. - -And now old Jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts. - -Veiling under a Jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism -deep-seated in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, -he faced them calmly. Soames faced them too. He knew most of -them by sight. There was old Scrubsole, a tar man, who always -came, as Hemmings would say, 'to make himself nasty,' a -cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face, a jowl, and an -enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. And the Rev. Mr. -Boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in -which he invariably expressed the hope that the Board would not -forget to elevate their employees, using the word with a double -e, as being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong -Imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary -custom to buttonhole a director afterwards, and ask him whether -he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according -to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within -the ensuing fortnight. - -And there was that military man, Major O'Bally, who could not -help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, -and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking toasts-- -proposals rather--out of the hands of persons who had been -flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said -proposals to their care. - -These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent -shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize--men of business, -who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without -being fussy--good, solid men, who came to the City every day and -went back in the evening to good, solid wives. - -Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which -roused the nameless uneasiness in Soames again. - -What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to -this letter? - -. . . . "If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall -be glad to answer it." A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the -report and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell -glasses between thumb and forefinger. - -The ghost of a smile appeared on Soames' face. They had better -hurry up with their questions! He well knew his uncle's method -(the ideal one) of at once saying: "I propose, then, that the -report and accounts be adopted!" Never let them get their wind-- -shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time! - -A tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face, -arose: - -"I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman, in raising a question on -this figure of L5000 in the accounts. 'To the widow and -family"' (he looked sourly round), "'of our late superintendent,' -who so--er--ill-advisedly (I say--ill-advisedly) committed -suicide, at a time when his services were of the utmost value to -this Company. You have stated that the agreement which he has so -unfortunately cut short with his own hand was for a period of -five years, of which one only had expired--I--" - -Old Jolyon made a gesture of impatience. - -"I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman--I ask whether this amount -paid, or proposed to be paid, by the Board to the er--deceased-- -is for services which might have been rendered to the Company-- -had he not committed suicide?" - -"It is in recognition of past services, which we all know--you as -well as any of us--to have been of vital value." - -"Then, sir, all I have to say is that the services being past, -the amount is too much." - -The shareholder sat down. - -Old Jolyon waited a second and said: "I now propose that the -report and--" - -The shareholder rose again: "May I ask if the Board realizes -that it is not their money which--I don't hesitate to say that if -it were their money...." - -A second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom Soames -recognised as the late superintendent's brother-in-law, got up -and said warmly: "In my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!" - -The Rev. Mr. Boms now rose to his feet. "If I may venture to -express myself," he said, "I should say that the fact of the--er- --deceased having committed suicide should weigh very heavily-- -very heavily with our worthy chairman. I have no doubt it has -weighed with him, for--I say this for myself and I think for -everyone present (hear, hear)--he enjoys our confidence in a high -degree. We all desire, I should hope, to be charitable. But I -feel sure" (he-looked severely at the late superintendent's -brother-in-law) "that he will in some way, by some written -expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our -grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should -have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own -interests and--if I may say so--our interests so imperatively -demanded its continuance. We should not--nay, we may not-- -countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human and -divine." - -The reverend gentleman resumed his seat. The late super- -intendent's brother-in-law again rose: "What I have said I -stick to," he said; "the amount is not enough!" - -The first shareholder struck in: "I challenge the legality of the -payment. In my opinion this payment is not legal. The Company's -solicitor is present; I believe I am in order in asking him the -question." - -All eyes were now turned upon Soames. Something had arisen! - -He stood up, close-lipped and cold; his nerves inwardly -fluttered, his attention tweaked away at last from contemplation -of that cloud looming on the horizon of his mind. - -"The point," he said in a low, thin voice, "is by no means clear. -As there is no possibility of future consideration being -received, it is doubtful whether the payment is strictly legal. -If it is desired, the opinion of the court could be taken." - -The superintendent's brother-in-law frowned, and said in a -meaning tone: "We have no doubt the opinion of the court could be -taken. May I ask the name of the gentleman who has given us that -striking piece of information? Mr. Soames Forsyte? Indeed!" He -looked from Soames to old Jolyon in a pointed manner. - -A flush coloured Soames' pale cheeks, but his superciliousness -did not waver. Old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the speaker. - -"If," he said, "the late superintendents brother-in-law has -nothing more to say, I propose that the report and accounts...." - -At this moment, however, there rose one of those five silent, -stolid shareholders, who had excited Soames' sympathy. He said: - -"I deprecate the proposal altogether. We are expected to give -charity to this man's wife and children, who, you tell us, were -dependent on him. They may have been; I do not care whether they -were or not. I object to the whole thing on principle. It is -high time a stand was made against this sentimental human- -itarianism. The country is eaten up with it. I object to -my money being paid to these people of whom I know nothing, who -have done nothing to earn it. I object in toto; it is not -business. I now move that the report and accounts be put back, -and amended by striking out the grant altogether." - -Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was -speaking. The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it -did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, -which had at that time already commenced among the saner members -of the community. - -The words 'it is not business' had moved even the Board; -privately everyone felt that indeed it was not. But they knew -also the chairman's domineering temper and tenacity. He, too, at -heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to -his own proposition. Would he go back upon it? It was thought -to be unlikely. - -All waited with interest. Old Jolyon held up his hand; -dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb -quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace. - -He addressed the strong, silent shareholder. - -"Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon -the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish -me to put that amendment, sir?" - -"I do." - -Old Jolyon put the amendment. - -"Does anyone second this?" he asked, looking calmly round. - -And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power -of will that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking -straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old -Jolyon said: - -"I now move, 'That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be -received and adopted.' You second that? Those in favour signify -the same in the usual way. Contrary--no. Carried. The next -business, gentlemen...." - -Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him! - -But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney. - -Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours. - -Irene's visit to the house--but there was nothing in that, except -that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell -him anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He -wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away -from London. Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong -enough. That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again! - -The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of -the lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. -Little Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry -smiles, was having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two -hated each other like poison. There was some matter of a -tar-contract between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it -from the Board for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole's head. -Soames had heard that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more -especially about his directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of -whom he was afraid. - -Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was -vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was -putting on his hat. - -"Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?" - -It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this -interview. - -Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in -general held old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or -perhaps--as Hemmings would doubtless have said--to his chin, -there was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the -younger man and the old. It had lurked under their dry manner of -greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and -arose perhaps from old Jolyon's perception of the quiet tenacity -('obstinacy,' he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of -a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him. - -Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects, -possessed in their different ways--to a greater degree than the -rest of the family--that essential quality of tenacious and -prudent insight into 'affairs,' which is the highwater mark of -their great class. Either of them, with a little luck and -opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would -have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman, -though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the -influence of a cigar or of Nature--would have been capable of, -not perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high -position, while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not. - -Then, too, in old Jolyon's mind there was always the secret ache, -that the son of James--of James, whom he had always thought such -a poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his -own son...! - -And last, not least--for he was no more outside the radiation of -family gossip than any other Forsyte--he had now heard the -sinister, indefinite, but none the less disturbing rumour about -Bosinney, and his pride was wounded to the quick. - -Characteristically, his irritation turned not against Irene but -against Soames. The idea that his nephew's wife (why couldn't -the fellow take better care of her--Oh! quaint injustice! as -though Soames could possibly take more care!)--should be drawing -to herself June's lover, was intolerably humiliating. And seeing -the danger, he did not, like James, hide it away in sheer -nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his broader -outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very -attractive about Irene! - -He had a presentiment on the subject of Soames' communication as -they left the Board Room together, and went out into the noise -and hurry of Cheapside. They walked together a good minute -without speaking, Soames with his mousing, mincing step, and old -Jolyon upright and using his umbrella languidly as a -walking-stick. - -They turned presently into comparative quiet, for old Jolyon's -way to a second Board led him in the direction of Moorage Street. - -Then Soames, without lifting his eyes, began: "I've had this -letter from Bosinney. You see what he says; I thought I'd let -you know. I've spent a lot more than I intended on this house, -and I want the position to be clear." - -Old Jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: "What he -says is clear enough," he said. - -"He talks about 'a free hand,'" replied Soames. - -Old Jolyon looked at him. The long-suppressed irritation and -antagonism towards this young fellow, whose affairs were -beginning to intrude upon his own, burst from him. - -"Well, if you don't trust him, why do you employ him?" - -Soames stole a sideway look: "It's much too late to go into -that," he said, "I only want it to be quite understood that if I -give him a free hand, he doesn't let me in. I thought if you -were to speak to him, it would carry more weight!" - -"No," said old Jolyon abruptly; "I'll have nothing to do with -it!" - -The words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of -unspoken meanings, far more important, behind. And the look they -interchanged was like a revelation of this consciousness. - -"Well," said Soames; "I thought, for June's sake, I'd tell you, -that's all; I thought you'd better know I shan't stand any -nonsense!" - -"What is that to me?" old Jolyon took him up. - -"Oh! I don't know," said Soames, and flurried by that sharp look -he was unable to say more. "Don't say I didn't tell you," he -added sulkily, recovering his composure. - -"Tell me!" said old Jolyon; "I don't know what you mean. You -come worrying me about a thing like this. I don't want to hear -about your affairs; you must manage them yourself!" - -"Very well," said Soames immovably, "I will!" - -"Good-morning, then," said old Jolyon, and they parted. - -Soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated eating- -house, asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of -Chablis; he seldom ate much in the middle of the day, and -generally ate standing, finding the position beneficial to his -liver, which was very sound, but to which he desired to put down -all his troubles. - -When he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent -head, taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the -pavements, who in their turn took no notice of him. - -The evening post carried the following reply to Bosinney: - - -'FORSYTE, BUSTARD AND FORSYTE, -'Commissioners for Oaths, -'92001, BRANCH LANE, POULTRY, E.C., - -'May 17, 1887. - -'DEAR BOSINNEY, - -'I have, received your letter, the terms of which not a little -surprise me. I was under the impression that you had, and have -had all along, a "free hand"; for I do not recollect that any -suggestions I have been so unfortunate as to make have met with -your approval. In giving you, in accordance with your request, -this "free hand," I wish you to clearly understand that the total -cost of the house as handed over to me completely decorated, -inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us), must not exceed -twelve thousand pounds--L12,000. This gives you an ample margin, -and, as you know, is far more than I originally contemplated. - -'I am, -'Yours truly, - - 'SOAMES FORSYTE.' - - -On the following day he received a note from Bosinney: - - -'PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY, -'Architect, -'309D, SLOANE STREET, S.W., -'May 18. - -'DEAR FORSYTE, - -'If you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can -bind myself to the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken. I -can see that you are tired of the arrangement, and of me, and I -had better, therefore, resign. - -'Yours faithfully, - -'PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY.' - - -Soames pondered long and painfully over his answer, and late at -night in the dining-room, when Irene had gone to bed, he composed -the following: - - -'62, MONTPELLIER SQUARE, S.W., -'May 19, 1887. - -'DEAR BOSINNEY, - -'I think that in both our interests it would be extremely -undesirable that matters should be so left at this stage. I did -not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named in my -letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds, there would -be any difficulty between us. This being so, I should like you -to reconsider your answer. You have a "free hand" in the terms -of this correspondence, and I hope you will see your way to -completing the decorations, in the matter of which I know it is -difficult to be absolutely exact. - -'Yours truly, - -'SOAMES FORSYTE.' - - -Bosinney's answer, which came in the course of the next day, was: - - -'May 20. - -'DEAR FORSYTE, - -'Very well. - -'PH. BOSINNEY.' - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -OLD JOLYON AT THE ZOO - - -Old Jolyon disposed of his second Meeting--an ordinary Board-- -summarily. He was so dictatorial that his fellow directors were -left in cabal over the increasing domineeringness of old Forsyte, -which they were far from intending to stand much longer, they -said. - -He went out by Undergound to Portland Road Station, whence he -took a cab and drove to the Zoo. - -He had an assignation there, one of those assignations that had -lately been growing more frequent, to which his increasing -uneasiness about June and the 'change in her,' as he expressed -it, was driving him. - -She buried herself away, and was growing thin; if he spoke to her -he got no answer, or had his head snapped off, or she looked as -if she would burst into tears. She was as changed as she could -be, all through this Bosinney. As for telling him about -anything, not a bit of it! - -And he would sit for long spells brooding, his paper unread -before him, a cigar extinct between his lips. She had been such -a companion to him ever since she was three years old! And he -loved her so! - -Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down -his guard; impending events over which he had no control threw -their shadows on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to -have his way was roused against he knew not what. - -Chafing at the slowness of his cab, he reached the Zoo door; but, -with his sunny instinct for seizing the good of each moment, he -forgot his vexation as he walked towards the tryst. - -From the stone terrace above the bear-pit his son and his two -grandchildren came hastening down when they saw old Jolyon -coming, and led him away towards the lion-house. They supported -him on either side, holding one to each of his hands,--whilst -Jolly, perverse like his father, carried his grandfather's -umbrella in such a way as to catch people's legs with the crutch -of the handle. - -Young Jolyon followed. - -It was as good as a play to see his father with the children, but -such a play as brings smiles with tears behind. An old man and -two small children walking together can be seen at any hour of -the day; but the sight of old Jolyon, with Jolly and Holly seemed -to young Jolyon a special peep-show of the things that lie at the -bottom of our hearts. The complete surrender of that erect old -figure to those little figures on either hand was too poignantly -tender, and, being a man of an habitual reflex action, young -Jolyon swore softly under his breath. The show affected him in a -way unbecoming to a Forsyte, who is nothing if not undemonstrative. - -Thus they reached the lion-house. - -There had been a morning fete at the Botanical Gardens, and a -large number of Forsy...'--that is, of well-dressed people who -kept carriages had brought them on to the Zoo, so as to have -more, if possible, for their money, before going back to Rutland -Gate or Bryanston Square. - -"Let's go on to the Zoo," they had said to each other; "it'll be -great fun!" It was a shilling day; and there would not be all -those horrid common people. - -In front of the long line of cages they were collected in rows, -watching the tawny, ravenous beasts behind the bars await their -only pleasure of the four-and-twenty hours. The hungrier the -beast, the greater the fascination. But whether because the -spectators envied his appetite, or, more humanely, because it -was so soon to be satisfied, young Jolyon could not tell. -Remarks kept falling on his ears: "That's a nasty-looking brute, -that tiger!" "Oh, what a love! Look at his little mouth!" -"Yes, he's rather nice! Don't go too near, mother." - -And frequently, with little pats, one or another would clap their -hands to their pockets behind and look round, as though expecting -young Jolyon or some disinterested-looking person to relieve them -of the contents. - -A well-fed man in a white waistcoat said slowly through his -teeth: "It's all greed; they can't be hungry. Why, they take no -exercise." At these words a tiger snatched a piece of bleeding -liver, and the fat man laughed. His wife, in a Paris model frock -and gold nose-nippers, reproved him: "How can you laugh, Harry? -Such a horrid sight!" - -Young Jolyon frowned. - -The circumstances of his life, though he had ceased to take a too -personal view of them, had left him subject to an intermittent -contempt; and the class to which he had belonged--the carriage -class--especially excited his sarcasm. - -To shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible -barbarity. But no cultivated person would admit this. - -The idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had -probably never even occurred to his father for instance; he -belonged to the old school, who considered it at once humanizing -and educational to confine baboons and panthers, holding the -view, no doubt, that in course of time they might induce these -creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery and heart- -sickness against the bars of their cages, and put the society -to the expense of getting others! In his eyes, as in the eyes -of all Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful -creatures in a state of captivity far outweighed the -inconvenience of imprisonment to beasts whom God had so -improvidently placed in a state of freedom! It was for the -animals good, removing them at once from the countless dangers -of open air and exercise, and enabling them to exercise their -functions in the guaranteed seclusion of a private compartment! -Indeed, it was doubtful what wild animals were made for but to be -shut up in cages! - -But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of -impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that -which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who -held these views had been placed in a similar position to the -animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to -enter into their sensations. It was not until they were leaving -the gardens--Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful delirium-- -that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on -the matter next his heart. "I don't know what to make of it," he -said; "if she's to go on as she's going on now, I can't tell -what's to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won't. -She's not a bit like me. She's your mother all over. Obstinate -as a mule! If she doesn't want to do a thing, she won't, and -there's an end of it!" - -Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father's chin. -'A pair of you,' he thought, but he said nothing. - -"And then," went on old Jolyon, "there's this Bosinney. I -should like to punch the fellow's head, but I can't, I suppose, -though--I don't see why you shouldn't," he added doubtfully. - -"What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if -they don't hit it off!" - -Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to -discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes -he felt distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or -other. - -"Well, I don't know what you think," he said; "I dare say your -sympathy's with him--shouldn't be surprised; but I think he's -behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him -so." He dropped the subject. - -It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and -meaning of Bosinney's defection. Had not his son done the very -same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed -no end to the consequences of that piece of folly. - -Young Jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his -father's thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious -and uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive -and subtle. - -The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years -before, however, was too different from his father's. There was -no bridging the gulf. - -He said coolly: "I suppose he's fallen in love with some other -woman?" - -Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: "I can't tell," he said; -"they say so!" - -"Then, it's probably true," remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly; -"and I suppose they've told you who she is?" - -"Yes," said old Jolyon, "Soames's wife!" - -Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life -had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he -looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his -face. - -If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice. - -"She and June were bosom friends!" he muttered. - -"Poor little June!" said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his -daughter still as a babe of three. - -Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt. - -"I don't believe a word of it," he said, "it's some old woman's -tale. Get me a cab, Jo, I'm tired to death!" - -They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, -while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all -descriptions from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss -on the horses' coats, shone and glittered in the May sunlight, -and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, Victoria, or -brougham, seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels: - - -'I and my horses and my men you know,' -Indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot. -But we were worth it every penny. Look -At Master and at Missis now, the dawgs! -Ease with security--ah! that's the ticket! - - -And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a -perambulating Forsyte. - -Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace -than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung -on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed -rocked as in a cradle. - -This chariot attracted young Jolyon's attention; and suddenly, on -the back seat, he recognised his Uncle James, unmistakable in -spite of the increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their -backs defended by sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but -married sister, Winifred Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had -posed their heads haughtily, like two of the birds they had been -seeing at the Zoo; while by James' side reclined Dartie, in a -brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and square, with a large -expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below each wristband. - -An extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss -or varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish -it from all the others, as though by some happy extravagance-- -like that which marks out the real 'work of art' from the -ordinary 'picture'--it were designated as the typical car, the -very throne of Forsytedom. - -Old Jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor Holly who -was tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little -group; the ladies' heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic -screening movement of parasols; James' face protruded naively, -like the head of a long bird, his mouth slowly opening. The -shield-like rounds of the parasols grew smaller and smaller, and -vanished. - -Young Jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by Winifred, -who could not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited -the right to be considered a Forsyte. - -There was not much change in them! He remembered the exact look -of their turn-out all that time ago: Horses, men, carriage--all -different now, no doubt--but of the precise stamp of fifteen -years before; the same neat display, the same nicely calculated -arrogance ease with security! The swing exact, the pose of the -sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the whole thing. - -And in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols, -carriage after carriage went by. - -"Uncle James has just passed, with his female folk," said young -Jolyon. - -His father looked black. "Did your uncle see us? Yes? Hmph! -What's he want, coming down into these parts?" - -An empty cab drove up at this moment, and old Jolyon stopped it. - -"I shall see you again before long, my boy!" he said. "Don't you -go paying any attention to what I've been saying about young -Bosinney--I don't believe a word of it!" - -Kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and -was borne away. - -Young Jolyon, who had taken Holly up in his arms, stood -motionless at the corner, looking after the cab. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -AFTERNOON AT TIMOTHY'S - - -If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: 'I won't believe -a word of it!' he would more truthfully have expressed his -sentiments. - -The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the -company of his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he -always felt when crossed, but that secret hostility natural -between brothers, the roots of which--little nursery rivalries-- -sometimes toughen and deepen as life goes on, and, all hidden, -support a plant capable of producing in season the bitterest -fruits. - -Hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more -unfriendly feeling than that caused by the secret and natural -doubt that the others might be richer than themselves; a feeling -increased to the pitch of curiosity by the approach of death-- -that end of all handicaps--and the great 'closeness' of their man -of business, who, with some sagacity, would profess to Nicholas -ignorance of James' income, to James ignorance of old Jolyon's, -to Jolyon ignorance of Roger's, to Roger ignorance of Swithin's, -while to Swithin he would say most irritatingly that Nicholas -must be a rich man. Timothy alone was exempt, being in -gilt-edged securities. - -But now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very -different sense of injury. From the moment when James had the -impertinence to pry into his affairs--as he put it--old Jolyon no -longer chose to credit this story about Bosinney. His grand- -daughter slighted through a member of 'that fellow's' family! -He made up his mind that Bosinney was maligned. There must be -some other reason for his defection. - -June had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she -could be! - -He would, however, let Timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if -he would go on dropping hints! And he would not let the grass -grow under his feet either, he would go there at once, and take -very good care that he didn't have to go again on the same -errand. - -He saw James' carriage blocking the pavement in front of 'The -Bower.' So they had got there before him--cackling about having -seen him, he dared say! And further on, Swithin's greys were -turning their noses towards the noses of James' bays, as though -in conclave over the family, while their coachmen were in -conclave above. - -Old Jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall, -where that hat of Bosinney's had so long ago been mistaken for a -cat, passed his thin hand grimly over his face with its great -drooping white moustaches, as though to remove all traces of -expression, and made his way upstairs. - -He found the front drawing-room full. It was full enough at the -best of times--without visitors--without any one in it--for -Timothy and his sisters, following the tradition of their -generation, considered that a room was not quite 'nice' unless it -was 'properly' furnished. It held, therefore, eleven chairs, a -sofa, three tables, two cabinets, innumerable knicknacks, and -part of a large grand piano. And now, occupied by Mrs. Small, -Aunt Hester, by Swithin, James, Rachel, Winifred, Euphemia, who -had come in again to return 'Passion and Paregoric' which she had -read at lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger's daughter (the -musical Forsyte, the one who composed songs), there was only one -chair left unoccupied, except, of course, the two that nobody -ever sat on--and the only standing room was occupied by the cat, -on whom old Jolyon promptly stepped. - -In these days it was by no means unusual for Timothy to have so -many visitors. The family had always, one and all, had a real -respect for Aunt Ann, and now that she was gone, they were coming -far more frequently to The Bower, and staying longer. - -Swithin had been the first to arrive, and seated torpid in a red -satin chair with a gilt back, he gave every appearance of lasting -the others out. And symbolizing Bosinney's name 'the big one,' -with his great stature and bulk, his thick white hair, his puffy -immovable shaven face, he looked more primeval than ever in the -highly upholstered room. - -His conversation, as usual of late, had turned at once upon -Irene, and he had lost no time in giving Aunts Juley and Hester -his opinion with regard to this rumour he heard was going about. -No--as he said--she might want a bit of flirtation--a pretty -woman must have her fling; but more than that he did not believe. -Nothing open; she had too much good sense, too much proper -appreciation of what was due to her position, and to the family! -No sc..., he was going to say 'scandal' but the very idea was so -preposterous that he waved his hand as though to say--'but let -that pass!' - -Granted that Swithin took a bachelor's view of the situation-- -still what indeed was not due to that family in which so many had -done so well for themselves, had attained a certain position? If -he had heard in dark, pessimistic moments the words 'yeomen' and -'very small beer' used in connection with his origin, did he -believe them? - -No! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the -secret theory that there was something distinguished somewhere in -his ancestry. - -"Must be," he once said to young Jolyon, before the latter went -to the bad. "Look at us, we've got on! There must be good blood -in us somewhere." - -He had been fond of young Jolyon: the boy had been in a good set -at College, had known that old ruffian Sir Charles Fiste's -sons--a pretty rascal one of them had turned out, too; and there -was style about him--it was a thousand pities he had run off with -that half-foreign governess! If he must go off like that why -couldn't he have chosen someone who would have done them credit! -And what was he now?--an underwriter at Lloyd's; they said he -even painted pictures--pictures! Damme! he might have ended as -Sir Jolyon Forsyte, Bart., with a seat in Parliament, and a place -in the country! - -It was Swithin who, following the impulse which sooner or later -urges thereto some member of every great family, went to the -Heralds' Office, where they assured him that he was undoubtedly -of the same family as the well-known Forsites with an 'i,' whose -arms were 'three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules,' hoping -no doubt to get him to take them up. - -Swithin, however, did not do this, but having ascertained that -the crest was a 'pheasant proper,' and the motto 'For Forsite,' -he had the pheasant proper placed upon his carriage and the -buttons of his coachman, and both crest and motto on his -writing-paper. The arms he hugged to himself, partly because, -not having paid for them, he thought it would look ostentatious -to put them on his carriage, and he hated ostentation, and partly -because he, like any practical man all over the country, had a -secret dislike and contempt for things he could not understand he -found it hard, as anyone might, to swallow 'three dexter buckles -on a sable ground gules.' - -He never forgot, however, their having told him that if he paid -for them he would be entitled to use them, and it strengthened -his conviction that he was a gentleman. Imperceptibly the rest -of the family absorbed the 'pheasant proper,' and some, more -serious than others, adopted the motto; old Jolyon, however, -refused to use the latter, saying that it was humbug meaning -nothing, so far as he could see. - -Among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from -what great historical event they derived their crest; and if -pressed on the subject, sooner than tell a lie--they did not like -telling lies, having an impression that only Frenchmen and -Russians told them--they would confess hurriedly that Swithin had -got hold of it somehow. - -Among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a -discretion proper. They did not want to hurt the feelings of -their elders, nor to feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used -the crest.... - -"No," said Swithin, "he had had an opportunity of seeing for -himself, and what he should say was, that there was nothing in -her manner to that young Buccaneer or Bosinney or whatever his -name was, different from her manner to himself; in fact, he -should rather say...." But here the entrance of Frances -and Euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the conversation, for -this was not a subject which could be discussed before young -people. - -And though Swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this -on the point of saying something important, he soon recovered his -affability. He was rather fond of Frances--Francie, as she was -called in the family. She was so smart, and they told him she -made a pretty little pot of pin-money by her songs; he called it -very clever of her. - -He rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards -women, not seeing any reason why they shouldn't paint pictures, -or write tunes, or books even, for the matter of that, especially -if they could turn a useful penny by it; not at all--kept them -out of mischief. It was not as if they were men! - -'Little Francie,' as she was usually called with good-natured -contempt, was an important personage, if only as a standing -illustration of the attitude of Forsytes towards the Arts. She -was not really 'little,' but rather tall, with dark hair for a -Forsyte, which, together with a grey eye, gave her what was -called 'a Celtic appearance.' She wrote songs with titles like -'Breathing Sighs,' or 'Kiss me, Mother, ere I die,' with a -refrain like an anthem: - - -'Kiss me, Mother, ere I die; -Kiss me-kiss me, Mother, ah! -Kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere I- -Kiss me, Mother, ere I d-d-die!' - - -She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter -moments she wrote waltzes, one of which, the 'Kensington Coil,' -was almost national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it. - -It was very original. Then there were her 'Songs for Little -People,' at once educational and witty, especially 'Gran'ma's -Porgie,' and that ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the -coming Imperial spirit, entitled 'Black Him In His Little Eye.' - -Any publisher would take these, and reviews like 'High Living,' -and the 'Ladies' Genteel Guide' went into raptures over: 'Another -of Miss Francie Forsyte's spirited ditties, sparkling and -pathetic. We ourselves were moved to tears and laughter. Miss -Forsyte should go far.' - -With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of -knowing the right people--people who would write about her, and -talk about her, and people in Society, too--keeping a mental -register of just where to exert her fascinations, and an eye on -that steady scale of rising prices, which in her mind's eye -represented the future. In this way she caused herself to be -universally respected. - -Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment-- -for the tenor of Roger's life, with its whole-hearted collection -of house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency -towards passion--she turned to great and sincere work, choosing -the sonata form, for the violin. This was the only one of her -productions that troubled the Forsytes. They felt at once that -it would not sell. - -Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often -alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was -upset by this violin sonata. - -"Rubbish like that!" he called it. Francie had borrowed young -Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at -Prince's Gardens. - -As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but-- -annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn't sell. As every -Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all--far from -it. - -And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth -of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes--Aunt -Hester, for instance, who had always been musical--could not help -regretting that Francie's music was not 'classical'; the same -with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didn't see -any poetry nowadays, all the poems were 'little light things.' - -There was nobody who could write a poem like 'Paradise Lost,' or -'Childe Harold'; either of which made you feel that you really -had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have -something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money -shopping she was making it! - -And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen -to the latest story of how Francie had got her price increased. - -They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not -to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he -never could catch what they said. - -"And I can't think," said Mrs. Septimus, "how you do it. I -should never have the audacity!" - -Francie smiled lightly. "I'd much rather deal with a man than a -woman. Women are so sharp!" - -"My dear," cried Mrs. Small, "I'm sure we're not." - -Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the -squeak, said, as though being strangled: "Oh, you'll kill me some -day, auntie." - -Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing -when he himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia -altogether, to whom he always alluded as 'Nick's daughter, what's -she called--the pale one?' He had just missed being her god- -father--indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm stand -against her outlandish name. He hated becoming a godfather. -Swithin then said to Francie with dignity: "It's a fine day-- -er--for the time of year." But Euphemia, who knew perfectly well -that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt Hester, -and began telling her how she had seen Irene--Mrs. Soames--at the -Church and Commercial Stores. - -"And Soames was with her?" said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small -had as yet had no opportunity of relating the incident. - -"Soames with her? Of course not!" - -"But was she all alone in London?" - -"Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her. She was perfectly -dressed." - -But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, -who, it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may -have done on other occasions, and said: - -"Dressed like a lady, I've no doubt. It's a pleasure to see -her." - -At this moment James and his daughters were announced. Dartie, -feeling badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with -his dentist, and, being put down at the Marble Arch, had got into -a hansom, and was already seated in the window of his club in -Piccadilly. - -His wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some -calls. It was not in his line--not exactly. Haw! - -Hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had -won the 4.30 race. He was dog-tired, he said, and that was a -fact; had been drivin' about with his wife to 'shows' all the -afternoon. Had put his foot down at last. A fellow must live -his own life. - -At this moment, glancing out of the bay window--for he loved this -seat whence he could see everybody pass--his eye unfortunately, -or perhaps fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of Soames, -who was mousing across the road from the Green Park-side, with -the evident intention of coming in, for he, too, belonged to 'The -Iseeum.' - -Dartie sprang to his feet; grasping his glass, he muttered -something about 'that 4.30 race,' and swiftly withdrew to the -card-room, where Soames never came. Here, in complete isolation -and a dim light, he lived his own life till half past seven, by -which hour he knew Soames must certainly have left the club. - -It would not do, as he kept repeating to himself whenever he felt -the impulse to join the gossips in the bay-window getting too -strong for him--it absolutely would not do, with finances as low -as his, and the 'old man' (James) rusty ever since that business -over the oil shares, which was no fault of his, to risk a row -with Winifred. - -If Soames were to see him in the club it would be sure to come -round to her that he wasn't at the dentist's at all. He never -knew a family where things 'came round' so. Uneasily, amongst -the green baize card-tables, a frown on his olive coloured face, -his check trousers crossed, and patent-leather boots shining -through the gloom, he sat biting his forefinger, and wondering -where the deuce he was to get the money if Erotic failed to win -the Lancashire Cup. - -His thoughts turned gloomily to the Forsytes. What a set they -were! There was no getting anything out of them--at least, it -was a matter of extreme difficulty. They were so d---d -particular about money matters; not a sportsman amongst the lot, -unless it were George. That fellow Soames, for instance, would -have a ft if you tried to borrow a tenner from him, or, if he -didn't have a fit, he looked at you with his cursed supercilious -smile, as if you were a lost soul because you were in want of -money. - -And that wife of his (Dartie's mouth watered involuntarily), he -had tried to be on good terms with her, as one naturally would -with any pretty sister-in-law, but he would be cursed if the (he -mentally used a coarse word)--would have anything to say to him-- -she looked at him, indeed, as if he were dirt--and yet she could -go far enough, he wouldn't mind betting. He knew women; they -weren't made with soft eyes and figures like that for nothing, as -that fellow Soames would jolly soon find out, if there were -anything in what he had heard about this Buccaneer Johnny. - -Rising from his chair, Dartie took a turn across the room, ending -in front of the looking-glass over the marble chimney-piece; and -there he stood for a long time contemplating in the glass the -reflection of his face. It had that look, peculiar to some men, -of having been steeped in linseed oil, with its waxed dark -moustaches and the little distinguished commencements of side -whiskers; and concernedly he felt the promise of a pimple on the -side of his slightly curved and fattish nose. - -In the meantime old Jolyon had found the remaining chair in -Timothy's commodious drawing-room. His advent had obviously put -a stop to the conversation, decided awkwardness having set in. -Aunt Juley, with her well-known kindheartedness, hastened to set -people at their ease again. - -"Yes, Jolyon," she said, "we were just saying that you haven't -been here for a long time; but we mustn't be surprised. You're -busy, of course? James was just saying what a busy time of -year...." - -"Was he?" said old Jolyon, looking hard at James. "It wouldn't -be half so busy if everybody minded their own business." - -James, brooding in a small chair from which his knees ran uphill, -shifted his feet uneasily, and put one of them down on the cat, -which had unwisely taken refuge from old Jolyon beside him. - -"Here, you've got a cat here," he said in an injured voice, -withdrawing his foot nervously as he felt it squeezing into the -soft, furry body. - -"Several," said old Jolyon, looking at one face and another; "I -trod on one just now." - -A silence followed. - -Then Mrs. Small, twisting her fingers and gazing round with -'pathetic calm', asked: "And how is dear June?" - -A twinkle of humour shot through the sternness of old Jolyon's -eyes. Extraordinary old woman, Juley! No one quite like her for -saying the wrong thing! - -"Bad!" he said; "London don't agree with her--too many people -about, too much clatter and chatter by half." He laid emphasis on -the words, and again looked James in the face. - -Nobody spoke. - -A feeling of its being too dangerous to take a step in any -direction, or hazard any remark, had fallen on them all. -Something of the sense of the impending, that comes over the -spectator of a Greek tragedy, had entered that upholstered room, -filled with those white-haired, frockcoated old men, and -fashionably attired women, who were all of the same blood, -between all of whom existed an unseizable resemblance. - -Not that they were conscious of it--the visits of such fateful, -bitter spirits are only felt. - -Then Swithin rose. He would not sit there, feeling like that--he -was not to be put down by anyone! And, manoeuvring round the -room with added pomp, he shook hands with each separately. - -"You tell Timothy from me," he said, "that he coddles himself too -much!" Then, turning to Francie, whom he considered 'smart,' he -added: "You come with me for a drive one of these days." But this -conjured up the vision of that other eventful drive which had -been so much talked about, and he stood quite still for a second, -with glassy eyes, as though waiting to catch up with the -significance of what he himself had said; then, suddenly -recollecting that he didn't care a damn, he turned to old Jolyon: -"Well, good-bye, Jolyon! You shouldn't go about without an -overcoat; you'll be getting sciatica or something!" And, kicking -the cat slightly with the pointed tip of his patent leather boot, -he took his huge form away. - -When he had gone everyone looked secretly at the others, to see -how they had taken the mention of the word 'drive'--the word -which had become famous, and acquired an overwhelming importance, -as the only official--so to speak--news in connection with the -vague and sinister rumour clinging to the family tongue. - -Euphemia, yielding to an impulse, said with a short laugh: "I'm -glad Uncle Swithin doesn't ask me to go for drives." - -Mrs. Small, to reassure her and smooth over any little -awkwardness the subject might have, replied: "My dear, he likes -to take somebody well dressed, who will do him a little credit. -I shall never forget the drive he took me. It was an -experience!" And her chubby round old face was spread for a -moment with a strange contentment; then broke into pouts, and -tears came into her eyes. She was thinking of that long ago -driving tour she had once taken with Septimus Small. - -James, who had relapsed into his nervous brooding in the little -chair, suddenly roused himself: "He's a funny fellow, Swithin," -he said, but in a half-hearted way. - -Old Jolyon's silence, his stern eyes, held them all in a kind of -paralysis. He was disconcerted himself by the effect of his own -words--an effect which seemed to deepen the importance of the -very rumour he had come to scotch; but he was still angry. - -He had not done with them yet--No, no--he would give them another -rub or two. - -He did not wish to rub his nieces, he had no quarrel with them--a -young and presentable female always appealed to old Jolyon's -clemency--but that fellow James, and, in a less degree perhaps, -those others, deserved all they would get. And he, too, asked -for Timothy. - -As though feeling that some danger threatened her younger -brother, Aunt Juley suddenly offered him tea: "There it is," she -said, "all cold and nasty, waiting for you in the back drawing -room, but Smither shall make you some fresh." - -Old Jolyon rose: "Thank you," he said, looking straight at James, -"but I've no time for tea, and--scandal, and the rest of it! -It's time I was at home. Good-bye, Julia; good-bye, Hester; -good-bye, Winifred." - -Without more ceremonious adieux, he marched out. - -Once again in his cab, his anger evaporated, for so it ever was -with his wrath--when he had rapped out, it was gone. Sadness -came over his spirit. He had stopped their mouths, maybe, but at -what a cost! At the cost of certain knowledge that the rumour he -had been resolved not to believe was true. June was abandoned, -and for the wife of that fellow's son! He felt it was true, and -hardened himself to treat it as if it were not; but the pain he -hid beneath this resolution began slowly, surely, to vent itself -in a blind resentment against James and his son. - -The six women and one man left behind in the little drawing-room -began talking as easily as might be after such an occurrence, for -though each one of them knew for a fact that he or she never -talked scandal, each one of them also knew that the other six -did; all were therefore angry and at a loss. James only was -silent, disturbed, to the bottom of his soul. - -Presently Francie said: "Do you know, I think Uncle Jolyon is -terribly changed this last year. What do you think, Aunt -Hester?" - -Aunt Hester made a little movement of recoil: "Oh, ask your Aunt -Julia!" she said; "I know nothing about it." - -No one else was afraid of assenting, and James muttered gloomily -at the floor: "He's not half the man he was." - -"I've noticed it a long time," went on Francie; "he's aged -tremendously." - -Aunt Juley shook her head; her face seemed suddenly to have -become one immense pout. - -"Poor dear Jolyon," she said, "somebody ought to see to it for -him!" - -There was again silence; then, as though in terror of being left -solitarily behind, all five visitors rose simultaneously, and -took their departure. - -Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, and their cat were left once more alone, -the sound of a door closing in the distance announced the -approach of Timothy. - -That evening, when Aunt Hester had just got off to sleep in the -back bedroom that used to be Aunt Juley's before Aunt Juley took -Aunt Ann's, her door was opened, and Mrs. Small, in a pink -night-cap, a candle in her hand, entered: "Hester!" she said. -"Hester!" - -Aunt Hester faintly rustled the sheet. - -"Hester," repeated Aunt Juley, to make quite sure that she had -awakened her, "I am quite troubled about poor dear Jolyon. -What," Aunt Juley dwelt on the word, "do you think ought to be -done?" - -Aunt Hester again rustled the sheet, her voice was heard faintly -pleading: "Done? How should I know?" - -Aunt Juley turned away satisfied, and closing the door with extra -gentleness so as not to disturb dear Hester, let it slip through -her fingers and fall to with a 'crack.' - -Back in her own room, she stood at the window gazing at the moon -over the trees in the Park, through a chink in the muslin -curtains, close drawn lest anyone should see. And there, with -her face all round and pouting in its pink cap, and her eyes wet, -she thought of 'dear Jolyon,' so old and so lonely, and how she -could be of some use to him; and how he would come to love her, -as she had never been loved since--since poor Septimus went away. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -DANCE AT ROGER'S - - -Roger's house in Prince's Gardens was brilliantly alight. Large -numbers of wax candles had been collected and placed in cut-glass -chandeliers, and the parquet floor of the long, double -drawing-room reflected these constellations. An appearance of -real spaciousness had been secured by moving out all the -furniture on to the upper landings, and enclosing the room with -those strange appendages of civilization known as 'rout' seats. -In a remote corner, embowered in palms, was a cottage piano, with -a copy of the 'Kensington Coil' open on the music-stand. - -Roger had objected to a band. He didn't see in the least what -they wanted with a band; he wouldn't go to the expense, and there -was an end of it. Francie (her mother, whom Roger had long since -reduced to chronic dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had -been obliged to content herself with supplementing the piano by a -young man who played the cornet, and she so arranged with palms -that anyone who did not look into the heart of things might -imagine there were several musicians secreted there. She made up -her mind to tell them to play loud--there was a lot of music in a -cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it. - -In the more cultivated American tongue, she was 'through' at -last--through that tortuous labyrinth of make-shifts, which must -be traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the -sound economy of a Forsyte. Thin but brilliant, in her -maize-coloured frock with much tulle about the shoulders, she -went from place to place, fitting on her gloves, and casting her -eye over it all. - -To the hired butler (for Roger only kept maids) she spoke about -the wine. Did he quite understand that Mr. Forsyte wished a -dozen bottles of the champagne from Whiteley's to be put out? -But if that were finished (she did not suppose it would be, most -of the ladies would drink water, no doubt), but if it were, there -was the champagne cup, and he must do the best he could with -that. - -She hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so -infra dig.; but what could you do with father? Roger, indeed, -after making himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, -would come down presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy -forehead, as though he had been its promoter; and he would smile, -and probably take the prettiest woman in to supper; and at two -o'clock, just as they were getting into the swing, he would go up -secretly to the musicians and tell them to play 'God Save the -Queen,' and go away. - -Francie devoutly hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to -bed. - -The three or four devoted girl friends who were staying in the -house for this dance had partaken with her, in a small, -abandoned room upstairs, of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly -served; the men had been sent out to dine at Eustace's Club, it -being felt that they must be fed up. - -Punctually on the stroke of nine arrived Mrs. Small alone. She -made elaborate apologies for the absence of Timothy, omitting all -mention of Aunt Hester, who, at the last minute, had said she -could not be bothered. Francie received her effusively, and -placed her on a rout seat, where she left her, pouting and -solitary in lavender-coloured satin--the first time she had worn -colour since Aunt Ann's death. - -The devoted maiden friends came now from their rooms, each by -magic arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with -the same liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the -bosom--for they were, by some fatality, lean to a girl. They -were all taken up to Mrs. Small. None stayed with her more than -a few seconds, but clustering together talked and twisted their -programmes, looking secretly at the door for the first appearance -of a man. - -Then arrived in a group a number of Nicholases, always punctual-- -the fashion up Ladbroke Grove way; and close behind them Eustace -and his men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke. - -Three or four of Francie's lovers now appeared, one after the -other; she had made each promise to come early. They were all -clean-shaven and sprightly, with that peculiar kind of young-man -sprightliness which had recently invaded Kensington; they did not -seem to mind each other's presence in the least, and wore their -ties bunching out at the ends, white waistcoats, and socks with -clocks. All had handkerchiefs concealed in their cuffs. They -moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional gaiety, as though -he had come to do great deeds. Their faces when they danced, far -from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing English- -man, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, twirling -their partners at great pace, without pedantic attentionto the -rhythm of the music. - -At other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn--they, the -light brigade, the heroes of a hundred Kensington 'hops'--from -whom alone could the right manner and smile and step be hoped. - -After this the stream came fast; chaperones silting up along the -wall facing the entrance, the volatile element swelling the eddy -in the larger room. - -Men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic -expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: "Oh, -no! don't mistake me, I know you are not coming up to me. I can -hardly expect that!" And Francie would plead with one of her -lovers, or with some callow youth: "Now, to please me, do let me -introduce you to Miss Pink; such a nice girl, really!" and she -would bring him up, and say: "Miss Pink--Mr. Gathercole. Can you -spare him a dance?" Then Miss Pink, smiling her forced smile, -colouring a little, answered: "Oh! I think so!" and screening -her empty card, wrote on it the name of Gathercole, spelling it -passionately in the district that he proposed, about the second -extra. - -But when the youth had murmured that it was hot, and passed, she -relapsed into her attitude of hopeless expectation, into her -patient, sourish smile. - -Mothers, slowly fanning their faces, watched their daughters, and -in their eyes could be read all the story of those daughters' -fortunes. As for themselves, to sit hour after hour, dead tired, -silent, or talking spasmodically--what did it matter, so long as -the girls were having a good time! But to see them neglected and -passed by! Ah! they smiled, but their eyes stabbed like the -eyes of an offended swan; they longed to pluck young Gathercole -by the slack of his dandified breeches, and drag him to their -daughters--the jackanapes! - -And all the cruelties and hardness of life, its pathos and -unequal chances, its conceit, self-forgetfulness, and patience, -were presented on the battle-field of this Kensington ball-room. - -Here and there, too, lovers--not lovers like Francie's, a -peculiar breed, but simply lovers--trembling, blushing, silent, -sought each other by flying glances, sought to meet and touch in -the mazes of the dance, and now and again dancing together, -struck some beholder by the light in their eyes. - -Not a second before ten o'clock came the Jameses--Emily, Rachel, -Winifred (Dartie had been left behind, having on a former -occasion drunk too much of Roger's champagne), and Cicely, the -youngest, making her debut; behind them, following in a hansom -from the paternal mansion where they had dined, Soames and Irene. - -All these ladies had shoulder-straps and no tulle--thus showing -at once, by a bolder exposure of flesh, that they came from the -more fashionable side of the Park. - -Soames, sidling back from the contact of the dancers, took up a -position against the wall. Guarding himself with his pale smile, -he stood watching. Waltz after waltz began and ended, couple -after couple brushed by with smiling lips, laughter, and snatches -of talk; or with set lips, and eyes searching the throng; or -again, with silent, parted lips, and eyes on each other. And the -scent of festivity, the odour of flowers, and hair, of essences -that women love, rose suffocatingly in the heat of the summer -night. - -Silent, with something of scorn in his smile, Soames seemed to -notice nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which -they sought, would fix themselves on a point in the shifting -throng, and the smile die off his lips. - -He danced with no one. Some fellows danced with their wives; his -sense of 'form' had never permitted him to dance with Irene since -their marriage, and the God of the Forsytes alone can tell -whether this was a relief to him or not. - -She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, -floating away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of -hearing women say with an acid smile: "How beautifully your wife -dances, Mr. Forsyte--it's quite a pleasure to watch her!" Tired -of answering them with his sidelong glance: "You think so?" - -A young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an -unpleasant draught. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. -They were talking of love. - -He heard Roger's voice behind, giving an order about supper to a -servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he -had not come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had -answered with that maddening smile of hers "Oh, no!" - -Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even -seen her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it -was too late to get out of his way. - -"Have you seen 'The Buccaneer'?" said this licensed wag; "he's on -the warpath--hair cut and everything!" - -Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an -interval of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked -down into the street. - -A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door -hung some of those patient watchers of the London streets who -spring up to the call of light or music; their faces, pale and -upturned above their black and rusty figures, had an air of -stolid watching that annoyed Soames. Why were they allowed to -hang about; why didn't the bobby move them on? - -But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted -apart on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the -pavement; his face, under the helmet, wore the same stolid, -watching look as theirs. - -Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the -branches of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the -gleam of the street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the -houses on the other side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet -blackness of the garden; and over all, the sky, that wonderful -London sky, dusted with the innumerable reflection of countless -lamps; a dome woven over between its stars with the refraction of -human needs and human fancies--immense mirror of pomp and misery -that night after night stretches its kindly mocking over miles of -houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over Forsytes, -policemen, and patient watchers in the streets. - -Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the -lighted room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, -June and her grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? -They stood by the doorway. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle -Jolyon turning out at this time of night! Why hadn't June come -to Irene, as she usually did, and it occurred to him suddenly -that he had seen nothing of June for a long time now. - -Watching her face with idle malice, he saw it change, grow so -pale that he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. -Turning to see at what she was looking, he saw his wife on -Bosinney's arm, coming from the conservatory at the end of the -room. Her eyes were raised to his, as though answering some -question he had asked, and he was gazing at her intently. - -Soames looked again at June. Her hand rested on old Jolyon's -arm; she seemed to be making a request. He saw a surprised look -on his uncle's face; they turned and passed through the door out -of his sight. - -The music began again--a waltz--and, still as a statue in the -recess of the window, his face unmoved, but no smile on his lips, -Soames waited. Presently, within a yard of the dark balcony, his -wife and Bosinney passed. He caught the perfume of the gardenias -that she wore, saw the rise and fall of her bosom, the languor in -her eyes, her parted lips, and a look on her face that he did not -know. To the slow, swinging measure they danced by, and it -seemed to him that they clung to each other; he saw her raise her -eyes, soft and dark, to Bosinney's, and drop them again. - -Very white, he turned back to the balcony, and leaning on it, -gazed down on the Square; the figures were still there looking up -at the light with dull persistency, the policeman's face, too, -upturned, and staring, but he saw nothing of them. Below, a -carriage drew up, two figures got in, and drove away.... - -That evening June and old Jolyon sat down to dinner at the usual -hour. The girl was in her customary high-necked frock, old -Jolyon had not dressed. - -At breakfast she had spoken of the dance at Uncle Roger's, she -wanted to go; she had been stupid enough, she said, not to think -of asking anyone to take her. It was too late now. - -Old Jolyon lifted his keen eyes. June was used to go to dances -with Irene as a matter of course! and deliberately fixing his -gaze on her, he asked: "Why don't you get Irene?" - -No! June did not want to ask Irene; she would only go if--if her -grandfather wouldn't mind just for once for a little time! - -At her look, so eager and so worn, old Jolyon had grumblingly -consented. He did not know what she wanted, he said, with going -to a dance like this, a poor affair, he would wager; and she no -more fit for it than a cat! What she wanted was sea air, and -after his general meeting of the Globular Gold Concessions he was -ready to take her. She didn't want to go away? Ah! she would -knock herself up! Stealing a mournful look at her, he went on -with his breakfast. - -June went out early, and wandered restlessly about in the heat. -Her little light figure that lately had moved so languidly about -its business, was all on fire. She bought herself some flowers. -She wanted--she meant to look her best. He would be there! She -knew well enough that he had a card. She would show him that she -did not care. But deep down in her heart she resolved that -evening to win him back. She came in flushed, and talked -brightly all lunch; old Jolyon was there, and he was deceived. - -In the afternoon she was overtaken by a desperate fit of sobbing. -She strangled the noise against the pillows of her bed, but when -at last it ceased she saw in the glass a swollen face with -reddened eyes, and violet circles round them. She stayed in the -darkened room till dinner time. - -All through that silent meal the struggle went on within her. - -She looked so shadowy and exhausted that old Jolyon told 'Sankey' -to countermand the carriage, he would not have her going out.... -She was to go to bed! She made no resistance. She went up to -her room, and sat in the dark. At ten o'clock she rang for her -maid. - -"Bring some hot water, and go down and tell Mr. Forsyte that I -feel perfectly rested. Say that if he's too tired I can go to -the dance by myself." - -The maid looked askance, and June turned on her imperiously. -"Go," she said, "bring the hot water at once!" - -Her ball-dress still lay on the sofa, and with a sort of fierce -care she arrayed herself, took the flowers in her hand, and went -down, her small face carried high under its burden of hair. She -could hear old Jolyon in his room as she passed. - -Bewildered and vexed, he was dressing. It was past ten, they -would not get there till eleven; the girl was mad. But he dared -not cross her--the expression of her face at dinner haunted him. - -With great ebony brushes he smoothed his hair till it shone like -silver under the light; then he, too, came out on the gloomy -staircase. - -June met him below, and, without a word, they went to the -carriage. - -When, after that drive which seemed to last for ever, she entered -Roger's drawing-room, she disguised under a mask of resolution a -very torment of nervousness and emotion. The feeling of shame at -what might be called 'running after him' was smothered by the -dread that he might not be there, that she might not see him -after all, and by that dogged resolve--somehow, she did not know -how--to win him back. - -The sight of the ballroom, with its gleaming floor, gave her a -feeling of joy, of triumph, for she loved dancing, and when -dancing she floated, so light was she, like a strenuous, eager -little spirit. He would surely ask her to dance, and if he -danced with her it would all be as it was before. She looked -about her eagerly. - -The sight of Bosinney coming with Irene from the conservatory, -with that strange look of utter absorption on his face, struck -her too suddenly. They had not seen--no one should see--her -distress, not even her grandfather. - -She put her hand on Jolyon's arm, and said very low: - -"I must go home, Gran; I feel ill." - -He hurried her away, grumbling to himself that he had known how -it would be. - -To her he said nothing; only when they were once more in the -carriage, which by some fortunate chance had lingered near the -door, he asked her: "What is it, my darling?" - -Feeling her whole slender body shaken by sobs, he was terribly -alarmed. She must have Blank to-morrow. He would insist upon -it. He could not have her like this.... There, there! - -June mastered her sobs, and squeezing his hand feverishly, she -lay back in her corner, her face muffled in a shawl. - -He could only see her eyes, fixed and staring in the dark, but he -did not cease to stroke her hand with his thin fingers. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -EVENING AT RICHMOND - - -Other eyes besides the eyes of June and of Soames had seen 'those -two' (as Euphemia had already begun to call them) coming from the -conservatory; other eyes had noticed the look on Bosinney's face. - -There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath -the careless calm of her ordinary moods--violent spring flashing -white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, -moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate -blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing -dark guardian of some fiery secret. - -There are moments, too, when in a picture-gallery, a work, noted -by the casual spectator as '......Titian--remarkably fine,' -breaks through the defences of some Forsyte better lunched -perhaps than his fellows, and holds him spellbound in a kind of -ecstasy. There are things, he feels--there are things here -which--well, which are things. Something unreasoning, -unreasonable, is upon him; when he tries to define it with the -precision of a practical man, it eludes him, slips away, as the -glow of the wine he has drunk is slipping away, leaving him -cross, and conscious of his liver. He feels that he has been -extravagant, prodigal of something; virtue has gone out of him. -He did not desire this glimpse of what lay under the three stars -of his catalogue. God forbid that he should know anything about -the forces of Nature! God forbid that he should admit for a -moment that there are such things! Once admit that, and where -was he? One paid a shilling for entrance, and another for the -programme. - -The look which June had seen, which other Forsytes had seen, was -like the sudden flashing of a candle through a hole in some -imaginary canvas, behind which it was being moved--the sudden -flaming-out of a vague, erratic glow, shadowy and enticing. It -brought home to onlookers the consciousness that dangerous forces -were at work. For a moment they noticed it with pleasure, with -interest, then felt they must not notice it at all. - -It supplied, however, the reason of June's coming so late and -disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands -with her lover. She was ill, it was said, and no wonder. - -But here they looked at each other guiltily. They had no desire -to spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. Who would have? -And to outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them -silent. - -Then came the news that June had gone to the seaside with old -Jolyon. - -He had carried her off to Broadstairs, for which place there was -just then a feeling, Yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of -Nicholas, and no Forsyte going to the sea without intending to -have an air for his money such as would render him bilious in a -week. That fatally aristocratic tendency of the first Forsyte to -drink Madeira had left his descendants undoubtedly accessible. - -So June went to the sea. The family awaited developments; there -was nothing else to do. - -But how far--how far had 'those two' gone? How far were they -going to go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could -surely come of it, for neither of them had any money. At the -most a flirtation, ending, as all such attachments should, at the -proper time. - -Soames' sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed with the breezes -of Mayfair--she lived in Green Street--more fashionable -principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, -for instance, in Ladbroke Grove, laughed at the idea of there -being anything in it. The 'little thing'--Irene was taller than -herself, and it was real testimony to the solid worth of a -Forsyte that she should always thus be a 'little thing'--the -little thing was bored. Why shouldn't she amuse herself? Soames -was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney--only that buffoon -George would have called him the Buccaneer--she maintained that -he was very chic. - -This dictum--that Bosinney was chic--caused quit a sensation. It -failed to convince. That he was 'good-looking in a way' they -were prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his -pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, arid soft felt hats chic was -only another instance of Winifred's extravagant way of running -after something new. - -It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when -the very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with -blossom, and flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been -before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming -stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day -long the sun, in full armour, swung his brazen shield above the -Park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the -open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages that -streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the -upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey, -Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any -pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year -to the horse-chestnuts at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the -Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling smoothly, if -dustily, along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would -stare fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer -raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers -such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the -amorous perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too -near, one would say to the other: "My dear! What a peculiar -scent!" - -And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near -honey-coloured. At the corners of London squares they gave out, -as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had -taken--a perfume that stirred a yearning unnamable in the hearts -of Forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the -precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys. - -And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of -flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, -and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them--waiting -for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches. - -Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some -sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating -the soundness of her dictum that there was 'nothing in it'; or -merely the craving to drive down to Richmond, irresistible that -summer, moved the mother of the little Darties (of little -Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to write the following -note to her sister-in-law: - - -'DEAR IRENE, -'June 30. - -'I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the night. I -thought it would be great fun if we made up a little party and -drove down to, Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney, and I will -get young Flippard. - -'Emily (they called their mother Emily--it was so chic) will lend -us the carriage. I will call for you and your young man at seven -o'clock. - -'Your affectionate sister, - -'WINIFRED DARTIE. - -'Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be -quite eatable.' - - -Montague was Dartie's second and better known name--his first -being Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world. - -Her plan met with more opposition from Providence than so -benevolent a scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard -wrote: - - -'DEAR Mrs. DARTIE, - -'Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep. - -'Yours, - -'AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.' - - -It was late to send into the byeways and hedges to remedy this -misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother, -Winifred fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided -but tolerant temperament that goes with a good deal of profile, -fair hair, and greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss; -or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain. - -Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the -Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was -by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands -against him, had not even started. The forty-eight hours that -followed his scratching were among the darkest in Dartie's life. - -Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about -Soames mingled with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he -got drunk, so greatly was he affected. But on Saturday morning -the true Stock Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing -some hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into -town and put them all on Concertina for the Saltown Borough -Handicap. - -As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum: -"That little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didn't -care a cursh. He wash in--a mucker. If it didn't come up--well -then, damme, the old man would have to pay!" - -A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new -contempt for James. - -It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck--a terrible -squeak! But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck! - -He was by no means averse to the expedition to Richmond. He -would 'stand' it himself! He cherished an admiration for Irene, -and wished to be on more playful terms with her. - -At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs. -Forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing! - -Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched -little Publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to -Montpellier Square. - -They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre -at 7.45. - -Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than -going down with your back to the horses! He had no objection to -driving down with Irene. He supposed they would pick up the -others at Montpellier Square, and swop hansoms there? - -Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he -would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it -was d---d slow! - -At seven o'clock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver -half-a-crown he didn't do it in the three-quarters of an hour. - -Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way. - -Dartie said: "It'll put Master Soames's nose out of joint to hear -his wife's been drivin' in a hansom with Master Bosinney!" - -Winifred replied: "Don't talk such nonsense, Monty!" - -"Nonsense!" repeated Dartie. "You don't know women, my fine -lady!" - -On the other occasion he merely asked: "How am I looking? A bit -puffy about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a -windy wine!" - -He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake. - -Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing -in one of the long French windows overlooking the river. - -Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, -and day and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the -hot scent of parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy -dews. - -To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear -to be making much running, standing there close together, without -a word. Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature--not much go -about him - -He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order -the dinner. - -A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a -Dartie will tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as -he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; -and he will eat it. His drink, too, will need to be carefully -provided; there is much drink in this country 'not good enough' -for a Dartie; he will have the best. Paying for things -vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint himself. To -stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie. - -The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can -base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable -income, and a partiality for his grandchildren. - -With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James -the very first year after little Publius's arrival (an error); he -had profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a -sort of perpetual insurance. - -The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This -delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state -of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then -served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to -a recipe known to a few men of the world. - -Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by -Dartie. - -He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his -bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene's face and figure. -As he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of -her--she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under -their veil of creamy lace. He expected to have caught her out in -some little game with Bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up -her end remarkably well. As for that architect chap, he was as -glum as a bear with a sore head--Winifred could barely get a word -out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and -his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer. - -It was all very amusing. - -For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a -certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories -verging on the improper, a concession to the company, for his -stories were not used to verging. He proposed Irene's health in -a mock speech. Nobody drank it, and Winifred said: "Don't be -such a clown, Monty!" - -At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace -overlooking the river. - -"I should like to see the common people making love," she said, -"it's such fun!" - -There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day's -heat, and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and -loud, or soft as though murmuring secrets. - -It was not long before Winifred's better sense--she was the only -Forsyte present--secured them an empty bench. They sat down in a -row. A heavy tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and -the haze darkened slowly over the river. - -Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then -Winifred. There was hardly room for four, and the man of the -world could feel Irene's arm crushed against his own; he knew -that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this -amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would -bring her closer still. He thought: 'That Buccaneer Johnny -shan't have it all to himself! It's a pretty tight fit, -certainly!' - -From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of -a mandoline, and voices singing the old round: - -'A boat, a boat, unto the ferry, -For we'll go over and be merry; -And laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!' - -And suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on -her back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the -air was cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm -odour of the limes. - -Over his cigar Dartie peered round at Bosinney, who was sitting -with his arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on -his face the look of a man being tortured. - -And Dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the -overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the -darkness shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing. - -A hush had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers -were thinking secrets too precious to be spoken. - -And Dartie thought: 'Women!' - -The glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon -hid behind a tree, and all was dark. He pressed himself against -Irene. - -He was not alarmed at the shuddering that ran through the limbs -he touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. He -felt her trying to draw herself away, and smiled. - -It must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as -much as was good for him. - -With thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his -bold eyes aslant upon her, he had the malicious look of a satyr. - -Along the pathway of sky between the hedges of the tree tops the -stars clustered forth; like mortals beneath, they seemed to shift -and swarm and whisper. Then on the terrace the buzz broke out -once more, and Dartie thought: 'Ah! he's a poor, hungry-looking -devil, that Bosinney!' and again he pressed himself against Irene. - -The movement deserved a better success. She rose, and they all -followed her. - -The man of the world was more than ever determined to see what -she was made of. Along the terrace he kept close at her elbow. -He had within him much good wine. There was the long drive home, -the long drive and the warm dark and the pleasant closeness of -the hansom cab--with its insulation from the world devised by -some great and good man. That hungry architect chap might drive -with his wife--he wished him joy of her! And, conscious that his -voice was not too steady, he was careful not to speak; but a -smile had become fixed on his thick lips. - -They strolled along toward the cabs awaiting them at the farther -end. His plan had the merit of all great plans, an almost brutal -simplicity he would merely keep at her elbow till she got in, and -get in quickly after her. - -But when Irene reached the cab she did not get in; she slipped, -instead, to the horse's head. Dartie was not at the moment -sufficiently master of his legs to follow. She stood stroking -the horse's nose, and, to his annoyance, Bosinney was at her side -first. She turned and spoke to him rapidly, in a low voice; the -words 'That man' reached Dartie. He stood stubbornly by the cab -step, waiting for her to come back. He knew a trick worth two of -that! - -Here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), -well squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat -flung over his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his -dark face that look of confident, good-humoured insolence, he was -at his best--a thorough man of the world. - -Winifred was already in her cab. Dartie reflected that Bosinney -would have a poorish time in that cab if he didn't look sharp! -Suddenly he received a push which nearly overturned him in the -road. Bosinney's voice hissed in his ear: "I am taking Irene -back; do you understand?" He saw a face white with passion, and -eyes that glared at him like a wild cat's. - -"Eh?" he stammered. "What? Not a bit. You take my wife!" - -"Get away!" hissed Bosinney--"or I'll throw you into the road!" - -Dartie recoiled; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow -meant it. In the space he made Irene had slipped by, her dress -brushed his legs. Bosinney stepped in after her. - -"Go on!" he heard the Buccaneer cry. The cabman flicked his -horse. It sprang forward. - -Dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab -where his wife sat, he scrambled in. - -"Drive on!" he shouted to the driver, "and don't you lose sight -of that fellow in front!" - -Seated by his wife's side, he burst into imprecations. Calming -himself at last with a supreme effort, he added: "A pretty mess -you've made of it, to let the Buccaneer drive home with her; why -on earth couldn't you keep hold of him? He's mad with love; any -fool can see that!" - -He drowned Winifred's rejoinder with fresh calls to the Almighty; -nor was it until they reached Barnes that he ceased a Jeremiad, -in the course of which he had abused her, her father, her -brother, Irene, Bosinney, the name of Forsyte, his own children, -and cursed the day when he had ever married. - -Winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at -the end of which he lapsed into sulky silence. His angry eyes -never deserted the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, -haunted the darkness in front of him. - -Fortunately he could not hear Bosinney's passionate pleading-- -that pleading which the man of the world's conduct had let loose -like a flood; he could not see Irene shivering, as though some -garment had been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, -like the eyes of a beaten child. He could not hear Bosinney -entreating, entreating, always entreating; could not hear her -sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor, hungry-looking devil, -awed and trembling, humbly touching her hand. - -In Montpellier Square their cabman, following his instructions to -the letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front. The -Darties saw Bosinney spring out, and Irene follow, and hasten up -the steps with bent head. She evidently had her key in her hand, -for she disappeared at once. It was impossible to tell whether -she had turned to speak to Bosinney. - -The latter came walking past their cab; both husband and wife had -an admirable view of his face in the light of a street lamp. It -was working with violent emotion. - -"Good-night, Mr. Bosinney!" called Winifred. - -Bosinney started, clawed off his hat, and hurried on. He had -obviously forgotten their existence. - -"There!" said Dartie, "did you see the beast's face? What did I -say? Fine games!" He improved the occasion. - -There had so clearly been a crisis in the cab that Winifred was -unable to defend her theory. - -She said: "I shall say nothing about it. I don't see any use in -making a fuss!" - -With that view Dartie at once concurred; looking upon James as a -private preserve, he disapproved of his being disturbed by the -troubles of others. - -"Quite right," he said; "let Soames look after himself. He's -jolly well able to!" - -Thus speaking, the Darties entered their habitat in Green Street, -the rent of which was paid by James, and sought a well-earned -rest. The hour was midnight, and no Forsytes remained abroad in -the streets to spy out Bosinney's wanderings; to see him return -and stand against the rails of the Square garden, back from the -glow of the street lamp; to see him stand there in the shadow of -trees, watching the house where in the dark was hidden she whom -he would have given the world to see for a single minute--she who -was now to him the breath of the lime-trees, the meaning of the -light and the darkness, the very beating of his own heart. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -DIAGNOSIS OF A FORSYTE - - -It is in the nature of a Forsyte to be ignorant that he is a -Forsyte; but young Jolyon was well aware of being one. He had -not known it till after the decisive step which had made him an -outcast; since then the knowledge had been with him continually. -He felt it throughout his alliance, throughout all his dealings -with his second wife, who was emphatically not a Forsyte. - -He knew that if he had not possessed in great measure the eye for -what he wanted, the tenacity to hold on to it, the sense of the -folly of wasting that for which he had given so big a price--in -other words, the 'sense of property' he could never have retained -her (perhaps never would have desired to retain her) with him -through all the financial troubles, slights, and misconstructions -of those fifteen years; never have induced her to marry him on -the death of his first wife; never have lived it all through, and -come up, as it were, thin, but smiling. - -He was one of those men who, seated cross-legged like miniature -Chinese idols in the cages of their own hearts, are ever smiling -at themselves a doubting smile. Not that this smile, so intimate -and eternal, interfered with his actions, which, like his chin -and his temperament, were quite a peculiar blend of softness and -determination. - -He was conscious, too, of being a Forsyte in his work, that -painting of water-colours to which he devoted so much energy, -always with an eye on himself, as though he could not take so -unpractical a pursuit quite seriously, and always with a certain -queer uneasiness that he did not make more money at it. - -It was, then, this consciousness of what it meant to be a -Forsyte, that made him receive the following letter from old -Jolyon, with a mixture of sympathy and disgust: - - -'SHELDRAKE HOUSE, - 'BROADSTAIRS, - -'July 1. -'MY DEAR JO,' - -(The Dad's handwriting had altered very little in the thirty odd -years that he remembered it.) - -'We have been here now a fortnight, and have had good weather on -the whole. The air is bracing, but my liver is out of order, and -I shall be glad enough to get back to town. I cannot say much -for June, her health and spirits are very indifferent, and I -don't see what is to come of it. She says nothing, but it is -clear that she is harping on this engagement, which is an -engagement and no engagement, and--goodness knows what. I have -grave doubts whether she ought to be allowed to return to London -in the present state of affairs, but she is so self-willed that -she might take it into her head to come up at any moment. The -fact is someone ought to speak to Bosinney and ascertain what he -means. I'm afraid of this myself, for I should certainly rap him -over the knuckles, but I thought that you, knowing him at the -Club, might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the fellow -is about. You will of course in no way commit June. I shall be -glad to hear from you in the course of a few days whether you -have succeeded in gaining any information. The situation is very -distressing to me, I worry about it at night. - -With my love to Jolly and Holly. -'I am, - 'Your affect. father, - -'JOLYON FORSYTE.' - - -Young Jolyon pondered this letter so long and seriously that his -wife noticed his preoccupation, and asked him what was the -matter. He replied: "Nothing." - -It was a fixed principle with him never to allude to June. She -might take alarm, he did not know what she might think; he -hastened, therefore, to banish from his manner all traces of -absorption, but in this he was about as successful as his father -would have been, for he had inherited all old Jolyon's -transparency in matters of domestic finesse; and young Mrs. -Jolyon, busying herself over the affairs of the house, went about -with tightened lips, stealing at him unfathomable looks. - -He started for the Club in the afternoon with the letter in his -pocket, and without having made up his mind. - -To sound a man as to 'his intentions' was peculiarly unpleasant -to him; nor did his own anomalous position diminish this -unpleasantness. It was so like his family, so like all the -people they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called -their rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark; so like -them to carry their business principles into their private -relations. - -And how that phrase in the letter--'You will, of course, in no -way commit June'--gave the whole thing away. - -Yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for -June, the 'rap over the knuckles,' was all so natural. No wonder -his father wanted to know what Bosinney meant, no wonder he was -angry. - -It was difficult to refuse! But why give the thing to him to do? -That was surely quite unbecoming; but so long as a Forsyte got -what he was after, he was not too particular about the means, -provided appearances were saved. - -How should he set about it, or how refuse? Both seemed impossible. -So, young Jolyon! - -He arrived at the Club at three o'clock, and the first person he -saw was Bosinney himself, seated in a corner, staring out of the -window. - -Young Jolyon sat down not far off, and began nervously to -reconsider his position. He looked covertly at Bosinney sitting -there unconscious. He did not know him very well, and studied -him attentively for perhaps the first time; an unusual looking -man, unlike in dress, face, and manner to most of the other -members of the Club--young Jolyon himself, however different he -had become in mood and temper, had always retained the neat -reticence of Forsyte appearance. He alone among Forsytes was -ignorant of Bosinney's nickname. The man was unusual, not -eccentric, but unusual; he looked worn, too, haggard, hollow in -the cheeks beneath those broad, high cheekbones, though without -any appearance of ill-health, for he was strongly built, with -curly hair that seemed to show all the vitality of a fine -constitution. - -Something in his face and attitude touched young Jolyon. He knew -what suffering was like, and this man looked as if he were -suffering. - -He got up and touched his arm. - -Bosinney started, but exhibited no sign of embarrassment on -seeing who it was. - -Young Jolyon sat down. - -"I haven't seen you for a long time," he said. "How are you -getting on with my cousin's house?" - -"It'll be finished in about a week." - -"I congratulate you!" - -"Thanks--I don't know that it's much of a subject for -congratulation." - -"No?" queried young Jolyon; "I should have thought you'd be glad -to get a long job like that off your hands; but I suppose you -feel it much as I do when I part with a picture--a sort of -child?" - -He looked kindly at Bosinney. - -"Yes," said the latter more cordially, "it goes out from you and -there's an end of it. I didn't know you painted." - -"Only water-colours; I can't say I believe in my work." - -"Don't believe in it? There--how can you do it? Work's no use -unless you believe in it!" - -"Good," said young Jolyon; "it's exactly what I've always said. -By-the-bye, have you noticed that whenever one says 'Good,' one -always adds 'it's exactly what I've always said'! But if you ask -me how I do it, I answer, because I'm a Forsyte." - -"A Forsyte! I never thought of you as one!" - -"A Forsyte," replied young Jolyon, "is not an uncommon animal. -There are hundreds among the members of this Club. Hundreds out -there in the streets; you meet them wherever you go!" - -"And how do you tell them, may I ask?" said Bosinney. - -"By their sense of property. A Forsyte takes a practical--one -might say a commonsense--view of things, and a practical view of -things is based fundamentally on a sense of property. A Forsyte, -you will notice, never gives himself away." - -"Joking?" - -Young Jolyon's eye twinkled. - -"Not much. As a Forsyte myself, I have no business to talk. But -I'm a kind of thoroughbred mongrel; now, there's no mistaking -you: You're as different from me as I am from my Uncle James, who -is the perfect specimen of a Forsyte. His sense of property is -extreme, while you have practically none. Without me in between, -you would seem like a different species. I'm the missing link. -We are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit -that it's a question of degree, but what I call a 'Forsyte' is a -man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. He -knows a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip on -property--it doesn't matter whether it be wives, houses, money, -or reputation--is his hall-mark." - -"Ah!" murmured Bosinney. "You should patent the word." - -"I should like," said young Jolyon, "to lecture on it: - -"Properties and quality of a Forsyte: This little animal, -disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his -motions by the laughter of strange creatures (you or I). -Hereditarily disposed to myopia, he recognises only the persons -of his own species, amongst which he passes an existence of -competitive tranquillity." - -"You talk of them," said Bosinney, "as if they were half -England." - -"They are," repeated young Jolyon, "half England, and the better -half, too, the safe half, the three per cent. half, the half -that counts. It's their wealth and security that makes -everything possible; makes your art possible, makes literature, -science, even religion, possible. Without Forsytes, who believe -in none of these things, and habitats but turn them all to use, -where should we be? My dear sir, the Forsytes are the middlemen, -the commercials, the pillars of society, the cornerstones of -convention; everything that is admirable!" - -"I don't know whether I catch your drift," said Bosinney, "but I -fancy there are plenty of Forsytes, as you call them, in my -profession." - -"Certainly," replied young Jolyon. "The great majority of -architects, painters, or writers have no principles, like any -other Forsytes. Art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of -the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many -Forsytes who make a commercial use of them. At a low estimate, -three-fourths of our Royal Academicians are Forsytes, seven- -eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press. -Of science I can't speak; they are magnificently represented in -religion; in the House of Commons perhaps more numerous than -anywhere; the aristocracy speaks for itself. But I'm not -laughing. It is dangerous to go against the majority and what a -majority!" He fixed his eyes on Bosinney: "It's dangerous to let -anything carry you away--a house, a picture, a--woman!" - -They looked at each other.--And, as though he had done that which -no Forsyte did--given himself away, young Jolyon drew into his -shell. Bosinney broke the silence. - -"Why do you take your own people as the type?" said he. - -"My people," replied young Jolyon, "are not very extreme, and -they have their own private peculiarities, like every other -family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those two -qualities which are the real tests of a Forsyte--the power of -never being able to give yourself up to anything soul and body, -and the 'sense of property'." - -Bosinney smiled: "How about the big one, for instance?" - -"Do you mean Swithin?" asked young Jolyon. "Ah! in Swithin -there's something primeval still. The town and middle-class -life haven't digested him yet. All the old centuries of farmwork -and brute force have settled in him, and there they've stuck, for -all he's so distinguished." - -Bosinney seemed to ponder. "Well, you've hit your cousin Soames -off to the life," he said suddenly. "He'll never blow his brains -out." - -Young Jolyon shot at him a penetrating glance. - -"No," he said; "he won't. That's why he's to be reckoned with. -Look out for their grip! It's easy to laugh, but don't mistake -me. It doesn't do to despise a Forsyte; it doesn't do to -disregard them!" - -"Yet you've done it yourself!" - -Young Jolyon acknowledged the hit by losing his smile. - -"You forget," he said with a queer pride, "I can hold on, too-- -I'm a Forsyte myself. We're all in the path of great forces. -The man who leaves the shelter of the wall--well--you know what I -mean. I don't," he ended very low, as though uttering a threat, -"recommend every man to-go-my-way. It depends." - -The colour rushed into Bosinney's face, but soon receded, leaving -it sallow-brown as before. He gave a short laugh, that left his -lips fixed in a queer, fierce smile; his eyes mocked young -Jolyon. - -"Thanks," he said. "It's deuced kind of you. But you're not the -only chaps that can hold on." He rose. - -Young Jolyon looked after him as he walked away, and, resting his -head on his hand, sighed. - -In the drowsy, almost empty room the only sounds were the rustle -of newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. He stayed a -long time without moving, living over again those days when he, -too, had sat long hours watching the clock, waiting for the -minutes to pass--long hours full of the torments of uncertainty, -and of a fierce, sweet aching; and the slow, delicious agony of -that season came back to him with its old poignancy. The sight -of Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his restless eyes always -wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity, with which was -mingled strange, irresistible envy. - -He knew the signs so well. Whither was he going--to what sort of -fate? What kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by -that magnetic force which no consideration of honour, no -principle, no interest could withstand; from which the only -escape was flight. - -Flight! But why should Bosinney fly? A man fled when he was in -danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, -when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. -But here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand. - -He himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come -over again. Yet he had gone further than Bosinney, had broken up -his own unhappy home, not someone else's: And the old saying came -back to him: 'A man's fate lies in his own heart.' - -In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the eating-- -Bosinney had still to eat his pudding. - -His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, -but the outline of whose story he had heard. - -An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment--only that indefinable -malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under -Heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to -week, from year to year, till death should end it. - -But young Jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had -assuaged, saw Soames' side of the question too. Whence should a -man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and -beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary -to break up this life? It was a question of imagination, of -projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossip, -sneers, and tattle that followed on such separations, beyond the -passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her would cause, -beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men, and -especially few men of Soames' class, had imagination enough for -that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough -imagination to go round! And sweet Heaven, what a difference -between theory and practice; many a man, perhaps even Soames, -held chivalrous views on such matters, who when the shoe pinched -found a distinguishing factor that made of himself an exception. - -Then, too, he distrusted his judgment. He had been through the -experience himself, had tasted too the dregs the bitterness of an -unhappy marriage, and how could he take the wide and dispassionate -view of those who had never been within sound of the battle? -His evidence was too first-hand--like the evidence on military -matters of a soldier who has been through much active service, -against that of civilians who have not suffered the disadvantage -of seeing things too close. Most people would consider such a -marriage as that of Soames and Irene quite fairly successful; -he had money, she had beauty; it was a case for compromise. -There was no reason why they should not jog along, even if they -hated each other. It would not matter if they went their own -ways a little so long as the decencies were observed--the -sanctity of the marriage tie, of the common home, respected. -Half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted on these -lines: Do not offend the susceptibilities of Society; do not -offend the susceptibilities of the Church. To avoid offending -these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. The -advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many -pieces of property; there is no risk in the statu quo. To break -up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment, and selfish into -the bargain. - -This was the case for the defence, and young Jolyon sighed. - -'The core of it all,' he thought, 'is property, but there are -many people who would not like it put that way. To them it is -"the sanctity of the marriage tie"; but the sanctity of the -marriage tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the -sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property. -And yet I imagine all these people are followers of One who never -owned anything. It is curious! - -And again young Jolyon sighed. - -'Am I going on my way home to ask any poor devils I meet to share -my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or, at all -events, for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness? -It may be that after all Soames does well to exercise his rights -and support by his practice the sacred principle of property -which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by -the process.' - -And so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of -seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded -with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, wended his way home. - -Before reaching Wistaria Avenue he removed old Jolyon's letter -from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces, -scattered them in the dust of the road. - -He let himself in with his key, and called his wife's name. But -she had gone out, taking Jolly and Holly, and the house was -empty; alone in the garden the dog Balthasar lay in the shade -snapping at flies. - -Young Jolyon took his seat there, too, under the pear-tree that -bore no fruit. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -BOSINNEY ON PAROLE - - -The day after the evening at Richmond Soames returned from Henley -by a morning train. Not constitutionally interested in -amphibious sports, his visit had been one of business rather than -pleasure, a client of some importance having asked him down. - -He went straight to the City, but finding things slack, he left -at three o'clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. Irene -did not expect him. Not that he had any desire to spy on her -actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the -scene. - -After changing to Park clothes he went into the drawing-room. -She was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favourite -seat; and there were circles under her eyes, as though she had -not slept. - -He asked: "How is it you're in? Are you expecting somebody?" - -"Yes that is, not particularly." - -"Who?" - -"Mr. Bosinney said he might come." - -"Bosinney. He ought to be at work." - -To this she made no answer. - -"Well," said Soames, "I want you to come out to the Stores with -me, and after that we'll go to the Park." - -"I don't want to go out; I have a headache." - -Soames replied: "If ever I want you to do anything, you've always -got a headache. It'll do you good to come and sit under the -trees." - -She did not answer. - -Soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said: "I don't -know what your idea of a wife's duty is. I never have known!" - -He had not expected her to reply, but she did. - -"I have tried to do what you want; it's not my fault that I -haven't been able to put my heart into it." - -"Whose fault is it, then?" He watched her askance. - -"Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage -was not a success. Is it a success?" - -Soames frowned. - -"Success," he stammered--"it would be a success if you behaved -yourself properly!" - -"I have tried," said Irene. "Will you let me go?" - -Soames turned away. Secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster. - -"Let you go? You don't know what you're talking about. Let you -go? How can I let you go? We're married, aren't we? Then, what -are you talking about? For God's sake, don't let's have any of -this sort of nonsense! Get your hat on, and come and sit in the -Park." - -"Then, you won't let me go?" - -He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look. - -"Let you go!" he said; "and what on earth would you do with -yourself if I did? You've got no money!" - -"I could manage somehow." - -He took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood -before her. - -"Understand," he said, "once and for all, I won't have you say -this sort of thing. Go and get your hat on!" - -She did not move. - -"I suppose," said Soames, "you don't want to miss Bosinney if he -comes!" - -Irene got up slowly and left the room. She came down with her -hat on. - -They went out. - -In the Park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners -and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in -fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was -nearly gone, before Soames and Irene seated themselves under the -Achilles statue. - -It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the Park. -That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his -married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious -creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret, -pride. How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely -neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile, -nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat. - -His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips -his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart? - -The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent -and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or -twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered -"Yes" with a tired smile. - -Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared -after him when he passed. - -"Look at that ass!" said Soames; "he must be mad to walk like -that in this heat!" - -He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement. - -"Hallo!" he said: "it's our friend the Buccaneer!" - -And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene -was sitting still, and smiling too. - -"Will she bow to him?" he thought. - -But she made no sign. - -Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back -amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When -he saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat. - -The smile never left Soames' face; he also took off his hat. - -Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard -physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and -Soames' smile seemed to say: "You've had a trying time, my friend -......What are you doing in the Park?" he asked. "We thought -you despised such frivolity!" - -Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: "I've -been round to your place; I hoped I should find you in." - -Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the -exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her -answer, and took a resolution. - -"We're just going in," he said to Bosinney; "you'd better come -back to dinner with us." Into that invitation he put a strange -bravado, a stranger pathos: "You, can't deceive me," his look and -voice seemed saying, "but see--I trust you--I'm not afraid of -you!" - -They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between -them. In the crowded streets Soames went on in front. He did -not listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of -trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret -conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself: 'It's a card I dare -not throw away--I must play it for what it's worth. I have not -too many chances.' - -He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, -and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing- -room. Then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to -show that he was coming. He found them standing by the hearth, -perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say. - -He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through-- -his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been -before; and when at last Bosinney went, he said: "You must come -again soon; Irene likes to have you to talk about the house!" -Again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; -but his hand was cold as ice. - -Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, -turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to -say good-night--away from the sight of her golden head shining so -under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the -sight of Bosinney's eyes looking at her, so like a dog's looking -at its master. - -And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love -with his wife. - -The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every -opened window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay -listening to her breathing. - -She could sleep, but he must lie awake. And, lying awake, he -hardened himself to play the part of the serene and trusting -husband. - -In the small hours he slipped out of bed, and passing into his -dressing-room, leaned by the open window. - -He could hardly breathe. - -A night four years ago came back to him--the night but one before -his marriage; as hot and stifling as this. - -He remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window -of his sitting-room off Victoria Street. Down below in a side -street a man had banged at a door, a woman had cried out; he -remembered, as though it were now, the sound of the scuffle, the -slam of the door, the dead silence that followed. And then the -early water-cart, cleansing the reek of the streets, had -approached through the strange-seeming, useless lamp-light; he -seemed to hear again its rumble, nearer and nearer, till it -passed and slowly died away. - -He leaned far out of the dressing-room window over the little -court below, and saw the first light spread. The outlines of -dark walls and roofs were blurred for a moment, then came out -sharper than before. - -He remembered how that other night he had watched the lamps -paling all the length of Victoria Street; how he had hurried on -his clothes and gone down into the street, down past houses and -squares, to the street where she was staying, and there had stood -and looked at the front of the little house, as still and grey as -the face of a dead man. - -And suddenly it shot through his mind; like a sick man's fancy: -What's he doing?--that fellow who haunts me, who was here this -evening, who's in love with my wife--prowling out there, perhaps, -looking for her as I know he was looking for her this afternoon; -watching my house now, for all I can tell! - -He stole across the landing to the front of the house, stealthily -drew aside a blind, and raised a window. - -The grey light clung about the trees of the square, as though -Night, like a great downy moth, had brushed them with her wings. -The lamps were still alight, all pale, but not a soul stirred--no -living thing in sight - -Yet suddenly, very faint, far off in the deathly stillness, he -heard a cry writhing, like the voice of some wandering soul -barred out of heaven, and crying for its happiness. There it was -again--again! Soames shut the window, shuddering. - -Then he thought: 'Ah! it's only the peacocks, across the water.' - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -JUNE PAYS SOME CALLS - - - -Jolyon stood in the narrow hall at Broadstairs, inhaling that -odour of oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable -seaside lodging-houses. On a chair--a shiny leather chair, -displaying its horsehair through a hole in the top left-hand -corner--stood a black despatch case. This he was filling with -papers, with the Times, and a bottle of Eau-de Cologne. He had -meetings that day of the 'Globular Gold Concessions' and the 'New -Colliery Company, Limited,' to which he was going up, for he -never missed a Board; to 'miss a Board' would be one more piece -of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous Forsyte -spirit could not bear. - -His eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at -any moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of -a schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls -himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. And old -Jolyon controlled himself, keeping down, with his masterful -restraint now slowly wearing out, the irritation fostered in him -by the conditions of his life. - -He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by -rambling generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of -answering a plain question. 'I've seen Bosinney,' he said; 'he -is not a criminal. The more I see of people the more I am -convinced that they are never good or bad--merely comic, or -pathetic. You probably don't agree with me!' - -Old Jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express -oneself; he had not yet reached that point of old age when even -Forsytes, bereft of those illusions and principles which they -have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never -believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the -very heart by having nothing left to hope for--break through the -barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed -themselves capable of saying. - -Perhaps he did not believe in 'goodness' and 'badness' any more -than his son; but as he would have said: He didn't know--couldn't -tell; there might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary -expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage? - -Accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though -(like a true Forsyte) he had never attempted anything too -adventurous or too foolhardy, he had been passionately fond of -them. And when the wonderful view (mentioned in Baedeker-- -'fatiguing but repaying')--was disclosed to him after the effort -of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some great, -dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the petty -precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was as -near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever gone. - -But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had -taken June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and -had realized bitterly that his walking days were over. - -To that old mountain--given confidence in a supreme order of -things he had long been a stranger. - -He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled -him. It troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had -always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such -as seemed born to disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo-- -who could say anything against the boy, an amiable chap?--but his -position was deplorable, and this business of June's nearly as -bad. It seemed like a fatality, and a fatality was one of those -things no man of his character could either understand or put up -with. - -In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would -come of it. Since the ball at Roger's he had seen too clearly -how the land lay--he could put two and two together quicker than -most men--and, with the example of his own son before his eyes, -knew better than any Forsyte of them all that the pale flame -singes men's wings whether they will or no. - -In the days before June's engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames -were always together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the -spell she cast over men. She was not a flirt, not even a -coquette--words dear to the heart of his generation, which loved -to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word--but she was -dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of a quality innate -in some women--a seductive power beyond their own control! He -would but answer: 'Humbug!' She was dangerous, and there was an -end of it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it -was, it was; he did not want to hear any more about it--he only -wanted to save June's position and her peace of mind. He still -hoped she might once more become a comfort to himself. - -And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. -As to what young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was -practically only the queer sentence: 'I gather that he's in the -stream.' The stream! What stream? What was this new-fangled way -of talking? - -He sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of -the bag; he knew well enough what was meant. - -June came out of the dining-room, and helped him on with his -summer coat. From her costume, and the expression of her little -resolute face, he saw at once what was coming. - -"I'm going with you," she said. - -"Nonsense, my dear; I go straight into the City. I can't have -you racketting about!" - -"I must see old Mrs. Smeech." - -"Oh, your precious 'lame ducks!" grumbled out old Jolyon. He -did not believe her excuse, but ceased his opposition. There was -no doing anything with that pertinacity of hers. - -At Victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered -for himself--a characteristic action, for he had no petty -selfishnesses. - -"Now, don't you go tiring yourself, my darling," he said, and -took a cab on into the city. - -June went first to a back-street in Paddington, where Mrs. -Smeech, her 'lame duck,' lived--an aged person, connected with -the charring interest; but after half an hour spent in hearing -her habitually lamentable recital, and dragooning her into -temporary comfort, she went on to Stanhope Gate. The great house -was closed and dark. - -She had decided to learn something at all costs. It was better -to face the worst, and have it over. And this was her plan: To -go first to Phil's aunt, Mrs. Baynes, and, failing information -there, to Irene herself. She had no clear notion of what she -would gain by these visits. - -At three o'clock she was in Lowndes Square. With a woman's -instinct when trouble is to be faced, she had put on her best -frock, and went to the battle with a glance as courageous as old -Jolyon's itself. Her tremors had passed into eagerness. - -Mrs. Baynes, Bosinney's aunt (Louisa was her name), was in her -kitchen when June was announced, organizing the cook, for she was -an excellent housewife, and, as Baynes always said, there was 'a -lot in a good dinner.' He did his best work after dinner. It was -Baynes who built that remarkably fine row of tall crimson houses -in Kensington which compete with so many others for the title of -'the ugliest in London.' - -On hearing June's name, she went hurriedly to her bedroom, and, -taking two large bracelets from a red morocco case in a locked -drawer, put them on her white wrists--for she possessed in a -remarkable degree that 'sense of property,' which, as we know, is -the touchstone of Forsyteism, and the foundation of good -morality. - -Her figure, of medium height and broad build, with a tendency to -embonpoint, was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood -wardrobe, in a gown made under her own organization, of one of -those half-tints, reminiscent of the distempered walls of -corridors in large hotels. She raised her hands to her hair, -which she wore a la Princesse de Galles, and touched it here and -there, settling it more firmly on her head, and her eyes were -full of an unconscious realism, as though she were looking in the -face one of life's sordid facts, and making the best of it. In -youth her cheeks had been of cream and roses, but they were -mottled now by middle-age, and again that hard, ugly directness -came into her eyes as she dabbed a powder-puff across her -forehead. Putting the puff down, she stood quite still before -the glass, arranging a smile over her high, important nose, her, -chin, (never large, and now growing smaller with the increase of -her neck), her thin-lipped, down-drooping mouth. Quickly, not to -lose the effect, she grasped her skirts strongly in both hands, -and went downstairs. - -She had been hoping for this visit for some time past. Whispers -had reached her that things were not all right between her nephew -and his fiancee. Neither of them had been near her for weeks. -She had asked Phil to dinner many times; his invariable answer -had been 'Too busy.' - -Her instinct was alarmed, and the instinct in such matters of -this excellent woman was keen. She ought to have been a Forsyte; -in young Jolyon's sense of the word, she certainly had that -privilege, and merits description as such. - -She had married off her three daughters in a way that people said -was beyond their deserts, for they had the professional plainness -only to be found, as a rule, among the female kind of the more -legal callings. Her name was upon the committees of numberless -charities connected with the Church-dances, theatricals, or -bazaars--and she never lent her name unless sure beforehand that -everything had been thoroughly organized. - -She believed, as she often said, in putting things on a commercial -basis; the proper function of the Church, of charity, indeed, -of everything, was to strengthen the fabric of 'Society.' -Individual action, therefore, she considered immoral. -Organization was the only thing, for by organization alone could -you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money. -Organization--and again, organization! And there is no doubt -that she was what old Jolyon called her--"a 'dab' at that"--he -went further, he called her "a humbug." - -The enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so -admirably that by the time the takings were handed over, they -were indeed skim milk divested of all cream of human kindness. -But as she often justly remarked, sentiment was to be deprecated. -She was, in fact, a little academic. - -This great and good woman, so highly thought of in ecclesiastical -circles, was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of -Forsyteism, keeping alive day and night a sacred flame to the God -of Property, whose altar is inscribed with those inspiring words: -'Nothing for nothing, and really remarkably little for sixpence.' - -When she entered a room it was felt that something substantial -had come in, which was probably the reason of her popularity as a -patroness. People liked something substantial when they had paid -money for it; and they would look at her--surrounded by her staff -in charity ballrooms, with her high nose and her broad, square -figure, attired in an uniform covered with sequins--as though she -were a general. - -The only thing against her was that she had not a double name. -She was a power in upper middle-class society, with its hundred -sets and circles, all intersecting on the common battlefield of -charity functions, and on that battlefield brushing skirts so -pleasantly with the skirts of Society with the capital 'S.' She -was a power in society with the smaller 's,' that larger, more -significant, and more powerful body, where the commercially -Christian institutions, maxims, and 'principle,' which Mrs. -Baynes embodied, were real life-blood, circulating freely, real -business currency, not merely the sterilized imitation that -flowed in the veins of smaller Society with the larger 'S.' -People who knew her felt her to be sound--a sound woman, who -never gave herself away, nor anything else, if she could possibly -help it. - -She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney's father, -who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable -ridicule. She alluded to him now that he was gone as her 'poor, -dear, irreverend brother.' - -She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a -mistress, a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her -eminence in the commercial and Christian world could be afraid-- -for so slight a girl June had a great dignity, the fearlessness -of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs. Baynes, too, shrewdly -recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of June's -manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been -merely frank and courageous, Mrs. Baynes would have thought her -'cranky,' and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte, -like Francie--let us say--she would have patronized her from -sheer weight of metal; but June, small though she was--Mrs. -Baynes habitually admired quantity--gave her an uneasy feeling; -and she placed her in a chair opposite the light. - -There was another reason for her respect which Mrs. Baynes, too -good a churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to -admit--she often heard her husband describe old Jolyon as -extremely well off, and was biassed towards his granddaughter for -the soundest of all reasons. To-day she felt the emotion with -which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance, -nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the novelist, -the young man should be left without it at the end. - -Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how -distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old -Jolyon's health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and -young looking, and how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never -have thought it! They were at the sea! Very nice for them; she -supposed June heard from Phil every day? Her light grey eyes -became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl -met the glance without flinching. - -"No," she said, "he never writes!" - -Mrs. Baynes's eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, -but they did. They recovered immediately. - -"Of course not. That's Phil all over--he was always like that!" - -"Was he?" said June. - -The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes's bright smile a -moment's hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and -spreading her skirts afresh, said: "Why, my dear--he's quite the -most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention -to what he does!" - -The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her -time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would -never get anything out of this woman. - -'Do you see him?' she asked, her face crimsoning. - -The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes' forehead beneath the -powder. - -"Oh, yes! I don't remember when he was here last--indeed, we -haven't seen much of him lately. He's so busy with your cousin's -house; I'm told it'll be finished directly. We must organize a -little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night -with us!" - -"Thank you," said June. Again she thought: 'I'm only wasting my -time. This woman will tell me nothing.' - -She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too; -her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was -evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who -stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided -face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to -be afraid of asking question's--all organization was based on -the asking of questions! - -But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was -fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: "Old Mr. -Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!" - -And this girl stood there, holding out her hand--holding out her -hand! - -The chance might be slipping away--she couldn't tell--the chance -of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak. - -Her eyes followed June to the door. - -It closed. - -Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her -bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again. - -Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an -expression of real anger and mortification on her face. - -June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She -detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been -accustomed to think so kind. Was she always to be put off thus, -and forced to undergo this torturing suspense? - -She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had -the right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she -came to Bosinney's number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, -she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully. - -At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding -on to the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above. - -With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the -door, with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had -brought her so far evaporated. - -The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all -over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk -covering of her gloves. - -She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning -against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being -choked; and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful -courage. No! she refused to go down. Did it matter what people -thought of her? They would never know! No one would help her if -she did not help herself! She would go through with it. - -Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she -rang the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear -suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in -spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that -closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit -had cost her. It did not open; she left off ringing, and, -sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her -hands. - -Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though -she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but -to get home as quickly as she could. The people she met seemed -to know where she had been, what she had been doing; and -suddenly--over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from -the direction of Montpellier Square--she saw Bosinney himself. - -She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, -and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; -then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the -traffic, she saw him walking on. - -And June stood motionless, looking after him. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -PERFECTION OF THE HOUSE - - -'One mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.' - -In the upper room at French's, where a Forsyte could still get -heavy English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch. - -Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was -something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, -and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the -necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping -pace with an income that would increase, he still hankered in -quiet City moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. -Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons; there -was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses -hung just above the line of sight. They had only recently done -away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, -prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your -neighbours, like a gentleman. - -He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of -his waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years -ago in the West End. He felt that he should relish his soup--the -entire morning had been given to winding up the estate of an old -friend. - -After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once -began: "How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take -Irene? You'd better take her. I should think there'll be a lot -that'll want seeing to." - -Without looking up, Soames answered: "She won't go." - -"Won't go? What's the meaning of that? She's going to live in -the house, isn't she?" - -Soames made no reply. - -"I don't know what's coming to women nowadays," mumbled James; "I -never used to have any trouble with them. She's had too much -liberty. She's spoiled...." - -Soames lifted his eyes: "I won't have anything said against her," -he said unexpectedly. - -The silence was only broken now by the supping of James's soup. - -The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped -him. - -"That's not the way to serve port," he said; "take them away, and -bring the bottle." - -Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of -his rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts. - -"Your mother's in bed," he said; "you can have the carriage to -take you down. I should think Irene'd like the drive. This -young Bosinney'll be there, I suppose, to show you over" - -Soames nodded. - -"I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he's -made finishing off," pursued James. "I'll just drive round and -pick you both up." - -"I am going down by train," replied Soames. "If you like to -drive round and see, Irene might go with you, I can't tell." - -He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid. - -They parted at St. Paul's, Soames branching off to the station, -James taking his omnibus westwards. - -He had secured the corner seat next the conductor, where his long -legs made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who -passed him he looked resentfully, as if they had no business to -be using up his air. - -He intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to -Irene. A word in time saved nine; and now that she was going to -live in the country there was a chance for her to turn over a new -leaf! He could see that Soames wouldn't stand very much more of -her goings on! - -It did not occur to him to define what he meant by her 'goings -on'; the expression was wide, vague, and suited to a Forsyte. -And James had more than his common share of courage after lunch. - -On reaching home, he ordered out the barouche, with special -instructions that the groom was to go too. He wished to be kind -to her, and to give her every chance. - -When the door of No.62 was opened he could distinctly hear her -singing, and said so at once, to prevent any chance of being -denied entrance. - -Yes, Mrs. Soames was in, but the maid did not know if she was -seeing people. - -James, moving with the rapidity that ever astonished the -observers of his long figure and absorbed expression, went -forthwith into the drawing-room without permitting this to be -ascertained. He found Irene seated at the piano with her hands -arrested on the keys, evidently listening to the voices in the -hall. She greeted him without smiling. - -"Your mother-in-law's in bed," he began, hoping at once to enlist -her sympathy. "I've got the carriage here. Now, be a good girl, -and put on your hat and come with me for a drive. It'll do you -good!" - -Irene looked at him as though about to refuse, but, seeming to -change her mind, went upstairs, and came down again with her hat -on. - -"Where are you going to take me?" she asked. - -"We'll just go down to Robin Hill," said James, spluttering out -his words very quick; "the horses want exercise, and I should -like to see what they've been doing down there." - -Irene hung back, but again changed her mind, and went out to the -carriage, James brooding over her closely, to make quite sure. - -It was not before he had got her more than half way that he -began: "Soames is very fond of you--he won't have anything said -against you; why don't you show him more affection?" - -Irene flushed, and said in a low voice: "I can't show what I -haven't got." - -James looked at her sharply; he felt that now he had her in his -own carriage, with his own horses and servants, he was really in -command of the situation. She could not put him off; nor would -she make a scene in public. - -"I can't think what you're about," he said. "He's a very good -husband!" - -Irene's answer was so low as to be almost inaudible among the -sounds of traffic. He caught the words: "You are not married to -him!" - -"What's that got to do with it? He's given you everything you -want. He's always ready to take you anywhere, and now he's built -you this house in the country. It's not as if you had anything -of your own." - -"No." - -Again James looked at her; he could not make out the expression -on her face. She looked almost as if she were going to cry, and -yet.... - -"I'm sure," he muttered hastily, "we've all tried to be kind to -you." - -Irene's lips quivered; to his dismay James saw a tear steal down -her cheek. He felt a choke rise in his own throat. - -"We're all fond of you," he said, "if you'd only"--he was going -to say, "behave yourself," but changed it to--"if you'd only be -more of a wife to him." - -Irene did not answer, and James, too, ceased speaking. There was -something in her silence which disconcerted him; it was not the -silence of obstinacy, rather that of acquiescence in all that he -could find to say. And yet he felt as if he had not had the last -word. He could not understand this. - -He was unable, however, to long keep silence. - -"I suppose that young Bosinney," he said, "will be getting -married to June now?" - -Irene's face changed. "I don't know," she said; "you should ask -her." - -"Does she write to you?" No. - -"How's that?" said James. "I thought you and she were such great -friends." - -Irene turned on him. "Again," she said, "you should ask her!" - -"Well," flustered James, frightened by her look, "it's very odd -that I can't get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it -is." - -He sat ruminating over his rebuff, and burst out at last: - -"Well, I've warned you. You won't look ahead. Soames he doesn't -say much, but I can see he won't stand a great deal more of this -sort of thing. You'll have nobody but yourself to blame, and, -what's more, you'll get no sympathy from anybody." - -Irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. "I am very much -obliged to you." - -James did not know what on earth to answer. - -The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive -afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of -coming thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up. - -The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road -without the smallest stir of foliage. A faint odour of glue from -the heated horses clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, -rigid and unbending, exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, -without ever turning their heads. - -To James' great relief they reached the house at last; the -silence and impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he -had always thought so soft and mild, alarmed him. - -The carriage put them down at the door, and they entered. - -The hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a -tomb; a shudder ran down James's spine. He quickly lifted the -heavy leather curtains between the columns into the inner court. - -He could not restrain an exclamation of approval. - -The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby -tiles that extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a -circular clump of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken -basin of white marble filled with water, were obviously of the -best quality. He admired extremely the purple leather curtains -drawn along one entire side, framing a huge white-tiled stove. -The central partitions of the skylight had been slid back, and -the warm air from outside penetrated into the very heart of the -house. - -He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, -narrow shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the -pattern of the frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls -under the gallery. Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was -quite the house of a gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, -having discovered how they were worked, drew them asunder and -disclosed the picture-gallery, ending in a great window taking up -the whole end of the room. It had a black oak floor, and its -walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on throwing open -doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order, ready -for immediate occupation. - -He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing -over in the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosinney. - -Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that -something was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, -ignorant of the nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth -things over. - -"How are you, Mr. Bosinney?" he said, holding out his hand. -"You've been spending money pretty freely down here, I should -say!" - -Soames turned his back, and walked away. - -James looked from Bosinney's frowning face to Irene, and, in his -agitation, spoke his thoughts aloud: "Well, I can't tell what's -the matter. Nobody tells me anything!" And, making off after his -son, he heard Bosinney's short laugh, and his "Well, thank God! -You look so...." Most unfortunately he lost the rest. - -What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the -architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. He -hastened up to his son. - -Soames was pacing the picture-gallery. - -"What's the matter?" said James. "What's all this?" - -Soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but -James knew well enough that he was violently angry. - -"Our friend," he said, "has exceeded his instructions again, -that's all. So much the worse for him this time." - -He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed -hurriedly, edging himself in front. He saw Irene take her finger -from before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary -voice, and began to speak before he reached them. - -"There's a storm coming on. We'd better get home. We can't take -you, I suppose, Mr. Bosinney? No, I suppose not. Then, -good-bye!" He held out his hand. Bosinney did not take it, but, -turning with a laugh, said: - -"Good-bye, Mr. Forsyte. Don't get caught in the storm!" and -walked away. - -"Well," began James, "I don't know...." - -But the 'sight of Irene's face stopped him. Taking hold of his -daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the -carriage. He felt certain, quite certain, they had been making -some appointment or other.... - -Nothing in this world is more sure to upset a Forsyte than the -discovery that something on which he has stipulated to spend a -certain sum has cost more. And this is reasonable, for upon the -accuracy of his estimates the whole policy of his life is -ordered. If he cannot rely on definite values of property, his -compass is amiss; he is adrift upon bitter waters without a helm. - -After writing to Bosinney in the terms that have already been -chronicled, Soames had dismissed the cost of the house from his -mind. He believed that he had made the matter of the final cost -so very plain that the possibility of its being again exceeded -had really never entered his head. On hearing from Bosinney that -his limit of twelve thousand pounds would be exceeded by some- -thing like four hundred, he had grown white with anger. His -original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been ten -thousand pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for -allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses. Over this -last expenditure, however, Bosinney had put himself completely in -the wrong. How on earth a fellow could make such an ass of -himself Soames could not conceive; but he had done so, and all -the rancour and hidden jealousy that had been burning against him -for so long was now focussed in rage at this crowning piece of -extravagance. The attitude of the confident and friendly husband -was gone. To preserve property--his wife--he had assumed it, to -preserve property of another kind he lost it now. - -"Ah!" he had said to Bosinney when he could speak, "and I suppose -you're perfectly contented with yourself. But I may as well tell -you that you've altogether mistaken your man!" - -What he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, -but after dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself -and Bosinney to make quite sure. There could be no two opinions -about it--the fellow had made himself liable for that extra four -hundred, or, at all events, for three hundred and fifty of it, -and he would have to make it good. - -He was looking at his wife's face when he came to this conclusion. -Seated in her usual seat on the sofa, she was altering the lace -on a collar. She had not once spoken to him all the evening. - -He went up to the mantelpiece, and contemplating his face in the -mirror said: "Your friend the Buccaneer has made a fool of -himself; he will have to pay for it!" - -She looked at him scornfully, and answered: "I don't know what -you are talking about!" - -"You soon will. A mere trifle, quite beneath your contempt--four -hundred pounds." - -"Do you mean that you are going to make him pay that towards this -hateful, house?" - -"I do." - -"And you know he's got nothing?" - -"Yes." - -"Then you are meaner than I thought you." - -Soames turned from the mirror, and unconsciously taking a china -cup from the mantelpiece, clasped his hands around it as though -praying. He saw her bosom rise and fall, her eyes darkening with -anger, and taking no notice of the taunt, he asked quietly: - -"Are you carrying on a flirtation with Bosinney?" - -"No, I am not!" - -Her eyes met his, and he looked away. He neither believed nor -disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in -asking; he never had known, never would know, what she was -thinking. The sight of her inscrutable face, the thought of all -the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that -soft and passive, but unreadable, unknown, enraged him beyond -measure. - -"I believe you are made of stone," he said, clenching his fingers -so hard that he broke the fragile cup. The pieces fell into the -grate. And Irene smiled. - -"You seem to forget," she said, "that cup is not!" - -Soames gripped her arm. "A good beating," he said, "is the only -thing that would bring you to your senses," but turning on his -heel, he left the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -SOAMES SITS ON THE STAIRS - - -Soames went upstairs that night that he had gone too far. He was -prepared to offer excuses for his words. - -He turned out the gas still burning in the passage outside their -room. Pausing, with his hand on the knob of the door, he tried -to shape his apology, for he had no intention of letting her see -that he was nervous. - -But the door did not open, nor when he pulled it and turned the -handle firmly. She must have locked it for some reason, and -forgotten. - -Entering his dressing-room where the gas was also light and -burning low, he went quickly to the other door. That too was -locked. Then he noticed that the camp bed which he occasionally -used was prepared, and his sleeping-suit laid out upon it. He -put his hand up to his forehead, and brought it away wet. It -dawned on him that he was barred out. - -He went back to the door, and rattling the handle stealthily, -called: "Unlock the door, do you hear? Unlock the door!" - -There was a faint rustling, but no answer. - -"Do you hear? Let me in at once--I insist on being let in!" - -He could catch the sound of her breathing close to the door, like -the breathing of a creature threatened by danger. - -There was something terrifying in this inexorable silence, in the -impossibility of getting at her. He went back to the other door, -and putting his whole weight against it, tried to burst it open. -The door was a new one--he had had them renewed himself, in -readiness for their coming in after the honeymoon. In a rage he -lifted his foot to kick in the panel; the thought of the servants -restrained him, and he felt suddenly that he was beaten. - -Flinging himself down in the dressing-room, he took up a book. - -But instead of the print he seemed to see his wife--with her -yellow hair flowing over her bare shoulders, and her great dark -eyes--standing like an animal at bay. And the whole meaning of -her act of revolt came to him. She meant it to be for good. - -He could not sit still, and went to the door again. He could -still hear her, and he called: "Irene! Irene!" - -He did not mean to make his voice pathetic. - -In ominous answer, the faint sounds ceased. He stood with -clenched hands, thinking. - -Presently he stole round on tiptoe, and running suddenly at the -other door, made a supreme effort to break it open. It creaked, -but did not yield. He sat down on the stairs and buried his face -in his hands. - -For a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the -skylight above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly -towards him down the stairway. He tried to be philosophical. - -Since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a -wife, and he would console himself with other women. - -It was but a spectral journey he made among such delights--he had -no appetite for these exploits. He had never had much, and he -had lost the habit. He felt that he could never recover it. His -hunger could only be appeased by his wife, inexorable and -frightened, behind these shut doors. No other woman could help -him. - -This conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the -dark. - -His philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place. Her -conduct was immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within -his power. He desired no one but her, and she refused him! - -She must really hate him, then! He had never believed it yet. -He did not believe it now. It seemed to him incredible. He felt -as though he had lost for ever his power of judgment. If she, so -soft and yielding as he had always judged her, could take this -decided step--what could not happen? - -Then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue -with Bosinney. He did not believe that she was; he could not -afford to believe such a reason for her conduct--the thought was -not to be faced. - -It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his -marital relations public property. Short of the most convincing -proofs he must still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to -punish himself. And all the time at heart--he did believe. - -The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched -against the staircase wall. - -Bosinney was in love with her! He hated the fellow, and would -not spare him now. He could and would refuse to pay a penny -piece over twelve thousand and fifty pounds--the extreme limit -fixed in the correspondence; or rather he would pay, he would pay -and sue him for damages. He would go to Jobling and Boulter and -put the matter in their hands. He would ruin the impecunious -beggar! And suddenly--though what connection between the -thoughts?--he reflected that Irene had no money either. They -were both beggars. This gave him a strange satisfaction. - -The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. She -was going to bed at last. Ah! Joy and pleasant dreams! If she -threw the door open wide he would not go in now! - -But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he -covered his eyes with his hands.... - -It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the -dining-room window gazing gloomily into the Square. - -The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze -their gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ -at the corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out -of fashion, with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on -and on, though nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune. - -The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the -tall houses no one threw her down coppers. She moved the organ -on, and three doors off began again. - -It was the waltz they had played at Roger's when Irene had danced -with Bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came -back to Soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been -drifted to him then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her -eyes so soft, drawing Bosinney on and on down an endless -ballroom. - -The organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding -her tune all day-grinding it in Sloane Street hard by, grinding -it perhaps to Bosinney himself. - -Soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked -back to the window. The tune had mesmerized him, and there came -into his view Irene, her sunshade furled, hastening homewards -down the Square, in a soft, rose-coloured blouse with drooping -sleeves, that he did not know. She stopped before the organ, -took out her purse, and gave the woman money. - -Soames shrank back and stood where he could see into the hall. - -She came in with her latch-key, put down her sunshade, and stood -looking at herself in the glass. Her cheeks were flushed as if -the sun had burned them; her lips were parted in a smile. She -stretched her arms out as though to embrace herself, with a laugh -that for all the world was like a sob. - -Soames stepped forward. - -"Very-pretty!" he said. - -But as though shot she spun round, and would have passed him up -the stairs. He barred the way. - -"Why such a hurry?" he said, and his eyes fastened on a curl of -hair fallen loose across her ear.... - -He hardly recognised her. She seemed on fire, so deep and rich -the colour of her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and of the unusual -blouse she wore. - -She put up her hand and smoothed back the curl. She was -breathing fast and deep, as though she had been running, and with -every breath perfume seemed to come from her hair, and from her -body, like perfume from an opening flower. - -"I don't like that blouse," he said slowly, "it's a soft, -shapeless thing!" - -He lifted his finger towards her breast, but she dashed his hand -aside. - -"Don't touch me!" she cried. - -He caught her wrist; she wrenched it away. - -"And where may you have been?" he asked. - -"In heaven--out of this house!" With those words she fled -upstairs. - -Outside--in thanksgiving--at the very door, the organ-grinder was -playing the waltz. - -And Soames stood motionless. What prevented him from following -her? - -Was it that, with the eyes of faith, he saw Bosinney looking down -from that high window in Sloane Street, straining his eyes for -yet another glimpse of Irene's vanished figure, cooling his -flushed face, dreaming of the moment when she flung herself on -his breast--the scent of her still in the air around, and the -sound of her laugh that was like a sob? - - - - - -PART III - - -CHAPTER I - -Mrs. MAcANDER'S EVIDENCE - - -Many people, no doubt, including the editor of the 'Ultra -Vivisectionist,' then in the bloom of its first youth, would say -that Soames was less than a man not to have removed the locks -from his wife's doors, and, after beating her soundly, resumed -wedded happiness. - -Brutality is not so deplorably diluted by humaneness as it used -to be, yet a sentimental segment of the population may still be -relieved to learn that he did none of these things. For active -brutality is not popular with Forsytes; they are too -circumspect, and, on the whole, too softhearted. And in Soames -there was some common pride, not sufficient to make him do a -really generous action, but enough to prevent his indulging in an -extremely mean one, except, perhaps, in very hot blood. Above -all this a true Forsyte refused to feel himself ridiculous. Short -of actually beating his wife, he perceived nothing to be done; he -therefore accepted the situation without another word. - -Throughout the summer and autumn he continued to go to the -office, to sort his pictures, and ask his friends to dinner. - -He did not leave town; Irene refused to go away. The house at -Robin Hill, finished though it was, remained empty and ownerless. -Soames had brought a suit against the Buccaneer, in which he -claimed from him the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds. - -A firm of solicitors, Messrs. Freak and Able, had put in a -defence on Bosinney's behalf. Admitting the facts, they raised a -point on the correspondence which, divested of legal phraseology, -amounted to this: To speak of 'a free hand in the terms of this -correspondence' is an Irish bull. - -By a chance, fortuitous but not improbable in the close borough -of legal circles, a good deal of information came to Soames' ear -anent this line of policy, the working partner in his firm, -Bustard, happening to sit next at dinner at Walmisley's, the -Taxing Master, to young Chankery, of the Common Law Bar. - -The necessity for talking what is known as 'shop,' which comes on -all lawyers with the removal of the ladies, caused Chankery, a -young and promising advocate, to propound an impersonal conundrum -to his neighbour, whose name he did not know, for, seated as he -permanently was in the background, Bustard had practically no -name. - -He had, said Chankery, a case coming on with a 'very nice point.' -He then explained, preserving every professional discretion, the -riddle in Soames' case. Everyone, he said, to whom he had -spoken, thought it a nice point. The issue was small -unfortunately, 'though d----d serious for his client he -believed'--Walmisley's champagne was bad but plentiful. A Judge -would make short work of it, he was afraid. He intended to make -a big effort--the point was a nice one. What did his neighbour -say? - -Bustard, a model of secrecy, said nothing. He related the -incident to Soames however with some malice, for this quiet man -was capable of human feeling, ending with his own opinion that -the point was 'a very nice one.' - -In accordance with his resolve, our Forsyte had put his interests -into the hands of Jobling and Boulter. From the moment of doing -so he regretted that he had not acted for himself. On receiving -a copy of Bosinney's defence he went over to their offices. - -Boulter, who had the matter in hand, Jobling having died some -years before, told him that in his opinion it was rather a nice -point; he would like counsel's opinion on it. - -Soames told him to go to a good man, and they went to Waterbuck, -Q.C., marking him ten and one, who kept the papers six weeks and -then wrote as follows - -'In my opinion the true interpretation of this correspondence -depends very much on the intention of the parties, and will turn -upon the evidence given at the trial. I am of opinion that an -attempt should be made to secure from the architect an admission -that he understood he was not to spend at the outside more than -twelve thousand and fifty pounds. With regard to the expression, -"a free hand in the terms of this correspondence," to which my -attention is directed, the point is a nice one; but I am of -opinion that upon the whole the ruling in "Boileau v. The -Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.," will apply.' - -Upon this opinion they acted, administering interrogatories, but -to their annoyance Messrs. Freak and Able answered these in so -masterly a fashion that nothing whatever was admitted and that -without prejudice. - -It was on October 1 that Soames read Waterbuck's opinion, in the -dining-room before dinner. - -It made him nervous; not so much because of the case of 'Boileau -v. The Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.,' as that the point had lately -begun to seem to him, too, a nice one; there was about it just -that pleasant flavour of subtlety so attractive to the best legal -appetites. To have his own impression confirmed by Waterbuck, -Q.C., would have disturbed any man. - -He sat thinking it over, and staring at the empty grate, for -though autumn had come, the weather kept as gloriously fine that -jubilee year as if it were still high August. It was not -pleasant to be disturbed; he desired too passionately to set his -foot on Bosinney's neck. - -Though he had not seen the architect since the last afternoon at -Robin Hill, he was never free from the sense of his presence-- -never free from the memory of his worn face with its high cheek -bones and enthusiastic eyes. It would not be too much to say -that he had never got rid of the feeling of that night when he -heard the peacock's cry at dawn--the feeling that Bosinney -haunted the house. And every man's shape that he saw in the dark -evenings walking past, seemed that of him whom George had so -appropriately named the Buccaneer. - -Irene still met him, he was certain; where, or how, he neither -knew, nor asked; deterred by a vague and secret dread of too much -knowledge. It all seemed subterranean nowadays. - -Sometimes when he questioned his wife as to where she had been, -which he still made a point of doing, as every Forsyte should, -she looked very strange. Her self-possession was wonderful, but -there were moments when, behind the mask of her face, inscrutable -as it had always been to him, lurked an expression he had never -been used to see there. - -She had taken to lunching out too; when he asked Bilson if her -mistress had been in to lunch, as often as not she would answer: -"No, sir." - -He strongly disapproved of her gadding about by herself, and told -her so. But she took no notice. There was something that -angered, amazed, yet almost amused him about the calm way in -which she disregarded his wishes. It was really as if she were -hugging to herself the thought of a triumph over him. - -He rose from the perusal of Waterbuck, Q.C.'s opinion, and, going -upstairs, entered her room, for she did not lock her doors till -bed-time--she had the decency, he found, to save the feelings of -the servants. She was brushing her hair, and turned to him with -strange fierceness. - -"What do you want?" she said. "Please leave my room!" - -He answered: "I want to know how long this state of things -between us is to last? I have put up with it long enough." - -"Will you please leave my room?" - -"Will you treat me as your husband?" - -"No." - -"Then, I shall take steps to make you." - -"Do!" - -He stared, amazed at the calmness of her answer. Her lips were -compressed in a thin line; her hair lay in fluffy masses on her -bare shoulders, in all its strange golden contrast to her dark -eyes--those eyes alive with the emotions of fear, hate, contempt, -and odd, haunting triumph. - -"Now, please, will you leave my room?" He turned round, and went -sulkily out. - -He knew very well that he had no intention of taking steps, and -he saw that she knew too--knew that he was afraid to. - -It was a habit with him to tell her the doings of his day: how -such and such clients had called; how he had arranged a mortgage -for Parkes; how that long-standing suit of Fryer v. Forsyte was -getting on, which, arising in the preternaturally careful -disposition of his property by his great uncle Nicholas, who had -tied it up so that no one could get at it at all, seemed likely -to remain a source of income for several solicitors till the Day -of Judgment. - -And how he had called in at Jobson's, and seen a Boucher sold, -which he had just missed buying of Talleyrand and Sons in Pall -Mall. - -He had an admiration for Boucher, Watteau, and all that school. -It was a habit with him to tell her all these matters, and he -continued to do it even now, talking for long spells at dinner, -as though by the volubility of words he could conceal from -himself the ache in his heart. - -Often, if they were alone, he made an attempt to kiss her when -she said good-night. He may have had some vague notion that some -night she would let him; or perhaps only the feeling that a -husband ought to kiss his wife. Even if she hated him, he at all -events ought not to put himself in the wrong by neglecting this -ancient rite. - -And why did she hate him? Even now he could not altogether -believe it. It was strange to be hated!--the emotion was too -extreme; yet he hated Bosinney, that Buccaneer, that prowling -vagabond, that night-wanderer. For in his thoughts Soames always -saw him lying in wait--wandering. Ah, but he must be in very low -water! Young Burkitt, the architect, had seen him coming out of -a third-rate restaurant, looking terribly down in the mouth! - -During all the hours he lay awake, thinking over the situation, -which seemed to have no end--unless she should suddenly come to -her senses--never once did the thought of separating from his -wife seriously enter his head.... - -And the Forsytes! What part did they play in this stage of -Soames' subterranean tragedy? - -Truth to say, little or none, for they were at the sea. - -From hotels, hydropathics, or lodging-houses, they were bathing -daily; laying in a stock of ozone to last them through the -winter. - -Each section, in the vineyard of its own choosing, grew and -culled and pressed and bottled the grapes of a pet sea-air. - -The end of September began to witness their several returns. - -In rude health and small omnibuses, with considerable colour in -their cheeks, they arrived daily from the various termini. The -following morning saw them back at their vocations. - -On the next Sunday Timothy's was thronged from lunch till dinner. - -Amongst other gossip, too numerous and interesting to relate, -Mrs. Septimus Small mentioned that Soames and Irene had not been -away. - -It remained for a comparative outsider to supply the next -evidence of interest. - -It chanced that one afternoon late in September, Mrs. MacAnder, -Winifred Dartie's greatest friend, taking a constitutional, with -young Augustus Flippard, on her bicycle in Richmond Park, passed -Irene and Bosinney walking from the bracken towards the Sheen -Gate. - -Perhaps the poor little woman was thirsty, for she had ridden -long on a hard, dry road, and, as all London knows, to ride a -bicycle and talk to young Flippard will try the toughest -constitution; or perhaps the sight of the cool bracken grove, -whence 'those two' were coming down, excited her envy. The cool -bracken grove on the top of the hill, with the oak boughs for -roof, where the pigeons were raising an endless wedding hymn, and -the autumn, humming, whispered to the ears of lovers in the fern, -while the deer stole by. The bracken grove of irretrievable -delights, of golden minutes in the long marriage of heaven and -earth! The bracken grove, sacred to stags, to strange tree-stump -fauns leaping around the silver whiteness of a birch-tree nymph -at summer dusk - -This lady knew all the Forsytes, and having been at June's 'at -home,' was not at a loss to see with whom she had to deal. Her -own marriage, poor thing, had not been successful, but having -had the good sense and ability to force her husband into -pronounced error, she herself had passed through the necessary -divorce proceedings without incurring censure. - -She was therefore a judge of all that sort of thing, and lived in -one of those large buildings, where in small sets of apartments, -are gathered incredible quantities of Forsytes, whose chief -recreation out of business hours is the discussion of each -other's affairs. - -Poor little woman, perhaps she was thirsty, certainly she was -bored, for Flippard was a wit. To see 'those two' in so unlikely -a spot was quite a merciful 'pick-me-up.' - -At the MacAnder, like all London, Time pauses. - -This small but remarkable woman merits attention; her all-seeing -eye and shrewd tongue were inscrutably the means of furthering -the ends of Providence. - -With an air of being in at the death, she had an almost -distressing power of taking care of herself. She had done more, -perhaps, in her way than any woman about town to destroy the -sense of chivalry which still clogs the wheel of civilization. -So smart she was, and spoken of endearingly as 'the little -MacAnder!' - -Dressing tightly and well, she belonged to a Woman's Club, but -was by no means the neurotic and dismal type of member who was -always thinking of her rights. She took her rights unconsciously, -they came natural to her, and she knew exactly how to make the -most of them without exciting anything but admiration amongst -that great class to whom she was affiliated, not precisely -perhaps by manner, but by birth, breeding, and the true, the -secret gauge, a sense of property. - -The daughter of a Bedfordshire solicitor, by the daughter of a -clergyman, she had never, through all the painful experience of -being married to a very mild painter with a cranky love of -Nature, who had deserted her for an actress, lost touch with the -requirements, beliefs, and inner feeling of Society; and, on -attaining her liberty, she placed herself without effort in the -very van of Forsyteism. - -Always in good spirits, and 'full of information,' she was -universally welcomed. She excited neither surprise nor -disapprobation when encountered on the Rhine or at Zermatt, -either alone, or travelling with a lady and two gentlemen; it was -felt that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself; -and the hearts of all Forsytes warmed to that wonderful instinct, -which enabled her to enjoy everything without giving anything -away. It was generally felt that to such women as Mrs. MacAnder -should we look for the perpetuation and increase of our best type -of woman. She had never had any children. - -If there was one thing more than another that she could not stand -it was one of those soft women with what men called 'charm' about -them, and for Mrs. Soames she always had an especial dislike. - -Obscurely, no doubt, she felt that if charm were once admitted as -the criterion, smartness and capability must go to the wall; and -she hated--with a hatred the deeper that at times this so-called -charm seemed to disturb all calculations--the subtle seductiveness -which she could not altogether overlook in Irene. - -She said, however, that she could see nothing in the woman--there -was no 'go' about her--she would never be able to stand up for -herself--anyone could take advantage of her, that was plain--she -could not see in fact what men found to admire! - -She was not really ill-natured, but, in maintaining her position -after the trying circumstances of her married life, she had found -it so necessary to be 'full of information,' that the idea of -holding her tongue about 'those two' in the Park never occurred -to her. - -And it so happened that she was dining that very evening at -Timothy's, where she went sometimes to 'cheer the old things up,' -as she was wont to put it. The same people were always asked to -meet her: Winifred Dartie and her husband; Francie, because she -belonged to the artistic circles, for Mrs. MacAnder was known to -contribute articles on dress to 'The Ladies Kingdom Come'; and -for her to flirt with, provided they could be obtained, two of -the Hayman boys, who, though they never said anything, were -believed to be fast and thoroughly intimate with all that was -latest in smart Society. - -At twenty-five minutes past seven she turned out the electric -light in her little hall, and wrapped in her opera cloak with the -chinchilla collar, came out into the corridor, pausing a moment -to make sure she had her latch-key. These little self-contained -flats were convenient; to be sure, she had no light and no air, -but she could shut it up whenever she liked and go away. There -was no bother with servants, and she never felt tied as she used -to when poor, dear Fred was always about, in his mooney way. She -retained no rancour against poor, dear Fred, he was such a fool; -but the thought of that actress drew from her, even now, a -little, bitter, derisive smile. - -Firmly snapping the door to, she crossed the corridor, with its -gloomy, yellow-ochre walls, and its infinite vista of brown, -numbered doors. The lift was going down; and wrapped to the ears -in the high cloak, with every one of her auburn hairs in its -place, she waited motionless for it to stop at her floor. The -iron gates clanked open; she entered. There were already three -occupants, a man in a great white waistcoat, with a large, smooth -face like a baby's, and two old ladies in black, with mittened -hands. - -Mrs. MacAnder smiled at them; she knew everybody; and all these -three, who had been admirably silent before, began to talk at -once. This was Mrs. MacAnder's successful secret. She provoked -conversation. - -Throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued, -the lift boy standing with his back turned, his cynical face -protruding through the bars. - -At the bottom they separated, the man in the white waistcoat -sentimentally to the billiard room, the old ladies to dine and -say to each other: "A dear little woman!" "Such a rattle!" and -Mrs. MacAnder to her cab. - -When Mrs. MacAnder dined at Timothy's, the conversation (although -Timothy himself could never be induced to be present) took that -wider, man-of-the-world tone current among Forsytes at large, and -this, no doubt, was what put her at a premium there. - -Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester found it an exhilarating change. "If -only," they said, "Timothy would meet her!" It was felt that she -would do him good. She could tell you, for instance, the latest -story of Sir Charles Fiste's son at Monte Carlo; who was the real -heroine of Tynemouth Eddy's fashionable novel that everyone was -holding up their hands over, and what they were doing in Paris -about wearing bloomers. She was so sensible, too, knowing all -about that vexed question, whether to send young Nicholas' eldest -into the navy as his mother wished, or make him an accountant as -his father thought would be safer. She strongly deprecated the -navy. If you were not exceptionally brilliant or exceptionally -well connected, they passed you over so disgracefully, and what -was it after all to look forward to, even if you became an -admiral--a pittance! An accountant had many more chances, but -let him be put with a good firm, where there was no risk at -starting! - -Sometimes she would give them a tip on the Stock Exchange; not -that Mrs. Small or Aunt Hester ever took it. They had indeed no -money to invest; but it seemed to bring them into such exciting -touch with the realities of life. It was an event. They would -ask Timothy, they said. But they never did, knowing in advance -that it would upset him. Surreptitiously, however, for weeks -after they would look in that paper, which they took with respect -on account of its really fashionable proclivities, to see whether -'Bright's Rubies' or 'The Woollen Mackintosh Company' were up or -down. Sometimes they could not find the name of the company at -all; and they would wait until James or Roger or even Swithin -came in, and ask them in voices trembling with curiosity how that -'Bolivia Lime and Speltrate' was doing--they could not find it in -the paper. - -And Roger would answer: "What do you want to know for? Some -trash! You'll go burning your fingers--investing your money in -lime, and things you know nothing about! Who told you?" and -ascertaining what they had been told, he would go away, and, -making inquiries in the City, would perhaps invest some of his -own money in the concern. - -It was about the middle of dinner, just in fact as the saddle of -mutton had been brought in by Smither, that Mrs. MacAnder, -looking airily round, said: "Oh! and whom do you think I passed -to-day in Richmond Park? You'll never guess--Mrs. Soames and-- -Mr. Bosinney. They must have been down to look at the house!" - -Winifred Dartie coughed, and no one said a word. It was the -piece of evidence they had all unconsciously been waiting for. - -To do Mrs. MacAnder justice, she had been to Switzerland and the -Italian lakes with a party of three, and had not heard of Soames' -rupture with his architect. She could not tell, therefore, the -profound impression her words would make. - -Upright and a little flushed, she moved her small, shrewd eyes -from face to face, trying to gauge the effect of her words. On -either side of her a Hayman boy, his lean, taciturn, hungry face -turned towards his plate, ate his mutton steadily. - -These two, Giles and Jesse, were so alike and so inseparable that -they were known as the Dromios. They never talked, and seemed -always completely occupied in doing nothing. It was popularly -supposed that they were cramming for an important examination. -They walked without hats for long hours in the Gardens attached -to their house, books in their hands, a fox-terrier at their -heels, never saying a word, and smoking all the time. Every -morning, about fifty yards apart, they trotted down Campden Hill -on two lean hacks, with legs as long as their own, and every -morning about an hour later, still fifty yards apart, they -cantered up again. Every evening, wherever they had dined, they -might be observed about half-past ten, leaning over the -balustrade of the Alhambra promenade. - -They were never seen otherwise than together; in this way passing -their lives, apparently perfectly content. - -Inspired by some dumb stirring within them of the feelings of -gentlemen, they turned at this painful moment to Mrs. MacAnder, -and said in precisely the same voice: "Have you seen the...?" - -Such was her surprise at being thus addressed that she put down -her fork; and Smither, who was passing, promptly removed her -plate. Mrs. MacAnder, however, with presence of mind, said -instantly: "I must have a little more of that nice mutton." - -But afterwards in the drawing--room she sat down by Mrs. Small, -determined to get to the bottom of the matter. And she began: - -"What a charming woman, Mrs. Soames; such a sympathetic -temperament! Soames is a really lucky man!" - -Her anxiety for information had not made sufficient allowance for -that inner Forsyte skin which refuses to share its troubles with -outsiders. - -Mrs. Septimus Small, drawing herself up with a creak and rustle -of her whole person, said, shivering in her dignity: - -"My dear, it is a subject we do not talk about!" - - - - -CHAPTER II - -NIGHT IN THE PARK - - -Although with her infallible instinct Mrs. Small had said the -very thing to make her guest 'more intriguee than ever,' it is -difficult to see how else she could truthfully have spoken. - -It was not a subject which the Forsytes could talk about even -among themselves--to use the word Soames had invented to -characterize to himself the situation, it was 'subterranean.' - -Yet, within a week of Mrs. MacAnder's encounter in Richmond Park, -to all of them--save Timothy, from whom it was carefully kept--to -James on his domestic beat from the Poultry to Park Lane, to -George the wild one, on his daily adventure from the bow window -at the Haversnake to the billiard room at the 'Red Pottle,' was -it known that 'those two' had gone to extremes. - -George (it was he who invented many of those striking expressions -still current in fashionable circles) voiced the sentiment more -accurately than any one when he said to his brother Eustace that -'the Buccaneer' was 'going it'; he expected Soames was about 'fed -up.' - -It was felt that he must be, and yet, what could be done? He -ought perhaps to take steps; but to take steps would be -deplorable. - -Without an open scandal which they could not see their way to -recommending, it was difficult to see what steps could be taken. -In this impasse, the only thing was to say nothing to Soames, and -nothing to each other; in fact, to pass it over. - -By displaying towards Irene a dignified coldness, some impression -might be made upon her; but she was seldom now to be seen, and -there seemed a slight difficulty in seeking her out on purpose to -show her coldness. Sometimes in the privacy of his bedroom James -would reveal to Emily the real suffering that his son's -misfortune caused him. - -"I can't tell," he would say; "it worries me out of my life. -There'll be a scandal, and that'll do him no good. I shan't say -anything to him. There might be nothing in it. What do you -think? She's very artistic, they tell me. What? Oh, you're a -'regular Juley! Well, I don't know; I expect the worst. This is -what comes of having no children. I knew how it would be from -the first. They never told me they didn't mean to have any -children--nobody tells me anything!" - -On his knees by the side of the bed, his eyes open and fixed with -worry, he would breathe into the counterpane. Clad in his -nightshirt, his neck poked forward, his back rounded, he -resembled some long white bird. - -"Our Father-," he repeated, turning over and over again the -thought of this possible scandal. - -Like old Jolyon, he, too, at the bottom of his heart set the -blame of the tragedy down to family interference. What business -had that lot--he began to think of the Stanhope Gate branch, -including young Jolyon and his daughter, as 'that lot'--to -introduce a person like this Bosinney into the family? (He had -heard George's soubriquet, 'The Buccaneer,' but he could make -nothing of that--the young man was an architect.) - -He began to feel that his brother Jolyon, to whom he had always -looked up and on whose opinion he had relied, was not quite what -he had expected. - -Not having his eldest brother's force of character, he was more -sad than angry. His great comfort was to go to Winifred's, and -take the little Darties in his carriage over to Kensington -Gardens, and there, by the Round Pond, he could often be seen -walking with his eyes fixed anxiously on little Publius Dartie's -sailing-boat, which he had himself freighted with a penny, as -though convinced that it would never again come to shore; while -little Publius--who, James delighted to say, was not a bit like -his father skipping along under his lee, would try to get him to -bet another that it never would, having found that it always did. -And James would make the bet; he always paid--sometimes as many -as three or four pennies in the afternoon, for the game seemed -never to pall on little Publius--and always in paying he said: -"Now, that's for your money-box. Why, you're getting quite a -rich man!" The thought of his little grandson's growing wealth -was a real pleasure to him. But little Publius knew a -sweet-shop, and a trick worth two of that. - -And they would walk home across the Park, James' figure, with -high shoulders and absorbed and worried face, exercising its -tall, lean protectorship, pathetically unregarded, over the -robust child-figures of Imogen and little Publius. - -But those Gardens and that Park were not sacred to James. -Forsytes and tramps, children and lovers, rested and wandered day -after day, night after night, seeking one and all some freedom -from labour, from the reek and turmoil of the streets. - -The leaves browned slowly, lingering with the sun and summer-like -warmth of the nights. - -On Saturday, October 5, the sky that had been blue all day -deepened after sunset to the bloom of purple grapes. There was -no moon, and a clear dark, like some velvety garment, was wrapped -around the trees, whose thinned branches, resembling plumes, -stirred not in the still, warm air. All London had poured into -the Park, draining the cup of summer to its dregs. - -Couple after couple, from every gate, they streamed along the -paths and over the burnt grass, and one after another, silently -out of the lighted spaces, stole into the shelter of the feathery -trees, where, blotted against some trunk, or under the shadow of -shrubs, they were lost to all but themselves in the heart of the -soft darkness. - -To fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners formed but -part of that passionate dusk, whence only a strange murmur, like -the confused beating of hearts, came forth. But when that murmur -reached each couple in the lamp-light their voices wavered, and -ceased; their arms enlaced, their eyes began seeking, searching, -probing the blackness. Suddenly, as though drawn by invisible -hands, they, too, stepped over the railing, and, silent as -shadows, were gone from the light. - -The stillness, enclosed in the far, inexorable roar of the town, -was alive with the myriad passions, hopes, and loves of -multitudes of struggling human atoms; for in spite of the -disapproval of that great body of Forsytes, the Municipal -Council--to whom Love had long been considered, next to the -Sewage Question, the gravest danger to the community--a process -was going on that night in the Park, and in a hundred other -parks, without which the thousand factories, churches, shops, -taxes, and drains, of which they were custodians, were as -arteries without blood, a man without a heart. - -The instincts of self-forgetfulness, of passion, and of love, -hiding under the trees, away from the trustees of their -remorseless enemy, the 'sense of property,' were holding a -stealthy revel, and Soames, returning from Bayswater for he had -been alone to dine at Timothy's walking home along the water, -with his mind upon that coming lawsuit, had the blood driven from -his heart by a low laugh and the sound of kisses. He thought of -writing to the Times the next morning, to draw the attention of -the Editor to the condition of our parks. He did not, however, -for he had a horror of seeing his name in print. - -But starved as he was, the whispered sounds in the stillness, the -half-seen forms in the dark, acted on him like some morbid -stimulant. He left the path along the water and stole under the -trees, along the deep shadow of little plantations, where the -boughs of chestnut trees hung their great leaves low, and there -was blacker refuge, shaping his course in circles which had for -their object a stealthy inspection of chairs side by side, -against tree-trunks, of enlaced lovers, who stirred at his -approach. - -Now he stood still on the rise overlooking the Serpentine, where, -in full lamp-light, black against the silver water, sat a couple -who never moved, the woman's face buried on the man's neck--a -single form, like a carved emblem of passion, silent and -unashamed. - -And, stung by the sight, Soames hurried on deeper into the shadow -of the trees. - -In this search, who knows what he thought and what he sought? -Bread for hunger--light in darkness? Who knows what he expected -to find--impersonal knowledge of the human heart--the end of his -private subterranean tragedy--for, again, who knew, but that each -dark couple, unnamed, unnameable, might not be he and she? - -But it could not be such knowledge as this that he was seeking-- -the wife of Soames Forsyte sitting in the Park like a common -wench! Such thoughts were inconceivable; and from tree to tree, -with his noiseless step, he passed. - -Once he was sworn at; once the whisper, "If only it could always -be like this!" sent the blood flying again from his heart, and he -waited there, patient and dogged, for the two to move. But it -was only a poor thin slip of a shop-girl in her draggled blouse -who passed him, clinging to her lover's arm. - -A hundred other lovers too whispered that hope in the stillness -of the trees, a hundred other lovers clung to each other. - -But shaking himself with sudden disgust, Soames returned to the -path, and left that seeking for he knew not what. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -MEETING AT THE BOTANICAL - - -Young Jolyon, whose circumstances were not those of a Forsyte, -found at times a difficulty in sparing the money needful for -those country jaunts and researches into Nature, without having -prosecuted which no watercolour artist ever puts brush to paper. - -He was frequently, in fact, obliged to take his colour-box into -the Botanical Gardens, and there, on his stool, in the shade of a -monkey-puzzler or in the lee of some India-rubber plant, he would -spend long hours sketching. - -An Art critic who had recently been looking at his work had -delivered himself as follows - -"In a way your drawings are very good; tone and colour, in some -of them certainly quite a feeling for Nature. But, you see, -they're so scattered; you'll never get the public to look at -them. Now, if you'd taken a definite subject, such as 'London by -Night,' or 'The Crystal Palace in the Spring,' and made a regular -series, the public would have known at once what they were -looking at. I can't lay too much stress upon that. All the men -who are making great names in Art, like Crum Stone or Bleeder, -are making them by avoiding the unexpected; by specializing and -putting their works all in the same pigeon-hole, so that the -public know pat once where to go. And this stands to reason, for -if a man's a collector he doesn't want people to smell at the -canvas to find out whom his pictures are by; he wants them to be -able to say at once, 'A capital Forsyte!' It is all the more -important for you to be careful to choose a subject that they can -lay hold of on the spot, since there's no very marked originality -in your style." - -Young Jolyon, standing by the little piano, where a bowl of dried -rose leaves, the only produce of the garden, was deposited on a -bit of faded damask, listened with his dim smile. - -Turning to his wife, who was looking at the speaker with an angry -expression on her thin face, he said: - -"You see, dear?" - -"I do not," she answered in her staccato voice, that still had a -little foreign accent; "your style has originality." - -The critic looked at her, smiled' deferentially, and said no -more. Like everyone else, he knew their history. - -The words bore good fruit with young Jolyon; they were contrary -to all that he believed in, to all that he theoretically held -good in his Art, but some strange, deep instinct moved him -against his will to turn them to profit. - -He discovered therefore one morning that an idea had come to him -for making a series of watercolour drawings of London. How the -idea had arisen he could not tell; and it was not till the -following year, when he had completed and sold them at a very -fair price, that in one of his impersonal moods, he found himself -able to recollect the Art critic, and to discover in his own -achievement another proof that he was a Forsyte. - -He decided to commence with the Botanical Gardens, where he had -already made so many studies, and chose the little artificial -pond, sprinkled now with an autumn shower of red and yellow -leaves, for though the gardeners longed to sweep them off, they -could not reach them with their brooms. The rest of the gardens -they swept bare enough, removing every morning Nature's rain of -leaves; piling them in heaps, whence from slow fires rose the -sweet, acrid smoke that, like the cuckoo's note for spring, the -scent of lime trees for the summer, is the true emblem of the -fall. The gardeners' tidy souls could not abide the gold and -green and russet pattern on the grass. The gravel paths must lie -unstained, ordered, methodical, without knowledge of the -realities of life, nor of that slow and beautiful decay which -flings crowns underfoot to star the earth with fallen glories, -whence, as the cycle rolls, will leap again wild spring. - -Thus each leaf that fell was marked from the moment when it -fluttered a good-bye and dropped, slow turning, from its twig. - -But on that little pond the leaves floated in peace, and praised -Heaven with their hues, the sunlight haunting over them. - -And so young Jolyon found them. - -Coming there one morning in the middle of October, he was -disconcerted to find a bench about twenty paces from his stand -occupied, for he had a proper horror of anyone seeing him at -work. - -A lady in a velvet jacket was sitting there, with her eyes fixed -on the ground. A flowering laurel, however, stood between, and, -taking shelter behind this, young Jolyon prepared his easel. - -His preparations were leisurely; he caught, as every true artist -should, at anything that might delay for a moment the effort of -his work, and he found himself looking furtively at this unknown -dame. - -Like his father before him, he had an eye for a face. This face -was charming! - -He saw a rounded chin nestling in a cream ruffle, a delicate face -with large dark eyes and soft lips. A black 'picture' hat -concealed the hair; her figure was lightly poised against the -back of the bench, her knees were crossed; the tip of a -patent-leather shoe emerged beneath her skirt. There was -something, indeed, inexpressibly dainty about the person of this -lady, but young Jolyon's attention was chiefly riveted by the -look on her face, which reminded him of his wife. It was as -though its owner had come into contact with forces too strong for -her. It troubled him, arousing vague feelings of attraction and -chivalry. Who was she? And what doing there, alone? - -Two young gentlemen of that peculiar breed, at once forward and -shy, found in the Regent's Park, came by on their way to lawn -tennis, and he noted with disapproval their furtive stares of -admiration. A loitering gardener halted to do something -unnecessary to a clump of pampas grass; he, too, wanted an excuse -for peeping. A gentleman, old, and, by his hat, a professor of -horticulture, passed three times to scrutinize her long and -stealthily, a queer expression about his lips. - -With all these men young Jolyon felt the same vague irritation. -She looked at none of them, yet was he certain that every man who -passed would look at her like that. - -Her face was not the face of a sorceress, who in every look holds -out to men the offer of pleasure; it had none of the 'devil's -beauty' so highly prized among the first Forsytes of the land; -neither was it of that type, no less adorable, associated with -the box of chocolate; it was not of the spiritually passionate, -or passionately spiritual order, peculiar to house-decoration and -modern poetry; nor did it seem to promise to the playwright -material for the production of the interesting and neurasthenic -figure, who commits suicide in the last act. - -In shape and colouring, in its soft persuasive passivity, its -sensuous purity, this woman's face reminded him of Titian's -'Heavenly Love,' a reproduction of which hung over the sideboard -in his dining-room. And her attraction seemed to be in this soft -passivity, in the feeling she gave that to pressure she must -yield. - -For what or whom was she waiting, in the silence, with the trees -dropping here and there a leaf, and the thrushes strutting close -on grass, touched with the sparkle of the autumn rime? Then her -charming face grew eager, and, glancing round, with almost a -lover's jealousy, young Jolyon saw Bosinney striding across the -grass. - -Curiously he watched the meeting, the look in their eyes, the -long clasp of their hands. They sat down close together, linked -for all their outward discretion. He heard the rapid murmur of -their talk; but what they said he could not catch. - -He had rowed in the galley himself! He knew the long hours of -waiting and the lean minutes of a half-public meeting; the -tortures of suspense that haunt the unhallowed lover. - -It required, however, but a glance at their two faces to see that -this was none of those affairs of a season that distract men and -women about town; none of those sudden appetites that wake up -ravening, and are surfeited and asleep again in six weeks. This -was the real thing! This was what had happened to himself! Out -of this anything might come! - -Bosinney was pleading, and she so quiet, so soft, yet immovable -in her passivity, sat looking over the grass. - -Was he the man to carry her off, that tender, passive being, who -would never stir a step for herself? Who had given him all -herself, and would die for him, but perhaps would never run away -with him! - -It seemed to young Jolyon that he could hear her saying: "But, -darling, it would ruin you!" For he himself had experienced to -the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of each woman's heart -that she is a drag on the man she loves. - -And he peeped at them no more; but their soft, rapid talk came to -his ears, with the stuttering song of some bird who seemed trying -to remember the notes of spring: Joy--tragedy? Which--which? - -And gradually their talk ceased; long silence followed. - -'And where does Soames come in?' young Jolyon thought. 'People -think she is concerned about the sin of deceiving her husband! -Little they know of women! She's eating, after starvation-- -taking her revenge! And Heaven help her--for he'll take his.' - -He heard the swish of silk, and, spying round the laurel, saw -them walking away, their hands stealthily joined.... - -At the end of July old Jolyon had taken his grand-daughter to the -mountains; and on that visit (the last they ever paid) June -recovered to a great extent her health and spirits. In the -hotels, filled with British Forsytes--for old Jolyon could not -bear a 'set of Germans,' as he called all foreigners--she was -looked upon with respect--the only grand-daughter of that fine- -looking, and evidently wealthy, old Mr. Forsyte. She did not mix -freely with people--to mix freely with people was not June's -habit--but she formed some friendships, and notably one in the -Rhone Valley, with a French girl who was dying of consumption. - -Determining at once that her friend should not die, she forgot, -in the institution of a campaign against Death, much of her own -trouble. - -Old Jolyon watched the new intimacy with relief and disapproval; -for this additional proof that her life was to be passed amongst -'lame ducks' worried him. Would she never make a friendship or -take an interest in something that would be of real benefit to -her? - -'Taking up with a parcel of foreigners,' he called it. He often, -however, brought home grapes or roses, and presented them to -'Mam'zelle' with an ingratiating twinkle. - -Towards the end of September, in spite of June's disapproval, -Mademoiselle Vigor breathed her last in the little hotel at St. -Luc, to which they had moved her; and June took her defeat so -deeply to heart that old Jolyon carried her away to Paris. Here, -in contemplation of the 'Venus de Milo' and the 'Madeleine,' she -shook off her depression, and when, towards the middle of -October, they returned to town, her grandfather believed that he -had effected a cure. - -No sooner, however, had they established themselves in Stanhope -Gate than he perceived to his dismay a return of her old absorbed -and brooding manner. She would sit, staring in front of her, her -chin on her hand, like a little Norse spirit, grim and intent, -while all around in the electric light, then just installed, -shone the great, drawing-room brocaded up to the frieze, full of -furniture from Baple and Pullbred's. And in the huge gilt mirror -were reflected those Dresden china groups of young men in tight -knee breeches, at the feet of full-bosomed ladies nursing on -their laps pet lambs, which old Jolyon had bought when he was a -bachelor and thought so highly of in these days of degenerate -taste. He was a man of most open mind, who, more than any -Forsyte of them all, had moved with the times, but he could never -forget that he had bought these groups at Jobson's, and given a -lot of money for them. He often said to June, with a sort of -disillusioned contempt: - -"You don't care about them! They're not the gimcrack things you -and your friends like, but they cost me seventy pounds!" He was -not a man who allowed his taste to be warped when he knew for -solid reasons that it was sound. - -One of the first things that June did on getting home was to go -round to Timothy's. She persuaded herself that it was her duty -to call there, and cheer him with an account of all her travels; -but in reality she went because she knew of no other place where, -by some random speech, or roundabout question, she could glean -news of Bosinney. - -They received her most cordially: And how was her dear grand- -father? He had not been to see them since May. Her Uncle -Timothy was very poorly, he had had a lot of trouble with the -chimney-sweep in his bedroom; the stupid man had let the soot -down the chimney! It had quite upset her uncle. - -June sat there a long time, dreading, yet passionately hoping, -that they would speak of Bosinney. - -But paralyzed by unaccountable discretion, Mrs. Septimus Small -let fall no word, neither did she question June about him. In -desperation the girl asked at last whether Soames and Irene were -in town--she had not yet been to see anyone. - -It was Aunt Hester who replied: Oh, yes, they were in town, they -had not been away at all. There was some little difficulty about -the house, she believed. June had heard, no doubt! She had -better ask her Aunt Juley! - -June turned to Mrs. Small, who sat upright in her chair, her -hands clasped, her face covered with innumerable pouts. In -answer to the girl's look she maintained a strange silence, and -when she spoke it was to ask June whether she had worn night- -socks up in those high hotels where it must be so cold of a -night. - -June answered that she had not, she hated the stuffy things; and -rose to leave. - -Mrs. Small's infallibly chosen silence was far more ominous to -her than anything that could have been said. - -Before half an hour was over she had dragged the truth from Mrs. -Baynes in Lowndes Square, that Soames was bringing an action -against Bosinney over the decoration of the house. - -Instead of disturbing her, the news had a strangely calming -effect; as though she saw in the prospect of this struggle new -hope for herself. She learnt that the case was expected to come -on in about a month, and there seemed little or no prospect of -Bosinney's success. - -"And whatever he'll do I can't think," said Mrs. Baynes; "it's -very dreadful for him, you know--he's got no money--he's very -hard up. And we can't help him, I'm sure. I'm told the -money-lenders won't lend if you have no security, and he has -none--none at all." - -Her embonpoint had increased of late; she was in the full swing -of autumn organization, her writing-table literally strewn with -the menus of charity functions. She looked meaningly at June, -with her round eyes of parrot-grey. - -The sudden flush that rose on the girl's intent young face--she -must have seen spring up before her a great hope--the sudden -sweetness of her smile, often came back to Lady Baynes in after -years (Baynes was knighted when he built that public Museum of -Art which has given so much employment to officials, and so -little pleasure to those working classes for whom it was -designed). - -The memory of that change, vivid and touching, like the breaking -open of a flower, or the first sun after long winter, the memory, -too, of all that came after, often intruded itself, unaccountably, -inopportunely on Lady Baynes, when her mind was set upon the most -important things. - -This was the very afternoon of the day that young Jolyon -witnessed the meeting in the Botanical Gardens, and on this day, -too, old Jolyon paid a visit to his solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard, -and Forsyte, in the Poultry. Soames was not in, he had gone down -to Somerset House; Bustard was buried up to the hilt in papers -and that inaccessible apartment, where he was judiciously placed, -in order that he might do as much work as possible; but James was -in the front office, biting a finger, and lugubriously turning -over the pleadings in Forsyte v. Bosinney. - -This sound lawyer had only a sort of luxurious dread of the 'nice -point,' enough to set up a pleasurable feeling of fuss; for his -good practical sense told him that if he himself were on the -Bench he would not pay much attention to it. But he was afraid -that this Bosinney would go bankrupt and Soames would have to -find the money after all, and costs into the bargain. And behind -this tangible dread there was always that intangible trouble, -lurking in the background, intricate, dim, scandalous, like a bad -dream, and of which this action was but an outward and visible -sign. - -He raised his head as old Jolyon came in, and muttered: "How are -you, Jolyon? Haven't seen you for an age. You've been to -Switzerland, they tell me. This young Bosinney, he's got himself -into a mess. I knew how it would be!" He held out the papers, -regarding his elder brother with nervous gloom. - -Old Jolyon read them in silence, and while he read them James -looked at the floor, biting his fingers the while. - -Old Jolyon pitched them down at last, and they fell with a thump -amongst a mass of affidavits in 're Buncombe, deceased,' one of -the many branches of that parent and profitable tree, 'Fryer v. -Forsyte.' - -"I don't know what Soames is about," he said, "to make a fuss -over a few hundred pounds. I thought he was a man of property." - -James'long upper lip twitched angrily; he could not bear his son -to be attacked in such a spot. - -"It's not the money "he began, but meeting his brother's glance, -direct, shrewd, judicial, he stopped. - -There was a silence. - -"I've come in for my Will," said old Jolyon at last, tugging at -his moustache. - -James' curiosity was roused at once. Perhaps nothing in this -life was more stimulating to him than a Will; it was the supreme -deal with property, the final inventory of a man's belongings, -the last word on what he was worth. He sounded the bell. - -"Bring in Mr. Jolyon's Will," he said to an anxious, dark-haired -clerk. - -"You going to make some alterations?" And through his mind there -flashed the thought: 'Now, am I worth as much as he?' - -Old Jolyon put the Will in his breast pocket, and James twisted -his long legs regretfully. - -"You've made some nice purchases lately, they tell me," he said. - -"I don't know where you get your information from," answered old -Jolyon sharply. "When's this action coming on? Next month? I -can't tell what you've got in your minds. You must manage your -own affairs; but if you take my advice, you'll settle it out of -Court. Good-bye!" With a cold handshake he was gone. - -James, his fixed grey-blue eye corkscrewing round some secret -anxious image, began again to bite his finger. - -Old Jolyon took his Will to the offices of the New Colliery -Company, and sat down in the empty Board Room to read it through. -He answered 'Down-by-the-starn' Hemmings so tartly when the -latter, seeing his Chairman seated there, entered with the new -Superintendent's first report, that the Secretary withdrew with -regretful dignity; and sending for the transfer clerk, blew him -up till the poor youth knew not where to look. - -It was not--by George--as he (Down-by-the-starn) would have him -know, for a whippersnapper of a young fellow like him, to come -down to that office, and think that he was God Almighty. He -(Down-by-the-starn) had been head of that office for more years -than a boy like him could count, and if he thought that when he -had finished all his work, he could sit there doing nothing, he -did not know him, Hemmings (Down-by-the-starn), and so forth. - -On the other side of the green baize door old Jolyon sat at the -long, mahogany-and-leather board table, his thick, loose-jointed, -tortoiseshell eye-glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his -gold pencil moving down the clauses of his Will. - -It was a simple affair, for there were none of those vexatious -little legacies and donations to charities, which fritter away a -man's possessions, and damage the majestic effect of that little -paragraph in the morning papers accorded to Forsytes who die with -a hundred thousand pounds. - -A simple affair. Just a bequest to his son of twenty thousand, -and 'as to the residue of my property of whatsoever kind whether -realty or personalty, or partaking of the nature of either--upon -trust to pay the proceeds rents annual produce dividends or -interest thereof and thereon to my said grand-daughter June -Forsyte or her assigns during her life to be for her sole use and -benefit and without, etc... and from and after her death or -decease upon trust to convey assign transfer or make over the -said last-mentioned lands hereditaments premises trust moneys -stocks funds investments and securities or such as shall then -stand for and represent the same unto such person or persons -whether one or more for such intents purposes and uses and -generally in such manner way and form in all respects as the said -June Forsyte notwithstanding coverture shall by her last Will and -Testament or any writing or writings in the nature of a Will -testament or testamentary disposition to be by her duly made -signed and published direct appoint or make over give and dispose -of the same And in default etc.... Provided always...' and so on, -in seven folios of brief and simple phraseology. - -The Will had been drawn by James in his palmy days. He had -foreseen almost every contingency. - -Old Jolyon sat a long time reading this Will; at last he took -half a sheet of paper from the rack, and made a prolonged pencil -note; then buttoning up the Will, he caused a cab to be called -and drove to the offices of Paramor and Herring, in Lincoln's Inn -Fields. Jack Herring was dead, but his nephew was still in the -firm, and old Jolyon was closeted with him for half an hour. - -He had kept the hansom, and on coming out, gave the driver the -address--3, Wistaria Avenue. - -He felt a strange, slow satisfaction, as though he had scored a -victory over James and the man of property. They should not poke -their noses into his affairs any more; he had just cancelled -their trusteeships of his Will; he would take the whole of his -business out of their hands, and put it into the hands of young -Herring, and he would move the business of his Companies too. If -that young Soames were such a man of property, he would never -miss a thousand a year or so; and under his great white moustache -old Jolyon grimly smiled. He felt that what he was doing was in -the nature of retributive justice, richly deserved. - -Slowly, surely, with the secret inner process that works the -destruction of an old tree, the poison of the wounds to his -happiness, his will, his pride, had corroded the comely edifice -of his philosophy. Life had worn him down on one side, till, -like that family of which he was the head, he had lost balance. - -To him, borne northwards towards his son's house, the thought of -the new disposition of property, which he had just set in motion, -appeared vaguely in the light of a stroke of punishment, levelled -at that family and that Society, of which James and his son -seemed to him the representatives. He had made a restitution to -young Jolyon, and restitution to young Jolyon satisfied his -secret craving for revenge-revenge against Time, sorrow, and -interference, against all that incalculable sum of disapproval -that had been bestowed by the world for fifteen years on his only -son. It presented itself as the one possible way of asserting -once more the domination of his will; of forcing James, and -Soames, and the family, and all those hidden masses of Forsytes-- -a great stream rolling against the single dam of his obstinacy-- -to recognise once and for all that be would be master. It was -sweet to think that at last he was going to make the boy a richer -man by far than that son of James, that 'man of property.' And it -was sweet to give to Jo, for he loved his son. - -Neither young Jolyon nor his wife were in (young Jolyon indeed -was not back from the Botanical), but the little maid told him -that she expected the master at any moment: - -"He's always at 'ome to tea, sir, to play with the children." - -Old Jolyon said he would wait; and sat down patiently enough in -the faded, shabby drawing room, where, now that the summer -chintzes were removed, the old chairs and sofas revealed all -their threadbare deficiencies. He longed to send for the -children; to have them there beside him, their supple bodies -against his knees; to hear Jolly's: "Hallo, Gran!" and see his -rush; and feel Holly's soft little hand stealing up against his -cheek. But he would not. There was solemnity in what he had -come to do, and until it was over he would not play. He amused -himself by thinking how with two strokes of his pen he was going -to restore the look of caste so conspicuously absent from -everything in that little house; how he could fill these rooms, -or others in some larger mansion, with triumphs of art from Baple -and Pullbred's; how he could send little Jolly to Harrow and -Oxford (he no longer had faith in Eton and Cambridge, for his son -had been there); how he could procure little Holly the best -musical instruction, the child had a remarkable aptitude. - -As these visions crowded before him, causing emotion to swell his -heart, he rose, and stood at the window, looking down into the -little walled strip of garden, where the pear-tree, bare of -leaves before its time, stood with gaunt branches in the -slow-gathering mist of the autumn afternoon. The dog Balthasar, -his tail curled tightly over a piebald, furry back, was walking -at the farther end, sniffing at the plants, and at intervals -placing his leg for support against the wall. - -And old Jolyon mused. - -What pleasure was there left but to give? It was pleasant to -give, when you could find one who would be thankful for what you -gave--one of your own flesh and blood! There was no such -satisfaction to be had out of giving to those who did not belong -to you, to those who had no claim on you! Such giving as that -was a betrayal of the individualistic convictions and actions of -his life, of all his enterprise, his labour, and his moderation, -of the great and proud fact that, like tens of thousands of -Forsytes before him, tens of thousands in the present, tens of -thousands in the future, he had always made his own, and held his -own, in the world. - -And, while he stood there looking down on the smut-covered -foliage of the laurels, the blackstained grass-plot, the progress -of the dog Balthasar, all the suffering of the fifteen years -during which he had been baulked of legitimate enjoyment mingled -its gall with the sweetness of the approaching moment. - -Young Jolyon came at last, pleased with his work, and fresh from -long hours in the open air. On hearing that his father was in -the drawing room, he inquired hurriedly whether Mrs. Forsyte was -at home, and being informed that she was not, heaved a sigh of -relief. Then putting his painting materials carefully in the -little coat-closet out of sight, he went in. - -With characteristic decision old Jolyon came at once to the -point. "I've been altering my arrangements, Jo," he said. "You -can cut your coat a bit longer in the future--I'm settling a -thousand a year on you at once. June will have fifty thousand at -my death; and you the rest. That dog of yours is spoiling the -garden. I shouldn't keep a dog, if I were you!" - -The dog Balthasar, seated in the centre of the lawn, was -examining his tail. - -Young Jolyon looked at the animal, but saw him dimly, for his -eyes were misty. - -"Yours won't come short of a hundred thousand, my boy," said old -Jolyon; "I thought you'd better know. I haven't much longer to -live at my age. I shan't allude to it again. How's your wife? -And--give her my love." - -Young Jolyon put his hand on his father's shoulder, and, as -neither spoke, the episode closed. - -Having seen his father into a hansom, young Jolyon came back to -the drawing-room and stood, where old Jolyon had stood, looking -down on the little garden. He tried to realize all that this -meant to him, and, Forsyte that he was, vistas of property were -opened out in his brain; the years of half rations through which -he had passed had not sapped his natural instincts. In extremely -practical form, he thought of travel, of his wife's costume, the -children's education, a pony for Jolly, a thousand things; but in -the midst of all he thought, too, of Bosinney and his mistress, -and the broken song of the thrush. Joy--tragedy! Which? Which? - -The old past--the poignant, suffering, passionate, wonderful -past, that no money could buy, that nothing could restore in all -its burning sweetness--had come back before him. - -When his wife came in he went straight up to her and took her in -his arms; and for a long time he stood without speaking, his eyes -closed, pressing her to him, while she looked at him with a -wondering, adoring, doubting look in her eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -VOYAGE INTO THE INFERNO - - -The morning after a certain night on which Soames at last -asserted his rights and acted like a man, he breakfasted alone. - -He breakfasted by gaslight, the fog of late November wrapping the -town as in some monstrous blanket till the trees of the Square -even were barely visible from the diningroom window. - -He ate steadily, but at times a sensation as though he could not -swallow attacked him. Had he been right to yield to his -overmastering hunger of the night before, and break down the -resistance which he had suffered now too long from this woman who -was his lawful and solemnly constituted helpmate? - -He was strangely haunted by the recollection of her face, from -before which, to soothe her, he had tried to pull her hands--of -her terrible smothered sobbing, the like of which he had never -heard, and still seemed to hear; and he was still haunted by the -odd, intolerable feeling of remorse and shame he had felt, as he -stood looking at her by the flame of the single candle, before -silently slinking away. - -And somehow, now that he had acted like this, he was surprised at -himself. - -Two nights before, at Winifred Dartie's, he had taken Mrs. -MacAnder into dinner. She had said to him, looking in his face -with her sharp, greenish eyes: "And so your wife is a great -friend of that Mr. Bosinney's?" - -Not deigning to ask what she meant, he had brooded over her -words. - -They had roused in him a fierce jealousy, which, with the -peculiar perversion of this instinct, had turned to fiercer -desire. - -Without the incentive of Mrs. MacAnder's words he might never -have done what he had done. Without their incentive and the -accident of finding his wife's door for once unlocked, which had -enabled him to steal upon her asleep. - -Slumber had removed his doubts, but the morning brought them -again. One thought comforted him: No one would know--it was not -the sort of thing that she would speak about. - -And, indeed, when the vehicle of his daily business life, which -needed so imperatively the grease of clear and practical thought, -started rolling once more with the reading of his letters, those -nightmare-like doubts began to assume less extravagant importance -at the back of his mind. The incident was really not of great -moment; women made a fuss about it in books; but in the cool -judgment of right-thinking men, of men of the world, of such as -he recollected often received praise in the Divorce Court, he had -but done his best to sustain the sanctity of marriage, to prevent -her from abandoning her duty, possibly, if she were still seeing -Bosinney, from.... - -No, he did not regret it. - -Now that the first step towards reconciliation had been taken, -the rest would be comparatively--comparatively.... - -He, rose and walked to the window. His nerve had been shaken. -The sound of smothered sobbing was in his ears again. He could -not get rid of it. - -He put on his fur coat, and went out into the fog; having to go -into the City, he took the underground railway from Sloane Square -station. - -In his corner of the first-class compartment filled with City men -the smothered sobbing still haunted him, so he opened the Times -with the rich crackle that drowns all lesser sounds, and, -barricaded behind it, set himself steadily to con the news. - -He read that a Recorder had charged a grand jury on the previous -day with a more than usually long list of offences. He read of -three murders, five manslaughters, seven arsons, and as many as -eleven rapes--a surprisingly high number--in addition to many -less conspicuous crimes, to be tried during a coming Sessions; -and from one piece of news he went on to another, keeping the -paper well before his face. - -And still, inseparable from his reading, was the memory of -Irene's tear-stained face, and the sounds from her broken heart. - -The day was a busy one, including, in addition to the ordinary -affairs of his practice, a visit to his brokers, Messrs. Grin -and Grinning, to give them instructions to sell his shares in the -New Colliery Co., Ltd., whose business he suspected, rather than -knew, was stagnating (this enterprise afterwards slowly declined, -and was ultimately sold for a song to an American syndicate); and -a long conference at Waterbuck, Q.C.'s chambers, attended by -Boulter, by Fiske, the junior counsel, and Waterbuck, Q.C., -himself. - -The case of Forsyte v. Bosinney was expected to be reached on -the morrow, before Mr. Justice Bentham. - -Mr. Justice Bentham, a man of common-sense rather than too great -legal knowledge, was considered to be about the best man they -could have to try the action. He was a 'strong' Judge. - -Waterbuck, Q.C., in pleasing conjunction with an almost rude -neglect of Boulter and Fiske paid to Soames a good deal of -attention, by instinct or the sounder evidence of rumour, feeling -him to be a man of property. - -He held with remarkable consistency to the opinion he had already -expressed in writing, that the issue would depend to a great -extent on the evidence given at the trial, and in a few well -directed remarks he advised Soames not to be too careful in -giving that evidence. "A little bluffness, Mr. Forsyte," he said, -"a little bluffness," and after he had spoken he laughed firmly, -closed his lips tight, and scratched his head just below where he -had pushed his wig back, for all the world like the gentleman- -farmer for whom he loved to be taken. He was considered perhaps -the leading man in breach of promise cases. - -Soames used the underground again in going home. - -The fog was worse than ever at Sloane Square station. Through -the still, thick blur, men groped in and out; women, very few, -grasped their reticules to their bosoms and handkerchiefs to -their mouths; crowned with the weird excrescence of the driver, -haloed by a vague glow of lamp-light that seemed to drown in -vapour before it reached the pavement, cabs loomed dimshaped ever -and again, and discharged citizens, bolting like rabbits to their -burrows. - -And these shadowy figures, wrapped each in his own little shroud -of fog, took no notice of each other. In the great warren, each -rabbit for himself, especially those clothed in the more -expensive fur, who, afraid of carriages on foggy days, are driven -underground. - -One figure, however, not far from Soames, waited at the station -door. - -Some buccaneer or lover, of whom each Forsyte thought: 'Poor -devil! looks as if he were having a bad time!' Their kind hearts -beat a stroke faster for that poor, waiting, anxious lover in the -fog; but they hurried by, well knowing that they had neither time -nor money to spare for any suffering but their own. - -Only a policeman, patrolling slowly and at intervals, took an -interest in that waiting figure, the brim of whose slouch hat -half hid a face reddened by the cold, all thin, and haggard, over -which a hand stole now and again to smooth away anxiety, or renew -the resolution that kept him waiting there. But the waiting -lover (if lover he were) was used to policemen's scrutiny, or too -absorbed in his anxiety, for he never flinched. A hardened case, -accustomed to long trysts, to anxiety, and fog, and cold, if only -his mistress came at last. Foolish lover! Fogs last until the -spring; there is also snow and rain, no comfort anywhere; gnawing -fear if you bring her out, gnawing fear if you bid her stay at -home! - -"Serve him right; he should arrange his affairs better!" - -So any respectable Forsyte. Yet, if that sounder citizen could -have listened at the waiting lover's heart, out there in the fog -and the cold, he would have said again: "Yes, poor devil he's -having a bad time!" - -Soames got into his cab, and, with the glass down, crept along -Sloane Street, and so along the Brompton Road, and home. He -reached his house at five. - -His wife was not in. She had gone out a quarter of an hour -before. Out at such a time of night, into this terrible fog! -What was the meaning of that? - -He sat by the dining-room fire, with the door open, disturbed to -the soul, trying to read the evening paper. A book was no good-- -in daily papers alone was any narcotic to such worry as his. -From the customary events recorded in the journal he drew some -comfort. 'Suicide of an actress'--'Grave indisposition of a -Statesman' (that chronic sufferer)--'Divorce of an army officer' ---'Fire in a colliery'--he read them all. They helped him a -little--prescribed by the greatest of all doctors, our natural -taste. - -It was nearly seven when he heard her come in. - -The incident of the night before had long lost its importance -under stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. But -now that Irene was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing -came back to him, and he felt nervous at the thought of facing -her. - -She was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her -knees, its high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick -veil. - -She neither turned to look at him nor spoke. No ghost or -stranger could have passed more silently. - -Bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that Mrs. Forsyte was not -coming down; she was having the soup in her room. - -For once Soames did not 'change'; it was, perhaps, the first time -in his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, -and, not even noticing them, he brooded long over his wine. He -sent Bilson to light a fire in his picture-room, and presently -went up there himself. - -Turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst -these treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, -around the little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. -He went straight up to the greatest treasure of them all, an -undoubted Turner, and, carrying it to the easel, turned its face -to the light. There had been a movement in Turners, but he had -not been able to make up his mind to part with it. He stood for -a long time, his pale, clean-shaven face poked forward above his -stand-up collar, looking at the picture as though he were adding -it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes; he found, -perhaps, that it came to too little. He took it down from the -easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room, -stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing. - -It was nothing--only the sort of thing that had been bothering -him in the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard -before the blazing fire, he stole downstairs. - -Fresh for the morrow! was his thought. It was long before he -went to sleep.... - -It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on -the events of that fog-engulfed afternoon. - -The wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the Forsytes had passed -the day reading a novel in the paternal mansion at Princes' -Gardens. Since a recent crisis in his financial affairs he had -been kept on parole by Roger, and compelled to reside 'at home.' - -Towards five o'clock he went out, and took train at South -Kensington Station (for everyone to-day went Underground). His -intention was to dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at -the Red Pottle--that unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good -gilt restaurant. - -He got out at Charing Cross, choosing it in preference to his -more usual St. James's Park, that he might reach Jermyn Street -by better lighted ways. - -On the platform his eyes--for in combination with a composed and -fashionable appearance, George had sharp eyes, and was always on -the look-out for fillips to his sardonic humour--his eyes were -attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, -staggered rather than walked towards the exit. - -'So ho, my bird!' said George to himself; 'why, it's "the -Buccaneer!"' and he put his big figure on the trail. Nothing -afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man. - -Bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun -around, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left. -He was too late. A porter caught him by the coat; the train was -already moving on. - -George's practised glance caught sight of the face of a lady clad -in a grey fur coat at the carriage window. It was Mrs. Soames-- -and George felt that this was interesting! - -And now he followed Bosinney more closely than ever--up the -stairs, past the ticket collector into the street. In that -progress, however, his feelings underwent a change; no longer -merely curious and amused, he felt sorry for the poor fellow he -was shadowing. 'The Buccaneer' was not drunk, but seemed to be -acting under the stress of violent emotion; he was talking to -himself, and all that George could catch were the words "Oh, -God!" Nor did he appear to know what he was doing, or where -going; but stared, hesitated, moved like a man out of his mind; -and from being merely a joker in search of amusement, George felt -that he must see the poor chap through. - -He had 'taken the knock'--'taken the knock!' And he wondered what -on earth Mrs. Soames had been saying, what on earth she had been -telling him in the railway carriage. She had looked bad enough -herself! It made George sorry to think of her travelling on with -her trouble all alone. - -He followed close behind Bosinney's elbow--tall, burly figure, -saying nothing, dodging warily--and shadowed him out into the -fog. - -There was something here beyond a jest! He kept his head -admirably, in spite of some excitement, for in addition to -compassion, the instincts of the chase were roused within him. - -Bosinney walked right out into the thoroughfare--a vast muffled -blackness, where a man could not see six paces before him; where, -all around, voices or whistles mocked the sense of direction; and -sudden shapes came rolling slow upon them; and now and then a -light showed like a dim island in an infinite dark sea. - -And fast into this perilous gulf of night walked Bosinney, and -fast after him walked George. If the fellow meant to put his -'twopenny' under a 'bus, he would stop it if he could! Across -the street and back the hunted creature strode, not groping as -other men were groping in that gloom, but driven forward as -though the faithful George behind wielded a knout; and this chase -after a haunted man began to have for George the strangest -fascination. - -But it was now that the affair developed in a way which ever -afterwards caused it to remain green in his mind. Brought to a -stand-still in the fog, he heard words which threw a sudden light -on these proceedings. What Mrs. Soames had said to Bosinney in -the train was now no longer dark. George understood from those -mutterings that Soames had exercised his rights over an estranged -and unwilling wife in the greatest--the supreme act of property. - -His fancy wandered in the fields of this situation; it impressed -him; he guessed something of the anguish, the sexual confusion -and horror in Bosinney's heart. And he thought: 'Yes, it's a bit -thick! I don't wonder the poor fellow is halfcracked!' - -He had run his quarry to earth on a bench under one of the lions -in Trafalgar Square, a monster sphynx astray like themselves in -that gulf of darkness. Here, rigid and silent, sat Bosinney, and -George, in whose patience was a touch of strange brotherliness, -took his stand behind. He was not lacking in a certain delicacy- --a sense of form--that did not permit him to intrude upon this -tragedy, and he waited, quiet as the lion above, his fur collar -hitched above his ears concealing the fleshy redness of his -cheeks, concealing all but his eyes with their sardonic, -compassionate stare. And men kept passing back from business on -the way to their clubs--men whose figures shrouded in cocoons of -fog came into view like spectres, and like spectres vanished. -Then even in his compassion George's Quilpish humour broke forth -in a sudden longing to pluck these spectres by the sleeve, and -say: - -"Hi, you Johnnies! You don't often see a show like this! Here's -a poor devil whose mistress has just been telling him a pretty -little story of her husband; walk up, walk up! He's taken the -knock, you see." - -In fancy he saw them gaping round the tortured lover; and grinned -as he thought of some respectable, newly-married spectre enabled -by the state of his own affections to catch an inkling of what -was going on within Bosinney; he fancied he could see his mouth -getting wider and wider, and the fog going down and down. For in -George was all that contempt of the of the married middle-class-- -peculiar to the wild and sportsmanlike spirits in its ranks. - -But he began to be bored. Waiting was not what he had bargained -for. - -'After all,' he thought, 'the poor chap will get over it; not the -first time such a thing has happened in this little city!' But -now his quarry again began muttering words of violent hate and -anger. And following a sudden impulse George touched him on the -shoulder. - -Bosinney spun round. - -"Who are you? What do you want?" - -George could have stood it well enough in the light of the gas -lamps, in the light of that everyday world of which he was so -hardy a connoisseur; but in this fog, where all was gloomy and -unreal, where nothing had that matter-of-fact value associated by -Forsytes with earth, he was a victim to strange qualms, and as he -tried to stare back into the eyes of this maniac, he thought: - -'If I see a bobby, I'll hand him over; he's not fit to be at -large.' - -But waiting for no answer, Bosinney strode off into the fog, and -George followed, keeping perhaps a little further off, yet more -than ever set on tracking him down. - -'He can't go on long like this,' he thought. 'It's God's own -miracle he's not been run over already.' He brooded no more on -policemen, a sportsman's sacred fire alive again within him. - -Into a denser gloom than ever Bosinney held on at a furious pace; -but his pursuer perceived more method in his madness--he was -clearly making his way westwards. - -'He's really going for Soames!' thought George. The idea was -attractive. It would be a sporting end to such a chase. He had -always disliked his cousin. - -The shaft of a passing cab brushed against his shoulder and made -him leap aside. He did not intend to be killed for the Buccaneer, -or anyone. Yet, with hereditary tenacity, he stuck to the trail -through vapour that blotted out everything but the shadow of the -hunted man and the dim moon of the nearest lamp. - -Then suddenly, with the instinct of a town-stroller, George knew -himself to be in Piccadilly. Here he could find his way blindfold; -and freed from the strain of geographical uncertainty, his mind -returned to Bosinney's trouble. - -Down the long avenue of his man-about-town experience, bursting, -as it were, through a smirch of doubtful amours, there stalked to -him a memory of his youth. A memory, poignant still, that brought -the scent of hay, the gleam of moonlight, a summer magic, into -the reek and blackness of this London fog--the memory of a night -when in the darkest shadow of a lawn he had overheard from a -woman's lips that he was not her sole possessor. And for a moment -George walked no longer in black Piccadilly, but lay again, with -hell in his heart, and his face to the sweet-smelling, dewy grass, -in the long shadow of poplars that hid the moon. - -A longing seized him to throw his arm round the Buccaneer, and -say, "Come, old boy. Time cures all. Let's go and drink it off!" - -But a voice yelled at him, and he started back. A cab rolled out -of blackness, and into blackness disappeared. And suddenly -George perceived that he had lost Bosinney. He ran forward and -back, felt his heart clutched by a sickening fear, the dark fear -which lives in the wings of the fog. Perspiration started out on -his brow. He stood quite still, listening with all his might. - -"And then," as he confided to Dartie the same evening in the -course of a game of billiards at the Red Pottle, "I lost him." - -Dartie twirled complacently at his dark moustache. He had just -put together a neat break of twenty-three,--failing at a 'Jenny.' -"And who was she?" he asked. - -George looked slowly at the 'man of the world's' fattish, sallow -face, and a little grim smile lurked about the curves of his -cheeks and his heavy-lidded eyes. - -'No, no, my fine fellow,' he thought, 'I'm not going to tell -you.' For though he mixed with Dartie a good deal, he thought him -a bit of a cad. - -"Oh, some little love-lady or other," he said, and chalked his -cue. - -"A love-lady!" exclaimed Dartie--he used a more figurative -expression. "I made sure it was our friend Soa...." - -"Did you?" said George curtly. "Then damme you've made an -error." - -He missed his shot. He was careful not to allude to the subject -again till, towards eleven o'clock, having, in his poetic -phraseology, 'looked upon the drink when it was yellow,' he drew -aside the blind, and gazed out into the street. The murky -blackness of the fog was but faintly broken by the lamps of the -'Red Pottle,' and no shape of mortal man or thing was in sight. - -"I can't help thinking of that poor Buccaneer," he said. "He may -be wandering out there now in that fog. If he's not a corpse," -he added with strange dejection. - -"Corpse!" said Dartie, in whom the recollection of his defeat at -Richmond flared up. "He's all right. Ten to one if he wasn't -tight!" - -George turned on him, looking really formidable, with a sort of -savage gloom on his big face. - -"Dry up!" he said. "Don't I tell you he's 'taken the knock!"' - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE TRIAL - - -In the morning of his case, which was second in the list, Soames -was again obliged to start without seeing Irene, and it was just -as well, for he had not as yet made up his mind what attitude to -adopt towards her. - -He had been requested to be in court by half-past ten, to provide -against the event of the first action (a breach of promise) -collapsing, which however it did not, both sides showing a -courage that afforded Waterbuck, Q.C., an opportunity for -improving his already great reputation in this class of case. He -was opposed by Ram, the other celebrated breach of promise man. -It was a battle of giants. - -The court delivered judgment just before the luncheon interval. -The jury left the box for good, and Soames went out to get -something to eat. He met James standing at the little luncheon- -bar, like a pelican in the wilderness of the galleries, bent over -a sandwich with a glass of sherry before him. The spacious -emptiness of the great central hall, over which father and son -brooded as they stood together, was marred now and then for a -fleeting moment by barristers in wig and gown hurriedly bolting -across, by an occasional old lady or rusty-coated man, looking up -in a frightened way, and by two persons, bolder than their -generation, seated in an embrasure arguing. The sound of their -voices arose, together with a scent as of neglected wells, which, -mingling with the odour of the galleries, combined to form the -savour, like nothing but the emanation of a refined cheese, so -indissolubly connected with the administration of British -Justice. - -It was not long before James addressed his son. - -"When's your case coming on? I suppose it'll be on directly. I -shouldn't wonder if this Bosinney'd say anything; I should think -he'd have to. He'll go bankrupt if it goes against him." He took -a large bite at his sandwich and a mouthful of sherry. "Your -mother," he said, "wants you and Irene to come and dine -to-night." - -A chill smile played round Soames' lips; he looked back at his -father. Anyone who had seen the look, cold and furtive, thus -interchanged, might have been pardoned for not appreciating the -real understanding between them. James finished his sherry at a -draught. - -"How much?" he asked. - -On returning to the court Soames took at once his rightful seat -on the front bench beside his solicitor. He ascertained where -his father was seated with a glance so sidelong as to commit -nobody. - -James, sitting back with his hands clasped over the handle of his -umbrella, was brooding on the end of the bench immediately behind -counsel, whence he could get away at once when the case was over. -He considered Bosinney's conduct in every way outrageous, but he -did not wish to run up against him, feeling that the meeting -would be awkward. - -Next to the Divorce Court, this court was, perhaps, the favourite -emporium of justice, libel, breach of promise, and other -commercial actions being frequently decided there. Quite a -sprinkling of persons unconnected with the law occupied the back -benches, and the hat of a woman or two could be seen in the -gallery. - -The two rows of seats immediately in front of James were -gradually filled by barristers in wigs, who sat down to make -pencil notes, chat, and attend to their teeth; but his interest -was soon diverted from these lesser lights of justice by the -entrance of Waterbuck, Q.C., with the wings of his silk gown -rustling, and his red, capable face supported by two short, brown -whiskers. The famous Q.C. looked, as James freely admitted, the -very picture of a man who could heckle a witness. - -For all his experience, it so happened that he had never seen -Waterbuck, Q.C., before, and, like many Forsytes in the lower -branch of the profession, he had an extreme admiration for a good -cross-examiner. The long, lugubrious folds in his cheeks relaxed -somewhat after seeing him, especially as he now perceived that -Soames alone was represented by silk. - -Waterbuck, Q.C., had barely screwed round on his elbow to chat -with his Junior before Mr. Justice Bentham himself appeared--a -thin, rather hen-like man, with a little stoop, clean-shaven -under his snowy wig. Like all the rest of the court, Waterbuck -rose, and remained on his feet until the judge was seated. James -rose but slightly; he was already comfortable, and had no opinion -of Bentham, having sat next but one to him at dinner twice at the -Bumley Tomms'. Bumley Tomm was rather a poor thing, though he -had been so successful. James himself had given him his first -brief. He was excited, too, for he had just found out that -Bosinney was not in court. - -'Now, what's he mean by that?' he kept on thinking. - -The case having been called on, Waterbuck, Q.C., pushing back his -papers, hitched his gown on his shoulder, and, with a -semi-circular look around him, like a man who is going to bat, -arose and addressed the Court. - -The facts, he said, were not in dispute, and all that his -Lordship would be asked was to interpret the correspondence which -had taken place between his client and the defendant, an -architect, with reference to the decoration of a house. He -would, however, submit that this correspondence could only mean -one very plain thing. After briefly reciting the history of the -house at Robin Hill, which he described as a mansion, and the -actual facts of expenditure, he went on as follows: - -"My client, Mr. Soames Forsyte, is a gentleman, a man of -property, who would be the last to dispute any legitimate claim -that might be made against him, but he has met with such -treatment from his architect in the matter of this house, over -which he has, as your lordship has heard, already spent some -twelve--some twelve thousand pounds, a sum considerably in -advance of the amount he had originally contemplated, that as a -matter of principle--and this I cannot too strongly emphasize--as -a matter of principle, and in the interests of others, he has -felt himself compelled to bring this action. The point put -forward in defence by the architect I will suggest to your -lordship is not worthy of a moment's serious consideration." He -then read the correspondence. - -His client, "a man of recognised position," was prepared to go -into the box, and to swear that he never did authorize, that it -was never in his mind to authorize, the expenditure of any money -beyond the extreme limit of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, -which he had clearly fixed; and not further to waste the time of -the court, he would at once call Mr. Forsyte. - -Soames then went into the box. His whole appearance was striking -in its composure. His face, just supercilious enough, pale and -clean-shaven, with a little line between the eyes, and compressed -lips; his dress in unostentatious order, one hand neatly gloved, -the other bare. He answered the questions put to him in a -somewhat low, but distinct voice. His evidence under cross- -examination savoured of taciturnity. - -Had he not used the expression, "a free hand"? No. - -"Come, come!" - -The expression he had used was 'a free hand in the terms of this -correspondence.' - -"Would you tell the Court that that was English?" - -"Yes!" - -"What do you say it means?" - -"What it says!" - -"Are you prepared to deny that it is a contradiction in terms?" - -"Yes." - -"You are not an Irishman?" - -"No." - -"Are you a well-educated man?" - -"Yes." - -"And yet you persist in that statement?" - -"Yes." - -Throughout this and much more cross-examination, which turned -again and again around the 'nice point,' James sat with his hand -behind his ear, his eyes fixed upon his son. - -He was proud of him! He could not but feel that in similar -circumstances he himself would have been tempted to enlarge his -replies, but his instinct told him that this taciturnity was the -very thing. He sighed with relief, however, when Soames, slowly -turning, and without any change of expression, descended from the -box. - -When it came to the turn of Bosinney's Counsel to address the -Judge, James redoubled his attention, and he searched the Court -again and again to see if Bosinney were not somewhere concealed. - -Young Chankery began nervously; he was placed by Bosinney's -absence in an awkward position. He therefore did his best to -turn that absence to account. - -He could not but fear--he said--that his client had met with an -accident. He had fully expected him there to give evidence; they -had sent round that morning both to Mr. Bosinney's office and to -his rooms (though he knew they were one and the same, he thought -it was as well not to say so), but it was not known where he was, -and this he considered to be ominous, knowing how anxious Mr. -Bosinney had been to give his evidence. He had not, however, -been instructed to apply for an adjournment, and in default of -such instruction he conceived it his duty to go on. The plea on -which he somewhat confidently relied, and which his client, had -he not unfortunately been prevented in some way from attending, -would have supported by his evidence, was that such an expression -as a 'free hand' could not be limited, fettered, and rendered -unmeaning, by any verbiage which might follow it. He would go -further and say that the correspondence showed that whatever he -might have said in his evidence, Mr. Forsyte had in fact never -contemplated repudiating liability on any of the work ordered or -executed by his architect. The defendant had certainly never -contemplated such a contingency, or, as was demonstrated by his -letters, he would never have proceeded with the work--a work of -extreme delicacy, carried out with great care and efficiency, to -meet and satisfy the fastidious taste of a connoisseur, a rich -man, a man of property. He felt strongly on this point, and -feeling strongly he used, perhaps, rather strong words when he -said that this action was of a most unjustifiable, unexpected, -indeed--unprecedented character. If his Lordship had had the -opportunity that he himself had made it his duty to take, to go -over this very fine house and see the great delicacy and beauty -of the decorations executed by his client--an artist in his most -honourable profession--he felt convinced that not for one moment -would his Lordship tolerate this, he would use no stronger word -than daring attempt to evade legitimate responsibility. - -Taking the text of Soames' letters, he lightly touched on -'Boileau v. The Blasted Cement Company, Limited.' "It is -doubtful," he said, "what that authority has decided; in any case -I would submit that it is just as much in my favour as in my -friend's." He then argued the 'nice point' closely. With all -due deference he submitted that Mr. Forsyte's expression -nullified itself. His client not being a rich man, the matter -was a serious one for him; he was a very talented architect, -whose professional reputation was undoubtedly somewhat at stake. -He concluded with a perhaps too personal appeal to the Judge, as -a lover of the arts, to show himself the protector of artists, -from what was occasionally--he said occasionally--the too iron -hand of capital. "What," he said, "will be the position of the -artistic professions, if men of property like this Mr. Forsyte -refuse, and are allowed to refuse, to carry out the obligations -of the commissions which they have given." He would now call -his client, in case he should at the last moment have found -himself able to be present. - -The name Philip Baynes Bosinney was called three times by the -Ushers, and the sound of the calling echoed with strange -melancholy throughout the Court and Galleries. - -The crying of this name, to which no answer was returned, had -upon James a curious effect: it was like calling for your lost -dog about the streets. And the creepy feeling that it gave him, -of a man missing, grated on his sense of comfort and security-on -his cosiness. Though he could not have said why, it made him -feel uneasy. - -He looked now at the clock--a quarter to three! It would be all -over in a quarter of an hour. Where could the young fellow be? - -It was only when Mr. Justice Bentham delivered judgment that he -got over the turn he had received. - -Behind the wooden erection, by which he was fenced from more -ordinary mortals, the learned Judge leaned forward. The electric -light, just turned on above his head, fell on his face, and -mellowed it to an orange hue beneath the snowy crown of his wig; -the amplitude of his robes grew before the eye; his whole figure, -facing the comparative dusk of the Court, radiated like some -majestic and sacred body. He cleared his throat, took a sip of -water, broke the nib of a quill against the desk, and, folding -his bony hands before him, began. - -To James he suddenly loomed much larger than he had ever thought -Bentham would loom. It was the majesty of the law; and a person -endowed with a nature far less matter-of-fact than that of James -might have been excused for failing to pierce this halo, and -disinter therefrom the somewhat ordinary Forsyte, who walked and -talked in every-day life under the name of Sir Walter Bentham. - -He delivered judgment in the following words: - -"The facts in this case are not in dispute. On May 15 last the -defendant wrote to the plaintiff, requesting to be allowed to -withdraw from his professional position in regard to the -decoration of the plaintiff's house, unless he were given 'a free -hand.' The plaintiff, on May 17, wrote back as follows: 'In -giving you, in accordance with your request, this free hand, I -wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house -as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee -(as arranged between us) must not exceed twelve thousand pounds.' -To this letter the defendant replied on May 18: 'If you think -that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can bind myself to -the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken.' On May 19 the -plaintiff wrote as follows: 'I did not mean to say that if you -should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty -or even fifty pounds there would be any difficulty between us. -You have a free hand in the terms of this correspondence, and I -hope you will see your way to completing the decorations.' On -May 20 the defendant replied thus shortly: 'Very well.' - -"In completing these decorations, the defendant incurred -liabilities and expenses which brought the total cost of this -house up to the sum of twelve thousand four hundred pounds, all -of which expenditure has been defrayed by the plaintiff. This -action has been brought by the plaintiff to recover from the -defendant the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds expended by -him in excess of a sum of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, -alleged by the plaintiff to have been fixed by this -correspondence as the maximum sum that the defendant had -authority to expend. - -"The question for me to decide is whether or no the defendant is -liable to refund to the plaintiff this sum. In my judgment he is -so liable. - -"What in effect the plaintiff has said is this 'I give you a free -hand to complete these decorations, provided that you keep within -a total cost to me of twelve thousand pounds. If you exceed that -sum by as much as fifty pounds, I will not hold you responsible; -beyond that point you are no agent of mine, and I shall repudiate -liability.' It is not quite clear to me whether, had the -plaintiff in fact repudiated liability under his agent's -contracts, he would, under all the circumstances, have been -successful in so doing; but he has not adopted this course. He -has accepted liability, and fallen back upon his rights against -the defendant under the terms of the latter's engagement. - -"In my judgment the plaintiff is entitled to recover this sum -from the defendant. - -"It has been sought, on behalf of the defendant, to show that no -limit of expenditure was fixed or intended to be fixed by this -correspondence. If this were so, I can find no reason for the -plaintiff's importation into the correspondence of the figures of -twelve thousand pounds and subsequently of fifty pounds. The -defendant's contention would render these figures meaningless. -It is manifest to me that by his letter of May 20 he assented to -a very clear proposition, by the terms of which he must be held -to be bound. - -"For these reasons there will be judgment for the plaintiff for -the amount claimed with costs." - -James sighed, and stooping, picked up his umbrella which had -fallen with a rattle at the words 'importation into this -correspondence.' - -Untangling his legs, he rapidly left the Court; without waiting -for his son, he snapped up a hansom cab (it was a clear, grey -afternoon) and drove straight to Timothy's where he found -Swithin; and to him, Mrs. Septimus Small, and Aunt Hester, he -recounted the whole proceedings, eating two muffins not -altogether in the intervals of speech. - -"Soames did very well," he ended; "he's got his head screwed on -the right way. This won't please Jolyon. It's a bad business -for that young Bosinney; he'll go bankrupt, I shouldn't wonder," -and then after a long pause, during which he had stared -disquietly into the fire, he added - -"He wasn't there--now why?" - -There was a sound of footsteps. The figure of a thick-set man, -with the ruddy brown face of robust health, was seen in the back -drawing-room. The forefinger of his upraised hand was outlined -against the black of his frock coat. He spoke in a grudging -voice. - -"Well, James," he said, "I can't--I can't stop," and turning -round, he walked out. - -It was Timothy. - -James rose from his chair. "There!" he said, "there! I knew -there was something wro...." He checked himself, and was silent, -staring before him, as though he had seen a portent. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -SOAMES BREAKS THE NEWS - - -In leaving the Court Soames did not go straight home. He felt -disinclined for the City, and drawn by need for sympathy in his -triumph, he, too, made his way, but slowly and on foot, to -Timothy's in the Bayswater Road. - -His father had just left; Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester, in -possession of the whole story, greeted him warmly. They were -sure he was hungry after all that evidence. Smither should toast -him some more muffins, his dear father had eaten them all. He -must put his legs up on the sofa; and he must have a glass of -prune brandy too. It was so strengthening. - -Swithin was still present, having lingered later than his wont, -for he felt in want of exercise. On hearing this suggestion, he -'pished.' A pretty pass young men were coming to! His own liver -was out of order, and he could not bear the thought of anyone -else drinking prune brandy. - -He went away almost immediately, saying to Soames: "And how's -your wife? You tell her from me that if she's dull, and likes to -come and dine with me quietly, I'll give her such a bottle of -champagne as she doesn't get every day." Staring down from his -height on Soames he contracted his thick, puffy, yellow hand as -though squeezing within it all this small fry, and throwing out -his chest he waddled slowly away. - -Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester were left horrified. Swithin was so -droll! - -They themselves were longing to ask Soames how Irene would take -the result, yet knew that they must not; he would perhaps say -something of his own accord, to throw some light on this, the -present burning question in their lives, the question that from -necessity of silence tortured them almost beyond bearing; for -even Timothy had now been told, and the effect on his health was -little short of alarming. And what, too, would June do? This, -also, was a most exciting, if dangerous speculation! - -They had never forgotten old Jolyon's visit, since when he had -not once been to see them; they had never forgotten the feeling -it gave all who were present, that the family was no longer what -it had been--that the family was breaking up. - -But Soames gave them no help, sitting with his knees crossed, -talking of the Barbizon school of painters, whom he had just -discovered. These were the coming men, he said; he should not -wonder if a lot of money were made over them; he had his eye on -two pictures by a man called Corot, charming things; if he could -get them at a reasonable price he was going to buy them--they -would, he thought, fetch a big price some day. - -Interested as they could not but be, neither Mrs. Septimus Small -nor Aunt Hester could entirely acquiesce in being thus put off. - -It was interesting--most interesting--and then Soames was so -clever that they were sure he would do something with those -pictures if anybody could; but what was his plan now that he had -won his case; was he going to leave London at once, and live in -the country, or what was he going to do? - -Soames answered that he did not know, he thought they should be -moving soon. He rose and kissed his aunts. - -No sooner had Aunt Juley received this emblem of departure than a -change came over her, as though she were being visited by -dreadful courage; every little roll of flesh on her face seemed -trying to escape from an invisible, confining mask. - -She rose to the full extent of her more than medium height, and -said: "It has been on my mind a long time, dear, and if nobody -else will tell you, I have made up my mind that...." - -Aunt Hester interrupted her: "Mind, Julia, you do it...." she -gasped--"on your own responsibility!" - -Mrs. Small went on as though she had not heard: "I think you -ought to know, dear, that Mrs. MacAnder saw Irene walking in -Richmond Park with Mr. Bosinney." - -Aunt Hester, who had also risen, sank back in her chair, and -turned her face away. Really Juley was too--she should not do -such things when she--Aunt Hester, was in the room; and, -breathless with anticipation, she waited for what Soames would -answer. - -He had flushed the peculiar flush which always centred between -his eyes; lifting his hand, and, as it were, selecting a finger, -he bit a nail delicately; then, drawling it out between set lips, -he said: "Mrs. MacAnder is a cat!" - -Without waiting for any reply, he left the room. - -When he went into Timothy's he had made up his mind what course -to pursue on getting home. He would go up to Irene and say: - -"Well, I've won my case, and there's an end of it! I don't want -to be hard on Bosinney; I'll see if we can't come to some -arrangement; he shan't be pressed. And now let's turn over a -new leaf! We'll let the house, and get out of these fogs. We'll -go down to Robin Hill at once. I--I never meant to be rough with -you! Let's shake hands--and--" Perhaps she would let him kiss -her, and forget! - -When he came out of Timothy's his intentions were no longer so -simple. The smouldering jealousy and suspicion of months blazed -up within him. He would put an end to that sort of thing once -and for all; he would not have her drag his name in the dirt! If -she could not or would not love him, as was her duty and his -right--she should not play him tricks with anyone else! He would -tax her with it; threaten to divorce her! That would make her -behave; she would never face that. But--but--what if she did? -He was staggered; this had not occurred to him. - -What if she did? What if she made him a confession? How would -he stand then? He would have to bring a divorce! - -A divorce! Thus close, the word was paralyzing, so utterly at -variance with all the principles that had hitherto guided his -life. Its lack of compromise appalled him; he felt--like the -captain of a ship, going to the side of his vessel, and, with his -own hands throwing over the most precious of his bales. This -jettisoning of his property with his own hand seemed uncanny to -Soames. It would injure him in his profession: He would have to -get rid of the house at Robin Hill, on which he had spent so much -money, so much anticipation--and at a sacrifice. And she! She -would no longer belong to him, not even in name! She would pass -out of his life, and he--he should never see her again! - -He traversed in the cab the length of a street without getting -beyond the thought that he should never see her again! - -But perhaps there was nothing to confess, even now very likely -there was nothing to confess. Was it wise to push things so far? -Was it wise to put himself into a position where he might have to -eat his words? The result of this case would ruin Bosinney; a -ruined man was desperate, but--what could he do? He might go -abroad, ruined men always went abroad. What could they do--if -indeed it was 'they'--without money? It would be better to wait -and see how things turned out. If necessary, he could have her -watched. The agony of his jealousy (for all the world like the -crisis of an aching tooth) came on again; and he almost cried -out. But he must decide, fix on some course of action before he -got home. When the cab drew up at the door, he had decided -nothing. - -He entered, pale, his hands moist with perspiration, dreading to -meet her, burning to meet her, ignorant of what he was to say or -do. - -The maid Bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question: -"Where is your mistress?" told him that Mrs. Forsyte had left the -house about noon, taking with her a trunk and bag. - -Snatching the sleeve of his fur coat away from her grasp, he -confronted her: - -"What?" he exclaimed; "what's that you said?" Suddenly -recollecting that he must not betray emotion, he added: "What -message did she leave?" and noticed with secret terror the -startled look of the maid's eyes. - -"Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir." - -"No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be -dining out." - -The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly -turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood -on the carved oak rug chest in the hall. - -Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher. -Mrs. Septimus Small. -Mrs. Baynes. -Mr. Solomon Thornworthy. -Lady Bellis. -Miss Hermione Bellis. -Miss Winifred Bellis. -Miss Ella Bellis. - -Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten -all familiar things. The words 'no message--a trunk, and a bag,' -played a hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she -had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs -two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home -will run up to his wife's room. - -Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in -perfect order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was -the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold -her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets -even turned over at the head as though expecting her. - -On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from -her dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some -mistake. What bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon -Bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of -where Irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and -grope out the meaning for himself. - -He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going -round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes. - -Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the -mirror. - -He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out -water, and began feverishly washing. - -Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion -she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of -his jealousy seized him again. - -Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the -street. - -He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went -down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should -not find her at Bosinney's. But if he should? His power of -decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what -he should do if he did find her there. - -It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the -woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or -no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she -did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he.... - -Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He -went up with a dogged, white face. - -The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his -ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, -shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he -told the man to drive to Park Lane. - -On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a -cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but -there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered -how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them -abroad; enough for them to live on for months! He tried to -calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation -unmade. - -The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master -had told him they were both expected to dinner. - -Soames answered: "No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold." - -The butler was sorry. - -Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and -remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: "Anybody -here to dinner, Warmson?" - -"Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir." - -Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously -at him. His composure gave way. - -"What are you looking at?" he said. "What's the matter with me, -eh?" - -The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that -sounded like: "Nothing, sir, I'm sure, sir," and stealthily -withdrew. - -Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, -he went straight up to his mother's and father's bedroom. - -James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean -figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening -waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew -from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering -with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top -hooks of his wife's bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, -whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other -reason. He--he himself had never--never been asked to.... - -He heard his father's voice, as though there were a pin in his -mouth, saying: "Who's that? Who's there? What d'you want?" His -mother's: "Here, Felice, come and hook this; your master'll never -get done." - -He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely: - -"It's I--Soames!" - -He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily's: -"Well, my dear boy?" and James', as he dropped the hook: "What, -Soames! What's brought you up? Aren't you well?" - -He answered mechanically: "I'm all right," and looked at them, -and it seemed impossible to bring out his news. - -James, quick to take alarm, began: "You don't look well. I -expect you've taken a chill--it's liver, I shouldn't wonder. -Your mother'll give you...." - -But Emily broke in quietly: "Have you brought Irene?" - -Soames shook his head. - -"No," he stammered, "she--she's left me!" - -Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her -tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she -came running over to Soames. - -"My dear boy! My dear boy!" - -She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand. - -James, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked -older. - -"Left you?" he said. "What d'you mean--left you? You never told -me she was going to leave you." - -Soames answered surlily: "How could I tell? What's to be done?" - -James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like -without a coat. "What's to be done!" he muttered. "How should I -know what's to be done? What's the good of asking me? Nobody -tells me anything, and then they come and ask me what's to be -done; and I should like to know how I'm to tell them! Here's -your mother, there she stands; she doesn't say anything. What I -should say you've got to do is to follow her.." - -Soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before -looked pitiable. - -"I don't know where she's gone," he said. - -"Don't know where she's gone!" said James. "How d'you mean, -don't know where she's gone? Where d'you suppose she's gone? -She's gone after that young Bosinney, that's where she's gone. I -knew how it would be." - -Soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother -pressing his hand. And all that passed seemed to pass as though -his own power of thinking or doing had gone to sleep. - -His father's face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to -cry, and words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some -spasm in his soul. - -"There'll be a scandal; I always said so." Then, no one saying -anything: "And there you stand, you and your mother!" - -And Emily's voice, calm, rather contemptuous: "Come, now, James! -Soames will do all that he can." - -And James, staring at the floor, a little brokenly: "Well, I -can't help you; I'm getting old. Don't you be in too great a -hurry, my boy." - -And his mother's voice again: "Soames will do all he can to get -her back. We won't talk of it. It'll all come right, I dare -say." - -And James: "Well, I can't see how it can come right. And if she -hasn't gone off with that young Bosinney, my advice to you is not -to listen to her, but to follow her and get her back." - -Once more Soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of -her approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath, -he muttered between his teeth: "I will!" - -All three went down to the drawing-room together. There, were -gathered the three girls and Dartie; had Irene been present, the -family circle would have been complete. - -James sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold -greeting to Dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man -likely to be always in want of money, he said nothing till dinner -was announced. Soames, too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of -cool courage, maintained a conversation with Winifred on trivial -subjects. She was never more composed in her manner and -conversation than that evening. - -A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene's flight, no -view was expressed by any other member of the family as to the -right course to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the -general tone adopted in relation to events as they afterwards -turned out, that James's advice: "Don't you listen to her, -follow-her and get her back!" would, with here and there an -exception, have been regarded as sound, not only in Park Lane, -but amongst the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy's. Just -as it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of -Forsytes all over London, who were merely excluded from judgment -by ignorance of the story. - -In spite then of Emily's efforts, the dinner was served by -Warmson and the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and -drank all he could get; the girls seldom talked to each other at -any time. James asked once where June was, and what she was -doing with herself in these days. No one could tell him. He -sank back into gloom. Only when Winifred recounted how little -Publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he brighten up. - -"Ah!" he said, "that's a clever little chap. I don't know -what'll become of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent -little chap, I call him!" But it was only a flash. - -The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric -light, which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the -principal ornament of the walls, a so-called 'Sea Piece by -Turner,' almost entirely composed of cordage and drowning men. - -Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James' prehistoric -port, but as by the chill hand of some skeleton. - -At ten o'clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had -said that Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust -himself. His mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he -pressed her hand, a flush of warmth in his cheeks. He walked -away in the cold wind, which whistled desolately round the -corners of the streets, under a sky of clear steel-blue, alive -with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting, nor the -crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women -hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds -at street corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home, -oblivious; his hands trembled as he took the late letters from -the gilt wire cage into which they had been thrust through the -slit in the door.' - -None from Irene! - -He went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his -chair drawn up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven -cigarette box on the table; but after staring at it all for a -minute or two, he turned out the light and went upstairs. -There was a fire too in his dressing-room, but her room was -dark and cold. It was into this room that Soames went. - -He made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time -continued pacing up and down between the bed and the door. He -could not get used to the thought that she had really left him, -and as though still searching for some message, some reason, some -reading of all the mystery of his married life, he began opening -every recess and drawer. - -There were her dresses; he had always liked, indeed insisted, -that she should be well-dressed--she had taken very few; two or -three at most, and drawer after drawer; full of linen and silk -things, was untouched. - -Perhaps after all it was only a freak, and she had gone to the -seaside for a few days' change. If only that were so, and she -were really coming back, he would never again do as he had done -that fatal night before last, never again run that risk--though -it was her duty, her duty as a wife; though she did belong to -him--he would never again run that risk; she was evidently not -quite right in her head! - -He stooped over the drawer where she kept her jewels; it was not -locked, and came open as he pulled; the jewel box had the key in -it. This surprised him until he remembered that it was sure to -be empty. He opened it. - -It was far from empty. Divided, in little green velvet -compartments, were all the things he had given her, even her -watch, and stuck into the recess that contained--the watch was a -three-cornered note addressed 'Soames Forsyte,' in Irene's -handwriting: - -'I think I have taken nothing that you or your people have given -me.' And that was all. - -He looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at -the little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires, -at the chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed -up in his eyes and dropped upon them. - -Nothing that she could have done, nothing that she had done, -brought home to him like this the inner significance of her act. -For the moment, perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to -understand--understood that she loathed him, that she had loathed -him for years, that for all intents and purposes they were like -people living in different worlds, that there was no hope for -him, never had been; even, that she had suffered--that she was to -be pitied. - -In that moment of emotion he betrayed the Forsyte in him--forgot -himself, his interests, his property--was capable of almost -anything; was lifted into the pure ether of the selfless and -unpractical. - -Such moments pass quickly. - -And as though with the tears he had purged himself of weakness, -he got up, locked the box, and slowly, almost trembling, carried -it with him into the other room. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -JUNE'S VICTORY - - -June had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of -the journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at -first puzzled old Jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it -with all the promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character. - -She will always remember best in her life that morning when at -last she saw amongst the reliable Cause List of the Times -newspaper, under the heading of Court XIII, Mr. Justice Bentham, -the case of Forsyte v. Bosinney. - -Like a gambler who stakes his last piece of money, she had -prepared to hazard her all upon this throw; it was not her nature -to contemplate defeat. How, unless with the instinct of a woman -in love, she knew that Bosinney's discomfiture in this action was -assured, cannot be told--on this assumption, however, she laid -her plans, as upon a certainty. - -Half past eleven found her at watch in the gallery of Court -XIII., and there she remained till the case of Forsyte v. -Bosinney was over. Bosinney's absence did not disquiet her; she -had felt instinctively that he would not defend himself. At the -end of the judgment she hastened down, and took a cab to his -rooms. - -She passed the open street-door and the offices on the three -lower floors without attracting notice; not till she reached the -top did her difficulties begin. - -Her ring was not answered; she had now to make up her mind -whether she would go down and ask the caretaker in the basement -to let her in to await Mr. Bosinney's return, or remain patiently -outside the door, trusting that no one would, come up. She -decided on the latter course. - -A quarter of an hour had passed in freezing vigil on the landing, -before it occurred to her that Bosinney had been used to leave -the key of his rooms under the door-mat. She looked and found it -there. For some minutes she could not decide to make use of it; -at last she let herself in and left the door open that anyone who -came might see she was there on business. - -This was not the same June who had paid the trembling visit five -months ago; those months of suffering and restraint had made her -less sensitive; she had dwelt on this visit so long, with such -minuteness, that its terrors were discounted beforehand. She was -not there to fail this time, for if she failed no one could help -her. - -Like some mother beast on the watch over her young, her little -quick figure never stood still in that room, but wandered from -wall to wall, from window to door, fingering now one thing, now -another. There was dust everywhere, the room could not have been -cleaned for weeks, and June, quick to catch at anything that -should buoy up her hope, saw in it a sign that he had been -obliged, for economy's sake, to give up his servant. - -She looked into the bedroom; the bed was roughly made, as though -by the hand of man. Listening intently, she darted in, and -peered into his cupboards. A few shirts and collars, a pair of -muddy boots--the room was bare even of garments. - -She stole back to the sitting-room, and now she noticed the -absence of all the little things he had set store by. The clock -that had been his mother's, the field-glasses that had hung over -the sofa; two really valuable old prints of Harrow, where his -father had been at school, and last, not least, the piece of -Japanese pottery she herself had given him. All were gone; and -in spite of the rage roused within her championing soul at the -thought that the world should treat him thus, their disappearance -augured happily for the success of her plan. - -It was while looking at the spot where the piece of Japanese -pottery had stood that she felt a strange certainty of being -watched, and, turning, saw Irene in the open doorway. - -The two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence; then -June walked forward and held out her hand. Irene did not take -it. - -When her hand was refused, June put it behind her. Her eyes grew -steady with anger; she waited for Irene to speak; and thus -waiting, took in, with who-knows-what rage of jealousy, -suspicion, and curiosity, every detail of her friend's face and -dress and figure. - -Irene was clothed in her long grey fur; the travelling cap on her -head left a wave of gold hair visible above her forehead. The -soft fullness of the coat made her face as small as a child's. - -Unlike June's cheeks, her cheeks had no colour in them, but were -ivory white and pinched as if with cold. Dark circles lay round -her eyes. In one hand she held a bunch of violets. - -She looked back at June, no smile on her lips; and with those -great dark eyes fastened on her, the girl, for all her startled -anger, felt something of the old spell. - -She spoke first, after all. - -"What have you come for?" But the feeling that she herself was -being asked the same question, made her add: "This horrible case. -I came to tell him--he has lost it." - -Irene did not speak, her eyes never moved from June's face, and -the girl cried: - -"Don't stand there as if you were made of stone!" - -Irene laughed: "I wish to God I were!" - -But June turned away: "Stop!" she cried, "don't tell me! I don't -want to hear! I don't want to hear what you've come for. I -don't want to hear!" And like some uneasy spirit, she began -swiftly walking to and fro. Suddenly she broke out: - -"I was here first. We can't both stay here together!" - -On Irene's face a smile wandered up, and died out like a flicker -of firelight. She did not move. And then it was that June -perceived under the softness arid immobility of this figure -something desperate and resolved; something not to be turned -away, something dangerous. She tore off her hat, and, putting -both hands to her brow, pressed back the bronze mass of her hair. - -"You have no right here!" she cried defiantly. - -Irene answered: "I have no right anywhere! - -"What do you mean?" - -"I have left Soames. You always wanted me to!" - -June put her hands over her ears. - -"Don't! I don't want to hear anything--I don't want to know -anything. It's impossible to fight with you! What makes you -stand like that? Why don't you go?" - -Irene's lips moved; she seemed to be saying: "Where should I go?" - -June turned to the window. She could see the face of a clock -down in the street. It was nearly four. At any moment he might -come! She looked back across her shoulder, and her face was -distorted with anger. - -But Irene had not moved; in her gloved hands she ceaselessly -turned and twisted the little bunch of violets. - -The tears of rage and disappointment rolled down June's cheeks. - -"How could you come?" she said. "You have been a false friend to -me!" - -Again Irene laughed. June saw that she had played a wrong card, -and broke down. - -"Why have you come?" she sobbed. "You've ruined my life, and now -you want to ruin his!" - -Irene's mouth quivered; her eyes met June's with a look so -mournful that the girl cried out in the midst of her sobbing, -"No, no!" - -But Irene's head bent till it touched her breast. She turned, -and went quickly out, hiding her lips with the little bunch of -violets. - -June ran to the door. She heard the footsteps going down and -down. She called out: "Come back, Irene! Come back!" - -The footsteps died away.... - -Bewildered and torn, the girl stood at the top of the stairs. -Why had Irene gone, leaving her mistress of the field? What did -it mean? Had she really given him up to her? Or had she...? -And she was the prey of a gnawing uncertainty.... Bosinney did -not come.... - -About six o'clock that afternoon old Jolyon returned from -Wistaria Avenue, where now almost every day he spent some hours, -and asked if his grand-daughter were upstairs. On being told -that she had just come in, he sent up to her room to request her -to come down and speak to him. - -He had made up his mind to tell her that he was reconciled with -her father. In future bygones must be bygones. He would no -longer live alone, or practically alone, in this great house; he -was going to give it up, and take one in the country for his son, -where they could all go and live together. If June did not like -this, she could have an allowance and live by herself. It -wouldn't make much difference to her, for it was a long time -since she had shown him any affection. - -But when June came down, her face was pinched and piteous; there -was a strained, pathetic look in her eyes. She snuggled up in -her old attitude on the arm of his chair, and what he said -compared but poorly with the clear, authoritative, injured -statement he had thought out with much care. His heart felt -sore, as the great heart of a mother-bird feels sore when its -youngling flies and bruises its wing. His words halted, as -though he were apologizing for having at last deviated from the -path of virtue, and succumbed, in defiance of sounder principles, -to his more natural instincts. - -He seemed nervous lest, in thus announcing his intentions, he -should be setting his granddaughter a bad example; and now that -he came to the point, his way of putting the suggestion that, if -she didn't like it, she could live by herself and lump it, was -delicate in the extreme.' - -"And if, by any chance, my darling," he said, "you found you -didn't get on--with them, why, I could make that all right. You -could have what you liked. We could find a little flat in London -where you could set up, and I could be running to continually. -But the children," he added, "are dear little things!" - -Then, in the midst of this grave, rather transparent, explanation -of changed policy, his eyes twinkled. "This'll astonish -Timothy's weak nerves. That precious young thing will have -something to say about this, or I'm a Dutchman!" - -June had not yet spoken. Perched thus on the arm of his chair, -with her head above him, her face was invisible. But presently -he felt her warm cheek against his own, and knew that, at all -events, there was nothing very alarming in her attitude towards -his news. He began to take courage. - -"You'll like your father," he said--"an amiable chap. Never was -much push about him, but easy to get on with. You'll find him -artistic and all that." - -And old Jolyon bethought him of the dozen or so water-colour -drawings all carefully locked up in his bedroom; for now that his -son was going to become a man of property he did not think them -quite such poor things as heretofore. - -"As to your--your stepmother," he said, using the word with some -little difficulty, "I call her a refined woman--a bit of a Mrs. -Gummidge, I shouldn't wonder--but very fond of Jo. And the -children," he repeated--indeed, this sentence ran like music -through all his solemn self-justification--"are sweet little -things!" - -If June had known, those words but reincarnated that tender love -for little children, for the young and weak, which in the past -had made him desert his son for her tiny self, and now, as the -cycle rolled, was taking him from her. - -But he began to get alarmed at her silence, and asked -impatiently: "Well, what do you say?" - -June slid down to his knee, and she in her turn began her tale. -She thought it would all go splendidly; she did not see any -difficulty, and she did not care a bit what people thought. - -Old Jolyon wriggled. H'm! then people would think! He had -thought that after all these years perhaps they wouldn't! Well, -he couldn't help it! Nevertheless, he could not approve of his -granddaughter's way of putting it--she ought to mind what people -thought! - -Yet he said nothing. His feelings were too mixed, too -inconsistent for expression. - -No--went on June he did not care; what business was it of theirs? -There was only one thing--and with her cheek pressing against his -knee, old Jolyon knew at once that this something was no trifle: -As he was going to buy a house in the country, would he not--to -please her--buy that splendid house of Soames' at Robin Hill? It -was finished, it was perfectly beautiful, and no one would live -in it now. They would all be so happy there. - -Old Jolyon was on the alert at once. Wasn't the 'man of -property' going to live in his new house, then? He never alluded -to Soames now but under this title. - -"No"--June said--"he was not; she knew that he was not!" - -How did she know? - -She could not tell him, but she knew. She knew nearly for -certain! It was most unlikely; circumstances had changed! -Irene's words still rang in her head: "I have left Soames. -Where should I go?" - -But she kept silence about that. - -If her grandfather would only buy it and settle that wretched -claim that ought never to have been made on Phil! It would be -the very best thing for everybody, and everything--everything -might come straight - -And June put her lips to his forehead, and pressed them close. - -But old Jolyon freed himself from her caress, his face wore the -judicial look which came upon it when he dealt with affairs. He -asked: What did she mean? There was something behind all this-- -had she been seeing Bosinney? - -June answered: "No; but I have been to his rooms." - -"Been to his rooms? Who took you there?" - -June faced him steadily. "I went alone. He has lost that case. -I don't care whether it was right or wrong. I want to help him; -and I will!" - -Old Jolyon asked again: "Have you seen him?" His glance seemed to -pierce right through the girl's eyes into her soul. - -Again June answered: "No; he was not there. I waited, but he did -not come." - -Old Jolyon made a movement of relief. She had risen and looked -down at him; so slight, and light, and young, but so fixed, and -so determined; and disturbed, vexed, as he was, he could not -frown away that fixed look. The feeling of being beaten, of the -reins having slipped, of being old and tired, mastered him. - -"Ah!" he said at last, "you'll get yourself into a mess one of -these days, I can see. You want your own way in everything." - -Visited by one of his strange bursts of philosophy, he added: -"Like that you were born; and like that you'll stay until you -die!" - -And he, who in his dealings with men of business, with Boards, -with Forsytes of all descriptions, with such as were not -Forsytes, had always had his own way, looked at his indomitable -grandchild sadly--for he felt in her that quality which above all -others he unconsciously admired. - -"Do you know what they say is going on?" he said slowly. - -June crimsoned. - -"Yes--no! I know--and I don't know--I don't care!" and she -stamped her foot. - -"I believe," said old Jolyon, dropping his eyes, "that you'd have -him if he were dead!" - -There was a long silence before he spoke again. - -"But as to buying this house--you don't know what you're talking -about!" - -June said that she did. She knew that he could get it if he -wanted. He would only have to give what it cost. - -"What it cost! You know nothing about it. I won't go to Soames- ---I'll have nothing more to do with that young man." - -"But you needn't; you can go to Uncle James. If you can't buy -the house, will you pay his lawsuit claim? I know he is terribly -hard up--I've seen it. You can stop it out of my money!" - -A twinkle came into old Jolyon's eyes. - -"Stop it out of your money! A pretty way. And what will you do, -pray, without your money?" - -But secretly, the idea of wresting the house from James and his -son had begun to take hold of him. He had heard on Forsyte -'Change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house. -It was 'too artistic,' but a fine place. To take from the 'man -of property' that on which he had set his heart, would be a -crowning triumph over James, practical proof that he was going to -make a man of property of Jo, to put him back in his proper -position, and there to keep him secure. Justice once for all on -those who had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless -outcast. - -He would see, he would see! It might be out of the question; he -was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why, -perhaps he would do it! - -And still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her. - -But he did not commit himself. He would think it over--he said -to June. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -BOSINNEY'S DEPARTURE - - -Old Jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that -he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house -at Robin Hill, had not June's face told him that he would have no -peace until he acted. - -At breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should -order the carriage. - -"Carriage!" he said, with some appearance of innocence; "what -for? I'm not going out!" - -She answered: "If you don't go early, you won't catch Uncle James -before he goes into the City." - -"James! what about your Uncle James?" - -"The house," she replied, in such a voice that he no longer -pretended ignorance. - -"I've not made up my mind," he said. - -"You must! You must! Oh! Gran--think of me!" - -Old Jolyon grumbled out: "Think of you--I'm always thinking of -you, but you don't think of yourself; you don't think what you're -letting yourself in for. Well, order the carriage at ten!" - -At a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at -Park Lane--he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat; -telling Warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went, -without being announced, into the study, and sat down. - -James was still in the dining-room talking to Soames, who had -come round again before breakfast. On hearing who his visitor -was, he muttered nervously: "Now, what's be want, I wonder?" - -He then got up. - -"Well," he said to Soames, "don't you go doing anything in a -hurry. The first thing is to find out where she is--I should go -to Stainer's about it; they're the best men, if they can't find -her, nobody can." And suddenly moved to strange softness, he -muttered to himself, "Poor little thing, I can't tell what she -was thinking about!" and went out blowing his nose. - -Old Jolyon did not rise on seeing his brother, but held out his -hand, and exchanged with him the clasp of a Forsyte. - -James took another chair by the table, and leaned his head on his -hand. - -"Well," he said, "how are you? We don't see much of you -nowadays!" - -Old Jolyon paid no attention to the remark. - -"How's Emily?" he asked; and waiting for no reply, went on -"I've come to see you about this affair of young Bosinney's. I'm -told that new house of his is a white elephant." - -"I don't know anything about a white elephant," said James, "I -know he's lost his case, and I should say he'll go bankrupt." - -Old Jolyon was not slow to seize the opportunity this gave him. - -"I shouldn't wonder a bit!" he agreed; "and if he goes bankrupt, -the 'man of property'--that is, Soames'll be out of pocket. Now, -what I was thinking was this: If he's not going to live there...." - -Seeing both surprise and suspicion in James' eye, he quickly went -on: "I don't want to know anything; I suppose Irene's put her -foot down--it's not material to me. But I'm thinking of a house -in the country myself, not too far from London, and if it suited -me I don't say that I mightn't look at it, at a price." - -James listened to this statement with a strange mixture of doubt, -suspicion, and relief, merging into a dread of something behind, -and tinged with the remains of his old undoubted reliance upon -his elder brother's good faith and judgment. There was anxiety, -too, as to what old Jolyon could have heard and how he had heard -it; and a sort of hopefulness arising from the thought that if -June's connection with Bosinney were completely at an end, her -grandfather would hardly seem anxious to help the young fellow. -Altogether he was puzzled; as he did not like either to show -this, or to commit himself in any way, he said: - -"They tell me you're altering your Will in favour of your son." - -He had not been told this; he had merely added the fact of having -seen old Jolyon with his son and grandchildren to the fact that -he had taken his Will away from Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. -The shot went home. - -"Who told you that?" asked old Jolyon. - -"I'm sure I don't know," said James; "I can't remember names--I -know somebody told me Soames spent a lot of money on this house; -he's not likely to part with it except at a good price." - -"Well," said old Jolyon, "if, he thinks I'm going to pay a fancy -price, he's mistaken. I've not got the money to throw away that -he seems to have. Let him try and sell it at a forced sale, and -see what he'll get. It's not every man's house, I hear!" - -James, who was secretly also of this opinion, answered: "It's a -gentleman's house. Soames is here now if you'd like to see him." - -"No," said old Jolyon, "I haven't got as far as that; and I'm not -likely to, I can see that very well if I'm met in this manner!" - -James was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a -commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was -dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations -such as these made him nervous--he never knew quite how far he -could go. - -"Well," he said, "I know nothing about it. Soames, he tells me -nothing; I should think he'd entertain it--it's a question of -price." - -"Oh!" said old Jolyon, "don't let him make a favour of it!" He -placed his hat on his head in dudgeon. - -The door was opened and Soames came in. - -"There's a policeman out here," he said with his half smile, "for -Uncle Jolyon." - -Old Jolyon looked at him angrily, and James said: "A policeman? -I don't know anything about a policeman. But I suppose you know -something about him," he added to old Jolyon with a look of -suspicion: "I suppose you'd better see him!" - -In the hall an Inspector of Police stood stolidly regarding with -heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old English furniture picked -up by James at the famous Mavrojano sale in Portman Square. -"You'll find my brother in there," said James. - -The Inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap, -and entered the study. - -James saw him go in with a strange sensation. - -"Well," he said to Soames, "I suppose we must wait and see what -he wants. Your uncle's been here about the house!" - -He returned with Soames into the dining-room, but could not rest. - -"Now what does he want?" he murmured again. - -"Who?" replied Soames: "the Inspector? They sent him round from -Stanhope Gate, that's all I know. That 'nonconformist' of Uncle -Jolyon's has been pilfering, I shouldn't wonder!" - -But in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease. - -At the end of ten minutes old Jolyon came in. He walked up to -the table, and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long -white moustaches. James gazed up at him with opening mouth; he -had never seen his brother look like this. - -Old Jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly: - -"Young Bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed." - -Then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down -at him with his deep eyes: - -"There's--some--talk--of--suicide," he said. - -James' jaw dropped. "Suicide! What should he do that for?" - -Old Jolyon answered sternly: "God knows, if you and your son -don't!" - -But James did not reply. - -For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had -bitter experiences. The passer-by, who sees them wrapped in -cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that -such black shadows had fallen on their roads. To every man of -great age--to Sir Walter Bentham himself--the idea of suicide has -once at least been present in the ante-room of his soul; on the -threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by -some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. To -Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it is -hard! Seldom--perhaps never--can they achieve, it; and yet, how -near have they not sometimes been! - -So even with James! Then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke -out: "Why I saw it in the paper yesterday: 'Run over in the fog!' -They didn't know his name!" He turned from one face to the other -in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was -rejecting that rumour of suicide. He dared not entertain this -thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his -son, of every Forsyte. He strove against it; and as his nature -ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety -accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. It was an accident! -It must have been! - -Old Jolyon broke in on his reverie. - -"Death was instantaneous. He lay all day yesterday at the -hospital. There was nothing to tell them who he was. I am going -there now; you and your son had better come too." - -No one opposing this command he led the way from the room. - -The day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to Park -Lane from Stanhope Gate, old Jolyon had had the carriage open. -Sitting back on the padded cushions, finishing his cigar, he had -noticed with pleasure the keen crispness of the air, the bustle -of the cabs and people; the strange, almost Parisian, alacrity -that the first fine day will bring into London streets after a -spell of fog or rain. And he had felt so happy; he had not felt -like it for months. His confession to June was off his mind; he -had the prospect of his son's, above all, of his grandchildren's -company in the future--(he had appointed to meet young Jolyon at -the Hotch Potch that very manning to--discuss it again); and -there was the pleasurable excitement of a coming encounter, a -coming victory, over James and the 'man of property' in the -matter of the house. - -He had the carriage closed now; he had no heart to look on -gaiety; nor was it right that Forsytes should be seen driving -with an Inspector of Police. - -In that carriage the Inspector spoke again of the death: - -"It was not so very thick--Just there. The driver says the -gentleman must have had time to see what he was about, he seemed -to walk right into it. It appears that he was very hard up, we -found several pawn tickets at his rooms, his account at the bank -is overdrawn, and there's this case in to-day's papers;" his cold -blue eyes travelled from one to another of the three Forsytes in -the carriage. - -Old Jolyon watching from his corner saw his brother's face -change, and the brooding, worried, look deepen on it. At the -Inspector's words, indeed, all James' doubts and fears revived. -Hard-up--pawn-tickets--an overdrawn account! These words that -had all his life been a far-off nightmare to him, seemed to make -uncannily real that suspicion of suicide which must on no account -be entertained. He sought his son's eye; but lynx-eyed, -taciturn, immovable, Soames gave no answering look. And to old -Jolyon watching, divining the league of mutual defence between -them, there came an overmastering desire to have his own son at -his side, as though this visit to the dead man's body was a -battle in which otherwise he must single-handed meet those two. -And the thought of how to keep June's name out of the business -kept whirring in his brain. James had his son to support him! -Why should he not send for Jo? - -Taking out his card-case, he pencilled the following message: - -'Come round at once. I've sent the carriage for you.' - -On getting out he gave this card to his coachman, telling him to -drive--as fast as possible to the Hotch Potch Club, and if Mr. -Jolyon Forsyte were there to give him the card and bring him at -once. If not there yet, he was to wait till he came. - -He followed the others slowly up the steps, leaning on his -umbrella, and stood a moment to get his breath. The Inspector -said: "This is the mortuary, sir. But take your time." - -In the bare, white-walled room, empty of all but a streak of -sunshine smeared along the dustless floor, lay a form covered by -a sheet. With a huge steady hand the Inspector took the hem and -turned it back. A sightless face gazed up at them, and on either -side of that sightless defiant face the three Forsytes gazed -down; in each one of them the secret emotions, fears, and pity of -his own nature rose and fell like the rising, falling waves of -life, whose wish those white walls barred out now for ever from -Bosinney. And in each one of them the trend of his nature, the -odd essential spring, which moved him in fashions minutely, -unalterably different from those of every other human being, -forced him to a different attitude of thought. Far from the -others, yet inscrutably close, each stood thus, alone with death, -silent, his eyes lowered. - -The Inspector asked softly: - -"You identify the gentleman, sir?" - -Old Jolyon raised his head and nodded. He looked at his brother -opposite, at that long lean figure brooding over the dead man, -with face dusky red, and strained grey eyes; and at the figure of -Soames white and still by his father's side. And all that he had -felt against those two was gone like smoke in the long white -presence of Death. Whence comes it, how comes it--Death? Sudden -reverse of all that goes before; blind setting forth on a path -that leads to where? Dark quenching of the fire! The heavy, -brutal crushing--out that all men must go through, keeping their -eyes clear and brave unto the end! Small and of no import, -insects though they are! And across old Jolyon's face there -flitted a gleam, for Soames, murmuring to the Inspector, crept -noiselessly away. - -Then suddenly James raised his eyes. There was a queer appeal in -that suspicious troubled look: "I know I'm no match for you," it -seemed to say. And, hunting for handkerchief he wiped his brow; -then, bending sorrowful and lank over the dead man, he too turned -and hurried out. - -Old Jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. -Who shall tell of what he was thinking? Of himself, when his -hair was brown like the hair of that young fellow dead before -him? Of himself, with his battle just beginning, the long, long -battle he had loved; the battle that was over for this young man -almost before it had begun? Of his grand-daughter, with her -broken hopes? Of that other woman? Of the strangeness, and the -pity of it? And the irony, inscrutable, and bitter of that end? -Justice! There was no justice for men, for they were ever in the -dark! - -Or perhaps in his philosophy he thought: Better to be out of, it -all! Better to have done with it, like this poor youth.... - -Some one touched him on the arm. - -A tear started up and wetted his eyelash. "Well," he said, "I'm -no good here. I'd better be going. You'll come to me as soon as -you can, Jo," and with his head bowed he went away. - -It was young Jolyon's turn to take his stand beside the dead man, -round whose fallen body he seemed to see all the Forsytes -breathless, and prostrated. The stroke had fallen too swiftly. - -The forces underlying every tragedy--forces that take no denial, -working through cross currents to their ironical end, had met and -fused with a thunder-clap, flung out the victim, and flattened to -the ground all those that stood around. - -Or so at all events young Jolyon seemed to see them, lying around -Bosinney's body. - -He asked the Inspector to tell him what had happened, and the -latter, like a man who does not every day get such a chance, -again detailed such facts as were known. - -"There's more here, sir, however," he said, "than meets the eye. -I don't believe in suicide, nor in pure accident, myself. It's -more likely I think that he was suffering under great stress -of mind, and took no notice of things about him. Perhaps you can -throw some light on these." - -He took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table. -Carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady's handkerchief, pinned -through the folds with a pin of discoloured Venetian gold, the -stone of which had fallen from the socket. A scent of dried -violets rose to young Jolyon's nostrils. - -"Found in his breast pocket," said the Inspector; "the name has -been cut away!" - -Young Jolyon with difficulty answered: "I'm afraid I cannot help -you!" But vividly there rose before him the face he had seen -light up, so tremulous and glad, at Bosinney's coming! Of her he -thought more than of his own daughter, more than of them all--of -her with the dark, soft glance, the delicate passive face, -waiting for the dead man, waiting even at that moment, perhaps, -still and patient in the sunlight. - -He walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father's -house, reflecting that this death would break up the Forsyte -family. The stroke had indeed slipped past their defences into -the very wood of their tree. They might flourish to all -appearance as before, preserving a brave show before the eyes of -London, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same flash that -had stricken down Bosinney. And now the saplings would take its -place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property. - -Good forest of Forsytes! thought young Jolyon--soundest timber -of our land! - -Concerning the cause of this death--his family would doubtless -reject with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so -compromising! They would take it as an accident, a stroke of -fate. In their hearts they would even feel it an intervention of -Providence, a retribution--had not Bosinney endangered their two -most priceless possessions, the pocket and the hearth? And they -would talk of 'that unfortunate accident of young Bosinney's,' -but perhaps they would not talk--silence might be better! - -As for himself, he regarded the bus-driver's account of the -accident as of very little value. For no one so madly in love -committed suicide for want of money; nor was Bosinney the sort of -fellow to set much store by a financial crisis. And so he too -rejected this theory of suicide, the dead man's face rose too -clearly before him. Gone in the heyday of his summer--and to -believe thus that an accident had cut Bosinney off in the full -sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young Jolyon. - -Then came a vision of Soames' home as it now was, and must be -hereafter. The streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny -gleam on bare bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising -flesh was gone.... - -In the dining-room at Stanhope Gate old Jolyon was sitting alone -when his son came in. He looked very wan in his great armchair. -And his eyes travelling round the walls with their pictures of -still life, and the masterpiece 'Dutch fishing-boats at Sunset' -seemed as though passing their gaze over his life with its hopes, -its gains, its achievements. - -"Ah! Jo!" he said, "is that you? I've told poor little June. -But that's not all of it. Are you going to Soames'? She's -brought it on herself, I suppose; but somehow I can't bear to -think of her, shut up there--and all alone." And holding up his -thin, veined hand, he clenched it. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -IRENE'S RETURN - - -After leaving James and old Jolyon in the mortuary of the -hospital, Soames hurried aimlessly along the streets. - -The tragic event of Bosinney's death altered the complexion of -everything. There was no longer the same feeling that to lose a -minute would be fatal, nor would he now risk communicating the -fact of his wife's flight to anyone till the inquest was over. - -That morning he had risen early, before the postman came, had -taken the first-post letters from the box himself, and, though -there had been none from Irene, he had made an opportunity of -telling Bilson that her mistress was at the sea; he would -probably, he said, be going down himself from Saturday to Monday. -This had given him time to breathe, time to leave no stone -unturned to find her. - -But now, cut off from taking steps by Bosinney's death--that -strange death, to think of which was like putting a hot iron to -his heart, like lifting a great weight from it--he did not know -how to pass his day; and he wandered here and there through the -streets, looking at every face he met, devoured by a hundred -anxieties. - -And as he wandered, he thought of him who had finished his -wandering, his prowling, and would never haunt his house again. - -Already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the -identity of the dead man, and bought the papers to see what they -said. He would stop their mouths if he could, and he went into -the City, and was closeted with Boulter for a long time. - -On his way home, passing the steps of Jobson's about half past -four, he met George Forsyte, who held out an evening paper to -Soames, saying: - -"Here! Have you seen this about the poor Buccaneer?" - -Soames answered stonily: "Yes." - -George stared at him. He had never liked Soames; he now held him -responsible for Bosinney's death. Soames had done for him--done -for him by that act of property that had sent the Buccaneer to -run amok that fatal afternoon. - -'The poor fellow,' he was thinking, 'was so cracked with -jealousy, so cracked for his vengeance, that he heard nothing of -the omnibus in that infernal fog.' - -Soames had done for him! And this judgment was in George's eyes. - -"They talk of suicide here," he said at last. "That cat won't -jump." - -Soames shook his head. "An accident," he muttered. - -Clenching his fist on the paper, George crammed it into his -pocket. He could not resist a parting shot. - -"H'mm! All flourishing at home? Any little Soameses yet?" - -With a face as white as the steps of Jobson's, and a lip raised -as if snarling, Soames brushed past him and was gone.... - -On reaching home, and entering the little lighted hall with his -latchkey, the first thing that caught his eye was his wife's -gold-mounted umbrella lying on the rug chest. Flinging off his -fur coat, he hurried to the drawing-room. - -The curtains were drawn for the night, a bright fire of -cedar-logs burned in the grate, and by its light he saw Irene -sitting in her usual corner on the sofa. He shut the door -softly, and went towards her. She did not move, and did not seem -to see him. - -"So you've come back?" he said. "Why are you sitting here in the -dark?" - -Then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it -seemed as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her -veins; and her eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide, -startled brown eyes of an owl. - -Huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a -strange resemblance to a captive owl, bunched fir its soft -feathers against the wires of a cage. The supple erectness of -her figure was gone, as though she had been broken by cruel -exercise; as though there were no longer any reason for being -beautiful, and supple, and erect. - -"So you've come back," he repeated. - -She never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over -her motionless figure. - -Suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then -that he understood. - -She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing -where to turn, not knowing what she was doing. The sight of her -figure, huddled in the fur, was enough. - -He knew then for certain that Bosinney had been her lover; knew -that she had seen the report of his death--perhaps, like himself, -had bought a paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read -it. - -She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had -pined to be free of--and taking in all the tremendous -significance of this, he longed to cry: "Take your hated body, -that I love, out of my house! Take away that pitiful white face, -so cruel and soft--before I crush it. Get out of my sight; never -let me see you again!" - -And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move -away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was -fighting to awake--rise and go out into the dark and cold, without -a thought of him, without so much as the knowledge of his -presence. - -Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, "No; -stay there!" And turning away from her, he sat down in his -accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth. - -They sat in silence. - -And Soames thought: 'Why is all this? Why should I suffer so? -What have I done? It is not my fault!' - -Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and -dying, whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from -it, whose poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, -soft, unseeing look, taking farewell of all that is good--of the -sun, and the air, and its mate. - -So they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side -of the hearth. - -And the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well, -seemed to grip Soames by the throat till he could bear it no -longer. And going out into the hall he flung the door wide, to -gulp down the cold air that came in; then without hat or overcoat -went out into the Square. - -Along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way -towards him, and Soames thought: 'Suffering! when will it cease, -my suffering?' - -At a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance -named Rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of 'I am master -here.' And Soames walked on. - -From far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and -Irene had been married were pealing in 'practice' for the advent -of Christ, the chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. He -felt a craving for strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or -rouse him to fury. If only he could burst out of himself, out of -this web that for the first time in his life he felt around him. -If only he could surrender to the thought: 'Divorce her--turn her -out! She has forgotten you. Forget her!' - -If only he could surrender to the thought: 'Let her go--she has -suffered enough!' - -If only he could surrender to the desire: 'Make a slave of her-- -she is in your power!' - -If only even he could surrender to the sudden vision: 'What does -it all matter?' Forget himself for a minute, forget that it -mattered what he did, forget that whatever he did he must -sacrifice something. - -If only he could act on an impulse! - -He could forget nothing; surrender to no thought, vision, or -desire; it was all too serious; too close around him, an -unbreakable cage. - -On the far side of the Square newspaper boys were calling their -evening wares, and the ghoulish cries mingled and jangled with -the sound of those church bells. - -Soames covered his ears. The thought flashed across him that but -for a chance, he himself, and not Bosinney, might be lying dead, -and she, instead of crouching there like a shot bird with those -dying eyes.... - -Something soft touched his legs, the cat was rubbing herself -against them. And a sob that shook him from head to foot burst -from Soames' chest. Then all was still again in the dark, where -the houses seemed to stare at him, each with a master and -mistress of its own, and a secret story of happiness or sorrow. - -And suddenly he saw that his own door was open, and black against -the light from the hall a man standing with his back turned. -Something slid too in his breast, and he stole up close behind. - -He could see his own fur coat flung across the carved oak chair; -the Persian rugs; the silver bowls, the rows of porcelain plates -arranged along the walls, and this unknown man who was standing -there. - -And sharply he asked: "What is it you want, sir?" - -The visitor turned. It was young Jolyon. - -"The door was open," he said. "Might I see your wife for a -minute, I have a message for her?" - -Soames gave him a strange, sidelong stare. - -"My wife can see no one," he muttered doggedly. - -Young Jolyon answered gently: "I shouldn't keep her a minute." - -Soames brushed by him and barred the way. - -"She can see no one," he said again. - -Young Jolyon's glance shot past him into the hall, and Soames -turned. There in the drawing-room doorway stood Irene, her eyes -were wild and eager, her lips were parted, her hands out- -stretched. In the sight of both men that light vanished from -her face; her hands dropped to her sides; she stood like stone. - -Soames spun round, and met his visitor's eyes, and at the look he -saw in them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. He drew his lips -back in the ghost of a smile. - -"This is my house," he said; "I manage my own affairs. I've told -you once--I tell you again; we are not at home." - -And in young Jolyon's face he slammed the door. - - - - - - -THE FORSYTE SAGA - -VOLUME II - -Contents: -Indian Summer of a Forsyte -In Chancery - - - -TO ANDRE CHEVRILLON - - - - -Indian Summer of a Forsyte - -"And Summer's lease hath all - too short a date." - ---Shakespeare - - - - -I - - -In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of -the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the -terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges -to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His -thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a -cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers--a pointed polished nail -had survived with him from those earlier Victorian days when to -touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so -distinguished. His domed forehead, great white moustache, lean -cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine -by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in all his -attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who -every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At -his feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a -Pomeranian--the dog Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon primal -aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Close to his -chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of Holly's dolls ---called 'Duffer Alice'--with her body fallen over her legs and her -doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was never out of -disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Below the oak -tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, -beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the -coppice, and the prospect--'Fine, remarkable'--at which Swithin -Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when -he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had -heard of his brother's exploit--that drive which had become quite -celebrated on Forsyte 'Change. Swithin! And the fellow had gone -and died, last November, at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing -the doubt whether Forsytes could live for ever, which had first -arisen when Aunt Ann passed away. Died! and left only Jolyon and -James, Roger and Nicholas and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan! And -old Jolyon thought: 'Eighty-five! I don't feel it--except when I -get that pain.' - -His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had -bought his nephew Soames' ill-starred house and settled into it -here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been -getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son -and his grandchildren--June, and the little ones of the second -marriage, Jolly and Holly; living down here out of the racket of -London and the cackle of Forsyte 'Change,' free of his boards, in a -delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of -occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its -twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and Jolly. -All the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart -during that long and tragic business of June, Soames, Irene his -wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out. Even June -had thrown off her melancholy at last--witness this travel in Spain -she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. Curiously -perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, -because his son was not there. Jo was never anything but a comfort -and a pleasure to him nowadays--an amiable chap; but women, -somehow--even the best--got a little on one's nerves, unless of -course one admired them. - -Far-off a cuckoo called; a wood-pigeon was cooing from the first -elm-tree in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had -sprung up after the last mowing! The wind had got into the sou'- -west, too--a delicious air, sappy! He pushed his hat back and let -the sun fall on his chin and cheek. Somehow, to-day, he wanted -company--wanted a pretty face to look at. People treated the old as -if they wanted nothing. And with the un-Forsytean philosophy which -ever intruded on his soul, he thought: 'One's never had enough. -With a foot in the grave one'll want something, I shouldn't be -surprised!' Down here--away from the exigencies of affairs--his -grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, -to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above them, said, 'Open, -sesame,' to him day and night. And sesame had opened--how much, -perhaps, he did not know. He had always been responsive to what -they had begun to call 'Nature,' genuinely, almost religiously -responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset -a sunset and a view a view, however deeply they might move him. -But nowadays Nature actually made him ache, he appreciated it so. -Every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with Holly's -hand in his, and the dog Balthasar in front looking studiously for -what he never found, he would stroll, watching the roses open, -fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and -saplings in the coppice, watching the water-lily leaves unfold and -glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field; -listening to the starlings and skylarks, and the Alderney cows -chewing the cud, flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one of -these fine days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, -feeling perhaps, deep down, that he had not very much longer to -enjoy it. The thought that some day--perhaps not ten years hence, -perhaps not five--all this world would be taken away from him, -before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in -the nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. If anything -came after this life, it wouldn't be what he wanted; not Robin -Hill, and flowers and birds and pretty faces--too few, even now, of -those about him! With the years his dislike of humbug had -increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the 'sixties, as he had -worn side-whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, -leaving him reverent before three things alone--beauty, upright -conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now -was beauty. He had always had wide interests, and, indeed could -still read The Times, but he was liable at any moment to put it -down if he heard a blackbird sing. Upright conduct, property-- -somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the sunsets never -tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get -enough of them. Staring into the stilly radiance of the early -evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a -thought came to him: This weather was like the music of 'Orfeo,' -which he had recently heard at Covent Garden. A beautiful opera, -not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite Mozart, but, in its way, perhaps -even more lovely; something classical and of the Golden Age about -it, chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli 'almost worthy of the old -days'--highest praise he could bestow. The yearning of Orpheus for -the beauty he was losing, for his love going down to Hades, as in -life love and beauty did go--the yearning which sang and throbbed -through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of -the world that evening. And with the tip of his cork-soled, -elastic-sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog -Balthasar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for -though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of -the fact. When he had finished he rubbed the place he had been -scratching against his master's calf, and settled down again with -his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. And into old -Jolyon's mind came a sudden recollection--a face he had seen at -that opera three weeks ago--Irene, the wife of his precious nephew -Soames, that man of property! Though he had not met her since the -day of the 'At Home' in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which -celebrated his granddaughter June's ill-starred engagement to young -Bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired -her--a very pretty creature. After the death of young Bosinney, -whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that -she had left Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been -doing since. That sight of her face--a side view--in the row in -front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that -she was still alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had -told him something once--something which had upset him completely. -The boy had got it from George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen -Bosinney in the fog the day he was run over--something which -explained the young fellow's distress--an act of Soames towards his -wife--a shocking act. Jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after -the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had -always lingered in old Jolyon's mind--'wild and lost' he had called -her. And next day June had gone there--bottled up her feelings and -gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress -had slipped out in the night and vanished. A tragic business -altogether! One thing was certain--Soames had never been able to -lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and -journeying up and down--a fitting fate, the man of property! For -when he once took a dislike to anyone--as he had to his nephew--old -Jolyon never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief -with which he had heard the news of Irene's disappearance. It had -been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to which she -must have wandered back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a -moment--like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, -'Tragic death of an Architect,' in the street. Her face had struck -him very much the other night--more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it. A young -woman still--twenty-eight perhaps. Ah, well! Very likely she -had another lover by now. But at this subversive thought--for -married women should never love: once, even, had been too much--his -instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar's head. The sagacious -animal stood up and looked into old Jolyon's face. 'Walk?' he -seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered: "Come on, old chap!" - -Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of -buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. This feature, -where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below -the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level -of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so -important in horticulture. Its rocks and earth were beloved of the -dog Balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there. Old Jolyon made a -point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, -he intended that it should be, some day, and he would think: 'I -must get Varr to come down and look at it; he's better than Beech.' -For plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best -expert consideration. It was inhabited by snails, and if -accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell -them the story of the little boy who said: 'Have plummers got -leggers, Mother? 'No, sonny.' 'Then darned if I haven't been and -swallowed a snileybob.' And when they skipped and clutched his -hand, thinking of the snileybob going down the little boy's 'red -lane,' his eyes would twinkle. Emerging from the fernery, he -opened the wicket gate, which just there led into the first field, -a large and park-like area, out of which, within brick walls, the -vegetable garden had been carved. Old Jolyon avoided this, which -did not suit his mood, and made down the hill towards the pond. -Balthasar, who knew a water-rat or two, gambolled in front, at the -gait which marks an oldish dog who takes the same walk every day. -Arrived at the edge, old Jolyon stood, noting another water-lily -opened since yesterday; he would show it to Holly to-morrow, when -'his little sweet' had got over the upset which had followed on her -eating a tomato at lunch--her little arrangements were very -delicate. Now that Jolly had gone to school--his first term--Holly -was with him nearly all day long, and he missed her badly. He felt -that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at -his left side. He looked back up the hill. Really, poor young -Bosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would -have done very well for himself if he had lived! And where was he -now? Perhaps, still haunting this, the site of his last work, of -his tragic love affair. Or was Philip Bosinney's spirit diffused -in the general? Who could say? That dog was getting his legs -muddy! And he moved towards the coppice. There had been the most -delightful lot of bluebells, and he knew where some still lingered -like little patches of sky fallen in between the trees, away out -of the sun. He passed the cow-houses and the hen-houses there -installed, and pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, -making for one of the bluebell plots. Balthasar, preceding him -once more, uttered a low growl. Old Jolyon stirred him with his -foot, but the dog remained motionless, just where there was no room -to pass, and the hair rose slowly along the centre of his woolly -back. Whether from the growl and the look of the dog's stivered -hair, or from the sensation which a man feels in a wood, old Jolyon -also felt something move along his spine. And then the path -turned, and there was an old mossy log, and on it a woman sitting. -Her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: 'She's -trespassing--I must have a board put up!' before she turned. -Powers above! The face he had seen at the opera--the very woman he -had just been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things -blurred, as if a spirit--queer effect--the slant of sunlight -perhaps on her violet-grey frock! And then she rose and stood -smiling, her head a little to one side. Old Jolyon thought: 'How -pretty she is!' She did not speak, neither did he; and he realized -why with a certain admiration. She was here no doubt because of -some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar -explanation. - -"Don't let that dog touch your frock," he said; "he's got wet feet. -Come here, you!" - -But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand -down and stroked his head. Old Jolyon said quickly: - -"I saw you at the opera the other night; you didn't notice me." - -"Oh, yes! I did." - -He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'Do you -think one could miss seeing you?' - -"They're all in Spain," he remarked abruptly. "I'm alone; I drove -up for the opera. The Ravogli's good. Have you seen the cow- -houses?" - -In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like -emotion he moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and -she moved beside him. Her figure swayed faintly, like the best -kind of French figures; her dress, too, was a sort of French grey. -He noticed two or three silver threads in her amber-coloured hair, -strange hair with those dark eyes of hers, and that creamy-pale -face. A sudden sidelong look from the velvety brown eyes disturbed -him. It seemed to come from deep and far, from another world -almost, or at all events from some one not living very much in -this. And he said mechanically - -"Where are you living now?" - -"I have a little flat in Chelsea." - -He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear -anything; but the perverse word came out: - -"Alone?" - -She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his -mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of -this coppice, showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor. - -"All Alderneys," he muttered; "they give the best milk. This one's -a pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle!" - -The fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene's own, -was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. She -looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, -cynical eyes, and from her grey lips a little dribble of saliva -threaded its way towards the straw. The scent of hay and vanilla -and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cow-house; and old -Jolyon said: - -"You must come up and have some dinner with me. I'll send you home -in the carriage." - -He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, -with her memories. But he wanted her company; a pretty face, a -charming figure, beauty! He had been alone all the afternoon. -Perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered: "Thank you, Uncle -Jolyon. I should like to." - -He rubbed his hands, and said: - -"Capital! Let's go up, then!" And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, -they ascended through the field. The sun was almost level in their -faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but -little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like -fineness--the special look of life unshared with others. "I'll -take her in by the terrace," he thought: "I won't make a common -visitor of her." - -"What do you do all day?" he said. - -"Teach music; I have another interest, too." - -"Work!" said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, -and smoothing its black petticoat. "Nothing like it, is there? I -don't do any now. I'm getting on. What interest is that?" - -"Trying to help women who've come to grief." Old Jolyon did not -quite understand. "To grief?" he repeated; then realised with a -shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he -had used that expression. Assisting the Magdalenes of London! -What a weird and terrifying interest! And, curiosity overcoming -his natural shrinking, he asked: - -"Why? What do you do for them?" - -"Not much. I've no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and -food sometimes." - -Involuntarily old Jolyon's hand sought his purse. He said hastily: -"How d'you get hold of them?" - -"I go to a hospital." - -"A hospital! Phew!" - -"What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of -beauty." - -Old Jolyon straightened the doll. "Beauty!" he ejaculated: "Ha! -Yes! A sad business!" and he moved towards the house. Through a -French window, under sun-blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her -into the room where he was wont to study The Times and the sheets -of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold -wurzels, and the like, which provided Holly with material for her -paint brush. - -"Dinner's in half an hour. You'd like to wash your hands! I'll -take you to June's room." - -He saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last -visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both perhaps- --he did not know, could not say! All that was dark, and he wished -to leave it so. But what changes! And in the hall he said: - -"My boy Jo's a painter, you know. He's got a lot of taste. It -isn't mine, of course, but I've let him have his way." - -She was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and -music room, as it now was--all thrown into one, under the great -skylight. Old Jolyon had an odd impression of her. Was she trying -to conjure somebody from the shades of that space where the -colouring was all pearl-grey and silver? He would have had gold -himself; more lively and solid. But Jo had French tastes, and it -had come out shadowy like that, with an effect as of the fume of -cigarettes the chap was always smoking, broken here and there by a -little blaze of blue or crimson colour. It was not his dream! -Mentally he had hung this space with those gold-framed masterpieces -of still and stiller life which he had bought in days when quantity -was precious. And now where were they? Sold for a song! That -something which made him, alone among Forsytes, move with the times -had warned him against the struggle to retain them. But in his -study he still had 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.' - -He began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his -side. - -"These are the bathrooms," he said, "and other arrangements. I've -had them tiled. The nurseries are along there. And this is Jo's -and his wife's. They all communicate. But you remember, I -expect." - -Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large -room with a small bed, and several windows. - -"This is mine," he said. The walls were covered with the -photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he added -doubtfully: - -"These are Jo's. The view's first-rate. You can see the Grand -Stand at Epsom in clear weather." - -The sun was down now, behind the house, and over the 'prospect' a -luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous -day. Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, -away to a loom of downs. - -"The country's changing," he said abruptly, "but there it'll be -when we're all gone. Look at those thrushes--the birds are sweet -here in the mornings. I'm glad to have washed my hands of London." - -Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its -mournful look. 'Wish I could make her look happy!' he thought. 'A -pretty face, but sad!' And taking up his can of hot water he went -out into the gallery. - -"This is June's room," he said, opening the next door and putting -the can down; "I think you'll find everything." And closing the -door behind her he went back to his own room. Brushing his hair -with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau de -Cologne, he mused. She had come so strangely--a sort of visit- -ation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for -beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that -sort of thing. And before the mirror he straightened his still -upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, -touched up his eyebrows with eau de Cologne, and rang the bell. - -"I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. -Let cook do something extra, and tell Beacon to have the landau and -pair at half-past ten to drive her back to Town to-night. Is Miss -Holly asleep?" - -The maid thought not. And old Jolyon, passing down the gallery, -stole on tiptoe towards the nursery, and opened the door whose -hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the -evenings without being heard. - -But Holly was asleep, and lay like a miniature Madonna, of that -type which the old painters could not tell from Venus, when they -had completed her. Her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on -her face was perfect peace--her little arrangements were evidently -all right again. And old Jolyon, in the twilight of the room, -stood adoring her! It was so charming, solemn, and loving--that -little face. He had more than his share of the blessed capacity of -living again in the young. They were to him his future life--all -of a future life that his fundamental pagan sanity perhaps -admitted. There she was with everything before her, and his -blood--some of it--in her tiny veins. There she was, his little -companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her, so that -she knew nothing but love. His heart swelled, and he went out, -stilling the sound of his patent-leather boots. In the corridor an -eccentric notion attacked him: To think that children should come -to that which Irene had told him she was helping! Women who were -all, once, little things like this one sleeping there! 'I must -give her a cheque!' he mused; 'Can't bear to think of them!' They -had never borne reflecting on, those poor outcasts; wounding too -deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of -conformity to the sense of property--wounding too grievously the -deepest thing in him--a love of beauty which could give him, even -now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society -of a pretty woman. And he went downstairs, through the swinging -doors, to the back regions. There, in the wine-cellar, was a hock -worth at least two pounds a bottle, a Steinberg Cabinet, better -than any Johannisberg that ever went down throat; a wine of -perfect bouquet, sweet as a nectarine--nectar indeed! He got a -bottle out, handling it like a baby, and holding it level to the -light, to look. Enshrined in its coat of dust, that mellow -coloured, slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure. Three -years to settle down again since the move from Town--ought to be in -prime condition! Thirty-five years ago he had bought it--thank God -he had kept his palate, and earned the right to drink it. She -would appreciate this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He wiped -the bottle, drew the cork with his own hands, put his nose down, -inhaled its perfume, and went back to the music room. - -Irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a -lace scarf she had been wearing, so that her gold-coloured hair was -visible, and the pallor of her neck. In her grey frock she made a -pretty picture for old Jolyon, against the rosewood of the piano. - -He gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. The room, which had -been designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort, held -now but a little round table. In his present solitude the big -dining-table oppressed old Jolyon; he had caused it to be removed -till his son came back. Here in the company of two really good -copies of Raphael Madonnas he was wont to dine alone. It was the -only disconsolate hour of his day, this summer weather. He had -never been a large eater, like that great chap Swithin, or Sylvanus -Heythorp, or Anthony Thornworthy, those cronies of past times; and -to dine alone, overlooked by the Madonnas, was to him but a -sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might -come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. But -this evening was a different matter! His eyes twinkled at her -across the little table and he spoke of Italy and Switzerland, -telling her stories of his travels there, and other experiences -which he could no longer recount to his son and grand-daughter -because they knew them. This fresh audience was precious to him; -he had never become one of those old men who ramble round and round -the fields of reminiscence. Himself quickly fatigued by the -insensitive, he instinctively avoided fatiguing others, and his -natural flirtatiousness towards beauty guarded him specially in his -relations with a woman. He would have liked to draw her out, but -though she murmured and smiled and seemed to be enjoying what he -told her, he remained conscious of that mysterious remoteness which -constituted half her fascination. He could not bear women who -threw their shoulders and eyes at you, and chattered away; or hard- -mouthed women who laid down the law and knew more than you did. -There was only one quality in a woman that appealed to him--charm; -and the quieter it was, the more he liked it. And this one had -charm, shadowy as afternoon sunlight on those Italian hills and -valleys he had loved. The feeling, too, that she was, as it were, -apart, cloistered, made her seem nearer to himself, a strangely -desirable companion. When a man is very old and quite out of the -running, he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of youth, for -he would still be first in the heart of beauty. And he drank his -hock, and watched her lips, and felt nearly young. But the dog -Balthasar lay watching her lips too, and despising in his heart the -interruptions of their talk, and the tilting of those greenish -glasses full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to him. - -The light was just failing when they went back into the music-room. -And, cigar in mouth, old Jolyon said: - -"Play me some Chopin." - -By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall -know the texture of men's souls. Old Jolyon could not bear a -strong cigar or Wagner's music. He loved Beethoven and Mozart, -Handel and Gluck, and Schumann, and, for some occult reason, the -operas of Meyerbeer; but of late years he had been seduced by -Chopin, just as in painting he had succumbed to Botticelli. In -yielding to these tastes he had been conscious of divergence from -the standard of the Golden Age. Their poetry was not that of -Milton and Byron and Tennyson; of Raphael and Titian; Mozart and -Beethoven. It was, as it were, behind a veil; their poetry hit no -one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and turned -and twisted, and melted up the heart. And, never certain that this -was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could see the -pictures of the one or hear the music of the other. - -Irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with -pearl-grey, and old Jolyon, in an armchair, whence he could see -her, crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. She sat a few -moments with her hands on the keys, evidently searching her mind -for what to give him. Then she began and within old Jolyon there -arose a sorrowful pleasure, not quite like anything else in the -world. He fell slowly into a trance, interrupted only by the -movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals, -and replacing it. She was there, and the hock within him, and the -scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of sunshine lingering -into moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and bluish trees -above, glowing with blurs of wine-red roses, and fields of lavender -where milk-white cows were grazing, and a woman all shadowy, with -dark eyes and a white neck, smiled, holding out her arms; and -through air which was like music a star dropped and was caught on a -cow's horn. He opened his eyes. Beautiful piece; she played well- --the touch of an angel! And he closed them again. He felt mirac- -ulously sad and happy, as one does, standing under a lime-tree in -full honey flower. Not live one's own life again, but just stand -there and bask in the smile of a woman's eyes, and enjoy the -bouquet! And he jerked his hand; the dog Balthasar had reached up -and licked it. - -"Beautiful!" He said: "Go on--more Chopin!" - -She began to play again. This time the resemblance between her and -'Chopin' struck him. The swaying he had noticed in her walk was in -her playing too, and the Nocturne she had chosen and the soft -darkness of her eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight from a -golden moon. Seductive, yes; but nothing of Delilah in her or in -that music. A long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and -dispersed. 'So we go out!' he thought. 'No more beauty! Nothing?' - -Again Irene stopped. - -"Would you like some Gluck? He used to write his music in a sunlit -garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine beside him." - -"Ah! yes. Let's have 'Orfeo.'" Round about him now were fields of -gold and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, -bright birds flying to and fro. All was summer. Lingering waves -of sweetness and regret flooded his soul. Some cigar ash dropped, -and taking out a silk handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a -mingled scent as of snuff and eau de Cologne. 'Ah!' he thought, -'Indian summer--that's all!' and he said: "You haven't played me -'Che faro.'" - -She did not answer; did not move. He was conscious of something-- -some strange upset. Suddenly he saw her rise and turn away, and a -pang of remorse shot through him. What a clumsy chap! Like -Orpheus, she of course--she too was looking for her lost one in the -hall of memory! And disturbed to the heart, he got up from his -chair. She had gone to the great window at the far end. Gingerly -he followed. Her hands were folded over her breast; he could just -see her cheek, very white. And, quite emotionalized, he said: - -"There, there, my love!" The words had escaped him mechanically, -for they were those he used to Holly when she had a pain, but their -effect was instantaneously distressing. She raised her arms, -covered her face with them, and wept. - -Old Jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. The -passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike -the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had -never before broken down in the presence of another being. - -"There, there--there, there!" he murmured, and putting his hand out -reverently, touched her. She turned, and leaned the arms which -covered her face against him. Old Jolyon stood very still, keeping -one thin hand on her shoulder. Let her cry her heart out--it would -do her good. - -And the dog Balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine -them. - -The window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the -last of daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the -lamp within; there was a scent of new-mown grass. With the wisdom -of a long life old Jolyon did not speak. Even grief sobbed itself -out in time; only Time was good for sorrow--Time who saw the -passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; Time the layer-to-rest. -There came into his mind the words: 'As panteth the hart after -cooling streams'--but they were of no use to him. Then, conscious -of a scent of violets, he knew she was drying her eyes. He put his -chin forward, pressed his moustache against her forehead, and felt -her shake with a quivering of her whole body, as of a tree which -shakes itself free of raindrops. She put his hand to her lips, as -if saying: "All over now! Forgive me!" - -The kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to -where she had been so upset. And the dog Balthasar, following, -laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet. - -Anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think of -nothing better than china; and moving with her slowly from cabinet -to cabinet, he kept taking up bits of Dresden and Lowestoft and -Chelsea, turning them round and round with his thin, veined hands, -whose skin, faintly freckled, had such an aged look. - -"I bought this at Jobson's," he would say; "cost me thirty pounds. -It's very old. That dog leaves his bones all over the place. This -old 'ship-bowl' I picked up at the sale when that precious rip, the -Marquis, came to grief. But you don't remember. Here's a nice -piece of Chelsea. Now, what would you say this was?" And he was -comforted, feeling that, with her taste, she was taking a real -interest in these things; for, after all, nothing better composes -the nerves than a doubtful piece of china. - -When the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he said: - -"You must come again; you must come to lunch, then I can show you -these by daylight, and my little sweet--she's a dear little thing. -This dog seems to have taken a fancy to you." - -For Balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing his -side against her leg. Going out under the porch with her, he said: - -"He'll get you up in an hour and a quarter. Take this for your -protegees," and he slipped a cheque for fifty pounds into her hand. -He saw her brightened eyes, and heard her murmur: "Oh! Uncle -Jolyon!" and a real throb of pleasure went through him. That meant -one or two poor creatures helped a little, and it meant that she -would come again. He put his hand in at the window and grasped -hers once more. The carriage rolled away. He stood looking at the -moon and the shadows of the trees, and thought: 'A sweet night! -She......!' - - - - -II - - -Two days of rain, and summer set in bland and sunny. Old Jolyon -walked and talked with Holly. At first he felt taller and full of -a new vigour; then he felt restless. Almost every afternoon they -would enter the coppice, and walk as far as the log. 'Well, she's -not there!' he would think, 'of course not!' And he would feel a -little shorter, and drag his feet walking up the hill home, with -his hand clapped to his left side. Now and then the thought would -move in him: 'Did she come--or did I dream it?' and he would stare -at space, while the dog Balthasar stared at him. Of course she -would not come again! He opened the letters from Spain with less -excitement. They were not returning till July; he felt, oddly, -that he could bear it. Every day at dinner he screwed up his eyes -and looked at where she had sat. She was not there, so he -unscrewed his eyes again. - -On the seventh afternoon he thought: 'I must go up and get some -boots.' He ordered Beacon, and set out. Passing from Putney -towards Hyde Park he reflected: 'I might as well go to Chelsea and -see her.' And he called out: "Just drive me to where you took that -lady the other night." The coachman turned his broad red face, and -his juicy lips answered: "The lady in grey, sir?" - -"Yes, the lady in grey." What other ladies were there! Stodgy -chap! - -The carriage stopped before a small three-storied block of flats, -standing a little back from the river. With a practised eye old -Jolyon saw that they were cheap. 'I should think about sixty pound -a year,' he mused; and entering, he looked at the name-board. The -name 'Forsyte' was not on it, but against 'First Floor, Flat C' -were the words: 'Mrs. Irene Heron.' Ah! She had taken her maiden -name again! And somehow this pleased him. He went upstairs -slowly, feeling his side a little. He stood a moment, before -ringing, to lose the feeling of drag and fluttering there. She -would not be in! And then--Boots! The thought was black. What did -he want with boots at his age? He could not wear out all those he -had. - -"Your mistress at home?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"Say Mr. Jolyon Forsyte." - -"Yes, sir, will you come this way?" - -Old Jolyon followed a very little maid--not more than sixteen one -would say--into a very small drawing-room where the sun-blinds were -drawn. It held a cottage piano and little else save a vague -fragrance and good taste. He stood in the middle, with his top -hat in his hand, and thought: 'I expect she's very badly off!' -There was a mirror above the fireplace, and he saw himself -reflected. An old-looking chap! He heard a rustle, and turned -round. She was so close that his moustache almost brushed her -forehead, just under her hair. - -"I was driving up," he said. "Thought I'd look in on you, and ask -you how you got up the other night." - -And, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. She was really -glad to see him, perhaps. - -"Would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the -Park?" - -But while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned. The Park! -James and Emily! Mrs. Nicholas, or some other member of his -precious family would be there very likely, prancing up and down. -And they would go and wag their tongues about having seen him with -her, afterwards. Better not! He did not wish to revive the echoes -of the past on Forsyte 'Change. He removed a white hair from the -lapel of his closely-buttoned-up frock coat, and passed his hand -over his cheeks, moustache, and square chin. It felt very hollow -there under the cheekbones. He had not been eating much lately--he -had better get that little whippersnapper who attended Holly to -give him a tonic. But she had come back and when they were in the -carriage, he said: - -"Suppose we go and sit in Kensington Gardens instead?" and added -with a twinkle: "No prancing up and down there," as if she had been -in the secret of his thoughts. - -Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and -strolled towards the water. - -"You've gone back to your maiden name, I see," he said: "I'm not -sorry." - -She slipped her hand under his arm: "Has June forgiven me, Uncle -Jolyon?" - -He answered gently: "Yes--yes; of course, why not?" - -"And have you?" - -"I? I forgave you as soon as I saw how the land really lay." And -perhaps he had; his instinct had always been to forgive the -beautiful. - -She drew a deep breath. "I never regretted--I couldn't. Did you -ever love very deeply, Uncle Jolyon?" - -At that strange question old Jolyon stared before him. Had he? He -did not seem to remember that he ever had. But he did not like to -say this to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, whose -life was suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love. And he -thought: 'If I had met you when I was young I--I might have made a -fool of myself, perhaps.' And a longing to escape in generalities -beset him. - -"Love's a queer thing," he said, "fatal thing often. It was the -Greeks--wasn't it?--made love into a goddess; they were right, I -dare say, but then they lived in the Golden Age." - -"Phil adored them." - -Phil! The word jarred him, for suddenly--with his power to see all -round a thing, he perceived why she was putting up with him like -this. She wanted to talk about her lover! Well! If it was any -pleasure to her! And he said: "Ah! There was a bit of the sculptor -in him, I fancy." - -"Yes. He loved balance and symmetry; he loved the whole-hearted -way the Greeks gave themselves to art." - -Balance! The chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for -symmetry--clean-built enough he was, no doubt; but those queer eyes -of his, and high cheek-bones--Symmetry? - -"You're of the Golden Age, too, Uncle Jolyon." - -Old Jolyon looked round at her. Was she chaffing him? No, her -eyes were soft as velvet. Was she flattering him? But if so, why? -There was nothing to be had out of an old chap like him. - -"Phil thought so. He used to say: 'But I can never tell him that I -admire him.'" - -Ah! There it was again. Her dead lover; her desire to talk of him! -And he pressed her arm, half resentful of those memories, half -grateful, as if he recognised what a link they were between herself -and him. - -"He was a very talented young fellow," he murmured. "It's hot; I -feel the heat nowadays. Let's sit down." - -They took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves -covered them from the peaceful glory of the afternoon. A pleasure -to sit there and watch her, and feel that she liked to be with him. -And the wish to increase that liking, if he could, made him go on: - -"I expect he showed you a side of him I never saw. He'd be at his -best with you. His ideas of art were a little new--to me "--he had -stiffed the word 'fangled.' - -"Yes: but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty." Old -Jolyon thought: 'The devil he did!' but answered with a twinkle: -"Well, I have, or I shouldn't be sitting here with you." She was -fascinating when she smiled with her eyes, like that! - -"He thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. Phil -had real insight." - -He was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past, out of -a longing to talk of her dead lover--not a bit; and yet it was -precious to hear, because she pleased his eyes and heart which ---quite true!--had never grown old. Was that because--unlike her and -her dead lover, he had never loved to desperation, had always kept -his balance, his sense of symmetry. Well! It had left him power, -at eighty-four, to admire beauty. And he thought, 'If I were a -painter or a sculptor! But I'm an old chap. Make hay while the -sun shines.' - -A couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them, at -the edge of the shadow from their tree. The sunlight fell cruelly -on their pale, squashed, unkempt young faces. "We're an ugly lot!" -said old Jolyon suddenly. "It amazes me to see how--love triumphs -over that." - -"Love triumphs over everything!" - -"The young think so," he muttered. - -"Love has no age, no limit, and no death." - -With that glow in her pale face, her breast heaving, her eyes so -large and dark and soft, she looked like Venus come to life! But -this extravagance brought instant reaction, and, twinkling, he -said: "Well, if it had limits, we shouldn't be born; for by George! -it's got a lot to put up with." - -Then, removing his top hat, he brushed it round with a cuff. The -great clumsy thing heated his forehead; in these days he often got -a rush of blood to the head--his circulation was not what it had -been. - -She still sat gazing straight before her, and suddenly she -murmured: - -"It's strange enough that I'm alive." - -Those words of Jo's 'Wild and lost' came back to him. - -"Ah!" he said: "my son saw you for a moment--that day." - -"Was it your son? I heard a voice in the hall; I thought for a -second it was--Phil." - -Old Jolyon saw her lips tremble. She put her hand over them, took -it away again, and went on calmly: "That night I went to the -Embankment; a woman caught me by the dress. She told me about -herself. When one knows that others suffer, one's ashamed." - -"One of those?" - -She nodded, and horror stirred within old Jolyon, the horror of one -who has never known a struggle with desperation. Almost against -his will he muttered: "Tell me, won't you?" - -"I didn't care whether I lived or died. When you're like that, -Fate ceases to want to kill you. She took care of me three days-- -she never left me. I had no money. That's why I do what I can for -them, now." - -But old Jolyon was thinking: 'No money!' What fate could compare -with that? Every other was involved in it. - -"I wish you had come to me," he said. "Why didn't you?" But Irene -did not answer. - -"Because my name was Forsyte, I suppose? Or was it June who kept -you away? How are you getting on now?" His eyes involuntarily -swept her body. Perhaps even now she was--! And yet she wasn't -thin--not really! - -"Oh! with my fifty pounds a year, I make just enough." The answer -did not reassure him; he had lost confidence. And that fellow -Soames! But his sense of justice stifled condemnation. No, she -would certainly have died rather than take another penny from him. -Soft as she looked, there must be strength in her somewhere-- -strength and fidelity. But what business had young Bosinney to -have got run over and left her stranded like this! - -"Well, you must come to me now," he said, "for anything you want, -or I shall be quite cut up." And putting on his hat, he rose. -"Let's go and get some tea. I told that lazy chap to put the -horses up for an hour, and come for me at your place. We'll take a -cab presently; I can't walk as I used to." - -He enjoyed that stroll to the Kensington end of the gardens--the -sound of her voice, the glancing of her eyes, the subtle beauty of -a charming form moving beside him. He enjoyed their tea at -Ruffel's in the High Street, and came out thence with a great box -of chocolates swung on his little finger. He enjoyed the drive -back to Chelsea in a hansom, smoking his cigar. She had promised -to come down next Sunday and play to him again, and already in -thought he was plucking carnations and early roses for her to carry -back to town. It was a pleasure to give her a little pleasure, if -it WERE pleasure from an old chap like him! The carriage was -already there when they arrived. Just like that fellow, who was -always late when he was wanted! Old Jolyon went in for a minute to -say good-bye. The little dark hall of the flat was impregnated -with a disagreeable odour of patchouli, and on a bench against the -wall--its only furniture--he saw a figure sitting. He heard Irene -say softly: "Just one minute." In the little drawing-room when the -door was shut, he asked gravely: "One of your protegees?" - -"Yes. Now thanks to you, I can do something for her." - -He stood, staring, and stroking that chin whose strength had -frightened so many in its time. The idea of her thus actually in -contact with this outcast grieved and frightened him. What could -she do for them? Nothing. Only soil and make trouble for herself, -perhaps. And he said: "Take care, my dear! The world puts the -worst construction on everything." - -"I know that." - -He was abashed by her quiet smile. "Well then--Sunday," he -murmured: "Good-bye." - -She put her cheek forward for him to kiss. - -"Good-bye," he said again; "take care of yourself." And he went -out, not looking towards the figure on the bench. He drove home by -way of Hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of and -tell them to send her in two dozen of their best Burgundy. She -must want picking-up sometimes! Only in Richmond Park did he -remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots, and was -surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea. - - - - -III - - -The little spirits of the past which throng an old man's days had -never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy -hours elapsing before Sunday came. The spirit of the future, with -the charm of the unknown, put up her lips instead. Old Jolyon was -not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was -coming to lunch. There is wonderful finality about a meal; it -removes a world of doubts, for no one misses meals except for -reasons beyond control. He played many games with Holly on the -lawn, pitching them up to her who was batting so as to be ready to -bowl to Jolly in the holidays. For she was not a Forsyte, but -Jolly was--and Forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and -reached the age of eighty-five. The dog Balthasar, in attendance, -lay on the ball as often as he could, and the page-boy fielded, -till his face was like the harvest moon. And because the time was -getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the last. -On Friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him rather, and -though it was not the liver side, there is no remedy like that. -Anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and -that excitement was not good for him, would have been met by one of -those steady and rather defiant looks of his deep-set iron-grey -eyes, which seemed to say: 'I know my own business best.' He -always had and always would. - -On Sunday morning, when Holly had gone with her governess to -church, he visited the strawberry beds. There, accompanied by the -dog Balthasar, he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in -finding at least two dozen berries which were really ripe. -Stooping was not good for him, and he became very dizzy and red in -the forehead. Having placed the strawberries in a dish on the -dining-table, he washed his hands and bathed his forehead with eau -de Cologne. There, before the mirror, it occurred to him that he -was thinner. What a 'threadpaper' he had been when he was young! -It was nice to be slim--he could not bear a fat chap; and yet -perhaps his cheeks were too thin! She was to arrive by train at -half-past twelve and walk up, entering from the road past Drage's -farm at the far end of the coppice. And, having looked into June's -room to see that there was hot water ready, he set forth to meet -her, leisurely, for his heart was beating. The air smelled sweet, -larks sang, and the Grand Stand at Epsom was visible. A perfect -day! On just such a one, no doubt, six years ago, Soames had -brought young Bosinney down with him to look at the site before -they began to build. It was Bosinney who had pitched on the exact -spot for the house--as June had often told him. In these days he -was thinking much about that young fellow, as if his spirit were -really haunting the field of his last work, on the chance of -seeing--her. Bosinney--the one man who had possessed her heart, to -whom she had given her whole self with rapture! At his age one -could not, of course, imagine such things, but there stirred in him -a queer vague aching--as it were the ghost of an impersonal -jealousy; and a feeling, too, more generous, of pity for that love -so early lost. All over in a few poor months! Well, well! He -looked at his watch before entering the coppice--only a quarter -past, twenty-five minutes to wait! And then, turning the corner of -the path, he saw her exactly where he had seen her the first time, -on the log; and realised that she must have come by the earlier -train to sit there alone for a couple of hours at least. Two hours -of her society missed! What memory could make that log so dear to -her? His face showed what he was thinking, for she said at once: - -"Forgive me, Uncle Jolyon; it was here that I first knew." - -"Yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like. You're looking a -little Londony; you're giving too many lessons." - -That she should have to give lessons worried him. Lessons to a -parcel of young girls thumping out scales with their thick fingers. - -"Where do you go to give them?" he asked. - -"They're mostly Jewish families, luckily." - -Old Jolyon stared; to all Forsytes Jews seem strange and doubtful. - -"They love music, and they're very kind." - -"They had better be, by George!" He took her arm--his side always -hurt him a little going uphill--and said: - -"Did you ever see anything like those buttercups? They came like -that in a night." - -Her eyes seemed really to fly over the field, like bees after the -flowers and the honey. "I wanted you to see them--wouldn't let -them turn the cows in yet." Then, remembering that she had come to -talk about Bosinney, he pointed to the clock-tower over the -stables: - -"I expect he wouldn't have let me put that there--had no notion of -time, if I remember." - -But, pressing his arm to her, she talked of flowers instead, and he -knew it was done that he might not feel she came because of her -dead lover. - -"The best flower I can show you," he said, with a sort of triumph, -"is my little sweet. She'll be back from Church directly. There's -something about her which reminds me a little of you," and it did -not seem to him peculiar that he had put it thus, instead of -saying: "There's something about you which reminds me a little of -her." Ah! And here she was! - -Holly, followed closely by her elderly French governess, whose -digestion had been ruined twenty-two years ago in the siege of -Strasbourg, came rushing towards them from under the oak tree. She -stopped about a dozen yards away, to pat Balthasar and pretend that -this was all she had in her mind. Old Jolyon, who knew better, -said: - -"Well, my darling, here's the lady in grey I promised you." - -Holly raised herself and looked up. He watched the two of them -with a twinkle, Irene smiling, Holly beginning with grave inquiry, -passing into a shy smile too, and then to something deeper. She -had a sense of beauty, that child--knew what was what! He enjoyed -the sight of the kiss between them. - -"Mrs. Heron, Mam'zelle Beauce. Well, Mam'zelle--good sermon?" - -For, now that he had not much more time before him, the only part -of the service connected with this world absorbed what interest in -church remained to him. Mam'zelle Beauce stretched out a spidery -hand clad in a black kid glove--she had been in the best families-- -and the rather sad eyes of her lean yellowish face seemed to ask: -"Are you well-brrred?" Whenever Holly or Jolly did anything -unpleasing to her--a not uncommon occurrence--she would say to them: -"The little Tayleurs never did that--they were such well-brrred -little children." Jolly hated the little Tayleurs; Holly wondered -dreadfully how it was she fell so short of them. 'A thin rum -little soul,' old Jolyon thought her--Mam'zelle Beauce. - -Luncheon was a successful meal, the mushrooms which he himself had -picked in the mushroom house, his chosen strawberries, and another -bottle of the Steinberg cabinet filled him with a certain aromatic -spirituality, and a conviction that he would have a touch of eczema -to-morrow. - -After lunch they sat under the oak tree drinking Turkish coffee. -It was no matter of grief to him when Mademoiselle Beauce withdrew -to write her Sunday letter to her sister, whose future had been -endangered in the past by swallowing a pin--an event held up daily -in warning to the children to eat slowly and digest what they had -eaten. At the foot of the bank, on a carriage rug, Holly and the -dog Balthasar teased and loved each other, and in the shade old -Jolyon with his legs crossed and his cigar luxuriously savoured, -gazed at Irene sitting in the swing. A light, vaguely swaying, -grey figure with a fleck of sunlight here and there upon it, lips -just opened, eyes dark and soft under lids a little drooped. She -looked content; surely it did her good to come and see him! The -selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him, for he could -still feel pleasure in the pleasure of others, realising that what -he wanted, though much, was not quite all that mattered. - -"It's quiet here," he said; "you mustn't come down if you find it -dull. But it's a pleasure to see you. My little sweet is the -only face which gives me any pleasure, except yours." - -From her smile he knew that she was not beyond liking to be -appreciated, and this reassured him. "That's not humbug," he said. -"I never told a woman I admired her when I didn't. In fact I -don't know when I've told a woman I admired her, except my wife in -the old days; and wives are funny." He was silent, but resumed -abruptly: - -"She used to expect me to say it more often than I felt it, and -there we were." Her face looked mysteriously troubled, and, -afraid that he had said something painful, he hurried on: "When my -little sweet marries, I hope she'll find someone who knows what -women feel. I shan't be here to see it, but there's too much -topsy-turvydom in marriage; I don't want her to pitch up against -that." And, aware that he had made bad worse, he added: "That dog -will scratch." - -A silence followed. Of what was she thinking, this pretty creature -whose life was spoiled; who had done with love, and yet was made -for love? Some day when he was gone, perhaps, she would find -another mate--not so disorderly as that young fellow who had got -himself run over. Ah! but her husband? - -"Does Soames never trouble you?" he asked. - -She shook her head. Her face had closed up suddenly. For all her -softness there was something irreconcilable about her. And a -glimpse of light on the inexorable nature of sex antipathies -strayed into a brain which, belonging to early Victorian civil- -isation--so much older than this of his old age--had never thought -about such primitive things. - -"That's a comfort," he said. "You can see the Grand Stand to-day. -Shall we take a turn round?" - -Through the flower and fruit garden, against whose high outer walls -peach trees and nectarines were trained to the sun, through the -stables, the vinery, the mushroom house, the asparagus beds, the -rosery, the summer-house, he conducted her--even into the kitchen -garden to see the tiny green peas which Holly loved to scoop out of -their pods with her finger, and lick up from the palm of her little -brown hand. Many delightful things he showed her, while Holly and -the dog Balthasar danced ahead, or came to them at intervals for -attention. It was one of the happiest afternoons he had ever -spent, but it tired him and he was glad to sit down in the music -room and let her give him tea. A special little friend of Holly's -had come in--a fair child with short hair like a boy's. And the -two sported in the distance, under the stairs, on the stairs, and -up in the gallery. Old Jolyon begged for Chopin. She played -studies, mazurkas, waltzes, till the two children, creeping near, -stood at the foot of the piano their dark and golden heads bent -forward, listening. Old Jolyon watched. - -"Let's see you dance, you two!" - -Shyly, with a false start, they began. Bobbing and circling, -earnest, not very adroit, they went past and past his chair to the -strains of that waltz. He watched them and the face of her who was -playing turned smiling towards those little dancers thinking: - -'Sweetest picture I've seen for ages.' - -A voice said: - -"Hollee! Mais enfin--qu'est-ce que tu fais la--danser, le dimanche! -Viens, donc!" - -But the children came close to old Jolyon, knowing that he would -save them, and gazed into a face which was decidedly 'caught out.' - -"Better the day, better the deed, Mam'zelle. It's all my doing. -Trot along, chicks, and have your tea." - -And, when they were gone, followed by the dog Balthasar, who took -every meal, he looked at Irene with a twinkle and said: - -"Well, there we are! Aren't they sweet? Have you any little ones -among your pupils?" - -"Yes, three--two of them darlings." - -"Pretty?" - -"Lovely!" - -Old Jolyon sighed; he had an insatiable appetite for the very -young. "My little sweet," he said, "is devoted to music; she'll be -a musician some day. You wouldn't give me your opinion of her -playing, I suppose?" - -"Of course I will." - -"You wouldn't like--" but he stifled the words "to give her -lessons." The idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him; -yet it would mean that he would see her regularly. She left the -piano and came over to his chair. - -"I would like, very much; but there is--June. When are they coming -back?" - -Old Jolyon frowned. "Not till the middle of next month. What does -that matter?" - -"You said June had forgiven me; but she could never forget, Uncle -Jolyon." - -Forget! She must forget, if he wanted her to. - -But as if answering, Irene shook her head. "You know she couldn't; -one doesn't forget." - -Always that wretched past! And he said with a sort of vexed -finality: - -"Well, we shall see." - -He talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred -little things, till the carriage came round to take her home. And -when she had gone he went back to his chair, and sat there -smoothing his face and chin, dreaming over the day. - -That evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of -paper. He stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose and -stood under the masterpiece 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.' He -was not thinking of that picture, but of his life. He was going to -leave her something in his Will; nothing could so have stirred the -stilly deeps of thought and memory. He was going to leave her a -portion of his wealth, of his aspirations, deeds, qualities, work-- -all that had made that wealth; going to leave her, too, a part of -all he had missed in life, by his sane and steady pursuit of -wealth. All! What had he missed? 'Dutch Fishing Boats' responded -blankly; he crossed to the French window, and drawing the curtain -aside, opened it. A wind had got up, and one of last year's oak -leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was -dragging itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace -in the twilight. Except for that it was very quiet out there, and -he could smell the heliotrope watered not long since. A bat went -by. A bird uttered its last 'cheep.' And right above the oak tree -the first star shone. Faust in the opera had bartered his soul for -some fresh years of youth. Morbid notion! No such bargain was -possible, that was real tragedy! No making oneself new again for -love or life or anything. Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from -afar off while you could, and leave it something in your Will. But -how much? And, as if he could not make that calculation looking out -into the mild freedom of the country night, he turned back and went -up to the chimney-piece. There were his pet bronzes--a Cleopatra -with the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a greyhound playing with -her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses. 'They last!' he -thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a thousand -years of life before them! - -'How much?' Well! enough at all events to save her getting old -before her time, to keep the lines out of her face as long as -possible, and grey from soiling that bright hair. He might live -another five years. She would be well over thirty by then. 'How -much?' She had none of his blood in her! In loyalty to the tenor -of his life for forty years and more, ever since he married and -founded that mysterious thing, a family, came this warning thought- --None of his blood, no right to anything! It was a luxury then, -this notion. An extravagance, a petting of an old man's whim, one -of those things done in dotage. His real future was vested in -those who had his blood, in whom he would live on when he was gone. -He turned away from the bronzes and stood looking at the old -leather chair in which he had sat and smoked so many hundreds of -cigars. And suddenly he seemed to see her sitting there in her -grey dress, fragrant, soft, dark-eyed, graceful, looking up at him. -Why! She cared nothing for him, really; all she cared for was that -lost lover of hers. But she was there, whether she would or no, -giving him pleasure with her beauty and grace. One had no right to -inflict an old man's company, no right to ask her down to play to -him and let him look at her--for no reward! Pleasure must be paid -for in this world. 'How much?' After all, there was plenty; his -son and his three grandchildren would never miss that little lump. -He had made it himself, nearly every penny; he could leave it where -he liked, allow himself this little pleasure. He went back to the -bureau. 'Well, I'm going to,' he thought, 'let them think what -they like. I'm going to!' And he sat down. - -'How much?' Ten thousand, twenty thousand--how much? If only with -his money he could buy one year, one month of youth. And startled -by that thought, he wrote quickly: - - -'DEAR HERRING,--Draw me a codicil to this effect: "I leave to my -niece Irene Forsyte, born Irene Heron, by which name she now goes, -fifteen thousand pounds free of legacy duty." -'Yours faithfully, -'JOLYON FORSYTE.' - - -When he had sealed and stamped the envelope, he went back to the -window and drew in a long breath. It was dark, but many stars -shone now. - - - - -IV - - -He woke at half-past two, an hour which long experience had taught -him brings panic intensity to all awkward thoughts. Experience had -also taught him that a further waking at the proper hour of eight -showed the folly of such panic. On this particular morning the -thought which gathered rapid momentum was that if he became ill, at -his age not improbable, he would not see her. From this it was but -a step to realisation that he would be cut off, too, when his son -and June returned from Spain. How could he justify desire for the -company of one who had stolen--early morning does not mince words-- -June's lover? That lover was dead; but June was a stubborn little -thing; warm-hearted, but stubborn as wood, and--quite true--not one -who forgot! By the middle of next month they would be back. He -had barely five weeks left to enjoy the new interest which had come -into what remained of his life. Darkness showed up to him absurdly -clear the nature of his feeling. Admiration for beauty--a craving -to see that which delighted his eyes. - -Preposterous, at his age! And yet--what other reason was there for -asking June to undergo such painful reminder, and how prevent his -son and his son's wife from thinking him very queer? He would be -reduced to sneaking up to London, which tired him; and the least -indisposition would cut him off even from that. He lay with eyes -open, setting his jaw against the prospect, and calling himself an -old fool, while his heart beat loudly, and then seemed to stop -beating altogether. He had seen the dawn lighting the window -chinks, heard the birds chirp and twitter, and the cocks crow, -before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane. Five weeks -before he need bother, at his age an eternity! But that early -morning panic had left its mark, had slightly fevered the will of -one who had always had his own way. He would see her as often as -he wished! Why not go up to town and make that codicil at his -solicitor's instead of writing about it; she might like to go to -the opera! But, by train, for he would not have that fat chap -Beacon grinning behind his back. Servants were such fools; and, as -likely as not, they had known all the past history of Irene and -young Bosinney--servants knew everything, and suspected the rest. -He wrote to her that morning: - - -"MY DEAR IRENE,--I have to be up in town to-morrow. If you -would like to have a look in at the opera, come and dine -with me quietly ...." - -But where? It was decades since he had dined anywhere in London -save at his Club or at a private house. Ah! that new-fangled place -close to Covent Garden.... - -"Let me have a line to-morrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel whether -to expect you there at 7 o'clock." -"Yours affectionately, -"JOLYON FORSYTE." - - -She would understand that he just wanted to give her a little -pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to -see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that -one so old should go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a -woman. - -The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his -lawyer's, tired him. It was hot too, and after dressing for dinner -he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. He must -have had a sort of fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling -very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the bell. Why! -it was past seven! And there he was and she would be waiting. But -suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he was obliged to relapse -on the sofa. He heard the maid's voice say: - -"Did you ring, sir?" - -"Yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in -front of his eyes. "I'm not well, I want some sal volatile." - -"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded frightened. - -Old Jolyon made an effort. - -"Don't go. Take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the -hall--a lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well--the heat. He -is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait -dinner." - -When she was gone, he thought feebly: 'Why did I say a lady in -grey--she may be in anything. Sal volatile!' He did not go off -again, yet was not conscious of how Irene came to be standing -beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pushing a -pillow up behind his head. He heard her say anxiously: "Dear Uncle -Jolyon, what is it?" was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of -her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of smelling salts, -suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed. - -"Ha!" he said, "it's nothing. How did you get here? Go down and -dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right -in a minute." - -He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat -divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all -right. - -"Why! You are in grey!" he said. "Help me up." Once on his feet -he gave himself a shake. - -"What business had I to go off like that!" And he moved very -slowly to the glass. What a cadaverous chap! Her voice, behind -him, murmured: - -"You mustn't come down, Uncle; you must rest." - -"Fiddlesticks! A glass of champagne'll soon set me to rights. I -can't have you missing the opera." - -But the journey down the corridor was troublesome. What carpets -they had in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up -in them at every step! In the lift he noticed how concerned she -looked, and said with the ghost of a twinkle: - -"I'm a pretty host." - -When the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent -its slipping under him; but after soup and a glass of champagne he -felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought -such solicitude into her manner towards him. - -"I should have liked you for a daughter," he said suddenly; and -watching the smile in her eyes, went on: - -"You mustn't get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; -plenty of that when you get to my age. That's a nice dress--I like -the style." - -"I made it myself." - -Ah! A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her -interest in life. - -"Make hay while the sun shines," he said; "and drink that up. I -want to see some colour in your cheeks. We mustn't waste life; it -doesn't do. There's a new Marguerite to-night; let's hope she -won't be fat. And Mephisto--anything more dreadful than a fat chap -playing the Devil I can't imagine." - -But they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up from -dinner the dizziness came over him again, and she insisted on his -staying quiet and going to bed early. When he parted from her at -the door of the hotel, having paid the cabman to drive her to -Chelsea, he sat down again for a moment to enjoy the memory of her -words: "You are such a darling to me, Uncle Jolyon!" Why! Who -wouldn't be! He would have liked to stay up another day and take -her to the Zoo, but two days running of him would bore her to -death. No, he must wait till next Sunday; she had promised to come -then. They would settle those lessons for Holly, if only for a -month. It would be something. That little Mam'zelle Beauce -wouldn't like it, but she would have to lump it. And crushing his -old opera hat against his chest he sought the lift. - -He drove to Waterloo next morning, struggling with a desire to say: -'Drive me to Chelsea.' But his sense of proportion was too strong. -Besides, he still felt shaky, and did not want to risk another -aberration like that of last night, away from home. Holly, too, -was expecting him, and what he had in his bag for her. Not that -there was any cupboard love in his little sweet--she was a bundle -of affection. Then, with the rather bitter cynicism of the old, he -wondered for a second whether it was not cupboard love which made -Irene put up with him. No, she was not that sort either. She had, -if anything, too little notion of how to butter her bread, no sense -of property, poor thing! Besides, he had not breathed a word about -that codicil, nor should he--sufficient unto the day was the good -thereof. - -In the victoria which met him at the station Holly was restraining -the dog Balthasar, and their caresses made 'jubey' his drive home. -All the rest of that fine hot day and most of the next he was -content and peaceful, reposing in the shade, while the long -lingering sunshine showered gold on the lawns and the flowers. But -on Thursday evening at his lonely dinner he began to count the -hours; sixty-five till he would go down to meet her again in the -little coppice, and walk up through the fields at her side. He had -intended to consult the doctor about his fainting fit, but the -fellow would be sure to insist on quiet, no excitement and all -that; and he did not mean to be tied by the leg, did not want to be -told of an infirmity--if there were one, could not afford to hear -of it at his time of life, now that this new interest had come. -And he carefully avoided making any mention of it in a letter to -his son. It would only bring them back with a run! How far this -silence was due to consideration for their pleasure, how far to -regard for his own, he did not pause to consider. - -That night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was -dozing off, when he heard the rustle of a gown, and was conscious -of a scent of violets. Opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in -grey, standing by the fireplace, holding out her arms. The odd -thing was that, though those arms seemed to hold nothing, they were -curved as if round someone's neck, and her own neck was bent back, -her lips open, her eyes closed. She vanished at once, and there -were the mantelpiece and his bronzes. But those bronzes and the -mantelpiece had not been there when she was, only the fireplace and -the wall! Shaken and troubled, he got up. 'I must take medicine,' -he thought; 'I can't be well.' His heart beat too fast, he had an -asthmatic feeling in the chest; and going to the window, he opened -it to get some air. A dog was barking far away, one of the dogs at -Gage's farm no doubt, beyond the coppice. A beautiful still night, -but dark. 'I dropped off,' he mused, 'that's it! And yet I'll -swear my eyes were open!' A sound like a sigh seemed to answer. - -"What's that?" he said sharply, "who's there?" - -Putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he -stepped out on the terrace. Something soft scurried by in the -dark. "Shoo!" It was that great grey cat. 'Young Bosinney was -like a great cat!' he thought. 'It was him in there, that she-- -that she was--He's got her still!' He walked to the edge of the -terrace, and looked down into the darkness; he could just see the -powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn. Here to-day and gone -to-morrow! And there came the moon, who saw all, young and old, -alive and dead, and didn't care a dump! His own turn soon. For a -single day of youth he would give what was left! And he turned -again towards the house. He could see the windows of the night -nursery up there. His little sweet would be asleep. 'Hope that -dog won't wake her!' he thought. 'What is it makes us love, and -makes us die! I must go to bed.' - -And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he -passed back within. - -How should an old man live his days if not in dreaming of his -well-spent past? In that, at all events, there is no agitating -warmth, only pale winter sunshine. The shell can withstand the -gentle beating of the dynamos of memory. The present he should -distrust; the future shun. From beneath thick shade he should -watch the sunlight creeping at his toes. If there be sun of -summer, let him not go out into it, mistaking it for the -Indian-summer sun! Thus peradventure he shall decline softly, -slowly, imperceptibly, until impatient Nature clutches his -wind-pipe and he gasps away to death some early morning before the -world is aired, and they put on his tombstone: 'In the fulness of -years!' yea! If he preserve his principles in perfect order, a -Forsyte may live on long after he is dead. - -Old Jolyon was conscious of all this, and yet there was in him that -which transcended Forsyteism. For it is written that a Forsyte -shall not love beauty more than reason; nor his own way more than -his own health. And something beat within him in these days that -with each throb fretted at the thinning shell. His sagacity knew -this, but it knew too that he could not stop that beating, nor -would if he could. And yet, if you had told him he was living on -his capital, he would have stared you down. No, no; a man did not -live on his capital; it was not done! The shibboleths of the past -are ever more real than the actualities of the present. And he, to -whom living on one's capital had always been anathema, could not -have borne to have applied so gross a phrase to his own case. -Pleasure is healthful; beauty good to see; to live again in the -youth of the young--and what else on earth was he doing! - -Methodically, as had been the way of his whole life, he now -arranged his time. On Tuesdays he journeyed up to town by train; -Irene came and dined with him. And they went to the opera. On -Thursdays he drove to town, and, putting that fat chap and his -horses up, met her in Kensington Gardens, picking up the carriage -after he had left her, and driving home again in time for dinner. -He threw out the casual formula that he had business in London on -those two days. On Wednesdays and Saturdays she came down to give -Holly music lessons. The greater the pleasure he took in her -society, the more scrupulously fastidious he became, just a matter- -of-fact and friendly uncle. Not even in feeling, really, was he -more--for, after all, there was his age. And yet, if she were late -he fidgeted himself to death. If she missed coming, which happened -twice, his eyes grew sad as an old dog's, and he failed to sleep. - -And so a month went by--a month of summer in the fields, and in his -heart, with summer's heat and the fatigue thereof. Who could have -believed a few weeks back that he would have looked forward to his -son's and his grand-daughter's return with something like dread! -There was such a delicious freedom, such recovery of that -independence a man enjoys before he founds a family, about these -weeks of lovely weather, and this new companionship with one who -demanded nothing, and remained always a little unknown, retaining -the fascination of mystery. It was like a draught of wine to him -who has been drinking water for so long that he has almost -forgotten the stir wine brings to his blood, the narcotic to his -brain. The flowers were coloured brighter, scents and music and -the sunlight had a living value--were no longer mere reminders of -past enjoyment. There was something now to live for which stirred -him continually to anticipation. He lived in that, not in -retrospection; the difference is considerable to any so old as he. -The pleasures of the table, never of much consequence to one -naturally abstemious, had lost all value. He ate little, without -knowing what he ate; and every day grew thinner and more worn to -look at. He was again a 'threadpaper'; and to this thinned form -his massive forehead, with hollows at the temples, gave more -dignity than ever. He was very well aware that he ought to see the -doctor, but liberty was too sweet. He could not afford to pet his -frequent shortness of breath and the pain in his side at the -expense of liberty. Return to the vegetable existence he had led -among the agricultural journals with the life-size mangold wurzels, -before this new attraction came into his life--no! He exceeded his -allowance of cigars. Two a day had always been his rule. Now he -smoked three and sometimes four--a man will when he is filled with -the creative spirit. But very often he thought: 'I must give up -smoking, and coffee; I must give up rattling up to town.' But he -did not; there was no one in any sort of authority to notice him, -and this was a priceless boon. - -The servants perhaps wondered, but they were, naturally, dumb. -Mam'zelle Beauce was too concerned with her own digestion, and too -'wellbrrred' 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 a cause of his thinness-- -for one cannot see the havoc oneself is working. A man of eighty- -five has no passions, but the Beauty which produces passion works -on in the old way, till death closes the eyes which crave the sight -of Her. - -On the first day of the second week in July he received a letter -from his son in Paris to say that they would all be back on Friday. -This had always been more sure than Fate; but, with the pathetic -improvidence given to the old, that they may endure to the end, he -had never quite admitted it. Now he did, and something would have -to be done. He had ceased to be able to imagine life without this -new interest, but that which is not imagined sometimes exists, as -Forsytes are perpetually finding to their cost. He sat in his old -leather chair, doubling up the letter, and mumbling with his lips -the end of an unlighted cigar. After to-morrow his Tuesday -expeditions to town would have to be abandoned. He could still -drive up, perhaps, once a week, on the pretext of seeing his man of -business. But even that would be dependent on his health, for now -they would begin to fuss about him. The lessons! The lessons must -go on! She must swallow down her scruples, and June must put her -feelings in her pocket. She had done so once, on the day after the -news of Bosinney's death; what she had done then, she could surely -do again now. Four years since that injury was inflicted on her-- -not Christian to keep the memory of old sores alive. June's will -was strong, but his was stronger, for his sands were running out. -Irene was soft, surely she would do this for him, subdue her -natural shrinking, sooner than give him pain! The lessons must -continue; for if they did, he was secure. And lighting his cigar -at last, he began trying to shape out how to put it to them all, -and explain this strange intimacy; how to veil and wrap it away -from the naked truth--that he could not bear to be deprived of the -sight of beauty. Ah! Holly! Holly was fond of her, Holly liked -her lessons. She would save him--his little sweet! And with that -happy thought he became serene, and wondered what he had been -worrying about so fearfully. He must not worry, it left him always -curiously weak, and as if but half present in his own body. - -That evening after dinner he had a return of the dizziness, though -he did not faint. He would not ring the bell, because he knew it -would mean a fuss, and make his going up on the morrow more -conspicuous. When one grew old, the whole world was in conspiracy -to limit freedom, and for what reason?--just to keep the breath in -him a little longer. He did not want it at such cost. Only the -dog Balthasar saw his lonely recovery from that weakness; anxiously -watched his master go to the sideboard and drink some brandy, -instead of giving him a biscuit. When at last old Jolyon felt able -to tackle the stairs he went up to bed. And, though still shaky -next morning, the thought of the evening sustained and strengthened -him. It was always such a pleasure to give her a good dinner--he -suspected her of undereating when she was alone; and, at the opera -to watch her eyes glow and brighten, the unconscious smiling of her -lips. She hadn't much pleasure, and this was the last time he -would be able to give her that treat. But when he was packing his -bag he caught himself wishing that he had not the fatigue of -dressing for dinner before him, and the exertion, too, of telling -her about June's return. - -The opera that evening was 'Carmen,' and he chose the last -entr'acte to break the news, instinctively putting it off till the -latest moment. - -She took it quietly, queerly; in fact, he did not know how she had -taken it before the wayward music lifted up again and silence -became necessary. The mask was down over her face, that mask -behind which so much went on that he could not see. She wanted -time to think it over, no doubt! He would not press her, for she -would be coming to give her lesson to-morrow afternoon, and he -should see her then when she had got used to the idea. In the cab -he talked only of the Carmen; he had seen better in the old days, -but this one was not bad at all. When he took her hand to say -good-night, she bent quickly forward and kissed his forehead. - -"Good-bye, dear Uncle Jolyon, you have been so sweet to me." - -"To-morrow then," he said. "Good-night. Sleep well." She echoed -softly: "Sleep welll" and from the cab window, already moving away, -he saw her face screwed round towards him, and her hand put out in -a gesture which seemed to linger. - -He sought his room slowly. They never gave him the same, and he -could not get used to these 'spick-and-spandy' bedrooms with new -furniture and grey-green carpets sprinkled all over with pink -roses. He was wakeful and that wretched Habanera kept throbbing in -his head. - -His French had never been equal to its words, but its sense he -knew, if it had any sense, a gipsy thing--wild and unaccountable. -Well, there was in life something which upset all your care and -plans--something which made men and women dance to its pipes. And -he lay staring from deep-sunk eyes into the darkness where the -unaccountable held sway. You thought you had hold of life, but it -slipped away behind you, took you by the scruff of the neck, forced -you here and forced you there, and then, likely as not, squeezed -life out of you! It took the very stars like that, he shouldn't -wonder, rubbed their noses together and flung them apart; it had -never done playing its pranks. Five million people in this great -blunderbuss of a town, and all of them at the mercy of that Life- -Force, like a lot of little dried peas hopping about on a board -when you struck your fist on it. Ah, well! Himself would not hop -much longer--a good long sleep would do him good! - -How hot it was up here!--how noisy! His forehead burned; she had -kissed it just where he always worried; just there--as if she had -known the very place and wanted to kiss it all away for him. But, -instead, her lips left a patch of grievous uneasiness. She had -never spoken in quite that voice, had never before made that -lingering gesture or looked back at him as she drove away. - -He got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced -down over the river. There was little air, but the sight of that -breadth of water flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. 'The -great thing,' he thought 'is not to make myself a nuisance. I'll -think of my little sweet, and go to sleep.' But it was long before -the heat and throbbing of the London night died out into the short -slumber of the summer morning. And old Jolyon had but forty winks. - -When he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, and -with the help of Holly, who was very delicate with flowers, -gathered a great bunch of carnations. They were, he told her, for -'the lady in grey'--a name still bandied between them; and he put -them in a bowl in his study where he meant to tackle Irene the -moment she came, on the subject of June and future lessons. Their -fragrance and colour would help. After lunch he lay down, for he -felt very tired, and the carriage would not bring her from the -station till four o'clock. But as the hour approached he grew -restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive. -The sun-blinds were down, and Holly was there with Mademoiselle -Beauce, sheltered from the heat of a stifling July day, attending -to their silkworms. Old Jolyon had a natural antipathy to these -methodical creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of -elephants; who nibbled such quantities of holes in nice green -leaves; and smelled, as he thought, horrid. He sat down on a -chintz-covered windowseat whence he could see the drive, and get -what air there was; and the dog Balthasar who appreciated chintz on -hot days, jumped up beside him. Over the cottage piano a violet -dust-sheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and on it the first -lavender, whose scent filled the room. In spite of the coolness -here, perhaps because of that coolness the beat of life vehemently -impressed his ebbed-down senses. Each sunbeam which came through -the chinks had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled very strong; -the lavender perfume was overpowering; those silkworms heaving up -their grey-green backs seemed horribly alive; and Holly's dark head -bent over them had a wonderfully silky sheen. A marvellous cruelly -strong thing was life when you were old and weak; it seemed to mock -you with its multitude of forms and its beating vitality. He had -never, till those last few weeks, had this curious feeling of being -with one half of him eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and -with the other half left on the bank, watching that helpless -progress. Only when Irene was with him did he lose this double -consciousness. - -Holly turned her head, pointed with her little brown fist to the -piano--for to point with a finger was not 'well-brrred'--and said -slyly: - -"Look at the 'lady in grey,' Gran; isn't she pretty to-day?" - -Old Jolyon's heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was -clouded; then it cleared, and he said with a twinkle: - -"Who's been dressing her up?" - -"Mam'zelle." - -"Hollee! Don't be foolish!" - -That prim little Frenchwoman! She hadn't yet got over the music -lessons being taken away from her. That wouldn't help. His little -sweet was the only friend they had. Well, they were her lessons. -And he shouldn't budge shouldn't budge for anything. He stroked -the warm wool on Balthasar's head, and heard Holly say: "When -mother's home, there won't be any changes, will there? She doesn't -like strangers, you know." - -The child's words seemed to bring the chilly atmosphere of -opposition about old Jolyon, and disclose all the menace to his -new-found freedom. Ah! He would have to resign himself to being an -old man at the mercy of care and love, or fight to keep this new -and prized companionship; and to fight tired him to death. But his -thin, worn face hardened into resolution till it appeared all Jaw. -This was his house, and his affair; he should not budge! He looked -at his watch, old and thin like himself; he had owned it fifty -years. Past four already! And kissing the top of Holly's head in -passing, he went down to the hall. He wanted to get hold of her -before she went up to give her lesson. At the first sound of -wheels he stepped out into the porch, and saw at once that the -victoria was empty. - -"The train's in, sir; but the lady 'asn't come." - -Old Jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push -away that fat chap's curiosity, and defy him to see the bitter -disappointment he was feeling. - -"Very well," he said, and turned back into the house. He went to -his study and sat down, quivering like a leaf. What did this mean? -She might have lost her train, but he knew well enough she hadn't. -'Good-bye, dear Uncle Jolyon.' Why 'Good-bye' and not 'Good- -night'? And that hand of hers lingering in the air. And her kiss. -What did it mean? Vehement alarm and irritation took possession of -him. He got up and began to pace the Turkey carpet, between window -and wall. She was going to give him up! He felt it for certain-- -and he defenceless. An old man wanting to look on beauty! It was -ridiculous! Age closed his mouth, paralysed his power to fight. -He had no right to what was warm and living, no right to anything -but memories and sorrow. He could not plead with her; even an old -man has his dignity. Defenceless! For an hour, lost to bodily -fatigue, he paced up and down, past the bowl of carnations he had -plucked, which mocked him with its scent. Of all things hard to -bear, the prostration of will-power is hardest, for one who has -always had his way. Nature had got him in its net, and like an -unhappy fish he turned and swam at the meshes, here and there, -found no hole, no breaking point. They brought him tea at five -o'clock, and a letter. For a moment hope beat up in him. He cut -the envelope with the butter knife, and read: - - -"DEAREST UNCLE JOLYON,--I can't bear to write anything that may -disappoint you, but I was too cowardly to tell you last night. I -feel I can't come down and give Holly any more lessons, now that -June is coming back. Some things go too deep to be forgotten. It -has been such a joy to see you and Holly. Perhaps I shall still -see you sometimes when you come up, though I'm sure it's not good -for you; I can see you are tiring yourself too much. I believe you -ought to rest quite quietly all this hot weather, and now you have -your son and June coming back you will be so happy. Thank you a -million times for all your sweetness to me. - -"Lovingly your IRENE." - - -So, there it was! Not good for him to have pleasure and what he -chiefly cared about; to try and put off feeling the inevitable end -of all things, the approach of death with its stealthy, rustling -footsteps. Not good for him! Not even she could see how she was -his new lease of interest in life, the incarnation of all the -beauty he felt slipping from him. - -His tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he -paced, torn between his dignity and his hold on life. Intolerable -to be squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on -when your will was in the hands of others bent on weighing you to -the ground with care and love. Intolerable! He would see what -telling her the truth would do--the truth that he wanted the sight -of her more than just a lingering on. He sat down at his old -bureau and took a pen. But he could not write. There was some- -thing revolting in having to plead like this; plead that she should -warm his eyes with her beauty. It was tantamount to confessing -dotage. He simply could not. And instead, he wrote: - - -"I had hoped that the memory of old sores would not be allowed to -stand in the way of what is a pleasure and a profit to me and my -little grand-daughter. But old men learn to forego their whims; -they are obliged to, even the whim to live must be foregone sooner -or later; and perhaps the sooner the better. -"My love to you, -"JOLYON FORSYTE." - - -'Bitter,' he thought, 'but I can't help it. I'm tired.' He sealed -and dropped it into the box for the evening post, and hearing it -fall to the bottom, thought: 'There goes all I've looked forward -to!' - -That evening after dinner which he scarcely touched, after his -cigar which he left half-smoked for it made him feel faint, he went -very slowly upstairs and stole into the night-nursery. He sat down -on the window-seat. A night-light was burning, and he could just -see Holly's face, with one hand underneath the cheek. An early -cockchafer buzzed in the Japanese paper with which they had filled -the grate, and one of the horses in the stable stamped restlessly. -To sleep like that child! He pressed apart two rungs of the -venetian blind and looked out. The moon was rising, blood-red. He -had never seen so red a moon. The woods and fields out there were -dropping to sleep too, in the last glimmer of the summer light. -And beauty, like a spirit, walked. 'I've had a long life,' he -thought, 'the best of nearly everything. I'm an ungrateful chap; -I've seen a lot of beauty in my time. Poor young Bosinney said I -had a sense of beauty. There's a man in the moon to-night!' A -moth went by, another, another. 'Ladies in grey!' He closed his -eyes. A feeling that he would never open them again beset him; he -let it grow, let himself sink; then, with a shiver, dragged the -lids up. There was something wrong with him, no doubt, deeply -wrong; he would have to have the doctor after all. It didn't much -matter now! Into that coppice the moon-light would have crept; -there would be shadows, and those shadows would be the only things -awake. No birds, beasts, flowers, insects; Just the shadows-- -moving; 'Ladies in grey!' Over that log they would climb; would -whisper together. She and Bosinney! Funny thought! And the frogs -and little things would whisper too! How the clock ticked, in -here! It was all eerie--out there in the light of that red moon; in -here with the little steady night-light and, the ticking clock and -the nurse's dressing-gown hanging from the edge of the screen, -tall, like a woman's figure. 'Lady in grey!' And a very odd -thought beset him: Did she exist? Had she ever come at all? Or -was she but the emanation of all the beauty he had loved and must -leave so soon? The violet-grey spirit with the dark eyes and the -crown of amber hair, who walks the dawn and the moonlight, and at -blue-bell time? What was she, who was she, did she exist? He rose -and stood a moment clutching the window-sill, to give him a sense -of reality again; then began tiptoeing towards the door. He -stopped at the foot of the bed; and Holly, as if conscious of his -eyes fixed on her, stirred, sighed, and curled up closer in -defence. He tiptoed on and passed out into the dark passage; -reached his room, undressed at once, and stood before a mirror in -his night-shirt. What a scarecrow--with temples fallen in, and -thin legs! His eyes resisted his own image, and a look of pride -came on his face. All was in league to pull him down, even his -reflection in the glass, but he was not down--yet! He got into -bed, and lay a long time without sleeping, trying to reach -resignation, only too well aware that fretting and disappointment -were very bad for him. - -He woke in the morning so unrefreshed and strengthless that he sent -for the doctor. After sounding him, the fellow pulled a face as -long as your arm, and ordered him to stay in bed and give up -smoking. That was no hardship; there was nothing to get up for, and -when he felt ill, tobacco always lost its savour. He spent the -morning languidly with the sun-blinds down, turning and re-turning -The Times, not reading much, the dog Balthasar lying beside his bed. -With his lunch they brought him a telegram, running thus: - -'Your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you -at four-thirty. Irene.' - - -Coming down! After all! Then she did exist--and he was not -deserted. Coming down! A glow ran through his limbs; his cheeks -and forehead felt hot. He drank his soup, and pushed the tray- -table away, lying very quiet until they had removed lunch and left -him alone; but every now and then his eyes twinkled. Coming down! -His heart beat fast, and then did not seem to beat at all. At -three o'clock he got up and dressed deliberately, noiselessly. -Holly and Mam'zelle would be in the schoolroom, and the servants -asleep after their dinner, he shouldn't wonder. He opened his door -cautiously, and went downstairs. In the hall the dog Balthasar lay -solitary, and, followed by him, old Jolyon passed into his study -and out into the burning afternoon. He meant to go down and meet -her in the coppice, but felt at once he could not manage that in -this heat. He sat down instead under the oak tree by the swing, -and the dog Balthasar, who also felt the heat, lay down beside him. -He sat there smiling. What a revel of bright minutes! What a hum -of insects, and cooing of pigeons! It was the quintessence of a -summer day. Lovely! And he was happy--happy as a sand-boy, what- -ever that might be. She was coming; she had not given him up! He -had everything in life he wanted--except a little more breath, and -less weight--just here! He would see her when she emerged from the -fernery, come swaying just a little, a violet-grey figure passing -over the daisies and dandelions and 'soldiers' on the lawn--the -soldiers with their flowery crowns. He would not move, but she -would come up to him and say: 'Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am sorry!' and -sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he had -not been very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick -her hand. That dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a -good dog. - -It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, -only make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the -Grand Stand at Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows crop- -ping the clover in the field and swishing at the flies with their -tails. He smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. Ah! that was -why there was such a racket of bees. They were excited--busy, as -his heart was busy and excited. Drowsy, too, drowsy and drugged on -honey and happiness; as his heart was drugged and drowsy. Summer-- -summer--they seemed saying; great bees and little bees, and the -flies too! - -The stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. -He would have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little sleep -of late; and then he would be fresh for her, fresh for youth and -beauty, coming towards him across the sunlit lawn--lady in grey! -And settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. Some thistle- -down came on what little air there was, and pitched on his -moustache more white than itself. He did not know; but his -breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight struck -through and lodged on his boot. A bumble-bee alighted and strolled -on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge of slumber -reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head swayed forward and -rested on his breast. Summer--summer! So went the hum. - -The stable clock struck the quarter past. The dog Balthasar -stretched and looked up at his master. The thistledown no longer -moved. The dog placed his chin over the sunlit foot. It did not -stir. The dog withdrew his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old -Jolyon's lap, looked in his face, whined; then, leaping down, sat -on his haunches, gazing up. And suddenly he uttered a long, long -howl. - -But the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old -master. - -Summer--summer--summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass! - - -1917 - - - - - - - -IN CHANCERY - -Two households both alike in dignity, -From ancient grudge, break into new mutiny. - ---Romeo and Juliet - - - -TO JESSIE AND JOSEPH CONRAD - - - - - -PART 1 - - - - -CHAPTER I - -AT TIMOTHY'S - - -The possessive instinct never stands still. Through florescence -and feud, frosts and fires, it followed the laws of progression -even in the Forsyte family which had believed it fixed for ever. -Nor can it be dissociated from environment any more than the -quality of potato from the soil. - -The historian of the English eighties and nineties will, in his -good time, depict the somewhat rapid progression from self- -contented and contained provincialism to still more self-contented -if less contained imperialism--in other words, the 'possessive' -instinct of the nation on the move. And so, as if in conformity, -was it with the Forsyte family. They were spreading not merely on -the surface, but within. - -When, in 1895, Susan Hayman, the married Forsyte sister, followed -her husband at the ludicrously low age of seventy-four, and was -cremated, it made strangely little stir among the six old Forsytes -left. For this apathy there were three causes. First: the almost -surreptitious burial of old Jolyon in 1892 down at Robin Hill-- -first of the Forsytes to desert the family grave at Highgate. That -burial, coming a year after Swithin's entirely proper funeral, had -occasioned a great deal of talk on Forsyte 'Change, the abode of -Timothy Forsyte on the Bayswater Road, London, which still col- -lected 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 (L145,304 gross, with -liabilities L35 7s. 4d.) he had actually left L15,000 to "whomever -do you think, my dear? To Irene!" that runaway wife of his nephew -Soames; Irene, a woman who had almost disgraced the family, and-- -still more amazing was to him no blood relation. Not out and out, -of course; only a life interest--only the income from it! Still, -there it was; and old Jolyon's claim to be the perfect Forsyte was -ended once for all. That, then, was the first reason why the -burial of Susan Hayman--at Woking--made little stir. - -The second reason was altogether more expansive and imperial. -Besides the house on Campden Hill, Susan had a place (left her by -Hayman when he died) just over the border in Hants, where the Hayman -boys had learned to be such good shots and riders, as it was -believed, which was of course nice for them, and creditable to -everybody; and the fact of owning something really countrified -seemed somehow to excuse the dispersion of her remains--though what -could have put cremation into her head they could not think! The -usual invitations, however, had been issued, and Soames had gone -down and young Nicholas, and the Will had been quite satisfactory so -far as it went, for she had only had a life interest; and everything -had gone quite smoothly to the children in equal shares. - -The third reason why Susan's burial made little stir was the most -expansive of all. It was summed up daringly by Euphemia, the pale, -the thin: "Well, I think people have a right to their own bodies, -even when they're dead." Coming from a daughter of Nicholas, a -Liberal of the old school and most tyrannical, it was a startling -remark--showing in a flash what a lot of water had run under -bridges since the death of Aunt Ann in '86, just when the -proprietorship of Soames over his wife's body was acquiring the -uncertainty which had led to such disaster. Euphemia, of course, -spoke like a child, and had no experience; for though well over -thirty by now, her name was still Forsyte. But, making all -allowances, her remark did undoubtedly show expansion of the -principle of liberty, decentralisation and shift in the central -point of possession from others to oneself. When Nicholas heard -his daughter's remark from Aunt Hester he had rapped out: "Wives -and daughters! There's no end to their liberty in these days. I -knew that 'Jackson' case would lead to things--lugging in Habeas -Corpus like that!" He had, of course, never really forgiven the -Married Woman's Property Act, which would so have interfered with -him if he had not mercifully married before it was passed. But, -in truth, there was no denying the revolt among the younger -Forsytes against being owned by others; that, as it were, Colonial -disposition to own oneself, which is the paradoxical forerunner of -Imperialism, was making progress all the time. They were all now -married, except George, confirmed to the Turf and the Iseeum Club; -Francie, pursuing her musical career in a studio off the King's -Road, Chelsea, and still taking 'lovers' to dances; Euphemia, -living at home and complaining of Nicholas; and those two Dromios, -Giles and Jesse Hayman. Of the third generation there were not -very many--young Jolyon had three, Winifred Dartie four, young -Nicholas six already, young Roger had one, Marian Tweetyman one; -St. John Hayman two. But the rest of the sixteen married--Soames, -Rachel and Cicely of James' family; Eustace and Thomas of Roger's; -Ernest, Archibald and Florence of Nicholas'; Augustus and Annabel -Spender of the Hayman's--were going down the years unreproduced. - -Thus, of the ten old Forsytes twenty-one young Forsytes had been -born; but of the twenty-one young Forsytes there were as yet only -seventeen descendants; and it already seemed unlikely that there -would be more than a further unconsidered trifle or so. A student -of statistics must have noticed that the birth rate had varied in -accordance with the rate of interest for your money. Grandfather -'Superior Dosset' Forsyte in the early nineteenth century had been -getting ten per cent. for his, hence ten children. Those ten, -leaving out the four who had not married, and Juley, whose husband -Septimus Small had, of course, died almost at once, had averaged -from four to five per cent. for theirs, and produced accordingly. -The twenty-one whom they produced were now getting barely three per -cent. in the Consols to which their father had mostly tied the -Settlements they made to avoid death duties, and the six of them -who had been reproduced had seventeen children, or just the proper -two and five-sixths per stem. - -There were other reasons, too, for this mild reproduction. A -distrust of their earning powers, natural where a sufficiency is -guaranteed, together with the knowledge that their fathers did not -die, kept them cautious. If one had children and not much income, -the standard of taste and comfort must of necessity go down; what -was enough for two was not enough for four, and so on--it would be -better to wait and see what Father did. Besides, it was nice to be -able to take holidays unhampered. Sooner in fact than own -children, they preferred to concentrate on the ownership of them- -selves, conforming to the growing tendency fin de siecle, as it -was called. In this way, little risk was run, and one would be -able to have a motor-car. Indeed, Eustace already had one, but it -had shaken him horribly, and broken one of his eye teeth; so that -it would be better to wait till they were a little safer. In the -meantime, no more children! Even young Nicholas was drawing in his -horns, and had made no addition to his six for quite three years. - -The corporate decay, however, of the Forsytes, their dispersion -rather, of which all this was symptomatic, had not advanced so far -as to prevent a rally when Roger Forsyte died in 1899. It had been -a glorious summer, and after holidays abroad and at the sea they -were practically all back in London, when Roger with a touch of his -old originality had suddenly breathed his last at his own house in -Princes Gardens. At Timothy's it was whispered sadly that poor -Roger had always been eccentric about his digestion--had he not, -for instance, preferred German mutton to all the other brands? - -Be that as it may, his funeral at Highgate had been perfect, and -coming away from it Soames Forsyte made almost mechanically for his -Uncle Timothy's in the Bayswater Road. The 'Old Things'--Aunt -Juley and Aunt Hester--would like to hear about. it. His father-- -James--at eighty-eight had not felt up to the fatigue of the -funeral; and Timothy himself, of course, had not gone; so that -Nicholas had been the only brother present. Still, there had been -a fair gathering; and it would cheer Aunts Juley and Hester up to -know. The kindly thought was not unmixed with the inevitable -longing to get something out of everything you do, which is the -chief characteristic of Forsytes, and indeed of the saner elements -in every nation. In this practice of taking family matters to -Timothy's in the Bayswater Road, Soames was but following in the -footsteps of his father, who had been in the habit of going at -least once a week to see his sisters at Timothy's, and had only -given it up when he lost his nerve at eighty-six, and could not go -out without Emily. To go with Emily was of no use, for who could -really talk to anyone in the presence of his own wife? Like James -in the old days, Soames found time to go there nearly every Sunday, -and sit in the little drawing-room into which, with his undoubted -taste, he had introduced a good deal of change and china not quite -up to his own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful -Barbizon pictures, at Christmastides. He himself, who had done -extremely well with the Barbizons, had for some years past moved -towards the Marises, Israels, and Mauve, and was hoping to do -better. In the riverside house which he now inhabited near -Mapledurham he had a gallery, beautifully hung and lighted, to -which few London dealers were strangers. It served, too, as a -Sunday afternoon attraction in those week-end parties which his -sisters, Winifred or Rachel, occasionally organised for him. For -though he was but a taciturn showman, his quiet collected -determinism seldom failed to influence his guests, who knew that -his reputation was grounded not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his -power of gauging the future of market values. When he went to -Timothy's he almost always had some little tale of triumph over a -dealer to unfold, and dearly he loved that coo of pride with which -his aunts would greet it. This afternoon, however, he was -differently animated, coming from Roger's funeral in his neat dark -clothes--not quite black, for after all an uncle was but an uncle, -and his soul abhorred excessive display of feeling. Leaning back -in a marqueterie chair and gazing down his uplifted nose at the -sky-blue walls plastered with gold frames, he was noticeably -silent. Whether because he had been to a funeral or not, the -peculiar Forsyte build of his face was seen to the best advantage -this afternoon--a face concave and long, with a jaw which divested -of flesh would have seemed extravagant: altogether a chinny face -though not at all ill-looking. He was feeling more strongly than -ever that Timothy's was hopelessly 'rum-ti-too' and the souls of -his aunts dismally mid-Victorian. The subject on which alone he -wanted to talk--his own undivorced position--was unspeakable. And -yet it occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. It was only -since the Spring that this had been so and a new feeling grown up -which was egging him on towards what he knew might well be folly in -a Forsyte of forty-five. More and more of late he had been -conscious that he was 'getting on.' The fortune already -considerable when he conceived the house at Robin Hill which had -finally wrecked his marriage with Irene, had mounted with -surprising vigour in the twelve lonely years during which he had -devoted himself to little else. He was worth to-day well over a -hundred thousand pounds, and had no one to leave it to--no real -object for going on with what was his religion. Even if he were to -relax his efforts, money made money, and he felt that he would have -a hundred and fifty thousand before he knew where he was. There -had always been a strongly domestic, philoprogenitive side to -Soames; baulked and frustrated, it had hidden itself away, but now -had crept out again in this his 'prime of life.' Concreted and -focussed of late by the attraction of a girl's undoubted beauty, it -had become a veritable prepossession. - -And this girl was French, not likely to lose her head, or accept any -unlegalised position. Moreover, Soames himself disliked the thought -of that. He had tasted of the sordid side of sex during those long -years of forced celibacy, secretively, and always with disgust, for -he was fastidious, and his sense of law and order innate. He wanted -no hole and corner liaison. A marriage at the Embassy in Paris, a -few months' travel, and he could bring Annette back quite separated -from a past which in truth was not too distinguished, for she only -kept the accounts in her mother's Soho Restaurant; he could bring -her back as something very new and chic with her French taste and -self-possession, to reign at 'The Shelter' near Mapledurham. On -Forsyte 'Change and among his riverside friends it would be current -that he had met a charming French girl on his travels and married -her. There would be the flavour of romance, and a certain cachet -about a French wife. No! He was not at all afraid of that. It was -only this cursed undivorced condition of his, and--and the question -whether Annette would take him, which he dared not put to the touch -until he had a clear and even dazzling future to offer her. - -In his aunts' drawing-room he heard with but muffled ears those -usual questions: How was his dear father? Not going out, of -course, now that the weather was turning chilly? Would Soames be -sure to tell him that Hester had found boiled holly leaves most -comforting for that pain in her side; a poultice every three hours, -with red flannel afterwards. And could he relish just a little pot -of their very best prune preserve--it was so delicious this year, -and had such a wonderful effect. Oh! and about the Darties--had -Soames heard that dear Winifred was having a most distressing time -with Montague? Timothy thought she really ought to have protection -It was said--but Soames mustn't take this for certain--that -he had given some of Winifred's jewellery to a dreadful dancer. -It was such a bad example for dear Val just as he was going to -college. Soames had not heard? Oh, but he must go and see his -sister and look into it at once! And did he think these Boers were -really going to resist? Timothy was in quite a stew about it. The -price of Consols was so high, and he had such a lot of money in -them. Did Soames think they must go down if there was a war? -Soames nodded. But it would be over very quickly. It would be so -bad for Timothy if it wasn't. And of course Soames' dear father -would feel it very much at his age. Luckily poor dear Roger had -been spared this dreadful anxiety. And Aunt Juley with a little -handkerchief wiped away the large tear trying to climb the -permanent pout on her now quite withered left cheek; she was -remembering dear Roger, and all his originality, and how he used to -stick pins into her when they were little together. Aunt Hester, -with her instinct for avoiding the unpleasant, here chimed in: Did -Soames think they would make Mr. Chamberlain Prime Minister at -once? He would settle it all so quickly. She would like to see -that old Kruger sent to St. Helena. She could remember so well the -news of Napoleon's death, and what a, relief it had been to his -grandfather. Of course she and Juley--"We were in pantalettes -then, my dear"--had not felt it much at the time. - -Soames took a cup of tea from her, drank it quickly, and ate three -of those macaroons for which Timothy's was famous. His faint, -pale, supercilious smile had deepened just a little. Really, his -family remained hopelessly provincial, however much of London they -might possess between them. In these go-ahead days their provinc- -ialism stared out even more than it used to. Why, old Nicholas was -still a Free Trader, and a member of that antediluvian home of -Liberalism, the Remove Club--though, to be sure, the members were -pretty well all Conservatives now, or he himself could not have -joined; and Timothy, they said, still wore a nightcap. Aunt Juley -spoke again. Dear Soames was looking so well, hardly a day older -than he did when dear Ann died, and they were all there together, -dear Jolyon, and dear Swithin, and dear Roger. She paused and -caught the tear which had climbed the pout on her right cheek. Did -he--did he ever hear anything of Irene nowadays? Aunt Hester -visibly interposed her shoulder. Really, Juley was always saying -something! The smile left Soames' face, and he put his cup down. -Here was his subject broached for him, and for all his desire to -expand, he could not take advantage. - -Aunt Juley went on rather hastily: - -"They say dear Jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out and -out; then of course he saw it would not be right, and made it for -her life only." - -Had Soames heard that? - -Soames nodded. - -"Your cousin Jolyon is a widower now. He is her trustee; you knew -that, of course?" - -Soames shook his head. He did know, but wished to show no -interest. Young Jolyon and he had not met since the day of -Bosinney's death. - -"He must be quite middle-aged by now," went on Aunt Juley dreamily. -"Let me see, he was born when your dear uncle lived in Mount -Street; long before they went to Stanhope Gate in December. Just -before that dreadful Commune. Over fifty! Fancy that! Such a -pretty baby, and we were all so proud of him; the very first of you -all." Aunt Juley sighed, and a lock of not quite her own hair came -loose and straggled, so that Aunt Hester gave a little shiver. -Soames rose, he was experiencing a curious piece of self-discovery. -That old wound to his pride and self-esteem was not yet closed. He -had come thinking he could talk of it, even wanting to talk of his -fettered condition, and--behold! he was shrinking away from this -reminder by Aunt Juley, renowned for her Malapropisms. - -Oh, Soames was not going already! - -Soames smiled a little vindictively, and said: - -"Yes. Good-bye. Remember me to Uncle Timothy!" And, leaving a -cold kiss on each forehead, whose wrinkles seemed to try and cling -to his lips as if longing to be kissed away, he left them looking -brightly after him--dear Soames, it had been so good of him to come -to-day, when they were not feeling very....! - -With compunction tweaking at his chest Soames descended the stairs, -where was always that rather pleasant smell of camphor and port -wine, and house where draughts are not permitted. The poor old -things--he had not meant to be unkind! And in the street he -instantly forgot them, repossessed by the image of Annette and the -thought of the cursed coil around him. Why had he not pushed the -thing through and obtained divorce when that wretched Bosinney was -run over, and there was evidence galore for the asking! And he -turned towards his sister Winifred Dartie's residence in Green -Street, Mayfair. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD - - -That a man of the world so subject to the vicissitudes of fortunes -as Montague Dartie should still be living in a house he had -inhabited twenty years at least would have been more noticeable if -the rent, rates, taxes, and repairs of that house had not been -defrayed by his father-in-law. By that simple if wholesale device -James Forsyte had secured a certain stability in the lives of his -daughter and his grandchildren. After all, there is something -invaluable about a safe roof over the head of a sportsman so -dashing as Dartie. Until the events of the last few days he had -been almost-supernaturally steady all this year. The fact was he -had acquired a half share in a filly of George Forsyte's, who had -gone irreparably on the turf, to the horror of Roger, now stilled -by the grave. Sleeve-links, by Martyr, out of Shirt-on-fire, by -Suspender, was a bay filly, three years old, who for a variety of -reasons had never shown her true form. With half ownership of this -hopeful animal, all the idealism latent somewhere in Dartie, as in -every other man, had put up its head, and kept him quietly ardent -for months past. When a man has some thing good to live for it is -astonishing how sober he becomes; and what Dartie had was really -good--a three to one chance for an autumn handicap, publicly -assessed at twenty-five to one. The old-fashioned heaven was a -poor thing beside it, and his shirt was on the daughter of Shirt- -on-fire. But how much more than his shirt depended on this -granddaughter of Suspender! At that roving age of forty-five, -trying to Forsytes--and, though perhaps less distinguishable from -any other age, trying even to Darties--Montague had fixed his -current fancy on a dancer. It was no mean passion, but without -money, and a good deal of it, likely to remain a love as airy as -her skirts; and Dartie never had any money, subsisting miserably on -what he could beg or borrow from Winifred--a woman of character, -who kept him because he was the father of her children, and from a -lingering admiration for those now-dying Wardour Street good looks -which in their youth had fascinated her. She, together with anyone -else who would lend him anything, and his losses at cards and on -the turf (extraordinary how some men make a good thing out of -losses!) were his whole means of subsistence; for James was now too -old and nervous to approach, and Soames too formidably adamant. It -is not too much to say that Dartie had been living on hope for -months. He had never been fond of money for itself, had always -despised the Forsytes with their investing habits, though careful -to make such use of them as he could. What he liked about money -was what it bought--personal sensation. - -"No real sportsman cares for money," he would say, borrowing a -'pony' if it was no use trying for a 'monkey.' There was something -delicious about Montague Dartie. He was, as George Forsyte said, a -'daisy.' - -The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day -of September, and Dartie who had travelled to Newmarket the night -before, arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an -eminence to see his half of the filly take her final canter: If she -won he would be a cool three thou. in pocket--a poor enough -recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope, -while they had been nursing her for this race. But he had not been -able to afford more. Should he 'lay it off' at the eight to one to -which she had advanced? This was his single thought while the -larks sang above him, and the grassy downs smelled sweet, and the -pretty filly passed, tossing her head and glowing like satin. - -After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to 'lay it -off' would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred--hardly -enough to purchase a dancer out and out. Even more potent was the -itch in the blood of all the Darties for a real flutter. And -turning to George he said: "She's a clipper. She'll win hands -down; I shall go the whole hog." George, who had laid off every -penny, and a few besides, and stood to win, however it came out, -grinned down on him from his bulky height, with the words: "So ho, -my wild one!" for after a chequered apprenticeship weathered with -the money of a deeply complaining Roger, his Forsyte blood was -beginning to stand him in good stead in the profession of owner. - -There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which -the sensitive recorder shrinks. Suffice it to say that the good -thing fell down. Sleeve-links finished in the ruck. Dartie's -shirt was lost. - -Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned -his face towards Green Street, what had not happened! - -When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised -self-control for months from religious motives, and remains un- -rewarded, he does not curse God and die, he curses God and lives, -to the distress of his family. - -Winifred--a plucky woman, if a little too fashionable--who had -borne the brunt of him for exactly twenty-one years, had never -really believed that he would do what he now did. Like so many -wives, she thought she knew the worst, but she had not yet known -him in his forty-fifth year, when he, like other men, felt that it -was now or never. Paying on the 2nd of October a visit of inspec- -tion to her jewel case, she was horrified to observe that her -woman's crown and glory was gone--the pearls which Montague had -given her in '86, when Benedict was born, and which James had been -compelled to pay for in the spring of '87, to save scandal. She -consulted her husband at once. He 'pooh-poohed' the matter. They -would turn up! Nor till she said sharply: "Very well, then, Monty, -I shall go down to Scotland Yard myself," did he consent to take -the matter in hand. Alas! that the steady and resolved continuity -of design necessary to the accomplishment of sweeping operations -should be liable to interruption by drink. That night Dartie -returned home without a care in the world or a particle of -reticence. Under normal conditions Winifred would merely have -locked her door and let him sleep it off, but torturing suspense -about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him. Taking a small -revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining table, he -told her at once that he did not care a cursh whether she lived -s'long as she was quiet; but he himself wash tired o' life. -Winifred, holding onto the other side of the dining table, -answered: - -"Don't be a clown, Monty. Have you been to Scotland Yard?" - -Placing the revolver against his chest, Dartie had pulled the -trigger several times. It was not loaded. Dropping it with an -imprecation, he had muttered: "For shake o' the children," and sank -into a chair. Winifred, having picked up the revolver, gave him -some soda water. The liquor had a magical effect. Life had -illused him; Winifred had never 'unshtood'm.' If he hadn't the -right to take the pearls he had given her himself, who had? That -Spanish filly had got'm. If Winifred had any 'jection he w'd cut-- -her--throat. What was the matter with that? (Probably the first -use of that celebrated phrase--so obscure are the origins of even -the most classical language!) - -Winifred, who had learned self-containment in a hard school, looked -up at him, and said: "Spanish filly! Do you mean that girl we saw -dancing in the Pandemonium Ballet? Well, you are a thief and a -blackguard." It had been the last straw on a sorely loaded -consciousness; reaching up from his chair Dartie seized his wife's -arm, and recalling the achievements of his boyhood, twisted it. -Winifred endured the agony with tears in her eyes, but no murmur. -Watching for a moment of weakness, she wrenched it free; then -placing the dining table between them, said between her teeth: "You -are the limit, Monty." (Undoubtedly the inception of that phrase-- -so is English formed under the stress of circumstances.) Leaving -Dartie with foam on his dark moustache she went upstairs, and, -after locking her door and bathing her arm in hot water, lay awake -all night, thinking of her pearls adorning the neck of another, and -of the consideration her husband had presumably received therefor. - -The man of the world awoke with a sense of being lost to that -world, and a dim recollection of having been called a 'limit.' He -sat for half an hour in the dawn and the armchair where he had -slept--perhaps the unhappiest half-hour he had ever spent, for even -to a Dartie there is something tragic about an end. And he knew -that he had reached it. Never again would he sleep in his -dining-room and wake with the light filtering through those -curtains bought by Winifred at Nickens and Jarveys with the money -of James. Never again eat a devilled kidney at that rose-wood -table, after a roll in the sheets and a hot bath. He took his note -case from his dress coat pocket. Four hundred pounds, in fives and -tens--the remainder of the proceeds of his half of Sleeve-links, -sold last night, cash down, to George Forsyte, who, having won over -the race, had not conceived the sudden dislike to the animal which -he himself now felt. The ballet was going to Buenos Aires the day -after to-morrow, and he was going too. Full value for the pearls -had not yet been received; he was only at the soup. - -He stole upstairs. Not daring to have a bath, or shave (besides, -the water would be cold), he changed his clothes and packed -stealthily all he could. It was hard to leave so many shining -boots, but one must sacrifice something. Then, carrying a valise -in either hand, he stepped out onto the landing. The house was -very quiet--that house where he had begotten his four children. It -was a curious moment, this, outside the room of his wife, once -admired, if not perhaps loved, who had called him 'the limit.' He -steeled himself with that phrase, and tiptoed on; but the next door -was harder to pass. It was the room his daughters slept in. Maud -was at school, but Imogen would be lying there; and moisture came -into Dartie's early morning eyes. She was the most like him of the -four, with her dark hair, and her luscious brown glance. Just -coming out, a pretty thing! He set down the two valises. This -almost formal abdication of fatherhood hurt him. The morning light -fell on a face which worked with real emotion. Nothing so false as -penitence moved him; but genuine paternal feeling, and that -melancholy of 'never again.' He moistened his lips; and complete -irresolution for a moment paralysed his legs in their check -trousers. It was hard--hard to be thus compelled to leave his -home! "D---nit!" he muttered, "I never thought it would come to -this." Noises above warned him that the maids were beginning to -get up. And grasping the two valises, he tiptoed on downstairs. -His cheeks were wet, and the knowledge of that was comforting, as -though it guaranteed the genuineness of his sacrifice. He lingered -a little in the rooms below, to pack all the cigars he had, some -papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette box, a Ruff's Guide. Then, -mixing himself a stiff whisky and soda, and lighting a cigarette, -he stood hesitating before a photograph of his two girls, in a -silver frame. It belonged to Winifred. 'Never mind,' he thought; -'she can get another taken, and I can't!' He slipped it into the -valise. Then, putting on his hat and overcoat, he took two others, -his best malacca cane, an umbrella, and opened the front door. -Closing it softly behind him, he walked out, burdened as he had -never been in all his life, and made his way round the corner to -wait there for an early cab to come by. - -Thus had passed Montague Dartie in the forty-fifth year of his age -from the house which he had called his own. - -When Winifred came down, and realised that he was not in the house, -her first feeling was one of dull anger that he should thus elude -the reproaches she had carefully prepared in those long wakeful -hours. He had gone off to Newmarket or Brighton, with that woman -as likely as not. Disgusting! Forced to a complete reticence -before Imogen and the servants, and aware that her father's nerves -would never stand the disclosure, she had been unable to refrain -from going to Timothy's that afternoon, and pouring out the story -of the pearls to Aunts Juley and Hester in utter confidence. It -was only on the following morning that she noticed the -disappearance of that photograph. What did it mean? Careful -examination of her husband's relics prompted the thought that he -had gone for good. As that conclusion hardened she stood quite -still in the middle of his dressing-room, with all the drawers -pulled out, to try and realise what she was feeling. By no means -easy! Though he was 'the limit' he was yet her property, and for -the life of her she could not but feel the poorer. To be widowed -yet not widowed at forty-two; with four children; made conspicuous, -an object of commiseration! Gone to the arms of a Spanish Jade! -Memories, feelings, which she had thought quite dead, revived -within her, painful, sullen, tenacious. Mechanically she closed -drawer after drawer, went to her bed, lay on it, and buried her -face in the pillows. She did not cry. What was the use of that? -When she got off her bed to go down to lunch she felt as if only -one thing could do her good, and that was to have Val home. He-- -her eldest boy--who was to go to Oxford next month at James' -expense, was at Littlehampton taking his final gallops with his -trainer for Smalls, as he would have phrased it following his -father's diction. She caused a telegram to be sent to him. - -"I must see about his clothes," she said to Imogen; "I can't have -him going up to Oxford all anyhow. Those boys are so particular." - -"Val's got heaps of things," Imogen answered. - -"I know; but they want overhauling. I hope he'll come." - -"He'll come like a shot, Mother. But he'll probably skew his -Exam." - -"I can't help that," said Winifred. "I want him." - -With an innocent shrewd look at her mother's face, Imogen kept -silence. It was father, of course! Val did come 'like a shot' at -six o'clock. - -Imagine a cross between a pickle and a Forsyte and you have young -Publius Valerius Dartie. A youth so named could hardly turn out -otherwise. When he was born, Winifred, in the heyday of spirits, -and the craving for distinction, had determined that her children -should have names such as no others had ever had. (It was a mercy ---she felt now--that she had just not named Imogen Thisbe.) But it -was to George Forsyte, always a wag, that Val's christening was -due. It so happened that Dartie, dining with him a week after the -birth of his son and heir, had mentioned this aspiration of -Winifred's. - -"Call him Cato," said George, "it'll be damned piquant!" He had -just won a tenner on a horse of that name. - -"Cato!" Dartie had replied--they were a little 'on' as the phrase -was even in those days--"it's not a Christian name." - -"Halo you!" George called to a waiter in knee breeches. "Bring me -the Encyc'pedia Brit. from the Library, letter C." - -The waiter brought it. - -"Here you are!" said George, pointing with his cigar: "Cato Publius -Valerius by Virgil out of Lydia. That's what you want. Publius -Valerius is Christian enough." - -Dartie, on arriving home, had informed Winifred. She had been -charmed. It was so 'chic.' And Publius Valerius became the baby's -name, though it afterwards transpired that they had got hold of the -inferior Cato. In 1890, however, when little Publius was nearly -ten, the word 'chic' went out of fashion, and sobriety came in; -Winifred began to have doubts. They were confirmed by little -Publius himself who returned from his first term at school com- -plaining that life was a burden to him--they called him Pubby. -Winifred--a woman of real decision--promptly changed his school and -his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an initial. - -At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, -light eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, considerable -knowledge of what he should not know, and no experience of what he -ought to do. Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled-- -the engaging rascal. After kissing his mother and pinching Imogen, -he ran upstairs three at a time, and came down four, dressed for -dinner. He was awfully sorry, but his 'trainer,' who had come up -too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge; it wouldn't -do to miss--the old chap would be hurt. Winifred let him go with -an unhappy pride. She had wanted him at home, but it was very nice -to know that his tutor was so fond of him. He went out with a wink -at Imogen, saying: "I say, Mother, could I have two plover's eggs -when I come in?--cook's got some. They top up so jolly well. Oh! -and look here--have you any money?--I had to borrow a fiver from -old Snobby." - -Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: - -"My dear, you are naughty about money. But you shouldn't pay him -to-night, anyway; you're his guest. How nice and slim he looked -in his white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!" - -"Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I -ought to stand the tickets; he's always hard up, you know." - -Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: - -"Well, perhaps you'd better pay him, but you mustn't stand the -tickets too." - -Val pocketed the fiver. - -"If I do, I can't," he said. "Good-night, Mum!" - -He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing -the air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert. Jolly -good biz! After that mouldy old slow hole down there! - -He found his 'tutor,' not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but -at the Goat's Club. This 'tutor' was a year older than himself, a -good-looking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a -small mouth, an oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, -one of those young men who without effort establish moral -ascendancy over their companions. He had missed being expelled -from school a year before Val, had spent that year at Oxford, and -Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name was Crum, and -no one could get through money quicker. It seemed to be his only -aim in life--dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the Forsyte -would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that -money was. - -They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking -cigars, with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into stalls -at the Liberty. For Val the sound of comic songs, the sight of -lovely legs were fogged and interrupted by haunting fears that he -would never equal Crum's quiet dandyism. His idealism was roused; -and when that is so, one is never quite at ease. Surely he had too -wide a mouth, not the best cut of waistcoat, no braid on his -trousers, and his lavender gloves had no thin black stitchings down -the back. Besides, he laughed too much--Crum never laughed, he -only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a little so that -they formed a gable over his just drooped lids. No! he would never -be Crum's equal. All the same it was a jolly good show, and -Cynthia Dark simply ripping. Between the acts Crum regaled him -with particulars of Cynthia's private life, and the awful knowledge -became Val's that, if he liked, Crum could go behind. He simply -longed to say: "I say, take me!" but dared not, because of his -deficiencies; and this made the last act or two almost miserable. -On coming out Crum said: "It's half an hour before they close; -let's go on to the Pandemonium." They took a hansom to travel the -hundred yards, and seats costing seven-and-six apiece because they -were going to stand, and walked into the Promenade. It was in -these little things, this utter negligence of money that Crum had -such engaging polish. The ballet was on its last legs and night, -and the traffic of the Promenade was suffering for the moment. Men -and women were crowded in three rows against the barrier. The -whirl and dazzle on the stage, the half dark, the mingled tobacco -fumes and women's scent, all that curious lure to promiscuity which -belongs to Promenades, began to free young Val from his idealism. -He looked admiringly in a young woman's face, saw she was not -young, and quickly looked away. Shades of Cynthia Dark! The young -woman's arm touched his unconsciously; there was a scent of musk -and mignonette. Val looked round the corner of his lashes. Perhaps -she was young, after all. Her foot trod on his; she begged his -pardon. He said: - -"Not at all; jolly good ballet, isn't it?" - -"Oh, I'm tired of it; aren't you?" - -Young Val smiled--his wide, rather charming smile. Beyond that he -did not go--not yet convinced. The Forsyte in him stood out for -greater certainty. And on the stage the ballet whirled its -kaleidoscope of snow-white, salmon-pink, and emerald-green and -violet and seemed suddenly to freeze into a stilly spangled -pyramid. Applause broke out, and it was over! Maroon curtains had -cut it off. The semi-circle of men and women round the barrier -broke up, the young woman's arm pressed his. A little way off -disturbance seemed centring round a man with a pink carnation; Val -stole another glance at the young woman, who was looking towards -it. Three men, unsteady, emerged, walking arm in arm. The one in -the centre wore the pink carnation, a white waistcoat, a dark -moustache; he reeled a little as he walked. Crum's voice said slow -and level: "Look at that bounder, he's screwed!" Val turned to -look. The 'bounder' had disengaged his arm, and was pointing -straight at them. Crum's voice, level as ever, said: - -"He seems to know you!" The 'bounder' spoke: - -"H'llo!" he said. "You f'llows, look! There's my young rascal of -a son!" - -Val saw. It was his father! He could have sunk into the crimson -carpet. It was not the meeting in this place, not even that his -father was 'screwed'; it was Crum's word 'bounder,' which, as by -heavenly revelation, he perceived at that moment to be true. Yes, -his father looked a bounder with his dark good looks, and his pink -carnation, and his square, self-assertive walk. And without a word -he ducked behind the young woman and slipped out of the Promenade. -He heard the word, "Val!" behind him, and ran down deep-carpeted -steps past the 'chuckersout,' into the Square. - -To be ashamed of his own father is perhaps the bitterest experience -a young man can go through. It seemed to Val, hurrying away, that -his career had ended before it had begun. How could he go up to -Oxford now amongst all those chaps, those splendid friends of -Crum's, who would know that his father was a 'bounder'! And -suddenly he hated Crum. Who the devil was Crum, to say that? If -Crum had been beside him at that moment, he would certainly have -been jostled off the pavement. His own father--his own! A choke -came up in his throat, and he dashed his hands down deep into his -overcoat pockets. Damn Crum! He conceived the wild idea of -running back and fending his father, taking him by the arm and -walking about with him in front of Crum; but gave it up at once and -pursued his way down Piccadilly. A young woman planted herself -before him. "Not so angry, darling!" He shied, dodged her, and -suddenly became quite cool. If Crum ever said a word, he would -jolly well punch his head, and there would be an end of it. He -walked a hundred yards or more, contented with that thought, then -lost its comfort utterly. It wasn't simple like that! He -remembered how, at school, when some parent came down who did not -pass the standard, it just clung to the fellow afterwards. It was -one of those things nothing could remove. Why had his mother -married his father, if he was a 'bounder'? It was bitterly unfair- --jolly low-down on a fellow to give him a 'bounder' for father. -The worst of it was that now Crum had spoken the word, he realised -that he had long known subconsciously that his father was not 'the -clean potato.' It was the beastliest thing that had ever happened -to him--beastliest thing that had ever happened to any fellow! -And, down-hearted as he had never yet been, he came to Green -Street, and let himself in with a smuggled latch-key. In the -dining-room his plover's eggs were set invitingly, with some cut -bread and butter, and a little whisky at the bottom of a decanter-- -just enough, as Winifred had thought, for him to feel himself a -man. It made him sick to look at them, and he went upstairs. - -Winifred heard him pass, and thought: 'The dear boy's in. Thank -goodness! If he takes after his father I don't know what I shall -do! But he won't he's like me. Dear Val!' - - - - -CHAPTER III - -SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS - - -When Soames entered his sister's little Louis Quinze drawing-room, -with its small balcony, always flowered with hanging geraniums in -the summer, and now with pots of Lilium Auratum, he was struck by -the immutability of human affairs. It looked just the same as on -his first visit to the newly married Darties twenty-one years ago. -He had chosen the furniture himself, and so completely that no -subsequent purchase had ever been able to change the room's -atmosphere. Yes, he had founded his sister well, and she had -wanted it. Indeed, it said a great deal for Winifred that after -all this time with Dartie she remained well-founded. From the -first Soames had nosed out Dartie's nature from underneath the -plausibility, savoir faire, and good looks which had dazzled -Winifred, her mother, and even James, to the extent of permitting -the fellow to marry his daughter without bringing anything but -shares of no value into settlement. - -Winifred, whom he noticed next to the furniture, was sitting at her -Buhl bureau with a letter in her hand. She rose and came towards -him. Tall as himself, strong in the cheekbones, well tailored, -something in her face disturbed Soames. She crumpled the letter in -her hand, but seemed to change her mind and held it out to him. He -was her lawyer as well as her brother. - -Soames read, on Iseeum Club paper, these words: - - -'You will not get chance to insult in my own again. I am leaving -country to-morrow. It's played out. I'm tired of being insulted -by you. You've brought on yourself. No self-respecting man can -stand it. I shall not ask you for anything again. Good-bye. I -took the photograph of the two girls. Give them my love. I don't -care what your family say. It's all their doing. I'm going to -live new life. - -'M.D.' - - -This after-dinner note had a splotch on it not yet quite dry. He -looked at Winifred--the splotch had clearly come from her; and he -checked the words: 'Good riddance!' Then it occurred to him that -with this letter she was entering that very state which he himself -so earnestly desired to quit--the state of a Forsyte who was not -divorced. - -Winifred had turned away, and was taking a long sniff from a little -gold-topped bottle. A dull commiseration, together with a vague -sense of injury, crept about Soames' heart. He had come to her to -talk of his own position, and get sympathy, and here was she in the -same position, wanting of course to talk of it, and get sympathy -from him. It was always like that! Nobody ever seemed to think -that he had troubles and interests of his own. He folded up the -letter with the splotch inside, and said: - -"What's it all about, now?" - -Winifred recited the story of the pearls calmly. - -"Do you think he's really gone, Soames? You see the state he was -in when he wrote that." - -Soames who, when he desired a thing, placated Providence by -pretending that he did not think it likely to happen, answered: - -"I shouldn't think so. I might find out at his Club." - -"If George is there," said Winifred, "he would know." - -"George?" said Soames; "I saw him at his father's funeral." - -"Then he's sure to be there." - -Soames, whose good sense applauded his sister's acumen, said -grudgingly: "Well, I'll go round. Have you said anything in Park -Lane?" - -"I've told Emily," returned Winifred, who retained that 'chic' way -of describing her mother. "Father would have a fit." - -Indeed, anything untoward was now sedulously kept from James. With -another look round at the furniture, as if to gauge his sister's -exact position, Soames went out towards Piccadilly. The evening -was drawing in--a touch of chill in the October haze. He walked -quickly, with his close and concentrated air. He must get through, -for he wished to dine in Soho. On hearing from the hall porter at -the Iseeum that Mr. Dartie had not been in to-day, he looked at the -trusty fellow and decided only to ask if Mr. George Forsyte was in -the Club. He was. Soames, who always looked askance at his cousin -George, as one inclined to jest at his expense, followed the page- -boy, slightly reassured by the thought that George had just lost -his father. He must have come in for about thirty thousand, be- -sides what he had under that settlement of Roger's, which had -avoided death duty. He found George in a bow-window, staring out -across a half-eaten plate of muffins. His tall, bulky, black- -clothed figure loomed almost threatening, though preserving still -the supernatural neatness of the racing man. With a faint grin on -his fleshy face, he said: - -"Hallo, Soames! Have a muffin?" - -"No, thanks," murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the -desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added: - -"How's your mother?" - -"Thanks," said George; "so-so. Haven't seen you for ages. You -never go racing. How's the City?" - -Soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: - -"I wanted to ask you about Dartie. I hear he's...." - -"Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good for -Winifred and the little Darties. He's a treat." - -Soames nodded. Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie -made them kin. - -"Uncle James'll sleep in his bed now," resumed George; "I suppose -he's had a lot off you, too." - -Soames smiled. - -"Ah! You saw him further," said George amicably. "He's a real -rouser. Young Val will want a bit of looking after. I was always -sorry for Winifred. She's a plucky woman." - -Again Soames nodded. "I must be getting back to her," he said; -"she just wanted to know for certain. We may have to take steps. -I suppose there's no mistake?" - -"It's quite O.K.," said George--it was he who invented so many of -those quaint sayings which have been assigned to other sources. -"He was drunk as a lord last night; but he went off all right this -morning. His ship's the Tuscarora;" and, fishing out a card, he -read mockingly: - -"'Mr. Montague Dartie, Poste Restante, Buenos Aires.' I should -hurry up with the steps, if I were you. He fairly fed me up last -night." - -"Yes," said Soames; "but it's not always easy." Then, conscious -from George's eyes that he had roused reminiscence of his own -affair, he got up, and held out his hand. George rose too. - -"Remember me to Winifred.... You'll enter her for the Divorce -Stakes straight off if you ask me." - -Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway. George -had seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked big -and lonely in those black clothes. Soames had never known him so -subdued. 'I suppose he feels it in a way,' he thought. 'They must -have about fifty thousand each, all told. They ought to keep the -estate together. If there's a war, house property will go down. -Uncle Roger was a good judge, though.' And the face of Annette -rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair and her -blue eyes with their dark lashes, her fresh lips and cheeks, dewy -and blooming in spite of London, her perfect French figure. 'Take -steps!' he thought. Re-entering Winifred's house he encountered -Val, and they went in together. An idea had occurred to Soames. -His cousin Jolyon was Irene's trustee, the first step would be to -go down and see him at Robin Hill. Robin Hill! The odd--the very -odd feeling those words brought back! Robin Hill--the house -Bosinney had built for him and Irene--the house they had never -lived in--the fatal house! And Jolyon lived there now! H'm! And -suddenly he thought: 'They say he's got a boy at Oxford! Why not -take young Val down and introduce them! It's an excuse! Less -bald--very much less bald!' So, as they went upstairs, he said to -Val: - -"You've got a cousin at Oxford; you've never met him. I should -like to take you down with me to-morrow to where he lives and -introduce you. You'll find it useful." - -Val, receiving the idea with but moderate transports, Soames -clinched it. - -"I'll call for you after lunch. It's in the country--not far; -you'll enjoy it." - -On the threshold of the drawing-room he recalled with an effort -that the steps he contemplated concerned Winifred at the moment, -not himself. - -Winifred was still sitting at her Buhl bureau. - -"It's quite true," he said; "he's gone to Buenos Aires, started -this morning--we'd better have him shadowed when he lands. I'll -cable at once. Otherwise we may have a lot of expense. The sooner -these things are done the better. I'm always regretting that I -didn't..." he stopped, and looked sidelong at the silent Winifred. -"By the way," he went on, "can you prove cruelty?" - -Winifred said in a dull voice: - -"I don't know. What is cruelty?" - -"Well, has he struck you, or anything?" - -Winifred shook herself, and her jaw grew square. - -"He twisted my arm. Or would pointing a pistol count? Or being -too drunk to undress himself, or--No--I can't bring in the -children." - -"No," said Soames; "no! I wonder! Of course, there's legal -separation--we can get that. But separation! Um!" - -"What does it mean?" asked Winifred desolately. - -"That he can't touch you, or you him; you're both of you married -and unmarried." And again he grunted. What was it, in fact, but -his own accursed position, legalised! No, he would not put her -into that! - -"It must be divorce," he said decisively;" failing cruelty, there's -desertion. There's a way of shortening the two years, now. We get -the Court to give us restitution of conjugal rights. Then if he -doesn't obey, we can bring a suit for divorce in six months' time. -Of course you don't want him back. But they won't know that. -Still, there's the risk that he might come. I'd rather try -cruelty." - -Winifred shook her head. "It's so beastly." - -"Well," Soames murmured, "perhaps there isn't much risk so long as -he's infatuated and got money. Don't say anything to anybody, and -don't pay any of his debts." - -Winifred sighed. In spite of all she had been through, the sense -of loss was heavy on her. And this idea of not paying his debts -any more brought it home to her as nothing else yet had. Some -richness seemed to have gone out of life. Without her husband, -without her pearls, without that intimate sense that she made a -brave show above the domestic whirlpool, she would now have to face -the world. She felt bereaved indeed. - -And into the chilly kiss he placed on her forehead, Soames put more -than his usual warmth. - -"I have to go down to Robin Hill to-morrow," he said, "to see young -Jolyon on business. He's got a boy at Oxford. I'd like to take -Val with me and introduce him. Come down to 'The Shelter' for the -week-end and bring the children. Oh! by the way, no, that won't -do; I've got some other people coming." So saying, he left her and -turned towards Soho. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -SOHO - - -Of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called London, -Soho is perhaps least suited to the Forsyte spirit. 'So-ho, my -wild one!' George would have said if he had seen his cousin going -there. Untidy, full of Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, -tomatoes, restaurants, organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, people -looking out of upper windows, it dwells remote from the British -Body Politic. Yet has it haphazard proprietary instincts of its -own, and a certain possessive prosperity which keeps its rents up -when those of other quarters go down. For long years Soames' -acquaintanceship with Soho had been confined to its Western -bastion, Wardour Street. Many bargains had he picked up there. -Even during those seven years at Brighton after Bosinney's death -and Irene's flight, he had bought treasures there sometimes, though -he had no place to put them; for when the conviction that his wife -had gone for good at last became firm within him, he had caused a -board to be put up in Montpellier Square: - -FOR SALE - -THE LEASE OF THIS DESIRABLE RESIDENCE - -Enquire of Messrs. Lesson and Tukes, -Court Street, Belgravia. - - -It had sold within a week--that desirable residence, in the shadow -of whose perfection a man and a woman had eaten their hearts out. - -Of a misty January evening, just before the board was taken down, -Soames had gone there once more, and stood against the Square -railings, looking at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of -possessive memories which had turned so bitter in the mouth. Why -had she never loved him? Why? She had been given all she had -wanted, and in return had given him, for three long years, all he -had wanted--except, indeed, her heart. He had uttered a little -involuntary groan, and a passing policeman had glanced suspiciously -at him who no longer possessed the right to enter that green door -with the carved brass knocker beneath the board 'For Sale!' A -choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he had hurried away -into the mist. That evening he had gone to Brighton to live.... - -Approaching Malta Street, Soho, and the Restaurant Bretagne, where -Annette would be drooping her pretty shoulders over her accounts, -Soames thought with wonder of those seven years at Brighton. How -had he managed to go on so long in that town devoid of the scent of -sweetpeas, where he had not even space to put his treasures? True, -those had been years with no time at all for looking at them--years -of almost passionate money-making, during which Forsyte, Bustard -and Forsyte had become solicitors to more limited Companies than -they could properly attend to. Up to the City of a morning in a -Pullman car, down from the City of an evening in a Pullman car. -Law papers again after dinner, then the sleep of the tired, and up -again next morning. Saturday to Monday was spent at his Club in -town--curious reversal of customary procedure, based on the deep -and careful instinct that while working so hard he needed sea air -to and from the station twice a day, and while resting must indulge -his domestic affections. The Sunday visit to his family in Park -Lane, to Timothy's, and to Green Street; the occasional visits -elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to health as sea air on -weekdays. Even since his migration to Mapledurham he had main- -tained those habits until--he had known Annette. - -Whether Annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or that -outlook had produced Annette, he knew no more than we know where a -circle begins. It was intricate and deeply involved with the -growing consciousness that property without anyone to leave it to -is the negation of true Forsyteism. To have an heir, some -continuance of self, who would begin where he left off--ensure, in -fact, that he would not leave off--had quite obsessed him for the -last year and more. After buying a bit of Wedgwood one evening in -April, he had dropped into Malta Street to look at a house of his -father's which had been turned into a restaurant--a risky pro- -ceeding, and one not quite in accordance with the terms of the -lease. He had stared for a little at the outside painted a good -cream colour, with two peacock-blue tubs containing little bay- -trees in a recessed doorway--and at the words 'Restaurant Bretagne' -above them in gold letters, rather favourably impressed. Entering, -he had noticed that several people were already seated at little -round green tables with little pots of fresh flowers on them and -Brittany-ware plates, and had asked of a trim waitress to see the -proprietor. They had shown him into a back room, where a girl was -sitting at a simple bureau covered with papers, and a small round, -table was laid for two. The impression of cleanliness, order, and -good taste was confirmed when the girl got up, saying, "You wish to -see Maman, Monsieur?" in a broken accent. - -"Yes," Soames had answered, "I represent your landlord; in fact, -I'm his son." - -"Won't you sit down, sir, please? Tell Maman to come to this -gentleman." - -He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed, because it showed -business instinct; and suddenly he noticed that she was remarkably -pretty--so remarkably pretty that his eyes found a difficulty in -leaving her face. When she moved to put a chair for him, she -swayed in a curious subtle way, as if she had been put together by -someone with a special secret skill; and her face and neck, which -was a little bared, looked as fresh as if they had been sprayed -with dew. Probably at this moment Soames decided that the lease -had not been violated; though to himself and his father he based -the decision on the efficiency of those illicit adaptations in the -building, on the signs of prosperity, and the obvious business -capacity of Madame Lamotte. He did not, however, neglect to leave -certain matters to future consideration, which had necessitated -further visits, so that the little back room had become quite -accustomed to his spare, not unsolid, but unobtrusive figure, and -his pale, chinny face with clipped moustache and dark hair not yet -grizzling at the sides. - -"Un Monsieur tres distingue," Madame Lamotte found him; and -presently, "Tres amical, tres gentil," watching his eyes upon her -daughter. - -She was one of those generously built, fine-faced, dark-haired -Frenchwomen, whose every action and tone of voice inspire perfect -confidence in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their -knowledge of cooking, and the careful increase of their bank -balances. - -After those visits to the Restaurant Bretagne began, other visits -ceased--without, indeed, any definite decision, for Soames, like -all Forsytes, and the great majority of their countrymen, was a -born empiricist. But it was this change in his mode of life which -had gradually made him so definitely conscious that he desired to -alter his condition from that of the unmarried married man to that -of the married man remarried. - -Turning into Malta Street on this evening of early October, 1899, -he bought a paper to see if there were any after-development of the -Dreyfus case--a question which he had always found useful in making -closer acquaintanceship with Madame Lamotte and her daughter, who -were Catholic and anti-Dreyfusard. - -Scanning those columns, Soames found nothing French, but noticed a -general fall on the Stock Exchange and an ominous leader about the -Transvaal. He entered, thinking: 'War's a certainty. I shall sell -my consols.' Not that he had many, personally, the rate of -interest was too wretched; but he should advise his Companies-- -consols would assuredly go down. A look, as he passed the doorways -of the restaurant, assured him that business was good as ever, and -this, which in April would have pleased him, now gave him a certain -uneasiness. If the steps which he had to take ended in his -marrying Annette, he would rather see her mother safely back in -France, a move to which the prosperity of the Restaurant Bretagne -might become an obstacle. He would have to buy them out, of -course, for French people only came to England to make money; and -it would mean a higher price. And then that peculiar sweet -sensation at the back of his throat, and a slight thumping about -the heart, which he always experienced at the door of the little -room, prevented his thinking how much it would cost. - -Going in, he was conscious of an abundant black skirt vanishing -through the door into the restaurant, and of Annette with her hands -up to her hair. It was the attitude in which of all others he -admired her--so beautifully straight and rounded and supple. And -he said: - -"I just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that -partition. No, don't call her." - -"Monsieur will have supper with us? It will be ready in ten -minutes." Soames, who still held her hand, was overcome by an -impulse which surprised him. - -"You look so pretty to-night," he said, "so very pretty. Do you -know how pretty you look, Annette?" - -Annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. "Monsieur is very good." - -"Not a bit good," said Soames, and sat down gloomily. - -Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile -was crinkling her red lips untouched by salve. - -And, looking at those lips, Soames said: - -"Are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to France?" - -"Oh, I like London. Paris, of course. But London is better than -Orleans, and the English country is so beautiful. I have been to -Richmond last Sunday." - -Soames went through a moment of calculating struggle. Mapledurham! -Dared he? After all, dared he go so far as that, and show her what -there was to look forward to! Still! Down there one could say -things. In this room it was impossible. - -"I want you and your mother," he said suddenly, "to come for the -afternoon next Sunday. My house is on the river, it's not too late -in this weather; and I can show you some good pictures. What do -you say?" - -Annette clasped her hands. - -"It will be lovelee. The river is so beautiful" - -"That's understood, then. I'll ask Madame." - -He need say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself -away. But had he not already said too much? Did one ask -restaurant proprietors with pretty daughters down to one's country -house without design? Madame Lamotte would see, if Annette didn't. -Well! there was not much that Madame did not see. Besides, this -was the second time he had stayed to supper with them; he owed them -hospitality. - -Walking home towards Park Lane--for he was staying at his father's- --with the impression of Annette's soft clever hand within his own, -his thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather puzzled. Take -steps! What steps? How? Dirty linen washed in public? Pah! -With his reputation for sagacity, for far-sightedness and the -clever extrication of others, he, who stood for proprietary -interests, to become the plaything of that Law of which he was a -pillar! There was something revolting in the thought! Winifred's -affair was bad enough! To have a double dose of publicity in the -family! Would not a liaison be better than that--a liaison, and a -son he could adopt? But dark, solid, watchful, Madame Lamotte -blocked the avenue of that vision. No! that would not work. It -was not as if Annette could have a real passion for him; one could -not expect that at his age. If her mother wished, if the worldly -advantage were manifestly great--perhaps! If not, refusal would be -certain. Besides, he thought: 'I'm not a villain. I don't want to -hurt her; and I don't want anything underhand. But I do want her, -and I want a son! There's nothing for it but divorce--somehow-- -anyhow--divorce!' Under the shadow of the plane-trees, in the -lamplight, he passed slowly along the railings of the Green Park. -Mist clung there among the bluish tree shapes, beyond range of the -lamps. How many hundred times he had walked past those trees from -his father's house in Park Lane, when he was quite a young man; or -from his own house in Montpellier Square in those four years of -married life! And, to-night, making up his mind to free himself if -he could of that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk -on, in at Hyde Park Corner, out at Knightsbridge Gate, just as he -used to when going home to Irene in the old days. What could she -be like now?--how had she passed the years since he last saw her, -twelve years in all, seven already since Uncle Jolyon left her that -money? Was she still beautiful? Would he know her if he saw her? -'I've not changed much,' he thought; 'I expect she has. She made -me suffer.' He remembered suddenly one night, the first on which -he went out to dinner alone--an old Malburian dinner--the first -year of their marriage. With what eagerness he had hurried back; -and, entering softly as a cat, had heard her playing. Opening the -drawingroom door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression -on her face, different from any he knew, so much more open, so -confiding, as though to her music she was giving a heart he had -never seen. And he remembered how she stopped and looked round, -how her face changed back to that which he did know, and what an -icy shiver had gone through him, for all that the next moment he -was fondling her shoulders. Yes, she had made him suffer! -Divorce! It seemed ridiculous, after all these years of utter -separation! But it would have to be. No other way! 'The -question,' he thought with sudden realism, 'is--which of us? She -or me? She deserted me. She ought to pay for it. There'll be -someone, I suppose.' Involuntarily he uttered a little snarling -sound, and, turning, made his way back to Park Lane. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -JAMES SEES VISIONS - - -The butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, detained -Soames on the inner mat. - -"The master's poorly, sir," he murmured. "He wouldn't go to bed -till you came in. He's still in the diningroom." - -Soames responded in the hushed tone to which the house was now -accustomed. - -"What's the matter with him, Warmson?" - -"Nervous, sir, I think. Might be the funeral; might be Mrs. -Dartie's comin' round this afternoon. I think he overheard -something. I've took him in a negus. The mistress has just gone -up." - -Soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag's-horn. - -"All right, Warmson, you can go to bed; I'll take him up myself." -And he passed into the dining-room. - -James was sitting before the fire, in a big armchair, with a -camel-hair shawl, very light and warm, over his frock-coated -shoulders, on to which his long white whiskers drooped. His white -hair, still fairly thick, glistened in the lamplight; a little -moisture from his fixed, light-grey eyes stained the cheeks, still -quite well coloured, and the long deep furrows running to the -corners of the clean-shaven lips, which moved as if mumbling -thoughts. His long legs, thin as a crow's, in shepherd's plaid -trousers, were bent at less than a right angle, and on one knee a -spindly hand moved continually, with fingers wide apart and -glistening tapered nails. Beside him, on a low stool, stood a -half-finished glass of negus, bedewed with beads of heat. There he -had been sitting, with intervals for meals, all day. At eighty- -eight he was still organically sound, but suffering terribly from -the thought that no one ever told him anything. It is, indeed, -doubtful how he had become aware that Roger was being buried that -day, for Emily had kept it from him. She was always keeping things -from him. Emily was only seventy! James had a grudge against his -wife's youth. He felt sometimes that he would never have married -her if he had known that she would have so many years before her, -when he had so few. It was not natural. She would live fifteen or -twenty years after he was gone, and might spend a lot of money; she -had always had extravagant tastes. For all he knew she might want -to buy one of these motor-cars. Cicely and Rachel and Imogen and -all the young people--they all rode those bicycles now and went off -Goodness knew where. And now Roger was gone. He didn't know-- -couldn't tell! The family was breaking up. Soames would know how -much his uncle had left. Curiously he thought of Roger as Soames' -uncle not as his own brother. Soames! It was more and more the -one solid spot in a vanishing world. Soames was careful; he was a -warm man; but he had no one to leave his money to. There it was! -He didn't know! And there was that fellow Chamberlain! For James' -political principles had been fixed between '70 and '85 when 'that -rascally Radical' had been the chief thorn in the side of property -and he distrusted him to this day in spite of his conversion; he -would get the country into a mess and make money go down before he -had done with it. A stormy petrel of a chap! Where was Soames? -He had gone to the funeral of course which they had tried to keep -from him. He knew that perfectly well; he had seen his son's -trousers. Roger! Roger in his coffin! He remembered how, when -they came up from school together from the West, on the box seat of -the old Slowflyer in 1824, Roger had got into the 'boot' and gone -to sleep. James uttered a thin cackle. A funny fellow--Roger--an -original! He didn't know! Younger than himself, and in his -coffin! The family was breaking up. There was Val going to the -university; he never came to see him now. He would cost a pretty -penny up there. It was an extravagant age. And all the pretty -pennies that his four grandchildren would cost him danced before -James' eyes. He did not grudge them the money, but he grudged -terribly the risk which the spending of that money might bring on -them; he grudged the diminution of security. And now that Cicely -had married, she might be having children too. He didn't know-- -couldn't tell! Nobody thought of anything but spending money in -these days, and racing about, and having what they called 'a good -time.' A motor-car went past the window. Ugly great lumbering -thing, making all that racket! But there it was, the country -rattling to the dogs! People in such a hurry that they couldn't -even care for style--a neat turnout like his barouche and bays was -worth all those new-fangled things. And consols at 116! There -must be a lot of money in the country. And now there was this old -Kruger! They had tried to keep old Kruger from him. But he knew -better; there would be a pretty kettle of fish out there! He had -known how it would be when that fellow Gladstone--dead now, thank -God! made such a mess of it after that dreadful business at Majuba. -He shouldn't wonder if the Empire split up and went to pot. And -this vision of the Empire going to pot filled a full quarter of an -hour with qualms of the most serious character. He had eaten a -poor lunch because of them. But it was after lunch that the real -disaster to his nerves occurred. He had been dozing when he became -aware of voices--low voices. Ah! they never told him anything! -Winifred's and her mother's. "Monty!" That fellow Dartie--always -that fellow Dartie! The voices had receded; and James had been -left alone, with his ears standing up like a hare's, and fear -creeping about his inwards. Why did they leave him alone? Why -didn't they come and tell him? And an awful thought, which through -long years had haunted him, concreted again swiftly in his brain. -Dartie had gone bankrupt--fraudulently bankrupt, and to save -Winifred and the children, he--James--would have to pay! Could he-- -could Soames turn him into a limited company? No, he couldn't! -There it was! With every minute before Emily came back the spectre -fiercened. Why, it might be forgery! With eyes fixed on the -doubted Turner in the centre of the wall, James suffered tortures. -He saw Dartie in the dock, his grandchildren in the gutter, and -himself in bed. He saw the doubted Turner being sold at Jobson's, -and all the majestic edifice of property in rags. He saw in fancy -Winifred unfashionably dressed, and heard in fancy Emily's voice -saying: "Now, don't fuss, James!" She was always saying: "Don't -fuss!" She had no nerves; he ought never to have married a woman -eighteen years younger than himself. Then Emily's real voice said: - -"Have you had a nice nap, James?" - -Nap! He was in torment, and she asked him that! - -"What's this about Dartie?" he said, and his eyes glared at her. - -Emily's self-possession never deserted her. - -"What have you been hearing?" she asked blandly. - -"What's this about Dartie?" repeated James. "He's gone bankrupt." - -"Fiddle!" - -James made a great effort, and rose to the full height of his -stork-like figure. - -"You never tell me anything," he said; "he's gone bankrupt." - -The destruction of that fixed idea seemed to Emily all that -mattered at the moment. - -"He has not," she answered firmly. "He's gone to Buenos Aires." - -If she had said "He's gone to Mars" she could not have dealt James -a more stunning blow; his imagination, invested entirely in British -securities, could as little grasp one place as the other. - -"What's he gone there for?" he said. "He's got no money. What did -he take?" - -Agitated within by Winifred's news, and goaded by the constant -reiteration of this jeremiad, Emily said calmly: - -"He took Winifred's pearls and a dancer." - -"What!" said James, and sat down. - -His sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she -said: - -"Now, don't fuss, James!" - -A dusky red had spread over James' cheeks and forehead. - -"I paid for them," he said tremblingly; "he's a thief! I--I knew -how it would be. He'll be the death of me; he ...." Words failed -him and he sat quite still. Emily, who thought she knew him so -well, was alarmed, and went towards the sideboard where she kept -some sal volatile. She could not see the tenacious Forsyte spirit -working in that thin, tremulous shape against the extravagance of -the emotion called up by this outrage on Forsyte principles--the -Forsyte spirit deep in there, saying: 'You mustn't get into a -fantod, it'll never do. You won't digest your lunch. You'll have -a fit!' All unseen by her, it was doing better work in James than -sal volatile. - -"Drink this," she said. - -James waved it aside. - -"What was Winifred about," he said, "to let him take her pearls?" -Emily perceived the crisis past. - -"She can have mine," she said comfortably. "I never wear them. -She'd better get a divorce." - -"There you go!" said James. "Divorce! We've never had a divorce -in the family. Where's Soames?" - -"He'll be in directly." - -"No, he won't," said James, almost fiercely; "he's at the funeral. -You think I know nothing." - -"Well," said Emily with calm, "you shouldn't get into such fusses -when we tell you things." And plumping up his cushions, and -putting the sal volatile beside him, she left the room. - -But James sat there seeing visions--of Winifred in the Divorce -Court, and the family name in the papers; of the earth falling on -Roger's coffin; of Val taking after his father; of the pearls he -had paid for and would never see again; of money back at four per -cent., and the country going to the dogs; and, as the afternoon -wore into evening, and tea-time passed, and dinnertime, those -visions became more and more mixed and menacing--of being told -nothing, till he had nothing left of all his wealth, and they told -him nothing of it. Where was Soames? Why didn't he come in?... -His hand grasped the glass of negus, he raised it to drink, and saw -his son standing there looking at him. A little sigh of relief -escaped his lips, and putting the glass down, he said: - -"There you are! Dartie's gone to Buenos Aires." - -Soames nodded. "That's all right," he said; "good riddance." - -A wave of assuagement passed over James' brain. Soames knew. -Soames was the only one of them all who had sense. Why couldn't he -come and live at home? He had no son of his own. And he said -plaintively: - -"At my age I get nervous. I wish you were more at home, my boy." - -Again Soames nodded; the mask of his countenance betrayed no -understanding, but he went closer, and as if by accident touched -his father's shoulder. - -"They sent their love to you at Timothy's," he said. "It went off -all right. I've been to see Winifred. I'm going to take steps." -And he thought: 'Yes, and you mustn't hear of them.' - -James looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin throat -between the points of his collar looked very gristly and naked. - -"I've been very poorly all day," he said; "they never tell me -anything." - -Soames' heart twitched. - -"Well, it's all right. There's nothing to worry about. Will you -come up now?" and he put his hand under his father's arm. - -James obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together they -went slowly across the room, which had a rich look in the -firelight, and out to the stairs. Very slowly they ascended. - -"Good-night, my boy," said James at his bedroom door. - -"Good-night, father," answered Soames. His hand stroked down the -sleeve beneath the shawl; it seemed to have almost nothing in it, -so thin was the arm. And, turning away from the light in the -opening doorway, he went up the extra flight to his own bedroom. - -'I want a son,' he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed; -'I want a son.' - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME - - -Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper -lawn at Robin Hill looked no day older than when Bosinney sprawled -under it and said to Soames: "Forsyte, I've found the very place -for your house." Since then Swithin had dreamed, and old Jolyon -died, beneath its branches. And now, close to the swing, -no-longer-young Jolyon often painted there. Of all spots in the -world it was perhaps the most sacred to him, for he had loved his -father. - -Contemplating its great girth--crinkled and a little mossed, but -not yet hollow--he would speculate on the passage of time. That -tree had seen, perhaps, all real English history; it dated, he -shouldn't wonder, from the days of Elizabeth at least. His own -fifty years were as nothing to its wood. When the house behind it, -which he now owned, was three hundred years of age instead of -twelve, that tree might still be standing there, vast and hollow-- -for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it down? A Forsyte -might perhaps still be living in that house, to guard it jealously. -And Jolyon would wonder what the house would look like coated with -such age. Wistaria was already about its walls--the new look had -gone. Would it hold its own and keep the dignity Bosinney had -bestowed on it, or would the giant London have lapped it round and -made it into an asylum in the midst of a jerry-built wilderness? -Often, within and without of it, he was persuaded that Bosinney had -been moved by the spirit when he built. He had put his heart into -that house, indeed! It might even become one of the 'homes of -England'--a rare achievement for a house in these degenerate days -of building. And the aesthetic spirit, moving hand in hand with -his Forsyte sense of possessive continuity, dwelt with pride and -pleasure on his ownership thereof. There was the smack of -reverence and ancestor-worship (if only for one ancestor) in his -desire to hand this house down to his son and his son's son. His -father had loved the house, had loved the view, the grounds, that -tree; his last years had been happy there, and no one had lived -there before him. These last eleven years at Robin Hill had formed -in Jolyon's life as a painter, the important period of success. He -was now in the very van of water-colour art, hanging on the line -everywhere. His drawings fetched high prices. Specialising in -that one medium with the tenacity of his breed, he had 'arrived'- --rather late, but not too late for a member of the family which -made a point of living for ever. His art had really deepened and -improved. In conformity with his position he had grown a short -fair beard, which was just beginning to grizzle, and hid his -Forsyte chin; his brown face had lost the warped expression of his -ostracised period--he looked, if anything, younger. The loss of -his wife in 1894 had been one of those domestic tragedies which -turn out in the end for the good of all. He had, indeed, loved her -to the last, for his was an affectionate spirit, but she had become -increasingly difficult: jealous of her step-daughter June, jealous -even of her own little daughter Holly, and making ceaseless plaint -that he could not love her, ill as she was, and 'useless to -everyone, and better dead.' He had mourned her sincerely, but his -face had looked younger since she died. If she could only have -believed that she made him happy, how much happier would the twenty -years of their companionship have been! - -June had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly -taken her own mother's place; and ever since old Jolyon died she -had been established in a sort of studio in London. But she had -come back to Robin Hill on her stepmother's death, and gathered the -reins there into her small decided hands. Jolly was then at -Harrow; Holly still learning from Mademoiselle Beauce. There had -been nothing to keep Jolyon at home, and he had removed his grief -and his paint-box abroad. There he had wandered, for the most part -in Brittany, and at last had fetched up in Paris. He had stayed -there several months, and come back with the younger face and the -short fair beard. Essentially a man who merely lodged in any -house, it had suited him perfectly that June should reign at Robin -Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and when -he liked. She was inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather -as an asylum for her proteges! but his own outcast days had filled -Jolyon for ever with sympathy towards an outcast, and June's 'lame -ducks' about the place did not annoy him. By all means let her -have them down--and feed them up; and though his slightly cynical -humour perceived that they ministered to his daughter's love of -domination as well as moved her warm heart, he never ceased to -admire her for having so many ducks. He fell, indeed, year by year -into a more and more detached and brotherly attitude towards his -own son and daughters, treating them with a sort of whimsical -equality. When he went down to Harrow to see Jolly, he never quite -knew which of them was the elder, and would sit eating cherries -with him out of one paper bag, with an affectionate and ironical -smile twisting up an eyebrow and curling his lips a little. And he -was always careful to have money in his pocket, and to be modish in -his dress, so that his son need not blush for him. They were -perfect friends, but never seemed to have occasion for verbal -confidences, both having the competitive self-consciousness of -Forsytes. They knew they would stand by each other in scrapes, but -there was no need to talk about it. Jolyon had a striking horror- --partly original sin, but partly the result of his early -immorality--of the moral attitude. The most he could ever have -said to his son would have been: - -"Look here, old man; don't forget you're a gentleman," and then have -wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish sentiment. The -great cricket match was perhaps the most searching and awkward time -they annually went through together, for Jolyon had been at Eton. -They would be particularly careful during that match, continually -saying: "Hooray! Oh! hard luck, old man!" or "Hooray! Oh! bad luck, -Dad!" to each other, when some disaster at which their hearts -bounded happened to the opposing school. And Jolyon would wear a -grey top hat, instead of his usual soft one, to save his son's -feelings, for a black top hat he could not stomach. When Jolly went -up to Oxford, Jolyon went up with him, amused, humble, and a little -anxious not to discredit his boy amongst all these youths who seemed -so much more assured and old than himself. He often thought, 'Glad -I'm a painter' for he had long dropped under-writing at Lloyds-- -'it's so innocuous. You can't look down on a painter--you can't -take him seriously enough.' For Jolly, who had a sort of natural -lordliness, had passed at once into a very small set, who secretly -amused his father. The boy had fair hair which curled a little, and -his grandfather's deepset iron-grey eyes. He was well-built and -very upright, and always pleased Jolyon's aesthetic sense, so that -he was a tiny bit afraid of him, as artists ever are of those of -their own sex whom they admire physically. On that occasion, -however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son -advice, and this was it: - -"Look here, old man, you're bound to get into debt; mind you come -to me at once. Of course, I'll always pay them. But you might -remember that one respects oneself more afterwards if one pays -one's own way. And don't ever borrow, except from me, will you?" - -And Jolly had said: - -"All right, Dad, I won't," and he never had. - -"And there's just one other thing. I don't know much about -morality and that, but there is this: It's always worth while -before you do anything to consider whether it's going to hurt -another person more than is absolutely necessary." - -Jolly had looked thoughtful, and nodded, and presently had squeezed -his father's hand. And Jolyon had thought: 'I wonder if I had the -right to say that?' He always had a sort of dread of losing the -dumb confidence they had in each other; remembering how for long -years he had lost his own father's, so that there had been nothing -between them but love at a great distance. He under-estimated, no -doubt, the change in the spirit of the age since he himself went up -to Cambridge in '65; and perhaps he underestimated, too, his boy's -power of understanding that he was tolerant to the very bone. It -was that tolerance of his, and possibly his scepticism, which ever -made his relations towards June so queerly defensive. She was such -a decided mortal; knew her own mind so terribly well; wanted things -so inexorably until she got them--and then, indeed, often dropped -them like a hot potato. Her mother had been like that, whence had -come all those tears. Not that his incompatibility with his -daughter was anything like what it had been with the first Mrs. -Young Jolyon. One could be amused where a daughter was concerned; -in a wife's case one could not be amused. To see June set her -heart and jaw on a thing until she got it was all right, because it -was never anything which interfered fundamentally with Jolyon's -liberty--the one thing on which his jaw was also absolutely rigid, -a considerable jaw, under that short grizzling beard. Nor was -there ever any necessity for real heart-to-heart encounters. One -could break away into irony--as indeed he often had to. But the -real trouble with June was that she had never appealed to his -aesthetic sense, though she might well have, with her red-gold hair -and her viking-coloured eyes, and that touch of the Berserker in -her spirit. It was very different with Holly, soft and quiet, shy -and affectionate, with a playful imp in her somewhere. He watched -this younger daughter of his through the duckling stage with -extraordinary interest. Would she come out a swan? With her -sallow oval face and her grey wistful eyes and those long dark -lashes, she might, or she might not. Only this last year had he -been able to guess. Yes, she would be a swan--rather a dark one, -always a shy one, but an authentic swan. She was eighteen now, and -Mademoiselle Beauce was gone--the excellent lady had removed, after -eleven years haunted by her continuous reminiscences of the 'well- -brrred little Tayleurs,' to another family whose bosom would now be -agitated by her reminiscences of the 'well-brrred little Forsytes.' -She had taught Holly to speak French like herself. - -Portraiture was not Jolyon's forte, but he had already drawn his -younger daughter three times, and was drawing her a fourth, on the -afternoon of October 4th, 1899, when a card was brought to him -which caused his eyebrows to go up: - - - Mr. SOAMES FORSYTE - -THE SHELTER, CONNOISSEURS CLUB, -MAPLEDURHAM. ST. JAMES'S. - - -But here the Forsyte Saga must digress again.... - -To return from a long travel in Spain to a darkened house, to a -little daughter bewildered with tears, to the sight of a loved -father lying peaceful in his last sleep, had never been, was never -likely to be, forgotten by so impressionable and warm-hearted a man -as Jolyon. A sense as of mystery, too, clung to that sad day, and -about the end of one whose life had been so well-ordered, balanced, -and above-board. It seemed incredible that his father could thus -have vanished without, as it were, announcing his intention, -without last words to his son, and due farewells. And those -incoherent allusions of little Holly to 'the lady in grey,' of -Mademoiselle Beauce to a Madame Errant (as it sounded) involved all -things in a mist, lifted a little when he read his father's will -and the codicil thereto. It had been his duty as executor of that -will and codicil to inform Irene, wife of his cousin Soames, of her -life interest in fifteen thousand pounds. He had called on her to -explain that the existing investment in India Stock, ear-marked to -meet the charge, would produce for her the interesting net sum of -L430 odd a year, clear of income tax. This was but the third time -he had seen his cousin Soames' wife--if indeed she was still his -wife, of which he was not quite sure. He remembered having seen -her sitting in the Botanical Gardens waiting for Bosinney--a -passive, fascinating figure, reminding him of Titian's 'Heavenly -Love,' and again, when, charged by his father, he had gone to -Montpellier Square on the afternoon when Bosinney's death was -known. He still recalled vividly her sudden appearance in the -drawing-room doorway on that occasion--her beautiful face, passing -from wild eagerness of hope to stony despair; remembered the -compassion he had felt, Soames' snarling smile, his words, "We are -not at home!" and the slam of the front door. - -This third time he saw a face and form more beautiful--freed from -that warp of wild hope and despair. Looking at her, he thought: -'Yes, you are just what the Dad would have admired!' And the -strange story of his father's Indian summer became slowly clear to -him. She spoke of old Jolyon with reverence and tears in her eyes. -"He was so wonderfully kind to me; I don't know why. He looked so -beautiful and peaceful sitting in that chair under the tree; it was -I who first came on him sitting there, you know. Such a lovely -day. I don't think an end could have been happier. We should all -like to go out like that." - -'Quite right!' he had thought. 'We should all a like to go out in -full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn.' And -looking round the little, almost empty drawing-room, he had asked -her what she was going to do now. "I am going to live again a -little, Cousin Jolyon. It's wonderful to have money of one's own. -I've never had any. I shall keep this flat, I think; I'm used to -it; but I shall be able to go to Italy." - -"Exactly!" Jolyon had murmured, looking at her faintly smiling lips; -and he had gone away thinking: 'A fascinating woman! What a waste! -I'm glad the Dad left her that money.' He had not seen her again, -but every quarter he had signed her cheque, forwarding it to her -bank, with a note to the Chelsea flat to say that he had done so; -and always he had received a note in acknowledgment, generally from -the flat, but sometimes from Italy; so that her personality had -become embodied in slightly scented grey paper, an upright fine -handwriting, and the words, 'Dear Cousin Jolyon.' Man of property -that he now was, the slender cheque he signed often gave rise to the -thought: 'Well, I suppose she just manages'; sliding into a vague -wonder how she was faring otherwise in a world of men not wont to -let beauty go unpossessed. At first Holly had spoken of her -sometimes, but 'ladies in grey' soon fade from children's memories; -and the tightening of June's lips in those first weeks after her -grandfather's death whenever her former friend's name was mentioned, -had discouraged allusion. Only once, indeed, had June spoken -definitely: "I've forgiven her. I'm frightfully glad she's -independent now...." - -On receiving Soames' card, Jolyon said to the maid--for he could -not abide butlers--"Show him into the study, please, and say I'll -be there in a minute"; and then he looked at Holly and asked: - -"Do you remember 'the lady in grey,' who used to give you music- -lessons?" - -"Oh yes, why? Has she come?" - -Jolyon shook his head, and, changing his holland blouse for a coat, -was silent, perceiving suddenly that such history was not for those -young ears. His face, in fact, became whimsical perplexity -incarnate while he journeyed towards the study. - -Standing by the french-window, looking out across the terrace at -the oak tree, were two figures, middle-aged and young, and he -thought: 'Who's that boy? Surely they never had a child.' - -The elder figure turned. The meeting of those two Forsytes of the -second generation, so much more sophisticated than the first, in -the house built for the one and owned and occupied by the other, -was marked by subtle defensiveness beneath distinct attempt at -cordiality. 'Has he come about his wife?' Jolyon was thinking; and -Soames, 'How shall I begin?' while Val, brought to break the ice, -stood negligently scrutinising this 'bearded pard' from under his -dark, thick eyelashes. - -"This is Val Dartie," said Soames, "my sister's son. He's just -going up to Oxford. I thought I'd like him to know your boy." - -"Ah! I'm sorry Jolly's away. What college?" - -"B.N.C.," replied Val. - -"Jolly's at the 'House,' but he'll be delighted to look you up." - -"Thanks awfully." - -"Holly's in--if you could put up with a female relation, she'd show -you round. You'll find her in the hall if you go through the -curtains. I was just painting her." - -With another "Thanks, awfully!" Val vanished, leaving the two -cousins with the ice unbroken. - -"I see you've some drawings at the 'Water Colours,'" said Soames. - -Jolyon winced. He had been out of touch with the Forsyte family at -large for twenty-six years, but they were connected in his mind -with Frith's 'Derby Day' and Landseer prints. He had heard from -June that Soames was a connoisseur, which made it worse. He had -become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance. - -"I haven't seen you for a long time," he said. - -"No," answered Soames between close lips, "not since--as a matter -of fact, it's about that I've come. You're her trustee, I'm told." - -Jolyon nodded. - -"Twelve years is a long time," said Soames rapidly: "I--I'm tired -of it." - -Jolyon found no more appropriate answer than: - -"Won't you smoke?" - -"No, thanks." - -Jolyon himself lit a cigarette. - -"I wish to be free," said Soames abruptly. - -"I don't see her," murmured Jolyon through the fume of his -cigarette. - -"But you know where she lives, I suppose?" - -Jolyon nodded. He did not mean to give her address without -permission. Soames seemed to divine his thought. - -"I don't want her address," he said; "I know it." - -"What exactly do you want?" - -"She deserted me. I want a divorce." - -"Rather late in the day, isn't it?" - -"Yes," said Soames. And there was a silence. - -"I don't know much about these things--at least, I've forgotten," -said Jolyon with a wry smile. He himself had had to wait for death -to grant him a divorce from the first Mrs. Jolyon. "Do you wish me -to see her about it?" - -Soames raised his eyes to his cousin's face. "I suppose there's -someone," he said. - -A shrug moved Jolyon's shoulders. - -"I don't know at all. I imagine you may have both lived as if the -other were dead. It's usual in these cases." - -Soames turned to the window. A few early fallen oak-leaves strewed -the terrace already, and were rolling round in the wind. Jolyon -saw the figures of Holly and Val Dartie moving across the lawn -towards the stables. 'I'm not going to run with the hare and hunt -with the hounds,' he thought. 'I must act for her. The Dad would -have wished that.' And for a swift moment he seemed to see his -father's figure in the old armchair, just beyond Soames, sitting -with knees crossed, The Times in his hand. It vanished. - -"My father was fond of her," he said quietly. - -"Why he should have been I don't know," Soames answered without -looking round. "She brought trouble to your daughter June; she -brought trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would -have given her even--forgiveness--but she chose to leave me." - -In Jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. -What was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be sorry -for him? - -"I can go and see her, if you like," he said. "I suppose she might -be glad of a divorce, but I know nothing." - -Soames nodded. - -"Yes, please go. As I say, I know her address; but I've no wish to -see her." His tongue was busy with his lips, as if they were very -dry. - -"You'll have some tea?" said Jolyon, stifling the words: 'And see -the house.' And he led the way into the hall. When he had rung -the bell and ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his drawing -to the wall. He could not bear, somehow, that his work should be -seen by Soames, who was standing there in the middle of the great -room which had been designed expressly to afford wall space for his -own pictures. In his cousin's face, with its unseizable family -likeness to himself, and its chinny, narrow, concentrated look, -Jolyon saw that which moved him to the thought: 'That chap could -never forget anything--nor ever give himself away. He's pathetic!' - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE COLT AND THE FILLY - - -When young Val left the presence of the last generation he was -thinking: 'This is jolly dull! Uncle Soames does take the bun. -I wonder what this filly's like?' He anticipated no pleasure from -her society; and suddenly he saw her standing there looking at him. -Why, she was pretty! What luck! - -"I'm afraid you don't know me," he said. "My name's Val Dartie-- -I'm once removed, second cousin, something like that, you know. My -mother's name was Forsyte." - -Holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too -shy to withdraw it, said: - -"I don't know any of my relations. Are there many?" - -"Tons. They're awful--most of them. At least, I don't know--some -of them. One's relations always are, aren't they?" - -"I expect they think one awful too," said Holly. - -"I don't know why they should. No one could think you awful, of -course." - -Holly looked at him--the wistful candour in those grey eyes gave -young Val a sudden feeling that he must protect her. - -"I mean there are people and people," he added astutely. "Your dad -looks awfully decent, for instance." - -"Oh yes!" said Holly fervently; "he is." - -A flush mounted in Val's cheeks--that scene in the Pandemonium -promenade--the dark man with the pink carnation developing into his -own father! "But you know what the Forsytes are," he said almost -viciously. "Oh! I forgot; you don't." - -"What are they?" - -"Oh! fearfully careful; not sportsmen a bit. Look at Uncle -Soames!" - -"I'd like to," said Holly. - -Val resisted a desire to run his arm through hers. "Oh! no," he -said, "let's go out. You'll see him quite soon enough. What's -your brother like?" - -Holly led the way on to the terrace and down to the lawn without -answering. How describe Jolly, who, ever since she remembered -anything, had been her lord, master, and ideal? - -"Does he sit on you?" said Val shrewdly. "I shall be knowing him -at Oxford. Have you got any horses?" - -Holly nodded. "Would you like to see the stables?" - -"Rather!" - -They passed under the oak tree, through a thin shrubbery, into the -stable-yard. There under a clock-tower lay a fluffy brown-and- -white dog, so old that he did not get up, but faintly waved the -tail curled over his back. - -"That's Balthasar," said Holly; "he's so old--awfully old, nearly -as old as I am. Poor old boy! He's devoted to Dad." - -"Balthasar! That's a rum name. He isn't purebred you know." - -"No! but he's a darling," and she bent down to stroke the dog. -Gentle and supple, with dark covered head and slim browned neck and -hands, she seemed to Val strange and sweet, like a thing slipped -between him and all previous knowledge. - -"When grandfather died," she said, "he wouldn't eat for two days. -He saw him die, you know." - -"Was that old Uncle Jolyon? Mother always says he was a topper." - -"He was," said Holly simply, and opened the stable door. - -In a loose-box stood a silver roan of about fifteen hands, with a -long black tail and mane. "This is mine--Fairy." - -"Ah!" said Val, "she's a jolly palfrey. But you ought to bang her -tail. She'd look much smarter." Then catching her wondering look, -he thought suddenly: 'I don't know--anything she likes!' And he -took a long sniff of the stable air. "Horses are ripping, aren't -they? My Dad..." he stopped. - -"Yes?" said Holly. - -An impulse to unbosom himself almost overcame him--but not quite. -"Oh! I don't know he's often gone a mucker over them. I'm jolly -keen on them too--riding and hunting. I like racing awfully, as -well; I should like to be a gentleman rider." And oblivious of the -fact that he had but one more day in town, with two engagements, he -plumped out: - -"I say, if I hire a gee to-morrow, will you come a ride in Richmond -Park?" - -Holly clasped her hands. - -"Oh yes! I simply love riding. But there's Jolly's horse; why -don't you ride him? Here he is. We could go after tea." - -Val looked doubtfully at his trousered legs. - -He had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high brown boots -and Bedford cords. - -"I don't much like riding his horse," he said. "He mightn't like -it. Besides, Uncle Soames wants to get back, I expect. Not that I -believe in buckling under to him, you know. You haven't got an -uncle, have you? This is rather a good beast," he added, -scrutinising Jolly's horse, a dark brown, which was showing the -whites of its eyes. "You haven't got any hunting here, I suppose?" - -"No; I don't know that I want to hunt. It must be awfully -exciting, of course; but it's cruel, isn't it? June says so." - -"Cruel?" ejaculated Val. "Oh! that's all rot. Who's June?" - -"My sister--my half-sister, you know--much older than me." She had -put her hands up to both cheeks of Jolly's horse, and was rubbing -her nose against its nose with a gentle snuffling noise which -seemed to have an hypnotic effect on the animal. Val contemplated -her cheek resting against the horse's nose, and her eyes gleaming -round at him. 'She's really a duck,' he thought. - -They returned to the house less talkative, followed this time by -the dog Balthasar, walking more slowly than anything on earth, and -clearly expecting them not to exceed his speed limit. - -"This is a ripping place," said Val from under the oak tree, where -they had paused to allow the dog Balthasar to come up. - -"Yes," said Holly, and sighed. "Of course I want to go everywhere. -I wish I were a gipsy." - -"Yes, gipsies are jolly," replied Val, with a conviction which had -just come to him; "you're rather like one, you know." - -Holly's face shone suddenly and deeply, like dark leaves gilded by -the sun. - -"To go mad-rabbiting everywhere and see everything, and live in the -open--oh! wouldn't it be fun?" - -"Let's do it!" said Val. - -"Oh yes, let's!" - -"It'd be grand sport, just you and I." - -Then Holly perceived the quaintness and gushed. - -"Well, we've got to do it," said Val obstinately, but reddening -too. - -"I believe in doing things you want to do. What's down there?" - -"The kitchen-garden, and the pond and the coppice, and the farm." - -"Let's go down!" - -Holly glanced back at the house. - -"It's tea-time, I expect; there's Dad beckoning." - -Val, uttering a growly sound, followed her towards the house. - -When they re-entered the hall gallery the sight of two middle-aged -Forsytes drinking tea together had its magical effect, and they -became quite silent. It was, indeed, an impressive spectacle. The -two were seated side by side on an arrangement in marqueterie which -looked like three silvery pink chairs made one, with a low -tea-table in front of them. They seemed to have taken up that -position, as far apart as the seat would permit, so that they need -not look at each other too much; and they were eating and drinking -rather than talking--Soames with his air of despising the tea-cake -as it disappeared, Jolyon of finding himself slightly amusing. To -the casual eye neither would have seemed greedy, but both were -getting through a good deal of sustenance. The two young ones -having been supplied with food, the process went on silent and -absorbative, till, with the advent of cigarettes, Jolyon said to -Soames: - -"And how's Uncle James?" - -"Thanks, very shaky." - -"We're a wonderful family, aren't we? The other day I was -calculating the average age of the ten old Forsytes from my -father's family Bible. I make it eighty-four already, and five -still living. They ought to beat the record;" and looking -whimsically at Soames, he added: - -"We aren't the men they were, you know." - -Soames smiled. 'Do you really think I shall admit that I'm not -their equal'; he seemed to be saying, 'or that I've got to give up -anything, especially life?' - -"We may live to their age, perhaps," pursued Jolyon, "but self- -consciousness is a handicap, you know, and that's the difference -between us. We've lost conviction. How and when self-consciousness -was born I never can make out. My father had a little, but I don't -believe any other of the old Forsytes ever had a scrap. Never to -see yourself as others see you, it's a wonderful preservative. The -whole history of the last century is in the difference between us. -And between us and you," he added, gazing through a ring of smoke -at Val and Holly, uncomfortable under his quizzical regard, -"there'll be--another difference. I wonder what." - -Soames took out his watch. - -"We must go," he said, "if we're to catch our train." - -"Uncle Soames never misses a train," muttered Val, with his mouth -full. - -"Why should I?" Soames answered simply. - -"Oh! I don't know," grumbled Val, "other people do." - -At the front door he gave Holly's slim brown hand a long and -surreptitious squeeze. - -"Look out for me to-morrow," he whispered; "three o'clock. I'll -wait for you in the road; it'll save time. We'll have a ripping -ride." He gazed back at her from the lodge gate, and, but for the -principles of a man about town, would have waved his hand. He felt -in no mood to tolerate his uncle's conversation. But he was not in -danger. Soames preserved a perfect muteness, busy with far-away -thoughts. - -The yellow leaves came down about those two walking the mile and a -half which Soames had traversed so often in those long-ago days -when he came down to watch with secret pride the building of the -house--that house which was to have been the home of him and her -from whom he was now going to seek release. He looked back once, -up that endless vista of autumn lane between the yellowing hedges. -What an age ago! "I don't want to see her," he had said to Jolyon. -Was that true? 'I may have to,' he thought; and he shivered, -seized by one of those queer shudderings that they say mean -footsteps on one's grave. A chilly world! A queer world! And -glancing sidelong at his nephew, he thought: 'Wish I were his age! -I wonder what she's like now!' - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP - - -When those two were gone Jolyon did not return to his painting, for -daylight was failing, but went to the study, craving unconsciously -a revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old -leather chair with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing -up from under the dome of his massive brow. Often in this little -room, cosiest in the house, Jolyon would catch a moment of -communion with his father. Not, indeed, that he had definitely any -faith in the persistence of the human spirit--the feeling was not -so logical--it was, rather, an atmospheric impact, like a scent, or -one of those strong animistic impressions from forms, or effects of -light, to which those with the artist's eye are especially prone. -Here only--in this little unchanged room where his father had spent -the most of his waking hours--could be retrieved the feeling that -he was not quite gone, that the steady counsel of that old spirit -and the warmth of his masterful lovability endured. - -What would his father be advising now, in this sudden recrudescence -of an old tragedy--what would he say to this menace against her to -whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life? 'I -must do my best for her,' thought Jolyon; 'he left her to me in his -will. But what is the best?' - -And as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and shrewd -common sense of that old Forsyte, he sat down in the ancient chair -and crossed his knees. But he felt a mere shadow sitting there; -nor did any inspiration come, while the fingers of the wind tapped -on the darkening panes of the french-window. - -'Go and see her?' he thought, 'or ask her to come down here? -What's her life been? What is it now, I wonder? Beastly to rake -up things at this time of day.' Again the figure of his cousin -standing with a hand on a front door of a fine olive-green leaped -out, vivid, like one of those figures from old-fashioned clocks -when the hour strikes; and his words sounded in Jolyon's ears -clearer than any chime: "I manage my own affairs. I've told you -once, I tell you again: We are not at home." The repugnance he had -then felt for Soames--for his flat-cheeked, shaven face full of -spiritual bull-doggedness; for his spare, square, sleek figure -slightly crouched as it were over the bone he could not digest-- -came now again, fresh as ever, nay, with an odd increase. 'I -dislike him,' he thought, 'I dislike him to the very roots of me. -And that's lucky; it'll make it easier for me to back his wife.' -Half-artist, and half-Forsyte, Jolyon was constitutionally averse -from what he termed 'ructions'; unless angered, he conformed deeply -to that classic description of the she-dog, 'Er'd ruther run than -fight.' A little smile became settled in his beard. Ironical that -Soames should come down here--to this house, built for himself! -How he had gazed and gaped at this ruin of his past intention; -furtively nosing at the walls and stairway, appraising everything! -And intuitively Jolyon thought: 'I believe the fellow even now -would like to be living here. He could never leave off longing for -what he once owned! Well, I must act, somehow or other; but it's a -bore--a great bore.' - -Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat, asking if Irene -would see him. - -The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so -wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms. -Rumours of war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at the -close of the summer holidays. And the streets to Jolyon, who was -not often up in town, had a feverish look, due to these new motor- -cars and cabs, of which he disapproved aesthetically. He counted -these vehicles from his hansom, and made the proportion of them one -in twenty. 'They were one in thirty about a year ago,' he thought; -'they've come to stay. Just so much more rattling round of wheels -and general stink'--for he was one of those rather rare Liberals -who object to anything new when it takes a material form; and he -instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly, out of the -traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing screen -of plane-trees. At the little block of flats which stood back some -fifty yards from the Embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and -went up to the first floor. - -Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home! - -The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent -to him remembering the threadbare refinement in that tiny flat -eight years ago when he announced her good fortune. Everything was -now fresh, dainty, and smelled of flowers. The general effect was -silvery with touches of black, hydrangea colour, and gold. 'A -woman of great taste,' he thought. Time had dealt gently with -Jolyon, for he was a Forsyte. But with Irene Time hardly seemed to -deal at all, or such was his impression. She appeared to him not a -day older, standing there in mole-coloured velvet corduroy, with -soft dark eyes and dark gold hair, with outstretched hand and a -little smile. - -"Won't you sit down?" - -He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of -embarrassment. - -"You look absolutely unchanged," he said. - -"And you look younger, Cousin Jolyon." - -Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a -comfort to him. - -"I'm ancient, but I don't feel it. That's one thing about paint- -ing, it keeps you young. Titian lived to ninety-nine, and had to -have plague to kill him off. Do you know, the first time I ever -saw you I thought of a picture by him?" - -"When did you see me for the first time?" - -"In the Botanical Gardens." - -"How did you know me, if you'd never seen me before?" - -"By someone who came up to you." He was looking at her hardily, -but her face did not change; and she said quietly: - -"Yes; many lives ago." - -"What is your recipe for youth, Irene?" - -"People who don't live are wonderfully preserved." - -H'm! a bitter little saying! People who don't live! But an -opening, and he took it. "You remember my Cousin Soames?" - -He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality, and at once went on: - -"He came to see me the day before yesterday! He wants a divorce. -Do you?" - -"I?" The word seemed startled out of her. "After twelve years? -It's rather late. Won't it be difficult?" - -Jolyon looked hard into her face. "Unless...." he said. - -"Unless I have a lover now. But I have never had one since." - -What did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words? -Relief, surprise, pity! Venus for twelve years without a lover! - -"And yet," he said, "I suppose you would give a good deal to be -free, too?" - -"I don't know. What does it matter, now?" - -"But if you were to love again?" - -"I should love." In that simple answer she seemed to sum up the -whole philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back. - -"Well! Is there anything you would like me to say to him?" - -"Only that I'm sorry he's not free. He had his chance once. I -don't know why he didn't take it." - -"Because he was a Forsyte; we never part with things, you know, -unless we want something in their place; and not always then." - -Irene smiled. "Don't you, Cousin Jolyon?--I think you do." - -"Of course, I'm a bit of a mongrel--not quite a pure Forsyte. I -never take the halfpennies off my cheques, I put them on," said -Jolyon uneasily. - -"Well, what does Soames want in place of me now?" - -"I don't know; perhaps children." - -She was silent for a little, looking down. - -"Yes," she murmured; "it's hard. I would help him to be free if I -could." - -Jolyon gazed into his hat, his embarrassment was increasing fast; -so was his admiration, his wonder, and his pity. She was so -lovely, and so lonely; and altogether it was such a coil! - -"Well," he said, "I shall have to see Soames. If there's anything -I can do for you I'm always at your service. You must think of me -as a wretched substitute for my father. At all events I'll let you -know what happens when I speak to Soames. He may supply the -material himself." - -She shook her head. - -"You see, he has a lot to lose; and I have nothing. I should like -him to be free; but I don't see what I can do." - -"Nor I at the moment," said Jolyon, and soon after took his leave. -He went down to his hansom. Half-past three! Soames would be at -his office still. - -"To the Poultry," he called through the trap. In front of the -Houses of Parliament and in Whitehall, newsvendors were calling, -"Grave situation in the Transvaal!" but the cries hardly roused -him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her -soft dark glance, and the words: "I have never had one since." -What on earth did such a woman do with her life, back-watered like -this? Solitary, unprotected, with every man's hand against her or -rather--reaching out to grasp her at the least sign. And year -after year she went on like that! - -The word 'Poultry' above the passing citizens brought him back to -reality. - -'Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,' in black letters on a ground the -colour of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went up -the stone stairs muttering: "Fusty musty ownerships! Well, we -couldn't do without them!" - -"I want Mr. Soames Forsyte," he said to the boy who opened the -door. - -"What name?" - -"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte." - -The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a Forsyte with -a beard, and vanished. - -The offices of 'Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte' had slowly absorbed -the offices of 'Tooting and Bowles,' and occupied the whole of the -first floor. - -The firm consisted now of nothing but Soames and a number of -managing and articled clerks. The complete retirement of James -some six years ago had accelerated business, to which the final -touch of speed had been imparted when Bustard dropped off, worn -out, as many believed, by the suit of 'Fryer versus Forsyte,' more -in Chancery than ever and less likely to benefit its beneficiaries. -Soames, with his saner grasp of actualities, had never permitted it -to worry him; on the contrary, he had long perceived that -Providence had presented him therein with L200 a year net in -perpetuity, and--why not? - -When Jolyon entered, his cousin was drawing out a list of holdings -in Consols, which in view of the rumours of war he was going to -advise his companies to put on the market at once, before other -companies did the same. He looked round, sidelong, and said: - -"How are you? Just one minute. Sit down, won't you?" And having -entered three amounts, and set a ruler to keep his place, he turned -towards Jolyon, biting the side of his flat forefinger.... - -"Yes?" he said. - -"I have seen her." - -Soames frowned. - -"Well?" - -"She has remained faithful to memory." - -Having said that, Jolyon was ashamed. His cousin had flushed a -dusky yellowish red. What had made him tease the poor brute! - -"I was to tell you she is sorry you are not free. Twelve years is -a long time. You know your law, and what chance it gives you." -Soames uttered a curious little grunt, and the two remained a full -minute without speaking. 'Like wax!' thought Jolyon, watching that -close face, where the flush was fast subsiding. 'He'll never give -me a sign of what he's thinking, or going to do. Like wax!' And -he transferred his gaze to a plan of that flourishing town, 'By- -Street on Sea,' the future existence of which lay exposed on the -wall to the possessive instincts of the firm's clients. The whim- -sical thought flashed through him: 'I wonder if I shall get a bill -of costs for this--"To attending Mr. Jolyon Forsyte in the matter -of my divorce, to receiving his account of his visit to my wife, -and to advising him to go and see her again, sixteen and -eightpence."' - -Suddenly Soames said: "I can't go on like this. I tell you, I -can't go on like this." His eyes were shifting from side to side, -like an animal's when it looks for way of escape. 'He really -suffers,' thought Jolyon; 'I've no business to forget that, just -because I don't like him.' - -"Surely," he said gently, "it lies with yourself. A man can always -put these things through if he'll take it on himself." - -Soames turned square to him, with a sound which seemed to come from -somewhere very deep. - -"Why should I suffer more than I've suffered already? Why should -I?" - -Jolyon could only shrug his shoulders. His reason agreed, his -instinct rebelled; he could not have said why. - -"Your father," went on Soames, "took an interest in her--why, -goodness knows! And I suppose you do too?" he gave Jolyon a sharp -look. "It seems to me that one only has to do another person a -wrong to get all the sympathy. I don't know in what way I was to -blame--I've never known. I always treated her well. I gave her -everything she could wish for. I wanted her." - -Again Jolyon's reason nodded; again his instinct shook its head. -'What is it?' he thought; 'there must be something wrong in me. -Yet if there is, I'd rather be wrong than right.' - -"After all," said Soames with a sort of glum fierceness, "she was -my wife." - -In a flash the thought went through his listener: 'There it is! -Ownerships! Well, we all own things. But--human beings! Pah!' - -"You have to look at facts," he said drily, "or rather the want of -them." - -Soames gave him another quick suspicious look. - -"The want of them?" he said. "Yes, but I am not so sure." - -"I beg your pardon," replied Jolyon; "I've told you what she said. -It was explicit." - -"My experience has not been one to promote blind confidence in her -word. We shall see." - -Jolyon got up. - -"Good-bye," he said curtly. - -"Good-bye," returned Soames; and Jolyon went out trying to -understand the look, half-startled, half-menacing, on his cousin's -face. He sought Waterloo Station in a disturbed frame of mind, as -though the skin of his moral being had been scraped; and all the -way down in the train he thought of Irene in her lonely flat, and -of Soames in his lonely office, and of the strange paralysis of life -that lay on them both. 'In chancery!' he thought. 'Both their -necks in chancery--and her's so pretty!' - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -VAL HEARS THE NEWS - - -The keeping of engagements had not as yet been a conspicuous -feature in the life of young Val Dartie, so that when he broke two -and kept one, it was the latter event which caused him, if -anything, the greater surprise, while jogging back to town from -Robin Hill after his ride with Holly. She had been even prettier -than he had thought her yesterday, on her silver-roan, long-tailed -'palfrey'; and it seemed to him, self-critical in the brumous -October gloaming and the outskirts of London, that only his boots -had shone throughout their two-hour companionship. He took out his -new gold 'hunter'--present from James--and looked not at the time, -but at sections of his face in the glittering back of its opened -case. He had a temporary spot over one eyebrow, and it displeased -him, for it must have displeased her. Crum never had any spots. -Together with Crum rose the scene in the promenade of the -Pandemonium. To-day he had not had the faintest desire to unbosom -himself to Holly about his father. His father lacked poetry, the -stirrings of which he was feeling for the first time in his -nineteen years. The Liberty, with Cynthia Dark, that almost -mythical embodiment of rapture; the Pandemonium, with the woman of -uncertain age--both seemed to Val completely 'off,' fresh from -communion with this new, shy, dark-haired young cousin of his. She -rode 'Jolly well,' too, so that it had been all the more flattering -that she had let him lead her where he would in the long gallops of -Richmond Park, though she knew them so much better than he did. -Looking back on it all, he was mystified by the barrenness of his -speech; he felt that he could say 'an awful lot of fetching things' -if he had but the chance again, and the thought that he must go -back to Littlehampton on the morrow, and to Oxford on the twelfth-- -'to that beastly exam,' too--without the faintest chance of first -seeing her again, caused darkness to settle on his spirit even more -quickly than on the evening. He should write to her, however, and -she had promised to answer. Perhaps, too, she would come up to -Oxford to see her brother. That thought was like the first star, -which came out as he rode into Padwick's livery stables in the -purlieus of Sloane Square. He got off and stretched himself -luxuriously, for he had ridden some twenty-five good miles. The -Dartie within him made him chaffer for five minutes with young -Padwick concerning the favourite for the Cambridgeshire; then with -the words, "Put the gee down to my account," he walked away, a -little wide at the knees, and flipping his boots with his knotty -little cane. 'I don't feel a bit inclined to go out,' he thought. -'I wonder if mother will stand fizz for my last night!' With -'fizz' and recollection, he could well pass a domestic evening. - -When he came down, speckless after his bath, he found his mother -scrupulous in a low evening dress, and, to his annoyance, his Uncle -Soames. They stopped talking when he came in; then his uncle said: - -"He'd better be told." - -At those words, which meant something about his father, of course, -Val's first thought was of Holly. Was it anything beastly? His -mother began speaking. - -"Your father," she said in her fashionably appointed voice, while -her fingers plucked rather pitifully at sea-green brocade, "your -father, my dear boy, has--is not at Newmarket; he's on his way to -South America. He--he's left us." - -Val looked from her to Soames. Left them! Was he sorry? Was he -fond of his father? It seemed to him that he did not know. Then, -suddenly--as at a whiff of gardenias and cigars--his heart twitched -within him, and he was sorry. One's father belonged to one, could -not go off in this fashion--it was not done! Nor had he always -been the 'bounder' of the Pandemonium promenade. There were -precious memories of tailors' shops and horses, tips at school, and -general lavish kindness, when in luck. - -"But why?" he said. Then, as a sportsman himself, was sorry he had -asked. The mask of his mother's face was all disturbed; and he -burst out: - -"All right, Mother, don't tell me! Only, what does it mean?" - -"A divorce, Val, I'm afraid." - -Val uttered a queer little grunt, and looked quickly at his uncle-- -that uncle whom he had been taught to look on as a guarantee -against the consequences of having a father, even against the -Dartie blood in his own veins. The flat-checked visage seemed to -wince, and this upset him. - -"It won't be public, will it?" - -So vividly before him had come recollection of his own eyes glued -to the unsavoury details of many a divorce suit in the Public -Press. - -"Can't it be done quietly somehow? It's so disgusting for--for -mother, and--and everybody." - -"Everything will be done as quietly as it can, you may be sure." - -"Yes--but, why is it necessary at all? Mother doesn't want to -marry again." - -Himself, the girls, their name tarnished in the sight of his -schoolfellows and of Crum, of the men at Oxford, of--Holly! -Unbearable! What was to be gained by it? - -"Do you, Mother?" he said sharply. - -Thus brought face to face with so much of her own feeling by the -one she loved best in the world, Winifred rose from the Empire -chair in which she had been sitting. She saw that her son would be -against her unless he was told everything; and, yet, how could she -tell him? Thus, still plucking at the green brocade, she stared -at Soames. Val, too, stared at Soames. Surely this embodiment of -respectability and the sense of property could not wish to bring -such a slur on his own sister! - -Soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth -surface of a marqueterie table; then, without looking at his -nephew, he began: - -"You don't understand what your mother has had to put up with these -twenty years. This is only the last straw, Val." And glancing up -sideways at Winifred, he added: - -"Shall I tell him?" - -Winifred was silent. If he were not told, he would be against her! -Yet, how dreadful to be told such things of his own father! -Clenching her lips, she nodded. - -Soames spoke in a rapid, even voice: - -"He has always been a burden round your mother's neck. She has -paid his debts over and over again; he has often been drunk, abused -and threatened her; and now he is gone to Buenos Aires with a -dancer." And, as if distrusting the efficacy of those words on the -boy, he went on quickly: - -"He took your mother's pearls to give to her." - -Val jerked up his hand, then. At that signal of distress Winifred -cried out: - -"That'll do, Soames--stop!" - -In the boy, the Dartie and the Forsyte were struggling. For debts, -drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy; but the pearls--no! That -was too much! And suddenly he found his mother's hand squeezing -his. - -"You see," he heard Soames say, "we can't have it all begin over -again. There's a limit; we must strike while the iron's hot." - -Val freed his hand. - -"But--you're--never going to bring out that about the pearls! I -couldn't stand that--I simply couldn't!" - -Winifred cried out: - -"No, no, Val--oh no! That's only to show you how impossible your -father is!" And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out -a cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! -it was unbearable--just as he was going up to Oxford! - -"Can't mother be protected without?" he said. "I could look after -her. It could always be done later if it was really necessary." - -A smile played for a moment round Soames' lips, and became bitter. - -"You don't know what you're talking of; nothing's so fatal as delay -in such matters." - -"Why?" - -"I tell you, boy, nothing's so fatal. I know from experience." - -His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him round- -eyed, never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. -Oh! Yes--he remembered now--there had been an Aunt Irene, and -something had happened--something which people kept dark; he had -heard his father once use an unmentionable word of her. - -"I don't want to speak ill of your father," Soames went on -doggedly, "but I know him well enough to be sure that he'll be back -on your mother's hands before a year's over. You can imagine what -that will mean to her and to all of you after this. The only thing -is to cut the knot for good." - -In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at -his mother's face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight -into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered -most. - -"All right, mother," he said; "we'll back you up. Only I'd like to -know when it'll be. It's my first term, you know. I don't want to -be up there when it comes off." - -"Oh! my dear boy," murmured Winifred, "it is a bore for you." So, -by habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, was -the most poignant regret. "When will it be, Soames?" - -"Can't tell--not for months. We must get restitution first." - -'What the deuce is that?' thought Val. 'What silly brutes lawyers -are! Not for months! I know one thing: I'm not going to dine in!' -And he said: - -"Awfully sorry, mother, I've got to go out to dinner now." - -Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; -they both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the -expression of feeling. - -Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and -depressed. And not till he reached Piccadilly did he discover that -he had only eighteen-pence. One couldn't dine off eighteen-pence, -and he was very hungry. He looked longingly at the windows of the -Iseeum Club, where he had often eaten of the best with his father! -Those pearls! There was no getting over them! But the more he -brooded and the further he walked the hungrier he naturally became. -Short of trailing home, there were only two places where he could -go--his grandfather's in Park Lane, and Timothy's in the Bayswater -Road. Which was the less deplorable? At his grandfather's he -would probably get a better dinner on the spur of the moment. At -Timothy's they gave you a jolly good feed when they expected you, -not otherwise. He decided on Park Lane, not unmoved by the thought -that to go up to Oxford without affording his grandfather a chance -to tip him was hardly fair to either of them. His mother would -hear he had been there, of course, and might think it funny; but he -couldn't help that. He rang the bell. - -"Hullo, Warmson, any dinner for me, d'you think?" - -"They're just going in, Master Val. Mr. Forsyte will be very glad -to see you. He was saying at lunch that he never saw you -nowadays." - -Val grinned. - -"Well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Warmson, let's have fizz." - -Warmson smiled faintly--in his opinion Val was a young limb. - -"I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val." - -"I say," Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, "I'm not at school -any more, you know." - -Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the -stag's-horn coat stand, with the words: - -"Mr. Valerus, ma'am." - -"Confound him!" thought Val, entering. - -A warm embrace, a "Well, Val!" from Emily, and a rather quavery "So -there you are at last!" from James, restored his sense of dignity. - -"Why didn't you let us know? There's only saddle of mutton. -Champagne, Warmson," said Emily. And they went in. - -At the great dining-table, shortened to its utmost, under which so -many fashionable legs had rested, James sat at one end, Emily at -the other, Val half-way between them; and something of the -loneliness of his grandparents, now that all their four children -were flown, reached the boy's spirit. 'I hope I shall kick the -bucket long before I'm as old as grandfather,' he thought. 'Poor -old chap, he's as thin as a rail!' And lowering his voice while -his grandfather and Warmson were in discussion about sugar in the -soup, he said to Emily: - -"It's pretty brutal at home, Granny. I suppose you know." - -"Yes, dear boy." - -"Uncle Soames was there when I left. I say, isn't there anything -to be done to prevent a divorce? Why is he so beastly keen on it?" - -"Hush, my dear!" murmured Emily; "we're keeping it from your -grandfather." - -James' voice sounded from the other end. - -"What's that? What are you talking about?" - -"About Val's college," returned Emily. "Young Pariser was there, -James; you remember--he nearly broke the Bank at Monte Carlo -afterwards." - -James muttered that he did not know--Val must look after himself up -there, or he'd get into bad ways. And he looked at his grandson -with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered. - -"What I'm afraid of," said Val to his plate, "is of being hard up, -you know." - -By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of -insecurity for his grandchildren. - -"Well," said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, -"you'll have a good allowance; but you must keep within it." - -"Of course," murmured Val; "if it is good. How much will it be, -Grandfather?" - -"Three hundred and fifty; it's too much. I had next to nothing at -your age." - -Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. "I -don't know what your young cousin has," said James; "he's up there. -His father's a rich man." - -"Aren't you?" asked Val hardily. - -"I?" replied James, flustered. "I've got so many expenses. Your -father...." and he was silent. - -"Cousin Jolyon's got an awfully jolly place. I went down there -with Uncle Soames--ripping stables." - -"Ah!" murmured James profoundly. "That house--I knew how it would -be!" And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones. -His son's tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the -Forsyte family, had still the power to draw him down into a -whirlpool of doubts and misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of -Robin Hill, because Robin Hill meant Holly, turned to Emily and -said: - -"Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?" And, receiving her -nod, went on: "I wish you'd tell me about him, Granny. What became -of Aunt Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully worked-up -about something to-night." - -Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught -James' ear. - -"What's that?" he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his -lips. "Who's been seeing her? I knew we hadn't heard the last of -that." - -"Now, James," said Emily, "eat your dinner. Nobody's been seeing -anybody." - -James put down his fork. - -"There you go," he said. "I might die before you'd tell me of it. -Is Soames getting a divorce?" - -"Nonsense," said Emily with incomparable aplomb; "Soames is much -too sensible." - -James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers -together on the skin and bone of it. - -"She--she was always...." he said, and with that enigmatic remark -the conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned. But later, when -the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and -dessert, and Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his -grandfather's kiss--like no other kiss in the world, from lips -pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to -weakness--he returned to the charge in the hall. - -"Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on mother's -getting a divorce?" - -"Your Uncle Soames," said Emily, and her voice had in it an -exaggerated assurance, "is a lawyer, my dear boy. He's sure to -know best." - -"Is he?" muttered Val. "But what did become of Aunt Irene? I -remember she was jolly good-looking." - -"She--er...." said Emily, "behaved very badly. We don't talk -about it." - -"Well, I don't want everybody at Oxford to know about our affairs," -ejaculated Val; "it's a brutal idea. Why couldn't father be pre- -vented without its being made public?" - -Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of -divorce, owing to her fashionable proclivities--so many of those -whose legs had been under her table having gained a certain notor- -iety. When, however, it touched her own family, she liked it no -better than other people. But she was eminently practical, and a -woman of courage, who never pursued a shadow in preference to its -substance. - -"Your mother," she said, "will be happier if she's quite free, Val. -Good-night, my dear boy; and don't wear loud waistcoats up at -Oxford, they're not the thing just now. Here's a little present." - -With another five pounds in his hand, and a little warmth in his -heart, for he was fond of his grandmother, he went out into Park -Lane. A wind had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were -rustling, and the stars were shining. With all that money in his -pocket an impulse to 'see life' beset him; but he had not gone -forty yards in the direction of Piccadilly when Holly's shy face, -and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity, came up before -him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the pressure of -her warm gloved hand. 'No, dash it!' he thought, 'I'm going -home!' - - - - -CHAPTER X - -SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE - - -It was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely, and -summer lingered below the yellowing leaves. Soames took many looks -at the day from his riverside garden near Mapledurham that Sunday -morning. - -With his own hands he put flowers about his little house-boat, and -equipped the punt, in which, after lunch, he proposed to take them -on the river. Placing those Chinese-looking cushions, he could not -tell whether or no he wished to take Annette alone. She was so -very pretty--could he trust himself not to say irrevocable words, -passing beyond the limits of discretion? Roses on the veranda were -still in bloom, and the hedges ever-green, so that there was almost -nothing of middle-aged autumn to chill the mood; yet was he -nervous, fidgety, strangely distrustful of his powers to steer just -the right course. This visit had been planned to produce in -Annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions, so that they -should be ready to receive with respect any overture he might later -be disposed to make. He dressed with great care, making himself -neither too young nor too old, very thankful that his hair was -still thick and smooth and had no grey in it. Three times he went -up to his picture-gallery. If they had any knowledge at all, they -must see at once that his collection alone was worth at least -thirty thousand pounds. He minutely inspected, too, the pretty -bedroom overlooking the river where they would take off their hats. -It would be her bedroom if--if the matter went through, and she -became his wife. Going up to the dressing-table he passed his hand -over the lilac-coloured pincushion, into which were stuck all kinds -of pins; a bowl of pot-pourri exhaled a scent that made his head -turn just a little. His wife! If only the whole thing could be -settled out of hand, and there was not the nightmare of this -divorce to be gone through first; and with gloom puckered on his -forehead, he looked out at the river shining beyond the roses and -the lawn. Madame Lamotte would never resist this prospect for her -child; Annette would never resist her mother. If only he were -free! He drove to the station to meet them. What taste French- -women had! Madame Lamotte was in black with touches of lilac -colour, Annette in greyish lilac linen, with cream coloured gloves -and hat. Rather pale she looked and Londony; and her blue eyes -were demure. Waiting for them to come down to lunch, Soames stood -in the open french-window of the diningroom moved by that sensuous -delight in sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the -full when youth and beauty were there to share it with one. He had -ordered the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was a very -special Sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the -coffee served on the veranda super-excellent. Madame Lamotte -accepted creme de menthe; Annette refused. Her manners were -charming, with just a suspicion of 'the conscious beauty' creeping -into them. 'Yes,' thought Soames, 'another year of London and that -sort of life, and she'll be spoiled.' - -Madame was in sedate French raptures. "Adorable! Le soleil est si -bon! How everything is chic, is it not, Annette? Monsieur is a -real Monte Cristo." Annette murmured assent, with a look up at -Soames which he could not read. He proposed a turn on the river. -But to punt two persons when one of them looked so ravishing on -those Chinese cushions was merely to suffer from a sense of lost -opportunity; so they went but a short way towards Pangbourne, -drifting slowly back, with every now and then an autumn leaf -dropping on Annette or on her mother's black amplitude. And Soames -was not happy, worried by the thought: 'How--when--where--can I -say--what?' They did not yet even know that he was married. To -tell them he was married might jeopardise his every chance; yet, if -he did not definitely make them understand that he wished for -Annette's hand, it would be dropping into some other clutch before -he was free to claim it. - -At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the -Transvaal. - -"There'll be war," he said. - -Madame Lamotte lamented. - -"Ces pauvres gens bergers!" Could they not be left to themselves? - -Soames smiled--the question seemed to him absurd. - -Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could -not abandon their legitimate commercial interests. - -"Ah! that!" But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a -little hypocrite. They were talking of justice and the Uitlanders, -not of business. Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of -that. - -"The Boers are only half-civilised," remarked Soames; "they stand -in the way of progress. It will never do to let our suzerainty -go." - -"What does that mean to say? Suzerainty!" - -"What a strange word!" Soames became eloquent, roused by these -threats to the principle of possession, and stimulated by Annette's -eyes fixed on him. He was delighted when presently she said: - -"I think Monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson." She -was sensible! - -"Of course," he said, "we must act with moderation. I'm no jingo. -We must be firm without bullying. Will you come up and see my -pictures?" Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon -perceived that they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, that -remarkable study of a 'Hay-cart going Home,' as if it were a -lithograph. He waited almost with awe to see how they would view -the jewel of his collection--an Israels whose price he had watched -ascending till he was now almost certain it had reached top value, -and would be better on the market again. They did not view it at -all. This was a shock; and yet to have in Annette a virgin taste -to form would be better than to have the silly, half-baked pre- -dilections of the English middle-class to deal with. At the end of -the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather ashamed-- -Meissonier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte stopped -before it. - -"Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!" Soames took advantage of that -moment. Very gently touching Annette's arm, he said: - -"How do you like my place, Annette?" - -She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked -down, and murmured: - -"Who would not like it? It is so beautiful!" - -"Perhaps some day--" Soames said, and stopped. - -So pretty she was, so self-possessed--she frightened him. Those -cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate -curves--she was a standing temptation to indiscretion! No! No! -One must be sure of one's ground--much surer! 'If I hold off,' he -thought, 'it will tantalise her.' And he crossed over to Madame -Lamotte, who was still in front of the Meissonier. - -"Yes, that's quite a good example of his later work. You must come -again, Madame, and see them lighted up. You must both come and -spend a night." - -Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By -moonlight too, the river must be ravishing! - -Annette murmured: - -"Thou art sentimental, Maman!" - -Sentimental! That black-robed, comely, substantial Frenchwoman of -the world! And suddenly he was certain as he could be that there -was no sentiment in either of them. All the better. Of what use -sentiment? And yet....! - -He drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. To -the tightened pressure of his hand it seemed that Annette's fingers -responded just a little; her face smiled at him through the dark. - -He went back to the carriage, brooding. "Go on home, Jordan," he -said to the coachman; "I'll walk." And he strode out into the -darkening lanes, caution and the desire of possession playing -see-saw within him. 'Bon soir, monsieur!' How softly she had said -it. To know what was in her mind! The French--they were like -cats--one could tell nothing! But--how pretty! What a perfect -young thing to hold in one's arms! What a mother for his heir! -And he thought, with a smile, of his family and their surprise at a -French wife, and their curiosity, and of the way he would play with -it and buffet it confound them! - -The, poplars sighed in the darkness; an owl hooted. Shadows -deepened in the water. 'I will and must be free,' he thought. 'I -won't hang about any longer. I'll go and see Irene. If you want -things done, do them yourself. I must live again--live and move -and have my being.' And in echo to that queer biblicality church- -bells chimed the call to evening prayer. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -AND VISITS THE PAST - - -On a Tuesday evening after dining at his club Soames set out to do -what required more courage and perhaps less delicacy than anything -he had yet undertaken in his life--save perhaps his birth, and one -other action. He chose the evening, indeed, partly because Irene -was more likely to be in, but mainly because he had failed to find -sufficient resolution by daylight, had needed wine to give him -extra daring. - -He left his hansom on the Embankment, and walked up to the Old -Church, uncertain of the block of flats where he knew she lived. -He found it hiding behind a much larger mansion; and having read -the name, 'Mrs. Irene Heron'--Heron, forsooth! Her maiden name: so -she used that again, did she?--he stepped back into the road to -look up at the windows of the first floor. Light was coming -through in the corner fiat, and he could hear a piano being played. -He had never had a love of music, had secretly borne it a grudge in -the old days when so often she had turned to her piano, making of -it a refuge place into which she knew he could not enter. Repulse! -The long repulse, at first restrained and secret, at last open! -Bitter memory came with that sound. It must be she playing, and -thus almost assured of seeing her, he stood more undecided than -ever. Shivers of anticipation ran through him; his tongue felt -dry, his heart beat fast. 'I have no cause to be afraid,' he -thought. And then the lawyer stirred within him. Was he doing a -foolish thing? Ought he not to have arranged a formal meeting in -the presence of her trustee? No! Not before that fellow Jolyon, -who sympathised with her! Never! He crossed back into the -doorway, and, slowly, to keep down the beating of his heart, -mounted the single flight of stairs and rang the bell. When the -door was opened to him his sensations were regulated by the scent -which came--that perfume--from away back in the past, bringing -muffled remembrance: fragrance of a drawing-room he used to enter, -of a house he used to own--perfume of dried rose-leaves and honey! - -"Say, Mr. Forsyte," he said, "your mistress will see me, I know." -He had thought this out; she would think it was Jolyon! - -When the maid was gone and he was alone in the tiny hall, where the -light was dim from one pearly-shaded sconce, and walls, carpet, -everything was silvery, making the walled-in space all ghostly, he -could only think ridiculously: 'Shall I go in with my overcoat on, -or take it off?' The music ceased; the maid said from the doorway: - -"Will you walk in, sir?" - -Soames walked in. He noted mechanically that all was still -silvery, and that the upright piano was of satinwood. She had -risen and stood recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys -as if groping for support, had struck a sudden discord, held for a -moment, and released. The light from the shaded piano-candle fell -on her neck, leaving her face rather in shadow. She was in a black -evening dress, with a sort of mantilla over her shoulders--he did -not remember ever having seen her in black, and the thought passed -through him: 'She dresses even when she's alone.' - -"You!" he heard her whisper. - -Many times Soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy. Rehearsal -served him not at all. He simply could not speak. He had never -thought that the sight of this woman whom he had once so -passionately desired, so completely owned, and whom he had not seen -for twelve years, could affect him in this way. He had imagined -himself speaking and acting, half as man of business, half as -judge. And now it was as if he were in the presence not of a mere -woman and erring wife, but of some force, subtle and elusive as -atmo-sphere itself within him and outside. A kind of defensive -irony welled up in him. - -"Yes, it's a queer visit! I hope you're well." - -"Thank you. Will you sit down?" - -She had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a window-seat, -sinking on to it, with her hands clasped in her lap. Light fell on -her there, so that Soames could see her face, eyes, hair, strangely -as he remembered them, strangely beautiful. - -He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with -silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing. - -"You have not changed," he said. - -"No? What have you come for?" - -"To discuss things." - -"I have heard what you want from your cousin." - -"Well?" - -"I am willing. I have always been." - -The sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her figure -watchfully poised, defensive, was helping him now. A thousand -memories of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, and.... - -"Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on -which I can act. The law must be complied with." - -"I have none to give you that you don't know of." - -"Twelve years! Do you suppose I can believe that?" - -"I don't suppose you will believe anything I say; but it's the -truth." - -Soames looked at her hard. He had said that she had not changed; -now he perceived that she had. Not in face, except that it was -more beautiful; not in form, except that it was a little fuller-- -no! She had changed spiritually. There was more of her, as it -were, something of activity and daring, where there had been sheer -passive resistance. 'Ah!' he thought, 'that's her independent -income! Confound Uncle Jolyon!' - -"I suppose you're comfortably off now?" he said. - -"Thank you, yes." - -"Why didn't you let me provide for you? I would have, in spite of -everything." - -A faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer. - -"You are still my wife," said Soames. Why he said that, what he -meant by it, he knew neither when he spoke nor after. It was a -truism almost preposterous, but its effect was startling. She rose -from the window-seat, and stood for a moment perfectly still, -looking at him. He could see her bosom heaving. Then she turned -to the window and threw it open. - -"Why do that?" he said sharply. "You'll catch cold in that dress. -I'm not dangerous." And he uttered a little sad laugh. - -She echoed it--faintly, bitterly. - -"It was--habit." - -"Rather odd habit," said Soames as bitterly. "Shut the window!" - -She shut it and sat down again. She had developed power, this -woman--this--wife of his! He felt it issuing from her as she sat -there, in a sort of armour. And almost unconsciously he rose and -moved nearer; he wanted to see the expression on her face. Her -eyes met his unflinching. Heavens! how clear they were, and what -a dark brown against that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair! -And how white her shoulders. - -Funny sensation this! He ought to hate her. - -"You had better tell me," he said; "it's to your advantage to be -free as well as to mine. That old matter is too old." - -"I have told you." - -"Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing--nobody?" - -"Nobody. You must go to your own life." - -Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to -the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in -their drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him. - -"That won't do," he said. "You deserted me. In common justice -it's for you...." - -He saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur: - -"Yes. Why didn't you divorce me then? Should I have cared?" - -He stopped, and looked at her intently with a sort of curiosity. -What on earth did she do with herself, if she really lived quite -alone? And why had he not divorced her? The old feeling that she -had never understood him, never done him justice, bit him while he -stared at her. - -"Why couldn't you have made me a good wife?" he said. - -"Yes; it was a crime to marry you. I have paid for it. You will -find some way perhaps. You needn't mind my name, I have none to -lose. Now I think you had better go." - -A sense of defeat--of being defrauded of his self-justification, -and of something else beyond power of explanation to himself, beset -Soames like the breath of a cold fog. Mechanically he reached up, -took from the mantel-shelf a little china bowl, reversed it, and -said: - -"Lowestoft. Where did you get this? I bought its fellow at -Jobson's." And, visited by the sudden memory of how, those many -years ago, he and she had bought china together, he remained -staring at the little bowl, as if it contained all the past. Her -voice roused him. - -"Take it. I don't want it." - -Soames put it back on the shelf. - -"Will you shake hands?" he said. - -A faint smile curved her lips. She held out her hand. It was cold -to his rather feverish touch. 'She's made of ice,' he thought-- -'she was always made of ice!' But even as that thought darted -through him, his senses were assailed by the perfume of her dress -and body, as though the warmth within her, which had never been for -him, were struggling to show its presence. And he turned on his -heel. He walked out and away, as if someone with a whip were after -him, not even looking for a cab, glad of the empty Embankment and -the cold river, and the thick-strewn shadows of the plane-tree -leaves--confused, flurried, sore at heart, and vaguely disturbed, -as though he had made some deep mistake whose consequences he could -not foresee. And the fantastic thought suddenly assailed him -if instead of, 'I think you had better go,' she had said, 'I think -you had better stay!' What should he have felt, what would he have -done? That cursed attraction of her was there for him even now, -after all these years of estrangement and bitter thoughts. It was -there, ready to mount to his head at a sign, a touch. 'I was a -fool to go!' he muttered. 'I've advanced nothing. Who could -imagine? I never thought!' Memory, flown back to the first years -of his marriage, played him torturing tricks. She had not deserved -to keep her beauty--the beauty he had owned and known so well. And -a kind of bitterness at the tenacity of his own admiration welled -up in him. Most men would have hated the sight of her, as she had -deserved. She had spoiled his life, wounded his pride to death, -defrauded him of a son. And yet the mere sight of her, cold and -resisting as ever, had this power to upset him utterly! It was -some damned magnetism she had! And no wonder if, as she asserted; -she had lived untouched these last twelve years. So Bosinney-- -cursed be his memory!--had lived on all this time with her! Soames -could not tell whether he was glad of that knowledge or no. - -Nearing his Club at last he stopped to buy a paper. A headline -ran: 'Boers reported to repudiate suzerainty!' Suzerainty! 'Just -like her!' he thought: 'she always did. Suzerainty! I still have -it by rights. She must be awfully lonely in that wretched little -flat!' - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -ON FORSYTE 'CHANGE - - -Soames belonged to two clubs, 'The Connoisseurs,' which he put on -his cards and seldom visited, and 'The Remove,' which he did not -put on his cards and frequented. He had joined this Liberal -institution five years ago, having made sure that its members were -now nearly all sound Conservatives in heart and pocket, if not in -principle. Uncle Nicholas had put him up. The fine reading-room -was decorated in the Adam style. - -On entering that evening he glanced at the tape for any news about -the Transvaal, and noted that Consols were down seven-sixteenths -since the morning. He was turning away to seek the reading-room -when a voice behind him said: - -"Well, Soames, that went off all right." - -It was Uncle Nicholas, in a frock-coat and his special cut-away -collar, with a black tie passed through a ring. Heavens! How -young and dapper he looked at eighty-two! - -"I think Roger'd have been pleased," his uncle went on. "The thing -was very well done. Blackley's? I'll make a note of them. -Buxton's done me no good. These Boers are upsetting me--that -fellow Chamberlain's driving the country into war. What do you -think?" - -"Bound to come," murmured Soames. - -Nicholas passed his hand over his thin, cleanshaven cheeks, very -rosy after his summer cure; a slight pout had gathered on his lips. -This business had revived all his Liberal principles. - -"I mistrust that chap; he's a stormy petrel. House-property will -go down if there's war. You'll have trouble with Roger's estate. -I often told him he ought to get out of some of his houses. He was -an opinionated beggar." - -'There was a pair of you!' thought Soames. But he never argued -with an uncle, in that way preserving their opinion of him as 'a -long-headed chap,' and the legal care of their property. - -"They tell me at Timothy's," said Nicholas, lowering his voice, -"that Dartie has gone off at last. That'll be a relief to your -father. He was a rotten egg." - -Again Soames nodded. If there was a subject on which the Forsytes -really agreed, it was the character of Montague Dartie. - -"You take care," said Nicholas, "or he'll turn up again. Winifred -had better have the tooth out, I should say. No use preserving -what's gone bad." - -Soames looked at him sideways. His nerves, exacerbated by the -interview he had just come through, disposed him to see a personal -allusion in those words. - -"I'm advising her," he said shortly. - -"Well," said Nicholas, "the brougham's waiting; I must get home. -I'm very poorly. Remember me to your father." - -And having thus reconsecrated the ties of blood, he passed down the -steps at his youthful gait and was wrapped into his fur coat by the -junior porter. - -'I've never known Uncle Nicholas other than "very poorly,"' mused -Soames, 'or seen him look other than everlasting. What a family! -Judging by him, I've got thirty-eight years of health before me. -Well, I'm not going to waste them.' And going over to a mirror he -stood looking at his face. Except for a line or two, and three or -four grey hairs in his little dark moustache, had he aged any more -than Irene? The prime of life--he and she in the very prime of -life! And a fantastic thought shot into his mind. Absurd! -Idiotic! But again it came. And genuinely alarmed by the recur- -rence, as one is by the second fit of shivering which presages a -feverish cold, he sat down on the weighing machine. Eleven stone! -He had not varied two pounds in twenty years. What age was she? -Nearly thirty-seven--not too old to have a child--not at all! -Thirty-seven on the ninth of next month. He remembered her -birthday well--he had always observed it religiously, even that -last birthday so soon before she left him, when he was almost -certain she was faithless. Four birthdays in his house. He had -looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a semblance of -gratitude, a certain attempt at warmth. Except, indeed, that last -birthday--which had tempted him to be too religious! And he shied -away in thought. Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, -from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense. And then he -thought suddenly: 'I could send her a present for her birthday. -After all, we're Christians! Couldn't!--couldn't we join up -again!' And he uttered a deep sigh sitting there. Annette! Ah! -but between him and Annette was the need for that wretched divorce -suit! And how? - -"A man can always work these things, if he'll take it on himself," -Jolyon had said. - -But why should he take the scandal on himself with his whole career -as a pillar of the law at stake? It was not fair! It was quix- -otic! Twelve years' separation in which he had taken no steps to -free himself put out of court the possibility of using her conduct -with Bosinney as a ground for divorcing her. By doing nothing to -secure relief he had acquiesced, even if the evidence could now be -gathered, which was more than doubtful. Besides, his own pride -would never let him use that old incident, he had suffered from it -too much. No! Nothing but fresh misconduct on her part--but she -had denied it; and--almost--he had believed her. Hung up! Utterly -hung up! - -He rose from the scooped-out red velvet seat with a feeling of -constriction about his vitals. He would never sleep with this -going on in him! And, taking coat and hat again, he went out, -moving eastward. In Trafalgar Square he became aware of some -special commotion travelling towards him out of the mouth of the -Strand. It materialised in newspaper men calling out so loudly -that no words whatever could be heard. He stopped to listen, and -one came by. - -"Payper! Special! Ultimatium by Krooger! Declaration of war!" -Soames bought the paper. There it was in the stop press....! His -first thought was: 'The Boers are committing suicide.' His second: -'Is there anything still I ought to sell?' If so he had missed the -chance--there would certainly be a slump in the city to-morrow. He -swallowed this thought with a nod of defiance. That ultimatum was -insolent--sooner than let it pass he was prepared to lose money. -They wanted a lesson, and they would get it; but it would take -three months at least to bring them to heel. There weren't the -troops out there; always behind time, the Government! Confound -those newspaper rats! What was the use of waking everybody up? -Breakfast to-morrow was quite soon enough. And he thought with -alarm of his father. They would cry it down Park Lane. Hailing a -hansom, he got in and told the man to drive there. - -James and Emily had just gone up to bed, and after communicating -the news to Warmson, Soames prepared to follow. He paused by -after-thought to say: - -"What do you think of it, Warmson?" - -The butler ceased passing a hat brush over the silk hat Soames had -taken off, and, inclining his face a little forward, said in a low -voice: "Well, sir, they 'aven't a chance, of course; but I'm told -they're very good shots. I've got a son in the Inniskillings." - -"You, Warmson? Why, I didn't know you were married." - -"No, sir. I don't talk of it. I expect he'll be going out." - -The slighter shock Soames had felt on discovering that he knew so -little of one whom he thought he knew so well was lost in the -slight shock of discovering that the war might touch one -personally. Born in the year of the Crimean War, he had only come -to consciousness by the time the Indian Mutiny was over; since then -the many little wars of the British Empire had been entirely -professional, quite unconnected with the Forsytes and all they -stood for in the body politic. This war would surely be no -exception. But his mind ran hastily over his family. Two of the -Haymans, he had heard, were in some Yeomanry or other--it had -always been a pleasant thought, there was a certain distinction -about the Yeomanry; they wore, or used to wear, a blue uniform with -silver about it, and rode horses. And Archibald, he remembered, -had once on a time joined the Militia, but had given it up because -his father, Nicholas, had made such a fuss about his 'wasting his -time peacocking about in a uniform.' Recently he had heard -somewhere that young Nicholas' eldest, very young Nicholas, had -become a Volunteer. 'No,' thought Soames, mounting the stairs -slowly, 'there's nothing in that!' - -He stood on the landing outside his parents' bed and dressing -rooms, debating whether or not to put his nose in and say a -reassuring word. Opening the landing window, he listened. The -rumble from Piccadilly was all the sound he heard, and with the -thought, 'If these motor-cars increase, it'll affect house -property,' he was about to pass on up to the room always kept ready -for him when he heard, distant as yet, the hoarse rushing call of a -newsvendor. There it was, and coming past the house! He knocked -on his mother's door and went in. - -His father was sitting up in bed, with his ears pricked under the -white hair which Emily kept so beautifully cut. He looked pink, -and extraordinarily clean, in his setting of white sheet and -pillow, out of which the points of his high, thin, nightgowned -shoulders emerged in small peaks. His eyes alone, grey and -distrustful under their withered lids, were moving from the window -to Emily, who in a wrapper was walking up and down, squeezing a -rubber ball attached to a scent bottle. The room reeked faintly of -the eau-de-Cologne she was spraying. - -"All right!" said Soames, "it's not a fire. The Boers have -declared war--that's all." - -Emily stopped her spraying. - -"Oh!" was all she said, and looked at James. - -Soames, too, looked at his father. He was taking it differently -from their expectation, as if some thought, strange to them, were -working in him. - -"H'm!" he muttered suddenly, "I shan't live to see the end of -this." - -"Nonsense, James! It'll be over by Christmas." - -"What do you know about it?" James answered her with asperity. -"It's a pretty mess at this time of night, too!" He lapsed into -silence, and his wife and son, as if hypnotised, waited for him to -say: 'I can't tell--I don't know; I knew how it would be!' But he -did not. The grey eyes shifted, evidently seeing nothing in the -room; then movement occurred under the bedclothes, and the knees -were drawn up suddenly to a great height. - -"They ought to send out Roberts. It all comes from that fellow -Gladstone and his Majuba." - -The two listeners noted something beyond the usual in his voice, -something of real anxiety. It was as if he had said: 'I shall -never see the old country peaceful and safe again. I shall have to -die before I know she's won.' And in spite of the feeling that -James must not be encouraged to be fussy, they were touched. -Soames went up to the bedside and stroked his father's hand which -had emerged from under the bedclothes, long and wrinkled with -veins. - -"Mark my words!" said James, "consols will go to par. For all I -know, Val may go and enlist." - -"Oh, come, James!" cried Emily, "you talk as if there were danger." - -Her comfortable voice seemed to soothe James for once. - -"Well," he muttered, "I told you how it would be. I don't know, -I'm sure--nobody tells me anything. Are you sleeping here, my boy?" - -The crisis was past, he would now compose himself to his normal -degree of anxiety; and, assuring his father that he was sleeping in -the house, Soames pressed his hand, and went up to his room. - -The following afternoon witnessed the greatest crowd Timothy's had -known for many a year. On national occasions, such as this, it -was, indeed, almost impossible to avoid going there. Not that -there was any danger or rather only just enough to make it -necessary to assure each other that there was none. - -Nicholas was there early. He had seen Soames the night before-- -Soames had said it was bound to come. This old Kruger was in his -dotage--why, he must be seventy-five if he was a day! - -(Nicholas was eighty-two.) What had Timothy said? He had had a fit -after Majuba. These Boers were a grasping lot! The dark-haired -Francie, who had arrived on his heels, with the contradictious -touch which became the free spirit of a daughter of Roger, chimed -in: - -"Kettle and pot, Uncle Nicholas. What price the Uitlanders?" What -price, indeed! A new expression, and believed to be due to her -brother George. - -Aunt Juley thought Francie ought not to say such a thing. Dear -Mrs. MacAnder's boy, Charlie MacAnder, was one, and no one could -call him grasping. At this Francie uttered one of her mots, -scandalising, and so frequently repeated: - -"Well, his father's a Scotchman, and his mother's a cat." - -Aunt Juley covered her ears, too late, but Aunt Hester smiled; as -for Nicholas, he pouted--witticism of which he was not the author -was hardly to his taste. Just then Marian Tweetyman arrived, -followed almost immediately by young Nicholas. On seeing his son, -Nicholas rose. - -"Well, I must be going," he said, "Nick here will tell you what'll -win the race." And with this hit at his eldest, who, as a pillar -of accountancy, and director of an insurance company, was no more -addicted to sport than his father had ever been, he departed. Dear -Nicholas! What race was that? Or was it only one of his jokes? -He was a wonderful man for his age! How many lumps would dear -Marian take? And how were Giles and Jesse? Aunt Juley supposed -their Yeomanry would be very busy now, guarding the coast, though -of course the Boers had no ships. But one never knew what the -French might do if they had the chance, especially since that -dreadful Fashoda scare, which had upset Timothy so terribly that he -had made no investments for months afterwards. It was the -ingratitude of the Boers that was so dreadful, after everything had -been done for them--Dr. Jameson imprisoned, and he was so nice, -Mrs. MacAnder had always said. And Sir Alfred Milner sent out to -talk to them--such a clever man! She didn't know what they wanted. - -But at this moment occurred one of those sensations--so precious at -Timothy's--which great occasions sometimes bring forth: - -"Miss June Forsyte." - -Aunts Juley and Hester were on their feet at once, trembling from -smothered resentment, and old affection bubbling up, and pride at -the return of a prodigal June! Well, this was a surprise! Dear -June--after all these years! And how well she was looking! Not -changed at all! It was almost on their lips to add, 'And how is -your dear grandfather?' forgetting in that giddy moment that poor -dear Jolyon had been in his grave for seven years now. - -Ever the most courageous and downright of all the Forsytes, June, -with her decided chin and her spirited eyes and her hair like -flame, sat down, slight and short, on a gilt chair with a bead- -worked seat, for all the world as if ten years had not elapsed -since she had been to see them--ten years of travel and -independence and devotion to lame ducks. Those ducks of late had -been all definitely painters, etchers, or sculptors, so that her -impatience with the Forsytes and their hopelessly inartistic -outlook had become intense. Indeed, she had almost ceased to -believe that her family existed, and looked round her now with a -sort of challenging directness which brought exquisite discomfort -to the roomful. She had not expected to meet any of them but 'the -poor old things'; and why she had come to see them she hardly knew, -except that, while on her way from Oxford Street to a studio in -Latimer Road, she had suddenly remembered them with compunction as -two long-neglected old lame ducks. - -Aunt Juley broke the hush again. "We've just been saying, dear, -how dreadful it is about these Boers! And what an impudent thing -of that old Kruger!" - -"Impudent!" said June. "I think he's quite right. What business -have we to meddle with them? If he turned out all those wretched -Uitlanders it would serve them right. They're only after money." - -The silence of sensation was broken by Francie saying: - -"What? Are you a pro-Boer?" (undoubtedly the first use of that -expression). - -"Well! Why can't we leave them alone?" said June, just as, in the -open doorway, the maid said "Mr. Soames Forsyte." Sensation on -sensation! Greeting was almost held up by curiosity to see how -June and he would take this encounter, for it was shrewdly -suspected, if not quite known, that they had not met since that old -and lamentable affair of her fiance Bosinney with Soames' wife. -They were seen to just touch each other's hands, and look each at -the other's left eye only. Aunt Juley came at once to the rescue: - -"Dear June is so original. Fancy, Soames, she thinks the Boers are -not to blame." - -"They only want their independence," said June; "and why shouldn't -they have it?" - -"Because," answered Soames, with his smile a little on one side, -"they happen to have agreed to our suzerainty." - -"Suzerainty!" repeated June scornfully; "we shouldn't like anyone's -suzerainty over us." - -"They got advantages in payment," replied Soames; "a contract is a -contract." - -"Contracts are not always just," fumed out June, "and when they're -not, they ought to be broken. The Boers are much the weaker. We -could afford to be generous." - -Soames sniffed. "That's mere sentiment," he said. - -Aunt Hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of -disagreement, here leaned forward and remarked decisively: - -"What lovely weather it has been for the time of year?" - -But June was not to be diverted. - -"I don't know why sentiment should be sneered at. It's the best -thing in the world." She looked defiantly round, and Aunt Juley -had to intervene again: - -"Have you bought any pictures lately, Soames?" - -Her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her. -Soames flushed. To disclose the name of his latest purchases would -be like walking into the jaws of disdain. For somehow they all -knew of June's predilection for 'genius' not yet on its legs, and -her contempt for 'success' unless she had had a finger in securing -it. - -"One or two," he muttered. - -But June's face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing its -chance. Why should not Soames buy some of the pictures of Eric -Cobbley--her last lame duck? And she promptly opened her attack: -Did Soames know his work? It was so wonderful. He was the coming -man. - -Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view 'splashy,' and -would never get hold of the public. - -June blazed up. - -"Of course it won't; that's the last thing one would wish for. I -thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer." - -"Of course Soames is a connoisseur," Aunt Juley said hastily; "he -has wonderful taste--he can always tell beforehand what's going to -be successful." - -"Oh!" gasped June, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, "I -hate that standard of success. Why can't people buy things because -they like them?" - -"You mean," said Francie, "because you like them." - -And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently that -Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn't know if -they were any use. - -"Well, good-bye, Auntie," said June; "I must get on," and kissing -her aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said "Good-bye" -again, and went. A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if -everyone had sighed. - -The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak: - -"Mr. James Forsyte." - -James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat -which gave him a fictitious bulk. - -Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at -Timothy's for nearly two years. - -"It's hot in here," he said. - -Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help -admiring the glossy way his father was turned out. James sat down, -all knees, elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers. - -"What's the meaning of that?" he said. - -Though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew that -he was referring to June. His eyes searched his son's face. - -"I thought I'd come and see for myself. What have they answered -Kruger?" - -Soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline. - -"'Instant action by our Government--state of war existing!'" - -"Ah!" said James, and sighed. "I was afraid they'd cut and run -like old Gladstone. We shall finish with them this time." - -All stared at him. James! Always fussy, nervous, anxious! James -with his continual, 'I told you how it would be!' and his pessimism, -and his cautious investments. There was something uncanny about -such resolution in this the oldest living Forsyte. - -"Where's Timothy?" said James. "He ought to pay attention to -this." - -Aunt Juley said she didn't know; Timothy had not said much at lunch -to-day. Aunt Hester rose and threaded her way out of the room, and -Francie said rather maliciously: - -"The Boers are a hard nut to crack, Uncle James." - -"H'm!" muttered James. "Where do you get your information? Nobody -tells me." - -Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest) -was now going to drill regularly. - -"Ah!" muttered James, and stared before him--his thoughts were on -Val. "He's got to look after his mother," he said, "he's got no -time for drilling and that, with that father of his." This cryptic -saying produced silence, until he spoke again. - -"What did June want here?" And his eyes rested with suspicion on -all of them in turn. "Her father's a rich man now." The -conversation turned on Jolyon, and when he had been seen last. It -was supposed that he went abroad and saw all sorts of people now -that his wife was dead; his water-colours were on the line, and he -was a successful man. Francie went so far as to say: - -"I should like to see him again; he was rather a dear." - -Aunt Juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day, -where James was sitting. He had always been very amiable; what did -Soames think? - -Knowing that Jolyon was Irene's trustee, all felt the delicacy of -this question, and looked at Soames with interest. A faint pink -had come up in his cheeks. - -"He's going grey," he said. - -Indeed! Had Soames seen him? Soames nodded, and the pink -vanished. - -James said suddenly: "Well--I don't know, I can't tell." - -It so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that -there was something behind everything, that nobody responded. But -at this moment Aunt Hester returned. - -"Timothy," she said in a low voice, "Timothy has bought a map, and -he's put in--he's put in three flags." - -Timothy had ....! A sigh went round the company. - -If Timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!--it showed -what the nation could do when it was roused. The war was as good -as over. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS - - -Jolyon stood at the window in Holly's old night nursery, converted -into a studio, not because it had a north light, but for its view -over the prospect away to the Grand Stand at Epsom. He shifted to -the side window which overlooked the stableyard, and whistled down -to the dog Balthasar who lay for ever under the clock tower. The -old dog looked up and wagged his tail. 'Poor old boy!' thought -Jolyon, shifting back to the other window. - -He had been restless all this week, since his attempt to prosecute -trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which was ever acute, -disturbed in his sense of compassion which was easily excited, and -with a queer sensation as if his feeling for beauty had received -some definite embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of the old -oak-tree, its leaves were browning. Sunshine had been plentiful -and hot this summer. As with trees, so with men's lives! 'I ought -to live long,' thought Jolyon; 'I'm getting mildewed for want of -heat. If I can't work, I shall be off to Paris.' But memory of -Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how could he go? He must -stay and see what Soames was going to do. 'I'm her trustee. I -can't leave her unprotected,' he thought. It had been striking him -as curious how very clearly he could still see Irene in her little -drawing-room which he had only twice entered. Her beauty must have -a sort of poignant harmony! No literal portrait would ever do her -justice; the essence of her was--ah I what?... The noise of hoofs -called him back to the other window. Holly was riding into the -yard on her long-tailed 'palfrey.' She looked up and he waved to -her. She had been rather silent lately; getting old, he supposed, -beginning to want her future, as they all did--youngsters! - -Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste -this swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took up -his brush. But it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye-- -besides, the light was going. 'I'll go up to town,' he thought. -In the hall a servant met him. - -"A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron." - -Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as it -was still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window. - -She came towards him saying: - -"I've been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden. -I always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon." - -"You couldn't trespass here," replied Jolyon; "history makes that -impossible. I was just thinking of you." - -Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere -spirituality--serener, completer, more alluring. - -"History!" she answered; "I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was -for ever. Well, it isn't. Only aversion lasts." - -Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last? - -"Yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a -natural product of the nerves, and we don't change them." - -"I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a -thing that frightened me. He said: 'You are still my wife!'" - -"What!" ejaculated Jolyon. "You ought not to live alone." And he -continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where -Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was -why so many people looked on it as immoral. - -"What more?" - -"He asked me to shake hands. - -"Did you?" - -"Yes. When he came in I'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while -he was there." - -"Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone." - -"I know no woman I could ask; and I can't take a lover to order, -Cousin Jolyon." - -"Heaven forbid!" said Jolyon. "What a damnable position! Will you -stay to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted -to go up this evening." - -"Truly?" - -"Truly. I'll be ready in five minutes." - -On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music, -contrasting the English and French characters and the difference in -their attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges of -the long straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept pace -with them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of -her neck, the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and -then, the lure of her whole figure, made a deeper impression than -the remarks they exchanged. Unconsciously he held himself -straighter, walked with a more elastic step. - -In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she -did with her days. - -Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, -translated from the French. - -She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which -supplemented her income a little. She seldom went out in the -evening. "I've been living alone so long, you see, that I don't -mind it a bit. I believe I'm naturally solitary." - -"I don't believe that," said Jolyon. "Do you know many people?" - -"Very few." - -At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door -of her mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said: - -"You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let -me know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene." - -"Good-bye," she answered softly. - -Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked -her to dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved, -hung-up life that she had! "Hotch Potch Club," he said through the -trap-door. As his hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a man in -top-hat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close to the wall -that he seemed to be scraping it. - -'By Jove!' thought Jolyon; 'Soames himself! What's he up to now?' -And, stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and retraced his -steps to where he could see the entrance to the mansions. Soames -had halted in front of them, and was looking up at the light in her -windows. 'If he goes in,' thought Jolyon, 'what shall I do? What -have I the right to do?' What the fellow had said was true. She -was still his wife, absolutely without protection from annoyance! -'Well, if he goes in,' he thought, 'I follow.' And he began moving -towards the mansions. Again Soames advanced; he was in the very -entrance now. But suddenly he stopped, spun round on his heel, and -came back towards the river. 'What now?' thought Jolyon. 'In a -dozen steps he'll recognise me.' And he turned tail. His cousin's -footsteps kept pace with his own. But he reached his cab, and got -in before Soames had turned the corner. "Go on!" he said through -the trap. Soames' figure ranged up alongside. - -"Hansom!" he said. "Engaged? Hallo!" - -"Hallo!" answered Jolyon. "You?" - -The quick suspicion on his cousin's face, white in the lamplight, -decided him. - -"I can give you a lift," he said, "if you're going West." - -"Thanks," answered Soames, and got in. - -"I've been seeing Irene," said Jolyon when the cab had started. - -"Indeed!" - -"You went to see her yesterday yourself, I understand." - - -"I did," said Soames; "she's my wife, you know." - -The tone, the half-lifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in -Jolyon; but he subdued it. - -"You ought to know best," he said, "but if you want a divorce it's -not very wise to go seeing her, is it? One can't run with the hare -and hunt with the hounds?" - -"You're very good to warn me," said Soames, "but I have not made up -my mind." - -"She has," said Jolyon, looking straight before him; "you can't -take things up, you know, as they were twelve years ago." - -"That remains to be seen." - -"Look here!" said Jolyon, "she's in a damnable position, and I am -the only person with any legal say in her affairs." - -"Except myself," retorted Soames, "who am also in a damnable -position. Hers is what she made for herself; mine what she made -for me. I am not at all sure that in her own interests I shan't -require her to return to me." - -"What!" exclaimed Jolyon; and a shiver went through his whole body. - -"I don't know what you may mean by 'what,'" answered Soames coldly; -"your say in her affairs is confined to paying out her income; -please bear that in mind. In choosing not to disgrace her by a -divorce, I retained my rights, and, as I say, I am not at all sure -that I shan't require to exercise them." - -"My God!" ejaculated Jolyon, and he uttered a short laugh. - -"Yes," said Soames, and there was a deadly quality in his voice. -"I've not forgotten the nickname your father gave me, 'The man of -property'! I'm not called names for nothing." - -"This is fantastic," murmured Jolyon. Well, the fellow couldn't -force his wife to live with him. Those days were past, anyway! -And he looked around at Soames with the thought: 'Is he real, this -man?' But Soames looked very real, sitting square yet almost -elegant with the clipped moustache on his pale face, and a tooth -showing where a lip was lifted in a fixed smile. There was a long -silence, while Jolyon thought: 'Instead of helping her, I've made -things worse.' Suddenly Soames said: - -"It would be the best thing that could happen to her in many ways." - -At those words such a turmoil began taking place in Jolyon that he -could barely sit still in the cab. It was as if he were boxed up -with hundreds of thousands of his countrymen, boxed up with that -something in the national character which had always been to him -revolting, something which he knew to be extremely natural and yet -which seemed to him inexplicable--their intense belief in contracts -and vested rights, their complacent sense of virtue in the exaction -of those rights. Here beside him in the cab was the very -embodiment, the corporeal sum as it were, of the possessive -instinct--his own kinsman, too! It was uncanny and intolerable! -'But there's something more in it than that!' he thought with a -sick feeling. 'The dog, they say, returns to his vomit! The sight -of her has reawakened something. Beauty! The devil's in it!' - -"As I say," said Soames, "I have not made up my mind. I shall be -obliged if you will kindly leave her quite alone." - -Jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed -the thought of one now. - -"I can give you no such promise," he said shortly. - -"Very well," said Soames, "then we know where we are. I'll get -down here." And stopping the cab he got out without word or sign -of farewell. Jolyon travelled on to his Club. - -The first news of the war was being called in the streets, but he -paid no attention. What could he do to help her? If only his -father were alive! He could have done so much! But why could he -not do all that his father could have done? Was he not old -enough?--turned fifty and twice married, with grown-up daughters -and a son. 'Queer,' he thought. 'If she were plain I shouldn't be -thinking twice about it. Beauty is the devil, when you're sen- -sitive to it!' And into the Club reading-room he went with a -disturbed heart. In that very room he and Bosinney had talked one -summer afternoon; he well remembered even now the disguised and -secret lecture he had given that young man in the interests of -June, the diagnosis of the Forsytes he had hazarded; and how he had -wondered what sort of woman it was he was warning him against. And -now! He was almost in want of a warning himself. 'It's deuced -funny!' he thought, 'really deuced funny!' - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE WANTS - -It is so much easier to say, "Then we know where we are," than to -mean anything particular by the words. And in saying them Soames -did but vent the jealous rankling of his instincts. He got out of -the cab in a state of wary anger--with himself for not having seen -Irene, with Jolyon for having seen her; and now with his inability -to tell exactly what he wanted. - -He had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain seated -beside his cousin, and walking briskly eastwards he thought: 'I -wouldn't trust that fellow Jolyon a yard. Once outcast, always -outcast!' The chap had a natural sympathy with--with--laxity (he -had shied at the word sin, because it was too melodramatic for use -by a Forsyte). - -Indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. He was like a child -between a promised toy and an old one which had been taken away -from him; and he was astonished at himself. Only last Sunday -desire had seemed simple--just his freedom and Annette. 'I'll go -and dine there,' he thought. To see her might bring back his -singleness of intention, calm his exasperation, clear his mind. - -The restaurant was fairly full--a good many foreigners and folk -whom, from their appearance, he took to be literary or artistic. -Scraps of conversation came his way through the clatter of plates -and glasses. He distinctly heard the Boers sympathised with, the -British Government blamed. 'Don't think much of their clientele,' -he thought. He went stolidly through his dinner and special coffee -without making his presence known, and when at last he had -finished, was careful not to be seen going towards the sanctum of -Madame Lamotte. They were, as he entered, having supper--such a -much nicer-looking supper than the dinner he had eaten that he felt -a kind of grief--and they greeted him with a surprise so seemingly -genuine that he thought with sudden suspicion: 'I believe they knew -I was here all the time.' He gave Annette a look furtive and -searching. So pretty, seemingly so candid; could she be angling -for him? He turned to Madame Lamotte and said: - -"I've been dining here." - -Really! If she had only known! There were dishes she could have -recommended; what a pity! Soames was confirmed in his suspicion. -'I must look out what I'm doing!' he thought sharply. - -"Another little cup of very special coffee, monsieur; a liqueur, -Grand Marnier?" and Madame Lamotte rose to order these delicacies. - -Alone with Annette Soames said, "Well, Annette?" with a defensive -little smile about his lips. - -The girl blushed. This, which last Sunday would have set his -nerves tingling, now gave him much the same feeling a man has when -a dog that he owns wriggles and looks at him. He had a curious -sense of power, as if he could have said to her, 'Come and kiss -me,' and she would have come. And yet--it was strange--but there -seemed another face and form in the room too; and the itch in his -nerves, was it for that--or for this? He jerked his head towards -the restaurant and said: "You have some queer customers. Do you -like this life?" - -Annette looked up at him for a moment, looked down, and played with -her fork. - -"No," she said, "I do not like it." - -'I've got her,' thought Soames, 'if I want her. But do I want -her?' She was graceful, she was pretty--very pretty; she was fresh, -she had taste of a kind. His eyes travelled round the little room; -but the eyes of his mind went another journey--a half-light, and -silvery walls, a satinwood piano, a woman standing against it, -reined back as it were from him--a woman with white shoulders that -he knew, and dark eyes that he had sought to know, and hair like -dull dark amber. And as in an artist who strives for the -unrealisable and is ever thirsty, so there rose in him at that -moment the thirst of the old passion he had never satisfied. - -"Well," he said calmly, "you're young. There's everything before -you." - -Annette shook her head. - -"I think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work. I am -not so in love with work as mother." - -"Your mother is a wonder," said Soames, faintly mocking; "she will -never let failure lodge in her house." - -Annette sighed. "It must be wonderful to be rich." - -"Oh! You'll be rich some day," answered Soames, still with that -faint mockery; "don't be afraid." - -Annette shrugged her shoulders. "Monsieur is very kind." And -between her pouting lips she put a chocolate. - -'Yes, my dear,' thought Soames, 'they're very pretty.' - -Madame Lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that -colloquy. Soames did not stay long. - -Outside in the streets of Soho, which always gave him such a -feeling of property improperly owned, he mused. If only Irene had -given him a son, he wouldn't now be squirming after women! The -thought had jumped out of its little dark sentry-box in his inner -consciousness. A son--something to look forward to, something to -make the rest of life worth while, something to leave himself to, -some perpetuity of self. 'If I had a son,' he thought bitterly, -'a proper legal son, I could make shift to go on as I used. One -woman's much the same as another, after all.' But as he walked he -shook his head. No! One woman was not the same as another. Many -a time had he tried to think that in the old days of his thwarted -married life; and he had always failed. He was failing now. He -was trying to think Annette the same as that other. But she was -not, she had not the lure of that old passion. 'And Irene's my -wife,' he thought, 'my legal wife. I have done nothing to put her -away from me. Why shouldn't she come back to me? It's the right -thing, the lawful thing. It makes no scandal, no disturbance. If -it's disagreeable to her--but why should it be? I'm not a leper, -and she--she's no longer in love!' Why should he be put to the -shifts and the sordid disgraces and the lurking defeats of the -Divorce Court, when there she was like an empty house only waiting -to be retaken into use and possession by him who legally owned her? -To one so secretive as Soames the thought of reentry into quiet -possession of his own property with nothing given away to the world -was intensely alluring. 'No,' he mused, 'I'm glad I went to see -that girl. I know now what I want most. If only Irene will come -back I'll be as considerate as she wishes; she could live her own -life; but perhaps--perhaps she would come round to me.' There was -a lump in his throat. And doggedly along by the railings of the -Green Park, towards his father's house, he went, trying to tread on -his shadow walking before him in the brilliant moonlight. - - - - - - -PART II - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE THIRD GENERATION - - -Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street, Oxford, on a November -afternoon; Val Dartie was strolling up. Jolly had just changed out -of boating flannels and was on his way to the 'Frying-pan,' to -which he had recently been elected. Val had just changed out of -riding clothes and was on his way to the fire--a bookmaker's in -Cornmarket. - -"Hallo!" said Jolly. - -"Hallo!" replied Val. - -The cousins had met but twice, Jolly, the second-year man, having -invited the freshman to breakfast; and last evening they had seen -each other again under somewhat exotic circumstances. - -Over a tailor's in the Cornmarket resided one of those privileged -young beings called minors, whose inheritances are large, whose -parents are dead, whose guardians are remote, and whose instincts -are vicious. At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers -attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single -bankruptcy is good as a feast. Already famous for having the only -roulette table then to be found in Oxford, he was anticipating his -expectations at a dazzling rate. He out-crummed Crum, though of a -sanguine and rather beefy type which lacked the latter's -fascinating languor. For Val it had been in the nature of baptism -to be taken there to play roulette; in the nature of confirmation -to get back into college, after hours, through a window whose bars -were deceptive. Once, during that evening of delight, glancing up -from the seductive green before him, he had caught sight, through a -cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite. 'Rouge gagne, -impair, et manque!' He had not seen him again. - -"Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea," said Jolly, and they went -in. - -A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an unseizable -resemblance between these second cousins of the third generations -of Forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though Jolly's eyes -were darker grey, his hair lighter and more wavy. - -"Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please," said Jolly. - -"Have one of my cigarettes?" said Val. "I saw you last night. How -did you do?" - -"I didn't play." - -"I won fifteen quid." - -Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had -once heard his father make--'When you're fleeced you're sick, and -when you fleece you're sorry--Jolly contented himself with: - -"Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He's an -awful fool." - -"Oh! I don't know," said Val, as one might speak in defence of a -disparaged god; "he's a pretty good sport." - -They exchanged whiffs in silence. - -"You met my people, didn't you?" said Jolly. "They're coming up -to-morrow." - -Val grew a little red. - -"Really! I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester -November handicap." - -"Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races." - -"You can't make any money over them," said Val. - -"I hate the ring," said Jolly; "there's such a row and stink. I -like the paddock." - -"I like to back my judgment,"' answered Val. - -Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father's. - -"I haven't got any. I always lose money if I bet." - -"You have to buy experience, of course." - -"Yes, but it's all messed-up with doing people in the eye." - -"Of course, or they'll do you--that's the excitement." - -Jolly looked a little scornful. - -"What do you do with yourself? Row?" - -"No--ride, and drive about. I'm going to play polo next term, if I -can get my granddad to stump up." - -"That's old Uncle James, isn't it? What's he like?" - -"Older than forty hills," said Val, "and always thinking he's going -to be ruined." - -"I suppose my granddad and he were brothers." - -"I don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen," said Val; -"they must have worshipped money." - -"Mine didn't!" said Jolly warmly. - -Val flipped the ash off his cigarette. - -"Money's only fit to spend," he said; "I wish the deuce I had -more." - -Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had -inherited from old Jolyon: One didn't talk about money! And again -there was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns. - -"Where are your people going to stay?" asked Val, elaborately -casual. - -"'Rainbow.' What do you think of the war?" - -"Rotten, so far. The Boers aren't sports a bit. Why don't they -come out into the open?" - -"Why should they? They've got everything against them except their -way of fighting. I rather admire them." - -"They can ride and shoot," admitted Val, "but they're a lousy lot. -Do you know Crum?" - -"Of Merton? Only by sight. He's in that fast set too, isn't he? -Rather La-di-da and Brummagem." - -Val said fixedly: "He's a friend of mine." - -"Oh! Sorry!" And they sat awkwardly staring past each other, -having pitched on their pet points of snobbery. For Jolly was -forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was: - -'We defy you to bore us. Life isn't half long enough, and we're -going to talk faster and more crisply, do more and know more, and -dwell less on any subject than you can possibly imagine. We are -"the best"--made of wire and whipcord.' And Val was unconsciously -forming himself on a set whose motto was: 'We defy you to interest -or excite us. We have had every sensation, or if we haven't, we -pretend we have. We are so exhausted with living that no hours are -too small for us. We will lose our shirts with equanimity. We -have flown fast and are past everything. All is cigarette smoke. -Bismillah!' Competitive spirit, bone-deep in the English, was -obliging those two young Forsytes to have ideals; and at the close -of a century ideals are mixed. The aristocracy had already in the -main adopted the 'jumping-Jesus' principle; though here and there -one like Crum--who was an 'honourable'--stood starkly languid for -that gambler's Nirvana which had been the summum bonum of the old -'dandies' and of 'the mashers' in the eighties. And round Crum -were still gathered a forlorn hope of blue-bloods with a -plutocratic following. - -But there was between the cousins another far less obvious -antipathy--coming from the unseizable family resemblance, which -each perhaps resented; or from some half-consciousness of that old -feud persisting still between their branches of the clan, formed -within them by odd words or half-hints dropped by their elders. -And Jolly, tinkling his teaspoon, was musing: 'His tie-pin and his -waistcoat and his drawl and his betting--good Lord!' - -And Val, finishing his bun, was thinking: 'He's rather a young -beast!' - -"I suppose you'll be meeting your people?" he said, getting up. -"I wish you'd tell them I should like to show them over B.N.C.--not -that there's anything much there--if they'd care to come." - -"Thanks, I'll ask them." - -"Would they lunch? I've got rather a decent scout." - -Jolly doubted if they would have time. - -"You'll ask them, though?" - -"Very good of you," said Jolly, fully meaning that they should not -go; but, instinctively polite, he added: "You'd better come and -have dinner with us to-morrow." - -"Rather. What time?" - -"Seven-thirty." - -"Dress?" - -"No." And they parted, a subtle antagonism alive within them. - -Holly and her father arrived by a midday train. It was her first -visit to the city of spires and dreams, and she was very silent, -looking almost shyly at the brother who was part of this wonderful -place. After lunch she wandered, examining his household gods with -intense curiosity. Jolly's sitting-room was panelled, and Art -represented by a set of Bartolozzi prints which had belonged to old -Jolyon, and by college photographs--of young men, live young men, a -little heroic, and to be compared with her memories of Val. Jolyon -also scrutinised with care that evidence of his boy's character and -tastes. - -Jolly was anxious that they should see him rowing, so they set -forth to the river. Holly, between her brother and her father, -felt elated when heads were turned and eyes rested on her. That -they might see him to the best advantage they left him at the Barge -and crossed the river to the towing-path. Slight in build--for of -all the Forsytes only old Swithin and George were beefy--Jolly was -rowing 'Two' in a trial eight. He looked very earnest and -strenuous. With pride Jolyon thought him the best-looking boy of -the lot; Holly, as became a sister, was more struck by one or two -of the others, but would not have said so for the world. The river -was bright that afternoon, the meadows lush, the trees still -beautiful with colour. Distinguished peace clung around the old -city; Jolyon promised himself a day's sketching if the weather -held. The Eight passed a second time, spurting home along the -Barges--Jolly's face was very set, so as not to show that he was -blown. They returned across the river and waited for him. - -"Oh!" said Jolly in the Christ Church meadows, "I had to ask that -chap Val Dartie to dine with us to-night. He wanted to give you -lunch and show you B.N.C., so I thought I'd better; then you -needn't go. I don't like him much." - -Holly's rather sallow face had become suffused with pink. - -"Why not?" - -"Oh! I don't know. He seems to me rather showy and bad form. What -are his people like, Dad? He's only a second cousin, isn't he?" - -Jolyon took refuge in a smile. - -"Ask Holly," he said; "she saw his uncle." - -"I liked Val," Holly answered, staring at the ground before her; -"his uncle looked--awfully different." She stole a glance at Jolly -from under her lashes. - -"Did you ever," said Jolyon with whimsical intention, "hear our -family history, my dears? It's quite a fairy tale. The first -Jolyon Forsyte--at all events the first we know anything of, and -that would be your great-great-grandfather--dwelt in the land of -Dorset on the edge of the sea, being by profession an -'agriculturalist,' as your great-aunt put it, and the son of an -agriculturist--farmers, in fact; your grandfather used to call -them, 'Very small beer.'" He looked at Jolly to see how his -lordliness was standing it, and with the other eye noted Holly's -malicious pleasure in the slight drop of her brother's face. - -"We may suppose him thick and sturdy, standing for England as it -was before the Industrial Era began. The second Jolyon Forsyte-- -your great-grandfather, Jolly; better known as Superior Dosset -Forsyte--built houses, so the chronicle runs, begat ten children, -and migrated to London town. It is known that he drank sherry. We -may suppose him representing the England of Napoleon's wars, and -general unrest. The eldest of his six sons was the third Jolyon, -your grandfather, my dears--tea merchant and chairman of companies, -one of the soundest Englishmen who ever lived--and to me the -dearest." Jolyon's voice had lost its irony, and his son and -daughter gazed at him solemnly, "He was just and tenacious, tender -and young at heart. You remember him, and I remember him. Pass to -the others! Your great-uncle James, that's young Val's grand- -father, had a son called Soames--whereby hangs a tale of no love -lost, and I don't think I'll tell it you. James and the other -eight children of 'Superior Dosset,' of whom there are still five -alive, may be said to have represented Victorian England, with its -principles of trade and individualism at five per cent. and your -money back--if you know what that means. At all events they've -turned thirty thousand pounds into a cool million between them in -the course of their long lives. They never did a wild thing-- -unless it was your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe was once -swindled at thimble-rig, and was called 'Four-in-hand Forsyte' -because he drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their type, not -altogether for the advantage of the country. They were pedestrian, -but they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon Forsyte--a poor -holder of the name--" - -"No, Dad," said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand. - -"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, I'm afraid, -nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, -and individual liberty--a different thing from individualism, -Jolly. You are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the -ball of the new century." - -As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly -said: "It's fascinating, Dad." - -None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave. - -The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for -lack of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting- -room, in which Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone, -when the only guest arrived. Rather as one would touch a moth, Val -took her hand. And wouldn't she wear this 'measly flower'? It -would look ripping in her hair. He removed a gardenia from his -coat. - -"Oh! No, thank you--I couldn't!" But she took it and pinned it at -her neck, having suddenly remembered that word 'showy'! Val's -buttonhole would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to like -him. Did she realise that Val was at his best and quietest in her -presence, and was that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction -for her? - -"I never said anything about our ride, Val." - -"Rather not! It's just between us." - -By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was -giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too--the -wish to make him happy. - -"Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely." - -Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; -the lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps. -"Only," he added, "of course I wish I was in town, and could come -down and see you." - -Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped. - -"You haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering courage, "that -we're going mad-rabbiting together?" - -Holly smiled. - -"Oh! That was only make-believe. One can't do that sort of thing -after one's grown up, you know." - -"Dash it! cousins can," said Val. "Next Long Vac.--it begins in -June, you know, and goes on for ever--we'll watch our chance." - -But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly -shook her head. "It won't come off," she murmured. - -"Won't it!" said Val fervently; "who's going to stop it? Not your -father or your brother." - -At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance fled into -Val's patent leather and Holly's white satin toes, where it itched -and tingled during an evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness. - -Sensitive to atmosphere, Jolyon soon felt the latent antagonism -between the boys, and was puzzled by Holly; so he became un- -consciously ironical, which is fatal to the expansiveness of youth. -A letter, handed to him after dinner, reduced him to a silence -hardly broken till Jolly and Val rose to go. He went out with -them, smoking his cigar, and walked with his son to the gates of -Christ Church. Turning back, he took out the letter and read it -again beneath a lamp. - - -"DEAR JOLYON, - -"Soames came again to-night--my thirty-seventh birthday. You were -right, I mustn't stay here. I'm going to-morrow to the Piedmont -Hotel, but I won't go abroad without seeing you. I feel lonely and -down-hearted. - -"Yours affectionately, - -"IRENE." - - -He folded the letter back into his pocket and walked on, astonished -at the violence of his feelings. What had the fellow said or done? - -He turned into High Street, down the Turf, and on among a maze of -spires and domes and long college fronts and walls, bright or -darkshadowed in the strong moonlight. In this very heart of -England's gentility it was difficult to realise that a lonely woman -could be importuned or hunted, but what else could her letter mean? -Soames must have been pressing her to go back to him again, with -public opinion and the Law on his side, too! 'Eighteen-ninety- -nine!,' he thought, gazing at the broken glass shining on the top -of a villa garden wall; 'but when it comes to property we're still -a heathen people! I'll go up to-morrow morning. I dare say it'll -be best for her to go abroad.' Yet the thought displeased him. -Why should Soames hunt her out of England! Besides, he might -follow, and out there she would be still more helpless against the -attentions of her own husband! 'I must tread warily,' he thought; -'that fellow could make himself very nasty. I didn't like his -manner in the cab the other night.' His thoughts turned to his -daughter June. Could she help? Once on a time Irene had been her -greatest friend, and now she was a 'lame duck,' such as must appeal -to June's nature! He determined to wire to his daughter to meet -him at Paddington Station. Retracing his steps towards the Rainbow -he questioned his own sensations. Would he be upsetting himself -over every woman in like case? No! he would not. The candour of -this conclusion discomfited him; and, finding that Holly had gone -up to bed, he sought his own room. But he could not sleep, and sat -for a long time at his window, huddled in an overcoat, watching the -moonlight on the roofs. - -Next door Holly too was awake, thinking of the lashes above and -below Val's eyes, especially below; and of what she could do to -make Jolly like him better. The scent of the gardenia was strong -in her little bedroom, and pleasant to her. - -And Val, leaning out of his first-floor window in B.N.C., was -gazing at a moonlit quadrangle without seeing it at all, seeing -instead Holly, slim and white-frocked, as she sat beside the fire -when he first went in. - -But Jolly, in his bedroom narrow as a ghost, lay with a hand -beneath his cheek and dreamed he was with Val in one boat, rowing a -race against him, while his father was calling from the towpath: -'Two! Get your hands away there, bless you!' - - - - -CHAPTER II - -SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH - - -Of all those radiant firms which emblazon with their windows the -West End of London, Gaves and Cortegal were considered by Soames -the most 'attractive' word just coming into fashion. He had never -had his Uncle Swithin's taste in precious stones, and the -abandonment by Irene when she left his house in 1887 of all the -glittering things he had given her had disgusted him with this form -of investment. But he still knew a diamond when he saw one, and -during the week before her birthday he had taken occasion, on his -way into the Poultry or his way out therefrom, to dally a little -before the greater jewellers where one got, if not one's money's -worth, at least a certain cachet with the goods. - -Constant cogitation since his drive with Jolyon had convinced him -more and more of the supreme importance of this moment in his life, -the supreme need for taking steps and those not wrong. And, -alongside the dry and reasoned sense that it was now or never with -his self-preservation, now or never if he were to range himself and -found a family, went the secret urge of his senses roused by the -sight of her who had once been a passionately desired wife, and the -conviction that it was a sin against common sense and the decent -secrecy of Forsytes to waste the wife he had. - -In an opinion on Winifred's case, Dreamer, Q.C.--he would much have -preferred Waterbuck, but they had made him a judge (so late in the -day as to rouse the usual suspicion of a political job)--had -advised that they should go forward and obtain restitution of -conjugal rights, a point which to Soames had never been in doubt. -When they had obtained a decree to that effect they must wait to -see if it was obeyed. If not, it would constitute legal desertion, -and they should obtain evidence of misconduct and file their -petition for divorce. All of which Soames knew perfectly well. -They had marked him ten and one. This simplicity in his sister's -case only made him the more desperate about the difficulty in his -own. Everything, in fact, was driving him towards the simple -solution of Irene's return. If it were still against the grain -with her, had he not feelings to subdue, injury to forgive, pain to -forget? He at least had never injured her, and this was a world of -compromise! He could offer her so much more than she had now. He -would be prepared to make a liberal settlement on her which could -not be upset. He often scrutinised his image in these days. He -had never been a peacock like that fellow Dartie, or fancied -himself a woman's man, but he had a certain belief in his own -appearance--not unjustly, for it was well-coupled and preserved, -neat, healthy, pale, unblemished by drink or excess of any kind. -The Forsyte jaw and the concentration of his face were, in his -eyes, virtues. So far as he could tell there was no feature of him -which need inspire dislike. - -Thoughts and yearnings, with which one lives daily, become natural, -even if far-fetched in their inception. If he could only give -tangible proof enough of his determination to let bygones be -bygones, and to do all in his power to please her, why should she -not come back to him? - -He entered Gaves and Cortegal's therefore, on the morning of -November the 9th, to buy a certain diamond brooch. "Four -twenty-five and dirt cheap, sir, at the money. It's a lady's -brooch." There was that in his mood which made him accept without -demur. And he went on into the Poultry with the flat green morocco -case in his breast pocket. Several times that day he opened it to -look at the seven soft shining stones in their velvet oval nest. - -"If the lady doesn't like it, sir, happy to exchange it any time. -But there's no fear of that." If only there were not! He got -through a vast amount of work, only soother of the nerves he knew. -A cablegram came while he was in the office with details from the -agent in Buenos Aires, and the name and address of a stewardess who -would be prepared to swear to what was necessary. It was a timely -spur to Soames, with his rooted distaste for the washing of dirty -linen in public. And when he set forth by Underground to Victoria -Station he received a fresh impetus towards the renewal of his -married life from the account in his evening paper of a fashionable -divorce suit. The homing instinct of all true Forsytes in anxiety -and trouble, the corporate tendency which kept them strong and -solid, made him choose to dine at Park Lane. He neither could nor -would breath a word to his people of his intention--too reticent -and proud--but the thought that at least they would be glad if they -knew, and wish him luck, was heartening. - -James was in lugubrious mood, for the fire which the impudence of -Kruger's ultimatum had lit in him had been cold-watered by the poor -success of the last month, and the exhortations to effort in The -Times. He didn't know where it would end. Soames sought to cheer -him by the continual use of the word Buller. But James couldn't -tell! There was Colley--and he got stuck on that hill, and this -Ladysmith was down in a hollow, and altogether it looked to him a -'pretty kettle of fish'; he thought they ought to be sending the -sailors--they were the chaps, they did a lot of good in the Crimea. -Soames shifted the ground of consolation. Winifred had heard from -Val that there had been a 'rag' and a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day at -Oxford, and that he had escaped detection by blacking his face. - -"Ah!" James muttered, "he's a clever little chap." But he shook -his head shortly afterwards and remarked that he didn't know what -would become of him, and looking wistfully at his son, murmured on -that Soames had never had a boy. He would have liked a grandson of -his own name. And now--well, there it was! - -Soames flinched. He had not expected such a challenge to disclose -the secret in his heart. And Emily, who saw him wince, said: - -"Nonsense, James; don't talk like that!" - -But James, not looking anyone in the face, muttered on. There were -Roger and Nicholas and Jolyon; they all had grandsons. And Swithin -and Timothy had never married. He had done his best; but he would -soon be gone now. And, as though he had uttered words of profound -consolation, he was silent, eating brains with a fork and a piece -of bread, and swallowing the bread. - -Soames excused himself directly after dinner. It was not really -cold, but he put on his fur coat, which served to fortify him -against the fits of nervous shivering to which he had been subject -all day. Subconsciously, he knew that he looked better thus than -in an ordinary black overcoat. Then, feeling the morocco case flat -against his heart, he sallied forth. He was no smoker, but he lit -a cigarette, and smoked it gingerly as he walked along. He moved -slowly down the Row towards Knightsbridge, timing himself to get to -Chelsea at nine-fifteen. What did she do with herself evening -after evening in that little hole? How mysterious women were! One -lived alongside and knew nothing of them. What could she have seen -in that fellow Bosinney to send her mad? For there was madness -after all in what she had done--crazy moonstruck madness, in which -all sense of values had been lost, and her life and his life -ruined! And for a moment he was filled with a sort of exaltation, -as though he were a man read of in a story who, possessed by the -Christian spirit, would restore to her all the prizes of existence, -forgiving and forgetting, and becoming the godfather of her -future. Under a tree opposite Knightsbridge Barracks, where the -moon-light struck down clear and white, he took out once more the -morocco case, and let the beams draw colour from those stones. -Yes, they were of the first water! But, at the hard closing snap -of the case, another cold shiver ran through his nerves; and he -walked on faster, clenching his gloved hands in the pockets of his -coat, almost hoping she would not be in. The thought of how -mysterious she was again beset him. Dining alone there night after -night--in an evening dress, too, as if she were making believe to -be in society! Playing the piano--to herself! Not even a dog or -cat, so far as he had seen. And that reminded him suddenly of the -mare he kept for station work at Mapledurham. If ever he went to -the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her -home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if longing -to be back and lonely in her stable! 'I would treat her well,' he -thought incoherently. 'I would be very careful.' And all that -capacity for home life of which a mocking Fate seemed for ever to -have deprived him swelled suddenly in Soames, so that he dreamed -dreams opposite South Kensington Station. In the King's Road a man -came slithering out of a public house playing a concertina. Soames -watched him for a moment dance crazily on the pavement to his own -drawling jagged sounds, then crossed over to avoid contact with -this piece of drunken foolery. A night in the lock-up! What asses -people were! But the man had noticed his movement of avoidance, -and streams of genial blasphemy followed him across the street. -'I hope they'll run him in,' thought Soames viciously. 'To have -ruffians like that about, with women out alone!' A woman's figure -in front had induced this thought. Her walk seemed oddly familiar, -and when she turned the corner for which he was bound, his heart -began to beat. He hastened on to the corner to make certain. -Yes! It was Irene; he could not mistake her walk in that little -drab street. She threaded two more turnings, and from the last -corner he saw her enter her block of flats. To make sure of her -now, he ran those few paces, hurried up the stairs, and caught her -standing at her door. He heard the latchkey in the lock, and -reached her side just as she turned round, startled, in the open -doorway. - -"Don't be alarmed," he said, breathless. "I happened to see you. -Let me come in a minute." - -She had put her hand up to her breast, her face was colourless, her -eyes widened by alarm. Then seeming to master herself, she -inclined her head, and said: "Very well." - -Soames closed the door. He, too, had need to recover, and when she -had passed into the sitting-room, waited a full minute, taking deep -breaths to still the beating of his heart. At this moment, so -fraught with the future, to take out that morocco case seemed -crude. Yet, not to take it out left him there before her with no -preliminary excuse for coming. And in this dilemma he was seized -with impatience at all this paraphernalia of excuse and -justification. This was a scene--it could be nothing else, and he -must face it. He heard her voice, uncomfortably, pathetically -soft: - -"Why have you come again? Didn't you understand that I would -rather you did not?" - -He noticed her clothes--a dark brown velvet corduroy, a sable boa, -a small round toque of the same. They suited her admirably. She -had money to spare for dress, evidently! He said abruptly: - -"It's your birthday. I brought you this," and he held out to her -the green morocco case. - -"Oh! No-no!" - -Soames pressed the clasp; the seven stones gleamed out on the pale -grey velvet. - -"Why not?" he said. "Just as a sign that you don't bear me ill- -feeling any longer." - -"I couldn't." - -Soames took it out of the case. - -"Let me just see how it looks." - -She shrank back. - -He followed, thrusting his hand with the brooch in it against the -front of her dress. She shrank again. - -Soames dropped his hand. - -"Irene," he said, "let bygones be bygones. If I can, surely you -might. Let's begin again, as if nothing had been. Won't you?" -His voice was wistful, and his eyes, resting on her face, had in -them a sort of supplication. - -She, who was standing literally with her back against the wall, -gave a little gulp, and that was all her answer. Soames went on: - -"Can you really want to live all your days half-dead in this little -hole? Come back to me, and I'll give you all you want. You shall -live your own life; I swear it." - -He saw her face quiver ironically. - -"Yes," he repeated, "but I mean it this time. I'll only ask one -thing. I just want--I just want a son. Don't look like that! I -want one. It's hard." His voice had grown hurried, so that he -hardly knew it for his own, and twice he jerked his head back as if -struggling for breath. It was the sight of her eyes fixed on him, -dark with a sort of fascinated fright, which pulled him together -and changed that painful incoherence to anger. - -"Is it so very unnatural?" he said between his teeth, "Is it -unnatural to want a child from one's own wife? You wrecked our -life and put this blight on everything. We go on only half alive, -and without any future. Is it so very unflattering to you that in -spite of everything I--I still want you for my wife? Speak, for -Goodness' sake! do speak." - -Irene seemed to try, but did not succeed. - -"I don't want to frighten you," said Soames more gently. "Heaven -knows. I only want you to see that I can't go on like this. I -want you back. I want you." - -Irene raised one hand and covered the lower part of her face, but -her eyes never moved from his, as though she trusted in them to -keep him at bay. And all those years, barren and bitter, since-- -ah! when?--almost since he had first known her, surged up in one -great wave of recollection in Soames; and a spasm that for his life -he could not control constricted his face. - -"It's not too late," he said; "it's not--if you'll only believe -it." - -Irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing -gesture in front of her breast. Soames seized them. - -"Don't!" she said under her breath. But he stood holding on to -them, trying to stare into her eyes which did not waver. Then she -said quietly: - -"I am alone here. You won't behave again as you once behaved." - -Dropping her hands as though they had been hot irons, he turned -away. Was it possible that there could be such relentless -unforgiveness! Could that one act of violent possession be still -alive within her? Did it bar him thus utterly? And doggedly he -said, without looking up: - -"I am not going till you've answered me. I am offering what few -men would bring themselves to offer, I want a--a reasonable -answer." - -And almost with surprise he heard her say: - -"You can't have a reasonable answer. Reason has nothing to do with -it. You can only have the brutal truth: I would rather die." - -Soames stared at her. - -"Oh!" he said. And there intervened in him a sort of paralysis of -speech and movement, the kind of quivering which comes when a man -has received a deadly insult, and does not yet know how he is going -to take it, or rather what it is going to do with him. - -"Oh!" he said again, "as bad as that? Indeed! You would rather -die. That's pretty!" - -"I am sorry. You wanted me to answer. I can't help the truth, can -I?" - -At that queer spiritual appeal Soames turned for relief to -actuality. He snapped the brooch back into its case and put it in -his pocket. - -"The truth!" he said; "there's no such thing with women. It's -nerves--nerves." - -He heard the whisper: - -"Yes; nerves don't lie. Haven't you discovered that?" He was -silent, obsessed by the thought: 'I will hate this woman. I will -hate her.' That was the trouble! If only he could! He shot a -glance at her who stood unmoving against the wall with her head up -and her hands clasped, for all the world as if she were going to be -shot. And he said quickly: - -"I don't believe a word of it. You have a lover. If you hadn't, -you wouldn't be such a--such a little idiot." He was conscious, -before the expression in her eyes, that he had uttered something of -a non-sequitur, and dropped back too abruptly into the verbal -freedom of his connubial days. He turned away to the door. But he -could not go out. Something within him--that most deep and secret -Forsyte quality, the impossibility of letting go, the impossibility -of seeing the fantastic and forlorn nature of his own tenacity-- -prevented him. He turned about again, and there stood, with his -back against the door, as hers was against the wall opposite, quite -unconscious of anything ridiculous in this separation by the whole -width of the room. - -"Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?" he said. - -Irene's lips quivered; then she answered slowly: - -"Do you ever think that I found out my mistake--my hopeless, -terrible mistake--the very first week of our marriage; that I went -on trying three years--you know I went on trying? Was it for -myself?" - -Soames gritted his teeth. "God knows what it was. I've never -understood you; I shall never understand you. You had everything -you wanted; and you can have it again, and more. What's the matter -with me? I ask you a plain question: What is it?" Unconscious of -the pathos in that enquiry, he went on passionately: "I'm not lame, -I'm not loathsome, I'm not a boor, I'm not a fool. What is it? -What's the mystery about me?" - -Her answer was a long sigh. - -He clasped his hands with a gesture that for him was strangely full -of expression. "When I came here to-night I was--I hoped--I meant -everything that I could to do away with the past, and start fair -again. And you meet me with 'nerves,' and silence, and sighs. -There's nothing tangible. It's like--it's like a spider's web." - -"Yes." - -That whisper from across the room maddened Soames afresh. - -"Well, I don't choose to be in a spider's web. I'll cut it." He -walked straight up to her. "Now!" What he had gone up to her to -do he really did not know. But when he was close, the old familiar -scent of her clothes suddenly affected him. He put his hands on -her shoulders and bent forward to kiss her. He kissed not her -lips, but a little hard line where the lips had been drawn in; then -his face was pressed away by her hands; he heard her say: "Oh! -No!" Shame, compunction, sense of futility flooded his whole -being, he turned on his heel and went straight out. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -VISIT TO IRENE - - -Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had -received his telegram while at breakfast. Her abode--a studio and -two bedrooms in a St. John's Wood garden--had been selected by her -for the complete independence which it guaranteed. Unwatched by -Mrs. Grundy, unhindered by permanent domestics, she could receive -lame ducks at any hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck -without studio of its own made use of June's. She enjoyed her -freedom, and possessed herself with a sort of virginal passion; the -warmth which she would have lavished on Bosinney, and of which-- -given her Forsyte tenacity--he must surely have tired, she now -expended in championship of the underdogs and budding 'geniuses' of -the artistic world. She lived, in fact, to turn ducks into the -swans she believed they were. The very fervour of her protection -warped her judgments. But she was loyal and liberal; her small -eager hand was ever against the oppressions of academic and -commercial opinion, and though her income was considerable, her -bank balance was often a minus quantity. - -She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit to -Eric Cobbley. A miserable Gallery had refused to let that -straight-haired genius have his one-man show after all. Its -impudent manager, after visiting his studio, had expressed the -opinion that it would only be a 'one-horse show from the selling -point of view.' This crowning example of commercial cowardice -towards her favourite lame duck--and he so hard up, with a wife and -two children, that he had caused her account to be overdrawn--was -still making the blood glow in her small, resolute face, and her -red-gold hair to shine more than ever. She gave her father a hug, -and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to fry with him as -he with her. It became at once a question which would fry them -first. - -Jolyon had reached the words: "My dear, I want you to come with -me," when, glancing at her face, he perceived by her blue eyes -moving from side to side--like the tail of a preoccupied cat--that -she was not attending. "Dad, is it true that I absolutely can't -get at any of my money?" - -"Only the income, fortunately, my love." - -"How perfectly beastly! Can't it be done somehow? There must be a -way. I know I could buy a small Gallery for ten thousand pounds." - -"A small Gallery," murmured Jolyon, "seems a modest desire. But -your grandfather foresaw it." - -"I think," cried June vigorously, "that all this care about money -is awful, when there's so much genius in the world simply crushed -out for want of a little. I shall never marry and have children; -why shouldn't I be able to do some good instead of having it all -tied up in case of things which will never come off?" - -"Our name is Forsyte, my dear," replied Jolyon in the ironical -voice to which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown -accustomed; "and Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle their -property that their grandchildren, in case they should die before -their parents, have to make wills leaving the property that will -only come to themselves when their parents die. Do you follow -that? Nor do I, but it's a fact, anyway; we live by the principle -that so long as there is a possibility of keeping wealth in the -family it must not go out; if you die unmarried, your money goes to -Jolly and Holly and their children if they marry. Isn't it -pleasant to know that whatever you do you can none of you be -destitute?" - -"But can't I borrow the money?" - -Jolyon shook his head. "You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if you -could manage it out of your income." - -June uttered a contemptuous sound. - -"Yes; and have no income left to help anybody with." - -"My dear child," murmured Jolyon, "wouldn't it come to the same -thing?" - -"No," said June shrewdly, "I could buy for ten thousand; that would -only be four hundred a year. But I should have to pay a thousand a -year rent, and that would only leave me five hundred. If I had the -Gallery, Dad, think what I could do. I could make Eric Cobbley's -name in no time, and ever so many others." - -"Names worth making make themselves in time." - -"When they're dead." - -"Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his -name made?" - -"Yes, you," said June, pressing his arm. - -Jolyon started. 'I?' he thought. 'Oh! Ah! Now she's going to -ask me to do something. We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our -different ways.' - -June came closer to him in the cab. - -"Darling," she said, "you buy the Gallery, and I'll pay you four -hundred a year for it. Then neither of us will be any the worse -off. Besides, it's a splendid investment." - -Jolyon wriggled. "Don't you think," he said, "that for an artist -to buy a Gallery is a bit dubious? Besides, ten thousand pounds is -a lump, and I'm not a commercial character." - -June looked at him with admiring appraisement. - -"Of course you're not, but you're awfully businesslike. And I'm -sure we could make it pay. It'll be a perfect way of scoring off -those wretched dealers and people." And again she squeezed her -father's arm. - -Jolyon's face expressed quizzical despair. - -"Where is this desirable Gallery? Splendidly situated, I suppose?" - -"Just off Cork Street." - -'Ah!' thought Jolyon, 'I knew it was just off somewhere. Now for -what I want out of her!' - -"Well, I'll think of it, but not just now. You remember Irene? I -want you to come with me and see her. Soames is after her again. -She might be safer if we could give her asylum somewhere." - -The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most -calculated to rouse June's interest. - -"Irene! I haven't seen her since! Of course! I'd love to help -her." - -It was Jolyon's turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for -this spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting. - -"Irene is proud," he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden doubt -of June's discretion; "she's difficult to help. We must tread -gently. This is the place. I wired her to expect us. Let's send -up our cards." - -"I can't bear Soames," said June as she got out; "he sneers at -everything that isn't successful" - -Irene was in what was called the 'Ladies' drawing-room' of the -Piedmont Hotel. - -Nothing if not morally courageous, June walked straight up to her -former friend, kissed her cheek, and the two settled down on a sofa -never sat on since the hotel's foundation. Jolyon could see that -Irene was deeply affected by this simple forgiveness. - -"So Soames has been worrying you?" he said. - -"I had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to him." - -"You're not going, of course?" cried June. - -Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. "But his position is -horrible," she murmured. - -"It's his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he could." - -Jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped -that no divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover's name. - -"Let us hear what Irene is going to do," he said. - -Irene's lips quivered, but she spoke calmly. - -"I'd better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me." - -"How horrible!" cried June. - -"What else can I do?" - -"Out of the question," said Jolyon very quietly, "sans amour." - -He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half -turned her back on them, and stood regaining control of herself. - -June said suddenly: - -"Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. -What does he want at his age?" - -"A child. It's not unnatural" - -"A child!" cried June scornfully. "Of course! To leave his money -to. If he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have -one; then you can divorce him, and he can marry her." - -Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring June- --her violent partizanship was fighting Soames' battle. - -"It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill, -and see how things shape." - -"Of course," said June; "only...." - -Irene looked full at Jolyon--in all his many attempts afterwards to -analyze that glance he never could succeed. - -"No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad." - -He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant thought -flashed through him: 'Well, I could see her there.' But he said: - -"Don't you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he -followed?" - -"I don't know. I can but try." - -June sprang up and paced the room. "It's all horrible," she said. -"Why should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless year -after year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?" But someone had -come into the room, and June came to a standstill. Jolyon went up -to Irene: - -"Do you want money?" - -"No." - -"And would you like me to let your flat?" - -"Yes, Jolyon, please." - -"When shall you be going?" - -"To-morrow." - -"You won't go back there in the meantime, will you?" This he said -with an anxiety strange to himself. - -"No; I've got all I want here." - -"You'll send me your address?" - -She put out her hand to him. "I feel you're a rock." - -"Built on sand," answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; "but it's -a pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And if you -change your mind....! Come along, June; say good-bye." - -June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene. - -"Don't think of him," she said under her breath; "enjoy yourself, -and bless you!" - -With a memory of tears in Irene's eyes, and of a smile on her lips, -they went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had -interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the -table. - -Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed: - -"Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!" - -But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father's -balance, and could see things impartially even when his emotions -were roused. Irene was right; Soames' position was as bad or worse -than her own. As for the law--it catered for a human nature of -which it took a naturally low view. And, feeling that if he stayed -in his daughter's company he would in one way or another commit an -indiscretion, he told her he must catch his train back to Oxford; -and hailing a cab, left her to Turner's water-colours, with the -promise that he would think over that Gallery. - -But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to -love! If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he -pitied her profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so -handicapped and lonely! 'I hope to goodness she'll keep her head!' -he thought; 'she might easily grow desperate.' In fact, now that -she had cut loose from her poor threads of occupation, he couldn't -imagine how she would go on--so beautiful a creature, hopeless, and -fair game for anyone! In his exasperation was more than a little -fear and jealousy. Women did strange things when they were driven -into corners. 'I wonder what Soames will do now!' he thought. 'A -rotten, idiotic state of things! And I suppose they would say it -was her own fault.' Very preoccupied and sore at heart, he got -into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at Oxford -took his hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember without -being able to put a name to her, not even when he saw her having -tea at the Rainbow. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD - - -Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco case -still flat against his heart, Soames revolved thoughts bitter as -death. A spider's web! Walking fast, and noting nothing in the -moonlight, he brooded over the scene he had been through, over the -memory of her figure rigid in his grasp. And the more he brooded, -the more certain he became that she had a lover--her words, 'I -would sooner die!' were ridiculous if she had not. Even if she had -never loved him, she had made no fuss until Bosinney came on the -scene. No; she was in love again, or she would not have made that -melodramatic answer to his proposal, which in all the circumstances -was reasonable! Very well! That simplified matters. - -'I'll take steps to know where I am,' he thought; 'I'll go to -Polteed's the first thing tomorrow morning.' - -But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble -with himself. He had employed Polteed's agency several times in -the routine of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie's -case, but he had never thought it possible to employ them to watch -his own wife. - -It was too insulting to himself! - -He slept over that project and his wounded pride--or rather, kept -vigil. Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she called -herself by her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not know, at -first at all events, whose wife she was, would not look at him -obsequiously and leer behind his back. She would just be the wife -of one of his clients. And that would be true--for was he not his -own solicitor? - -He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at the -first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail himself. And -making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he stole out of -the house before the hour of breakfast. He walked rapidly to one -of those small West End streets where Polteed's and other firms -ministered to the virtues of the wealthier classes. Hitherto he -had always had Polteed to see him in the Poultry; but he well knew -their address, and reached it at the opening hour. In the outer -office, a room furnished so cosily that it might have been a -money-lender's, he was attended by a lady who might have been a -schoolmistress. - -"I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me--never mind my -name." - -To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was reduced -to having his wife spied on, was the overpowering consideration. - -Mr. Claud Polteed--so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed--was one of -those men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown -eyes, who might be taken for Jews but are really Phoenicians; he -received Soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and -curtains. It was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without trace -of document anywhere to be seen. - -Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door -with a certain ostentation. - -"If a client sends for me," he was in the habit of saying, "he -takes what precaution he likes. If he comes here, we convince him -that we have no leakages. I may safely say we lead in security, if -in nothing else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?" - -Soames' gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was -absolutely necessary to hide from this man that he had any but -professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face -assumed its sideway smile. - -"I've come to you early like this because there's not an hour to -lose"--if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! "Have you a -really trustworthy woman free?" - -Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes -over it, and locked the drawer up again. - -"Yes," he said; "the very woman." - -Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs--nothing but a faint -flush, which might have been his normal complexion, betrayed him. - -"Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat C, -Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice." - -"Precisely," said Mr. Polteed; "divorce, I presume?" and he blew -into a speaking-tube. "Mrs. Blanch in? I shall want to speak to -her in ten minutes." - -"Deal with any reports yourself," resumed Soames, "and send them to -me personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My -client exacts the utmost secrecy." - -Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, 'You are teaching your -grandmother, my dear sir;' and his eyes slid over Soames' face for -one unprofessional instant. - -"Make his mind perfectly easy," he said. "Do you smoke?" - -"No," said Soames. "Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a -name gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very -serious consequences." - -Mr. Polteed nodded. "I can put it into the cipher category. Under -that system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers." - -He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote -on them, and handed one to Soames. - -"Keep that, sir; it's your key. I retain this duplicate. The case -we'll call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the watcher 19; the -Mansions 25; yourself--I should say, your firm--31; my firm 32, -myself 2. In case you should have to mention your client in -writing I have called him 43; any person we suspect will be 47; -a second person 51. Any special hint or instruction while we're -about it?" - -"No," said Soames; "that is--every consideration compatible." - -Again Mr. Polteed nodded. "Expense?" - -Soames shrugged. "In reason," he answered curtly, and got up. -"Keep it entirely in your own hands." - -"Entirely," said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and -the door. "I shall be seeing you in that other case before long. -Good morning, sir." His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames -once more, and he unlocked the door. - -"Good morning," said Soames, looking neither to right nor left. - -Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A spider's -web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret, unclean -method, so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his private life -as his most sacred piece of property. But the die was cast, he -could not go back. And he went on into the Poultry, and locked -away the green morocco case and the key to that cipher destined to -make crystal-clear his domestic bankruptcy. - -Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye all -the private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of -others, should dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; -and yet not odd, for who should know so well as he the whole -unfeeling process of legal regulation. - -He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o'clock; he was -to take her down to a conference in the Temple with Dreamer Q.C., -and waiting for her he re-read the letter he had caused her to -write the day of Dartie's departure, requiring him to return. - - -"DEAR MONTAGUE, - -"I have received your letter with the news that you have left me -for ever and are on your way to Buenos Aires. It has naturally -been a great shock. I am taking this earliest opportunity of -writing to tell you that I am prepared to let bygones be bygones if -you will return to me at once. I beg you to do so. I am very much -upset, and will not say any more now. I am sending this letter -registered to the address you left at your Club. Please cable to -me. - -"Your still affectionate wife, - -"WINIFRED DARTIE." - - -Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred -while she copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said, -laying down her pen, "Suppose he comes, Soames!" in such a strange -tone of voice, as if she did not know her own mind. "He won't -come," he had answered, "till he's spent his money. That's why we -must act at once." Annexed to the copy of that letter was the -original of Dartie's drunken scrawl from the Iseeum Club. Soames -could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in liquor. -Just the sort of thing the Court would pitch on. He seemed to hear -the Judge's voice say: "You took this seriously! Seriously enough -to write him as you did? Do you think he meant it?" Never mind! -The fact was clear that Dartie had sailed and had not returned. -Annexed also was his cabled answer: "Impossible return. Dartie." -Soames shook his head. If the whole thing were not disposed of -within the next few months the fellow would turn up again like a -bad penny. It saved a thousand a year at least to get rid of him, -besides all the worry to Winifred and his father. 'I must stiffen -Dreamer's back,' he thought; 'we must push it on.' - -Winifred, who had adopted a kind of half-mourning which became her -fair hair and tall figure very well, arrived in James' barouche -drawn by James' pair. Soames had not seen it in the City since his -father retired from business five years ago, and its incongruity -gave him a shock. 'Times are changing,' he thought; 'one doesn't -know what'll go next!' Top hats even were scarcer. He enquired -after Val. Val, said Winifred, wrote that he was going to play -polo next term. She thought he was in a very good set. She added -with fashionably disguised anxiety: "Will there be much publicity -about my affair, Soames? Must it be in the papers? It's so bad -for him, and the girls." - -With his own calamity all raw within him, Soames answered: - -"The papers are a pushing lot; it's very difficult to keep things -out. They pretend to be guarding the public's morals, and they -corrupt them with their beastly reports. But we haven't got to -that yet. We're only seeing Dreamer to-day on the restitution -question. Of course he understands that it's to lead to a divorce; -but you must seem genuinely anxious to get Dartie back--you might -practice that attitude to-day." - -Winifred sighed. - -"Oh! What a clown Monty's been!" she said. - -Soames gave her a sharp look. It was clear to him that she could -not take her Dartie seriously, and would go back on the whole thing -if given half a chance. His own instinct had been firm in this -matter from the first. To save a little scandal now would only -bring on his sister and her children real disgrace and perhaps ruin -later on if Dartie were allowed to hang on to them, going down-hill -and spending the money James would leave his daughter. Though it -was all tied up, that fellow would milk the settlements somehow, -and make his family pay through the nose to keep him out of -bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! They left the shining carriage, -with the shining horses and the shining-hatted servants on the -Embankment, and walked up to Dreamer Q.C.'s Chambers in Crown -Office Row. - -"Mr. Bellby is here, sir," said the clerk; "Mr. Dreamer will be ten -minutes." - -Mr. Bellby, the junior--not as junior as he might have been, for -Soames only employed barristers of established reputation; it was, -indeed, something of a mystery to him how barristers ever managed -to establish that which made him employ them--Mr. Bellby was -seated, taking a final glance through his papers. He had come from -Court, and was in wig and gown, which suited a nose jutting out -like the handle of a tiny pump, his small shrewd blue eyes, and -rather protruding lower lip--no better man to supplement and -stiffen Dreamer. - -The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the weather -and spoke of the war. Soames interrupted suddenly: - -"If he doesn't comply we can't bring proceedings for six months. I -want to get on with the matter, Bellby." - -Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at -Winifred and murmured: "The Law's delays, Mrs. Dartie." - -"Six months!" repeated Soames; "it'll drive it up to June! We -shan't get the suit on till after the long vacation. We must put -the screw on, Bellby"--he would have all his work cut out to keep -Winifred up to the scratch. - -"Mr. Dreamer will see you now, sir." - -They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting -Winifred after an interval of one minute by his watch. - -Dreamer Q.C., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before -the fire, as if this conference were in the nature of a treat; he -had the leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great -learning, a considerable nose with glasses perched on it, and -little greyish whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking of -one eye, and the concealment of his lower with his upper lip, which -gave a smothered turn to his speech. He had a way, too, of coming -suddenly round the corner on the person he was talking to; this, -with a disconcerting tone of voice, and a habit of growling before -he began to speak--had secured a reputation second in Probate and -Divorce to very few. Having listened, eye cocked, to Mr. Bellby's -breezy recapitulation of the facts, he growled, and said: - -"I know all that;" and coming round the corner at Winifred, -smothered the words: - -"We want to get him back, don't we, Mrs. Dartie?" - -Soames interposed sharply: - -"My sister's position, of course, is intolerable." - -Dreamer growled. "Exactly. Now, can we rely on the cabled -refusal, or must we wait till after Christmas to give him a chance -to have written--that's the point, isn't it?" - -"The sooner...." Soames began. - -"What do you say, Bellby?" said Dreamer, coming round his corner. - -Mr. Bellby seemed to sniff the air like a hound. - -"We won't be on till the middle of December. We've no need to give -um more rope than that." - -"No," said Soames, "why should my sister be incommoded by his -choosing to go..." - -"To Jericho!" said Dreamer, again coming round his corner; "quite -so. People oughtn't to go to Jericho, ought they, Mrs. Dartie?" -And he raised his gown into a sort of fantail. "I agree. We can -go forward. Is there anything more?" - -"Nothing at present," said Soames meaningly; "I wanted you to see -my sister." - -Dreamer growled softly: "Delighted. Good evening!" And let fall -the protection of his gown. - -They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered. -In spite of himself he was impressed by Dreamer. - -"The evidence is all right, I think," he said to Bellby. "Between -ourselves, if we don't get the thing through quick, we never may. -D'you think he understands that?" - -"I'll make um," said Bellby. "Good man though--good man." - -Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a -draught, biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said: - -"The evidence of the stewardess will be very complete." - -Winifred's face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to -the carriage. And, all through that silent drive back to Green -Street, the souls of both of them revolved a single thought: 'Why, -oh! why should I have to expose my misfortune to the public like -this? Why have to employ spies to peer into my private troubles? -They were not of my making.' - - - - -CHAPTER V - -JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT - - -The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was -animating two members of the Forsyte family towards riddance of -what they could no longer possess, was hardening daily in the -British body politic. Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning -a war which must affect property, had been heard to say that these -Boers were a pig-headed lot; they were causing a lot of expense, -and the sooner they had their lesson the better. He would send out -Wolseley! Seeing always a little further than other people--whence -the most considerable fortune of all the Forsytes--he had perceived -already that Buller was not the man--'a bull of a chap, who just -went butting, and if they didn't look out Ladysmith would fall.' -This was early in December, so that when Black Week came, he was -enabled to say to everybody: 'I told you so.' During that week of -gloom such as no Forsyte could remember, very young Nicholas -attended so many drills in his corps, 'The Devil's Own,' that young -Nicholas consulted the family physician about his son's health and -was alarmed to find that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only -just eaten his dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense, -and it was in a way a nightmare to his father and mother that he -should be playing with military efficiency at a time when military -efficiency in the civilian population might conceivably be wanted. -His grandfather, of course, pooh-poohed the notion, too thoroughly -educated in the feeling that no British war could be other than -little and professional, and profoundly distrustful of Imperial -commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to lose, for he owned De -Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient sacrifice on the -part of his grandson. - -At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The -inherent effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two -months of the term before Black Week, been gradually crystallising -out into vivid oppositions. Normal adolescence, ever in England of -a conservative tendency though not taking things too seriously, was -vehement for a fight to a finish and a good licking for the Boers. -Of this larger faction Val Dartie was naturally a member. Radical -youth, on the other hand, a small but perhaps more vocal body, was -for stopping the war and giving the Boers autonomy. Until Black -Week, however, the groups were amorphous, without sharp edges, and -argument remained but academic. Jolly was one of those who knew -not where he stood. A streak of his grandfather old Jolyon's love -of justice prevented, him from seeing one side only. Moreover, in -his set of 'the best' there was a 'jumping-Jesus' of extremely -advanced opinions and some personal magnetism. Jolly wavered. His -father, too, seemed doubtful in his views. And though, as was -proper at the age of twenty, he kept a sharp eye on his father, -watchful for defects which might still be remedied, still that -father had an 'air' which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of -ironic tolerance. Artists of course; were notoriously Hamlet-like, -and to this extent one must discount for one's father, even if one -loved him. But Jolyon's original view, that to 'put your nose in -where you aren't wanted' (as the Uitlanders had done) 'and then -work the oracle till you get on top is not being quite the clean -potato,' had, whether founded in fact or no, a certain attraction -for his son, who thought a deal about gentility. On the other hand -Jolly could not abide such as his set called 'cranks,' and Val's -set called 'smugs,' so that he was still balancing when the clock -of Black Week struck. One--two--three, came those ominous repulses -at Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso. The sturdy English soul -reacting after the first cried, 'Ah! but Methuen!' after the -second: 'Ah! but Buller!' then, in inspissated gloom, hardened. -And Jolly said to himself: 'No, damn it! We've got to lick the -beggars now; I don't care whether we're right or wrong.' And, if -he had known it, his father was thinking the same thought. - -That next Sunday, last of the term, Jolly was bidden to wine with -'one of the best.' After the second toast, 'Buller and damnation -to the Boers,' drunk--no heel taps--in the college Burgundy, he -noticed that Val Dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a -grin and saying something to his neighbour. He was sure it was -disparaging. The last boy in the world to make himself conspicuous -or cause public disturbance, Jolly grew rather red and shut his -lips. The queer hostility he had always felt towards his second- -cousin was strongly and suddenly reinforced. 'All right!' he -thought, 'you wait, my friend!' More wine than was good for him, -as the custom was, helped him to remember, when they all trooped -forth to a secluded spot, to touch Val on the arm. - -"What did you say about me in there?" - -"Mayn't I say what I like?" - -"No." - -"Well, I said you were a pro-Boer--and so you are!" - -"You're a liar!" - -"D'you want a row?" - -"Of course, but not here; in the garden." - -"All right. Come on." - -They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; -they climbed the garden railings. The spikes on the top slightly -ripped Val's sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly's mind was -occupied by the thought that they were going to fight in the -precincts of a college foreign to them both. It was not the thing, -but never mind--the young beast! - -They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off -their coats. - -"You're not screwed, are you?" said Jolly suddenly. "I can't fight -you if you're screwed." - -"No more than you." - -"All right then." - -Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of -defence. They had drunk too much for science, and so were -especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote -Val almost accidentally on the nose. After that it was all a dark -and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one -to call 'time,' till, battered and blown, they unclinched and -staggered back from each other, as a voice said: - -"Your names, young gentlemen?" - -At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate, -like some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and snatching up -their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made -for the secluded spot whence they had issued to the fight. Here, -in dim light, they mopped their faces, and without a word walked, -ten paces apart, to the college gate. They went out silently, Val -going towards the Broad along the Brewery, Jolly down the lane -towards the High. His head, still fumed, was busy with regret that -he had not displayed more science, passing in review the counters -and knockout blows which he had not delivered. His mind strayed on -to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike that which he had just -been through, infinitely gallant, with sash and sword, with thrust -and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved Dumas. He -fancied himself La Mole, and Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and D'Artagnan -rolled into one, but he quite failed to envisage Val as Coconnas, -Brissac, or Rochefort. The fellow was just a confounded cousin who -didn't come up to Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or -two. 'Pro-Boer!' The word still rankled, and thoughts of en- -listing 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 house- -tops of the High, and himself lying out on the Karoo (whatever that -was) rolled in a blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed -on a glittering heaven. - -He had a fearful 'head' next morning, which he doctored, as became -one of 'the best,' by soaking it in cold water, brewing strong -coffee which he could not drink, and only sipping a little Hock at -lunch. The legend that 'some fool' had run into him round a corner -accounted for a bruise on his cheek. He would on no account have -mentioned the fight, for, on second thoughts, it fell far short of -his standards. - -The next day he went 'down,' and travelled through to Robin Hill. -Nobody was there but June and Holly, for his father had gone to -Paris. He spent a restless and unsettled Vacation, quite out of -touch with either of his sisters. June, indeed, was occupied with -lame ducks, whom, as a rule, Jolly could not stand, especially that -Eric Cobbley and his family, 'hopeless outsiders,' who were always -littering up the house in the Vacation. And between Holly and -himself there was a strange division, as if she were beginning to -have opinions of her own, which was so--unnecessary. He punched -viciously at a ball, rode furiously but alone in Richmond Park, -making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles put up to close -certain worn avenues of grass--keeping his nerve in, he called it. -Jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most boys are. He -bought a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home field, shooting -across the pond into the kitchen-garden wall, to the peril of -gardeners, with the thought that some day, perhaps, he would enlist -and save South Africa for his country. In fact, now that they were -appealing for Yeomanry recruits the boy was thoroughly upset. -Ought he to go? None of 'the best,' so far as he knew--and he was -in correspondence with several--were thinking of joining. If they -had been making a move he would have gone at once--very compet- -itive, and with a strong sense of form, he could not bear to be -left behind in anything--but to do it off his own bat might look -like 'swagger'; because of course it wasn't really necessary. -Besides, he did not want to go, for the other side of this young -Forsyte recoiled from leaping before he looked. It was altogether -mixed pickles within him, hot and sickly pickles, and he became -quite unlike his serene and rather lordly self. - -And then one day he saw that which moved him to uneasy wrath--two -riders, in a glade of the Park close to the Ham Gate, of whom she -on the left-hand was most assuredly Holly on her silver roan, and -he on the right-hand as assuredly that 'squirt' Val Dartie. His -first impulse was to urge on his own horse and demand the meaning -of this portent, tell the fellow to 'bunk,' and take Holly home. -His second--to feel that he would look a fool if they refused. He -reined his horse in behind a tree, then perceived that it was -equally impossible to spy on them. Nothing for it but to go home -and await her coming! Sneaking out with that young bounder! He -could not consult with June, because she had gone up that morning -in the train of Eric Cobbley and his lot. And his father was still -in 'that rotten Paris.' He felt that this was emphatically one of -those moments for which he had trained himself, assiduously, at -school, where he and a boy called Brent had frequently set fire to -newspapers and placed them in the centre of their studies to -accustom them to coolness in moments of danger. He did not feel at -all cool waiting in the stable-yard, idly stroking the dog -Balthasar, who queasy as an old fat monk, and sad in the absence of -his master, turned up his face, panting with gratitude for this -attention. It was half an hour before Holly came, flushed and ever -so much prettier than she had any right to look. He saw her look -at him quickly--guiltily of course--then followed her in, and, -taking her arm, conducted her into what had been their grand- -father'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 grand- -father, who even at eighty had an irresistible habit of crooking -his leg. Here Holly, perched on the arm of the great leather -chair, had stroked hair curving silvery over an ear into which she -would whisper secrets. Through that window they had all three -sallied times without number to cricket on the lawn, and a -mysterious game called 'Wopsy-doozle,' not to be understood by -outsiders, which made old Jolyon very hot. Here once on a warm -night Holly had appeared in her 'nighty,' having had a bad dream, -to have the clutch of it released. And here Jolly, having begun -the day badly by introducing fizzy magnesia into Mademoiselle -Beauce's new-laid egg, and gone on to worse, had been sent down (in -the absence of his father) to the ensuing dialogue: - -"Now, my boy, you mustn't go on like this." - -"Well, she boxed my ears, Gran, so I only boxed hers, and then she -boxed mine again." - -"Strike a lady? That'll never do! Have you begged her pardon?" - -"Not yet." - -"Then you must go and do it at once. Come along." - -"But she began it, Gran; and she had two to my one." - -"My dear, it was an outrageous thing to do." - -"Well, she lost her temper; and I didn't lose mine." - -"Come along." - -"You come too, then, Gran." - -"Well--this time only." - -And they had gone hand in hand. - -Here--where the Waverley novels and Byron's works and Gibbon's -Roman Empire and Humboldt's Cosmos, and the bronzes on the -mantelpiece, and that masterpiece of the oily school, 'Dutch -Fishing-Boats at Sunset,' were fixed as fate, and for all sign of -change old Jolyon might have been sitting there still, with legs -crossed, in the arm chair, and domed forehead and deep eyes grave -above The Times--here they came, those two grandchildren. And -Jolly said: - -"I saw you and that fellow in the Park." - -The sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some -satisfaction; she ought to be ashamed! - -"Well?" she said. - -Jolly was surprised; he had expected more, or less. - -"Do you know," he said weightily, "that he called me a pro-Boer -last term? And I had to fight him." - -"Who won?" - -Jolly wished to answer: 'I should have,' but it seemed beneath him. - -"Look here!" he said, "what's the meaning of it? Without telling -anybody!" - -"Why should I? Dad isn't here; why shouldn't I ride with him?" - -"You've got me to ride with. I think he's an awful young rotter." - -Holly went pale with anger. - -"He isn't. It's your own fault for not liking him." - -And slipping past her brother she went out, leaving him staring at -the bronze Venus sitting on a tortoise, which had been shielded -from him so far by his sister's dark head under her soft felt -riding hat. He felt queerly disturbed, shaken to his young -foundations. A lifelong domination lay shattered round his feet. -He went up to the Venus and mechanically inspected the tortoise. - -Why didn't he like Val Dartie? He could not tell. Ignorant of -family history, barely aware of that vague feud which had started -thirteen years before with Bosinney's defection from June in favour -of Soames' wife, knowing really almost nothing about Val he was at -sea. He just did dislike him. The question, however, was: What -should he do? Val Dartie, it was true, was a second-cousin, but it -was not the thing for Holly to go about with him. And yet to -'tell' of what he had chanced on was against his creed. In this -dilemma he went and sat in the old leather chair and crossed his -legs. It grew dark while he sat there staring out through the long -window at the old oak-tree, ample yet bare of leaves, becoming -slowly just a shape of deeper dark printed on the dusk. - -'Grandfather!' he thought without sequence, and took out his watch. -He could not see the hands, but he set the repeater going. 'Five -o'clock!' His grandfather's first gold hunter watch, butter-smooth -with age--all the milling worn from it, and dented with the mark of -many a fall. The chime was like a little voice from out of that -golden age, when they first came from St. John's Wood, London, to -this house--came driving with grandfather in his carriage, and -almost instantly took to the trees. Trees to climb, and grand- -father watering the geranium-beds below! What was to be done? -Tell Dad he must come home? Confide in June?--only she was so--so -sudden! Do nothing and trust to luck? After all, the Vac. would -soon be over. Go up and see Val and warn him off? But how get his -address? Holly wouldn't give it him! A maze of paths, a cloud of -possibilities! He lit a cigarette. When he had smoked it halfway -through his brow relaxed, almost as if some thin old hand had been -passed gently over it; and in his ear something seemed to whisper: -'Do nothing; be nice to Holly, be nice to her, my dear!' And Jolly -heaved a sigh of contentment, blowing smoke through his nostrils.... - -But up in her room, divested of her habit, Holly was still -frowning. 'He is not--he is not!' were the words which kept -forming on her lips. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -JOLYON IN TWO MINDS - - -A little private hotel over a well-known restaurant near the Gare -St. Lazare was Jolyon's haunt in Paris. He hated his fellow -Forsytes abroad--vapid as fish out of water in their well-trodden -runs, the Opera, Rue de Rivoli, and Moulin Rouge. Their air of -having come because they wanted to be somewhere else as soon as -possible annoyed him. But no other Forsyte came near this haunt, -where he had a wood fire in his bedroom and the coffee was excel- -lent. 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 cafes -defying keen-aired winter, the self-contained brisk boulevard -crowds, all informed him that in winter Paris possessed a soul -which, like a migrant bird, in high summer flew away. - -He spoke French well, had some friends, knew little places where -pleasant dishes could be met with, queer types observed. He felt -philosophic in Paris, the edge of irony sharpened; life took on a -subtle, purposeless meaning, became a bunch of flavours tasted, a -darkness shot with shifting gleams of light. - -When in the first week of December he decided to go to Paris, he -was far from admitting that Irene's presence was influencing him. -He had not been there two days before he owned that the wish to see -her had been more than half the reason. In England one did not -admit what was natural. He had thought it might be well to speak -to her about the letting of her flat and other matters, but in -Paris he at once knew better. There was a glamour over the city. -On the third day he wrote to her, and received an answer which -procured him a pleasurable shiver of the nerves: - - -"MY DEAR JOLYON, - -"It will be a happiness for me to see you. - -" IRENE." - - -He took his way to her hotel on a bright day with a feeling such as -he had often had going to visit an adored picture. No woman, so -far as he remembered, had ever inspired in him this special sen- -suous and yet impersonal sensation. He was going to sit and feast -his eyes, and come away knowing her no better, but ready to go and -feast his eyes again to-morrow. Such was his feeling, when in the -tarnished and ornate little lounge of a quiet hotel near the river -she came to him preceded by a small page-boy who uttered the word, -"Madame," and vanished. Her face, her smile, the poise of her -figure, were just as he had pictured, and the expression of her -face said plainly: 'A friend!' - -"Well," he said, "what news, poor exile?" - -"None." - -"Nothing from Soames?" - -"Nothing." - -"I have let the flat for you, and like a good steward I bring you -some money. How do you like Paris?" - -While he put her through this catechism, it seemed to him that he -had never seen lips so fine and sensitive, the lower lip curving -just a little upwards, the upper touched at one corner by the least -conceivable dimple. It was like discovering a woman in what had -hitherto been a sort of soft and breathed-on statue, almost -impersonally admired. She owned that to be alone in Paris was a -little difficult; and yet, Paris was so full of its own life that -it was often, she confessed, as innocuous as a desert. Besides, -the English were not liked just now! - -"That will hardly be your case," said Jolyon; "you should appeal to -the French." - -"It has its disadvantages." - -Jolyon nodded. - -"Well, you must let me take you about while I'm here. We'll start -to-morrow. Come and dine at my pet restaurant; and we'll go to the -Opera-Comique." - -It was the beginning of daily meetings. - -Jolyon soon found that for those who desired a static condition of -the affections, Paris was at once the first and last place in which -to be friendly with a pretty woman. Revelation was alighting like -a bird in his heart, singing: 'Elle est ton reve! Elle est ton -reve! Sometimes this seemed natural, sometimes ludicrous--a bad -case of elderly rapture. Having once been ostracised by Society, -he had never since had any real regard for conventional morality; -but the idea of a love which she could never return--and how could -she at his age?--hardly mounted beyond his subconscious mind. He -was full, too, of resentment, at the waste and loneliness of her -life. Aware of being some comfort to her, and of the pleasure she -clearly took in their many little outings, he was amiably desirous -of doing and saying nothing to destroy that pleasure. It was like -watching a starved plant draw up water, to see her drink in his -companionship. So far as they could tell, no one knew her address -except himself; she was unknown in Paris, and he but little known, -so that discretion seemed unnecessary in those walks, talks, visits -to concerts, picture-galleries, theatres, little dinners, -expeditions to Versailles, St. Cloud, even Fontainebleau. And time -fled--one of those full months without past to it or future. What -in his youth would certainly have been headlong passion, was now -perhaps as deep a feeling, but far gentler, tempered to protective -companionship by admiration, hopelessness, and a sense of chivalry- --arrested in his veins at least so long as she was there, smiling -and happy in their friendship, and always to him more beautiful and -spiritually responsive: for her philosophy of life seemed to march -in admirable step with his own, conditioned by emotion more than by -reason, ironically mistrustful, susceptible to beauty, almost -passionately humane and tolerant, yet subject to instinctive -rigidities of which as a mere man he was less capable. And during -all this companionable month he never quite lost that feeling with -which he had set out on the first day as if to visit an adored work -of art, a well-nigh impersonal desire. The future--inexorable -pendant to the present he took care not to face, for fear of -breaking up his untroubled manner; but he made plans to renew this -time in places still more delightful, where the sun was hot and -there were strange things to see and paint. The end came swiftly -on the 20th of January with a telegram: - - -"Have enlisted in Imperial Yeomanry. -JOLLY." - - -Jolyon received it just as he was setting out to meet her at the -Louvre. It brought him up with a round turn. While he was lotus- -eating here, his boy, whose philosopher and guide he ought to be, -had taken this great step towards danger, hardship, perhaps even -death. He felt disturbed to the soul, realising suddenly how Irene -had twined herself round the roots of his being. Thus threatened -with severance, the tie between them--for it had become a kind of -tie--no longer had impersonal quality. The tranquil enjoyment of -things in common, Jolyon perceived, was gone for ever. He saw his -feeling as it was, in the nature of an infatuation. Ridiculous, -perhaps, but so real that sooner or later it must disclose itself. -And now, as it seemed to him, he could not, must not, make any such -disclosure. The news of Jolly stood inexorably in the way. He was -proud of this enlistment; proud of his boy for going off to fight -for the country; for on Jolyon's pro-Boerism, too, Black Week had -left its mark. And so the end was reached before the beginning! -Well, luckily he had never made a sign! - -When he came into the Gallery she was standing before the 'Virgin -of the Rocks,' graceful, absorbed, smiling and unconscious. 'Have -I to give up seeing that?' he thought. 'It's unnatural, so long as -she's willing that I should see her.' He stood, unnoticed, -watching her, storing up the image of her figure, envying the -picture on which she was bending that long scrutiny. Twice she -turned her head towards the entrance, and he thought: 'That's for -me!' At last he went forward. - -"Look!" he said. - -She read the telegram, and he heard her sigh. - -That sigh, too, was for him! His position was really cruel! To be -loyal to his son he must just shake her hand and go. To be loyal -to the feeling in his heart he must at least tell her what that -feeling was. Could she, would she understand the silence in which -he was gazing at that picture? - -"I'm afraid I must go home at once," he said at last. "I shall -miss all this awfully." - -"So shall I; but, of course, you must go." - -"Well!" said Jolyon holding out his hand. - -Meeting her eyes, a flood of feeling nearly mastered him. - -"Such is life!" he said. "Take care of yourself, my dear!" - -He had a stumbling sensation in his legs and feet, as if his brain -refused to steer him away from her. From the doorway, he saw her -lift her hand and touch its fingers with her lips. He raised his -hat solemnly, and did not look back again. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE - - -The suit--Dartie versus Dartie--for restitution of those conjugal -rights concerning which Winifred was at heart so deeply undecided, -followed the laws of subtraction towards day of judgment. This was -not reached before the Courts rose for Christmas, but the case was -third on the list when they sat again. Winifred spent the -Christmas holidays a thought more fashionably than usual, with the -matter locked up in her low-cut bosom. James was particularly -liberal to her that Christmas, expressing thereby his sympathy, and -relief, at the approaching dissolution of her marriage with that -'precious rascal,' which his old heart felt but his old lips could -not utter. - -The disappearance of Dartie made the fall in Consols a -comparatively small matter; and as to the scandal--the real animus -he felt against that fellow, and the increasing lead which property -was attaining over reputation in a true Forsyte about to leave this -world, served to drug a mind from which all allusions to the matter -(except his own) were studiously kept. What worried him as a -lawyer and a parent was the fear that Dartie might suddenly turn up -and obey the Order of the Court when made. That would be a pretty -how-de-do! The fear preyed on him in fact so much that, in -presenting Winifred with a large Christmas cheque, he said: "It's -chiefly for that chap out there; to keep him from coming back." It -was, of course, to pitch away good money, but all in the nature of -insurance against that bankruptcy which would no longer hang over -him if only the divorce went through; and he questioned Winifred -rigorously until she could assure him that the money had been sent. -Poor woman!--it cost her many a pang to send what must find its way -into the vanity-bag of 'that creature!' Soames, hearing of it, -shook his head. They were not dealing with a Forsyte, reasonably -tenacious of his purpose. It was very risky without knowing how -the land lay out there. Still, it would look well with the Court; -and he would see that Dreamer brought it out. "I wonder," he said -suddenly, "where that ballet goes after the Argentine"; never -omitting a chance of reminder; for he knew that Winifred still had -a weakness, if not for Dartie, at least for not laundering him in -public. Though not good at showing admiration, he admitted that -she was behaving extremely well, with all her children at home -gaping like young birds for news of their father--Imogen just on -the point of coming out, and Val very restive about the whole -thing. He felt that Val was the real heart of the matter to -Winifred, who certainly loved him beyond her other children. The -boy could spoke the wheel of this divorce yet if he set his mind to -it. And Soames was very careful to keep the proximity of the -preliminary proceedings from his nephew's ears. He did more. He -asked him to dine at the Remove, and over Val's cigar introduced -the subject which he knew to be nearest to his heart. - -"I hear," he said, "that you want to play polo up at Oxford." - -Val became less recumbent in his chair. - -"Rather!" he said. - -"Well," continued Soames, "that's a very expensive business. Your -grandfather isn't likely to consent to it unless he can make sure -that he's not got any other drain on him." And he paused to see -whether the boy understood his meaning. - -Val's thick dark lashes concealed his eyes, but a slight grimace -appeared on his wide mouth, and he muttered: - -"I suppose you mean my Dad!" - -"Yes," said Soames; "I'm afraid it depends on whether he continues -to be a drag or not;" and said no more, letting the boy dream it -over. - -But Val was also dreaming in those days of a silver-roan palfrey -and a girl riding it. Though Crum was in town and an introduction -to Cynthia Dark to be had for the asking, Val did not ask; indeed, -he shunned Crum and lived a life strange even to himself, except in -so far as accounts with tailor and livery stable were concerned. -To his mother, his sisters, his young brother, he seemed to spend -this Vacation in 'seeing fellows,' and his evenings sleepily at -home. They could not propose anything in daylight that did not -meet with the one response: "Sorry; I've got to see a fellow"; and -he was put to extraordinary shifts to get in and out of the house -unobserved in riding clothes; until, being made a member of the -Goat's Club, he was able to transport them there, where he could -change unregarded and slip off on his hack to Richmond Park. He -kept his growing sentiment religiously to himself. Not for a world -would he breathe to the 'fellows,' whom he was not 'seeing,' -anything so ridiculous from the point of view of their creed and -his. But he could not help its destroying his other appetites. It -was coming between him and the legitimate pleasures of youth at -last on its own in a way which must, he knew, make him a milksop in -the eyes of Crum. All he cared for was to dress in his last- -created riding togs, and steal away to the Robin Hill Gate, where -presently the silver roan would come demurely sidling with its slim -and dark-haired rider, and in the glades bare of leaves they would -go off side by side, not talking very much, riding races sometimes, -and sometimes holding hands. More than once of an evening, in a -moment of expansion, he had been tempted to tell his mother how -this shy sweet cousin had stolen in upon him and wrecked his -'life.' But bitter experience, that all persons above thirty-five -were spoil-sports, prevented him. After all, he supposed he would -have to go through with College, and she would have to 'come out,' -before they could be married; so why complicate things, so long as -he could see her? Sisters were teasing and unsympathetic beings, a -brother worse, so there was no one to confide in. Ah! And this -beastly divorce business! What a misfortune to have a name which -other people hadn't! If only he had been called Gordon or Scott or -Howard or something fairly common! But Dartie--there wasn't -another in the directory! One might as well have been named Morkin -for all the covert it afforded! So matters went on, till one day -in the middle of January the silver-roan palfrey and its rider were -missing at the tryst. Lingering in the cold, he debated whether he -should ride on to the house: But Jolly might be there, and the -memory of their dark encounter was still fresh within him. One -could not be always fighting with her brother! So he returned -dismally to town and spent an evening plunged in gloom. At -breakfast next day he noticed that his mother had on an unfamiliar -dress and was wearing her hat. The dress was black with a glimpse -of peacock blue, the hat black and large--she looked exceptionally -well. But when after breakfast she said to him, "Come in here, -Val," and led the way to the drawing-room, he was at once beset by -qualms. Winifred carefully shut the door and passed her -handkerchief over her lips; inhaling the violette de Parme with -which it had been soaked, Val thought: 'Has she found out about -Holly?' - -Her voice interrupted - -"Are you going to be nice to me, dear boy?" - -Val grinned doubtfully. - -"Will you come with me this morning...." - -"I've got to see...." began Val, but something in her face stopped -him. "I say," he said, "you don't mean ...." - -"Yes, I have to go to the Court this morning." Already!--that -d---d business which he had almost succeeded in forgetting, since -nobody ever mentioned it. In self-commiseration he stood picking -little bits of skin off his fingers. Then noticing that his -mother's lips were all awry, he said impulsively: "All right, -mother; I'll come. The brutes!" What brutes he did not know, but -the expression exactly summed up their joint feeling, and restored -a measure of equanimity. - -"I suppose I'd better change into a 'shooter,"' he muttered, -escaping to his room. He put on the 'shooter,' a higher collar, a -pearl pin, and his neatest grey spats, to a somewhat blasphemous -accompaniment. Looking at himself in the glass, he said, "Well, -I'm damned if I'm going to show anything!" and went down. He found -his grandfather's carriage at the door, and his mother in furs, -with the appearance of one going to a Mansion House Assembly. They -seated themselves side by side in the closed barouche, and all the -way to the Courts of Justice Val made but one allusion to the -business in hand. "There'll be nothing about those pearls, will -there?" - -The little tufted white tails of Winifred's muff began to shiver. - -"Oh, no," she said, "it'll be quite harmless to-day. Your -grandmother wanted to come too, but I wouldn't let her. I thought -you could take care of me. You look so nice, Val. Just pull your -coat collar up a little more at the back--that's right." - -"If they bully you...." began Val. - -"Oh! they won't. I shall be very cool. It's the only way." - -"They won't want me to give evidence or anything?" - -"No, dear; it's all arranged." And she patted his hand. The -determined front she was putting on it stayed the turmoil in Val's -chest, and he busied himself in drawing his gloves off and on. He -had taken what he now saw was the wrong pair to go with his spats; -they should have been grey, but were deerskin of a dark tan; -whether to keep them on or not he could not decide. They arrived -soon after ten. It was his first visit to the Law Courts, and the -building struck him at once. - -"By Jove!" he said as they passed into the hall, "this'd make four -or five jolly good racket courts." - -Soames was awaiting them at the foot of some stairs. - -"Here you are!" he said, without shaking hands, as if the event had -made them too familiar for such formalities. "It's Happerly -Browne, Court I. We shall be on first." - -A sensation such as he had known when going in to bat was playing -now in the top of Val's chest, but he followed his mother and uncle -doggedly, looking at no more than he could help, and thinking that -the place smelled 'fuggy.' People seemed to be lurking everywhere, -and he plucked Soames by the sleeve. - -"I say, Uncle, you're not going to let those beastly papers in, are -you?" - -Soames gave him the sideway look which had reduced many to silence -in its time. - -"In here," he said. "You needn't take off your furs, Winifred." - -Val entered behind them, nettled and with his head up. In this -confounded hole everybody--and there were a good many of them-- -seemed sitting on everybody else's knee, though really divided from -each other by pews; and Val had a feeling that they might all slip -down together into the well. This, however, was but a momentary -vision--of mahogany, and black gowns, and white blobs of wigs and -faces and papers, all rather secret and whispery--before he was -sitting next his mother in the front row, with his back to it all, -glad of her violette de Parme, and taking off his gloves for the -last time. His mother was looking at him; he was suddenly -conscious that she had really wanted him there next to her, and -that he counted for something in this business. - -All right! He would show them! Squaring his shoulders, he crossed -his legs and gazed inscrutably at his spats. But just then an 'old -Johnny' in a gown and long wig, looking awfully like a funny -raddled woman, came through a door into the high pew opposite, and -he had to uncross his legs hastily, and stand up with everybody -else. - -'Dartie versus Dartie!' - -It seemed to Val unspeakably disgusting to have one's name called -out like this in public! And, suddenly conscious that someone -nearly behind him had begun talking about his family, he screwed -his face round to see an old be-wigged buffer, who spoke as if he -were eating his own words--queer-looking old cuss, the sort of man -he had seen once or twice dining at Park Lane and punishing the -port; he knew now where they 'dug them up.' All the same he found -the old buffer quite fascinating, and would have continued to stare -if his mother had not touched his arm. Reduced to gazing before -him, he fixed his eyes on the Judge's face instead. Why should -that old 'sportsman' with his sarcastic mouth and his quick-moving -eyes have the power to meddle with their private affairs--hadn't he -affairs of his own, just as many, and probably just as nasty? And -there moved in Val, like an illness, all the deep-seated -individualism of his breed. The voice behind him droned along: -"Differences about money matters--extravagance of the respondent" -(What a word! Was that his father?)--"strained situation--frequent -absences on the part of Mr. Dartie. My client, very rightly, your -Ludship will agree, was anxious to check a course--but lead to -ruin--remonstrated--gambling at cards and on the racecourse--" -('That's right!' thought Val, 'pile it on!') "Crisis early in -October, when the respondent wrote her this letter from his Club." -Val sat up and his ears burned. "I propose to read it with the -emendations necessary to the epistle of a gentleman who has been-- -shall we say dining, me Lud?" - -'Old brute!' thought Val, flushing deeper; 'you're not paid to make -jokes!' - -"'You will not get the chance to insult me again in my own house. -I am leaving the country to-morrow. It's played out'--an -expression, your Ludship, not unknown in the mouths of those who -have not met with conspicuous success." - -'Sniggering owls!' thought Val, and his flush deepened. - -"'I am tired of being insulted by you.' My client will tell your -Ludship that these so-called insults consisted in her calling him -'the limit',--a very mild expression, I venture to suggest, in all -the circumstances." - -Val glanced sideways at his mother's impassive face, it had a -hunted look in the eyes. 'Poor mother,' he thought, and touched -her arm with his own. The voice behind droned on. - -"'I am going to live a new life. M. D.'" - -"And next day, me Lud, the respondent left by the steamship -Tuscarora for Buenos Aires. Since then we have nothing from him -but a cabled refusal in answer to the letter which my client wrote -the following day in great distress, begging him to return to her. -With your Ludship's permission. I shall now put Mrs. Dartie in the -box." - -When his mother rose, Val had a tremendous impulse to rise too and -say: 'Look here! I'm going to see you jolly well treat her -decently.' He subdued it, however; heard her saying, 'the truth, -the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,' and looked up. She -made a rich figure of it, in her furs and large hat, with a slight -flush on her cheek-bones, calm, matter-of-fact; and he felt proud -of her thus confronting all these 'confounded lawyers.' The -examination began. Knowing that this was only the preliminary to -divorce, Val followed with a certain glee the questions framed so -as to give the impression that she really wanted his father back. -It seemed to him that they were 'foxing Old Bagwigs finely.' - -And he received a most unpleasant jar when the Judge said suddenly: - -"Now, why did your husband leave you--not because you called him -'the limit,' you know?" - -Val saw his uncle lift his eyes to the witness box, without moving -his face; heard a shuffle of papers behind him; and instinct told -him that the issue was in peril. Had Uncle Soames and the old -buffer behind made a mess of it? His mother was speaking with a -slight drawl. - -"No, my Lord, but it had gone on a long time." - -"What had gone on?" - -"Our differences about money." - -"But you supplied the money. Do you suggest that he left you to -better his position?" - -'The brute! The old brute, and nothing but the brute!' thought -Val suddenly. 'He smells a rat he's trying to get at the pastry!' -And his heart stood still. If--if he did, then, of course, he -would know that his mother didn't really want his father back. His -mother spoke again, a thought more fashionably. - -"No, my Lord, but you see I had refused to give him any more money. -It took him a long time to believe that, but he did at last--and -when he did...." - -"I see, you had refused. But you've sent him some since." - -"My Lord, I wanted him back." - -"And you thought that would bring him?" - -"I don't know, my Lord, I acted on my father's advice." - -Something in the Judge's face, in the sound of the papers behind -him, in the sudden crossing of his uncle's legs, told Val that she -had made just the right answer. 'Crafty!' he thought; 'by Jove, -what humbug it all is!' - -The Judge was speaking: - -"Just one more question, Mrs. Dartie. Are you still fond of your -husband?" - -Val's hands, slack behind him, became fists. What business had -that Judge to make things human suddenly? To make his mother speak -out of her heart, and say what, perhaps, she didn't know herself, -before all these people! It wasn't decent. His mother answered, -rather low: "Yes, my Lord." Val saw the Judge nod. 'Wish I could -take a cock-shy at your head!' he thought irreverently, as his -mother came back to her seat beside him. Witnesses to his father's -departure and continued absence followed--one of their own maids -even, which struck Val as particularly beastly; there was more -talking, all humbug; and then the Judge pronounced the decree for -restitution, and they got up to go. Val walked out behind his -mother, chin squared, eyelids drooped, doing his level best to -despise everybody. His mother's voice in the corridor roused him -from an angry trance. - -"You behaved beautifully, dear. It was such a comfort to have you. -Your uncle and I are going to lunch." - -"All right," said Val; "I shall have time to go and see that -fellow." And, parting from them abruptly, he ran down the stairs -and out into the air. He bolted into a hansom, and drove to the -Goat's Club. His thoughts were on Holly and what he must do before -her brother showed her this thing in to-morrow's paper. - - ******************************* - -When Val had left them Soames and Winifred made their way to the -Cheshire Cheese. He had suggested it as a meeting place with Mr. -Bellby. At that early hour of noon they would have it to -themselves, and Winifred had thought it would be 'amusing' to see -this far-famed hostelry. Having ordered a light repast, to the -consternation of the waiter, they awaited its arrival together with -that of Mr. Bellby, in silent reaction after the hour and a half's -suspense on the tenterhooks of publicity. Mr. Bellby entered -presently, preceded by his nose, as cheerful as they were glum. -Well! they had got the decree of restitution, and what was the -matter with that! - -"Quite," said Soames in a suitably low voice, "but we shall have to -begin again to get evidence. He'll probably try the divorce--it -will look fishy if it comes out that we knew of misconduct from the -start. His questions showed well enough that he doesn't like this -restitution dodge." - -"Pho!" said Mr. Bellby cheerily, "he'll forget! Why, man, he'll -have tried a hundred cases between now and then. Besides, he's -bound by precedent to give ye your divorce, if the evidence is -satisfactory. We won't let um know that Mrs. Dartie had knowledge -of the facts. Dreamer did it very nicely--he's got a fatherly -touch about um!" - -Soames nodded. - -"And I compliment ye, Mrs. Dartie," went on Mr. Bellby; "ye've a -natural gift for giving evidence. Steady as a rock." - -Here the, waiter arrived with three plates balanced on one arm, and -the remark: "I 'urried up the pudden, sir. You'll find plenty o' -lark in it to-day." - -Mr. Bellby applauded his forethought with a dip of his nose. But -Soames and Winifred looked with dismay at their light lunch of -gravified brown masses, touching them gingerly with their forks in -the hope of distinguishing the bodies of the tasty little song- -givers. Having begun, however, they found they were hungrier than -they thought, and finished the lot, with a glass of port apiece. -Conversation turned on the war. Soames thought Ladysmith would -fall, and it might last a year. Bellby thought it would be over by -the summer. Both agreed that they wanted more men. There was -nothing for it but complete victory, since it was now a question of -prestige. Winifred brought things back to more solid ground by -saying that she did not want the divorce suit to come on till after -the summer holidays had begun at Oxford, then the boys would have -forgotten about it before Val had to go up again; the London season -too would be over. The lawyers reassured her, an interval of six -months was necessary--after that the earlier the better. People -were now beginning to come in, and they parted--Soames to the city, -Bellby to his chambers, Winifred in a hansom to Park Lane to let -her mother know how she had fared. The issue had been so -satisfactory on the whole that it was considered advisable to tell -James, who never failed to say day after day that he didn't know -about Winifred's affair, he couldn't tell. As his sands ran out; -the importance of mundane matters became increasingly grave to him, -as if he were feeling: 'I must make the most of it, and worry well; -I shall soon have nothing to worry about.' - -He received the report grudgingly. It was a new-fangled way of -going about things, and he didn't know! But he gave Winifred a -cheque, saying: - -"I expect you'll have a lot of expense. That's a new hat you've -got on. Why doesn't Val come and see us?" - -Winifred promised to bring him to dinner soon. And, going home, -she sought her bedroom where she could be alone. Now that her -husband had been ordered back into her custody with a view to -putting him away from her for ever, she would try once more to find -out from her sore and lonely heart what she really wanted. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE CHALLENGE - - -The morning had been misty, verging on frost, but the sun came out -while Val was jogging towards the Roehampton Gate, whence he would -canter on to the usual tryst. His spirits were rising rapidly. -There had been nothing so very terrible in the morning's -proceedings beyond the general disgrace of violated privacy. 'If -we were engaged!' he thought, 'what happens wouldn't matter.' He -felt, indeed, like human society, which kicks and clamours at the -results of matrimony, and hastens to get married. And he galloped -over the winter-dried grass of Richmond Park, fearing to be late. -But again he was alone at the trysting spot, and this second -defection on the part of Holly upset him dreadfully. He could not -go back without seeing her to-day! Emerging from the Park, he -proceeded towards Robin Hill. He could not make up his mind for -whom to ask. Suppose her father were back, or her sister or -brother were in! He decided to gamble, and ask for them all first, -so that if he were in luck and they were not there, it would be -quite natural in the end to ask for Holly; while if any of them -were in--an 'excuse for a ride' must be his saving grace. - -"Only Miss Holly is in, sir." - -"Oh! thanks. Might I take my horse round to the stables? And -would you say--her cousin, Mr. Val Dartie." - -When he returned she was in the hall, very flushed and shy. She -led him to the far end, and they sat down on a wide window-seat. - -"I've been awfully anxious," said Val in a low voice. "What's the -matter?" - -"Jolly knows about our riding." - -"Is he in?" - -"No; but I expect he will be soon." - -"Then!" cried Val, and diving forward, he seized her hand. She -tried to withdraw it, failed, gave up the attempt, and looked at -him wistfully. - -"First of all," he said, "I want to tell you something about my -family. My Dad, you know, isn't altogether--I mean, he's left my -mother and they're trying to divorce him; so they've ordered him to -come back, you see. You'll see that in the paper to-morrow." - -Her eyes deepened in colour and fearful interest; her hand squeezed -his. But the gambler in Val was roused now, and he hurried on: - -"Of course there's nothing very much at present, but there will be, -I expect, before it's over; divorce suits are beastly, you know. I -wanted to tell you, because--because--you ought to know--if--" and -he began to stammer, gazing at her troubled eyes, "if--if you're -going to be a darling and love me, Holly. I love you--ever so; and -I want to be engaged." He had done it in a manner so inadequate -that he could have punched his own head; and dropping on his knees, -he tried to get nearer to that soft, troubled face. "You do love -me--don't you? If you don't I...." There was a moment of silence -and suspense, so awful that he could hear the sound of a mowing- -machine far out on the lawn pretending there was grass to cut. -Then she swayed forward; her free hand touched his hair, and he -gasped: "Oh, Holly!" - -Her answer was very soft: "Oh, Val!" - -He had dreamed of this moment, but always in an imperative mood, as -the masterful young lover, and now he felt humble, touched, -trembly. He was afraid to stir off his knees lest he should break -the spell; lest, if he did, she should shrink and deny her own -surrender--so tremulous was she in his grasp, with her eyelids -closed and his lips nearing them. Her eyes opened, seemed to swim -a little; he pressed his lips to hers. Suddenly he sprang up; -there had been footsteps, a sort of startled grunt. He looked -round. No one! But the long curtains which barred off the outer -hall were quivering. - -"My God! Who was that?" - -Holly too was on her feet. - -"Jolly, I expect," she whispered. - -Val clenched fists and resolution. - -"All right!" he said, "I don't care a bit now we're engaged," and -striding towards the curtains, he drew them aside. There at the -fireplace in the hall stood Jolly, with his back elaborately -turned. Val went forward. Jolly faced round on him. - -"I beg your pardon for hearing," he said. - -With the best intentions in the world, Val could not help admiring -him at that moment; his face was clear, his voice quiet, he looked -somehow distinguished, as if acting up to principle. - -"Well!" Val said abruptly, "it's nothing to you." - -"Oh!" said Jolly; "you come this way," and he crossed the hall. -Val followed. At the study door he felt a touch on his arm; -Holly's voice said: - -"I'm coming too." - -"No," said Jolly. - -"Yes," said Holly. - -Jolly opened the door, and they all three went in. Once in the -little room, they stood in a sort of triangle on three corners of -the worn Turkey carpet; awkwardly upright, not looking at each -other, quite incapable of seeing any humour in the situation. - -Val broke the silence. - -"Holly and I are engaged.", - -Jolly stepped back and leaned against the lintel of the window. - -"This is our house," he said; "I'm not going to insult you in it. -But my father's away. I'm in charge of my sister. You've taken -advantage of me. - -"I didn't mean to," said Val hotly. - -"I think you did," said Jolly. "If you hadn't meant to, you'd have -spoken to me, or waited for my father to come back." - -"There were reasons," said Val. - -"What reasons?" - -"About my family--I've just told her. I wanted her to know before -things happen." - -Jolly suddenly became less distinguished. - -"You're kids," he said, "and you know you are. - -"I am not a kid," said Val. - -"You are--you're not twenty." - -"Well, what are you?" - -"I am twenty," said Jolly. - -"Only just; anyway, I'm as good a man as you." - -Jolly's face crimsoned, then clouded. Some struggle was evidently -taking place in him; and Val and Holly stared at him, so clearly -was that struggle marked; they could even hear him breathing. Then -his face cleared up and became oddly resolute. - -"We'll see that," he said. "I dare you to do what I'm going to -do." - -"Dare me?" - -Jolly smiled. "Yes," he said, "dare you; and I know very well you -won't." - -A stab of misgiving shot through Val; this was riding very blind. - -"I haven't forgotten that you're a fire-eater," said Jolly slowly, -"and I think that's about all you are; or that you called me a -pro-Boer." - -Val heard a gasp above the sound of his own hard breathing, and saw -Holly's face poked a little forward, very pale, with big eyes. - -"Yes," went on Jolly with a sort of smile, "we shall soon see. I'm -going to join the Imperial Yeomanry, and I dare you to do the same, -Mr. Val Dartie." - -Val's head jerked on its stem. It was like a blow between the -eyes, so utterly unthought of, so extreme and ugly in the midst of -his dreaming; and he looked at Holly with eyes grown suddenly, -touchingly haggard. - -"Sit down!" said Jolly. "Take your time! Think it over well." -And he himself sat down on the arm of his grandfather's chair. - -Val did not sit down; he stood with hands thrust deep into his -breeches' pockets-hands clenched and quivering. The full awfulness -of this decision one way or the other knocked at his mind with -double knocks as of an angry postman. If he did not take that -'dare' he was disgraced in Holly's eyes, and in the eyes of that -young enemy, her brute of a brother. Yet if he took it, ah! then -all would vanish--her face, her eyes, her hair, her kisses just -begun! - -"Take your time," said Jolly again; "I don't want to be unfair." - -And they both looked at Holly. She had recoiled against the -bookshelves reaching to the ceiling; her dark head leaned against -Gibbon's Roman Empire, her eyes in a sort of soft grey agony were -fixed on Val. And he, who had not much gift of insight, had -suddenly a gleam of vision. She would be proud of her brother-- -that enemy! She would be ashamed of him! His hands came out of -his pockets as if lifted by a spring. - -"All right!" he said. "Done!" - -Holly's face--oh! it was queer! He saw her flush, start forward. -He had done the right thing--her face was shining with wistful -admiration. Jolly stood up and made a little bow as who should -say: 'You've passed.' - -"To-morrow, then," he said, "we'll go together." - -Recovering from the impetus which had carried him to that decision, -Val looked at him maliciously from under his lashes. 'All right,' -he thought, 'one to you. I shall have to join--but I'll get back -on you somehow.' And he said with dignity: "I shall be ready." - -"We'll meet at the main Recruiting Office, then," said Jolly, "at -twelve o'clock." And, opening the window, he went out on to the -terrace, conforming to the creed which had made him retire when he -surprised them in the hall. - -The confusion in the mind of Val thus left alone with her for whom -he had paid this sudden price was extreme. The mood of 'showing- -off' was still, however, uppermost. One must do the wretched thing -with an air. - -"We shall get plenty of riding and shooting, anyway," he said; -"that's one comfort." And it gave him a sort of grim pleasure to -hear the sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of her heart. - -"Oh! the war'll soon be over," he said; "perhaps we shan't even -have to go out. I don't care, except for you." He would be out of -the way of that beastly divorce. It was an ill-wind! He felt her -warm hand slip into his. Jolly thought he had stopped their loving -each other, did he? He held her tightly round the waist, looking -at her softly through his lashes, smiling to cheer her up, -promising to come down and see her soon, feeling somehow six inches -taller and much more in command of her than he had ever dared feel -before. Many times he kissed her before he mounted and rode back -to town. So, swiftly, on the least provocation, does the -possessive instinct flourish and grow. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -DINNER AT JAMES' - - -Dinner parties were not now given at James' in Park Lane--to every -house the moment comes when Master or Mistress is no longer 'up to -it'; no more can nine courses be served to twenty mouths above -twenty fine white expanses; nor does the household cat any longer -wonder why she is suddenly shut up. - -So with something like excitement Emily--who at seventy would still -have liked a little feast and fashion now and then--ordered dinner -for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign words on -cards, and arranged the flowers--mimosa from the Riviera, and white -Roman hyacinths not from Rome. There would only be, of course, -James and herself, Soames, Winifred, Val, and Imogen--but she liked -to pretend a little and dally in imagination with the glory of the -past. She so dressed herself that James remarked: - -"What are you putting on that thing for? You'll catch cold." - -But Emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of -shining, unto fourscore years, and she only answered: - -"Let me put you on one of those dickies I got you, James; then -you'll only have to change your trousers, and put on your velvet -coat, and there you'll be. Val likes you to look nice." - -"Dicky!" said James. "You're always wasting your money on -something." - -But he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone, -murmuring vaguely: - -"He's an extravagant chap, I'm afraid." - -A little brighter in the eye, with rather more colour than usual in -his cheeks, he took his seat in the drawing-room to wait for the -sound of the front-door bell. - -"I've made it a proper dinner party," Emily said comfortably; "I -thought it would be good practice for Imogen--she must get used to -it now she's coming out." - -James uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of Imogen as she -used to climb about his knee or pull Christmas crackers with him. - -"She'll be pretty," he muttered, "I shouldn't wonder." - -"She is pretty," said Emily; "she ought to make a good match." - -"There you go," murmured James; "she'd much better stay at home and -look after her mother." A second Dartie carrying off his pretty -granddaughter would finish him! He had never quite forgiven Emily -for having been as much taken in by Montague Dartie as he himself -had been. - -"Where's Warmson?" he said suddenly. "I should like a glass of -Madeira to-night." - -"There's champagne, James." - -James shook his head. "No body," he said; "I can't get any good -out of it." - -Emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell. - -"Your master would like a bottle of Madeira opened, Warmson." - -"No, no!" said James, the tips of his ears quivering with -vehemence, and his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone. -"Look here, Warmson, you go to the inner cellar, and on the middle -shelf of the end bin on the left you'll see seven bottles; take the -one in the centre, and don't shake it. It's the last of the -Madeira I had from Mr. Jolyon when we came in here--never been -moved; it ought to be in prime condition still; but I don't know, I -can't tell." - -"Very good, sir," responded the withdrawing Warmson. - -"I was keeping it for our golden wedding," said James suddenly, -"but I shan't live three years at my age." - -"Nonsense, James," said Emily, "don't talk like that." - -"I ought to have got it up myself," murmured James, "he'll shake it -as likely as not." And he sank into silent recollection of long -moments among the open gas-jets, the cobwebs and the good smell of -wine-soaked corks, which had been appetiser to so many feasts. In -the wine from that cellar was written the history of the forty odd -years since he had come to the Park Lane house with his young -bride, and of the many generations of friends and acquaintances who -had passed into the unknown; its depleted bins preserved the record -of family festivity--all the marriages, births, deaths of his kith -and kin. And when he was gone there it would be, and he didn't -know what would become of it. It'd be drunk or spoiled, he -shouldn't wonder! - -From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, -followed very soon by that of Winifred and her two eldest. - -They went down arm-in-arm--James with Imogen, the debutante, -because his pretty grandchild cheered him; Soames with Winifred; -Emily with Val, whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened. -This was to be a proper full 'blowout' with 'fizz' and port! And -he felt in need of it, after what he had done that day, as yet -undivulged. After the first glass or two it became pleasant to -have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece of sensational -patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to display--for -his pleasure in what he had done for his Queen and Country was so -far entirely personal. He was now a 'blood,' indissolubly -connected with guns and horses; he had a right to swagger--not, of -course, that he was going to. He should just announce it quietly, -when there was a pause. And, glancing down the menu, he determined -on 'Bombe aux fraises' as the proper moment; there would be a -certain solemnity while they were eating that. Once or twice -before they reached that rosy summit of the dinner he was attacked -by remembrance that his grandfather was never told anything! -Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and looking jolly fit! -Besides, he ought to be pleased at this set-off to the disgrace of -the divorce. The sight of his uncle opposite, too, was a sharp -incentive. He was so far from being a sportsman that it would be -worth a lot to see his face. Besides, better to tell his mother in -this way than privately, which might upset them both! He was sorry -for her, but after all one couldn't be expected to feel much for -others when one had to part from Holly. - -His grandfather's voice travelled to him thinly. "Val, try a -little of the Madeira with your ice. You won't get that up at -college." - -Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil of -the old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and thought: -'Now for it!' It was a rich moment. He sipped, and a gentle glow -spread in his veins, already heated. With a rapid look round, he -said, "I joined the Imperial Yeomanry to-day, Granny," and emptied -his glass as though drinking the health of his own act. - -"What!" It was his mother's desolate little word. - -"Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together." - -"You didn't sign?" from Uncle Soames. - -"Rather! We go into camp on Monday." - -"I say!" cried Imogen. - -All looked at James. He was leaning forward with his hand behind -his ear. - -"What's that?" he said. "What's he saying? I can't hear." - -Emily reached forward to pat Val's hand. - -"It's only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it's very nice -for him. He'll look his best in uniform." - -"Joined the--rubbish!" came from James, tremulously loud. "You -can't see two yards before your nose. He--he'll have to go out -there. Why! he'll be fighting before he knows where he is." - -Val saw Imogen's eyes admiring him, and his mother still and -fashionable with her handkerchief before her lips. - -Suddenly his uncle spoke. - -"You're under age." - -"I thought of that," smiled Val; "I gave my age as twenty-one." - -He heard his grandmother's admiring, "Well, Val, that was plucky of -you;" was conscious of Warmson deferentially filling his champagne -glass; and of his grandfather's voice moaning: "I don't know -what'll become of you if you go on like this." - -Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him sidelong; -only his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her stillness, Val -said: - -"It's all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. I -only hope I shall come in for something." - -He felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once. This -would show Uncle Soames, and all the Forsytes, how to be sportsmen. -He had certainly done something heroic and exceptional in giving -his age as twenty-one. - -Emily's voice brought him back to earth. - -"You mustn't have a second glass, James. Warmson!" - -"Won't they be astonished at Timothy's!" burst out Imogen. "I'd -give anything to see their faces. Do you have a sword, Val, or -only a popgun?" - -"What made you?" - -His uncle's voice produced a slight chill in the pit of Val's -stomach. Made him? How answer that? He was grateful for his -grandmother's comfortable: - -"Well, I think it's very plucky of Val. I'm sure he'll make a -splendid soldier; he's just the figure for it. We shall all be -proud of him." - -"What had young Jolly Forsyte to do with it? Why did you go -together?" pursued Soames, uncannily relentless. "I thought you -weren't friendly with him?" - -"I'm not," mumbled Val, "but I wasn't going to be beaten by him." -He saw his uncle look at him quite differently, as if approving. -His grandfather was nodding too, his grandmother tossing her head. -They all approved of his not being beaten by that cousin of his. -There must be a reason! Val was dimly conscious of some disturbing -point outside his range of vision; as it might be, the unlocated -centre of a cyclone. And, staring at his uncle's face, he had a -quite unaccountable vision of a woman with dark eyes, gold hair, -and a white neck, who smelt nice, and had pretty silken clothes -which he had liked feeling when he was quite small. By Jove, yes! -Aunt Irene! She used to kiss him, and he had bitten her arm once, -playfully, because he liked it--so soft. His grandfather was -speaking: - -"What's his father doing?" - -"He's away in Paris," Val said, staring at the very queer -expression on his uncle's face, like--like that of a snarling dog. - -"Artists!" said James. The word coming from the very bottom of his -soul, broke up the dinner. - -Opposite his mother in the cab going home, Val tasted the after- -fruits of heroism, like medlars over-ripe. - -She only said, indeed, that he must go to his tailor's at once and -have his uniform properly made, and not just put up with what they -gave him. But he could feel that she was very much upset. It was -on his lips to console her with the spoken thought that he would be -out of the way of that beastly divorce, but the presence of Imogen, -and the knowledge that his mother would not be out of the way, -restrained him. He felt aggrieved that she did not seem more proud -of him. When Imogen had gone to bed, he risked the emotional. - -"I'm awfully sorry to have to leave you, Mother." - -"Well, I must make the best of it. We must try and get you a -commission as soon as we can; then you won't have to rough it so. -Do you know any drill, Val?" - -"Not a scrap." - -"I hope they won't worry you much. I must take you about to get -the things to-morrow. Good-night; kiss me." - -With that kiss, soft and hot, between his eyes, and those words, 'I -hope they won't worry you much,' in his ears, he sat down to a -cigarette, before a dying fire. The heat was out of him--the glow -of cutting a dash. It was all a damned heart-aching bore. 'I'll -be even with that chap Jolly,' he thought, trailing up the stairs, -past the room where his mother was biting her pillow to smother a -sense of desolation which was trying to make her sob. - -And soon only one of the diners at James' was awake--Soames, in his -bedroom above his father's. - -So that fellow Jolyon was in Paris--what was he doing there? -Hanging round Irene! The last report from Polteed had hinted that -there might be something soon. Could it be this? That fellow, -with his beard and his cursed amused way of speaking--son of the -old man who had given him the nickname 'Man of Property,' and -bought the fatal house from him. Soames had ever resented having -had to sell the house at Robin Hill; never forgiven his uncle for -having bought it, or his cousin for living in it. - -Reckless of the cold, he threw his window up and gazed out across -the Park. Bleak and dark the January night; little sound of -traffic; a frost coming; bare trees; a star or two. 'I'll see -Polteed to-morrow,' he thought. 'By God! I'm mad, I think, to -want her still. That fellow! If...? Um! No!' - - - - -CHAPTER X - -DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR - - -Jolyon, who had crossed from Calais by night, arrived at Robin -Hill on Sunday morning. He had sent no word beforehand, so walked -up from the station, entering his domain by the coppice gate. -Coming to the log seat fashioned out of an old fallen trunk, he sat -down, first laying his overcoat on it. - -'Lumbago!' he thought; 'that's what love ends in at my time of -life!' And suddenly Irene seemed very near, just as she had been -that day of rambling at Fontainebleau when they had sat on a log to -eat their lunch. Hauntingly near! Odour drawn out of fallen -leaves by the pale-filtering sunlight soaked his nostrils. 'I'm -glad it isn't spring,' he thought. With the scent of sap, and the -song of birds, and the bursting of the blossoms, it would have been -unbearable! 'I hope I shall be over it by then, old fool that I -am!' and picking up his coat, he walked on into the field. He -passed the pond and mounted the hill slowly. - -Near the top a hoarse barking greeted him. Up on the lawn above -the fernery he could see his old dog Balthasar. The animal, whose -dim eyes took his master for a stranger, was warning the world -against him. Jolyon gave his special whistle. Even at that -distance of a hundred yards and more he could see the dawning -recognition in the obese brown-white body. The old dog got off his -haunches, and his tail, close-curled over his back, began a feeble, -excited fluttering; he came waddling forward, gathered momentum, -and disappeared over the edge of the fernery. Jolyon expected to -meet him at the wicket gate, but Balthasar was not there, and, -rather alarmed, he turned into the fernery. On his fat side, -looking up with eyes already glazing, the old dog lay. - -"What is it, my poor old man?" cried Jolyon. Balthasar's curled -and fluffy tail just moved; his filming eyes seemed saying: "I -can't get up, master, but I'm glad to see you." - -Jolyon knelt down; his eyes, very dimmed, could hardly see the -slowly ceasing heave of the dog's side. He raised the head a -little--very heavy. - -"What is it, dear man? Where are you hurt?" The tail fluttered -once; the eyes lost the look of life. Jolyon passed his hands all -over the inert warm bulk. There was nothing--the heart had simply -failed in that obese body from the emotion of his master's return. -Jolyon could feel the muzzle, where a few whitish bristles grew, -cooling already against his lips. He stayed for some minutes -kneeling; with his hand beneath the stiffening head. The body was -very heavy when he bore it to the top of the field; leaves had -drifted there, and he strewed it with a covering of them; there was -no wind, and they would keep him from curious eyes until the -afternoon. 'I'll bury him myself,' he thought. Eighteen years had -gone since he first went into the St. John's Wood house with that -tiny puppy in his pocket. Strange that the old dog should die just -now! Was it an omen? He turned at the gate to look back at that -russet mound, then went slowly towards the house, very choky in the -throat. - -June was at home; she had come down hotfoot on hearing the news of -Jolly's enlistment. His patriotism had conquered her feeling for -the Boers. The atmosphere of his house was strange and pocketty -when Jolyon came in and told them of the dog Balthasar's death. -The news had a unifying effect. A link with the past had snapped-- -the dog Balthasar! Two of them could remember nothing before his -day; to June he represented the last years of her grandfather; to -Jolyon that life of domestic stress and aesthetic struggle before -he came again into the kingdom of his father's love and wealth! -And he was gone! - -In the afternoon he and Jolly took picks and spades and went out to -the field. They chose a spot close to the russet mound, so that -they need not carry him far, and, carefully cutting off the surface -turf, began to dig. They dug in silence for ten minutes, and then -rested. - -"Well, old man," said Jolyon, "so you thought you ought?" - -"Yes," answered Jolly; "I don't want to a bit, of course." - -How exactly those words represented Jolyon's own state of mind - -"I admire you for it, old boy. I don't believe I should have done -it at your age--too much of a Forsyte, I'm afraid. But I suppose -the type gets thinner with each generation. Your son, if you have -one, may be a pure altruist; who knows?" - -"He won't be like me, then, Dad; I'm beastly selfish." - -"No, my dear, that you clearly are not." Jolly shook his head, and -they dug again. - -"Strange life a dog's," said Jolyon suddenly: "The only four-footer -with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God!" - -Jolly looked at his father. - -"Do you believe in God, Dad? I've never known." - -At so searching a question from one to whom it was impossible to -make a light reply, Jolyon stood for a moment feeling his back -tried by the digging. - -"What do you mean by God?" he said; "there are two irreconcilable -ideas of God. There's the Unknowable Creative Principle--one -believes in That. And there's the Sum of altruism in man--naturally -one believes in That." - -"I see. That leaves out Christ, doesn't it?" - -Jolyon stared. Christ, the link between those two ideas! Out of -the mouth of babes! Here was orthodoxy scientifically explained at -last! The sublime poem of the Christ life was man's attempt to -join those two irreconcilable conceptions of God. And since the -Sum of human altruism was as much a part of the Unknowable Creative -Principle as anything else in Nature and the Universe, a worse link -might have been chosen after all! Funny--how one went through life -without seeing it in that sort of way! - -"What do you think, old man?" he said. - -Jolly frowned. "Of course, my first year we talked a good bit -about that sort of thing. But in the second year one gives it up; -I don't know why--it's awfully interesting." - -Jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it his -first year at Cambridge, and given it up in his second. - -"I suppose," said Jolly, "it's the second God, you mean, that old -Balthasar had a sense of." - -"Yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of -something outside himself." - -"But wasn't that just selfish emotion, really?" - -Jolyon shook his head. "No, dogs are not pure Forsytes, they love -something outside themselves." - -Jolly smiled. - -"Well, I think I'm one," he said. "You know, I only enlisted -because I dared Val Dartie to." - -"But why?" - -"We bar each other," said Jolly shortly. - -"Ah!" muttered Jolyon. So the feud went on, unto the third -generation--this modern feud which had no overt expression? - -'Shall I tell the boy about it?' he thought. But to what end--if -he had to stop short of his own part? - -And Jolly thought: 'It's for Holly to let him know about that chap. -If she doesn't, it means she doesn't want him told, and I should be -sneaking. Anyway, I've stopped it. I'd better leave well alone!' - -So they dug on in silence, till Jolyon said: - -"Now, old man, I think it's big enough." And, resting on their -spades, they gazed down into the hole where a few leaves had -drifted already on a sunset wind. - -"I can't bear this part of it," said Jolyon suddenly. - -"Let me do it, Dad. He never cared much for me." - -Jolyon shook his head. - -"We'll lift him very gently, leaves and all. I'd rather not see -him again. I'll take his head. Now!" - -With extreme care they raised the old dog's body, whose faded tan -and white showed here and there under the leaves stirred by the -wind. They laid it, heavy, cold, and unresponsive, in the grave, -and Jolly spread more leaves over it, while Jolyon, deeply afraid -to show emotion before his son, began quickly shovelling the earth -on to that still shape. There went the past! If only there were a -joyful future to look forward to! It was like stamping down earth -on one's own life. They replaced the turf carefully on the smooth -little mound, and, grateful that they had spared each other's -feelings, returned to the house arm-in-arm. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT - - -On Forsyte 'Change news of the enlistment spread fast, together -with the report that June, not to be outdone, was going to become a -Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of -pure Forsyteism, as to have a binding effect upon the family, and -Timothy's was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members trying to -find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each -other a sense of family credit. Giles and Jesse Hayman would no -longer defend the coast but go to South Africa quite soon; Jolly -and Val would be following in April; as to June--well, you never -knew what she would really do. - -The retirement from Spion Kop and the absence of any good news from -the seat of war imparted an air of reality to all this, clinched in -startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old Forsytes-- -scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble their -father, 'Superior Dosset,' even in his best-known characteristic of -drinking Sherry--had been invisible for so many years that he was -almost mythical. A long generation had elapsed since the risks of -a publisher's business had worked on his nerves at the age of -forty, so that he had got out with a mere thirty-five thousand -pounds in the world, and started to make his living by careful -investment. Putting by every year, at compound interest, he had -doubled his capital in forty years without having once known what -it was like to shake in his shoes over money matters. He was now -putting aside some two thousand a year, and, with the care he was -taking of himself, expected, so Aunt Hester said, to double his -capital again before he died. What he would do with it then, with -his sisters dead and himself dead, was often mockingly queried by -free spirits such as Francie, Euphemia, or young Nicholas' second, -Christopher, whose spirit was so free that he had actually said he -was going on the stage. All admitted, however, that this was best -known to Timothy himself, and possibly to Soames, who never -divulged a secret. - -Those few Forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and -robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion, grey -hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which most of -the Forsytes had been endowed by 'Superior Dosset's' wife, a woman -of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was known that he had -taken surprising interest in the war, sticking flags into a map -ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as to what would -happen if the English were driven into the sea, when it would be -almost impossible for him to put the flags in the right places. As -to his knowledge of family movements or his views about them, -little was known, save that Aunt Hester was always declaring that -he was very upset. It was, then, in the nature of a portent when -Forsytes, arriving on the Sunday after the evacuation of Spion Kop, -became conscious, one after the other, of a presence seated in the -only really comfortable armchair, back to the light, concealing the -lower part of his face with a large hand, and were greeted by the -awed voice of Aunt Hester: - -"Your Uncle Timothy, my dear." - -Timothy's greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and rather, -as it were, passed over by him than expressed: - -"How de do? How de do? 'Xcuse me gettin' up!" - -Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car; Winifred had -brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution proceedings -with the warmth of family appreciation at Val's enlistment; and -Marian Tweetyman with the last news of Giles and Jesse. These with -Aunt Juley and Hester, young Nicholas, Euphemia, and--of all -people!--George, who had come with Eustace in the car, constituted -an assembly worthy of the family's palmiest days. There was not -one chair vacant in the whole of the little drawing-room, and -anxiety was felt lest someone else should arrive. - -The constraint caused by Timothy's presence having worn off a -little, conversation took a military turn. George asked Aunt Juley -when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing her to a -state of gaiety; whereon he turned to Nicholas and said: - -"Young Nick's a warrior bold, isn't he? When's he going to don the -wild khaki?" - -Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, intimated -that of course his mother was very anxious. - -"The Dromios are off, I hear," said George, turning to Marian -Tweetyman; "we shall all be there soon. En avant, the Forsytes! -Roll, bowl, or pitch! Who's for a cooler?" - -Aunt Juley gurgled, George was so droll! Should Hester get -Timothy's map? Then he could show them all where they were. - -At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left -the room. - -George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing Timothy -as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom he had noted at once for 'a -pretty filly,'--as Vivandiere; and holding his top hat between his -knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks. The -reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. All laughed--George -was licensed; but all felt that the family was being 'rotted'; and -this seemed to them unnatural, now that it was going to give five -of its members to the service of the Queen. George might go too -far; and there was relief when he got up, offered his arm to Aunt -Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted him, kissed his aunt with -mock passion, said, "Oh! what a treat, dear papa! Come on, -Eustace!" and walked out, followed by the grave and fastidious -Eustace, who had never smiled. - -Aunt Juley's bewildered, "Fancy not waiting for the map! You -mustn't mind him, Timothy. He's so droll!" broke the hush, and -Timothy removed the hand from his mouth. - -"I don't know what things are comin' to," he was heard to say. -"What's all this about goin' out there? That's not the way to beat -those Boers." - -Francie alone had the hardihood to observe: "What is, then, Uncle -Timothy?" - -"All this new-fangled volunteerin' and expense--lettin' money out -of the country." - -Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby -with eruptions. With the assistance of Euphemia it was laid on the -piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was believed, the -summer before Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago. Timothy rose. He -walked over to the piano, and stood looking at his map while they -all gathered round. - -"There you are," he said; "that's the position up to date; and very -poor it is. H'm!" - -"Yes," said Francie, greatly daring, "but how are you going to -alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?" - -"Men!" said Timothy; "you don't want men--wastin' the country's -money. You want a Napoleon, he'd settle it in a month." - -"But if you haven't got him, Uncle Timothy?" - -"That's their business," replied Timothy. "What have we kept the -Army up for--to eat their heads off in time of peace! They ought -to be ashamed of themselves, comin' on the country to help them -like this! Let every man stick to his business, and we shall get -on." - -And looking round him, he added almost angrily: - -"Volunteerin', indeed! Throwin' good money after bad! We must -save! Conserve energy that's the only way." And with a prolonged -sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on -Euphemia's toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint scent -of barley-sugar behind him. - -The effect of something said with conviction by one who has -evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever considerable. And the -eight Forsytes left behind, all women except young Nicholas, were -silent for a moment round the map. Then Francie said: - -"Really, I think he's right, you know. After all, what is the Army -for? They ought to have known. It's only encouraging them." - -"My dear!" cried Aunt Juley, "but they've been so progressive. -Think of their giving up their scarlet. They were always so proud -of it. And now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were -saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much. -Fancy what the Iron Duke would have said!" - -"The new colour's very smart," said Winifred; "Val looks quite nice -in his." - -Aunt Juley sighed. - -"I do so wonder what Jolyon's boy is like. To think we've never -seen him! His father must be so proud of him." - -"His father's in Paris," said Winifred. - -Aunt Hester's shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward -off her sister's next remark, for Juley's crumpled cheeks had -gushed. - -"We had dear little Mrs. MacAnder here yesterday, just back from -Paris. And whom d'you think she saw there in the street? You'll -never guess." - -"We shan't try, Auntie," said Euphemia. - -"Irene! Imagine! After all this time; walking with a fair -beard...." - -"Auntie! you'll kill me! A fair beard...." - -"I was going to say," said Aunt Juley severely, "a fair-bearded -gentleman. And not a day older; she was always so pretty," she -added, with a sort of lingering apology. - -"Oh! tell us about her, Auntie," cried Imogen; "I can just remember -her. She's the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn't she? And -they're such fun." - -Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Juley had done it now! - -"She wasn't much of a skeleton as I remember her," murmured -Euphemia, "extremely well-covered." - -"My dear!" said Aunt Juley, "what a peculiar way of putting it--not -very nice." - -"No, but what was she like?" persisted Imogen. - -"I'll tell you, my child," said Francie; "a kind of modern Venus, -very well-dressed." - -Euphemia said sharply: "Venus was never dressed, and she had blue -eyes of melting sapphire." - -At this juncture Nicholas took his leave. - -"Mrs. Nick is awfully strict," said Francie with a laugh. - -"She has six children," said Aunt Juley; "it's very proper she -should be careful." - -"Was Uncle Soames awfully fond of her?" pursued the inexorable -Imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes from face to face. - -Aunt Hester made a gesture of despair, just as Aunt Juley answered: - -"Yes, your Uncle Soames was very much attached to her." - -"I suppose she ran off with someone?" - -"No, certainly not; that is--not precisely.' - -"What did she do, then, Auntie?" - -"Come along, Imogen," said Winifred, "we must be getting back." - -But Aunt Juley interjected resolutely: "She--she didn't behave at -all well." - -"Oh, bother!" cried Imogen; "that's as far as I ever get." - -"Well, my dear," said Francie, "she had a love affair which ended -with the young man's death; and then she left your uncle. I always -rather liked her." - -"She used to give me chocolates," murmured Imogen, "and smell -nice." - -"Of course!" remarked Euphemia. - -"Not of course at all!" replied Francie, who used a particularly -expensive essence of gillyflower herself. - -"I can't think what we are about," said Aunt Juley, raising her -hands, "talking of such things!" - -"Was she divorced?" asked Imogen from the door. - -"Certainly not," cried Aunt Juley; "that is--certainly not." - -A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had re-entered the -back drawing-room. "I've come for my map," he said. "Who's been -divorced?" - -"No one, Uncle," replied Francie with perfect truth. - -Timothy took his map off the piano. - -"Don't let's have anything of that sort in the family," he said. -"All this enlistin's bad enough. The country's breakin' up; I -don't know what we're comin' to." He shook a thick finger at the -room: "Too many women nowadays, and they don't know what they -want." - -So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went out -as if afraid of being answered. - -The seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued murmur, -out of which emerged Francie's, "Really, the Forsytes!" and Aunt -Juley's: "He must have his feet in mustard and hot water to-night, -Hester; will you tell Jane? The blood has gone to his head again, -I'm afraid...." - -That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after dinner, -she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up: - -"Hester, I can't think where I've heard that dear Soames wants -Irene to come back to him again. Who was it told us that George -had made a funny drawing of him with the words, 'He won't be happy -till he gets it'?" - -"Eustace," answered Aunt Hester from behind The Times; "he had it -in his pocket, but he wouldn't show it us." - -Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, The Times -crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley -dropped another stitch. - -"Hester," she said, "I have had such a dreadful thought." - -"Then don't tell me," said Aunt Hester quickly. - -"Oh! but I must. You can't think how dreadful!" Her voice sank to -a whisper: - -"Jolyon--Jolyon, they say, has a--has a fair beard, now." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -PROGRESS OF THE CHASE - - -Two days after the dinner at James', Mr. Polteed provided Soames -with food for thought. - -"A gentleman," he said, consulting the key concealed in his left -hand, "47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17 during -the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been -nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in public -places, without concealment--restaurants, the Opera, the Comique, -the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. -She has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor vice versa. They -went to Fontainebleau--but nothing of value. In short, the -situation is promising, but requires patience." And, looking up -suddenly, he added: - -"One rather curious point--47 has the same name as--er--31!" - -'The fellow knows I'm her husband,' thought Soames. - -"Christian name--an odd one--Jolyon," continued Mr. Polteed. "We -know his address in Paris and his residence here. We don't wish, -of course, to be running a wrong hare." - -"Go on with it, but be careful," said Soames doggedly. - -Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his -secret made him all the more reticent. - -"Excuse me," said Mr. Polteed, "I'll just see if there's anything -fresh in." - -He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at -the envelopes. - -"Yes, here's a personal one from 19 to myself." - -"Well?" said Soames. - - "Um!" said Mr. Polteed, "she says: '47 left for England to-day. -Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre -Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay -and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England -if you think desirable, no doubt.'" And Mr. Polteed lifted an -unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing -material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of -business. "Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful make-up. -Not cheap, but earns her money well. There's no suspicion of being -shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people -are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to -go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and keeping an eye -on 47. We can't get at correspondence without great risk. I -hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell your client -that it's looking up very well." And again his narrowed eyes -gleamed at his taciturn customer. - -"No," said Soames suddenly, "I prefer that you should keep the -watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with this -end." - -"Very well," replied Mr. Polteed, "we can do it." - -"What--what is the manner between them?" - -"I'll read you what she says," said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a bureau -drawer and taking out a file of papers; "she sums it up somewhere -confidentially. Yes, here it is! '17 very attractive--conclude -47, longer in the tooth' (slang for age, you know)--'distinctly -gone--waiting his time--17 perhaps holding off for terms, -impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined to think on -the whole--doesn't know her mind--likely to act on impulse some -day. Both have style.'" - -"What does that mean?" said Soames between close lips. - -"Well," murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white -teeth, "an expression we use. In other words, it's not likely to -be a weekend business--they'll come together seriously or not at -all." - -"H'm!" muttered Soames, "that's all, is it?" - -"Yes," said Mr. Polteed, "but quite promising." - -'Spider!' thought Soames. "Good-day!" - -He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria -Station and take the Underground into the City. For so late in -January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the -frosty grass--an illumined cobweb of a day. - -Little spiders--and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of -all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads -round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene -for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking -compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it--sentimental -radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as -Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow -was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! -What attraction had he? - -'Besides, he's come back,' he thought; 'that doesn't look---I'll go -and see him!' and, taking out a card, he wrote: - -"If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall be -at the Connoisseurs any day between 5.30 and 6, or I could come to -the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you.--S. F." - -He walked up St. James's Street and confided it to the porter at -the Hotch Potch. - -"Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in," he said, and -took one of the new motor cabs into the City.... - -Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face -towards the Connoisseurs. What did Soames want now? Had he got -wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James's Street, he -determined to make no secret of his visit. 'But it won't do,' he -thought, 'to let him know she's there, unless he knows already.' -In this complicated state of mind he was conducted to where Soames -was drinking tea in a small bay-window. - -"No tea, thanks," said Jolyon, "but I'll go on smoking if I may." - -The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were -lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other. - -"You've been in Paris, I hear," said Soames at last. - -"Yes; just back." - -"Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?" Jolyon -nodded. - -"You didn't happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she's -abroad somewhere." - -Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: "Yes, I saw -her." - -"How was she?" - -"Very well." - -There was another silence; then Soames roused himself in his chair. - -"When I saw you last," he said, "I was in two minds. We talked, -and you expressed your opinion. I don't wish to reopen that -discussion. I only wanted to say this: My position with her is -extremely difficult. I don't want you to go using your influence -against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I'm going to -ask her to let bygones be bygones." - -"You have asked her, you know," murmured Jolyon. - -"The idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. But the more -she thinks of it, the more she must see that it's the only way out -for both of us." - -"That's not my impression of her state of mind," said Jolyon with -particular calm. "And, forgive my saying, you misconceive the -matter if you think reason comes into it at all." - -He saw his cousin's pale face grow paler--he had used, without -knowing it, Irene's own words. - -"Thanks," muttered Soames, "but I see things perhaps more plainly -than you think. I only want to be sure that you won't try to -influence her against me." - -"I don't know what makes you think I have any influence," said -Jolyon; "but if I have I'm bound to use it in the direction of what -I think is her happiness. I am what they call a 'feminist,' I -believe." - -"Feminist!" repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. "Does -that mean that you're against me?" - -"Bluntly," said Jolyon, "I'm against any woman living with any man -whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten." - -"And I suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into her -mind." - -"I am not likely to be seeing her." - -"Not going back to Paris?" - -"Not so far as I know," said Jolyon, conscious of the intent -watchfulness in Soames' face. - -"Well, that's all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and -wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility." - -Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow. - -"Good-bye," he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved -away, leaving Soames staring after him. 'We Forsytes,' thought -Jolyon, hailing a cab, 'are very civilised. With simpler folk that -might have come to a row. If it weren't for my boy going to the -war....' The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over him. A -precious war! Domination of peoples or of women! Attempts to -master and possess those who did not want you! The negation of -gentle decency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone 'agin' 'em-- -outcast! 'Thank Heaven!' he thought, 'I always felt "agin" 'em, -anyway!' Yes! Even before his first disastrous marriage he could -remember fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the matrimonial -suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed. Parsons -would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite different -things! Pernicious doctrine! Body and soul could not thus be -separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its -weakness. 'I ought to have told Soames,' he thought, 'that I think -him comic. Ah! but he's tragic, too!' Was there anything, -indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own -possessive instinct, who couldn't see the sky for it, or even enter -fully into what another person felt! 'I must write and warn her,' -he thought; 'he's going to have another try.' And all the way home -to Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty to his son -which prevented him from posting back to Paris.... - -But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing -ache--a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this -fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of -resistance to his way out. 'Does that mean that you're against -me?' he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question. -Feminist! Phrasey fellow! 'I mustn't rush things,' he thought. -'I have some breathing space; he's not going back to Paris, unless -he was lying. I'll let the spring come!' Though how the spring -could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell. -And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from -pool to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: 'Nothing -seems any good--nothing seems worth while. I'm loney--that's the -trouble.' - -He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark -street below a church--passing, turning her neck so that he caught -the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark -hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. -He opened his eyes--so vividly he had seen her! A woman was -passing below, but not she! Oh no, there was nothing there! - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -'HERE WE ARE AGAIN!' - - -Imogen's frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of her -mother and the purse of her grandfather all through the month of -March. With Forsyte tenacity Winifred quested for perfection. It -took her mind off the slowly approaching rite which would give her -a freedom but doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her boy -and his fast approaching departure for a war from which the news -remained disquieting. Like bees busy on summer flowers, or bright -gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, she and -her 'little daughter,' tall nearly as herself and with a bust -measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent -Street, the establishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street, -lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. Dozens of young -women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before -Winifred and Imogen, draped in 'creations.' The models--'Very new, -modom; quite the latest thing--' which those two reluctantly turned -down, would have filled a museum; the models which they were -obliged to have nearly emptied James' bank. It was no good doing -things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for making -this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success. -Their patience in trying the patience of those impersonal creatures -who swam about before them could alone have been displayed by such -as were moved by faith. It was for Winifred a long prostration -before her dear goddess Fashion, fervent as a Catholic might make -before the Virgin; for Imogen an experience by no means too -unpleasant--she often looked so nice, and flattery was implicit -everywhere: in a word it was 'amusing.' - -On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted -Skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at Caramel and -Baker's, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, -turned homewards through Berkeley Square of an evening touched with -spring. Opening the door--freshly painted a light olive-green; -nothing neglected that year to give Imogen a good send-off-- -Winifred passed towards the silver basket to see if anyone had -called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched. What was that scent? - -Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood -absorbed. Rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her -breast, Winifred said: - -"Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner." - -Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the -door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath. Was -it spring tickling her senses--whipping up nostalgia for her -'clown,' against all wisdom and outraged virtue? A male scent! A -faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early -autumn night six months ago, when she had called him 'the limit.' -Whence came it, or was it ghost of scent--sheer emanation from -memory? She looked round her. Nothing--not a thing, no tiniest -disturbance of her hall, nor of the diningroom. A little day-dream -of a scent--illusory, saddening, silly! In the silver basket were -new cards, two with 'Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,' and one with 'Mr. -Polegate Thom' thereon; she sniffed them, but they smelled severe. -'I must be tired,' she thought, 'I'll go and lie down.' Upstairs -the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it -evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom. This, too, was -half-curtained and dim, for it was six o'clock. Winifred threw off -her coat--that scent again!--then stood, as if shot, transfixed -against the bed-rail. Something dark had risen from the sofa in -the far corner. A word of horror--in her family--escaped her: -"God!" - -"It's I--Monty," said a voice. - -Clutching the bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch -of the light hanging above her dressing-table. He appeared just on -the rim of the light's circumference, emblazoned from the absence -of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, but--yes!-- -split at the toecap. His chest and face were shadowy. Surely he -was thin--or was it a trick of the light? He advanced, lighted now -from toe-cap to the top of his dark head--surely a little grizzled! -His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black moustache had lost -boldness, become sardonic; there were lines which she did not know -about his face. There was no pin in his tie. His suit--ah!--she -knew that--but how unpressed, unglossy! She stared again at the -toe-cap of his boot. Something big and relentless had been 'at -him,' had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him. And she -stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at that crack across the -toe. - -"Well!" he said, "I got the order. I'm back." - -Winifred's bosom began to heave. The nostalgia for her husband -which had rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper -jealousy than any she had felt yet. There he was--a dark, and as -if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self! What force had -done this to him--squeezed him like an orange to its dry rind! -That woman! - -"I'm back," he said again. "I've had a beastly time. By God! I -came steerage. I've got nothing but what I stand up in, and that -bag." - -"And who has the rest?" cried Winifred, suddenly alive. "How dared -you come? You knew it was just for divorce that you got that order -to come back. Don't touch me!" - -They held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so -many years of nights together. Many times, yes--many times she had -wanted him back. But now that he had come she was filled with this -cold and deadly resentment. He put his hand up to his moustache; -but did not frizz and twist it in the old familiar way, he just -pulled it downwards. - -"Gad!" he said: "If you knew the time I've had!" - -"I'm glad I don't!" - -"Are the kids all right?" - -Winifred nodded. "How did you get in?" - -"With my key." - -"Then the maids don't know. You can't stay here, Monty." - -He uttered a little sardonic laugh. - -"Where then?" - -"Anywhere." - -"Well, look at me! That--that damned...." - -"If you mention her," cried Winifred, "I go straight out to Park -Lane and I don't come back." - -Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it -moved her. He shut his eyes. It was as if he had said: 'All -right! I'm dead to the world!' - -"You can have a room for the night," she said; "your things are -still here. Only Imogen is at home." - -He leaned back against the bed-rail. "Well, it's in your hands," -and his own made a writhing movement. "I've been through it. You -needn't hit too hard--it isn't worth while. I've been frightened; -I've been frightened, Freddie." - -That old pet name, disused for years and years, sent a shiver -through Winifred. - -'What am I to do with him?' she thought. 'What in God's name am I -to do with him?' - -"Got a cigarette?" - -She gave him one from a little box she kept up there for when she -couldn't sleep at night, and lighted it. With that action the -matter-of-fact side of her nature came to life again. - -"Go and have a hot bath. I'll put some clothes out for you in the -dressing-room. We can talk later." - -He nodded, and fixed his eyes on her--they looked half-dead, or was -it that the folds in the lids had become heavier? - -'He's not the same,' she thought. He would never be quite the same -again! But what would he be? - -"All right!" he said, and went towards the door. He even moved -differently, like a man who has lost illusion and doubts whether it -is worth while to move at all. - -When he was gone, and she heard the water in the bath running, she -put out a complete set of garments on the bed in his dressing-room, -then went downstairs and fetched up the biscuit box and whisky. -Putting on her coat again, and listening a moment at the bathroom -door, she went down and out. In the street she hesitated. Past -seven o'clock! Would Soames be at his Club or at Park Lane? She -turned towards the latter. Back! - -Soames had always feared it--she had sometimes hoped it.... Back! -So like him--clown that he was--with this: 'Here we are again!' to -make fools of them all--of the Law, of Soames, of herself! - -Yet to have done with the Law, not to have that murky cloud hanging -over her and the children! What a relief! Ah! but how to accept -his return? That 'woman' had ravaged him, taken from him passion -such as he had never bestowed on herself, such as she had not -thought him capable of. There was the sting! That selfish, -blatant 'clown' of hers, whom she herself had never really stirred, -had been swept and ungarnished by another woman! Insulting! Too -insulting! Not right, not decent to take him back! And yet she -had asked for him; the Law perhaps would make her now! He was as -much her husband as ever--she had put herself out of court! And -all he wanted, no doubt, was money--to keep him in cigars and -lavender-water! That scent! 'After all, I'm not old,' she -thought, 'not old yet!' But that woman who had reduced him to -those words: 'I've been through it. I've been frightened-- -frightened, Freddie!' She neared her father's house, driven this -way and that, while all the time the Forsyte undertow was drawing -her to deep conclusion that after all he was her property, to be -held against a robbing world. And so she came to James'. - -"Mr. Soames? In his room? I'll go up; don't say I'm here." - -Her brother was dressing. She found him before a mirror, tying a -black bow with an air of despising its ends. - -"Hullo!" he said, contemplating her in the glass; "what's wrong?" - -"Monty!" said Winifred stonily. - -Soames spun round. "What!" - -"Back!" - -"Hoist," muttered Soames, "with our own petard. Why the deuce -didn't you let me try cruelty? I always knew it was too much risk -this way." - -"Oh! Don't talk about that! What shall I do?" - -Soames answered, with a deep, deep sound. - -"Well?" said Winifred impatiently. - -"What has he to say for himself?" - -"Nothing. One of his boots is split across the toe." - -Soames stared at her. - -"Ah!" he said, "of course! On his beam ends. So--it begins again! -This'll about finish father." - -"Can't we keep it from him?" - -"Impossible. He has an uncanny flair for anything that's -worrying." - -And he brooded, with fingers hooked into his blue silk braces. -"There ought to be some way in law," he muttered, "to make him -safe." - -"No," cried Winifred, "I won't be made a fool of again; I'd sooner -put up with him." - -The two stared at each other. Their hearts were full of feeling, -but they could give it no expression--Forsytes that they were. - -"Where did you leave him?" - -"In the bath," and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh. "The only -thing he's brought back is lavender-water." - -"Steady!" said Soames, "you're thoroughly upset. I'll go back with -you." - -"What's the use?" - -"We ought to make terms with him." - -"Terms! It'll always be the same. When he recovers--cards and -betting, drink and ....!" She was silent, remembering the look on -her husband's face. The burnt child--the burnt child. Perhaps...! - -"Recovers?" replied Soames: "Is he ill?" - -"No; burnt out; that's all." - -Soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on, he took his -coat and got into it, he scented his handkerchief with eau-de- -Cologne, threaded his watch-chain, and said: "We haven't any luck." - -And in the midst of her own trouble Winifred was sorry for him, as -if in that little saying he had revealed deep trouble of his own. - -"I'd like to see mother," she said. - -"She'll be with father in their room. Come down quietly to the -study. I'll get her." - -Winifred stole down to the little dark study, chiefly remarkable -for a Canaletto too doubtful to be placed elsewhere, and a fine -collection of Law Reports unopened for many years. Here she stood, -with her back to maroon-coloured curtains close-drawn, staring at -the empty grate, till her mother came in followed by Soames. - -"Oh! my poor dear!" said Emily: "How miserable you look in here! -This is too bad of him, really!" - -As a family they had so guarded themselves from the expression of -all unfashionable emotion that it was impossible to go up and give -her daughter a good hug. But there was comfort in her cushioned -voice, and her still dimpled shoulders under some rare black lace. -Summoning pride and the desire not to distress her mother, Winifred -said in her most off-hand voice: - -"It's all right, Mother; no good fussing." - -"I don't see," said Emily, looking at Soames, "why Winifred -shouldn't tell him that she'll prosecute him if he doesn't keep off -the premises. He took her pearls; and if he's not brought them -back, that's quite enough." - -Winifred smiled. They would all plunge about with suggestions of -this and that, but she knew already what she would be doing, and -that was--nothing. The feeling that, after all, she had won a sort -of victory, retained her property, was every moment gaining ground -in her. No! if she wanted to punish him, she could do it at home -without the world knowing. - -" Well," said Emily, "come into the diningroom comfortably--you -must stay and have dinner with us. Leave it to me to tell your -father." And, as Winifred moved towards the door, she turned out -the light. Not till then did they see the disaster in the -corridor. - -There, attracted by light from a room never lighted, James was -standing with his duncoloured camel-hair shawl folded about him, so -that his arms were not free and his silvered head looked cut off -from his fashionably trousered legs as if by an expanse of desert. -He stood, inimitably stork-like, with an expression as if he saw -before him a frog too large to swallow. - -"What's all this?" he said. "Tell your father? You never tell me -anything." - -The moment found Emily without reply. It was Winifred who went up -to him, and, laying one hand on each of his swathed, helpless arms, -said: - -"Monty's not gone bankrupt, Father. He's only come back." - -They all three expected something serious to happen, and were glad -she had kept that grip of his arms, but they did not know the depth -of root in that shadowy old Forsyte. Something wry occurred about -his shaven mouth and chin, something scratchy between those long -silvery whiskers. Then he said with a sort of dignity: "He'll be -the death of me. I knew how it would be." - -"You mustn't worry, Father," said Winifred calmly. "I mean to make -him behave." - -"Ah!" said James. "Here, take this thing off, I'm hot." They -unwound the shawl. He turned, and walked firmly to the dining- -room. - -"I don't want any soup," he said to Warmson, and sat down in his -chair. They all sat down too, Winifred still in her hat, while -Warmson laid the fourth place. When he left the room, James said: -"What's he brought back?" - -"Nothing, Father." - -James concentrated his eyes on his own image in a tablespoon. -"Divorce!" he muttered; "rubbish! What was I about? I ought to -have paid him an allowance to stay out of England. Soames you go -and propose it to him." - -It seemed so right and simple a suggestion that even Winifred was -surprised when she said: "No, I'll keep him now he's back; he must -just behave--that's all." - -They all looked at her. It had always been known that Winifred had -pluck. - -"Out there!" said James elliptically, "who knows what cut-throats! -You look for his revolver! Don't go to bed without. You ought to -have Warmson to sleep in the house. I'll see him myself tomorrow." - -They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said comfortably: -"That's right, James, we won't have any nonsense." - -"Ah!" muttered James darkly, "I can't tell." - -The advent of Warmson with fish diverted conversation. - -When, directly after dinner, Winifred went over to kiss her father -good-night, he looked up with eyes so full of question and distress -that she put all the comfort she could into her voice. - -"It's all right, Daddy, dear; don't worry. I shan't need anyone-- -he's quite bland. I shall only be upset if you worry. Good-night, -bless you!" - -James repeated the words, "Bless you!" as if he did not quite know -what they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door. - -She reached home before nine, and went straight upstairs. - -Dartie was lying on the bed in his dressing-room, fully redressed -in a blue serge suit and pumps; his arms were crossed behind his -head, and an extinct cigarette drooped from his mouth. - -Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes -after a blazing summer day; the way they lay, or rather stood-- -parched, yet rested by the sun's retreat. It was as if a little -dew had come already on her burnt-up husband. - -He said apathetically: "I suppose you've been to Park Lane. How's -the old man?" - -Winifred could not help the bitter answer: "Not dead." - -He winced, actually he winced. - -"Understand, Monty," she said, "I will not have him worried. If -you aren't going to behave yourself, you may go back, you may go -anywhere. Have you had dinner?" - -No. - -"Would you like some?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"Imogen offered me some. I didn't want any." - -Imogen! In the plenitude of emotion Winifred had forgotten her. - -"So you've seen her? What did she say?" - -"She gave me a kiss." - -With mortification Winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed. -'Yes!' she thought, 'he cares for her, not for me a bit.' - -Dartie's eyes were moving from side to side. - -"Does she know about me?" he said. - -It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed. -He minded their knowing! - -"No. Val knows. The others don't; they only know you went away." - -She heard him sigh with relief. - -"But they shall know," she said firmly, "if you give me cause." - -"All right!" he muttered, "hit me! I'm down!" - -Winifred went up to the bed. "Look here, Monty! I don't want to -hit you. I don't want to hurt you. I shan't allude to anything. -I'm not going to worry. What's the use?" She was silent a moment. -"I can't stand any more, though, and I won't! You'd better know. -You've made me suffer. But I used to be fond of you. For the sake -of that...." She met the heavy-lidded gaze of his brown eyes with -the downward stare of her green-grey eyes; touched his hand -suddenly, turned her back, and went into her room. - -She sat there a long time before her glass, fingering her rings, -thinking of this subdued dark man, almost a stranger to her, on the -bed in the other room; resolutely not 'worrying,' but gnawed by -jealousy of what he had been through, and now and again just -visited by pity. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -OUTLANDISH NIGHT - -Soames doggedly let the spring come--no easy task for one conscious -that time was flying, his birds in the bush no nearer the hand, no -issue from the web anywhere visible. Mr. Polteed reported nothing, -except that his watch went on--costing a lot of money. Val and his -cousin were gone to the war, whence came news more favourable; -Dartie was behaving himself so far; James had retained his health; -business prospered almost terribly--there was nothing to worry -Soames except that he was 'held up,' could make no step in any -direction. - -He did not exactly avoid Soho, for he could not afford to let them -think that he had 'piped off,' as James would have put it--he might -want to 'pipe on' again at any minute. But he had to be so -restrained and cautious that he would often pass the door of the -Restaurant Bretagne without going in, and wander out of the -purlieus of that region which always gave him the feeling of having -been possessively irregular. - -He wandered thus one May night into Regent Street and the most -amazing crowd he had ever seen; a shrieking, whistling, dancing, -jostling, grotesque and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses -and mouth-organs, penny whistles and long feathers, every appanage -of idiocy, as it seemed to him. Mafeking! Of course, it had been -relieved! Good! But was that an excuse? Who were these people, -what were they, where had they come from into the West End? His -face was tickled, his ears whistled into. Girls cried: 'Keep your -hair on, stucco!' A youth so knocked off his top-hat that he -recovered it with difficulty. Crackers were exploding beneath his -nose, between his feet. He was bewildered, exasperated, offended. -This stream of people came from every quarter, as if impulse had -unlocked flood-gates, let flow waters of whose existence he had -heard, perhaps, but believed in never. This, then, was the -populace, the innumerable living negation of gentility and -Forsyteism. This was--egad!--Democracy! It stank, yelled, was -hideous! In the East End, or even Soho, perhaps--but here in -Regent Street, in Piccadilly! What were the police about! In -1900, Soames, with his Forsyte thousands, had never seen the -cauldron with the lid off; and now looking into it, could hardly -believe his scorching eyes. The whole thing was unspeakable! -These people had no restraint, they seemed to think him funny; such -swarms of them, rude, coarse, laughing--and what laughter! - -Nothing sacred to them! He shouldn't be surprised if they began to -break windows. In Pall Mall, past those august dwellings, to enter -which people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, dancing -dervish of a crowd was swarming. From the Club windows his own -kind were looking out on them with regulated amusement. They -didn't realise! Why, this was serious--might come to anything! -The crowd was cheerful, but some day they would come in different -mood! He remembered there had been a mob in the late eighties, -when he was at Brighton; they had smashed things and made speeches. -But more than dread, he felt a deep surprise. They were hysterical ---it wasn't English! And all about the relief of a little town as -big as--Watford, six thousand miles away. Restraint, reserve! -Those qualities to him more dear almost than life, those -indispensable attributes of property and culture, where were they? -It wasn't English! No, it wasn't English! So Soames brooded, -threading his way on. It was as if he had suddenly caught sight of -someone cutting the covenant 'for quiet possession' out of his -legal documents; or of a monster lurking and stalking out in the -future, casting its shadow before. Their want of stolidity, their -want of reverence! It was like discovering that nine-tenths of the -people of England were foreigners. And if that were so--then, -anything might happen! - -At Hyde Park Corner he ran into George Forsyte, very sunburnt from -racing, holding a false nose in his hand. - -"Hallo, Soames!" he said, "have a nose!" - -Soames responded with a pale smile. - -"Got this from one of these sportsmen," went on George, who had -evidently been dining; "had to lay him out--for trying to bash my -hat. I say, one of these days we shall have to fight these chaps, -they're getting so damned cheeky--all radicals and socialists. -They want our goods. You tell Uncle James that, it'll make him -sleep." - -'In vino veritas,' thought Soames, but he only nodded, and passed -on up Hamilton Place. There was but a trickle of roysterers in -Park Lane, not very noisy. And looking up at the houses he -thought: 'After all, we're the backbone of the country. They won't -upset us easily. Possession's nine points of the law.' - -But, as he closed the door of his father's house behind him, all -that queer outlandish nightmare in the streets passed out of his -mind almost as completely as if, having dreamed it, he had awakened -in the warm clean morning comfort of his spring-mattressed bed. - -Walking into the centre of the great empty drawing-room, he stood -still. - -A wife! Somebody to talk things over with. One had a right! Damn -it! One had a right! - - - - - - -PART III - - -CHAPTER I - -SOAMES IN PARIS - - -Soames had travelled little. Aged nineteen he had made the 'petty -tour' with his father, mother, and Winifred--Brussels, the Rhine, -Switzerland, and home by way of Paris. Aged twenty-seven, just -when he began to take interest in pictures, he had spent five hot -weeks in Italy, looking into the Renaissance--not so much in it as -he had been led to expect--and a fortnight in Paris on his way -back, looking into himself, as became a Forsyte surrounded by -people so strongly self-centred and 'foreign' as the French. His -knowledge of their language being derived from his public school, -he did not understand them when they spoke. Silence he had found -better for all parties; one did not make a fool of oneself. He had -disliked the look of the men's clothes, the closed-in cabs, the -theatres which looked like bee-hives, the Galleries which smelled -of beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore that side -of Paris supposed by Forsytes to constitute its attraction under -the rose; and as for a collector's bargain--not one to be had! As -Nicholas might have put it--they were a grasping lot. He had come -back uneasy, saying Paris was overrated. - -When, therefore, in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his -third attempt on the centre of civilisation. This time, however, -the mountain was going to Mahomet; for he felt by now more deeply -civilised than Paris, and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had -a definite objective. This was no mere genuflexion to a shrine of -taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate -affairs. He went, indeed, because things were getting past a joke. -The watch went on and on, and--nothing--nothing! Jolyon had never -returned to Paris, and no one else was 'suspect!' Busy with new -and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than ever -how essential reputation is to a solicitor. But at night and in -his leisure moments he was ravaged by the thought that time was -always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as much 'in -irons' as ever. Since Mafeking night he had become aware that a -'young fool of a doctor' was hanging round Annette. Twice he had -come across him--a cheerful young fool, not more than thirty. - -Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulness--an indecent, -extravagant sort of quality, which had no relation to facts. The -mixture of his desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming torture; -and lately the thought had come to him that perhaps Irene knew she -was being shadowed: It was this which finally decided him to go and -see for himself; to go and once more try to break down her -repugnance, her refusal to make her own and his path comparatively -smooth once more. If he failed again--well, he would see what she -did with herself, anyway! - -He went to an hotel in the Rue Caumartin, highly recommended to -Forsytes, where practically nobody spoke French. He had formed no -plan. He did not want to startle her; yet must contrive that she -had no chance to evade him by flight. And next morning he set out -in bright weather. - -Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star-shape which -almost annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely, his nose lifted a -little sideways in real curiosity. He desired now to understand -things French. Was not Annette French? There was much to be got -out of his visit, if he could only get it. In this laudable mood -and the Place de la Concorde he was nearly run down three times. -He came on the 'Cours la Reine,' where Irene's hotel was situated, -almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed on his procedure. -Crossing over to the river side, he noted the building, white and -cheerful-looking, with green sunblinds, seen through a screen of -plane-tree leaves. And, conscious that it would be far better to -meet her casually in some open place than to risk a call, he sat -down on a bench whence he could watch the entrance. It was not -quite eleven o'clock, and improbable that she had yet gone out. -Some pigeons were strutting and preening their feathers in the -pools of sunlight between the shadows of the plane-trees. A -workman in a blue blouse passed, and threw them crumbs from the -paper which contained his dinner. A 'bonne' coiffed with ribbon -shepherded two little girls with pig-tails and frilled drawers. A -cab meandered by, whose cocher wore a blue coat and a black-glazed -hat. To Soames a kind of affectation seemed to cling about it all, -a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date. A theatrical -people, the French! He lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a -sense of injury that Fate should be casting his life into out- -landish waters. He shouldn't wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this -foreign life; she had never been properly English--even to look at! -And he began considering which of those windows could be hers under -the green sunblinds. How could he word what he had come to say so -that it might pierce the defence of her proud obstinacy? He threw -the fag-end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the thought: 'I -can't stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. Better give it up -and call on her in the late afternoon.' But he still sat on, heard -twelve strike, and then half-past. 'I'll wait till one,' he -thought, 'while I'm about it.' But just then he started up, and -shrinkingly sat down again. A woman had come out in a cream- -coloured frock, and was moving away under a fawn-coloured parasol. -Irene herself! He waited till she was too far away to recognise -him, then set out after her. She was strolling as though she had -no particular objective; moving, if he remembered rightly, toward -the Bois de Boulogne. For half an hour at least he kept his -distance on the far side of the way till she had passed into the -Bois itself. Was she going to meet someone after all? Some -confounded Frenchman--one of those 'Bel Ami' chaps, perhaps, who -had nothing to do but hang about women--for he had read that book -with difficulty and a sort of disgusted fascination. He followed -doggedly along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then when -the path curved. And it came back to him how, long ago, one night -in Hyde Park he had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat -to seat, hunting blindly, ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her -and young Bosinney. The path bent sharply, and, hurrying, he came -on her sitting in front of a small fountain--a little green-bronze -Niobe veiled in hair to her slender hips, gazing at the pool she -had wept: He came on her so suddenly that he was past before he -could turn and take off his hat. She did not start up. She had -always had great self-command--it was one of the things he most -admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against her, because -he had never been able to tell what she was thinking. Had she -realised that he was following? Her self-possession made him -angry; and, disdaining to explain his presence, he pointed to the -mournful little Niobe, and said: - -"That's rather a good thing." - -He could see, then, that she was struggling to preserve her -composure. - -"I didn't want to startle you; is this one of your haunts?" - -"Yes." - -"A little lonely." As he spoke, a lady, strolling by, paused to -look at the fountain and passed on. - -Irene's eyes followed her. - -"No," she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, "never -lonely. One has always one's shadow." - -Soames understood; and, looking at her hard, he exclaimed: - -"Well, it's your own fault. You can be free of it at any moment. -Irene, come back to me, and be free." - -Irene laughed. - -"Don't!" cried Soames, stamping his foot; "it's inhuman. Listen! -Is there any condition I can make which will bring you back to me? -If I promise you a separate house--and just a visit now and then?" - -Irene rose, something wild suddenly in her face and figure. - -"None! None! None! You may hunt me to the grave. I will not -come." - -Outraged and on edge, Soames recoiled. - -"Don't make a scene!" he said sharply. And they both stood -motionless, staring at the little Niobe, whose greenish flesh the -sunlight was burnishing. - -"That's your last word, then," muttered Soames, clenching his -hands; "you condemn us both." - -Irene bent her head. "I can't come back. Good-bye!" - -A feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in Soames. - -"Stop!" he said, "and listen to me a moment. You gave me a sacred -vow--you came to me without a penny. You had all I could give you. -You broke that vow without cause, you made me a by-word; you -refused me a child; you've left me in prison; you--you still move -me so that I want you--I want you. Well, what do you think of -yourself?" - -Irene turned, her face was deadly pale, her eyes burning dark. - -"God made me as I am," she said; "wicked if you like--but not so -wicked that I'll give myself again to a man I hate." - -The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to -lay a caress all down her clinging cream-coloured frock. - -Soames could neither speak nor move. That word 'hate'--so extreme, -so primitive--made all the Forsyte in him tremble. With a deep -imprecation he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran -almost into the arms of the lady sauntering back--the fool, the -shadowing fool! - -He was soon dripping with perspiration, in the depths of the Bois. - -'Well,' he thought, 'I need have no consideration for her now; she -has not a grain of it for me. I'll show her this very day that -she's my wife still.' - -But on the way home to his hotel, he was forced to the conclusion -that he did not know what he meant. One could not make scenes in -public, and short of scenes in public what was there he could do? -He almost cursed his own thin-skinnedness. She might deserve no -consideration; but he--alas! deserved some at his own hands. And -sitting lunchless in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing -every moment, Baedeker in hand, he was visited by black dejection. -In irons! His whole life, with every natural instinct and every -decent yearning gagged and fettered, and all because Fate had -driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon this woman--so -utterly, that even now he had no real heart to set on any other! -Cursed was the day he had met her, and his eyes for seeing in her -anything but the cruel Venus she was! And yet, still seeing her -with the sunlight on the clinging China crepe of her gown, he -uttered a little groan, so that a tourist who was passing, thought: -'Man in pain! Let's see! what did I have for lunch?' - -Later, in front of a cafe near the Opera, over a glass of cold tea -with lemon and a straw in it, he took the malicious resolution to -go and dine at her hotel. If she were there, he would speak to -her; if she were not, he would leave a note. He dressed carefully, -and wrote as follows: - -"Your idyll with that fellow Jolyon Forsyte is known to me at all -events. If you pursue it, understand that I will leave no stone -unturned to make things unbearable for him. 'S. F.'" - -He sealed this note but did not address it, refusing to write the -maiden name which she had impudently resumed, or to put the word -Forsyte on the envelope lest she should tear it up unread. Then he -went out, and made his way through the glowing streets, abandoned -to evening pleasure-seekers. Entering her hotel, he took his seat -in a far corner of the dining-room whence he could see all -entrances and exits. She was not there. He ate little, quickly, -watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge over his -coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy. But still she did not come. -He went over to the keyboard and examined the names. Number -twelve, on the first floor! And he determined to take the note up -himself. He mounted red-carpeted stairs, past a little salon; -eight-ten-twelve! Should he knock, push the note under, or....? -He looked furtively round and turned the handle. The door opened, -but into a little space leading to another door; he knocked on -that--no answer. The door was locked. It fitted very closely to -the floor; the note would not go under. He thrust it back into his -pocket, and stood a moment listening. He felt somehow certain that -she was not there. And suddenly he came away, passing the little -salon down the stairs. He stopped at the bureau and said: - -"Will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note?" - -"Madame Heron left to-day, Monsieur--suddenly, about three o'clock. -There was illness in her family." - -Soames compressed his lips. "Oh!" he said; "do you know her -address?" - -"Non, Monsieur. England, I think." - -Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed -an open horse-cab which was passing. - -"Drive me anywhere!" - -The man, who, obviously, did not understand, smiled, and waved his -whip. And Soames was borne along in that little yellow-wheeled -Victoria all over star-shaped Paris, with here and there a pause, -and the question, "C'est par ici, Monsieur?" "No, go on," till the -man gave it up in despair, and the yellow-wheeled chariot continued -to roll between the tall, flat-fronted shuttered houses and plane- -tree avenues--a little Flying Dutchman of a cab. - -'Like my life,' thought Soames, 'without object, on and on!' - - - - -CHAPTER II - -IN THE WEB - - -Soames returned to England the following day, and on the third -morning received a visit from Mr. Polteed, who wore a flower and -carried a brown billycock hat. Soames motioned him to a seat. - -"The news from the war is not so bad, is it?" said Mr. Polteed. "I -hope I see you well, sir." - -"Thanks! quite." - -Mr. Polteed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into -it, and said softly: - -"I think we've done your business for you at last." - -"What?" ejaculated Soames. - -"Nineteen reports quite suddenly what I think we shall be justified -in calling conclusive evidence," and Mr. Polteed paused. - -"Well?" - -"On the 10th instant, after witnessing an interview between 17 and -a party, earlier in the day, 19 can swear to having seen him coming -out of her bedroom in the hotel about ten o'clock in the evening. -With a little care in the giving of the evidence that will be -enough, especially as 17 has left Paris--no doubt with the party in -question. In fact, they both slipped off, and we haven't got on to -them again, yet; but we shall--we shall. She's worked hard under -very difficult circumstances, and I'm glad she's brought it off at -last." Mr. Polteed took out a cigarette, tapped its end against -the table, looked at Soames, and put it back. The expression on -his client's face was not encouraging. - -"Who is this new person?" said Soames abruptly. - -"That we don't know. She'll swear to the fact, and she's got his -appearance pat." - -Mr. Polteed took out a letter, and began reading: - -"'Middle-aged, medium height, blue dittoes in afternoon, evening -dress at night, pale, dark hair, small dark moustache, flat cheeks, -good chin, grey eyes, small feet, guilty look....'" - -Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic -fury. Congenital idiot--spidery congenital idiot! Seven months at -fifteen pounds a week--to be tracked down as his own wife's lover! -Guilty look! He threw the window open. - -"It's hot," he said, and came back to his seat. - -Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Polteed. - -"I doubt if that's quite good enough," he said, drawling the words, -"with no name or address. I think you may let that lady have a -rest, and take up our friend 47 at this end." Whether Polteed had -spotted him he could not tell; but he had a mental vision of him in -the midst of his cronies dissolved in inextinguishable laughter. -'Guilty look!' Damnation! - -Mr. Polteed said in a tone of urgency, almost of pathos: "I assure -you we have put it through sometimes on less than that. It's -Paris, you know. Attractive woman living alone. Why not risk it, -sir? We might screw it up a peg." - -Soames had sudden insight. The fellow's professional zeal was -stirred: 'Greatest triumph of my career; got a man his divorce -through a visit to his own wife's bedroom! Something to talk of -there, when I retire!' And for one wild moment he thought: 'Why -not?' After all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet -and a guilty look! - -"I'm not authorised to take any risk!" he said shortly. - -Mr. Polteed looked up. - -"Pity," he said, "quite a pity! That other affair seemed very -costive." - -Soames rose. - -"Never mind that. Please watch 47, and take care not to find a -mare's nest. Good-morning!" - -Mr. Polteed's eye glinted at the words 'mare's nest!' - -"Very good. You shall be kept informed." - -And Soames was alone again. The spidery, dirty, ridiculous -business! Laying his arms on the table, he leaned his forehead on -them. Full ten minutes he rested thus, till a managing clerk -roused him with the draft prospectus of a new issue of shares, very -desirable, in Manifold and Topping's. That afternoon he left work -early and made his way to the Restaurant Bretagne. Only Madame -Lamotte was in. Would Monsieur have tea with her? - -Soames bowed. - -When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little -room, he said abruptly - -"I want a talk with you, Madame." - -The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long -expected such words. - -"I have to ask you something first: That young doctor--what's his -name? Is there anything between him and Annette?" - -Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet--clear-cut, -black, hard, shining. - -"Annette is young," she said; "so is monsieur le docteur. Between -young people things move quickly; but Annette is a good daughter. -Ah! what a jewel of a nature!" - -The least little smile twisted Soames' lips. - -"Nothing definite, then?" - -"But definite--no, indeed! The young man is veree nice, but--what -would you? There is no money at present." - -She raised her willow-patterned tea-cup; Soames did the same. -Their eyes met. - -"I am a married man," he said, "living apart from my wife for many -years. I am seeking to divorce her." - -Madame Lamotte put down her cup. Indeed! What tragic things there -were! The entire absence of sentiment in her inspired a queer -species of contempt in Soames. - -"I am a rich man," he added, fully conscious that the remark was -not in good taste. "It is useless to say more at present, but I -think you understand." - -Madame's eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked at -him very straight. - -"Ah! ca--mais nous avons le temps!" was all she said. "Another -little cup?" Soames refused, and, taking his leave, walked -westward. - -He had got that off his mind; she would not let Annette commit -herself with that cheerful young ass until....! But what chance of -his ever being able to say: 'I'm free.' What chance? The future -had lost all semblance of reality. He felt like a fly, entangled -in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air with -pitiful eyes. - -He was short of exercise, and wandered on to Kensington Gardens, -and down Queen's Gate towards Chelsea. Perhaps she had gone back -to her flat. That at all events he could find out. For since that -last and most ignominious repulse his wounded self-respect had -taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a lover. He -arrived before the little Mansions at the dinner-hour. No need to -enquire! A grey-haired lady was watering the flower-boxes in her -window. It was evidently let. And he walked slowly past again, -along the river--an evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony and -comfort, except within his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -RICHMOND PARK - - -On the afternoon that Soames crossed to France a cablegram was -received by Jolyon at Robin Hill: - -"Your son down with enteric no immediate danger will cable again." - -It reached a household already agitated by the imminent departure -of June, whose berth was booked for the following day. She was, -indeed, in the act of confiding Eric Cobbley and his family to her -father's care when the message arrived. - -The resolution to become a Red Cross nurse, taken under stimulus of -Jolly's enlistment, had been loyally fulfilled with the irritation -and regret which all Forsytes feel at what curtails their -individual liberties. Enthusiastic at first about the -'wonderfulness' of the work, she had begun after a month to feel -that she could train herself so much better than others could train -her. And if Holly had not insisted on following her example, and -being trained too, she must inevitably have 'cried off.' The -departure of Jolly and Val with their troop in April had further -stiffened her failing resolve. But now, on the point of departure, -the thought of leaving Eric Cobbley, with a wife and two children, -adrift in the cold waters of an unappreciative world weighed on her -so that she was still in danger of backing out. The reading of -that cablegram, with its disquieting reality, clinched the matter. -She saw herself already nursing Jolly--for of course they would let -her nurse her own brother! Jolyon--ever wide and doubtful--had no -such hope. Poor June! - -Could any Forsyte of her generation grasp how rude and brutal life -was? Ever since he knew of his boy's arrival at Cape Town the -thought of him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in Jolyon. He -could not get reconciled to the feeling that Jolly was in danger -all the time. The cablegram, grave though it was, was almost a -relief. He was now safe from bullets, anyway. And yet--this -enteric was a virulent disease! The Times was full of deaths -therefrom. Why could he not be lying out there in that up-country -hospital, and his boy safe at home? The un-Forsytean self-sacrifice -of his three children, indeed, had quite bewildered Jolyon. He -would eagerly change places with Jolly, because he loved his boy; -but no such personal motive was influencing them. He could only -think that it marked the decline of the Forsyte type. - -Late that afternoon Holly came out to him under the old oak-tree. -She had grown up very much during these last months of hospital -training away from home. And, seeing her approach, he thought: -'She has more sense than June, child though she is; more wisdom. -Thank God she isn't going out.' She had seated herself in the -swing, very silent and still. 'She feels this,' thought Jolyon, -'as much as I' and, seeing her eyes fixed on him, he said: "Don't -take it to heart too much, my child. If he weren't ill, he might -be in much greater danger." - -Holly got out of the swing. - -"I want to tell you something, Dad. It was through me that Jolly -enlisted and went out." - -"How's that?" - -"When you were away in Paris, Val Dartie and I fell in love. We -used to ride in Richmond Park; we got engaged. Jolly found it out, -and thought he ought to stop it; so he dared Val to enlist. It was -all my fault, Dad; and I want to go out too. Because if anything -happens to either of them I should feel awful. Besides, I'm just -as much trained as June." - -Jolyon gazed at her in a stupefaction that was tinged with irony. -So this was the answer to the riddle he had been asking himself; -and his three children were Forsytes after all. Surely Holly might -have told him all this before! But he smothered the sarcastic -sayings on his lips. Tenderness to the young was perhaps the most -sacred article of his belief. He had got, no doubt, what he -deserved. Engaged! So this was why he had so lost touch with her! -And to young Val Dartie--nephew of Soames--in the other camp! It -was all terribly distasteful. He closed his easel, and set his -drawing against the tree. - -"Have you told June?" - -"Yes; she says she'll get me into her cabin somehow. It's a single -cabin; but one of us could sleep on the floor. If you consent, -she'll go up now and get permission." - -'Consent?' thought Jolyon. 'Rather late in the day to ask for -that!' But again he checked himself. - -"You're too young, my dear; they won't let you." - -"June knows some people that she helped to go to Cape Town. If -they won't let me nurse yet, I could stay with them and go on -training there. Let me go, Dad!" - -Jolyon smiled because he could have cried. - -"I never stop anyone from doing anything," he said. - -Holly flung her arms round his neck. - -"Oh! Dad, you are the best in the world." - -'That means the worst,' thought Jolyon. If he had ever doubted his -creed of tolerance he did so then. - -"I'm not friendly with Val's family," he said, "and I don't know -Val, but Jolly didn't like him." - -Holly looked at the distance and said: - -"I love him." - -"That settles it," said Jolyon dryly, then catching the expression -on her face, he kissed her, with the thought: 'Is anything more -pathetic than the faith of the young?' Unless he actually forbade -her going it was obvious that he must make the best of it, so he -went up to town with June. Whether due to her persistence, or the -fact that the official they saw was an old school friend of -Jolyon's, they obtained permission for Holly to share the single -cabin. He took them to Surbiton station the following evening, and -they duly slid away from him, provided with money, invalid foods, -and those letters of credit without which Forsytes do not travel. - -He drove back to Robin Hill under a brilliant sky to his late -dinner, served with an added care by servants trying to show him -that they sympathised, eaten with an added scrupulousness to show -them that he appreciated their sympathy. But it was a real relief -to get to his cigar on the terrace of flag-stones--cunningly chosen -by young Bosinney for shape and colour--with night closing in -around him, so beautiful a night, hardly whispering in the trees, -and smelling so sweet that it made him ache. The grass was -drenched with dew, and he kept to those flagstones, up and down, -till presently it began to seem to him that he was one of three, -not wheeling, but turning right about at each end, so that his -father was always nearest to the house, and his son always nearest -to the terrace edge. Each had an arm lightly within his arm; he -dared not lift his hand to his cigar lest he should disturb them, -and it burned away, dripping ash on him, till it dropped from his -lips, at last, which were getting hot. They left him then, and his -arms felt chilly. Three Jolyons in one Jolyon they had walked. - -He stood still, counting the sounds--a carriage passing on the -highroad, a distant train, the dog at Gage's farm, the whispering -trees, the groom playing on his penny whistle. A multitude of -stars up there--bright and silent, so far off! No moon as yet! -Just enough light to show him the dark flags and swords of the iris -flowers along the terrace edge--his favourite flower that had the -night's own colour on its curving crumpled petals. He turned round -to the house. Big, unlighted, not a soul beside himself to live in -all that part of it. Stark loneliness! He could not go on living -here alone. And yet, so long as there was beauty, why should a man -feel lonely? The answer--as to some idiot's riddle--was: Because -he did. The greater the beauty, the greater the loneliness, for at -the back of beauty was harmony, and at the back of harmony was-- -union. Beauty could not comfort if the soul were out of it. The -night, maddeningly lovely, with bloom of grapes on it in starshine, -and the breath of grass and honey coming from it, he could not -enjoy, while she who was to him the life of beauty, its embodiment -and essence, was cut off from him, utterly cut off now, he felt, by -honourable decency. - -He made a poor fist of sleeping, striving too hard after that -resignation which Forsytes find difficult to reach, bred to their -own way and left so comfortably off by their fathers. But after -dawn he dozed off, and soon was dreaming a strange dream. - -He was on a stage with immensely high rich curtains--high as the -very stars--stretching in a semi-circle from footlights to -footlights. He himself was very small, a little black restless -figure roaming up and down; and the odd thing was that he was not -altogether himself, but Soames as well, so that he was not only -experiencing but watching. This figure of himself and Soames was -trying to find a way out through the curtains, which, heavy and -dark, kept him in. Several times he had crossed in front of them -before he saw with delight a sudden narrow rift--a tall chink of -beauty the colour of iris flowers, like a glimpse of Paradise, -remote, ineffable. Stepping quickly forward to pass into it, he -found the curtains closing before him. Bitterly disappointed he-- -or was it Soames?--moved on, and there was the chink again through -the parted curtains, which again closed too soon. This went on and -on and he never got through till he woke with the word "Irene" on -his lips. The dream disturbed him badly, especially that -identification of himself with Soames. - -Next morning, finding it impossible to work, he spent hours riding -Jolly's horse in search of fatigue. And on the second day he made -up his mind to move to London and see if he could not get -permission to follow his daughters to South Africa. He had just -begun to pack the following morning when he received this letter: - - -"GREEN HOTEL, -"June 13. -" RICHMOND. - -"MY DEAR JOLYON, - -"You will be surprised to see how near I am to you. Paris became -impossible--and I have come here to be within reach of your advice. -I would so love to see you again. Since you left Paris I don't -think I have met anyone I could really talk to. Is all well with -you and with your boy? No one knows, I think, that I am here at -present. - -"Always your friend, - -"IRENE." - - -Irene within three miles of him!--and again in flight! He stood -with a very queer smile on his lips. This was more than he had -bargained for! - -About noon he set out on foot across Richmond Park, and as he went -along, he thought: 'Richmond Park! By Jove, it suits us Forsytes!' -Not that Forsytes lived there--nobody lived there save royalty, -rangers, and the deer--but in Richmond Park Nature was allowed to -go so far and no further, putting up a brave show of being natural, -seeming to say: 'Look at my instincts--they are almost passions, -very nearly out of hand, but not quite, of course; the very hub of -possession is to possess oneself.' Yes! Richmond Park possessed -itself, even on that bright day of June, with arrowy cuckoos -shifting the tree-points of their calls, and the wood doves -announcing high summer. - -The Green Hotel, which Jolyon entered at one o'clock, stood nearly -opposite that more famous hostelry, the Crown and Sceptre; it was -modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, gooseberry -tart, and a dowager or two, so that a carriage and pair was almost -always standing before the door. - -In a room draped in chintz so slippery as to forbid all emotion, -Irene was sitting on a piano stool covered with crewel work, -playing 'Hansel and Gretel' out of an old score. Above her on a -wall, not yet Morris-papered, was a print of the Queen on a pony, -amongst deer-hounds, Scotch. caps, and slain stags; beside her in a -pot on the window-sill was a white and rosy fuchsia. The -Victorianism of the room almost talked; and in her clinging frock -Irene seemed to Jolyon like Venus emerging from the shell of the -past century. - -"If the proprietor had eyes," he said, "he would show you the door; -you have broken through his decorations." Thus lightly he -smothered up an emotional moment. Having eaten cold beef, pickled -walnut, gooseberry tart, and drunk stone-bottle ginger-beer, they -walked into the Park, and light talk was succeeded by the silence -Jolyon had dreaded. - -"You haven't told me about Paris," he said at last. - -"No. I've been shadowed for a long time; one gets used to that. -But then Soames came. By the little Niobe--the same story; would I -go back to him?" - -"Incredible!" - -She had spoken without raising her eyes, but she looked up now. -Those dark eyes clinging to his said as no words could have: 'I -have come to an end; if you want me, here I am.' - -For sheer emotional intensity had he ever--old as he was--passed -through such a moment? - -The words: 'Irene, I adore you!' almost escaped him. Then, with a -clearness of which he would not have believed mental vision -capable, he saw Jolly lying with a white face turned to a white -wall. - -"My boy is very ill out there," he said quietly. - -Irene slipped her arm through his. - -"Let's walk on; I understand." - -No miserable explanation to attempt! She had understood! And they -walked on among the bracken, knee-high already, between the -rabbitholes and the oak-trees, talking of Jolly. He left her two -hours later at the Richmond Hill Gate, and turned towards home. - -'She knows of my feeling for her, then,' he thought. Of course! -One could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman! - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -OVER THE RIVER - - -Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now too wan -and weak to dream again; left him to lie torpid, faintly -remembering far-off things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze -through the window near his cot at the trickle of river running by -in the sands, at the straggling milk-bush of the Karoo beyond. He -knew what the Karoo was now, even if he had not seen a Boer roll -over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of flying bullets. This -pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder. A -thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit--who knew? -Not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil thing its -victory--just enough to know that there were many lying here with -him, that he was sore with frenzied dreaming; just enough to watch -that thread of river and be able to remember faintly those far-away -things.... - -The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have -liked to know the time--to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth, to -hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly, home-like. -He had not even strength to remember that the old watch was last -wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of his brain beat so -feebly that faces which came and went, nurse's, doctor's, -orderly's, were indistinguishable, just one indifferent face; and -the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, and that -almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though far and faint, -were more distinct--walking past the foot of the old steps at -Harrow 'bill'--'Here, sir! Here, sir!'--wrapping boots in the -Westminster Gazette, greenish paper, shining boots--grandfather -coming from somewhere dark--a smell of earth--the mushroom house! -Robin Hill! Burying poor old Balthasar in the leaves! Dad! -Home.... - -Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water -in it--someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What could -one want? Too weak to want--only to hear his watch strike.... - -Holly! She wouldn't bowl properly. Oh! Pitch them up! Not -sneaks!... 'Back her, Two and Bow!' He was Two!... Consciousness -came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a -rising blood-red crescent moon. His eyes rested on it fascinated; -in the long minutes of brain-nothingness it went moving up and -up.... - -"He's going, doctor!" Not pack boots again? Never? 'Mind your -form, Two!' Don't cry! Go quietly--over the river--sleep!... -Dark? If somebody would--strike--his--watch!... - - - - -CHAPTER V - -SOAMES ACTS - - -A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Polteed remained unopened -in Soames' pocket throughout two hours of sustained attention to -the affairs of the 'New Colliery Company,' which, declining almost -from the moment of old Jolyon's retirement from the Chairmanship, -had lately run down so fast that there was now nothing for it but a -'winding-up.' He took the letter out to lunch at his City Club, -sacred to him for the meals he had eaten there with his father in -the early seventies, when James used to like him to come and see -for himself the nature of his future life. - -Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed -potato, he read: - - -"DEAR SIR, - -"In accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the matter -up at the other end with gratifying results. Observation of 47 has -enabled us to locate 17 at the Green Hotel, Richmond. The two have -been observed to meet daily during the past week in Richmond Park. -Nothing absolutely crucial has so far been notified. But in -conjunction with what we had from Paris at the beginning of the -year, I am confident we could now satisfy the Court. We shall, of -course, continue to watch the matter until we hear from you. - -"Very faithfully yours, - -"CLAUD POLTEED." - - -Soames read it through twice and beckoned to the waiter: - -"Take this away; it's cold." - -"Shall I bring you some more, sir?" - -"No. Get me some coffee in the other room." - -And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two -acquaintances without sign of recognition. - -'Satisfy the Court!' he thought, sitting at a little round marble -table with the coffee before him. That fellow Jolyon! He poured -out his coffee, sweetened and drank it. He would disgrace him in -the eyes of his own children! And rising, with that resolution hot -within him, he found for the first time the inconvenience of being -his own solicitor. He could not treat this scandalous matter in -his own office. He must commit the soul of his private dignity to -a stranger, some other professional dealer in family dishonour. -Who was there he could go to? Linkman and Laver in Budge Row, -perhaps--reliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding acquaintances. -But before he saw them he must see Polteed again. But at this -thought Soames had a moment of sheer weakness. To part with his -secret? How find the words? How subject himself to contempt and -secret laughter? Yet, after all, the fellow knew already--oh yes, -he knew! And, feeling that he must finish with it now, he took a -cab into the West End. - -In this hot weather the window of Mr. Polteed's room was positively -open, and the only precaution was a wire gauze, preventing the -intrusion of flies. Two or three had tried to come in, and been -caught, so that they seemed to be clinging there with the intention -of being devoured presently. Mr. Polteed, following the direction -of his client's eye, rose apologetically and closed the window. - -'Posing ass!' thought Soames. Like all who fundamentally believe -in themselves he was rising to the occasion, and, with his little -sideway smile, he said: "I've had your letter. I'm going to act. -I suppose you know who the lady you've been watching really is?" -Mr. Polteed's expression at that moment was a masterpiece. It so -clearly said: 'Well, what do you think? But mere professional -knowledge, I assure you--pray forgive it!' He made a little half -airy movement with his hand, as who should say: 'Such things--such -things will happen to us all!' - -"Very well, then," said Soames, moistening his lips: "there's no -need to say more. I'm instructing Linkman and Laver of Budge Row -to act for me. I don't want to hear your evidence, but kindly make -your report to them at five o'clock, and continue to observe the -utmost secrecy." - -Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. "My -dear sir," he said. - -"Are you convinced," asked Soames with sudden energy, "that there -is enough?" - -The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Polteed's shoulders. - -"You can risk it," he murmured; "with what we have, and human -nature, you can risk it." - -Soames rose. "You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks; don't get -up." He could not bear Mr. Polteed to slide as usual between him -and the door. In the sunlight of Piccadilly he wiped his forehead. -This had been the worst of it--he could stand the strangers better. -And he went back into the City to do what still lay before him. - -That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was -overwhelmed by his old longing for a son--a son, to watch him eat -as he went down the years, to be taken on his knee as James on a -time had been wont to take him; a son of his own begetting, who -could understand him because he was the same flesh and blood-- -understand, and comfort him, and become more rich and cultured than -himself because he would start even better off. To get old--like -that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting there--and be quite alone -with possessions heaping up around him; to take no interest in -anything because it had no future and must pass away from him to -hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! No! He would -force it through now, and be free to marry, and have a son to care -for him before he grew to be like the old old man his father, -wistfully watching now his sweetbread, now his son. - -In that mood he went up to bed. But, lying warm between those fine -linen sheets of Emily's providing, he was visited by memories and -torture. Visions of Irene, almost the solid feeling of her body, -beset him. Why had he ever been fool enough to see her again, and -let this flood back on him so that it was pain to think of her with -that fellow--that stealing fellow. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -A SUMMER DAY - - -His boy was seldom absent from Jolyon's mind in the days which -followed the first walk with Irene in Richmond Park. No further -news had come; enquiries at the War Office elicited nothing; nor -could he expect to hear from June and Holly for three weeks at -least. In these days he felt how insufficient were his memories of -Jolly, and what an amateur of a father he had been. There was not -a single memory in which anger played a part; not one -reconciliation, because there had never been a rupture; nor one -heart-to-heart confidence, not even when Jolly's mother died. -Nothing but half-ironical affection. He had been too afraid of -committing himself in any direction, for fear of losing his -liberty, or interfering with that of his boy. - -Only in Irene's presence had he relief, highly complicated by the -ever-growing perception of how divided he was between her and his -son. With Jolly was bound up all that sense of continuity and -social creed of which he had drunk deeply in his youth and again -during his boy's public school and varsity life--all that sense of -not going back on what father and son expected of each other. With -Irene was bound up all his delight in beauty and in Nature. And he -seemed to know less and less which was the stronger within him. -From such sentimental paralysis he was rudely awakened, however, -one afternoon, just as he was starting off to Richmond, by a young -man with a bicycle and a face oddly familiar, who came forward -faintly smiling. - -"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte? Thank you!" Placing an envelope in Jolyon's -hand he wheeled off the path and rode away. Bewildered, Jolyon -opened it. - -"Admiralty Probate and Divorce, Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte!" - -A sensation of shame and disgust was followed by the instant -reaction 'Why, here's the very thing you want, and you don't like -it!' But she must have had one too; and he must go to her at once. -He turned things over as he went along. It was an ironical busi- -ness. For, whatever the Scriptures said about the heart, it took -more than mere longings to satisfy the law. They could perfectly -well defend this suit, or at least in good faith try to. But the -idea of doing so revolted Jolyon. If not her lover in deed he was -in desire, and he knew that she was ready to come to him. Her face -had told him so. Not that he exaggerated her feeling for him. She -had had her grand passion, and he could not expect another from her -at his age. But she had trust in him, affection for him, and must -feel that he would be a refuge. Surely she would not ask him to -defend the suit, knowing that he adored her! Thank Heaven she had -not that maddening British conscientiousness which refused -happiness for the sake of refusing! She must rejoice at this -chance of being free after seventeen years of death in life! As to -publicity, the fat was in the fire! To defend the suit would not -take away the slur. Jolyon had all the proper feeling of a Forsyte -whose privacy is threatened: If he was to be hung by the Law, by -all means let it be for a sheep! Moreover the notion of standing -in a witness box and swearing to the truth that no gesture, not -even a word of love had passed between them seemed to him more -degrading than to take the tacit stigma of being an adulterer--more -truly degrading, considering the feeling in his heart, and just as -bad and painful for his children. The thought of explaining away, -if he could, before a judge and twelve average Englishmen, their -meetings in Paris, and the walks in Richmond Park, horrified him. -The brutality and hypocritical censoriousness of the whole process; -the probability that they would not be believed--the mere vision of -her, whom he looked on as the embodiment of Nature and of Beauty, -standing there before all those suspicious, gloating eyes was -hideous to him. No, no! To defend a suit only made a London -holiday, and sold the newspapers. A thousand times better accept -what Soames and the gods had sent! - -'Besides,' he thought honestly, 'who knows whether, even for my -boy's sake, I could have stood this state of things much longer? -Anyway, her neck will be out of chancery at last!' Thus absorbed, -he was hardly conscious of the heavy heat. The sky had become -overcast, purplish with little streaks of white. A heavy heat-drop -plashed a little star pattern in the dust of the road as he entered -the Park. 'Phew!' he thought, 'thunder! I hope she's not come to -meet me; there's a ducking up there!' But at that very minute he -saw Irene coming towards the Gate. 'We must scuttle back to Robin -Hill,' he thought. - - *************************** - -The storm had passed over the Poultry at four o'clock, bringing -welcome distraction to the clerks in every office. Soames was -drinking a cup of tea when a note was brought in to him: - - -"DEAR SIR, - -"Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte - -"In accordance with your instructions, we beg to inform you that we -personally served the respondent and co-respondent in this suit -to-day, at Richmond, and Robin Hill, respectively. -"Faithfully yours, - -"LINKMAN AND LAVER." - - -For some minutes Soames stared at that note. Ever since he had -given those instructions he had been tempted to annul them. It was -so scandalous, such a general disgrace! The evidence, too, what he -had heard of it, had never seemed to him conclusive; somehow, he -believed less and less that those two had gone all lengths. But -this, of course, would drive them to it; and he suffered from the -thought. That fellow to have her love, where he had failed! Was -it too late? Now that they had been brought up sharp by service of -this petition, had he not a lever with which he could force them -apart? 'But if I don't act at once,' he thought, 'it will be too -late, now they've had this thing. I'll go and see him; I'll go -down!' - -And, sick with nervous anxiety, he sent out for one of the -'new-fangled' motor-cabs. It might take a long time to run that -fellow to ground, and Goodness knew what decision they might come -to after such a shock! 'If I were a theatrical ass,' he thought, -'I suppose I should be taking a horse-whip or a pistol or -something!' He took instead a bundle of papers in the case of -'Magentie versus Wake,' intending to read them on the way down. He -did not even open them, but sat quite still, jolted and jarred, -unconscious of the draught down the back of his neck, or the smell -of petrol. He must be guided by the fellow's attitude; the great -thing was to keep his head! - -London had already begun to disgorge its workers as he neared -Putney Bridge; the ant-heap was on the move outwards. What a lot -of ants, all with a living to get, holding on by their eyelids in -the great scramble! Perhaps for the first time in his life Soames -thought: 'I could let go if I liked! Nothing could touch me; I -could snap my fingers, live as I wished--enjoy myself!' No! One -could not live as he had and just drop it all--settle down in -Capua, to spend the money and reputation he had made. A man's life -was what he possessed and sought to possess. Only fools thought -otherwise--fools, and socialists, and libertines! - -The cab was passing villas now, going a great pace. 'Fifteen miles -an hour, I should think!' he mused; 'this'll take people out of -town to live!' and he thought of its bearing on the portions of -London owned by his father--he himself had never taken to that form -of investment, the gambler in him having all the outlet needed in -his pictures. And the cab sped on, down the hill past Wimbledon -Common. This interview! Surely a man of fifty-two with grown-up -children, and hung on the line, would not be reckless. 'He won't -want to disgrace the family,' he thought; 'he was as fond of his -father as I am of mine, and they were brothers. That woman brings -destruction--what is it in her? I've never known.' The cab -branched off, along the side of a wood, and he heard a late cuckoo -calling, almost the first he had heard that year. He was now -almost opposite the site he had originally chosen for his house, -and which had been so unceremoniously rejected by Bosinney in -favour of his own choice. He began passing his handkerchief over -his face and hands, taking deep breaths to give him steadiness. -'Keep one's head,' he thought, 'keep one's head!' - -The cab turned in at the drive which might have been his own, and -the sound of music met him. He had forgotten the fellow's -daughters. - -"I may be out again directly," he said to the driver, "or I may be -kept some time"; and he rang the bell. - -Following the maid through the curtains into the inner hall, he -felt relieved that the impact of this meeting would be broken by -June or Holly, whichever was playing in there, so that with -complete surprise he saw Irene at the piano, and Jolyon sitting in -an armchair listening. They both stood up. Blood surged into -Soames' brain, and all his resolution to be guided by this or that -left him utterly. The look of his farmer forbears--dogged -Forsytes down by the sea, from 'Superior Dosset' back--grinned -out of his face. - -"Very pretty!" he said. - -He heard the fellow murmur: - -"This is hardly the place--we'll go to the study, if you don't -mind." And they both passed him through the curtain opening. In -the little room to which he followed them, Irene stood by the open -window, and the 'fellow' close to her by a big chair. Soames -pulled the door to behind him with a slam; the sound carried him -back all those years to the day when he had shut out Jolyon--shut -him out for meddling with his affairs. - -"Well," he said, "what have you to say for yourselves?" - -The fellow had the effrontery to smile. - -"What we have received to-day has taken away your right to ask. I -should imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery." - -"Oh!" said Soames; "you think so! I came to tell you that I'll -divorce her with every circumstance of disgrace to you both, unless -you swear to keep clear of each other from now on." - -He was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering -and his hands twitching. Neither of them answered; but their faces -seemed to him as if contemptuous. - -"Well," he said; "you--Irene?" - -Her lips moved, but Jolyon laid his hand on her arm. - -"Let her alone!" said Soames furiously. "Irene, will you swear -it?" - -"No." - -"Oh! and you?" - -"Still less." - -"So then you're guilty, are you?" - -"Yes, guilty." It was Irene speaking in that serene voice, with -that unreached air which had maddened him so often; and, carried -beyond himself, he cried: - -"You are a devil" - -"Go out! Leave this house, or I'll do you an injury." - -That fellow to talk of injuries! Did he know how near his throat -was to being scragged? - -"A trustee," he said, "embezzling trust property! A thief, -stealing his cousin's wife." - -"Call me what you like. You have chosen your part, we have chosen -ours. Go out!" - -If he had brought a weapon Soames might have used it at that -moment. - -"I'll make you pay!" he said. - -"I shall be very happy." - -At that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of -him who had nicknamed him 'the man of property,' Soames stood -glaring. It was ridiculous! - -There they were, kept from violence by some secret force. No blow -possible, no words to meet the case. But he could not, did not -know how to turn and go away. His eyes fastened on Irene's face-- -the last time he would ever see that fatal face--the last time, no -doubt! - -"You," he said suddenly, "I hope you'll treat him as you treated -me--that's all." - -He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite -relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and -got into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with his eyes -shut. Never in his life had he been so near to murderous violence, -never so thrown away the restraint which was his second nature. He -had a stripped and naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of -him--life meaningless, mind-striking work. Sunlight streamed in on -him, but he felt cold. The scene he had passed through had gone -from him already, what was before him would not materialise, he -could catch on to nothing; and he felt frightened, as if he had -been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as if with another turn -of the screw sanity would have failed him. 'I'm not fit for it,' -he thought; 'I mustn't--I'm not fit for it.' The cab sped on, and -in mechanical procession trees, houses, people passed, but had no -significance. 'I feel very queer,' he thought; 'I'll take a -Turkish bath.--I've been very near to something. It won't do.' -The cab whirred its way back over the bridge, up the Fulham Road, -along the Park. - -"To the Hammam," said Soames. - -Curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so comforting! -Crossing into the hot room he met George Forsyte coming out, red -and glistening. - -"Hallo!" said George; "what are you training for? You've not got -much superfluous." - -Buffoon! Soames passed him with his sideway smile. Lying back, -rubbing his skin uneasily for the first signs of perspiration, he -thought: 'Let them laugh! I won't feel anything! I can't stand -violence! It's not good for me!' - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -A SUMMER NIGHT - - -Soames left dead silence in the little study. "Thank you for that -good lie," said Jolyon suddenly. "Come out--the air in here is not -what it was!" - -In front of a long high southerly wall on which were trained -peach-trees the two walked up and down in silence. Old Jolyon had -planted some cupressus-trees, at intervals, between this grassy -terrace and the dipping meadow full of buttercups and ox-eyed -daisies; for twelve years they had flourished, till their dark -spiral shapes had quite a look of Italy. Birds fluttered softly in -the wet shrubbery; the swallows swooped past, with a steel-blue -sheen on their swift little bodies; the grass felt springy beneath -the feet, its green refreshed; butterflies chased each other. -After that painful scene the quiet of Nature was wonderfully -poignant. Under the sun-soaked wall ran a narrow strip of -garden-bed full of mignonette and pansies, and from the bees came a -low hum in which all other sounds were set--the mooing of a cow -deprived of her calf, the calling of a cuckoo from an elm-tree at -the bottom of the meadow. Who would have thought that behind them, -within ten miles, London began--that London of the Forsytes, with -its wealth, its misery; its dirt and noise; its jumbled stone isles -of beauty, its grey sea of hideous brick and stucco? That London -which had seen Irene's early tragedy, and Jolyon's own hard days; -that web; that princely workhouse of the possessive instinct! - -And while they walked Jolyon pondered those words: 'I hope you'll -treat him as you treated me.' That would depend on himself. Could -he trust himself? Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave -of what he adored? Could beauty be confided to him? Or should she -not be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for moments -which passed, to return only at her own choosing? 'We are a breed -of spoilers!' thought Jolyon, 'close and greedy; the bloom of life -is not safe with us. Let her come to me as she will, when she -will, not at all if she will not. Let me be just her stand-by, her -perching-place; never-never her cage!' - -She was the chink of beauty in his dream. Was he to pass through -the curtains now and reach her? Was the rich stuff of many -possessions, the close encircling fabric of the possessive instinct -walling in that little black figure of himself, and Soames--was it -to be rent so that he could pass through into his vision, find -there something not of the senses only? 'Let me,' he thought, 'ah! -let me only know how not to grasp and destroy!' - -But at dinner there were plans to be made. To-night she would go -back to the hotel, but tomorrow he would take her up to London. He -must instruct his solicitor--Jack Herring. Not a finger must be -raised to hinder the process of the Law. Damages exemplary, -judicial strictures, costs, what they liked--let it go through at -the first moment, so that her neck might be out of chancery at -last! To-morrow he would see Herring--they would go and see him -together. And then--abroad, leaving no doubt, no difficulty about -evidence, making the lie she had told into the truth. He looked -round at her; and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than a -woman was sitting there. The spirit of universal beauty, deep, -mysterious, which the old painters, Titian, Giorgione, Botticelli, -had known how to capture and transfer to the faces of their women-- -this flying beauty seemed to him imprinted on her brow, her hair, -her lips, and in her eyes. - -'And this is to be mine!' he thought. 'It frightens me!' - -After dinner they went out on to the terrace to have coffee. They -sat there long, the evening was so lovely, watching the summer -night come very slowly on. It was still warm and the air smelled -of lime blossom--early this summer. Two bats were flighting with -the faint mysterious little noise they make. He had placed the -chairs in front of the study window, and moths flew past to visit -the discreet light in there. There was no wind, and not a whisper -in the old oak-tree twenty yards away! The moon rose from behind -the copse, nearly full; and the two lights struggled, till -moonlight conquered, changing the colour and quality of all the -garden, stealing along the flagstones, reaching their feet, -climbing up, changing their faces. - -"Well," said Jolyon at last, "you'll be tired, dear; we'd better -start. The maid will show you Holly's room," and he rang the study -bell. The maid who came handed him a telegram. Watching her take -Irene away, he thought: 'This must have come an hour or more ago, -and she didn't bring it out to us! That shows! Well, we'll be -hung for a sheep soon!' And, opening the telegram, he read: - - -"JOLYON FORSYTE, Robin Hill.--Your son passed painlessly away on -June 20th. Deep sympathy"--some name unknown to him. - - -He dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. The moon shone in on -him; a moth flew in his face. The first day of all that he had not -thought almost ceaselessly of Jolly. He went blindly towards the -window, struck against the old armchair--his father's--and sank -down on to the arm of it. He sat there huddled' forward, staring -into the night. Gone out like a candle flame; far from home, from -love, all by himself, in the dark! His boy! From a little chap -always so good to him--so friendly! Twenty years old, and cut down -like grass--to have no life at all! 'I didn't really know him,' he -thought, 'and he didn't know me; but we loved each other. It's -only love that matters.' - -To die out there--lonely--wanting them--wanting home! This seemed -to his Forsyte heart more painful, more pitiful than death itself. -No shelter, no protection, no love at the last! And all the deeply -rooted clanship in him, the family feeling and essential clinging -to his own flesh and blood which had been so strong in old Jolyon -was so strong in all the Forsytes--felt outraged, cut, and torn by -his boy's lonely passing. Better far if he had died in battle, -without time to long for them to come to him, to call out for them, -perhaps, in his delirium! - -The moon had passed behind the oak-tree now, endowing it with -uncanny life, so that it seemed watching him--the oak-tree his boy -had been so fond of climbing, out of which he had once fallen and -hurt himself, and hadn't cried! - -The door creaked. He saw Irene come in, pick up the telegram and -read it. He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She sank on her -knees close to him, and he forced himself to smile at her. She -stretched up her arms and drew his head down on her shoulder. The -perfume and warmth of her encircled him; her presence gained slowly -his whole being. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -JAMES IN WAITING - - -Sweated to serenity, Soames dined at the Remove and turned his face -toward Park Lane. His father had been unwell lately. This would -have to be kept from him! Never till that moment had he realised -how much the dread of bringing James' grey hairs down with sorrow -to the grave had counted with him; how intimately it was bound up -with his own shrinking from scandal. His affection for his father, -always deep, had increased of late years with the knowledge that -James looked on him as the real prop of his decline. It seemed -pitiful that one who had been so careful all his life and done so -much for the family name--so that it was almost a byword for solid, -wealthy respectability--should at his last gasp have to see it in -all the newspapers. This was like lending a hand to Death, that -final enemy of Forsytes. 'I must tell mother,' he thought, 'and -when it comes on, we must keep the papers from him somehow. He -sees hardly anyone.' Letting himself in with his latchkey, he was -beginning to ascend he stairs when he became conscious of commotion -on the second-floor landing. His mother's voice was saying: - -"Now, James, you'll catch cold. Why can't you wait quietly?" - -His father's answering - -"Wait? I'm always waiting. Why doesn't he come in?" - -"You can speak to him to-morrow morning, instead of making a guy of -yourself on the landing." - -"He'll go up to bed, I shouldn't wonder. I shan't sleep." - -"Now come back to bed, James." - -"Um! I might die before to-morrow morning for all you can tell." - -"You shan't have to wait till to-morrow morning; I'll go down and -bring him up. Don't fuss!" - -"There you go--always so cock-a-hoop. He mayn't come in at all." - -"Well, if he doesn't come in you won't catch him by standing out -here in your dressing-gown." - -Soames rounded the last bend and came in sight of his father's tall -figure wrapped in a brown silk quilted gown, stooping over the -balustrade above. Light fell on his silvery hair and whiskers, -investing his head with, a sort of halo. - -"Here he is!" he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured, -and his mother's comfortable answer from the bedroom door: - -"That's all right. Come in, and I'll brush your hair." James -extended a thin, crooked finger, oddly like the beckoning of a -skeleton, and passed through the doorway of his bedroom. - -'What is it?' thought Soames. 'What has he got hold of now?' - -His father was sitting before the dressing-table sideways to the -mirror, while Emily slowly passed two silver-backed brushes through -and through his hair. She would do this several times a day, for -it had on him something of the effect produced on a cat by -scratching between its ears. - -"There you are!" he said. "I've been waiting." - -Soames stroked his shoulder, and, taking up a silver button-hook, -examined the mark on it. - -"Well," he said, "you're looking better." - -James shook his head. - -"I want to say something. Your mother hasn't heard." He announced -Emily's ignorance of what he hadn't told her, as if it were a -grievance. - -"Your father's been in a great state all the evening. I'm sure I -don't know what about." - -The faint 'whisk-whisk' of the brushes continued the soothing of -her voice. - -"No! you know nothing," said James. "Soames can tell me." And, -fixing his grey eyes, in which there was a look of strain, -uncomfortable to watch, on his son, he muttered: - -"I'm getting on, Soames. At my age I can't tell. I might die any -time. There'll be a lot of money. There's Rachel and Cicely got -no children; and Val's out there--that chap his father will get -hold of all he can. And somebody'll pick up Imogen, I shouldn't -wonder." - -Soames listened vaguely--he had heard all this before. Whish- -whish! went the brushes. - -"If that's all!" said Emily. - -"All!" cried James; "it's nothing. I'm coming to that." And again -his eyes strained pitifully at Soames. - -"It's you, my boy," he said suddenly; "you ought to get a divorce." - -That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for Soames' -composure. His eyes reconcentrated themselves quickly on the -buttonhook, and as if in apology James hurried on: - -"I don't know what's become of her--they say she's abroad. Your -Uncle Swithin used to admire her--he was a funny fellow." (So he -always alluded to his dead twin-'The Stout and the Lean of it,' -they had been called.) "She wouldn't be alone, I should say." And -with that summing-up of the effect of beauty on human nature, he -was silent, watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird's. -Soames, too, was silent. Whish-whish went the brushes. - -"Come, James! Soames knows best. It's his 'business." - -"Ah!" said James, and the word came from deep down; "but there's -all my money, and there's his--who's it to go to? And when he dies -the name goes out." - -Soames replaced the button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the -dressing-table coverlet. - -"The name?" said Emily, "there are all the other Forsytes." - -"As if that helped me," muttered James. "I shall be in my grave, -and there'll be nobody, unless he marries again." - -"You're quite right," said Soames quietly; "I'm getting a divorce." - -James' eyes almost started from his head. - -"What?" he cried. "There! nobody tells me anything." - -"Well," said Emily, "who would have imagined you wanted it? My -dear boy, that is a surprise, after all these years." - -"It'll be a scandal," muttered James, as if to himself; "but I -can't help that. Don't brush so hard. When'll it come on?" - -"Before the Long Vacation; it's not defended." - -James' lips moved in secret calculation. "I shan't live to see my -grandson," he muttered. - -Emily ceased brushing. "Of course you will, James. Soames will be -as quick as he can." - -There was a long silence, till James reached out his arm. - -"Here! let's have the eau-de-Cologne," and, putting it to his nose, -he moved his forehead in the direction of his son. Soames bent -over and kissed that brow just where the hair began. A relaxing -quiver passed over James' face, as though the wheels of anxiety -within were running down. - -"I'll get to bed," he said; "I shan't want to see the papers when -that comes. They're a morbid lot; I can't pay attention to them, -I'm too old." - -Queerly affected, Soames went to the door; he heard his father say: - -"Here, I'm tired. I'll say a prayer in bed." - -And his mother answering - -"That's right, James; it'll be ever so much more comfy." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -OUT OF THE WEB - - -On Forsyte 'Change the announcement of Jolly's death, among a -batch of troopers, caused mixed sensation. Strange to read that -Jolyon Forsyte (fifth of the name in direct descent) had died of -disease in the service of his country, and not be able to feel it -personally. It revived the old grudge against his father for -having estranged himself. For such was still the prestige of old -Jolyon that the other Forsytes could never quite feel, as might -have been expected, that it was they who had cut off his -descendants for irregularity. The news increased, of course, the -interest and anxiety about Val; but then Val's name was Dartie, and -even if he were killed in battle or got the Victoria Cross, it -would not be at all the same as if his name were Forsyte. Not even -casualty or glory to the Haymans would be really satisfactory. -Family pride felt defrauded. - -How the rumour arose, then, that 'something very dreadful, my -dear,' was pending, no one, least of all Soames, could tell, secret -as he kept everything. Possibly some eye had seen 'Forsyte v. -Forsyte and Forsyte,' in the cause list; and had added it to 'Irene -in Paris with a fair beard.' Possibly some wall at Park Lane had -ears. The fact remained that it was known--whispered among the -old, discussed among the young--that family pride must soon receive -a blow. - -Soames, paying one, of his Sunday visits to Timothy's--paying it -with the feeling that after the suit came on he would be paying no -more--felt knowledge in the air as he came in. Nobody, of course, -dared speak of it before him, but each of the four other Forsytes -present held their breath, aware that nothing could prevent Aunt -Juley from making them all uncomfortable. She looked so piteously -at Soames, she checked herself on the point of speech so often, -that Aunt Hester excused herself and said she must go and bathe -Timothy's eye--he had a sty coming. Soames, impassive, slightly -supercilious, did not stay long. He went out with a curse stifled -behind his pale, just smiling lips. - -Fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the -coming scandal, he was kept busy day and night with plans for his -retirement--for he had come to that grim conclusion. To go on -seeing all those people who had known him as a 'long-headed chap,' -an astute adviser--after that--no! The fastidiousness and pride -which was so strangely, so inextricably blended in him with -possessive obtuseness, revolted against the thought. He would -retire, live privately, go on buying pictures, make a great name as -a collector--after all, his heart was more in that than it had ever -been in Law. In pursuance of this now fixed resolve, he had to get -ready to amalgamate his business with another firm without letting -people know, for that would excite curiosity and make humiliation -cast its shadow before. He had pitched on the firm of Cuthcott, -Holliday and Kingson, two of whom were dead. The full name after -the amalgamation would therefore be Cuthcott, Holliday, Kingson, -Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. But after debate as to which of the -dead still had any influence with the living, it was decided to -reduce the title to Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte, of whom Kingson -would be the active and Soames the sleeping partner. For leaving -his name, prestige, and clients behind him, Soames would receive -considerable value. - -One night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a -stage of his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth, -and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war, found -his value to be some hundred and thirty thousand pounds. At his -father's death, which could not, alas, be delayed much longer, he -must come into at least another fifty thousand, and his yearly -expenditure at present just reached two. Standing among his -pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains earned by the -trained faculty of knowing better than other people. Selling what -was about to decline, keeping what was still going up, and -exercising judicious insight into future taste, he would make a -unique collection, which at his death would pass to the nation -under the title 'Forsyte Bequest.' - -If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with -Madame Lamotte. She had, he knew, but one real ambition--to live -on her 'renter' in Paris near her grandchildren. He would buy the -goodwill of the Restaurant Bretagne at a fancy price. Madame would -live like a Queen-Mother in Paris on the interest, invested as she -would know how. (Incidentally Soames meant to put a capable -manager in her place, and make the restaurant pay good interest on -his money. There were great possibilities in Soho.) On Annette he -would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds (whether designedly -or not), precisely the sum old Jolyon had settled on 'that woman.' - -A letter from Jolyon's solicitor to his own had disclosed the fact -that 'those two' were in Italy. And an opportunity had been duly -given for noting that they had first stayed at an hotel in London. -The matter was clear as daylight, and would be disposed of in half -an hour or so; but during that half-hour he, Soames, would go down -to hell; and after that half-hour all bearers of the Forsyte name -would feel the bloom was off the rose. He had no illusions like -Shakespeare that roses by any other name would smell as sweet. The -name was a possession, a concrete, unstained piece of property, the -value of which would be reduced some twenty per cent. at least. -Unless it were Roger, who had once refused to stand for Parliament, -and--oh, irony!--Jolyon, hung on the line, there had never been a -distinguished Forsyte. But that very lack of distinction was the -name's greatest asset. It was a private name, intensely -individual, and his own property; it had never been exploited for -good or evil by intrusive report. He and each member of his family -owned it wholly, sanely, secretly, without any more interference -from the public than had been necessitated by their births, their -marriages, their deaths. And during these weeks of waiting and -preparing to drop the Law, he conceived for that Law a bitter -distaste, so deeply did he resent its coming violation of his name, -forced on him by the need he felt to perpetuate that name in a -lawful manner. The monstrous injustice of the whole thing excited -in him a perpetual suppressed fury. He had asked no better than to -live in spotless domesticity, and now he must go into the witness -box, after all these futile, barren years, and proclaim his failure -to keep his wife--incur the pity, the amusement, the contempt of -his kind. It was all upside down. She and that fellow ought to be -the sufferers, and they--were in Italy! In these weeks the Law he -had served so faithfully, looked on so reverently as the guardian -of all property, seemed to him quite pitiful. What could be more -insane than to tell a man that he owned his wife, and punish him -when someone unlawfully took her away from him? Did the Law not -know that a man's name was to him the apple of his eye, that it was -far harder to be regarded as cuckold than as seducer? He actually -envied Jolyon the reputation of succeeding where he, Soames, had -failed. The question of damages worried him, too. He wanted to -make that fellow suffer, but he remembered his cousin's words, "I -shall be very happy," with the uneasy feeling that to claim damages -would make not Jolyon but himself suffer; he felt uncannily that -Jolyon would rather like to pay them--the chap was so loose. -Besides, to claim damages was not the thing to do. The claim, -indeed, had been made almost mechanically; and as the hour drew -near Soames saw in it just another dodge of this insensitive and -topsy-turvy Law to make him ridiculous; so that people might sneer -and say: "Oh, yes, he got quite a good price for her!" And he -gave instructions that his Counsel should state that the money -would be given to a Home for Fallen Women. He was a long time -hitting off exactly the right charity; but, having pitched on it, -he used to wake up in the night and think: 'It won't do, too lurid; -it'll draw attention. Something quieter--better taste.' He did -not care for dogs, or he would have named them; and it was in -desperation at last--for his knowledge of charities was limited-- -that he decided on the blind. That could not be inappropriate, and -it would make the Jury assess the damages high. - -A good many suits were dropping out of the list, which happened to -be exceptionally thin that summer, so that his case would be -reached before August. As the day grew nearer, Winifred was his -only comfort. She showed the fellow-feeling of one who had been -through the mill, and was the 'femme-sole' in whom he confided, -well knowing that she would not let Dartie into her confidence. -That ruffian would be only too rejoiced! At the end of July, on -the afternoon before the case, he went in to see her. They had not -yet been able to leave town, because Dartie had already spent their -summer holiday, and Winifred dared not go to her father for more -money while he was waiting not to be told anything about this -affair of Soames. - -Soames found her with a letter in her hand. - -"That from Val," he asked gloomily. "What does he say?" - -"He says he's married," said Winifred. - -"Whom to, for Goodness' sake?" - -Winifred looked up at him. - -"To Holly Forsyte, Jolyon's daughter." - -"What?" - -"He got leave and did it. I didn't even know he knew her. -Awkward, isn't it?" - -Soames uttered a short laugh at that characteristic minimisation. - -"Awkward! Well, I don't suppose they'll hear about this till they -come back. They'd better stay out there. That fellow will give -her money." - -"But I want Val back," said Winifred almost piteously; "I miss him, -he helps me to get on." - -"I know," murmured Soames. "How's Dartie behaving now?" - -"It might be worse; but it's always money. Would you like me to -come down to the Court to-morrow, Soames?" - -Soames stretched out his hand for hers. The gesture so betrayed -the loneliness in him that she pressed it between her two. - -"Never mind, old boy. You'll feel ever so much better when it's -all over." - -"I don't know what I've done," said Soames huskily; "I never have. -It's all upside down. I was fond of her; I've always been." - -Winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight -stirred her profoundly. - -"Of course," she said, "it's been too bad of her all along! But -what shall I do about this marriage of Val's, Soames? I don't know -how to write to him, with this coming on. You've seen that child. -Is she pretty?" - -"Yes, she's pretty," said Soames. "Dark--lady-like enough." - -'That doesn't sound so bad,' thought Winifred. 'Jolyon had style.' - -"It is a coil," she said. "What will father say? - -"Mustn't be told," said Soames. "The war'll soon be over now, -you'd better let Val take to farming out there." - -It was tantamount to saying that his nephew was lost. - -"I haven't told Monty," Winifred murmured desolately. - -The case was reached before noon next day, and was over in little -more than half an hour. Soames--pale, spruce, sad-eyed in the -witness-box--had suffered so much beforehand that he took it all -like one dead. The moment the decree nisi was pronounced he left -the Courts of Justice. - -Four hours until he became public property! 'Solicitor's divorce -suit!' A surly, dogged anger replaced that dead feeling within -him. 'Damn them all!' he thought; 'I won't run away. I'll act as -if nothing had happened.' And in the sweltering heat of Fleet -Street and Ludgate Hill he walked all the way to his City Club, -lunched, and went back to his office. He worked there stolidly -throughout the afternoon. - -On his way out he saw that his clerks knew, and answered their -involuntary glances with a look so sardonic that they were -immediately withdrawn. In front of St. Paul's, he stopped to buy -the most gentlemanly of the evening papers. Yes! there he was! -'Well-known solicitor's divorce. Cousin co-respondent. Damages -given to the blind'--so, they had got that in! At every other -face, he thought: 'I wonder if you know!' And suddenly he felt -queer, as if something were racing round in his head. - -What was this? He was letting it get hold of him! He mustn't! He -would be ill. He mustn't think! He would get down to the river -and row about, and fish. 'I'm not going to be laid up,' he -thought. - -It flashed across him that he had something of importance to do -before he went out of town. Madame Lamotte! He must explain the -Law. Another six months before he was really free! Only he did -not want to see Annette! And he passed his hand over the top of -his head--it was very hot. - -He branched off through Covent Garden. On this sultry day of late -July the garbage-tainted air of the old market offended him, and -Soho seemed more than ever the disenchanted home of rapscallionism. -Alone, the Restaurant Bretagne, neat, daintily painted, with its -blue tubs and the dwarf trees therein, retained an aloof and -Frenchified self-respect. It was the slack hour, and pale trim -waitresses were preparing the little tables for dinner. Soames -went through into the private part. To his discomfiture Annette -answered his knock. She, too, looked pale and dragged down by the -heat. - -"You are quite a stranger," she said languidly. - -Soames smiled. - -"I haven't wished to be; I've been busy." - -"Where's your mother, Annette? I've got some news for her." - -"Mother is not in." - -It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What -did she know? How much had her mother told her? The worry of -trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. -He gripped the edge of the table, and dizzily saw Annette come -forward, her eyes clear with surprise. He shut his own and said: - -"It's all right. I've had a touch of the sun, I think." The sun! -What he had was a touch of 'darkness! Annette's voice, French and -composed, said: - -"Sit down, it will pass, then." Her hand pressed his shoulder, and -Soames sank into a chair. When the dark feeling dispersed, and he -opened his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an inscrutable -and odd expression for a girl of twenty! - -"Do you feel better?" - -"It's nothing," said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble -before her was not helping him--age was enough handicap without -that. Will-power was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground -these latter months from indecision--he could not afford to lose -any more. He got up, and said: - -"I'll write to your mother. I'm going down to my river house for a -long holiday. I want you both to come there presently and stay. -It's just at its best. You will, won't you?" - -"It will be veree nice." A pretty little roll of that 'r' but no -enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added: - -"You're feeling the heat; too, aren't you, Annette? It'll do you -good to be on the river. Good-night." Annette swayed forward. -There was a sort of compunction in the movement. - -"Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee?" - -"No," said Soames firmly. "Give me your hand." - -She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips. When he -looked up, her face wore again that strange expression. 'I can't -tell,' he thought, as he went out; 'but I mustn't think--I mustn't -worry: - -But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall. English, not of her -religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy, what -had he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure, -admiration! It was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl of -twenty? He felt so ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a curious -fear of the French nature of her mother and herself. They knew so -well what they wanted. They were almost Forsytes. They would -never grasp a shadow and miss a substance - -The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame -Lamotte when he reached his Club warned him still further that he -was at the end of his tether. - - -"MY DEAR MADAME (he said), - -"You will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that I obtained my -decree of divorce to-day. By the English Law I shall not, however, -be free to marry again till the decree is confirmed six months -hence. In the meanwhile I have the honor to ask to be considered a -formal suitor for the hand of your daughter. I shall write again -in a few days and beg you both to come and stay at my river house. -"I am, dear Madame, -"Sincerely yours, - -"SOAMES FORSYTE." - - -Having sealed and posted this letter, he went into the dining-room. -Three mouthfuls of soup convinced him that he could not eat; and, -causing a cab to be summoned, he drove to Paddington Station and -took the first train to Reading. He reached his house just as the -sun went down, and wandered out on to the lawn. The air was -drenched with the scent of pinks and picotees in his flower- -borders. A stealing coolness came off the river. - -Rest-peace! Let a poor fellow rest! Let not worry and shame and -anger chase like evil nightbirds in his head! Like those doves -perched half-sleeping on their dovecot, like the furry creatures in -the woods on the far side, and the simple folk in their cottages, -like the trees and the river itself, whitening fast in twilight, -like the darkening cornflower-blue sky where stars were coming up-- -let him cease from himself, and rest! - - - - -CHAPTER X - -PASSING OF AN AGE - - -The marriage of Soames with Annette took place in Paris on the last -day of January, 1901, with such privacy that not even Emily was -told until it was accomplished. - -The day after the wedding he brought her to one of those quiet -hotels in London where greater expense can be incurred for less -result than anywhere else under heaven. Her beauty in the best -Parisian frocks was giving him more satisfaction than if he had -collected a perfect bit of china, or a jewel of a picture; he -looked forward to the moment when he would exhibit her in Park -Lane, in Green Street, and at Timothy's. - -If some one had asked him in those days, "In confidence--are you in -love with this girl?" he would have replied: "In love? What is -love? If you mean do I feel to her as I did towards Irene in those -old days when I first met her and she would not have me; when I -sighed and starved after her and couldn't rest a minute until she -yielded--no! If you mean do I admire her youth and prettiness, do -my senses ache a little when I see her moving about--yes! Do I -think she will keep me straight, make me a creditable wife and a -good mother for my children?--again, yes!" - -"What more do I need? and what more do three-quarters of the women -who are married get from the men who marry them?" And if the -enquirer had pursued his query, "And do you think it was fair to -have tempted this girl to give herself to you for life unless you -have really touched her heart?" he would have answered: "The French -see these things differently from us. They look at marriage from -the point of view of establishments and children; and, from my own -experience, I am not at all sure that theirs is not the sensible -view. I shall not expect this time more than I can get, or she can -give. Years hence I shouldn't be surprised if I have trouble with -her; but I shall be getting old, I shall have children by then. I -shall shut my eyes. I have had my great passion; hers is perhaps -to come--I don't suppose it will be for me. I offer her a great -deal, and I don't expect much in return, except children, or at -least a son. But one thing I am sure of--she has very good sense!" - -And if, insatiate, the enquirer had gone on, "You do not look, -then, for spiritual union in this marriage?" Soames would have -lifted his sideway smile, and rejoined: "That's as it may be. If I -get satisfaction for my senses, perpetuation of myself; good taste -and good humour in the house; it is all I can expect at my age. I -am not likely to be going out of my way towards any far-fetched -sentimentalism." Whereon, the enquirer must in good taste have -ceased enquiry. - -The Queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth -grey with unshed tears. Fur-coated and top-hatted, with Annette -beside him in dark furs, Soames crossed Park Lane on the morning of -the funeral procession, to the rails in Hyde Park. Little moved -though he ever was by public matters, this event, supremely -symbolical, this summing-up of a long rich period, impressed his -fancy. In '37, when she came to the throne, 'Superior Dosset' was -still building houses to make London hideous; and James, a -stripling of twenty-six, just laying the foundations of his -practice in the Law. Coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved -their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; 'tigers' swung behind -cabriolets; women said, 'La!' and owned no property; there were -manners in the land, and pigsties for the poor; unhappy devils were -hanged for little crimes, and Dickens had but just begun to write. -Well-nigh two generations had slipped by--of steamboats, railways, -telegraphs, bicycles, electric light, telephones, and now these -motorcars--of such accumulated wealth, that eight per cent. had -become three, and Forsytes were numbered by the thousand! Morals -had changed, manners had changed, men had become monkeys twice- -removed, God had become Mammon--Mammon so respectable as to deceive -himself: Sixty-four years that favoured property, and had made the -upper middle class; buttressed, chiselled, polished it, till it was -almost indistinguishable in manners, morals, speech, appearance, -habit, and soul from the nobility. An epoch which had gilded -individual liberty so that if a man had money, he was free in law -and fact, and if he had not money he was free in law and not in -fact. An era which had canonised hypocrisy, so that to seem to be -respectable was to be. A great Age, whose transmuting influence -nothing had escaped save the nature of man and the nature of the -Universe. - -And to witness the passing of this Age, London--its pet and fancy-- -was pouring forth her citizens through every gate into Hyde Park, -hub of Victorianism, happy hunting-ground of Forsytes. Under the -grey heavens, whose drizzle just kept off, the dark concourse -gathered to see the show. The 'good old' Queen, full of years and -virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last time to make a -London holiday. From Houndsditch, Acton, Ealing, Hampstead, -Islington, and Bethnal Green; from Hackney, Hornsey, Leytonstone, -Battersea, and Fulham; and from those green pastures where Forsytes -flourish--Mayfair and Kensington, St. James' and Belgravia, -Bayswater and Chelsea and the Regent's Park, the people swarmed -down on to the roads where death would presently pass with dusky -pomp and pageantry. Never again would a Queen reign so long, or -people have a chance to see so much history buried for their money. -A pity the war dragged on, and that the Wreath of Victory could not -be laid upon her coffin! All else would be there to follow and -commemorate--soldiers, sailors, foreign princes, half-masted -bunting, tolling bells, and above all the surging, great, -dark-coated crowd, with perhaps a simple sadness here and there -deep in hearts beneath black clothes put on by regulation. After -all, more than a Queen was going to her rest, a woman who had -braved sorrow, lived well and wisely according to her lights. - -Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in -Annette's, Soames waited. Yes! the Age was passing! What with -this Trade Unionism, and Labour fellows in the House of Commons, -with continental fiction, and something in the general feel of -everything, not to be expressed in words, things were very -different; he recalled the crowd on Mafeking night, and George -Forsyte saying: "They're all socialists, they want our goods." -Like James, Soames didn't know, he couldn't tell--with Edward on -the throne! Things would never be as safe again as under good old -Viccy! Convulsively he pressed his young wife's arm. There, at -any rate, was something substantially his own, domestically certain -again at last; something which made property worth while--a real -thing once more. Pressed close against her and trying to ward -others off, Soames was content. The crowd swayed round them, ate -sandwiches and dropped crumbs; boys who had climbed the plane-trees -chattered above like monkeys, threw twigs and orange-peel. It was -past time; they should be coming soon! And, suddenly, a little -behind them to the left, he saw a tallish man with a soft hat and -short grizzling beard, and a tallish woman in a little round fur -cap and veil. Jolyon and Irene talking, smiling at each other, -close together like Annette and himself! They had not seen him; -and stealthily, with a very queer feeling in his heart, Soames -watched those two. They looked happy! What had they come here -for--inherently illicit creatures, rebels from the Victorian ideal? -What business had they in this crowd? Each of them twice exiled by -morality--making a boast, as it were, of love and laxity! He -watched them fascinated; admitting grudgingly even with his arm -thrust through Annette's that--that she--Irene--No! he would not -admit it; and he turned his eyes away. He would not see them, and -let the old bitterness, the old longing rise up within him! And -then Annette turned to him and said: "Those two people, Soames; -they know you, I am sure. Who are they?" - -Soames nosed sideways. - -"What people?" - -"There, you see them; just turning away. They know you." - -"No," Soames answered; "a mistake, my dear." - -"A lovely face! And how she walk! Elle est tres distinguee!" - -Soames looked then. Into his life, out of his life she had walked -like that swaying and erect, remote, unseizable; ever eluding the -contact of his soul! He turned abruptly from that receding -vision of the past. - -"You'd better attend," he said, "they're coming now!" - -But while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the head -of the procession, he was quivering with the sense of always -missing something, with instinctive regret that he had not got them -both. - -Slow came the music and the march, till, in silence, the long line -wound in through the Park gate. He heard Annette whisper, "How sad -it is and beautiful!" felt the clutch of her hand as she stood up -on tiptoe; and the crowd's emotion gripped him. There it was--the -bier of the Queen, coffin of the Age slow passing! And as it went -by there came a murmuring groan from all the long line of those who -watched, a sound such as Soames had never heard, so unconscious, -primitive, deep and wild, that neither he nor any knew whether they -had joined in uttering it. Strange sound, indeed! Tribute of an -Age to its own death.... Ah! Ah!.... The hold on life had -slipped. That which had seemed eternal was gone! The Queen--God -bless her! - -It moved on with the bier, that travelling groan, as a fire moves -on over grass in a thin line; it kept step, and marched alongside -down the dense crowds mile after mile. It was a human sound, and -yet inhuman, pushed out by animal subconsciousness, by intimate -knowledge of universal death and change. None of us--none of us -can hold on for ever! - -It left silence for a little--a very little time, till tongues -began, eager to retrieve interest in the show. Soames lingered -just long enough to gratify Annette, then took her out of the Park -to lunch at his father's in Park Lane.... - -James had spent the morning gazing out of his bedroom window. The -last show he would see, last of so many! So she was gone! Well, -she was getting an old woman. Swithin and he had seen her crowned- --slim slip of a girl, not so old as Imogen! She had got very stout -of late. Jolyon and he had seen her married to that German chap, -her husband--he had turned out all right before he died, and left -her with that son of his. And he remembered the many evenings he -and his brothers and their cronies had wagged their heads over -their wine and walnuts and that fellow in his salad days. And now -he had come to the throne. They said he had steadied down--he -didn't know--couldn't tell! He'd make the money fly still, he -shouldn't wonder. What a lot of people out there! It didn't seem -so very long since he and Swithin stood in the crowd outside -Westminster Abbey when she was crowned, and Swithin had taken him -to Cremorne afterwards--racketty chap, Swithin; no, it didn't seem -much longer ago than Jubilee Year, when he had joined with Roger in -renting a balcony in Piccadilly. - -Jolyon, Swithin, Roger all gone, and he would be ninety in August! -And there was Soames married again to a French girl. The French -were a queer lot, but they made good mothers, he had heard. Things -changed! They said this German Emperor was here for the funeral, -his telegram to old Kruger had been in shocking taste. He should -not be surprised if that chap made trouble some day. Change! H'm! -Well, they must look after themselves when he was gone: he didn't -know where he'd be! And now Emily had asked Dartie to lunch, with -Winifred and Imogen, to meet Soames' wife--she was always doing -something. And there was Irene living with that fellow Jolyon, -they said. He'd marry her now, he supposed. - -'My brother Jolyon,' he thought, 'what would he have said to it -all?' And somehow the utter impossibility of knowing what his elder -brother, once so looked up to, would have said, so worried James -that he got up from his chair by the window, and began slowly, -feebly to pace the room. - -'She was a pretty thing, too,' he thought; 'I was fond of her. -Perhaps Soames didn't suit her--I don't know--I can't tell. We -never had any trouble with our wives.' Women had changed -everything had changed! And now the Queen was dead--well, there it -was! A movement in the crowd brought him to a standstill at the -window, his nose touching the pane and whitening from the chill of -it. They had got her as far as Hyde Park Corner--they were passing -now! Why didn't Emily come up here where she could see, instead of -fussing about lunch. He missed her at that moment--missed her! -Through the bare branches of the plane-trees he could just see the -procession, could see the hats coming off the people's heads--a lot -of them would catch colds, he shouldn't wonder! A voice behind him -said: - -"You've got a capital view here, James!" - -"There you are!" muttered James; "why didn't you come before? You -might have missed it!" - -And he was silent, staring with all his might. - -"What's the noise?" he asked suddenly. - -"There's no noise," returned Emily; "what are you thinking of?-- -they wouldn't cheer." - -"I can hear it." - -"Nonsense, James!" - -No sound came through those double panes; what James heard was the -groaning in his own heart at sight of his Age passing. - -"Don't you ever tell me where I'm buried," he said suddenly. "I -shan't want to know." And he turned from the window. There she -went, the old Queen; she'd had a lot of anxiety--she'd be glad to -be out of it, he should think! - -Emily took up the hair-brushes. - -"There'll be just time to brush your head," she said, "before they -come. You must look your best, James." - -"Ah!" muttered James; "they say she's pretty." - -The meeting with his new daughter-in-law took place in the -dining-room. James was seated by the fire when she was brought in. -He placed, his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly raised -himself. Stooping and immaculate in his frock-coat, thin as a line -in Euclid, he received Annette's hand in his; and the anxious eyes -of his furrowed face, which had lost its colour now, doubted above -her. A little warmth came into them and into his cheeks, refracted -from her bloom. - -"How are you?" he said. "You've been to see the Queen, I suppose? -Did you have a good crossing?" - -In this way he greeted her from whom he hoped for a grandson of his -name. - -Gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, Annette murmured -something in French which James did not understand. - -"Yes, yes," he said, "you want your lunch, I expect. Soames, ring -the bell; we won't wait for that chap Dartie." But just then they -arrived. Dartie had refused to go out of his way to see 'the old -girl.' With an early cocktail beside him, he had taken a 'squint' -from the smoking-room of the Iseeum, so that Winifred and Imogen -had been obliged to come back from the Park to fetch him thence. -His brown eyes rested on Annette with a stare of almost startled -satisfaction. The second beauty that fellow Soames had picked up! -What women could see in him! Well, she would play him the same -trick as the other, no doubt; but in the meantime he was a lucky -devil! And he brushed up his moustache, having in nine months of -Green Street domesticity regained almost all his flesh and his -assurance. Despite the comfortable efforts of Emily, Winifred's -composure, Imogen's enquiring friendliness, Dartie's showing-off, -and James' solicitude about her food, it was not, Soames felt, a -successful lunch for his bride. He took her away very soon. - -"That Monsieur Dartie," said Annette in the cab, "je n'aime pas ce -type-la!" - -"No, by George!" said Soames. - -"Your sister is veree amiable, and the girl is pretty. Your father -is veree old. I think your mother has trouble with him; I should -not like to be her." - -Soames nodded at the shrewdness, the clear hard judgment in his -young wife; but it disquieted him a little. The thought may have -just flashed through him, too: 'When I'm eighty she'll be -fifty-five, having trouble with me!' - -"There's just one other house of my relations I must take you to," -he said; "you'll find it funny, but we must get it over; and then -we'll dine and go to the theatre." - -In this way he prepared her for Timothy's. But Timothy's was -different. They were delighted to see dear Soames after this long -long time; and so this was Annette! - -"You are so pretty, my dear; almost too young and pretty for dear -Soames, aren't you? But he's very attentive and careful--such a -good hush...." Aunt Juley checked herself, and placed her lips -just under each of Annette's eyes--she afterwards described them to -Francie, who dropped in, as: "Cornflower-blue, so pretty, I quite -wanted to kiss them. I must say dear Soames is a perfect -connoisseur. In her French way, and not so very French either, I -think she's as pretty--though not so distinguished, not so -alluring--as Irene. Because she was alluring, wasn't she? with -that white skin and those dark eyes, and that hair, couleur de-- -what was it? I always forget." - -"Feuille morte," Francie prompted. - -"Of course, dead leaves--so strange. I remember when I was a girl, -before we came to London, we had a foxhound puppy--to 'walk' it was -called then; it had a tan top to its head and a white chest, and -beautiful dark brown eyes, and it was a lady." - -"Yes, auntie," said Francie, "but I don't see the connection." - -"Oh!" replied Aunt Juley, rather flustered, "it was so alluring, -and her eyes and hair, you know...." She was silent, as if -surprised in some indelicacy. "Feuille morte," she added suddenly; -"Hester--do remember that!".... - -Considerable debate took place between the two sisters whether -Timothy should or should not be summoned to see Annette. - -"Oh, don't bother!" said Soames. - -"But it's no trouble, only of course Annette's being French might -upset him a little. He was so scared about Fashoda. I think -perhaps we had better not run the risk, Hester. It's nice to have -her all to ourselves, isn't it? And how are you, Soames? Have you -quite got over your...." - -Hester interposed hurriedly: - -"What do you think of London, Annette?" - -Soames, disquieted, awaited the reply. It came, sensible, -composed: "Oh! I know London. I have visited before." - -He had never ventured to speak to her on the subject of the -restaurant. The French had different notions about gentility, and -to shrink from connection with it might seem to her ridiculous; he -had waited to be married before mentioning it; and now he wished he -hadn't. - -"And what part do you know best?" said Aunt Juley. - -"Soho," said Annette simply. - -Soames snapped his jaw. - -"Soho?" repeated Aunt Juley; "Soho?" - -'That'll go round the family,' thought Soames. - -"It's very French, and interesting," he said. - -"Yes," murmured Aunt Juley, "your Uncle Roger had some houses there -once; he was always having to turn the tenants out, I remember." - -Soames changed the subject to Mapledurham. - -"Of course," said Aunt Juley, "you will be going down there soon to -settle in. We are all so looking forward to the time when Annette -has a dear little...." - -"Juley!" cried Aunt Hester desperately, "ring tea!" - -Soames dared not wait for tea, and took Annette away. - -"I shouldn't mention Soho if I were you," he said in the cab. -"It's rather a shady part of London; and you're altogether above -that restaurant business now; I mean," he added, "I want you to -know nice people, and the English are fearful snobs." - -Annette's clear eyes opened; a little smile came on her lips. - -"Yes?" she said. - -'H'm!' thought Soames, 'that's meant for me!' and he looked at her -hard. 'She's got good business instincts,' he thought. 'I must -make her grasp it once for all!' - -"Look here, Annette! it's very simple, only it wants -understanding. Our professional and leisured classes still think -themselves a cut above our business classes, except of course the -very rich. It may be stupid, but there it is, you see. It isn't -advisable in England to let people know that you ran a restaurant -or kept a shop or were in any kind of trade. It may have been -extremely creditable, but it puts a sort of label on you; you don't -have such a good time, or meet such nice people--that's all." - -"I see," said Annette; "it is the same in France." - -"Oh!" murmured Soames, at once relieved and taken aback. "Of -course, class is everything, really." - -"Yes," said Annette; "comme vous etes sage." - -'That's all right,' thought Soames, watching her lips, 'only she's -pretty cynical.' His knowledge of French was not yet such as to -make him grieve that she had not said 'tu.' He slipped his arm -round her, and murmured with an effort: - -"Et vous etes ma belle femme." - -Annette went off into a little fit of laughter. - -"Oh, non!" she said. "Oh, non! ne parlez pas Francais, Soames. -What is that old lady, your aunt, looking forward to?" - -Soames bit his lip. "God knows!" he said; "she's always saying -something;" but he knew better than God. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -SUSPENDED ANIMATION - - -The war dragged on. Nicholas had been heard to say that it would -cost three hundred millions if it cost a penny before they'd done -with it! The income-tax was seriously threatened. Still, there -would be South Africa for their money, once for all. And though -the possessive instinct felt badly shaken at three o'clock in the -morning, it recovered by breakfast-time with the recollection that -one gets nothing in this world without paying for it. So, on the -whole, people went about their business much as if there were no -war, no concentration camps, no slippery de Wet, no feeling on the -Continent, no anything unpleasant. Indeed, the attitude of the -nation was typified by Timothy's map, whose animation was -suspended--for Timothy no longer moved the flags, and they could -not move themselves, not even backwards and forwards as they should -have done. - -Suspended animation went further; it invaded Forsyte 'Change, and -produced a general uncertainty as to what was going to happen next. -The announcement in the marriage column of The Times, 'Jolyon -Forsyte to Irene, only daughter of the late Professor Heron,' had -occasioned doubt whether Irene had been justly described. And yet, -on the whole, relief was felt that she had not been entered as -'Irene, late the wife,' or 'the divorced wife,' 'of Soames -Forsyte.' Altogether, there had been a kind of sublimity from the -first about the way the family had taken that 'affair.' As James -had phrased it, 'There it was!' No use to fuss! Nothing to be had -out of admitting that it had been a 'nasty jar'--in the phraseology -of the day. - -But what would happen now that both Soames and Jolyon were married -again? That was very intriguing. George was known to have laid -Eustace six to four on a little Jolyon before a little Soames. -George was so droll! It was rumoured, too, that he and Dartie had -a bet as to whether James would attain the age of ninety, though -which of them had backed James no one knew. - -Early in May, Winifred came round to say that Val had been wounded -in the leg by a spent bullet, and was to be discharged. His wife -was nursing him. He would have a little limp--nothing to speak of. -He wanted his grandfather to buy him a farm out there where he -could breed horses. Her father was giving Holly eight hundred a -year, so they could be quite comfortable, because his grandfather -would give Val five, he had said; but as to the farm, he didn't -know--couldn't tell: he didn't want Val to go throwing away his -money. - -"But you know," said Winifred, "he must do something." - -Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, -because if he didn't buy a farm it couldn't turn out badly. - -"But Val loves horses," said Winifred. "It'd be such an occupation -for him." - -Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not -Montague found them so? - -"Val's different," said Winifred; "he takes after me." - -Aunt Juley was sure that dear Val was very clever. "I always -remember," she added, "how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. His -dear grandfather was so pleased. He thought it showed such -presence of mind. I remember his saying that he ought to go into -the Navy." - -Aunt Hester chimed in: Did not Winifred think that it was much -better for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at -their age? - -"Well," said Winifred, "if they were in London, perhaps; in London -it's amusing to do nothing. But out there, of course, he'll simply -get bored to death." - -Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he -were quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as if they had no -money. Timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. Aunt -Juley wanted to know what Montague had said. - -Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked: "Wait -till the old man dies." - -At this moment Francie was announced. Her eyes were brimming with -a smile. - -"Well," she said, "what do you think of it?" - -"Of what, dear?" - -"In The Times this morning." - -"We haven't seen it, we always read it after dinner; Timothy has it -till then." - -Francie rolled her eyes. - -"Do you think you ought to tell us?" said Aunt Juley. "What was -it?" - -"Irene's had a son at Robin Hill." - -Aunt Juley drew in her breath. "But," she said, "they were only -married in March!" - -"Yes, Auntie; isn't it interesting?" - -"Well," said Winifred, "I'm glad. I was sorry for Jolyon losing -his boy. It might have been Val." - -Aunt Juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. "I wonder," she -murmured, "what dear Soames will think? He has so wanted to have a -son himself. A little bird has always told me that." - -"Well," said Winifred, "he's going to--bar accidents." - -Gladness trickled out of Aunt Juley's eyes. - -"How delightful!" she said. "When?" - -"November." - -Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a -long time for James to wait, at his age! - -To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it -themselves. Indeed, it was their great distraction. To wait! For -The Times to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews to -come in and cheer them up; for news of Nicholas' health; for that -decision of Christopher's about going on the stage; for information -concerning the mine of Mrs. MacAnder's nephew; for the doctor to -come about Hester's inclination to wake up early in the morning; -for books from the library which were always out; for Timothy to -have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not too hot, when they -could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait, one on each side -of the hearth in the drawing-room, for the clock between them to -strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying knitting-needles -and crochet-hooks, their hair ordered to stop--like Canute's waves- --from any further advance in colour. To wait in their black silks -or satins for the Court to say that Hester might wear her dark -green, and Juley her darker maroon. To wait, slowly turning over -and over, in their old minds the little joys and sorrows, events -and expectancies, of their little family world, as cows chew -patient cuds in a familiar field. And this new event was so well -worth waiting for. Soames had always been their pet, with his -tendency to give them pictures, and his almost weekly visits which -they missed so much, and his need for their sympathy evoked by the -wreck of his first marriage. This new event--the birth of an heir -to Soames--was so important for him, and for his dear father, too, -that James might not have to die without some certainty about -things. James did so dislike uncertainty; and with Montague, of -course, he could not feel really satisfied to leave no grand- -children but the young Darties. After all, one's own name did -count! And as James' ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what -precautions he was taking. He would be the first of the Forsytes to -reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on -to life. That was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty- -seven and eighty-five; though they did not want to think of -themselves when they had Timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to -think of. There was, of course, a better world. 'In my Father's -house are many mansions' was one of Aunt Juley's favourite sayings- --it always comforted her, with its suggestion of house property, -which had made the fortune of dear Roger. The Bible was, indeed, a -great resource, and on very fine Sundays there was church in the -morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into Timothy's study when -she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament -casually among the books on his little table--he was a great -reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed -that Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. And Smither -had told her more than once that she had picked books off the floor -in doing the room. Still, with all that, they did feel that heaven -could not be quite so cosy as the rooms in which they and Timothy -had been waiting so long. Aunt Hester, especially, could not bear -the thought of the exertion. Any change, or rather the thought of -a change--for there never was any--always upset her very much. -Aunt Juley, who had more spirit, sometimes thought it would be -quite exciting; she had so enjoyed that visit to Brighton the year -dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew was nice, and it was -so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, so on the whole she -was more than content to wait. - -On the morning of James' birthday, August the 5th, they felt -extraordinary animation, and little notes passed between them by -the hand of Smither while they were having breakfast in their beds. -Smither must go round and take their love and little presents and -find out how Mr. James was, and whether he had passed a good night -with all the excitement. And on the way back would Smither call in -at Green Street--it was a little out of her way, but she could take -the bus up Bond Street afterwards; it would be a nice little change -for her--and ask dear Mrs. Dartie to be sure and look in before she -went out of town. - -All this Smither did--an undeniable servant trained many years ago -under Aunt Ann to a perfection not now procurable. Mr. James, so -Mrs. James said, had passed an excellent night, he sent his love; -Mrs. James had said he was very funny and had complained that he -didn't know what all the fuss was about. Oh! and Mrs. Dartie sent -her love, and she would come to tea. - -Aunts Juley and Hester, rather hurt that their presents had not -received special mention--they forgot every year that James could -not bear to receive presents, 'throwing away their money on him,' -as he always called it--were 'delighted'; it showed that James was -in good spirits, and that was so important for him. And they began -to wait for Winifred. She came at four, bringing Imogen, and Maud, -just back from school, and 'getting such a pretty girl, too,' so -that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about Annette. -Aunt Juley, however, summoned courage to enquire whether Winifred -had heard anything, and if Soames was anxious. - -"Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie," interrupted Imogen; "he -can't be happy now he's got it." - -The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley's ears. Ah! yes; that -funny drawing of George's, which had not been shown them! But what -did Imogen mean? That her uncle always wanted more than he could -have? It was not at all nice to think like that. - -Imogen's voice rose clear and clipped: - -"Imagine! Annette's only two years older than me; it must be awful -for her, married to Uncle Soames." - -Aunt Juley lifted her hands in horror. - -"My dear," she said, "you don't know what you're talking about. -Your Uncle Soames is a match for anybody. He's a very clever man, -and good-looking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, and -not at all old, considering everything." - -Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the -'old dears,' only smiled. - -"I hope," said Aunt Juley quite severely, "that you will marry as -good a man." - -"I shan't marry a good man, Auntie," murmured Imogen; "they're -dull." - -"If you go on like this," replied Aunt Juley, still very much -upset, "you won't marry anybody. We'd better not pursue the -subject;" and turning to Winifred, she said: "How is Montague?" - -That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured: - -"I've told Smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet champagne, -Hester. I think we ought to drink dear James' health, and--and the -health of Soames' wife; only, let's keep that quite secret. I'll -Just say like this, 'And you know, Hester!' and then we'll drink. -It might upset Timothy." - -"It's more likely to upset us," said Aunt Nester. "But we must, I -suppose; for such an occasion." - -"Yes," said Aunt Juley rapturously, "it is an occasion! Only fancy -if he has a dear little boy, to carry the family on! I do feel it -so important, now that Irene has had a son. Winifred says George -is calling Jolyon 'The Three-Decker,' because of his three -families, you know! George is droll. And fancy! Irene is living -after all in the house Soames had built for them both. It does -seem hard on dear Soames; and he's always been so regular." - -That night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her glass -of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with her -prayer-book opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling yellowed -by the light from her reading-lamp. Young things! It was so nice -for them all! And she would be so happy if she could see dear -Soames happy. But, of course, he must be now, in spite of what -Imogen had said. He would have all that he wanted: property, and -wife, and children! And he would live to a green old age, like his -dear father, and forget all about Irene and that dreadful case. If -only she herself could be here to buy his children their first -rocking-horse! Smither should choose it for her at the stores, -nice and dappled. Ah! how Roger used to rock her until she fell -off! Oh dear! that was a long time ago! It was! 'In my Father's -house are many mansions--'A little scrattling noise caught her ear- --'but no mice!' she thought mechanically. The noise increased. -There! it was a mouse! How naughty of Smither to say there wasn't! -It would be eating through the wainscot before they knew where they -were, and they would have to have the builders in. They were such -destructive things! And she lay, with her eyes just moving, -following in her mind that little scrattling sound, and waiting for -sleep to release her from it. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -BIRTH OF A FORSYTE - - -Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on -the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the -garden door, without having realised that he had moved. The sound -of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed, -and the doctor gone. What, exactly, had he said? - -"This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of -her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don't -operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it's a -great risk for the mother--a great risk. In either case I don't -think she can ever have another child. In her state she obviously -can't decide for herself, and we can't wait for her mother. It's -for you to make the decision, while I'm getting what's necessary. -I shall be back within the hour." - -The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down! -No time for anything! - -The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent; then, -suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To come -before its time like this, with no chance to foresee anything, not -even to get her mother here! It was for her mother to make that -decision, and she couldn't arrive from Paris till to-night! If -only he could have understood the doctor's jargon, the medical -niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the chances properly; -but they were Greek to him--like a legal problem to a layman. And -yet he must decide! He brought his hand away from his brow wet, -though the air was chilly. These sounds which came from her room! -To go back there would only make it more difficult. He must be -calm, clear. On the one hand life, nearly certain, of his young -wife, death quite certain, of his child; and--no more children -afterwards! On the other, death perhaps of his wife, nearly -certain life for the child; and--no more children afterwards! -Which to choose?.... It had rained this last fortnight--the river -was very full, and in the water, collected round the little -house-boat moored by his landing-stage, were many leaves from the -woods above, brought off by a frost. Leaves fell, lives drifted -down--Death! To decide about death! And no one to give him a -hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing go that you could -keep; for, if it went, you couldn't get it back. It left you bare, -like those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and barer until -you, too, withered and came down. And, by a queer somersault of -thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying up there behind that -window-pane on which the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their -bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it might conceivably have been -her fate to lie, sixteen years ago. Would he have hesitated then? -Not a moment! Operate, operate! Make certain of her life! No -decision--a mere instinctive cry for help, in spite of his know- -ledge, 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 fright- -ened, he had wondered. She had a will of her own, was selfish in -her French way. And yet--so pretty! What would she wish--to take -the risk. 'I know she wants the child,' he thought. 'If it's born -dead, and no more chance afterwards--it'll upset her terribly. No -more chance! All for nothing! Married life with her for years and -years without a child. Nothing to steady her! She's too young. -Nothing to look forward to, for her--for me! For me!' He struck -his hands against his chest! Why couldn't he think without -bringing himself in--get out of himself and see what he ought to -do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in -contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself! Impossible! Out into -soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space! The very idea -was ghastly, futile! And touching there the bedrock of reality, -the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment. When -one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there'd be nothing in -it! - -He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. -He must decide! If against the operation and she died, how face -her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? -It was his child that she was having. If for the operation--then -he condemned them both to childlessness. And for what else had he -married her but to have a lawful heir? And his father--at death's -door, waiting for the news! 'It's cruel!' he thought; 'I ought -never to have such a thing to settle! It's cruel!' He turned -towards the house. Some deep, simple way of deciding! He took out -a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he knew he would not abide -by what came up! He went into the dining-room, furthest away from -that room whence the sounds issued. The doctor had said there was -a chance. In here that chance seemed greater; the river did not -flow, nor the leaves fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked -the tantalus. He hardly ever touched spirits, but now--he poured -himself out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of -blood. 'That fellow Jolyon,' he thought; 'he had children already. -He has the woman I really loved; and now a son by her! And I--I'm -asked to destroy my only child! Annette can't die; it's not -possible. She's strong!' - -He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the -doctor's carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to -come downstairs. - -"Well, doctor?" - -"The situation's the same. Have you decided?" - -"Yes," said Soames; "don't operate!" - -"Not? You understand--the risk's great?" - -In Soames' set face nothing moved but the lips. - -"You said there was a chance?" - -"A chance, yes; not much of one." - -"You say the baby must be born dead if you do?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you still think that in any case she can't have another?" - -"One can't be absolutely sure, but it's most unlikely." - -"She's strong," said Soames; "we'll take the risk." - -The doctor looked at him very gravely. "It's on your shoulders," -he said; "with my own wife, I couldn't." - -Soames' chin jerked up as if someone had hit him. - -"Am I of any use up there?" he asked. - -"No; keep away." - -"I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where." - -The doctor nodded, and went upstairs. - -Soames continued to stand, listening. 'By this time to-morrow,' he -thought, 'I may have her death on my hands.' No! it was unfair-- -monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him again, -and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The wind -was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy ragged -white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through the -screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour, glowing, -burnished-an early autumn. If it were his own life, would he be -taking that risk? 'But she'd take the risk of losing me,' he -thought, 'sooner than lose her child! She doesn't really love me!' -What could one expect--a girl and French? The one thing really -vital to them both, vital to their marriage and their futures, was -a child! 'I've been through a lot for this,' he thought, 'I'll -hold on--hold on. There's a chance of keeping both--a chance!' -One kept till things were taken--one naturally kept! He began -walking round the gallery. He had made one purchase lately which -he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it--a girl -with dull gold hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at -a little golden monster she was holding in her hand. Even at this -tortured moment he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the -bargain he had made--admire the quality of the table, the floor, -the chair, the girl's figure, the absorbed expression on her face, -the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little -monster. Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, -if....! He turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to -the window. Some of his doves had flown up from their perches -round the dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In -the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew -far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed -the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her hand; -they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came into -his throat. She would not--could nod die! She was too--too -sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in -spite of her fair prettiness - -It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and -stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the -stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound -caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his -heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death coming -from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She came to -the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly: - -"The doctor wants to see you, sir." - -He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and -said: - -"Oh, Sir! it's over." - -"Over?" said Soames, with a sort of menace; "what d'you mean?" - -"It's born, sir." - -He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on -the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow. - -"Well?" he said; "quick!" - -"Both living; it's all right, I think." - -Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes. - -"I congratulate you," he heard the doctor say; "it was touch and -go." - -Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face. - -"Thanks," he said; "thanks very much. What is it?" - -"Daughter--luckily; a son would have killed her--the head." - -A daughter! - -"The utmost care of both," he hearts the doctor say, "and we shall -do. When does the mother come?" - -"To-night, between nine and ten, I hope." - -"I'll stay till then. Do you want to see them?" - -"Not now," said Soames; "before you go. I'll have dinner sent up -to you." And he went downstairs. - -Relief unspeakable, and yet--a daughter! It seemed to him unfair. -To have taken that risk--to have been through this agony--and what -agony!--for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood -logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust -himself. 'My father!' he thought. A bitter disappointment, no -disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And -there was no other--at least, if there was, it was no use! - -While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him. - -"Come up at once, your father sinking fast. ---MOTHER." - -He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he -couldn't feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this. -Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame's train, -if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty--he would meet that, -and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically, -and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him. - -"They're sleeping." - -"I won't go in," said Soames with relief. "My father's dying; I -have to--go up. Is it all right?" - -The doctor's face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. 'If -they were all as unemotional' he might have been saying. - -"Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You'll be down soon?" - -"To-morrow," said Soames. "Here's the address." - -The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy. - -"Good-night!" said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on his -fur coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a cigarette -in the carriage--one of his rare cigarettes. The night was windy -and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to search out the -way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless night--to die! - -The London train came in just as he reached the station, and Madame -Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the lamplight, -came towards the exit with a dressing-bag. - -"This all you have?" asked Soames. - -"But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?" - -"Doing well--both. A girl!" - -"A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!" - -Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed -into the brougham. - -"And you, mon cher?" - -"My father's dying," said Soames between his teeth. "I'm going up. -Give my love to Annette." - -"Tiens!" murmured Madame Lamotte; "quel malheur!" - -Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. 'The -French!' he thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -JAMES IS TOLD - - -A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the -air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the room -he had not left since the middle of September--and James was in -deep waters. A little cold, passing his little strength and flying -quickly to his lungs. "He mustn't catch cold," the doctor had -declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt it in -his throat he had said to his nurse--for he had one now--"There, I -knew how it would be, airing the room like that!" For a whole day -he was highly nervous about himself and went in advance of all -precautions and remedies; drawing every breath with extreme care -and having his temperature taken every hour. Emily was not -alarmed. - -But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: "He won't -have his temperature taken." - -Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said -softly, "How do you feel, James?" holding the thermometer to his -lips. James looked up at her. - -"What's the good of that?" he murmured huskily; "I don't want to -know." - -Then she was alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked -terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had 'had -trouble' with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been James -for nearly fifty years; she couldn't remember or imagine life -without James--James, behind all his fussiness, his pessimism, his -crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and generous to them -all! - -All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was -in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his -face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. -His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of -energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It touched -her deeply; and though her face was composed and comfortable in the -sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when she was out of it. - -About tea-time on the third day--she had just changed her dress, -keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed -everything--she saw a difference. 'It's no use; I'm tired,' was -written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to -him, he muttered: "Send for Soames." - -"Yes, James," she said comfortably; "all right--at once." And she -kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it off -she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and without -hope now, she sent Soames the telegram. - -When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was -still as a grave. Warmson's broad face looked almost narrow; he -took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying: - -"Will you have a glass of wine, sir?" - -Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry. - -Warmson's lips twitched. "He's asking for you, sir;" and suddenly -he blew his nose. "It's a long time, sir," he said, "that I've -been with Mr. Forsyte--a long time." - -Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs. -This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never seemed -to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last pilgrimage -to his father's room. It was not his taste; but in its own sub- -stantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and security. -And the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold and lonely - -He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned -the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived. The -light was shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the far -side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side where -was an empty chair. 'For me!' thought Soames. As he moved from -the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his hand -and they sat down again. He went up to the chair and stood looking -at his father. James' breathing was as if strangled; his eyes were -closed. And in Soames, looking on his father so worn and white and -wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there rose a -passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel, inexorable -Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body, slowly -pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the being who was -dearest to him in the world. His father, of all men, had lived a -careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was his reward--to -have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him! And, without -knowing that he spoke, he said: "It's cruel!" - -He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face towards -the bed. Women! They put up with things so much. better than -men. He took a step nearer to his father. For three days James -had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered with hair, -hardly more snowy than his forehead. It softened his face, gave it -a queer look already not of this world. His eyes opened. Soames -went quite close and bent over. The lips moved. - -"Here I am, Father:" - -"Um--what--what news? They never tell...." the voice died, and a -flood of emotion made Soames' face work so that he could not speak. -Tell him?--yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his lips -together, and said: - -"Good news, dear, good--Annette, a son." - -"Ah!" It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful, -triumphant--like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. The -eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again. -Soames recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. The lie he had -told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct that -after death James would not know the truth, had taken away all -power of feeling for the moment. His arm brushed against -something. It was his father's naked foot. In the struggle to -breathe he had pushed it out from under the clothes. Soames took -it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold. -What use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder soon! -He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his father's -laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose again within -him. A little sob, quickly smothered, came from Winifred, but his -mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on James. Soames signed to -the nurse. - -"Where's the doctor?" he whispered. - -"He's been sent for." - -"Can't you do anything to ease his breathing?" - -"Only an injection; and he can't stand it. The doctor said, while -he was fighting...." - -"He's not fighting," whispered Soames, "he's being slowly -smothered. It's awful." - -James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. -Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands, -and Soames took them. - -"He wants to be pulled up," whispered the nurse. - -Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of -anger passed over James' face. The nurse plumped the pillows. -Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father's -forehead. As he was raising himself again, James' eyes bent on him -a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was left -within. 'I'm done, my boy,' it seemed to say, 'take care of them, -take care of yourself; take care--I leave it all to you.' - -"Yes, Yes," Soames whispered, "yes, yes." - -Behind him the nurse did he knew, not what, for his father made a -tiny movement of repulsion as if resenting that interference; and -almost at once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay very -still. The strained expression on his face passed, a curious white -tranquillity took its place. His eyelids quivered, rested; the -whole face rested; at ease. Only by the faint puffing of his lips -could they tell that he was breathing. Soames sank back on his -chair, and fell to cherishing the foot again. He heard the nurse -quietly crying over there by the fire; curious that she, a -stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! He heard the -quiet lick and flutter of the fire flames. One more old Forsyte -going to his long rest--wonderful, they were!--wonderful how he had -held on! His mother and Winifred were leaning forward, hanging on -the sight of James' lips. But Soames bent sideways over the feet, -warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder though -they grew. Suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful sound such -as he had never heard, was coming from his father's lips, as if an -outraged heart had broken with a long moan. What a strong heart, -to have uttered that farewell! It ceased. Soaines looked into the -face. No motion; no breath! Dead! He kissed the brow, turned -round and went out of the room. He ran upstairs to the bedroom, -his old bedroom, still kept for him; flung himself face down on the -bed, and broke into sobs which he stilled with the pillow.... - -A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James -lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with the -gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the worn -fine gravity of old coins. - -Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room -with windows thrown open to the London night. - -"Good-bye!" he whispered, and went out. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -HIS - - -He had much to see to, that night and all next day. A telegram at -breakfast reassured him about Annette, and he only caught the last -train back to Reading, with Emily's kiss on his forehead and in his -ears her words: - -"I don't know what I should have done without you, my dear boy." - -He reached his house at midnight. The weather had changed, was -mild again, as though, having finished its work and sent a Forsyte -to his last account, it could relax. A second telegram, received -at dinner-time, had confirmed the good news of Annette, and, -instead of going in, Soames passed down through the garden in the -moonlight to his houseboat. He could sleep there quite well. -Bitterly tired, he lay down on the sofa in his fur coat and fell -asleep. He woke soon after dawn and went on deck. He stood -against the rail, looking west where the river swept round in a -wide curve under the woods. In Soames, appreciation of natural -beauty was curiously like that of his farmer ancestors, a sense of -grievance if it wasn't there, sharpened, no doubt, and civilised, -by his researches among landscape painting. But dawn has power to -fertilise the most matter-of-fact vision, and he was stirred. It -was another world from the river he knew, under that remote cool -light; a world into which man had not entered, an unreal world, -like some strange shore sighted by discovery. Its colour was not -the colour of convention, was hardly colour at all; its shapes were -brooding yet distinct; its silence stunning; it had no scent. Why -it should move him he could not tell, unless it were that he felt -so alone in it, bare of all relationship and all possessions. Into -such a world his father might be voyaging, for all resemblance it -had to the world he had left. And Soames took refuge from it in -wondering what painter could have done it justice. The white-grey -water was like--like the belly of a fish! Was it possible that -this world on which he looked was all private property, except the -water--and even that was tapped! No tree, no shrub, not a blade of -grass, not a bird or beast, not even a fish that was not owned. -And once on a time all this was jungle and marsh and water, and -weird creatures roamed and sported without human cognizance to give -them names; rotting luxuriance had rioted where those tall, care- -fully planted woods came down to the water, and marsh-misted reeds -on that far side had covered all the pasture. Well! they had got -it under, kennelled it all up, labelled it, and stowed it in -lawyers' offices. And a good thing too! But once in a way, as -now, the ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper -to any human who chanced to be awake: 'Out of my unowned loneliness -you all came, into it some day you will all return.' - -And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world-new -to him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of -its past--went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he -had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two -paragraphs: - -"On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte, -in his ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at Highgate. -No flowers by request." - -"On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife of -Soames Forsyte, of a daughter." And underneath on the -blottingpaper he traced the word "son." - -It was eight o'clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went -across to the house. Bushes across the river stood round and -bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue -and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the -sunlight. - -He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh -linen and dark clothes. - -Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down. - -She looked at his clothes, said, "Don't tell me!" and pressed his -hand. "Annette is prettee well. But the doctor say she can never -have no more children. You knew that?" Soames nodded. "It's a -pity. Mais la petite est adorable. Du cafe?" - -Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended him-- -solid, matter-of-fact, quick, clear--French. He could not bear her -vowels, her 'r's'; he resented the way she had looked at him, as if -it were his fault that Annette could never bear him a son! His -fault! He even resented her cheap adoration of the daughter he had -not yet seen. - -Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child! - -One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment. -On the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from it-- -fastidious possessor that he was. He was afraid of what Annette -was thinking of him, author of her agonies, afraid of the look of -the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the present -and--the future. - -He spent an hour walking up and down the drawing-room before he -could screw his courage up to mount the stairs and knock on the -door of their room. - -Madame Lamotte opened it. - -"Ah! At last you come! Elle vous attend!" She passed him, and -Soames went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his -eyes furtive. - -Annette was very pale and very pretty lying there. The baby was -hidden away somewhere; he could not see it. He went up to the bed, -and with sudden emotion bent and kissed her forehead. - -"Here you are then, Soames," she said. "I am not so bad now. But -I suffered terribly, terribly. I am glad I cannot have any more. -Oh! how I suffered!" - -Soames stood silent, stroking her hand; words of endearment, of -sympathy, absolutely would not come; the thought passed through -him: 'An English girl wouldn't have said that!' At this moment he -knew with certainty that he would never be near to her in spirit -and in truth, nor she to him. He had collected her--that was all! -And Jolyon's words came rushing into his mind: "I should imagine -you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery." Well, he had -got it out! Had he got it in again? - -"We must feed you up," he said, "you'll soon be strong." - -"Don't you want to see baby, Soames? She is asleep." - -"Of course," said Soames, "very much." - -He passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood -staring. For the first moment what he saw was much what he had -expected to see--a baby. But as he stared and the baby breathed -and made little sleeping movements with its tiny features, it -seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture, a -thing he would know again; not repulsive, strangely bud-like and -touching. It had dark hair. He touched it with his finger, he -wanted to see its eyes. They opened, they were dark--whether blue -or brown he could not tell. The eyes winked, stared, they had a -sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart felt queer, -warm, as if elated. - -"Ma petite fleur!" Annette said softly. - -"Fleur," repeated Soames: "Fleur! we'll call her that." - -The sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him. - -By God! this--this thing was his! - - - - - - -THE FORSYTE SAGA - -VOLUME III--AWAKENING and TO LET - -By John Galsworthy - - - - -AWAKENING - - -Through the massive skylight illuminating the hall at Robin Hill, the -July sunlight at five o'clock fell just where the broad stairway -turned; and in that radiant streak little Jon Forsyte stood, blue- -linen-suited. His hair was shining, and his eyes, from beneath a -frown, for he was considering how to go downstairs, this last of -innumerable times, before the car brought his father and mother home. -Four at a time, and five at the bottom? Stale! Down the banisters? -But in which fashion? On his face, feet foremost? Very stale. On -his stomach, sideways? Paltry! On his back, with his arms stretched -down on both sides? Forbidden! Or on his face, head foremost, in a -manner unknown as yet to any but himself? Such was the cause of the -frown on the illuminated face of little Jon.... - -In that Summer of 1909 the simple souls who even then desired to -simplify the English tongue, had, of course, no cognizance of little -Jon, or they would have claimed him for a disciple. But one can be -too simple in this life, for his real name was Jolyon, and his living -father and dead half-brother had usurped of old the other -shortenings, Jo and Jolly. As a fact little Jon had done his best to -conform to convention and spell himself first Jhon, then John; not -till his father had explained the sheer necessity, had he spelled his -name Jon. - -Up till now that father had possessed what was left of his heart by -the groom, Bob, who played the concertina, and his nurse "Da," who -wore the violet dress on Sundays, and enjoyed the name of Spraggins -in that private life lived at odd moments even by domestic servants. -His mother had only appeared to him, as it were in dreams, smelling -delicious, smoothing his forehead just before he fell asleep, and -sometimes docking his hair, of a golden brown colour. When he cut -his head open against the nursery fender she was there to be bled -over; and when he had nightmare she would sit on his bed and cuddle -his head against her neck. She was precious but remote, because "Da" -was so near, and there is hardly room for more than one woman at a -time in a man's heart. With his father, too, of course, he had -special bonds of union; for little Jon also meant to be a painter -when he grew up--with the one small difference, that his father -painted pictures, and little Jon intended to paint ceilings and -walls, standing on a board between two step-ladders, in a dirty-white -apron, and a lovely smell of whitewash. His father also took him -riding in Richmond Park, on his pony, Mouse, so-called because it was -so-coloured. - -Little Jon had been born with a silver spoon in a mouth which was -rather curly and large. He had never heard his father or his mother -speak in an angry voice, either to each other, himself, or anybody -else; the groom, Bob, Cook, Jane, Bella and the other servants, even -"Da," who alone restrained him in his courses, had special voices -when they talked to him. He was therefore of opinion that the world -was a place of perfect and perpetual gentility and freedom. - -A child of 1901, he had come to consciousness when his country, just -over that bad attack of scarlet fever, the Boer War, was preparing -for the Liberal revival of 1906. Coercion was unpopular, parents had -exalted notions of giving their offspring a good time. They spoiled -their rods, spared their children, and anticipated the results with -enthusiasm. In choosing, moreover, for his father an amiable man of -fifty-two, who had already lost an only son, and for his mother a -woman of thirty-eight, whose first and only child he was, little Jon -had done well and wisely. What had saved him from becoming a cross -between a lap dog and a little prig, had been his father's adoration -of his mother, for even little Jon could see that she was not merely -just his mother, and that he played second fiddle to her in his -father's heart: What he played in his mother's heart he knew not yet. -As for "Auntie" June, his half-sister (but so old that she had grown -out of the relationship) she loved him, of course, but was too -sudden. His devoted "Da," too, had a Spartan touch. His bath was -cold and his knees were bare; he was not encouraged to be sorry for -himself. As to the vexed question of his education, little Jon -shared the theory of those who considered that children should not be -forced. He rather liked the Mademoiselle who came for two hours -every morning to teach him her language, together with history, -geography and sums; nor were the piano lessons which his mother gave -him disagreeable, for she had a way of luring him from tune to tune, -never making him practise one which did not give him pleasure, so -that he remained eager to convert ten thumbs into eight fingers. -Under his father he learned to draw pleasure-pigs and other animals. -He was not a highly educated little boy. Yet, on the whole, the -silver spoon stayed in his mouth without spoiling it, though "Da" -sometimes said that other children would do him a "world of good." - -It was a disillusionment, then, when at the age of nearly seven she -held him down on his back, because he wanted to do something of which -she did not approve. This first interference with the free -individualism of a Forsyte drove him almost frantic. There was -something appalling in the utter helplessness of that position, and -the uncertainty as to whether it would ever come to an end. Suppose -she never let him get up any more! He suffered torture at the top of -his voice for fifty seconds. Worse than anything was his perception -that "Da" had taken all that time to realise the agony of fear he was -enduring. Thus, dreadfully, was revealed to him the lack of -imagination in the human being. - -When he was let up he remained convinced that "Da" had done a -dreadful thing. Though he did not wish to bear witness against her, -he had been compelled, by fear of repetition, to seek his mother and -say: "Mum, don't let 'Da' hold me down on my back again." - -His mother, her hands held up over her head, and in them two plaits -of hair--"couleur de feuille morte," as little Jon had not yet -learned to call it--had looked at him with eyes like little bits of -his brown velvet tunic, and answered: - -"No, darling, I won't." - -She, being in the nature of a goddess, little Jon was satisfied; -especially when, from under the dining-table at breakfast, where he -happened to be waiting for a mushroom, he had overheard her say to -his father: - -"Then, will you tell 'Da,' dear, or shall I? She's so devoted to -him"; and his father's answer: - -"Well, she mustn't show it that way. I know exactly what it feels -like to be held down on one's back. No Forsyte can stand it for a -minute." - -Conscious that they did not know him to be under the table, little -Jon was visited by the quite new feeling of embarrassment, and stayed -where he was, ravaged by desire for the mushroom. - -Such had been his first dip into the dark abysses of existence. -Nothing much had been revealed to him after that, till one day, -having gone down to the cow-house for his drink of milk fresh from -the cow, after Garratt had finished milking, he had seen Clover's -calf, dead. Inconsolable, and followed by an upset Garratt, he had -sought "Da"; but suddenly aware that she was not the person he -wanted, had rushed away to find his father, and had run into the arms -of his mother. - -"Clover's calf's dead! Oh! Oh! It looked so soft!" - -His mother's clasp, and her: - -"Yes, darling, there, there!" had stayed his sobbing. But if -Clover's calf could die, anything could--not only bees, flies, -beetles and chickens--and look soft like that! This was appalling-- -and soon forgotten! - -The next thing had been to sit on a bumble bee, a poignant -experience, which his mother had understood much better than "Da"; -and nothing of vital importance had happened after that till the year -turned; when, following a day of utter wretchedness, he had enjoyed a -disease composed of little spots, bed, honey in a spoon, and many -Tangerine oranges. It was then that the world had flowered. To -"Auntie" June he owed that flowering, for no sooner was he a little -lame duck than she came rushing down from London, bringing with her -the books which had nurtured her own Berserker spirit, born in the -noted year of 1869. Aged, and of many colours, they were stored with -the most formidable happenings. Of these she read to little Jon, -till he was allowed to read to himself; whereupon she whisked back to -London and left them with him in a heap. Those books cooked his -fancy, till he thought and dreamed of nothing but midshipmen and -dhows, pirates, rafts, sandal-wood traders, iron horses, sharks, -battles, Tartars, Red Indians, balloons, North Poles and other -extravagant delights. The moment he was suffered to get up, he -rigged his bed fore and aft, and set out from it in a narrow bath -across green seas of carpet, to a rock, which he climbed by means of -its mahogany drawer knobs, to sweep the horizon with his drinking -tumbler screwed to his eye, in search of rescuing sails. He made a -daily raft out of the towel stand, the tea tray, and his pillows. He -saved the juice from his French plums, bottled it in an empty -medicine bottle, and provisioned the raft with the rum that it -became; also with pemmican made out of little saved-up bits of -chicken sat on and dried at the fire; and with lime juice against -scurvy, extracted from the peel of his oranges and a little -economised juice. He made a North Pole one morning from the whole of -his bedclothes except the bolster, and reached it in a birch-bark -canoe (in private life the fender), after a terrible encounter with a -polar bear fashioned from the bolster and four skittles dressed up in -"Da's" nightgown. After that, his father, seeking to steady his -imagination, brought him Ivanboe, Bevis, a book about King Arthur, -and Tom Brown's Schooldays. He read the first, and for three days -built, defended and stormed Front de Boeuf's castle, taking every -part in the piece except those of Rebecca and Rowena; with piercing -cries of: "En avant, de Bracy!" and similar utterances. After -reading the book about King Arthur he became almost exclusively Sir -Lamorac de Galis, because, though there was very little about him, he -preferred his name to that of any other knight; and he rode his old -rocking-horse to death, armed with a long bamboo. Bevis he found -tame; besides, it required woods and animals, of which he had none in -his nursery, except his two cats, Fitz and Puck Forsyte, who -permitted no liberties. For Tom Brown he was as yet too young. -There was relief in the house when, after the fourth week, he was -permitted to go down and out. - -The month being March the trees were exceptionally like the masts of -ships, and for little Jon that was a wonderful Spring, extremely hard -on his knees, suits, and the patience of "Da," who had the washing -and reparation of his clothes. Every morning the moment his -breakfast was over, he could be viewed by his mother and father, -whose windows looked out that way, coming from the study, crossing -the terrace, climbing the old oak tree, his face resolute and his -hair bright. He began the day thus because there was not time to go -far afield before his lessons. The old tree's variety never staled; -it had mainmast, foremast, top-gallant mast, and he could always come -down by the halyards--or ropes of the swing. After his lessons, -completed by eleven, he would go to the kitchen for a thin piece of -cheese, a biscuit and two French plums--provision enough for a jolly- -boat at least--and eat it in some imaginative way; then, armed to the -teeth with gun, pistols, and sword, he would begin the serious -climbing of the morning, encountering by the way innumerable slavers, -Indians, pirates, leopards, and bears. He was seldom seen at that -hour of the day without a cutlass in his teeth (like Dick Needham) -amid the rapid explosion of copper caps. And many were the gardeners -he brought down with yellow peas shot out of his little gun. He -lived a life of the most violent action. - -"Jon," said his father to his mother, under the oak tree, "is -terrible. I'm afraid he's going to turn out a sailor, or something -hopeless. Do you see any sign of his appreciating beauty?" - -"Not the faintest." - -"Well, thank heaven he's no turn for wheels or engines! I can bear -anything but that. But I wish he'd take more interest in Nature." - -"He's imaginative, Jolyon." - -"Yes, in a sanguinary way. Does he love anyone just now?" - -"No; only everyone. There never was anyone born more loving or more -lovable than Jon." - -"Being your boy, Irene." - -At this moment little Jon, lying along a branch high above them, -brought them down with two peas; but that fragment of talk lodged, -thick, in his small gizzard. Loving, lovable, imaginative, -sanguinary! - -The leaves also were thick by now, and it was time for his birthday, -which, occurring every year on the twelfth of May, was always -memorable for his chosen dinner of sweetbread, mushrooms, macaroons, -and ginger beer. - -Between that eighth birthday, however, and the afternoon when he -stood in the July radiance at the turning of the stairway, several -important things had happened. - -"Da," worn out by washing his knees, or moved by that mysterious -instinct which forces even nurses to desert their nurslings, left the -very day after his birthday in floods of tears "to be married"--of -all things--"to a man." Little Jon, from whom it had been kept, was -inconsolable for an afternoon. It ought not to have been kept from -him! Two large boxes of soldiers and some artillery, together with -The Young Buglers, which had been among his birthday presents, -cooperated with his grief in a sort of conversion, and instead of -seeking adventures in person and risking his own life, he began to -play imaginative games, in which he risked the lives of countless tin -soldiers, marbles, stones and beans. Of these forms of "chair a -canon" he made collections, and, using them alternately, fought the -Peninsular, the Seven Years, the Thirty Years, and other wars, about -which he had been reading of late in a big History of Europe which -had been his grandfather's. He altered them to suit his genius, and -fought them all over the floor in his day nursery, so that nobody -could come in, for fearing of disturbing Gustavus Adolphus, King of -Sweden, or treading on an army of Austrians. Because of the sound of -the word he was passionately addicted to the Austrians, and finding -there were so few battles in which they were successful he had to -invent them in his games. His favourite generals were Prince Eugene, -the Archduke Charles and Wallenstein. Tilly and Mack ("music-hall -turns" he heard his father call them one day, whatever that might -mean) one really could not love very much, Austrian though they were. -For euphonic reasons, too, he doted on Turenne. - -This phase, which caused his parents anxiety, because it kept him -indoors when he ought to have been out, lasted through May and half -of June, till his father killed it by bringing home to him Tom Sawyer -and Huckleberry Finn. When he read those books something happened in -him, and he went out of doors again in passionate quest of a river. -There being none on the premises at Robin Hill, he had to make one -out of the pond, which fortunately had water lilies, dragonflies, -gnats, bullrushes, and three small willow trees. On this pond, after -his father and Garratt had ascertained by sounding that it had a -reliable bottom and was nowhere more than two feet deep, he was -allowed a little collapsible canoe, in which he spent hours and hours -paddling, and lying down out of sight of Indian Joe and other -enemies. On the shore of the pond, too, he built himself a wigwam -about four feet square, of old biscuit tins, roofed in by boughs. In -this he would make little fires, and cook the birds he had not shot -with his gun, hunting in the coppice and fields, or the fish he did -not catch in the pond because there were none. This occupied the -rest of June and that July, when his father and mother were away in -Ireland. He led a lonely life of "make believe" during those five -weeks of summer weather, with gun, wigwam, water and canoe; and, -however hard his active little brain tried to keep the sense of -beauty away, she did creep in on him for a second now and then, -perching on the wing of a dragon-fly, glistening on the water lilies, -or brushing his eyes with her blue as he Jay on his back in ambush. - -"Auntie" June, who had been left in charge, had a "grown-up" in the -house, with a cough and a large piece of putty which he was making -into a face; so she hardly ever came down to see him in the pond. -Once, however, she brought with her two other "grown-ups." Little -Jon, who happened to have painted his naked self bright blue and -yellow in stripes out of his father's water-colour box, and put some -duck's feathers in his hair, saw them coming, and--ambushed himself -among the willows. As he had foreseen, they came at once to his -wigwam and knelt down to look inside, so that with a blood-curdling -yell he was able to take the scalps of "Auntie" June and the woman -"grown-up" in an almost complete manner before they kissed him. The -names of the two grown-ups were "Auntie" Holly and "Uncle" Val, who -had a brown face and a little limp, and laughed at him terribly. He -took a fancy to "Auntie" Holly, who seemed to be a sister too; but -they both went away the same afternoon and he did not see them again. -Three days before his father and mother were to come home "Auntie" -June also went off in a great hurry, taking the "grown-up" who -coughed and his piece of putty; and Mademoiselle said: "Poor man, he -was veree ill. I forbid you to go into his room, Jon." Little Jon, -who rarely did things merely because he was told not to, refrained -from going, though he was bored and lonely. In truth the day of the -pond was past, and he was filled to the brim of his soul with -restlessness and the want of something--not a tree, not a gun-- -something soft. Those last two days had seemed months in spite of -Cast Up by the Sea, wherein he was reading about Mother Lee and her -terrible wrecking bonfire. He had gone up and down the stairs -perhaps a hundred times in those two days, and often from the day -nursery, where he slept now, had stolen into his mother's room, -looked at everything, without touching, and on into the dressing- -room; and standing on one leg beside the bath, like Slingsby, had -whispered: - -"Ho, ho, ho! Dog my cats!" mysteriously, to bring luck. Then, -stealing back, he had opened his mother's wardrobe, and taken a long -sniff which seemed to bring him nearer to--he didn't know what. - -He had done this just before he stood in the streak of sunlight, -debating in which of the several ways he should slide down the -banisters. They all seemed silly, and in a sudden languor he began -descending the steps one by one. During that descent he could -remember his father quite distinctly--the short grey beard, the deep -eyes twinkling, the furrow between them, the funny smile, the thin -figure which always seemed so tall to little Jon; but his mother he -couldn't see. All that represented her was something swaying with -two dark eyes looking back at him; and the scent of her wardrobe. - -Bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening -the front door. Little Jon said, wheedling - -"Bella!" - -"Yes, Master Jon." - -"Do let's have tea under the oak tree when they come; I know they'd -like it best." - -"You mean you'd like it best." - -Little Jon considered. - -"No, they would, to please me." - -Bella smiled. "Very well, I'll take it out if you'll stay quiet here -and not get into mischief before they come." - -Little Jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded. Bella came -close, and looked him over. - -"Get up!" she said. - -Little Jon got up. She scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and -his knees seemed clean. - -"All right!" she said. "My! Aren't you brown? Give me a kiss!" - -And little Jon received a peck on his hair. - -"What jam?" he asked. "I'm so tired of waiting." - -"Gooseberry and strawberry." - -Num! They were his favourites! - -When she was gone he sat still for quite a minute. It was quiet in -the big hall open to its East end so that he could see one of his -trees, a brig sailing very slowly across the upper lawn. In the -outer hall shadows were slanting from the pillars. Little Jon got -up, jumped one of them, and walked round the clump of iris plants -which filled the pool of grey-white marble in the centre. The -flowers were pretty, but only smelled a very little. He stood in the -open doorway and looked out. Suppose!--suppose they didn't come! He -had waited so long that he felt he could not bear that, and his -attention slid at once from such finality to the dust motes in the -bluish sunlight coming in: Thrusting his hand up, he tried to catch -some. Bella ought to have dusted that piece of air! But perhaps -they weren't dust--only what sunlight was made of, and he looked to -see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same. It was not. He -had said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply couldn't any -more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down on the grass -beyond. Pulling six daisies he named them carefully, Sir Lamorac, -Sir Tristram, Sir Lancelot, Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and -fought them in couples till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had selected -for a specially stout stalk, had his head on, and even he, after -three encounters, looked worn and waggly. A beetle was moving slowly -in the grass, which almost wanted cutting. Every blade was a small -tree, round whose trunk the beetle had to glide. Little Jon -stretched out Sir Lamorac, feet foremost, and stirred the creature -up. It scuttled painfully. Little Jon laughed, lost interest, and -sighed. His heart felt empty. He turned over and lay on his back. -There was a scent of honey from the lime trees in flower, and in the -sky the blue was beautiful, with a few white clouds which looked and -perhaps tasted like lemon ice. He could hear Bob playing: "Way down -upon de Suwannee ribber" on his concertina, and it made him nice and -sad. He turned over again and put his ear to the ground--Indians -could hear things coming ever so far--but he could hear nothing--only -the concertina! And almost instantly he did hear a grinding sound, a -faint toot. Yes! it was a car--coming--coming! Up he jumped. -Should he wait in the porch, or rush upstairs, and as they came in, -shout: "Look!" and slide slowly down the banisters, head foremost? -Should he? The car turned in at the drive. It was too late! And he -only waited, jumping up and down in his excitement. The car came -quickly, whirred, and stopped. His father got out, exactly like -life. He bent down and little Jon bobbed up--they bumped. His -father said - -"Bless us! Well, old man, you are brown!" Just as he would; and the -sense of expectation--of something wanted--bubbled unextinguished in -little Jon. Then, with a long, shy look he saw his mother, in a blue -dress, with a blue motor scarf over her cap and hair, smiling. He -jumped as high as ever he could, twined his legs behind her back, and -hugged. He heard her gasp, and felt her hugging back. His eyes, -very dark blue just then, looked into hers, very dark brown, till her -lips closed on his eyebrow, and, squeezing with all his might, he -heard her creak and laugh, and say: - -"You are strong, Jon!" - -He slid down at that, and rushed into the hall, dragging her by the -hand. - -While he was eating his jam beneath the oak tree, he noticed things -about his mother that he had never seemed to see before, her cheeks -for instance were creamy, there were silver threads in her dark goldy -hair, her throat had no knob in it like Bella's, and she went in and -out softly. He noticed, too, some little lines running away from the -corners of her eyes, and a nice darkness under them. She was ever so -beautiful, more beautiful than "Da" or Mademoiselle, or "Auntie" June -or even "Auntie" Holly, to whom he had taken a fancy; even more -beautiful than Bella, who had pink cheeks and came out too suddenly -in places. This new beautifulness of his mother had a kind of -particular importance, and he ate less than he had expected to. - -When tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the gardens. -He had a long conversation with his father about things in general, -avoiding his private life--Sir Lamorac, the Austrians, and the -emptiness he had felt these last three days, now so suddenly filled -up. His father told him of a place called Glensofantrim, where he -and his mother had been; and of the little people who came out of the -ground there when it was very quiet. Little Jon came to a halt, with -his heels apart. - -"Do you really believe they do, Daddy?" "No, Jon, but I thought you -might." - -"Why?" - -"You're younger than I; and they're fairies." Little Jon squared the -dimple in his chin. - -"I don't believe in fairies. I never see any." "Ha!" said his -father. - -"Does Mum?" - -His father smiled his funny smile. - -"No; she only sees Pan." - -"What's Pan?" - -"The Goaty God who skips about in wild and beautiful places." - -"Was he in Glensofantrim?" - -"Mum said so." - -Little Jon took his heels up, and led on. - -"Did you see him?" - -"No; I only saw Venus Anadyomene." - -Little Jon reflected; Venus was in his book about the Greeks and -Trojans. Then Anna was her Christian and Dyomene her surname? - -But it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant rising -from the foam. - -"Did she rise from the foam in Glensofantrim?" - -"Yes; every day." - -"What is she like, Daddy?" - -"Like Mum." - -"Oh! Then she must be..." but he stopped at that, rushed at a wall, -scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again. The discovery that -his mother was beautiful was one which he felt must absolutely be -kept to himself. His father's cigar, however, took so long to smoke, -that at last he was compelled to say: - -"I want to see what Mum's brought home. Do you mind, Daddy?" - -He pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and was a -little disconcerted when his father looked at him right through, -heaved an important sigh, and answered: - -"All right, old man, you go and love her." - -He went, with a pretence of slowness, and then rushed, to make up. -He entered her bedroom from his own, the door being open. She was -still kneeling before a trunk, and he stood close to her, quite -still. - -She knelt up straight, and said: - -"Well, Jon?" - -"I thought I'd just come and see." - -Having given and received another hug, he mounted the window-seat, -and tucking his legs up under him watched her unpack. He derived a -pleasure from the operation such as he had not yet known, partly -because she was taking out things which looked suspicious, and partly -because he liked to look at her. She moved differently from anybody -else, especially from Bella; she was certainly the refinedest-looking -person he had ever seen. She finished the trunk at last, and knelt -down in front of him. - -"Have you missed us, Jon?" - -Little Jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings, continued -to nod. - -"But you had 'Auntie' June?" - -"Oh! she had a man with a cough." - -His mother's face changed, and looked almost angry. He added -hastily: - -"He was a poor man, Mum; he coughed awfully; I--I liked him." - -His mother put her hands behind his waist. - -"You like everybody, Jon?" - -Little Jon considered. - -"Up to a point," he said: "Auntie June took me to church one Sunday." - -"To church? Oh!" - -"She wanted to see how it would affect me." "And did it?" - -"Yes. I came over all funny, so she took me home again very quick. -I wasn't sick after all. I went to bed and had hot brandy and water, -and read The Boys of Beechwood. It was scrumptious." - -His mother bit her lip. - -"When was that?" - -"Oh! about--a long time ago--I wanted her to take me again, but she -wouldn't. You and Daddy never go to church, do you?" - -"No, we don't." - -"Why don't you?" - -His mother smiled. - -"Well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. Perhaps we went -when we were too little." - -"I see," said little Jon, "it's dangerous." - -"You shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow -up." - -Little Jon replied in a calculating manner: - -"I don't want to grow up, much. I don't want to go to school." A -sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say what he -really felt, turned him red. "I--I want to stay with you, and be -your lover, Mum." - -Then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly "I -don't want to go to bed to-night, either. I'm simply tired of going -to bed, every night." - -"Have you had any more nightmares?" - -"Only about one. May I leave the door open into your room to-night, -Mum?" - -"Yes, just a little." Little Jon heaved a sigh of satisfaction. - -"What did you see in Glensofantrim?" - -"Nothing but beauty, darling." - -"What exactly is beauty?" - -"What exactly is--Oh! Jon, that's a poser." - -"Can I see it, for instance?" His mother got up, and sat beside -him. "You do, every day. The sky is beautiful, the stars, and -moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the trees--they're -all beautiful. Look out of the window--there's beauty for you, Jon." - -"Oh! yes, that's the view. Is that all?" - -"All? no. The sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with -their foam flying back." - -"Did you rise from it every day, Mum?" - -His mother smiled. "Well, we bathed." - -Little Jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands. - -"I know," he said mysteriously, "you're it, really, and all the rest -is make-believe." - -She sighed, laughed, said: "Oh! Jon!" - -Little Jon said critically: - -"Do you think Bella beautiful, for instance? I hardly do." - -"Bella is young; that's something." - -"But you look younger, Mum. If you bump against Bella she hurts." - -"I don't believe 'Da' was beautiful, when I come to think of it; and -Mademoiselle's almost ugly." - -"Mademoiselle has a very nice face." "Oh! yes; nice. I love your -little rays, Mum." - -"Rays?" - -Little Jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye. - -"Oh! Those? But they're a sign of age." - -"They come when you smile." - -"But they usen't to." - -"Oh! well, I like them. Do you love me, Mum?" - -"I do--I do love you, darling." - -"Ever so?" - -"Ever so!" - -"More than I thought you did?" - -"Much--much more." - -"Well, so do I; so that makes it even." - -Conscious that he had never in his life so given himself away, he -felt a sudden reaction to the manliness of Sir Lamorac, Dick Needham, -Huck Finn, and other heroes. - -"Shall I show you a thing or two?" he said; and slipping out of her -arms, he stood on his head. Then, fired by her obvious admiration, -he mounted the bed, and threw himself head foremost from his feet on -to his back, without touching anything with his hands. He did this -several times. - -That evening, having inspected what they had brought, he stayed up to -dinner, sitting between them at the little round table they used when -they were alone. He was extremely excited. His mother wore a -French-grey dress, with creamy lace made out of little scriggly -roses, round her neck, which was browner than the lace. He kept -looking at her, till at last his father's funny smile made him -suddenly attentive to his slice of pineapple. It was later than he -had ever stayed up, when he went to bed. His mother went up with -him, and he undressed very slowly so as to keep her there. When at -last he had nothing on but his pyjamas, he said: - -"Promise you won't go while I say my prayers!" - -"I promise." - -Kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little Jon hurried -up, under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to see her -standing perfectly still with a smile on her face. "Our Father"--so -went his last prayer, "which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Mum, thy -Kingdom Mum--on Earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily -Mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as it is in heaven and -trespass against us, for thine is the evil the power and the glory -for ever and ever. Amum! Look out!" He sprang, and for a long -minute remained in her arms. Once in bed, he continued to hold her -hand. - -"You won't shut the door any more than that, will you? Are you going -to be long, Mum?" - -"I must go down and play to Daddy." - -"Oh! well, I shall hear you." - -"I hope not; you must go to sleep." - -"I can sleep any night." - -"Well, this is just a night like any other." - -"Oh! no--it's extra special." - -"On extra special nights one always sleeps soundest." - -"But if I go to sleep, Mum, I shan't hear you come up." - -"Well, when I do, I'll come in and give you a kiss, then if you're -awake you'll know, and if you're not you'll still know you've had -one." - -Little Jon sighed, "All right!" he said: "I suppose I must put up -with that. Mum?" - -"Yes?" - -"What was her name that Daddy believes in? Venus Anna Diomedes?" - -"Oh! my angel! Anadyomene." - -"Yes! but I like my name for you much better." - -"What is yours, Jon?" - -Little Jon answered shyly: - -"Guinevere! it's out of the Round Table--I've only just thought -of it, only of course her hair was down." - -His mother's eyes, looking past him, seemed to float. - -"You won't forget to come, Mum?" - -"Not if you'll go to sleep." - -"That's a bargain, then." And little Jon screwed up his eyes. - -He felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his -eyes to see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing, screwed -them up again. - -Then Time began. - -For some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a -great number of thistles in a row, "Da's" old recipe for bringing -slumber. He seemed to have been hours counting. It must, he -thought, be nearly time for her to come up now. He threw the -bedclothes back. "I'm hot!" he said, and his voice sounded funny in -the darkness, like someone else's. Why didn't she come? He sat up. -He must look! He got out of bed, went to the window and pulled the -curtain a slice aside. It wasn't dark, but he couldn't tell whether -because of daylight or the moon, which was very big. It had a funny, -wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did not want to look at -it. Then, remembering that his mother had said moonlit nights were -beautiful, he continued to stare out in a general way. The trees -threw thick shadows, the lawn looked like spilt milk, and a long, -long way he could see; oh! very far; right over the world, and it all -looked different and swimmy. There was a lovely smell, too, in his -open window. - -'I wish I had a dove like Noah!' he thought. - - -"The moony moon was round and bright, -It shone and shone and made it light." - - -After that rhyme, which came into his head all at once, he became -conscious of music, very soft-lovely! Mum playing! He bethought -himself of a macaroon he had, laid up in his chest of drawers, and, -getting it, came back to the window. He leaned out, now munching, -now holding his jaws to hear the music better. "Da" used to say that -angels played on harps in heaven; but it wasn't half so lovely as Mum -playing in the moony night, with him eating a macaroon. A cockchafer -buzzed by, a moth flew in his face, the music stopped, and little Jon -drew his head in. She must be coming! He didn't want to be found -awake. He got back into bed and pulled the clothes nearly over his -head; but he had left a streak of moonlight coming in. It fell -across the floor, near the foot of the bed, and he watched it moving -ever so slowly towards him, as if it were alive. The music began -again, but he could only just hear it now; sleepy music, pretty-- -sleepy--music--sleepy--slee..... - -And time slipped by, the music rose, fell, ceased; the moonbeam crept -towards his face. Little Jon turned in his sleep till he lay on his -back, with one brown fist still grasping the bedclothes. The corners -of his eyes twitched--he had begun to dream. He dreamed he was -drinking milk out of a pan that was the moon, opposite a great black -cat which watched him with a funny smile like his father's. He heard -it whisper: "Don't drink too much!" It was the cat's milk, of course, -and he put out his hand amicably to stroke the creature; but it was -no longer there; the pan had become a bed, in which he was lying, and -when he tried to get out he couldn't find the edge; he couldn't find -it--he--he--couldn't get out! It was dreadful! - -He whimpered in his sleep. The bed had begun to go round too; it was -outside him and inside him; going round and round, and getting fiery, -and Mother Lee out of Cast up by the Sea was stirring it! Oh! so -horrible she looked! Faster and faster!--till he and the bed and -Mother Lee and the moon and the cat were all one wheel going round -and round and up and up--awful--awful--awful! - -He shrieked. - -A voice saying: "Darling, darling!" got through the wheel, and he -awoke, standing on his bed, with his eyes wide open. - -There was his mother, with her hair like Guinevere's, and, clutching -her, he buried his face in it. - -"Oh! oh!" - -"It's all right, treasure. You're awake now. There! There! It's -nothing!" - -But little Jon continued to say: "Oh! oh!" - -Her voice went on, velvety in his ear: - -"It was the moonlight, sweetheart, coming on your face." - -Little Jon burbled into her nightgown - -"You said it was beautiful. Oh!" - -"Not to sleep in, Jon. Who let it in? Did you draw the curtains?" - -"I wanted to see the time; I--I looked out, I--I heard you playing, -Mum; I--I ate my macaroon." But he was growing slowly comforted; and -the instinct to excuse his fear revived within him. - -"Mother Lee went round in me and got all fiery," he mumbled. - -"Well, Jon, what can you expect if you eat macaroons after you've -gone to bed?" - -"Only one, Mum; it made the music ever so more beautiful. I was -waiting for you--I nearly thought it was to-morrow." - -"My ducky, it's only just eleven now." - -Little Jon was silent, rubbing his nose on her neck. - -"Mum, is Daddy in your room?" - -"Not to-night." - -"Can I come?" - -"If you wish, my precious." - -Half himself again, little Jon drew back. - -"You look different, Mum; ever so younger." - -"It's my hair, darling." - -Little Jon laid hold of it, thick, dark gold, with a few silver -threads. - -"I like it," he said: "I like you best of all like this." - -Taking her hand, he had begun dragging her towards the door. He shut -it as they passed, with a sigh of relief. - -"Which side of the bed do you like, Mum?" - -"The left side." - -"All right." - -Wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little Jon -got into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own. He heaved -another sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay examining the -battle of chariots and swords and spears which always went on outside -blankets, where the little hairs stood up against the light. - -"It wasn't anything, really, was it?" he said. - -From before her glass his mother answered: - -"Nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up. You mustn't -get so excited, Jon." - -But, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little Jon answered -boastfully: - -"I wasn't afraid, really, of course!" And again he lay watching the -spears and chariots. It all seemed very long. - -"Oh! Mum, do hurry up!" - -"Darling, I have to plait my hair." - -"Oh! not to-night. You'll only have to unplait it again to-morrow. -I'm sleepy now; if you don't come, I shan't be sleepy soon." - -His mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror: he -could see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright -under the light, and her dark eyes smiling. It was unnecessary, and -he said: - -"Do come, Mum; I'm waiting." - -"Very well, my love, I'll come." - -Little Jon closed his eyes. Everything was turning out most -satisfactory, only she must hurry up! He felt the bed shake, she was -getting in. And, still with his eyes closed, he said sleepily: "It's -nice, isn't it?" - -He heard her voice say something, felt her lips touching his nose, -and, snuggling up beside her who lay awake and loved him with her -thoughts, he fell into the dreamless sleep, which rounded off his -past. - - - - - - -TO LET - - - -"From out the fatal loins of those two foes -A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life." - --Romeo and Juliet. - - - - - -TO CHARLES SCRIBNER - - - - - -PART I - -ENCOUNTER - - -Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he was -staying, in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the -intention of visiting a collection of pictures in a Gallery off Cork -Street, and looking into the Future. He walked. Since the War he -never took a cab if he could help it. Their drivers were, in his -view, an uncivil lot, though now that the War was over and supply -beginning to exceed demand again, getting more civil in accordance -with the custom of human nature. Still, he had not forgiven them, -deeply identifying them with gloomy memories, and now, dimly, like -all members, of their class, with revolution. The considerable -anxiety he had passed through during the War, and the more -considerable anxiety he had since undergone in the Peace, had -produced psychological consequences in a tenacious nature. He had, -mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he had ceased to -believe in its material probability. Paying away four thousand a -year in income and super tax, one could not very well be worse off! -A fortune of a quarter of a million, encumbered only by a wife and -one daughter, and very diversely invested, afforded substantial -guarantee even against that "wildcat notion" a levy on capital. And -as to confiscation of war profits, he was entirely in favour of it, -for he had none, and "serve the beggars right!" The price of -pictures, moreover, had, if anything, gone up, and he had done better -with his collection since the War began than ever before. Air-raids, -also, had acted beneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, and -hardened a character already dogged. To be in danger of being -entirely dispersed inclined one to be less apprehensive of the more -partial dispersions involved in levies and taxation, while the habit -of condemning the impudence of the Germans had led naturally to -condemning that of Labour, if not openly at least in the sanctuary of -his soul. - -He walked. There was, moreover, time to spare, for Fleur was to meet -him at the Gallery at four o'clock, and it was as yet but half-past -two. It was good for him to walk--his liver was a little -constricted, and his nerves rather on edge. His wife was always out -when she was in Town, and his daughter would flibberty-gibbet all -over the place like most young women since the War. Still, he must -be thankful that she had been too young to do anything in that War -itself. Not, of course, that he had not supported the War from its -inception, with all his soul, but between that and supporting it with -the bodies of his wife and daughter, there had been a gap fixed by -something old-fashioned within him which abhorred emotional -extravagance. He had, for instance, strongly objected to Annette, so -attractive, and in 1914 only thirty-four, going to her native France, -her "chere patrie" as, under the stimulus of war, she had begun to -call it, to nurse her "braves poilus," forsooth! Ruining her health -and her looks! As if she were really a nurse! He had put a stopper -on it. Let her do needlework for them at home, or knit! She had not -gone, therefore, and had never been quite the same woman since. A -bad tendency of hers to mock at him, not openly, but in continual -little ways, had grown. As for Fleur, the War had resolved the vexed -problem whether or not she should go to school. She was better away -from her mother in her war mood, from the chance of air-raids, and -the impetus to do extravagant things; so he had placed her in a -seminary as far West as had seemed to him compatible with excellence, -and had missed her horribly. Fleur! He had never regretted the -somewhat outlandish name by which at her birth he had decided so -suddenly to call her--marked concession though it had been to the -French. Fleur! A pretty name--a pretty child! But restless--too -restless; and wilful! Knowing her power too over her father! Soames -often reflected on the mistake it was to dote on his daughter. To -get old and dote! Sixty-five! He was getting on; but he didn't feel -it, for, fortunately perhaps, considering Annette's youth and good -looks, his second marriage had turned out a cool affair. He had -known but one real passion in his life--for that first wife of his-- -Irene. Yes, and that fellow, his cousin Jolyon, who had gone off -with her, was looking very shaky, they said. No wonder, at seventy- -two, after twenty years of a third marriage! - -Soames paused a moment in his march to lean over the railings of the -Row. A suitable spot for reminiscence, half-way between that house -in Park Lane which had seen his birth and his parents' deaths, and -the little house in Montpellier Square where thirty-five years ago he -had enjoyed his first edition of matrimony. Now, after twenty years -of his second edition, that old tragedy seemed to him like a previous -existence--which had ended when Fleur was born in place of the son he -had hoped for. For many years he had ceased regretting, even -vaguely, the son who had not been born; Fleur filled the bill in his -heart. After all, she bore his name; and he was not looking forward -at all to the time when she would change it. Indeed, if he ever -thought of such a calamity, it was seasoned by the vague feeling that -he could make her rich enough to purchase perhaps and extinguish the -name of the fellow who married her--why not, since, as it seemed, -women were equal to men nowadays? And Soames, secretly convinced -that they were not, passed his curved hand over his face vigorously, -till it reached the comfort of his chin. Thanks to abstemious -habits, he had not grown fat and gabby; his nose was pale and thin, -his grey moustache close-clipped, his eyesight unimpaired. A slight -stoop closened and corrected the expansion given to his face by the -heightening of his forehead in the recession of his grey hair. -Little change had Time wrought in the "warmest" of the young -Forsytes, as the last of the old Forsytes--Timothy-now in his hundred -and first year, would have phrased it. - -The shade from the plane-trees fell on his neat Homburg hat; he had -given up top hats--it was no use attracting attention to wealth in -days like these. Plane-trees! His thoughts travelled sharply to -Madrid--the Easter before the War, when, having to make up his mind -about that Goya picture, he had taken a voyage of discovery to study -the painter on his spot. The fellow had impressed him--great range, -real genius! Highly as the chap ranked, he would rank even higher -before they had finished with him. The second Goya craze would be -greater even than the first; oh, yes! And he had bought. On that -visit he had--as never before--commissioned a copy of a fresco -painting called "La Vendimia," wherein was the figure of a girl with -an arm akimbo, who had reminded him of his daughter. He had it now -in the Gallery at Mapledurham, and rather poor it was--you couldn't -copy Goya. He would still look at it, however, if his daughter were -not there, for the sake of something irresistibly reminiscent in the -light, erect balance of the figure, the width between the arching -eyebrows, the eager dreaming of the dark eyes. Curious that Fleur -should have dark eyes, when his own were grey--no pure Forsyte had -brown eyes--and her mother's blue! But of course her grandmother -Lamotte's eyes were dark as treacle! - -He began to walk on again toward Hyde Park Corner. No greater change -in all England than in the Row! Born almost within hail of it, he -could remember it from 1860 on. Brought there as a child between the -crinolines to stare at tight-trousered dandies in whiskers, riding -with a cavalry seat; to watch the doffing of curly-brimmed and white -top hats; the leisurely air of it all, and the little bow-legged man -in a long red waistcoat who used to come among the fashion with dogs -on several strings, and try to sell one to his mother: King Charles -spaniels, Italian greyhounds, affectionate to her crinoline--you -never saw them now. You saw no quality of any sort, indeed, just -working people sitting in dull rows with nothing to stare at but a -few young bouncing females in pot hats, riding astride, or desultory -Colonials charging up and down on dismal-looking hacks; with, here -and there, little girls on ponies, or old gentlemen jogging their -livers, or an orderly trying a great galumphing cavalry horse; no -thoroughbreds, no grooms, no bowing, no scraping, no gossip--nothing; -only the trees the same--the trees in--different to the generations -and declensions of mankind. A democratic England--dishevelled, -hurried, noisy, and seemingly without an apex. And that something -fastidious in the soul of Soames turned over within him. Gone -forever, the close borough of rank and polish! Wealth there was--oh, -yes! wealth--he himself was a richer man than his father had ever -been; but manners, flavour, quality, all gone, engulfed in one vast, -ugly, shoulder-rubbing, petrol-smelling Cheerio. Little half-beaten -pockets of gentility and caste lurking here and there, dispersed and -chetif, as Annette would say; but nothing ever again firm and -coherent to look up to. And into this new hurly-burly of bad manners -and loose morals his daughter--flower of his life--was flung! And -when those Labour chaps got power--if they ever did--the worst was -yet to come. - -He passed out under the archway, at last no longer--thank goodness!-- -disfigured by the gungrey of its search-light. 'They'd better put a -search-light on to where they're all going,' he thought, 'and light -up their precious democracy!' And he directed his steps along the -Club fronts of Piccadilly. George Forsyte, of course, would be -sitting in the bay window of the Iseeum. The chap was so big now -that he was there nearly all his time, like some immovable, sardonic, -humorous eye noting the decline of men and things. And Soames -hurried, ever constitutionally uneasy beneath his cousin's glance. -George, who, as he had heard, had written a letter signed "Patriot" -in the middle of the War, complaining of the Government's hysteria in -docking the oats of race-horses. Yes, there he was, tall, ponderous, -neat, clean-shaven, with his smooth hair, hardly thinned, smelling, -no doubt, of the best hair-wash, and a pink paper in his hand. Well, -be didn't change! And for perhaps the first time in his life Soames -felt a kind of sympathy tapping in his waistcoat for that sardonic -kinsman. With his weight, his perfectly parted hair, and bull-like -gaze, he was a guarantee that the old order would take some shifting -yet. He saw George move the pink paper as if inviting him to ascend- --the chap must want to ask something about his property. It was -still under Soames' control; for in the adoption of a sleeping -partnership at that painful period twenty years back when he had -divorced Irene, Soames had found himself almost insensibly retaining -control of all purely Forsyte affairs. - -Hesitating for just a moment, he nodded and went in. Since the death -of his brother-in-law Montague Dartie, in Paris, which no one had -quite known what to make of, except that it was certainly not -suicide--the Iseeum Club had seemed more respectable to Soames. -George, too, he knew, had sown the last of his wild oats, and was -committed definitely to the joys of the table, eating only of the -very best so as to keep his weight down, and owning, as he said, -"just one or two old screws to give me an interest in life." He -joined his cousin, therefore, in the bay window without the -embarrassing sense of indiscretion he had been used to feel up there. -George put out a well-kept hand. - -"Haven't seen you since the War," he said. "How's your wife?" - -"Thanks," said Soames coldly, "well enough." - -Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, and -gloated from his eye. - -"That Belgian chap, Profond," he said, "is a member here now. He's a -rum customer." - -"Quite!" muttered Soames. "What did you want to see me about?" - -"Old Timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. I suppose -he's made his Will." - -"Yes." - -"Well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up--last of the old -lot; he's a hundred, you know. They say he's like a rummy. Where -are you goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by rights." - -Soames shook his head. "Highgate, the family vault." - -"Well, I suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere -else. They say he still takes an interest in food. He might last -on, you know. Don't we get anything for the old Forsytes? Ten of -them--average age eighty-eight--I worked it out. That ought to be -equal to triplets." - -"Is that all?" said Soames, "I must be getting on." - -'You unsociable devil,' George's eyes seemed to answer. "Yes, that's -all: Look him up in his mausoleum--the old chap might want to -prophesy." The grin died on the rich curves of his face, and he -added: "Haven't you attorneys invented a way yet of dodging this -damned income tax? It hits the fixed inherited income like the very -deuce. I used to have two thousand five hundred a year; now I've got -a beggarly fifteen hundred, and the price of living doubled." - -"Ah!" murmured Soames, "the turf's in danger." - -Over George's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence. - -"Well," he said, "they brought me up to do nothing, and here I am in -the sear and yellow, getting poorer every day. These Labour chaps -mean to have the lot before they've done. What are you going to do -for a living when it comes? I shall work a six-hour day teaching -politicians how to see a joke. Take my tip, Soames; go into -Parliament, make sure of your four hundred--and employ me." - -And, as Soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window. - -Soames moved along Piccadilly deep in reflections excited by his -cousin's words. He himself had always been a worker and a saver, -George always a drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once -began, it was he--the worker and the saver--who would be looted! -That was the negation of all virtue, the overturning of all Forsyte -principles. Could civilization be built on any other? He did not -think so. Well, they wouldn't confiscate his pictures, for they -wouldn't know their worth. But what would they be worth, if these -maniacs once began to milk capital? A drug on the market. 'I don't -care about myself,' he thought; 'I could live on five hundred a year, -and never know the difference, at my age.' But Fleur! This fortune, -so widely invested, these treasures so carefully chosen and amassed, -were all for--her. And if it should turn out that he couldn't give -or leave them to her--well, life had no meaning, and what was the use -of going in to look at this crazy, futuristic stuff with the view of -seeing whether it had any future? - -Arriving at the Gallery off Cork Street, however, he paid his -shilling, picked up a catalogue, and entered. Some ten persons were -prowling round. Soames took steps and came on what looked to him -like a lamp-post bent by collision with a motor omnibus. It was -advanced some three paces from the wall, and was described in his -catalogue as "Jupiter." He examined it with curiosity, having -recently turned some of his attention to sculpture. 'If that's -Jupiter,' he thought, 'I wonder what Juno's like.' And suddenly he -saw her, opposite. She appeared to him like nothing so much as a -pump with two handles, lightly clad in snow. He was still gazing at -her, when two of the prowlers halted on his left. "Epatant!" he -heard one say. - -"Jargon!" growled Soames to himself. - -The other's boyish voice replied - -"Missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. When Jove and Juno -created he them, he was saying: 'I'll see how much these fools will -swallow.' And they've lapped up the lot." - -"You young duffer! Vospovitch is an innovator. Don't you see that -he's brought satire into sculpture? The future of plastic art, of -music, painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. It was -bound to. People are tired--the bottom's tumbled out of sentiment." - -"Well, I'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. I was -through the War. You've dropped your handkerchief, sir." - -Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. He took it with -some natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. It had the -right scent--of distant Eau de Cologne--and his initials in a corner. -Slightly reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. It -had rather fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush -growing out of it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a -normally dressed appearance. - -"Thank you," he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added: "Glad -to hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays." - -"I dote on it," said the young man; "but you and I are the last of -the old guard, sir." - -Soames smiled. - -"If you really care for pictures," he said, "here's my card. I can -show you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're down the river -and care to look in." - -"Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name's -Mont-Michael." And he took off his hat. - -Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in -response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had -a purple tie, dreadful little sluglike whiskers, and a scornful look- --as if he were a poet! - -It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he -went and sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his -card to a rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like -that? And Fleur, always at the back of his thoughts, started out -like a filigree figure from a clock when the hour strikes. On the -screen opposite the alcove was a large canvas with a great many -square tomato-coloured blobs on it, and nothing else, so far as -Soames could see from where he sat. He looked at his catalogue: "No. -32 'The Future Town'--Paul Post." 'I suppose that's satiric too,' he -thought. 'What a thing!' But his second impulse was more cautious. -It did not do to condemn hurriedly. There had been those stripey, -streaky creations of Monet's, which had turned out such trumps; and -then the stippled school; and Gauguin. Why, even since the Post- -Impressionists there had been one or two painters not to be sneezed -at. During the thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life, indeed, -he had marked so many "movements," seen the tides of taste and -technique so ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anything -except that there was money to be made out of every change of -fashion. This too might quite well be a case where one must subdue -primordial instinct, or lose the market. He got up and stood before -the picture, trying hard to see it with the eyes of other people. -Above the tomato blobs was what he took to be a sunset, till some one -passing said: "He's got the airplanes wonderfully, don't you think!" -Below the tomato blobs was a band of white with vertical black -stripes, to which he could assign no meaning whatever, till some one -else came by, murmuring: "What expression he gets with his -foreground!" Expression? Of what? Soames went back to his seat. -The thing was "rich," as his father would have said, and he wouldn't -give a damn for it. Expression! Ah! they were all Expressionists -now, he had heard, on the Continent. So it was coming here too, was -it? He remembered the first wave of influenza in 1887--or '8-- -hatched in China, so they said. He wondered where this--this -Expressionism had been hatched. The thing was a regular disease! - -He had become conscious of a woman and a youth standing between him -and the "Future Town." Their backs were turned; but very suddenly -Soames put his catalogue before his face, and drawing his hat -forward, gazed through the slit between. No mistaking that back, -elegant as ever though the hair above had gone grey. Irene! His -divorced wife--Irene! And this, no doubt, was--her son--by that -fellow Jolyon Forsyte--their boy, six months older than his own girl! -And mumbling over in his mind the bitter days of his divorce, he rose -to get out of sight, but quickly sat down again. She had turned her -head to speak to her boy; her profile was still so youthful that it -made her grey hair seem powdery, as if fancy-dressed; and her lips -were smiling as Soames, first possessor of them, had never seen them -smile. Grudgingly he admitted her still beautiful and in figure -almost as young as ever. And how that boy smiled back at her! -Emotion squeezed Soames' heart. The sight infringed his sense of -justice. He grudged her that boy's smile--it went beyond what Fleur -gave him, and it was undeserved. Their son might have been his son; -Fleur might have been her daughter, if she had kept straight! He -lowered his catalogue. If she saw him, all the better! A reminder -of her conduct in the presence of her son, who probably knew nothing -of it, would be a salutary touch from the finger of that Nemesis -which surely must soon or late visit her! Then, half-conscious that -such a thought was extravagant for a Forsyte of his age, Soames took -out his watch. Past four! Fleur was late. She had gone to his -niece Imogen Cardigan's, and there they would keep her smoking -cigarettes and gossiping, and that. He heard the boy laugh, and say -eagerly: "I say, Mum, is this by one of Auntie June's lame ducks?" - -"Paul Post--I believe it is, darling." - -The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her -use it. And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them -something of George Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand -crisped the folds of her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went -stony. She moved on. - -"It is a caution," said the boy, catching her arm again. - -Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a Forsyte -chin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like a -glass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair. -Better than they deserved--those two! They passed from his view into -the next room, and Soames continued to regard the Future Town, but -saw it not. A little smile snarled up his lips. He was despising -the vehemence of his own feelings after all these years. Ghosts! -And yet as one grew old--was there anything but what was ghost-like -left? Yes, there was Fleur! He fixed his eyes on the entrance. She -was due; but she would keep him waiting, of course! And suddenly he -became aware of a sort of human breeze--a short, slight form clad in -a sea-green djibbah with a metal belt and a fillet binding unruly -red-gold hair all streaked with grey. She was talking to the Gallery -attendants, and something familiar riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her -chin, her hair, her spirit--something which suggested a thin Skye -terrier just before its dinner. Surely June Forsyte! His cousin -June--and coming straight to his recess! She sat down beside him, -deep in thought, took out a tablet, and made a pencil note. Soames -sat unmoving. A confounded thing, cousinship! "Disgusting!" he -heard her murmur; then, as if resenting the presence of an -overhearing stranger, she looked at him. The worst had happened. - -"Soames!" - -Soames turned his head a very little. - -"How are you?" he said. "Haven't seen you for twenty years." - -"No. Whatever made you come here?" - -"My sins," said Soames. "What stuff!" - -"Stuff? Oh, yes--of course; it hasn't arrived yet. - -"It never will," said Soames; "it must be making a dead loss." - -"Of course it is." - -"How d'you know?" - -"It's my Gallery." - -Soames sniffed from sheer surprise. - -"Yours? What on earth makes you run a show like this?" - -"I don't treat Art as if it were grocery." - -Soames pointed to the Future Town. "Look at that! Who's going to -live in a town like that, or with it on his walls?" - -June contemplated the picture for a moment. - -"It's a vision," she said. - -"The deuce!" - -There was silence, then June rose. 'Crazylooking creature!' he -thought. - -"Well," he said, "you'll find your young stepbrother here with a -woman I used to know. If you take my advice, you'll close this -exhibition." - -June looked back at him. "Oh! You Forsyte!" she said, and moved on. -About her light, fly-away figure, passing so suddenly away, was a -look of dangerous decisions. Forsyte! Of course, he was a Forsyte! -And so was she! But from the time when, as a mere girl, she brought -Bosinney into his life to wreck it, he had never hit it off with June -and never would! And here she was, unmarried to this day, owning a -Gallery!... And suddenly it came to Soames how little he knew now of -his own family. The old aunts at Timothy's had been dead so many -years; there was no clearing-house for news. What had they all done -in the War? Young Roger's boy had been wounded, St. John Hayman's -second son killed; young Nicholas' eldest had got an O. B. E., or -whatever they gave them. They had all joined up somehow, he -believed. That boy of Jolyon's and Irene's, he supposed, had been -too young; his own generation, of course, too old, though Giles -Hayman had driven a car for the Red Cross--and Jesse Hayman been a -special constable--those "Dromios" had always been of a sporting -type! As for himself, he had given a motor ambulance, read the -papers till he was sick of them, passed through much anxiety, bought -no clothes, lost seven pounds in weight; he didn't know what more he -could have done at his age. Indeed, thinking it over, it struck him -that he and his family had taken this war very differently to that -affair with the Boers, which had been supposed to tax all the -resources of the Empire. In that old war, of course, his nephew Val -Dartie had been wounded, that fellow Jolyon's first son had died of -enteric, "the Dromios" had gone out on horses, and June had been a -nurse; but all that had seemed in the nature of a portent, while in -this war everybody had done "their bit," so far as he could make out, -as a matter of course. It seemed to show the growth of something or -other--or perhaps the decline of something else. Had the Forsytes -become less individual, or more Imperial, or less provincial? Or was -it simply that one hated Germans?... Why didn't Fleur come, so that -he could get away? He saw those three return together from the other -room and pass back along the far side of the screen. The boy was -standing before the Juno now. And, suddenly, on the other side of -her, Soames saw--his daughter, with eyebrows raised, as well they -might be. He could see her eyes glint sideways at the boy, and the -boy look back at her. Then Irene slipped her hand through his arm, -and drew him on. Soames saw him glancing round, and Fleur looking -after them as the three went out. - -A voice said cheerfully: "Bit thick, isn't it, sir?" - -The young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing. -Soames nodded. - -"I don't know what we're coming to." - -"Oh! That's all right, sir," answered the young man cheerfully; "they -don't either." - -Fleur's voice said: "Hallo, Father! Here you are!" precisely as if -he had been keeping her waiting. - -The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on. - -"Well," said Soames, looking her up and down, "you're a punctual sort -of young woman!" - -This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and -colour, with short, dark chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes -were set in whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and -yet in repose were almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, -held over them in a sort of suspense. She had a charming profile, -and nothing of her father in her face save a decided chin. Aware -that his expression was softening as he looked at her, Soames frowned -to preserve the unemotionalism proper to a Forsyte. He knew she was -only too inclined to take advantage of his weakness. - -Slipping her hand under his arm, she said: - -"Who was that?" - -"He picked up my handkerchief. We talked about the pictures." - -"You're not going to buy that, Father?" - -"No," said Soames grimly; "nor that Juno you've been looking at." - -Fleur dragged at his arm. "Oh! Let's go! It's a ghastly show." - -In the doorway they passed the young man called Mont and his partner. -But Soames had hung out a board marked "Trespassers will be -prosecuted," and he barely acknowledged the young fellow's salute. - -"Well," he said in the street, "whom did you meet at Imogen's?" - -"Aunt Winifred, and that Monsieur Profond." - -"Oh!" muttered Soames; "that chap! What does your aunt see in him?" - -"I don't know. He looks pretty deep--mother says she likes him." - -Soames grunted. - -"Cousin Val and his wife were there, too." - -"What!" said Soames. "I thought they were back in South Africa." - -"Oh, no! They've sold their farm. Cousin Val is going to train -race-horses on the Sussex Downs. They've got a jolly old manor- -house; they asked me down there." - -Soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. "What's his wife -like now?" - -"Very quiet, but nice, I think." - -Soames coughed again. "He's a rackety chap, your Cousin Val." - -"Oh! no, Father; they're awfully devoted. I promised to go--Saturday -to Wednesday next." - -"Training race-horses!" said Soames. It was extravagant, but not the -reason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn't his nephew have -stayed out in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad enough, -without his nephew's marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a -half-sister too of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been -looking at from under the pump-handle. If he didn't look out, she -would come to know all about that old disgrace! Unpleasant things! -They were round him this afternoon like a swarm of bees! - -"I don't like it!" he said. - -"I want to see the race-horses," murmured Fleur; "and they've -promised I shall ride. Cousin Val can't walk much, you know; but he -can ride perfectly. He's going to show me their gallops." - -"Racing!" said Soames. "It's a pity the War didn't knock that on the -head. He's taking after his father, I'm afraid." - -"I don't know anything about his father." - -"No," said Soames, grimly. "He took an interest in horses and broke -his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your -aunt." He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which -he had attended in Paris six years ago, because. Montague Dartie -could not attend it himself--perfectly normal stairs in a house where -they played baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had -celebrated them had gone to his brother-in-law's head. The French -procedure had been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble -with it. - -A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. "Look! The people who -were in the Gallery with us." - -"What people?" muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well. - -"I think that woman's beautiful." - -"Come into this pastry-cook's," said Soames abruptly, and tightening -his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner's. It was--for -him--a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: "What -will you have?" - -"Oh! I don't want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous -lunch." - -"We must have something now we're here," muttered Soames, keeping -hold of her arm. - -"Two teas," he said; "and two of those nougat things." - -But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those -three--those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to -her boy, and his answer: - -"Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt." And the three sat -down. - -At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts -and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had -ever loved--his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor-- -Soames was not so much afraid of them as of his cousin June. She -might make a scene--she might introduce those two children--she was -capable of anything. He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck -to his plate. Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur. -She was masticating dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. The -Forsyte in him said: "Think, feel, and you're done for!" And he -wiggled his finger desperately. Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate? -Did that woman wear a plate? Time had been when he had seen her -wearing nothing! That was something, anyway, which had never been -stolen from him. And she knew it, though she might sit there calm -and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife. An acid -humour stirred in his Forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair's -breadth from pleasure. If only June did not suddenly bring her -hornets about his ears! The boy was talking. - -"Of course, Auntie June"--so he called his half-sister "Auntie," did -he?--well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!--" it's jolly good of -you to encourage them. Only--hang it all!" Soames stole a glance. -Irene's startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. She--she had -these devotions--for Bosinney--for that boy's father--for this boy! -He touched Fleur's arm, and said: - -"Well, have you had enough?" - -"One more, Father, please." - -She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned -round again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a -handkerchief which the boy had evidently just handed to her. - -"F. F.," he heard her say. "Fleur Forsyte--it's mine all right. -Thank you ever so." - -Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the -Gallery--monkey! - -"Forsyte? Why--that's my name too. Perhaps we're cousins." - -"Really! We must be. There aren't any others. I live at -Mapledurham; where do you?" - -"Robin Hill." - -Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he -could lift a finger. He saw Irene's face alive with startled -feeling, gave the slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm -through Fleur's. - -"Come along!" he said. - -She did not move. - -"Didn't you hear, Father? Isn't it queer--our name's the same. Are -we cousins?" - -"What's that?" he said. "Forsyte? Distant, perhaps." - -"My name's Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short." - -"Oh! Ah!" said Soames. "Yes. Distant. How are you? Very good of -you. Good-bye!" - -He moved on. - -"Thanks awfully," Fleur was saying. "Au revoir!" - -"Au revoir!" he heard the boy reply. - - - - -II - -FINE FLEUR FORSYTE - - -Emerging from the "pastry-cook's," Soames' first impulse was to vent -his nerves by saying to his daughter: 'Dropping your hand-kerchief!' -to which her reply might well be: 'I picked that up from you!' His -second impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. But she would -surely question him. He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was -giving him the same. She said softly: - -"Why don't you like those cousins, Father?" Soames lifted the corner -of his lip. - -"What made you think that?" - -"Cela se voit." - -'That sees itself!' What a way of putting it! After twenty years of -a French wife Soames had still little sympathy with her language; a -theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements -of domestic irony. - -"How?" he asked. - -"You must know them; and you didn't make a sign. I saw them looking -at you." - -"I've never seen the boy in my life," replied Soames with perfect -truth. - -"No; but you've seen the others, dear." - -Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her Aunt -Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Every -breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, -and Winifred warned many times that he wouldn't have a whisper of it -reach her for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never -been married before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and -clearness often almost frightened him, met his with perfect -innocence. - -"Well," he said, "your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel. -The two families don't know each other." - -"How romantic!" - -'Now, what does she mean by that?' he thought. The word was to him -extravagant and dangerous--it was as if she had said: "How jolly!" - -"And they'll continue not to know each, other," he added, but -instantly regretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was smiling. -In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own -ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had -said the very thing to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the -expression on Irene's face, he breathed again. - -"What sort of a quarrel?" he heard Fleur say. - -"About a house. It's ancient history for you. Your grandfather died -the day you were born. He was ninety." - -"Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?" - -"I don't know," said Soames. "They're all dispersed now. The old -ones are dead, except Timothy." - -Fleur clasped her hands. - -"Timothy? Isn't that delicious?" - -"Not at all," said Soames. It offended him that she should think -"Timothy" delicious--a kind of insult to his breed. This new -generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious. "You go and see -the old boy. He might want to prophesy." Ah! If Timothy could see -the disquiet England of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he would -certainly give tongue. And involuntarily he glanced up at the -Iseeum; yes--George was still in the window, with the same pink paper -in his hand. - -"Where is Robin Hill, Father?" - -Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! -What did she want to know for? - -"In Surrey," he muttered; "not far from Richmond. Why?" - -"Is the house there?" - -"What house?" - -"That they quarrelled about." - -"Yes. But what's all that to do with you? We're going home to- -morrow--you'd better be thinking about your frocks." - -"Bless you! They're all thought about. A family feud? It's like -the Bible, or Mark Twain--awfully exciting. What did you do in the -feud, Father?" - -"Never you mind." - -"Oh! But if I'm to keep it up?" - -"Who said you were to keep it up?" - -"You, darling." - -"I? I said it had nothing to do with you." - -"Just what I think, you know; so that's all right." - -She was too sharp for him; fine, as Annette sometimes called her. -Nothing for it but to distract her attention. - -"There's a bit of rosaline point in here," he said, stopping before a -shop, "that I thought you might like." - -When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur -said: - -"Don't you think that boy's mother is the most beautiful woman of her -age you've ever seen?" - -Soames shivered. Uncanny, the way she stuck to it! - -"I don't know that I noticed her." - -"Dear, I saw the corner of your eye." - -"You see everything--and a great deal more, it seems to me!" - -"What's her husband like? He must be your first cousin, if your -fathers were brothers." - -"Dead, for all I know," said Soames, with sudden vehemence. "I -haven't seen him for twenty years." - -"What was he?" - -"A painter." - -"That's quite jolly." - -The words: "If you want to please me you'll put those people out of -your head," sprang to Soames' lips, but he choked them back--he must -not let her see his feelings. - -"He once insulted me," he said. - -Her quick eyes rested on his face. - -"I see! You didn't avenge it, and it rankles. Poor Father! You let -me have a go!" - -It was really like lying in the dark with a mosquito hovering above -his face. Such pertinacity in Fleur was new to him, and, as they -reached the hotel, he said grimly: - -"I did my best. And that's enough about these people. I'm going up -till dinner." - -"I shall sit here." - -With a parting look at her extended in a chair--a look half- -resentful, half-adoring--Soames moved into the lift and was -transported to their suite on the fourth floor. He stood by the -window of the sitting-room which gave view over Hyde Park, and -drummed a finger on its pane. His feelings were confused, tetchy, -troubled. The throb of that old wound, scarred over by Time and new -interests, was mingled with displeasure and anxiety, and a slight -pain in his chest where that nougat stuff had disagreed. Had Annette -come in? Not that she was any good to him in such a difficulty. -Whenever she had questioned him about his first marriage, he had -always shut her up; she knew nothing of it, save that it had been the -great passion of his life, and his marriage with herself but domestic -makeshift. She had always kept the grudge of that up her sleeve, as -it were, and used it commercially. He listened. A sound--the vague -murmur of a woman's movements--was coming through the door. She was -in. He tapped. - -"Who?" - -"I," said Soames. - -She had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly clothed; a -striking figure before her glass. There was a certain magnificence -about her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened since he first -knew her, about the turn of her neck, the silkiness of her garments, -her dark-lashed, greyblue eyes--she was certainly as handsome at -forty as she had ever been. A fine possession, an excellent -housekeeper, a sensible and affectionate enough mother. If only she -weren't always so frankly cynical about the relations between them! -Soames, who had no more real affection for her than she had for him, -suffered from a kind of English grievance in that she had never -dropped even the thinnest veil of sentiment over their partnership. -Like most of his countrymen and women, he held the view that marriage -should be based on mutual love, but that when from a marriage love -had disappeared, or, been found never to have really existed--so that -it was manifestly not based on love--you must not admit it. There it -was, and the love was not--but there you were, and must continue to -be! Thus you had it both ways, and were not tarred with cynicism, -realism, and immorality like the French. Moreover, it was necessary -in the interests of property. He knew that she knew that they both -knew there was no love between them, but he still expected her not to -admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he could never understand -what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy of the English. He -said: - -"Whom have you got at 'The Shelter' next week?" - -Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve--he always -wished she wouldn't do that. - -"Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans"--she took up a tiny -stick of black--"and Prosper Profond." - -"That Belgian chap? Why him?" - -Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said: - -"He amuses Winifred." - -"I want some one to amuse Fleur; she's restive." - -"R-restive?" repeated Annette. "Is it the first time you see that, -my friend? She was born r-restive, as you call it." - -Would she never get that affected roll out of her r's? - -He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked: - -"What have you been doing?" - -Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass. Her just-brightened -lips smiled, rather full, rather ironical. - -"Enjoying myself," she said. - -"Oh!" answered Soames glumly. "Ribbandry, I suppose." - -It was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out of -shops that women went in for. "Has Fleur got her summer dresses?" - -"You don't ask if I have mine." - -"You don't care whether I do or not." - -"Quite right. Well, she has; and I have mine--terribly expensive." - -"H'm!" said Soames. "What does that chap Profond do in England?" - -Annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished. - -"He yachts." - -"Ah!" said Soames; "he's a sleepy chap." - -"Sometimes," answered Annette, and her face had a sort of quiet -enjoyment. "But sometimes very amusing." - -"He's got a touch of the tar-brush about him." - -Annette stretched herself. - -"Tar-brush?" she said. "What is that? His mother was Armenienne." - -"That's it, then," muttered Soames. "Does he know anything about -pictures?" - -"He knows about everything--a man of the world." - -"Well, get some one for Fleur. I want to distract her. She's going -off on Saturday to Val Dartie and his wife; I don't like it." - -"Why not?" - -Since the reason could not be explained without going into family -history, Soames merely answered: - -"Racketing about. There's too much of it." - -"I like that little Mrs. Val; she is very quiet and clever." - -"I know nothing of her except--This thing's new." And Soames took -up a creation from the bed. - -Annette received it from him. - -"Would you hook me?" she said. - -Soames hooked. Glancing once over her shoulder into the glass, he -saw the expression on her face, faintly amused, faintly contemptuous, -as much as to say: "Thanks! You will never learn!" No, thank God, -he wasn't a Frenchman! He finished with a jerk, and the words: "It's -too low here." And he went to the door, with the wish to get away -from her and go down to Fleur again. - -Annette stayed a powder-puff, and said with startling suddenness - -"Que to es grossier!" - -He knew the expression--he had reason to. The first time she had -used it he had thought it meant "What a grocer you are!" and had not -known whether to be relieved or not when better informed. He -resented the word--he was not coarse! If he was coarse, what was -that chap in the room beyond his, who made those horrible noises in -the morning when he cleared his throat, or those people in the Lounge -who thought it well-bred to say nothing but what the whole world -could hear at the top of their voices--quacking inanity! Coarse, -because he had said her dress was low! Well, so it was! He went out -without reply. - -Coming into the Lounge from the far end, he at once saw Fleur where -he had left her. She sat with crossed knees, slowly balancing a foot -in silk stocking and grey shoe, sure sign that she was dreaming. Her -eyes showed it too--they went off like that sometimes. And then, in -a moment, she would come to life, and be as quick and restless as a -monkey. And she knew so much, so self-assured, and not yet nineteen. -What was that odious word? Flapper! Dreadful young creatures-- -squealing and squawking and showing their legs! The worst of them -bad dreams, the best of them powdered angels! Fleur was not a -flapper, not one of those slangy, ill-bred young females. And yet -she was frighteningly self-willed, and full of life, and determined -to enjoy it. Enjoy! The word brought no puritan terror to Soames; -but it brought the terror suited to his temperament. He had always -been afraid to enjoy to-day for fear he might not enjoy tomorrow so -much. And it was terrifying to feel that his daughter was divested -of that safeguard. The very way she sat in that chair showed it-- -lost in her dream. He had never been lost in a dream himself--there -was nothing to be had out of it; and where she got it from he did not -know! Certainly not from Annette! And yet Annette, as a young girl, -when he was hanging about her, had once had a flowery look. Well, -she had lost it now! - -Fleur rose from her chair-swiftly, restlessly; and flung herself down -at a writing-table. Seizing ink and writing paper, she began to -write as if she had not time to breathe before she got her letter -written. And suddenly she saw him. The air of desperate absorption -vanished, she smiled, waved a kiss, made a pretty face as if she were -a little puzzled and a little bored. - -Ah! She was "fine"--"fine!" - - - - -III - -AT ROBIN HILL - - -Jolyon Forsyte had spent his boy's nineteenth birthday at Robin Hill, -quietly going into his affairs. He did everything quietly now, -because his heart was in a poor way, and, like all his family, he -disliked the idea of dying. He had never realised how much till one -day, two years ago, he had gone to his doctor about certain symptoms, -and been told: - -"At any moment, on any overstrain." - -He had taken it with a smile--the natural Forsyte reaction against an -unpleasant truth. But with an increase of symptoms in the train on -the way home, he had realised to the full the sentence hanging over -him. To leave Irene, his boy, his home, his work--though he did -little enough work now! To leave them for unknown darkness, for the -unimaginable state, for such nothingness that he would not even be -conscious of wind stirring leaves above his grave, nor of the scent -of earth and grass. Of such nothingness that, however hard he might -try to conceive it, he never could, and must still hover on the hope -that he might see again those he loved! To realise this was to -endure very poignant spiritual anguish. Before he reached home that -day he had determined to keep it from Irene. He would have to be -more careful than man had ever been, for the least thing would give -it away and make her as wretched as himself, almost. His doctor had -passed him sound in other respects, and seventy was nothing of an -age--he would last a long time yet, if he could. - -Such a conclusion, followed out for nearly two years, develops to the -full the subtler side of character. Naturally not abrupt, except -when nervously excited, Jolyon had become control incarnate. The sad -patience of old people who cannot exert themselves was masked by a -smile which his lips preserved even in private. He devised -continually all manner of cover to conceal his enforced lack of -exertion. - -Mocking himself for so doing, he counterfeited conversion to the -Simple Life; gave up wine and cigars, drank a special kind of coffee -with no coffee in it. In short, he made himself as safe as a Forsyte -in his condition could, under the rose of his mild irony. Secure -from discovery, since his wife and son had gone up to Town, he had -spent the fine May day quietly arranging his papers, that he might -die to-morrow without inconveniencing any one, giving in fact a final -polish to his terrestrial state. Having docketed and enclosed it in -his father's old Chinese cabinet, he put the key into an envelope, -wrote the words outside: "Key of the Chinese cabinet, wherein will be -found the exact state of me, J. F.," and put it in his breast- -pocket, where it would be always about him, in case of accident. -Then, ringing for tea, he went out to have it under the old oak-tree. - -All are under sentence of death; Jolyon, whose sentence was but a -little more precise and pressing, had become so used to it that he -thought habitually, like other people, of other things. He thought -of his son now. - -Jon was nineteen that day, and Jon had come of late to a decision. -Educated neither at Eton like his father, nor at Harrow, like his -dead half-brother, but at one of those establishments which, designed -to avoid the evil and contain the good of the Public School system, -may or may not contain the evil and avoid the good, Jon had left in -April perfectly ignorant of whit he wanted to become. The War, which -had promised to go on for ever, had ended just as he was about to -join the Army, six months before his time. It had taken him ever -since to get used to the idea that he could now choose for himself. -He had held with his father several discussions, from which, under a -cheery show of being ready for anything--except, of course, the -Church, Army, Law, Stage, Stock Exchange, Medicine, Business, and -Engineering--Jolyon had gathered rather clearly that Jon wanted to go -in for nothing. He himself had felt exactly like that at the same -age. With him that pleasant vacuity had soon been ended by an early -marriage, and its unhappy consequences. Forced to become an -underwriter at Lloyd's, he had regained prosperity before his -artistic talent had outcropped. But having--as the simple say-- -"learned" his boy to draw pigs and other animals, he knew that Jon -would never be a painter, and inclined to the conclusion that his -aversion from everything else meant that he was going to be a writer. -Holding, however, the view that experience was necessary even for -that profession, there seemed to Jolyon nothing in the meantime, for -Jon, but University, travel, and perhaps the eating of dinners for -the Bar. After that one would see, or more probably one would not. -In face of these proffered allurements, however, Jon had remained -undecided. - -Such discussions with his son had confirmed in Jolyon a doubt whether -the world had really changed. People said that it was a new age. -With the profundity of one not too long for any age, Jolyon perceived -that under slightly different surfaces the era was precisely what it -had been. Mankind was still divided into two species: The few who -had "speculation" in their souls, and the many who had none, with a -belt of hybrids like himself in the middle. Jon appeared to have -speculation; it seemed to his father a bad lookout. - -With something deeper, therefore, than his usual smile, he had heard -the boy say, a fortnight ago: "I should like to try farming, Dad; if -it won't cost you too much. It seems to be about the only sort of -life that doesn't hurt anybody; except art, and of course that's out -of the question for me." - -Jolyon subdued his smile, and answered: - -"All right; you shall skip back to where we were under the first -Jolyon in 1760. It'll prove the cycle theory, and incidentally, no -doubt, you may grow a better turnip than he did." - -A little dashed, Jon had answered: - -"But don't you think it's a good scheme, Dad?" - -"'Twill serve, my dear; and if you should really take to it, you'll -do more good than most men, which is little enough." - -To himself, however, he had said: 'But he won't take to it. I give -him four years. Still, it's healthy, and harmless.' - -After turning the matter over and consulting with Irene, he wrote to -his daughter, Mrs. Val Dartie, asking if they knew of a farmer near -them on the Downs who would take Jon as an apprentice. Holly's -answer had been enthusiastic. There was an excellent man quite -close; she and Val would love Jon to live with them. - -The boy was due to go to-morrow. - -Sipping weak tea with lemon in it, Jolyon gazed through the leaves of -the old oak-tree at that view which had appeared to him desirable for -thirty-two years. The tree beneath which he sat seemed not a day -older! So young, the little leaves of brownish gold; so old, the -whitey-grey-green of its thick rough trunk. A tree of memories, -which would live on hundreds of years yet, unless some barbarian cut -it down--would see old England out at the pace things were going! He -remembered a night three years before, when, looking from his window, -with his arm close round Irene, he had watched a German aeroplane -hovering, it seemed, right over the old tree. Next day they had -found a bomb hole in a field on Gage's farm. That was before he knew -that he was under sentence of death. He could almost have wished the -bomb had finished him. It would have saved a lot of hanging about, -many hours of cold fear in the pit of his stomach. He had counted on -living to the normal Forsyte age of eighty-five or more, when Irene -would be seventy. As it was, she would miss him. Still there was -Jon, more important in her life than himself; Jon, who adored his -mother. - -Under that tree, where old Jolyon--waiting for Irene to come to him -across the lawn--had breathed his last, Jolyon wondered, whimsically, -whether, having put everything in such perfect order, he had not -better close his own eyes and drift away. There was something -undignified in o parasitically clinging on to the effortless close of -a life wherein he regretted two things only--the long division -between his father and himself when he was young, and the lateness of -his union o with Irene. - -From where he sat he could see a cluster of apple-trees in blossom. -Nothing in Nature moved him so much as fruit-trees in blossom; and -his heart ached suddenly because he might never see them flower -again. Spring! Decidedly no man ought to have to die while his -heart was still young enough to love beauty! Blackbirds sang -recklessly in the shrubbery, swallows were flying high, the leaves -above him glistened; and over the fields was every imaginable tint of -early foliage, burnished by the level sunlight, away to where the -distant "smoke-bush" blue was trailed along the horizon. Irene's -flowers in their narrow beds had startling individuality that -evening, little deep assertions of gay life. Only Chinese and -Japanese painters, and perhaps Leonardo, had known how to get that -startling little ego into each painted flower, and bird, and beast-- -the ego, yet the sense of species, the universality of life as well. -They were the fellows! 'I've made nothing that will live!' thought -Jolyon; 'I've been an amateur--a mere lover, not a creator. Still, I -shall leave Jon behind me when I go.' What luck that the boy had -not been caught by that ghastly war! He might so easily have been -killed, like poor Jolly twenty years ago out in the Transvaal. Jon -would do something some day--if the Age didn't spoil him--an -imaginative chap! His whim to take up farming was but a bit of -sentiment, and about as likely to last. And just then he saw them -coming up the field: Irene and the boy; walking from the station, -with their arms linked. And getting up, he strolled down through the -new rose garden to meet them.... - -Irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window. She -sat there without speaking till he said: - -"What is it, my love?" - -"We had an encounter to-day." - -"With whom?" - -"Soames." - -Soames! He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two -years; conscious that it was bad for him. And, now, his heart moved -in a disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his -chest. - -Irene went on quietly: - -"He and his daughter were in the Gallery, and afterward at the -confectioner's where we had tea." - -Jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder. - -"How did he look?" - -"Grey; but otherwise much the same." - -"And the daughter?" - -"Pretty. At least, Jon thought so." - -Jolyon's heart side-slipped again. His wife's face had a strained -and puzzled look. - - -"You didn't-?" he began. - -"No; but Jon knows their name. The girl dropped her handkerchief and -he picked it up." - -Jolyon sat down on his bed. An evil chance! - -"June was with you. Did she put her foot into it?" - -"No; but it was all very queer and strained, and Jon could see it -was." - -Jolyon drew a long breath, and said: - -"I've often wondered whether we've been right to keep it from him. -He'll find out some day." - -"The later the better, Jolyon; the young have such cheap, hard -judgment. When you were nineteen what would you have thought of your -mother if she had done what I have?" - -Yes! There it was! Jon worshipped his mother; and knew nothing of -the tragedies, the inexorable necessities of life, nothing of the -prisoned grief in an unhappy marriage, nothing of jealousy or -passion--knew nothing at all, as yet! - -"What have you told him?" he said at last. - -"That they were relations, but we didn't know them; that you had -never cared much for your family, or they for you. I expect he will -be asking you." - -Jolyon smiled. "This promises to take the place of air-raids," he -said. "After all, one misses them." - -Irene looked up at him. - -"We've known it would come some day." - -He answered her with sudden energy: - -"I could never stand seeing Jon blame you. He shan't do that, even -in thought. He has imagination; and he'll understand if it's put to -him properly. I think I had better tell him before he gets to know -otherwise." - -"Not yet, Jolyon." - -That was like her--she had no foresight, and never went to meet -trouble. Still--who knew?--she might be right. It was ill going -against a mother's instinct. It might be well to let the boy go on, -if possible, till experience had given him some touchstone by which -he could judge the values of that old tragedy; till love, jealousy, -longing, had deepened his charity. All the same, one must take -precautions--every precaution possible! And, long after Irene had -left him, he lay awake turning over those precautions. He must write -to Holly, telling her that Jon knew nothing as yet of family history. -Holly was discreet, she would make sure of her husband, she would see -to it! Jon could take the letter with him when he went to-morrow. - -And so the day on which he had put the polish on his material estate -died out with the chiming of the stable clock; and another began for -Jolyon in the shadow of a spiritual disorder which could not be so -rounded off and polished.... - -But Jon, whose room had once been his day nursery, lay awake too, the -prey of a sensation disputed by those who have never known it, "love -at first sight!" He had felt it beginning in him with the glint of -those dark eyes gazing into his athwart the Juno--a conviction that -this was his 'dream'; so that what followed had seemed to him at once -natural and miraculous. Fleur! Her name alone was almost enough for -one who was terribly susceptible to the charm of words. In a -homoeopathic Age, when boys and girls were co-educated, and mixed up -in early life till sex was almost abolished, Jon was singularly old- -fashioned. His modern school took boys only, and his holidays had -been spent at Robin Hill with boy friends, or his parents alone. He -had never, therefore, been inoculated against the germs of love by -small doses of the poison. And now in the dark his temperature was -mounting fast. He lay awake, featuring Fleur--as they called it-- -recalling her words, especially that "Au revoir!" so soft and -sprightly. - -He was still so wide awake at dawn that he got up, slipped on tennis -shoes, trousers, and a sweater, and in silence crept downstairs and -out through the study window. It was just light; there was a smell -of grass. 'Fleur!' he thought; 'Fleur!' It was mysteriously white -out of doors, with nothing awake except the birds just beginning to -chirp. 'I'll go down into the coppice,' he thought. He ran down -through the fields, reached the pond just as the sun rose, and passed -into the coppice. Bluebells carpeted the ground there; among the -larch-trees there was mystery--the air, as it were, composed of that -romantic quality. Jon sniffed its freshness, and stared at the -bluebells in the sharpening light. Fleur! It rhymed with her! And -she lived at Mapleduram--a jolly name, too, on the river somewhere. -He could find it in the atlas presently. He would write to her. But -would she answer? Oh! She must. She had said "Au revoir!" Not -good-bye! What luck that she had dropped her handkerchief! He would -never have known her but for that. And the more he thought of that -handkerchief, the more amazing his luck seemed. Fleur! It certainly -rhymed with her! Rhythm thronged his head; words jostled to be -joined together; he was on the verge of a poem. - -Jon remained in this condition for more than half an hour, then -returned to the house, and getting a ladder, climbed in at his -bedroom window out of sheer exhilaration. Then, remembering that the -study window was open, he went down and shut it, first removing the -ladder, so as to obliterate all traces of his feeling. The thing was -too deep to be revealed to mortal soul-even-to his mother. - - - - -IV - -THE MAUSOLEUM - - -There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of Time, -leaving their bodies in the limbo of London. Such was not quite the -condition of "Timothy's" on the Bayswater Road, for Timothy's soul -still had one foot in Timothy Forsyte's body, and Smither kept the -atmosphere unchanging, of camphor and port wine and house whose -windows are only opened to air it twice a day. - -To Forsyte imagination that house was now a sort of Chinese pill-box, -a series of layers in the last of which was Timothy. One did not -reach him, or so it was reported by members of the family who, out of -old-time habit or absentmindedness, would drive up once in a blue -moon and ask after their surviving uncle. Such were Francie, now -quite emancipated from God (she frankly avowed atheism), Euphemia, -emancipated from old Nicholas, and Winifred Dartie from her "man of -the world." But, after all, everybody was emancipated now, or said -they were--perhaps not quite the same thing! - -When Soames, therefore, took it on his way to Paddington station on -the morning after that encounter, it was hardly with the expectation -of seeing Timothy in the flesh. His heart made a faint demonstration -within him while he stood in full south sunlight on the newly -whitened doorstep of that little house where four Forsytes had once -lived, and now but one dwelt on like a winter fly; the house into -which Soames had come and out of which he had gone times without -number, divested of, or burdened with, fardels of family gossip; the -house of the "old people" of another century, another age. - -The sight of Smither--still corseted up to the armpits because the -new fashion which came in as they were going out about 1903 had never -been considered "nice" by Aunts Juley and Hester--brought a pale -friendliness to Soames' lips; Smither, still faithfully arranged to -old pattern in every detail, an invaluable servant--none such left-- -smiling back at him, with the words: "Why! it's Mr. Soames, after all -this time! And how are you, sir? Mr. Timothy will be so pleased to -know you've been." - -"How is he?" - -"Oh! he keeps fairly bobbish for his age, sir; but of course he's a -wonderful man. As I said to Mrs. Dartie when she was here last: It -would please Miss Forsyte and Mrs. Juley and Miss Hester to see how -he relishes a baked apple still. But he's quite deaf. And a mercy, -I always think. For what we should have done with him in the air- -raids, I don't know." - -"Ah!" said Soames. "What did you do with him?" - -"We just left him in his bed, and had the bell run down into the -cellar, so that Cook and I could hear him if he rang. It would never -have done to let him know there was a war on. As I said to Cook, 'If -Mr. Timothy rings, they may do what they like--I'm going up. My dear -mistresses would have a fit if they could see him ringing and nobody -going to him.' But he slept through them all beautiful. And the one -in the daytime he was having his bath. It was a mercy, because he -might have noticed the people in the street all looking up--he often -looks out of the window." - -"Quite!" murmured Soames. Smither was getting garrulous! "I just -want to look round and see if there's anything to be done." - -"Yes, sir. I don't think there's anything except a smell of mice in -the dining-room that we don't know how to get rid of. It's funny -they should be there, and not a crumb, since Mr. Timothy took to not -coming down, just before the War. But they're nasty little things; -you never know where they'll take you next." - -"Does he leave his bed?"-- - -"Oh! yes, sir; he takes nice exercise between his bed and the window -in the morning, not to risk a change of air. And he's quite -comfortable in himself; has his Will out every day regular. It's a -great consolation to him--that." - -"Well, Smither, I want to see him, if I can; in case he has anything -to say to me." - -Smither coloured up above her corsets. - -"It will be an occasion!" she said. "Shall I take you round the -house, sir, while I send Cook to break it to him?" - -"No, you go to him," said Soames. "I can go round the house by -myself." - -One could not confess to sentiment before another, and Soames felt -that he was going to be sentimental nosing round those rooms so -saturated with the past. When Smither, creaking with excitement, had -left him, Soames entered the dining-room and sniffed. In his opinion -it wasn't mice, but incipient wood-rot, and he examined the -panelling. Whether it was worth a coat of paint, at Timothy's age, -he was not sure. The room had always been the most modern in the -house; and only a faint smile curled Soames' lips and nostrils. -Walls of a rich green surmounted the oak dado; a heavy metal -chandelier hung by a chain from a ceiling divided by imitation beams. -The pictures had been bought by Timothy, a bargain, one day at -Jobson's sixty years ago--three Snyder "still lifes," two faintly -coloured drawings of a boy and a girl, rather charming, which bore -the initials "J. R."--Timothy had always believed they might turn out -to be Joshua Reynolds, but Soames, who admired them, had discovered -that they were only John Robinson; and a doubtful Morland of a white -pony being shod. Deep-red plush curtains, ten high-backed dark -mahogany chairs with deep-red plush seats, a Turkey carpet, and a -mahogany dining-table as large as the room was small, such was an -apartment which Soames could remember unchanged in soul or body since -he was four years old. He looked especially at the two drawings, and -thought: 'I shall buy those at the sale.' - -From the dining-room he passed into Timothy's study. He did not -remember ever having been in that room. It was lined from floor to -ceiling with volumes, and he looked at them with curiosity. One wall -seemed devoted to educational books, which Timothy's firm had -published two generations back-sometimes as many as twenty copies of -one book. Soames read their titles and shuddered. The middle wall -had precisely the same books as used to be in the library at his own -father's in Park Lane, from which he deduced the fancy that James and -his youngest brother had gone out together one day and bought a brace -of small libraries. The third wall he approached with more -excitement. Here, surely, Timothy's own taste would be found. It -was. The books were dummies. The fourth wall was all heavily -curtained window. And turned toward it was a large chair with a -mahogany reading-stand attached, on which a yellowish and folded copy -of The Times, dated July 6, 1914, the day Timothy first failed to -come down, as if in preparation for the War, seemed waiting for him -still. In a corner stood a large globe of that world never visited -by Timothy, deeply convinced of the unreality of everything but -England, and permanently upset by the sea, on which he had been very -sick one Sunday afternoon in 1836, out of a pleasure boat off the -pier at Brighton, with Juley and Hester, Swithin and Hatty Chessman; -all due to Swithin, who was always taking things into his head, and -who, thank goodness, had been sick too. Soames knew all about it, -having heard the tale fifty times at least from one or other of them. -He went up to the globe, and gave it a spin; it emitted a faint creak -and moved about an inch, bringing into his purview a daddy-long-legs -which had died on it in latitude 44. - -'Mausoleum!' he thought. 'George was right!' And he went out and up -the stairs. On the half-landing he stopped before the case of -stuffed humming-birds which had delighted his childhood. They looked -not a day older, suspended on wires above pampas-grass. If the case -were opened the birds would not begin to hum, but the whole thing -would crumble, he suspected. It wouldn't be worth putting that into -the sale! And suddenly he was caught by a memory of Aunt Ann--dear -old Aunt Ann--holding him by the hand in front of that case and -saying: "Look, Soamey! Aren't they bright and pretty, dear little -humming-birds!" Soames remembered his own answer: "They don't hum, -Auntie." He must have been six, in a black velveteen suit with a -light-blue collar-he remembered that suit well! Aunt Ann with her -ringlets, and her spidery kind hands, and her grave old aquiline -smile--a fine old lady, Aunt Ann! He moved on up to the drawing-room -door. There on each side of it were the groups of miniatures. Those -he would certainly buy in! The miniatures of his four aunts, one of -his Uncle Swithin adolescent, and one of his Uncle Nicholas as a boy. -They had all been painted by a young lady friend of the family at a -time, 1830, about, when miniatures were considered very genteel, and -lasting too, painted as they were on ivory. Many a time had he heard -the tale of that young lady: "Very talented, my dear; she had quite a -weakness for Swithin, and very soon after she went into a consumption -and died: so like Keats--we often spoke of it." - -Well, there they were! Ann, Juley, Hester, Susan--quite a small -child; Swithin, with sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, yellow curls, white -waistcoat-large as life; and Nicholas, like Cupid with an eye on -heaven. Now he came to think of it, Uncle Nick had always been -rather like that--a wonderful man to the last. Yes, she must have -had talent, and miniatures always had a certain back-watered cachet -of their own, little subject to the currents of competition on -aesthetic Change. Soames opened the drawing-room door. The room was -dusted, the furniture uncovered, the curtains drawn back, precisely -as if his aunts still dwelt there patiently waiting. And a thought -came to him: When Timothy died--why not? Would it not be almost a -duty to preserve this house--like Carlyle's--and put up a tablet, and -show it? "Specimen of mid-Victorian abode--entrance, one shilling, -with catalogue." After all, it was the completest thing, and perhaps -the deadest in the London of to-day. Perfect in its special taste -and culture, if, that is, he took down and carried over to his own -collection the four Barbizon pictures he had given them. The still -sky-blue walls, tile green curtains patterned with red flowers and -ferns; the crewel-worked fire-screen before the cast-iron grate; the -mahogany cupboard with glass windows, full of little knickknacks; the -beaded footstools; Keats, Shelley, Southey, Cowper, Coleridge, -Byron's Corsair (but nothing else), and the Victorian poets in a -bookshelf row; the marqueterie cabinet lined with dim red plush, full -of family relics: Hester's first fan; the buckles of their mother's -father's shoes; three bottled scorpions; and one very yellow -elephant's tusk, sent home from India by Great-uncle Edgar Forsyte, -who had been in jute; a yellow bit of paper propped up, with spidery -writing on it, recording God knew what! And the pictures crowding on -the walls--all water-colours save those four Barbizons looking like -tile foreigners they were, and doubtful customers at that--pictures -bright and illustrative, "Telling the Bees," "Hey for the Ferry!" and -two in the style of Frith, all thimblerig and crinolines, given them -by Swithin. Oh! many, many pictures at which Soames had gazed a -thousand times in supercilious fascination; a marvellous collection -of bright, smooth gilt frames. - -And the boudoir-grand piano, beautifully dusted, hermetically sealed -as ever; and Aunt Juley's album of pressed seaweed on it. And the -gilt-legged chairs, stronger than they looked. And on one side of -the fireplace the sofa of crimson silk, where Aunt Ann, and after her -Aunt Juley, had been wont to sit, facing the light and bolt upright. -And on the other side of the fire the one really easy chair, back to -the light, for Aunt Hester. Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to -see them sitting there. Ah! and the atmosphere--even now, of too -many stuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried -bees' wings. 'No,' he thought, 'there's nothing like it left; it -ought to be preserved.' And, by George, they might laugh at it, but -for a standard of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness -of skin and eye and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow--to-day -with its Tubes and cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, -bare-necked girls visible up to the knees and down to the waist if -you took the trouble (agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but -hardly his idea of a lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the -legs of their chairs while they ate, and their "So longs," and their -"Old Beans," and their laughter--girls who gave him the shudders -whenever he thought of Fleur in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, -capable, older women who managed life and gave him the shudders too. -No! his old aunts, if they never opened their minds, their eyes, or -very much their windows, at least had manners, and a standard, and -reverence for past and future. - -With rather a choky feeling he closed the door and went tiptoeing up- -stairs. He looked in at a place on the way: H'm! in perfect order of -the eighties, with a sort of yellow oilskin paper on the walls. At -the top of the stairs he hesitated between four doors. Which of them -was Timothy's? And he listened. A sound, as of a child slowly -dragging a hobby-horse about, came to his ears. That must be -Timothy! He tapped, and a door was opened by Smither, very red in -the face. - -Mr. Timothy was taking his walk, and she had not been able to get him -to attend. If Mr. Soames would come into the back-room, he could see -him through the door. - -Soames went into the back-room and stood watching. - -The last of the old Forsytes was on his feet, moving with the most -impressive slowness, and an air of perfect concentration on his own -affairs, backward and forward between the foot of his bed and the -window, a distance of some twelve feet. The lower part of his square -face, no longer clean-shaven, was covered with snowy beard clipped as -short as it could be, and his chin looked as broad as his brow where -the hair was also quite white, while nose and cheeks and brow were a -good yellow. One hand held a stout stick, and the other grasped the -skirt of his Jaeger dressing-gown, from under which could be seen his -bed-socked ankles and feet thrust into Jaeger slippers. The -expression on his face was that of a crossed child, intent on -something that he has not got. Each time he turned he stumped the -stick, and then dragged it, as if to show that he could do without -it: - -"He still looks strong," said Soames under his breath. - -"Oh! yes, sir. You should see him take his bath--it's wonderful; he -does enjoy it so." - -Those quite loud words gave Soames an insight. Timothy had resumed -his babyhood. - -"Does he take any interest in things generally?" he said, also loud. - -"Oh I yes, sir; his food and his Will. It's quite a sight to see him -turn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every now and -then he asks the price of Consols, and I write it on a slate for him- -very large. Of course, I always write the same, what they were when -he last took notice, in 1914. We got the doctor to forbid him to -read the paper when the War broke out. Oh! he did take on about that -at first. But he soon came round, because he knew it tired him; and -he's a wonder to conserve energy as he used to call it when my dear -mistresses were alive, bless their hearts! How he did go on at them -about that; they were always so active, if you remember, Mr. Soames." - -"What would happen if I were to go in?" asked Soames: "Would he -remember me? I made his Will, you know, after Miss Hester died in -1907." - -"Oh! that, sir," replied Smither doubtfully, "I couldn't take on me -to say. I think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his age." - -Soames moved into the doorway, and waiting for Timothy to turn, said -in a loud voice: "Uncle Timothy!" - -Timothy trailed back half-way, and halted. - -"Eh?" he said. - -"Soames," cried Soames at the top of his voice, holding out his hand, -"Soames Forsyte!" - -"No!" said Timothy, and stumping his stick loudly on the floor, he -continued his walk. - -"It doesn't seem to work," said Soames. - -"No, sir," replied Smither, rather crestfallen; "you see, he hasn't -finished his walk. It always was one thing at a time with him. I -expect he'll ask me this afternoon if you came about the gas, and a -pretty job I shall have to make him understand." - -"Do you think he ought to have a man about him?" - -Smither held up her hands. "A man! Oh! no. Cook and me can manage -perfectly. A strange man about would send him crazy in no time. And -my mistresses wouldn't like the idea of a man in the house. Besides, -we're so--proud of him." - -"I suppose the doctor comes?" - -"Every morning. He makes special terms for such a quantity, and Mr. -Timothy's so used, he doesn't take a bit of notice, except to put out -his tongue." - -"Well," said Soames, turning away, "it's rather sad and painful to -me." - -"Oh! sir," returned Smither anxiously, "you mustn't think that. Now -that he can't worry about things, he quite enjoys his life, really he -does. As I say to Cook, Mr. Timothy is more of a man than he ever -was. You see, when he's not walkin', or takin' his bath, he's -eatin', and when he's not eatin', he's sleepin'; and there it is. -There isn't an ache or a care about him anywhere." - -"Well," said Soames, "there's something in that. I'll go down. By -the way, let me see his Will." - -"I should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under his -pillow, and he'd see me, while he's active." - -"I only want to know if it's the one I made," said Soames; "you take -a look at its date some time, and let me know." - -"Yes, sir; but I'm sure it's the same, because me and Cook witnessed, -you remember, and there's our names on it still, and we've only done -it once." - -"Quite," said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had been -proper witnesses, having been left nothing in the Will that they -might have no interest in Timothy's death. It had been--he fully -admitted--an almost improper precaution, but Timothy had wished it, -and, after all, Aunt Hester had provided for them amply. - -"Very well," he said; "good-bye, Smither. Look after him, and if he -should say anything at any time, put it down, and let me know." - -"Oh I yes, Mr. Soames; I'll be sure to do that. It's been such a -pleasant change to see you. Cook will be quite excited when I tell -her." - -Soames shook her hand and went down-stairs. He stood for fully two -minutes by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. -'So it all passes,' he was thinking; 'passes and begins again. Poor -old chap!' And he listened, if perchance the sound of Timothy -trailing his hobby-horse might come down the well of the stairs; or -some ghost of an old face show over the bannisters, and an old voice -say: 'Why, it's dear Soames, and we were only saying that we hadn't -seen him for a week!' - -Nothing--nothing! Just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in a -sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house! A -mausoleum! And, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his -train. - - - - -V - -THE NATIVE HEATH - - - "His foot's upon his native heath, - His name's--Val Dartie." - -With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his -age, set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old -manor-house he had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His -destination was Newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn -of 1899, when he stole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He -paused at the door to give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port -into his pocket. - -"Don't overtire your leg, Val, and don't bet too much." - -With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking -into his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate; -Holly was always right--she had a natural aptitude. It did not seem -so remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that--half -Dartie as he was--he should have been perfectly faithful to his young -first cousin during the twenty years since he married her -romantically out in the Boer War; and faithful without any feeling of -sacrifice or boredom--she was so quick, so slyly always a little in -front of his mood. Being first cousins they had decided, rather -needlessly, to have no children; and, though a little sallower, she -had kept her looks, her slimness, and the colour of her dark hair. -Val particularly admired the life of her own she carried on, besides -carrying on his, and riding better every year. She kept up her -music, she read an awful lot--novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff. -Out on their farm in Cape colony she had looked after all the -"nigger" babies and women in a miraculous manner. She was, in fact, -clever; yet made no fuss about it, and had no "side." Though not -remarkable for humility, Val had come to have the feeling that she -was his superior, and he did not grudge it--a great tribute. It -might be noted that he never looked at Holly without her knowing of -it, but that she looked at him sometimes unawares. - -He had kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on -the platform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive -the car back. Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and the wiles -inseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened -in the Boer War, had probably saved his life in the War just past, -Val was still much as he had been in the days of his courtship; his -smile as wide and charming, his eyelashes, if anything, thicker and -darker, his eyes screwed up under them, as bright a grey, his -freckles rather deeper, his hair a little grizzled at the sides. He -gave the impression of one who has lived actively with horses in a -sunny climate. - -Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said: - -"When is young Jon coming?" - -"To-day." - -"Is there anything you want for him? I could bring it down on -Saturday." - -"No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur--one-forty." - -Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new -country on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven -at every hole. - -"That's a young woman who knows her way about," he said. "I say, has -it struck you?" - -"Yes," said Holly. - -"Uncle Soames and your Dad--bit awkward, isn't it?" - -"She won't know, and he won't know, and nothing must be said, of -course. It's only for five days, Val." - -"Stable secret! Righto!" If Holly thought it safe, it was. -Glancing slyly round at him, she said: "Did you notice how -beautifully she asked herself?" - -"No!" - -"Well, she did. What do you think of her, Val?" - -"Pretty and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got -her monkey up, I should say." - -"I'm wondering," Holly murmured, "whether she is the modern young -woman. One feels at sea coming home into all this." - -"You? You get the hang of things so quick." - -Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket. - -"You keep one in the know," said Val encouraged. "What do you think -of that Belgian fellow, Profond?" - -"I think he's rather 'a good devil.'" - -Val grinned. - -"He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. In fact, -our family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying a -Frenchwoman, and your Dad marrying Soames's first. Our grandfathers -would have had fits!" - -"So would anybody's, my dear." - -"This car," Val said suddenly, "wants rousing; she doesn't get her -hind legs under her uphill. I shall have to give her her head on the -slope if I'm to catch that train." - -There was that about horses which had prevented him from ever really -sympathising with a car, and the running of the Ford under his -guidance compared with its running under that of Holly was always -noticeable. He caught the train. - -"Take care going home; she'll throw you down if she can. Good-bye, -darling." - -"Good-bye," called Holly, and kissed her hand. - -In the train, after quarter of an hour's indecision between thoughts -of Holly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day, and his dim -memory of Newmarket, Val plunged into the recesses of a small square -book, all names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes about the make and -shape of horses. The Forsyte in him was bent on the acquisition of a -certain strain of blood, and he was subduing resolutely as yet the -Dartie hankering for a Nutter. On getting back to England, after the -profitable sale of his South African farm and stud, and observing -that the sun seldom shone, Val had said to himself: "I've absolutely -got to have an interest in life, or this country will give me the -blues. Hunting's not enough, I'll breed and I'll train." With just -that extra pinch of shrewdness and decision imparted by long -residence in a new country, Val had seen the weak point of modern -breeding. They were all hypnotised by fashion and high price. He -should buy for looks, and let names go hang! And here he was -already, hypnotised by the prestige of a certain strain of blood! -Half-consciously, he thought: 'There's something in this damned -climate which makes one go round in a ring. All the same, I must -have a strain of Mayfly blood.' - -In this mood he reached the Mecca of his hopes. It was one of those -quiet meetings favourable to such as wish to look into horses, rather -than into the mouths of bookmakers; and Val clung to the paddock. -His twenty years of Colonial life, divesting him of the dandyism in -which he had been bred, had left him the essential neatness of the -horseman, and given him a queer and rather blighting eye over what he -called "the silly haw-haw" of some Englishmen, the "flapping -cockatoory" of some English-women--Holly had none of that and Holly -was his model. Observant, quick, resourceful, Val went straight to -the heart of a transaction, a horse, a drink; and he was on his way -to the heart of a Mayfly filly, when a slow voice said at his elbow: - -"Mr. Val Dartie? How's Mrs. Val Dartie? She's well, I hope." And -he saw beside him the Belgian he had met at his sister Imogen's. - -"Prosper Profond--I met you at lunch," said the voice. - -"How are you?" murmured Val. - -"I'm very well," replied Monsieur Profond, smiling with a certain -inimitable slowness. "A good devil," Holly had called him. Well! -He looked a little like a devil, with his dark, clipped, pointed -beard; a sleepy one though, and good-humoured, with fine eyes, -unexpectedly intelligent. - -"Here's a gentleman wants to know you--cousin of yours--Mr. George -Forsyde." - -Val saw a large form, and a face clean-shaven, bull-like, a little -lowering, with sardonic humour bubbling behind a full grey eye; he -remembered it dimly from old days when he would dine with his father -at the Iseeum Club. - -"I used to go racing with your father," George was saying: "How's the -stud? Like to buy one of my screws?" - -Val grinned, to hide the sudden feeling that the bottom had fallen -out of breeding. They believed in nothing over here, not even in -horses. George Forsyte, Prosper Profond! The devil himself was not -more disillusioned than those two. - -"Didn't know you were a racing man," he said to Monsieur Profond. - -"I'm not. I don't care for it. I'm a yachtin' man. I don't care -for yachtin' either, but I like to see my friends. I've got some -lunch, Mr. Val Dartie, just a small lunch, if you'd like to 'ave -some; not much--just a small one--in my car." - -"Thanks," said Val; "very good of you. I'll come along in about -quarter of an hour." - -"Over there. Mr. Forsyde's comin'," and Monsieur Profond "poinded" -with a yellow-gloved finger; "small car, with a small lunch"; he -moved on, groomed, sleepy, and remote, George Forsyte following, -neat, huge, and with his jesting air. - -Val remained gazing at the Mayfly filly. George Forsyte, of course, -was an old chap, but this Profond might be about his own age; Val -felt extremely young, as if the Mayfly filly were a toy at which -those two had laughed. The animal had lost reality. - -"That 'small' mare"--he seemed to hear the voice of Monsieur Profond- --"what do you see in her?--we must all die!" - -And George Forsyte, crony of his father, racing still! The Mayfly -strain--was it any better than any other? He might just as well have -a flutter with his money instead. - -"No, by gum!" he muttered suddenly, "if it's no good breeding horses, -it's no good doing anything. What did I come for? I'll buy her." - -He stood back and watched the ebb of the paddock visitors toward the -stand. Natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, Jews, trainers -looking as if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their -lives; tall, flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; -young men with an air as if trying to take it seriously--two or three -of them with only one arm. - -'Life over here's a game!' thought Val. 'Muffin bell rings, horses -run, money changes hands; ring again, run again, money changes back.' - -But, alarmed at his own philosophy, he went to the paddock gate to -watch the Mayfly filly canter down. She moved well; and he made his -way over to the "small" car. The "small" lunch was the sort a man -dreams of but seldom gets; and when it was concluded Monsieur Profond -walked back with him to the paddock. - -"Your wife's a nice woman," was his surprising remark. - -"Nicest woman I know," returned Val dryly. - -"Yes," said Monsieur Profond; "she has a nice face. I admire nice -women." - -Val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in -the heavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment. - -"Any time you like to come on my yacht, I'll give her a small -cruise." - -"Thanks," said Val, in arms again, "she hates the sea." - -"So do I," said Monsieur Profond. - -"Then why do you yacht?" - -The Belgian's eyes smiled. "Oh! I don't know. I've done everything; -it's the last thing I'm doin'." - -"It must be d-d expensive. I should want more reason than that." - -Monsieur Prosper Profond raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a heavy -lower lip. - -"I'm an easy-goin' man," he said. - -"Were you in the War?" asked Val. - -"Ye-es. I've done that too. I was gassed; it was a small bit -unpleasant." He smiled with a deep and sleepy air of prosperity, as -if he had caught it from his name. - -Whether his saying "small" when he ought to have said "little" was -genuine mistake or affectation Val could not decide; the fellow was -evidently capable of anything. - -Among the ring of buyers round the Mayfly filly who had won her race, -Monsieur Profond said: - -"You goin' to bid?" - -Val nodded. With this sleepy Satan at his elbow, he felt in need of -faith. Though placed above the ultimate blows of Providence by the -forethought of a grand-father who had tied him up a thousand a year -to which was added the thousand a year tied up for Holly by her -grand-father, Val was not flush of capital that he could touch, -having spent most of what he had realised from his South African farm -on his establishment in Sussex. And very soon he was thinking: 'Dash -it! she's going beyond me!' His limit-six hundred-was exceeded; he -dropped out of the bidding. The Mayfly filly passed under the hammer -at seven hundred and fifty guineas. He was turning away vexed when -the slow voice of Monsieur Profond said in his ear: - -"Well, I've bought that small filly, but I don't want her; you take -her and give her to your wife." - -Val looked at the fellow with renewed suspicion, but the good humour -in his eyes was such that he really could not take offence. - -"I made a small lot of money in the War," began Monsieur Profond in -answer to that look. "I 'ad armament shares. I like to give it -away. I'm always makin' money. I want very small lot myself. I -like my friends to 'ave it." - -"I'll buy her of you at the price you gave," said Val with sudden -resolution. - -"No," said Monsieur Profond. "You take her. I don' want her." - -"Hang it! one doesn't--" - -"Why not?" smiled Monsieur Profond. "I'm a friend of your family." - -"Seven hundred and fifty guineas is not a box of cigars," said Val -impatiently. - -"All right; you keep her for me till I want her, and do what you like -with her." - -"So long as she's yours," said Val. "I don't mind that." - -"That's all right," murmured Monsieur Profond, and moved away. - -Val watched; he might be "a good devil," but then again he might not. -He saw him rejoin George Forsyte, and thereafter saw him no more. - -He spent those nights after racing at his mother's house in Green -Street. - -Winifred Dartie at sixty-two was marvellously preserved, considering -the three-and-thirty years during which she had put up with Montague -Dartie, till almost happily released by a French staircase. It was -to her a vehement satisfaction to have her favourite son back from -South Africa after all this time, to feel him so little changed, and -to have taken a fancy to his wife. Winifred, who in the late -seventies, before her marriage, had been in the vanguard of freedom, -pleasure, and fashion, confessed her youth outclassed by the -donzellas of the day. They seemed, for instance, to regard marriage -as an incident, and Winifred sometimes regretted that she had not -done the same; a second, third, fourth incident might have secured -her a partner of less dazzling inebriety; though, after all, he had -left her Val, Imogen, Maud, Benedict (almost a colonel and unharmed -by the War)--none of whom had been divorced as yet. The steadiness of -her children often amazed one who remembered their father; but, as -she was fond of believing, they were really all Forsytes, favouring -herself, with the exception, perhaps, of Imogen. Her brother's -"little girl" Fleur frankly puzzled Winifred. The child was as -restless as any of these modern young women--"She's a small flame in -a draught," Prosper Profond had said one day after dinner--but she -did not flop, or talk at the top of her voice. The steady Forsyteism -in Winifred's own character instinctively resented the feeling in the -air, the modern girl's habits and her motto: "All's much of a -muchness! Spend, to-morrow we shall be poor!" She found it a saving -grace in Fleur that, having set her heart on a thing, she had no -change of heart until she got it--though--what happened after, Fleur -was, of course, too young to have made evident. The child was a -"very pretty little thing," too, and quite a credit to take about, -with her mother's French taste and gift for wearing clothes; -everybody turned to look at Fleur--great consideration to Winifred, a -lover of the style and distinction which had so cruelly deceived her -in the case of Montague Dartie. - -In discussing her with Val, at breakfast on Saturday morning, -Winifred dwelt on the family skeleton. - -"That little affair of your father-in-law and your Aunt Irene, Val-- -it's old as the hills, of course, Fleur need know nothing about it-- -making a fuss. Your Uncle Soames is very particular about that. So -you'll be careful." - -"Yes! But it's dashed awkward--Holly's young half-brother is coming -to live with us while he learns farming. He's there already." - -"Oh!" said Winifred. "That is a gaff! What is he like?" - -"Only saw him once--at Robin Hill, when we were home in 1909; he was -naked and painted blue and yellow in stripes--a jolly little chap." - -Winifred thought that "rather nice," and added comfortably: "Well, -Holly's sensible; she'll know how to deal with it. I shan't tell -your uncle. It'll only bother him. It's a great comfort to have you -back, my dear boy, now that I'm getting on." - -"Getting on! Why! you're as young as ever. That chap Profond, -Mother, is he all right?" - -"Prosper Profond! Oh! the most amusing man I know." - -Val grunted, and recounted the story of the Mayfly filly. - -"That's so like him," murmured Winifred. "He does all sorts of -things." - -"Well," said Val shrewdly, "our family haven't been too lucky with -that kind of cattle; they're too light-hearted for us." - -It was true, and Winifred's blue study lasted a full minute before -she answered: - -"Oh! well! He's a foreigner, Val; one must make allowances." - -"All right, I'll use his filly and make it up to him, somehow." - -And soon after he gave her his blessing, received a kiss, and left -her for his bookmaker's, the Iseeum Club, and Victoria station. - - - - -VI - -JON - - -Mrs. Val Dartie, after twenty years of South Africa, had fallen -deeply in love, fortunately with something of her own, for the object -of her passion was the prospect in front of her windows, the cool -clear light on the green Downs. It was England again, at last! -England more beautiful than she had dreamed. Chance had, in fact, -guided the Val Darties to a spot where the South Downs had real charm -when the sun shone. Holly had enough of her father's eye to -apprehend the rare quality of their outlines and chalky radiance; to -go up there by the ravine-like lane and wander along toward -Chanctonbury or Amberley, was still a delight which she hardly -attempted to share with Val, whose admiration of Nature was confused -by a Forsyte's instinct for getting something out of it, such as the -condition of the turf for his horses' exercise. - -Driving the Ford home with a certain humouring, smoothness, she -promised herself that the first use she would make of Jon would be to -take him up there, and show him "the view" under this May-day sky. - -She was looking forward to her young half-brother with a motherliness -not exhausted by Val. A three-day visit to Robin Hill, soon after -their arrival home, had yielded no sight of him--he was still at -school; so that her recollection, like Val's, was of a little sunny- -haired boy, striped blue and yellow, down by the pond. - -Those three days at Robin Hill had been exciting, sad, embarrassing. -Memories of her dead brother, memories of Val's courtship; the ageing -of her father, not seen for twenty years, something funereal in his -ironic gentleness which did not escape one who had much subtle -instinct; above all, the presence of her stepmother, whom she could -still vaguely remember as the "lady in grey" of days when she was -little and grandfather alive and Mademoiselle Beauce so cross because -that intruder gave her music lessons--all these confused and -tantalised a spirit which had longed to find Robin Hill untroubled. -But Holly was adept at keeping things to herself, and all had seemed -to go quite well. - -Her father had kissed her when she left him, with lips which she was -sure had trembled. - -"Well, my dear," he said, "the War hasn't changed Robin Hill, has it? -If only you could have brought Jolly back with you! I say, can you -stand this spiritualistic racket? When the oak-tree dies, it dies, -I'm afraid." - -From the warmth of her embrace he probably divined that he had let -the cat out of the bag, for he rode off at once on irony. - -"Spiritualism--queer word, when the more they manifest the more they -prove that they've got hold of matter." - -"How?" said Holly. - -"Why! Look at their photographs of auric presences. You must have -something material for light and shade to fall on before you can take -a photograph. No, it'll end in our calling all matter spirit, or all -spirit matter--I don't know which." - -"But don't you believe in survival, Dad?" - -Jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his face -impressed her deeply. - -"Well, my dear, I should like to get something out of death. I've -been looking into it a bit. But for the life of me I can't find -anything that telepathy, sub-consciousness, and emanation from the -storehouse of this world can't account for just as well. Wish I -could! Wishes father thought but they don't breed evidence." -Holly had pressed her lips again to his forehead with the feeling -that it confirmed his theory that all matter was becoming spirit--his -brow felt, somehow, so insubstantial. - -But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching, -unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon. It -was--she decided--the prettiest sight she had ever seen. Irene, lost -as it were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the -light fell on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, -smiling, her dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not -hold the letter was pressed against her breast. Holly withdrew as -from a vision of perfect love, convinced that Jon must be nice. - -When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either -hand, she was confirmed in her predisposition. He was a little like -Jolly, that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and -less formal, with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore -no hat; altogether a very interesting "little" brother! - -His tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance -in the youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive him -home, instead of his driving her. Shouldn't he have a shot? They -hadn't a car at Robin Hill since the War, of course, and he had only -driven once, and landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his -trying. His laugh, soft and infectious, was very attractive, though -that word, she had heard, was now quite old-fashioned. When they -reached the house he pulled out a crumpled letter which she read -while he was washing--a quite short letter, which must have cost her -father many a pang to write. - - -"MY DEAR, - -"You and Val will not forget, I trust, that Jon knows nothing of -family history. His mother and I think he is too young at present. -The boy is very dear, and the apple of her eye. Verbum sapientibus. -your loving father, - -"J. F." - - -That was all; but it renewed in Holly an uneasy regret that Fleur was -coming. - -After tea she fulfilled that promise to herself and took Jon up the -hill. They had a long talk, sitting above an old chalk-pit grown -over with brambles and goosepenny. Milkwort and liverwort starred -the green slope, the larks sang, and thrushes in the brake, and now -and then a gull flighting inland would wheel very white against the -paling sky, where the vague moon was coming up. Delicious fragrance -came to them, as if little invisible creatures were running and -treading scent out of the blades of grass. - -Jon, who had fallen silent, said rather suddenly: - -"I say, this is wonderful! There's no fat on it at all. Gull's -flight and sheep-bells" - -"'Gull's flight and sheep-bells'! You're a poet, my dear!" - -Jon sighed. - -"Oh, Golly! No go!" - -"Try! I used to at your age." - -"Did you? Mother says 'try' too; but I'm so rotten. Have you any of -yours for me to see?" - -"My dear," Holly murmured, "I've been married nineteen years. I only -wrote verses when I wanted to be." - -"Oh!" said Jon, and turned over on his face: the one cheek she could -see was a charming colour. Was Jon "touched in the wind," then, as -Val would have called it? Already? But, if so, all the better, he -would take no notice of young Fleur. Besides, on Monday he would -begin his farming. And she smiled. Was it Burns who followed the -plough, or only Piers Plowman? Nearly every young man and most young -women seemed to be poets now, judging from the number of their books -she had read out in South Africa, importing them from Hatchus and -Bumphards; and quite good--oh! quite; much better than she had been -herself! But then poetry had only really come in since her day--with -motor-cars. Another long talk after dinner over a wood fire in the -low hall, and there seemed little left to know about Jon except -anything of real importance. Holly parted from him at his bedroom -door, having seen twice over that he had everything, with the -conviction that she would love him, and Val would like him. He was -eager, but did not gush; he was a splendid listener, sympathetic, -reticent about himself. He evidently loved their father, and adored -his mother. He liked riding, rowing, and fencing better than games. -He saved moths from candles, and couldn't bear spiders, but put them -out of doors in screws of paper sooner than kill them. In a word, he -was amiable. She went to sleep, thinking that he would suffer -horribly if anybody hurt him; but who would hurt him? - -Jon, on the other hand, sat awake at his window with a bit of paper -and a pencil, writing his first "real poem" by the light of a candle -because there was not enough moon to see by, only enough to make the -night seem fluttery and as if engraved on silver. Just the night for -Fleur to walk, and turn her eyes, and lead on-over the hills and far -away. And Jon, deeply furrowed in his ingenuous brow, made marks on -the paper and rubbed them out and wrote them in again, and did all -that was necessary for the completion of a work of art; and he had a -feeling such as the winds of Spring must have, trying their first -songs among the coming blossom. Jon was one of those boys (not many) -in whom a home-trained love of beauty had survived school life. He -had had to keep it to himself, of course, so that not even the -drawing-master knew of it; but it was there, fastidious and clear -within him. And his poem seemed to him as lame and stilted as the -night was winged. But he kept it, all the same. It was a "beast," -but better than nothing as an expression of the inexpressible. And -he thought with a sort of discomfiture: 'I shan't be able to show it -to Mother.' He slept terribly well, when he did sleep, overwhelmed -by novelty. - - - - -VII - -FLEUR - - -To avoid the awkwardness of questions which could not be answered, -all that had been told Jon was: - -"There's a girl coming down with Val for the week-end." - -For the same reason, all that had been told Fleur was: "We've got a -youngster staying with us." - -The two yearlings, as Val called them in his thoughts, met therefore -in a manner which for unpreparedness left nothing to be desired. -They were thus introduced by Holly: - -"This is Jon, my little brother; Fleur's a cousin of ours, Jon." - -Jon, who was coming in through a French window out of strong -sunlight, was so confounded by the providential nature of this -miracle, that he had time to hear Fleur say calmly: "Oh, how do you -do?" as if he had never seen her, and to understand dimly from the -quickest imaginable little movement of her head that he never had -seen her. He bowed therefore over her hand in an intoxicated manner, -and became more silent than the grave. He knew better than to speak. -Once in his early life, surprised reading by a nightlight, he had -said fatuously "I was just turning over the leaves, Mum," and his -mother had replied: "Jon, never tell stories, because of your face -nobody will ever believe them." - -The saying had permanently undermined the confidence necessary to the -success of spoken untruth. He listened therefore to Fleur's swift -and rapt allusions to the jolliness of everything, plied her with -scones and jam, and got away as soon as might be. They say that in -delirium tremens you see a fixed object, preferably dark, which -suddenly changes shape and position. Jon saw the fixed object; it -had dark eyes and passably dark hair, and changed its position, but -never its shape. The knowledge that between him and that object -there was already a secret understanding (however impossible to -understand) thrilled him so that he waited feverishly, and began to -copy out his poem--which of course he would never dare to--show her-- -till the sound of horses' hoofs roused him, and, leaning from his -window, he saw her riding forth with Val. It was clear that she -wasted no time, but the sight filled him with grief. He wasted his. -If he had not bolted, in his fearful ecstasy, he might have been -asked to go too. And from his window he sat and watched them -disappear, appear again in the chine of the road, vanish, and emerge -once more for a minute clear on the outline of the Down. 'Silly -brute!' he thought; 'I always miss my chances.' - -Why couldn't he be self-confident and ready? And, leaning his chin -on his hands, he imagined the ride he might have had with her. A -week-end was but a week-end, and he had missed three hours of it. -Did he know any one except himself who would have been such a flat? -He did not. - -He dressed for dinner early, and was first down. He would miss no -more. But he missed Fleur, who came down last. He sat opposite her -at dinner, and it was terrible--impossible to say anything for fear -of saying the wrong thing, impossible to keep his eyes fixed on her -in the only natural way; in sum, impossible to treat normally one -with whom in fancy he had already been over the hills and far away; -conscious, too, all the time, that he must seem to her, to all of -them, a dumb gawk. Yes, it was terrible! And she was talking so -well--swooping with swift wing this way and that. Wonderful how she -had learned an art which he found so disgustingly difficult. She -must think him hopeless indeed! - -His sister's eyes, fixed on him with a certain astonishment, obliged -him at last to look at Fleur; but instantly her eyes, very wide and -eager, seeming to say, "Oh! for goodness' sake!" obliged him to look -at Val, where a grin obliged him to look at his cutlet--that, at -least, had no eyes, and no grin, and he ate it hastily. - -"Jon is going to be a farmer," he heard Holly say; "a farmer and a -poet." - -He glanced up reproachfully, caught the comic lift of her eyebrow -just like their father's, laughed, and felt better. - -Val recounted the incident of Monsieur Prosper Profond; nothing could -have been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded Holly, -who in turn regarded him, while Fleur seemed to be regarding with a -slight frown some thought of her own, and Jon was really free to look -at her at last. She had on a white frock, very simple and well made; -her arms were bare, and her hair had a white rose in it. In just -that swift moment of free vision, after such intense discomfort, Jon -saw her sublimated, as one sees in the dark a slender white fruit- -tree; caught her like a verse of poetry flashed before the eyes of -the mind, or a tune which floats out in the distance and dies. -He wondered giddily how old she was--she seemed so much more self- -possessed and experienced than himself. Why mustn't he say they had -met? He remembered suddenly his mother's face; puzzled, hurt- -looking, when she answered: "Yes, they're relations, but we don't -know them." Impossible that his mother, who loved beauty, should not -admire Fleur if she did know her. - -Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and -answered the advances of this new-found brother-in-law. As to riding -(always the first consideration with Val) he could have the young -chestnut, saddle and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it -when he brought it in. Jon said he was accustomed to all that at -home, and saw that he had gone up one in his host's estimation. - -"Fleur," said Val, "can't ride much yet, but she's keen. Of course, -her father doesn't know a horse from a cart-wheel. Does your Dad -ride?" - -"He used to; but now he's--you know, he's--"He stopped, so hating the -word "old." His father was old, and yet not old; no--never! - -"Quite," muttered Val. "I used to know your brother up at Oxford, -ages ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New -College Gardens. That was a queer business," he added, musing; "a -good deal came out of it." - -Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical -research, when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway: - -"Come along, you two," and he rose, his heart pushing him toward -something far more modern. - -Fleur having declared that it was "simply too wonderful to stay -indoors," they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an -old sundial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, -dark and square, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that -angled opening. - -"Come on!" she called. Jon glanced at the others, and followed. She -was running among the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and -foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of -nettles. She vanished. He thought he had lost her, then almost ran -into her standing quite still. - -"Isn't it jolly?" she cried, and Jon answered: - -"Rather!" - -She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her -fingers, said: - -"I suppose I can call you Jon?" - -"I should think so just." - -"All right! But you know there's a feud between our families?" - -Jon stammered: "Feud? Why?" - -"It's ever so romantic and silly. That's why I pretended we hadn't -met. Shall we get up early to-morrow morning and go for a walk -before breakfast and have it out? I hate being slow about things, -don't you?" - -Jon murmured a rapturous assent. - -"Six o'clock, then. I think your mother's beautiful" - -Jon said fervently: "Yes, she is." - -"I love all kinds of beauty," went on Fleur, "when it's exciting. I -don't like Greek things a bit." - -"What! Not Euripides?" - -"Euripides? Oh! no, I can't bear Greek plays; they're so long. I -think beauty's always swift. I like to look at one picture, for -instance, and then run off. I can't bear a lot of things together. -Look!" She held up her blossom in the moonlight. "That's better -than all the orchard, I think." - -And, suddenly, with her other hand she caught Jon's. - -"Of all things in the world, don't you think caution's the most -awful? Smell the moonlight!" - -She thrust the blossom against his face; Jon agreed giddily that of -all things in the world caution was the worst, and bending over, -kissed the hand which held his. - -"That's nice and old-fashioned," said Fleur calmly. "You're -frightfully silent, Jon. Still I like silence when it's swift." She -let go his hand. "Did you think I dropped my handkerchief on -purpose?" - -"No!" cried Jon, intensely shocked. - -"Well, I did, of course. Let's get back, or they'll think we're -doing this on purpose too." And again she ran like a ghost among the -trees. Jon followed, with love in his heart, Spring in his heart, -and over all the moonlit white unearthly blossom. They came out -where they had gone in, Fleur walking demurely. - -"It's quite wonderful in there," she said dreamily to Holly. - -Jon preserved silence, hoping against hope that she might be thinking -it swift. - -She bade him a casual and demure good-night, which made him think he -had been dreaming.... - -In her bedroom Fleur had flung off her gown, and, wrapped in a -shapeless garment, with the white flower still in her hair, she -looked like a mousme, sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing by -candlelight. - - -"DEAREST CHERRY, - -"I believe I'm in love. I've got it in the neck, only the feeling is -really lower down. He's a second cousin-such a child, about six -months older and ten years younger than I am. Boys always fall in -love with their seniors, and girls with their juniors or with old men -of forty. Don't laugh, but his eyes are the truest things I ever -saw; and he's quite divinely silent! We had a most romantic first -meeting in London under the Vospovitch Juno. And now he's sleeping -in the next room and the moonlight's on the blossom; and to-morrow -morning, before anybody's awake, we're going to walk off into Down -fairyland. There's a feud between our families, which makes it -really exciting. Yes! and I may have to use subterfuge and come on -you for invitations--if so, you'll know why! My father doesn't want -us to know each other, but I can't help that. Life's too short. -He's got the most beautiful mother, with lovely silvery hair and a -young face with dark eyes. I'm staying with his sister--who married -my cousin; it's all mixed up, but I mean to pump her to-morrow. -We've often talked about love being a spoil-sport; well, that's all -tosh, it's the beginning of sport, and the sooner you feel it, my -dear, the better for you. - -"Jon (not simplified spelling, but short for Jolyon, which is a name -in my family, they say) is the sort that lights up and goes out; -about five feet ten, still growing, and I believe he's going to be a -poet. If you laugh at me I've done with you forever. I perceive all -sorts of difficulties, but you know when I really want a thing I get -it. One of the chief effects of love is that you see the air sort of -inhabited, like seeing a face in the moon; and you feel--you feel -dancey and soft at the same time, with a funny sensation--like a -continual first sniff of orange--blossom--Just above your stays. -This is my first, and I feel as if it were going to be my last, which -is absurd, of course, by all the laws of Nature and morality. If you -mock me I will smite you, and if you tell anybody I will never -forgive you. So much so, that I almost don't think I'll send this -letter. Anyway, I'll sleep over it. So good-night, my Cherry--oh! -"Your, - -"FLEUR." - - - -VIII - -IDYLL ON GRASS - -When those two young Forsytes emerged from the chine lane, and set -their faces east toward the sun, there was not a cloud in heaven, and -the Downs were dewy. They had come at a good bat up the slope and -were a little out of breath; if they had anything to say they did not -say it, but marched in the early awkwardness of unbreakfasted morning -under the songs of the larks. The stealing out had been fun, but -with the freedom of the tops the sense of conspiracy ceased, and gave -place to dumbness. - -"We've made one blooming error," said Fleur, when they had gone half -a mile. "I'm hungry." - -Jon produced a stick of chocolate. They shared it and their tongues -were loosened. They discussed the nature of their homes and previous -existences, which had a kind of fascinating unreality up on that -lonely height. There remained but one thing solid in Jon's past--his -mother; but one thing solid in Fleur's--her father; and of these -figures, as though seen in the distance with disapproving faces, they -spoke little. - -The Down dipped and rose again toward Chanctonbury Ring; a sparkle of -far sea came into view, a sparrow-hawk hovered in the sun's eye so -that the blood-nourished brown of his wings gleamed nearly red. Jon -had a passion for birds, and an aptitude for sitting very still to -watch them; keen-sighted, and with a memory for what interested him, -on birds he was almost worth listening to. But in Chanctonbury Ring -there were none--its great beech temple was empty of life, and almost -chilly at this early hour; they came out willingly again into the sun -on the far side. It was Fleur's turn now. She spoke of dogs, and -the way people treated them. It was wicked to keep them on chains! -She would like to flog people who did that. Jon was astonished to -find her so humanitarian. She knew a dog, it seemed, which some -farmer near her home kept chained up at the end of his chicken run, -in all weathers, till it had almost lost its voice from barking! - -"And the misery is," she said vehemently, "that if the poor thing -didn't bark at every one who passes it wouldn't be kept there. I do -think men are cunning brutes. I've let it go twice, on the sly; it's -nearly bitten me both times, and then it goes simply mad with joy; -but it always runs back home at last, and they chain it up again. If -I had my way, I'd chain that man up." Jon saw her teeth and her eyes -gleam. "I'd brand him on his forehead with the word 'Brute'; that -would teach him!" - -Jon agreed that it would be a good remedy. - -"It's their sense of property," he said, "which makes people chain -things. The last generation thought of nothing but property; and -that's why there was the War." - -"Oh!" said Fleur, "I never thought of that. Your people and mine -quarrelled about property. And anyway we've all got it--at least, I -suppose your people have." - -"Oh! yes, luckily; I don't suppose I shall be any good at making -money." - -"If you were, I don't believe I should like you." - -Jon slipped his hand tremulously under her arm. Fleur looked -straight before her and chanted: - -"Jon, Jon, the farmer's son, -Stole a pig, and away he run!" - -Jon's arm crept round her waist. - -"This is rather sudden," said Fleur calmly; "do you often do it?" - -Jon dropped his arm. But when she laughed his arm stole back again; -and Fleur began to sing: - -"O who will oer the downs so free, -O who will with me ride? -O who will up and follow me---" - -"Sing, Jon!" - -Jon sang. The larks joined in, sheep-bells, and an early morning -church far away over in Steyning. They went on from tune to tune, -till Fleur said: - -"My God! I am hungry now!" - -"Oh! I am sorry!" - -She looked round into his face. - -"Jon, you're rather a darling." - -And she pressed his hand against her waist. Jon almost reeled from -happiness. A yellow-and-white dog coursing a hare startled them -apart. They watched the two vanish down the slope, till Fleur said -with a sigh: "He'll never catch it, thank goodness! What's the time? -Mine's stopped. I never wound it." - -Jon looked at his watch. "By Jove!" he said, "mine's stopped; too." - -They walked on again, but only hand in hand. - -"If the grass is dry," said Fleur, "let's sit down for half a -minute." - -Jon took off his coat, and they shared it. - -"Smell! Actually wild thyme!" - -With his arm round her waist again, they sat some minutes in silence. - -"We are goats!" cried Fleur, jumping up; "we shall be most fearfully -late, and look so silly, and put them on their guard. Look here, Jon -We only came out to get an appetite for breakfast, and lost our way. -See?" - -"Yes," said Jon. - -"It's serious; there'll be a stopper put on us. Are you a good -liar?" - -"I believe not very; but I can try." - -Fleur frowned. - -"You know," she said, "I realize that they don't mean us to be -friends." - -"Why not?" - -"I told you why." - -"But that's silly." - -"Yes; but you don't know my father!" - -"I suppose he's fearfully fond of you." - -"You see, I'm an only child. And so are you--of your mother. Isn't -it a bore? There's so much expected of one. By the time they've -done expecting, one's as good as dead." - -"Yes," muttered Jon, "life's beastly short. One wants to live -forever, and know everything." - -"And love everybody?" - -"No," cried Jon; "I only want to love once--you." - -"Indeed! You're coming on! Oh! Look! There's the chalk-pit; we -can't be very far now. Let's run." - -Jon followed, wondering fearfully if he had offended her. - -The chalk-pit was full of sunshine and the murmuration of bees. -Fleur flung back her hair. - -"Well," she said, "in case of accidents, you may give me one kiss, -Jon," and she pushed her cheek forward. With ecstasy he kissed that -hot soft cheek. - -"Now, remember! We lost our way; and leave it to me as much as you -can. I'm going to be rather beastly to you; it's safer; try and be -beastly to me!" - -Jon shook his head. "That's impossible." - -"Just to please me; till five o'clock, at all events." - -"Anybody will be able to see through it," said Jon gloomily. - -"Well, do your best. Look! There they are! Wave your hat! Oh! you -haven't got one. Well, I'll cooee! Get a little away from me, and -look sulky." - -Five minutes later, entering the house and doing his utmost to look -sulky, Jon heard her clear voice in the dining-room: - -"Oh! I'm simply ravenous! He's going to be a farmer--and he loses -his way! The boy's an idiot!" - - - - -IX - -GOYA - - -Lunch was over and Soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his house -near Mapleduram. He had what Annette called "a grief." Fleur was -not yet home. She had been expected on Wednesday; had wired that it -would be Friday; and again on Friday that it would be Sunday -afternoon; and here were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and -this fellow Profond, and everything flat as a pancake for the want of -her. He stood before his Gauguin--sorest point of his collection. -He had bought the ugly great thing with two early Matisses before the -War, because there was such a fuss about those Post-Impressionist -chaps. He was wondering whether Profond would take them off his -hands--the fellow seemed not to know what to do with his money--when -he heard his sister's voice say: "I think that's a horrid thing, -Soames," and saw that Winifred had followed him up. - -"Oh! you do?" he said dryly; "I gave five hundred for it." - -"Fancy! Women aren't made like that even if they are black." - -Soames uttered a glum laugh. "You didn't come up to tell me that." - -"No. Do you know that Jolyon's boy is staying with Val and his -wife?" - -Soames spun round. - -"What?" - -"Yes," drawled Winifred; "he's gone to live with them there while he -learns farming." - -Soames had turned away, but her voice pursued him as he walked up and -down. "I warned Val that neither of them was to be spoken to about -old matters." - -"Why didn't you tell me before?" - -Winifred shrugged her substantial shoulders. - -"Fleur does what she likes. You've always spoiled her. Besides, my -dear boy, what's the harm?" - -"The harm!" muttered Soames. "Why, she--" he checked himself. The -Juno, the handkerchief, Fleur's eyes, her questions, and now this -delay in her return--the symptoms seemed to him so sinister that, -faithful to his nature, he could not part with them. - -"I think you take too much care," said Winifred. "If I were you, I -should tell her of that old matter. It's no good thinking that girls -in these days are as they used to be. Where they pick up their -knowledge I can't tell, but they seem to know everything." - -Over Soames' face, closely composed, passed a sort of spasm, and -Winifred added hastily: - -"If you don't like to speak of it, I could for you." - -Soames shook his head. Unless there was absolute necessity the -thought that his adored daughter should learn of that old scandal -hurt his pride too much. - -"No," he said, "not yet. Never if I can help it. - -"Nonsense, my dear. Think what people are!" - -"Twenty years is a long time," muttered Soames. "Outside our family, -who's likely to remember?" - -Winifred was silenced. She inclined more and more to that peace and -quietness of which Montague Dartie had deprived her in her youth. -And, since pictures always depressed her, she soon went down again. - -Soames passed into the corner where, side by side, hung his real Goya -and the copy of the fresco "La Vendimia." His acquisition of the -real Goya rather beautifully illustrated the cobweb of vested -interests and passions which mesh the bright-winged fly of human -life. The real Goya's noble owner's ancestor had come into -possession of it during some Spanish war--it was in a word loot. The -noble owner had remained in ignorance of its value until in the -nineties an enterprising critic discovered that a Spanish painter -named Goya was a genius. It was only a fair Goya, but almost unique -in England, and the noble owner became a marked man. Having many -possessions and that aristocratic culture which, independent of mere -sensuous enjoyment, is founded on the sounder principle that one must -know everything and be fearfully interested in life, he had fully -intended to keep an article which contributed to his reputation while -he was alive, and to leave it to the nation after he was dead. -Fortunately for Soames, the House of Lords was violently attacked in -1909, and the noble owner became alarmed and angry. 'If,' he said to -himself, 'they think they can have it both ways they are very much -mistaken. So long as they leave me in quiet enjoyment the nation can -have some of my pictures at my death. But if the nation is going to -bait me, and rob me like this, I'm damned if I won't sell the lot. -They can't have my private property and my public spirit-both.' He -brooded in this fashion for several months till one morning, after -reading the speech of a certain statesman, he telegraphed to his -agent to come down and bring Bodkin. On going over the collection -Bodkin, than whose opinion on market values none was more sought, -pronounced that with a free hand to sell to America, Germany, and -other places where there was an interest in art, a lot more money -could be made than by selling in England. The noble owner's public -spirit--he said--was well known but the pictures were unique. The -noble owner put this opinion in his pipe and smoked it for a year. -At the end of that time he read another speech by the same statesman, -and telegraphed to his agents: "Give Bodkin a free hand." It was at -this juncture that Bodkin conceived the idea which salved the Goya -and two other unique pictures for the native country of the noble -owner. With one hand Bodkin proffered the pictures to the foreign -market, with the other he formed a list of private British -collectors. Having obtained what he considered the highest possible -bids from across the seas, he submitted pictures and bids to the -private British collectors, and invited them, of their public spirit, -to outbid. In three instances (including the Goya) out of twenty-one -he was successful. And why? One of the private collectors made -buttons--he had made so many that he desired that his wife should be -called Lady "Buttons." He therefore bought a unique picture at great -cost, and gave it to the nation. It was "part," his friends said, -"of his general game." The second of the private collectors was an -Americophobe, and bought an unique picture to "spite the damned -Yanks." The third of the private collectors was Soames, who--more -sober than either of the, others--bought after a visit to Madrid, -because he was certain that Goya was still on the up grade. Goya was -not booming at the moment, but he would come again; and, looking at -that portrait, Hogarthian, Manetesque in its directness, but with its -own queer sharp beauty of paint, he was perfectly satisfied still -that he had made no error, heavy though the price had been--heaviest -he had ever paid. And next to it was hanging the copy of "La -Vendimia." There she was--the little wretch-looking back at him in -her dreamy mood, the mood he loved best because he felt so much safer -when she looked like that. - -He was still gazing when the scent of a cigar impinged on his -nostrils, and a voice said: - -"Well, Mr. Forsyde, what you goin' to do with this small lot?" - -That Belgian chap, whose mother-as if Flemish blood were not enough-- -had been Armenian! Subduing a natural irritation, he said: - -"Are you a judge of pictures?" - -"Well, I've got a few myself." - -"Any Post-Impressionists?" - -"Ye-es, I rather like them." - -"What do you think of this?" said Soames, pointing to the Gauguin. - -Monsieur Profond protruded his lower lip and short pointed beard. - -"Rather fine, I think," he said; "do you want to sell it?" - -Soames checked his instinctive "Not particularly"--he would not -chaffer with this alien. - -"Yes," he said. - -"What do you want for it?" - -"What I gave." - -"All right," said Monsieur Profond. "I'll be glad to take that small -picture. Post-Impressionists--they're awful dead, but they're -amusin'. I don' care for pictures much, but I've got some, just a -small lot." - -"What do you care for?" - -Monsieur Profond shrugged his shoulders. - -"Life's awful like a lot of monkeys scramblin' for empty nuts." - -"You're young," said Soames. If the fellow must make a -generalization, he needn't suggest that the forms of property lacked -solidity! - -"I don' worry," replied Monsieur Profond smiling; "we're born, and we -die. Half the world's starvin'. I feed a small lot of babies out in -my mother's country; but what's the use? Might as well throw my -money in the river." - -Soames looked at him, and turned back toward his Goya. He didn't -know what the fellow wanted. - -"What shall I make my cheque for?" pursued Monsieur Profond. - -"Five hundred," said Soames shortly; "but I don't want you to take it -if you don't care for it more than that." - -"That's all right," said Monsieur Profond; "I'll be 'appy to 'ave -that picture." - -He wrote a cheque with a fountain-pen heavily chased with gold. -Soames watched the process uneasily. How on earth had the fellow -known that he wanted to sell that picture? Monsieur Profond held out -the cheque. - -"The English are awful funny about pictures," he said. "So are the -French, so are my people. They're all awful funny." - -"I don't understand you," said Soames stiffly. - -"It's like hats," said Monsieur Profond enigmatically, "small or -large, turnin' up or down--just the fashion. Awful funny." And, -smiling, he drifted out of the gallery again, blue and solid like the -smoke of his excellent cigar. - -Soames had taken the cheque, feeling as if the intrinsic value of -ownership had been called in question. 'He's a cosmopolitan,' he -thought, watching Profond emerge from under the verandah with -Annette, and saunter down the lawn toward the river. What his wife -saw in the fellow he didn't know, unless it was that he could speak -her language; and there passed in Soames what Monsieur Profond would -have called a "small doubt" whether Annette was not too handsome to -be walking with any one so "cosmopolitan." Even at that distance he -could see the blue fumes from Profond's cigar wreath out in the quiet -sunlight; and his grey buckskin shoes, and his grey hat--the fellow -was a dandy! And he could see the quick turn of his wife's head, so -very straight on her desirable neck and shoulders. That turn of her -neck always seemed to him a little too showy, and in the "Queen of -all I survey" manner--not quite distinguished. He watched them walk -along the path at the bottom of the garden. A young man in flannels -joined them down there--a Sunday caller no doubt, from up the river. -He went back to his Goya. He was still staring at that replica of -Fleur, and worrying over Winifred's news, when his wife's voice said: - -"Mr. Michael Mont, Soames. You invited him to see your pictures." - -There was the cheerful young man of the Gallery off Cork Street! - -"Turned up, you see, sir; I live only four miles from Pangbourne. -Jolly day, isn't it?" - -Confronted with the results of his expansiveness, Soames scrutinized -his visitor. The young man's mouth was excessively large and curly-- -he seemed always grinning. Why didn't he grow the rest of those -idiotic little moustaches, which made him look like a music-hall -buffoon? What on earth were young men about, deliberately lowering -their class with these tooth-brushes, or little slug whiskers? Ugh! -Affected young idiots! In other respects he was presentable, and his -flannels very clean. - -"Happy to see you!" he said. - -The young man, who had been turning his head from side to side, -became transfixed. "I say!" he said, "'some' picture!" - -Soames saw, with mixed sensations, that he had addressed the remark -to the Goya copy. - -"Yes," he said dryly, "that's not a Goya. It's a copy. I had it -painted because it reminded me of my daughter." - -"By Jove! I thought I knew the face, sir. Is she here?" - -The frankness of his interest almost disarmed Soames. - -"She'll be in after tea," he said. "Shall we go round the pictures?" - -And Soames began that round which never tired him. He had not -anticipated much intelligence from one who had mistaken a copy for an -original, but as they passed from section to section, period to -period, he was startled by the young man's frank and relevant -remarks. Natively shrewd himself, and even sensuous beneath his -mask, Soames had not spent thirty-eight years over his one hobby -without knowing something more about pictures than their market -values. He was, as it were, the missing link between the artist and -the commercial public. Art for art's sake and all that, of course, -was cant. But aesthetics and good taste were necessary. The -appreciation of enough persons of good taste was what gave a work of -art its permanent market value, or in other words made it "a work of -art." There was no real cleavage. And he was sufficiently -accustomed to sheep-like and unseeing visitors, to be intrigued by -one who did not hesitate to say of Mauve: "Good old haystacks!" or of -James Maris: "Didn't he just paint and paper 'em! Mathew was the -real swell, sir; you could dig into his surfaces!" It was after the -young man had whistled before a Whistler, with the words, "D'you -think he ever really saw a naked woman, sir?" that Soames remarked: - -"What are you, Mr. Mont, if I may ask?" - -"I, sir? I was going to be a painter, but the War knocked that. -Then in the trenches, you know, I used to dream of the Stock -Exchange, snug and warm and just noisy enough. But the Peace knocked -that, shares seem off, don't they? I've only been demobbed about a -year. What do you recommend, sir?" - -"Have you got money?" - -"Well," answered the young man, "I've got a father; I kept him alive -during the War, so he's bound to keep me alive now. Though, of -course, there's the question whether he ought to be allowed to hang -on to his property. What do you think about that, sir?" - -Soames, pale and defensive, smiled. - -"The old man has fits when I tell him he may have to work yet. He's -got land, you know; it's a fatal disease." - -"This is my real Goya," said Soames dryly. - -"By George! He was a swell. I saw a Goya in Munich once that bowled -me middle stump. A most evil-looking old woman in the most gorgeous -lace. He made no compromise with the public taste. That old boy was -'some' explosive; he must have smashed up a lot of convention in his -day. Couldn't he just paint! He makes Velasquez stiff, don't you -think?" - -"I have no Velasquez," said Soames. - -The young man stared. "No," he said; "only nations or profiteers can -afford him, I suppose. I say, why shouldn't all the bankrupt nations -sell their Velasquez and Titians and other swells to the profiteers -by force, and then pass a law that any one who holds a picture by an -Old Master--see schedule--must hang it in a public gallery? There -seems something in that." - -"Shall we go down to tea?" said Soames. - -The young man's ears seemed to droop on his skull. 'He's not dense,' -thought Soames, following him off the premises. - -Goya, with his satiric and surpassing precision, his original "line," -and the daring of his light and shade, could have reproduced to -admiration the group assembled round Annette's tea-tray in the ingle- -nook below. He alone, perhaps, of painters would have done justice -to the sunlight filtering through a screen of creeper, to the lovely -pallor of brass, the old cut glasses, the thin slices of lemon in -pale amber tea; justice to Annette in her black lacey dress; there -was something of the fair Spaniard in her beauty, though it lacked -the spirituality of that rare type; to Winifred's grey-haired, -corseted solidity; to Soames, of a certain grey and flat-cheeked -distinction; to the vivacious Michael Mont, pointed in ear and eye; -to Imogen, dark, luscious of glance, growing a little stout; to -Prosper Profond, with his expression as who should say, "Well, Mr. -Goya, what's the use of paintin' this small party?" finally, to Jack -Cardigan, with his shining stare and tanned sanguinity betraying the -moving principle: "I'm English, and I live to be fit." - -Curious, by the way, that Imogen, who as a girl had declared solemnly -one day at Timothy's that she would never marry a good man--they were -so dull--should have married Jack Cardigan, in whom health had so -destroyed all traces of original sin, that she might have retired to -rest with ten thousand other Englishmen without knowing the -difference from the one she had chosen to repose beside. "Oh!" she -would say of him, in her "amusing" way, "Jack keeps himself so -fearfully fit; he's never had a day's illness in his life. He went -right through the War without a finger-ache. You really can't -imagine how fit he is!" Indeed, he was so "fit" that he couldn't see -when she was flirting, which was such a comfort in a way. All the -same she was quite fond of him, so far as one could be of a sports- -machine, and of the two little Cardigans made after his pattern. Her -eyes just then were comparing him maliciously with Prosper Profond. -There was no "small" sport or game which Monsieur Profond had not -played at too, it seemed, from skittles to tarpon-fishing, and worn -out every one. Imogen would sometimes wish that they had worn out -Jack, who continued to play at them and talk of them with the simple -zeal of a school-girl learning hockey; at the age of Great-uncle -Timothy she well knew that Jack would be playing carpet golf in her -bedroom, and "wiping somebody's eye." - -He was telling them now how he had "pipped the pro--a charmin' -fellow, playin' a very good game," at the last hole this morning; and -how he had pulled down to Caversham since lunch, and trying to incite -Prosper Profond to play him a set of tennis after tea--do him good- -"keep him fit. - -"But what's the use of keepin' fit?" said Monsieur Profond. - -"Yes, sir," murmured Michael Mont, "what do you keep fit for?" - -"Jack," cried Imogen, enchanted, "what do you keep fit for?" - -Jack Cardigan stared with all his health. The questions were like -the buzz of a mosquito, and he put up his hand to wipe them away. -During the War, of course, he had kept fit to kill Germans; now that -it was over he either did not know, or shrank in delicacy from -explanation of his moving principle. - -"But he's right," said Monsieur Profond unexpectedly, "there's -nothin' left but keepin' fit." - -The saying, too deep for Sunday afternoon, would have passed -unanswered, but for the mercurial nature of young Mont. - -"Good!" he cried. "That's the great discovery of the War. We all -thought we were progressing--now we know we're only changing." - -"For the worse," said Monsieur Profond genially. - -"How you are cheerful, Prosper!" murmured Annette. - -"You come and play tennis!" said Jack Cardigan; "you've got the hump. -We'll soon take that down. D'you play, Mr. Mont?" - -"I hit the ball about, sir." - -At this juncture Soames rose, ruffled in that deep instinct of -preparation for the future which guided his existence. - -"When Fleur comes--" he heard Jack Cardigan say. - -Ah! and why didn't she come? He passed through drawing-room, hall, -and porch out on to the drive, and stood there listening for the car. -All was still and Sundayfied; the lilacs in full flower scented the -air. There were white clouds, like the feathers of ducks gilded by -the sunlight. Memory of the day when Fleur was born, and he had -waited in such agony with her life and her mother's balanced in his -hands, came to him sharply. He had saved her then, to be the flower -of his life. And now! was she going to give him trouble--pain--give -him trouble? He did not like the look of things! A blackbird broke -in on his reverie with an evening song--a great big fellow up in that -acacia-tree. Soames had taken quite an interest in his birds of late -years; he and Fleur would walk round and watch them; her eyes were -sharp as needles, and she knew every nest. He saw her dog, a -retriever, lying on the drive in a patch of sunlight, and called to -him. "Hallo, old fellow-waiting for her too!" The dog came slowly -with a grudging tail, and Soames mechanically laid a pat on his head. -The dog, the bird, the lilac, all were part of Fleur for him; no -more, no less. 'Too fond of her!' he thought, 'too fond!' He was -like a man uninsured, with his ships at sea. Uninsured again--as in -that other time, so long ago, when he would wander dumb and jealous -in the wilderness of London, longing for that woman--his first wife-- -the mother of this infernal boy. Ah! There was the car at last! It -drew up, it had luggage, but no Fleur. - -"Miss Fleur is walking up, sir, by the towing-path." - -Walking all those miles? Soames stared. The man's face had the -beginning of a smile on it. What was he grinning at? And very -quickly he turned, saying, "All right, Sims!" and went into the -house. He mounted to the picture-gallery once more. He had from -there a view of the river bank, and stood with his eyes fixed on it, -oblivious of the fact that it would be an hour at least before her -figure showed there. Walking up! And that fellow's grin! The boy--! -He turned abruptly from the window. He couldn't spy on her. If she -wanted to keep things from him--she must; he could not spy on her. -His heart felt empty, and bitterness mounted from it into his very -mouth. The staccato shouts of Jack Cardigan pursuing the ball, the -laugh of young Mont rose in the stillness and came in. He hoped they -were making that chap Profond run. And the girl in "La Vendimia" -stood with her arm akimbo arid her dreamy eyes looking past him. -'I've done all I could for you,' he thought, 'since you were no -higher than my knee. You aren't going to--to--hurt me, are you?' - -But the Goya copy answered not, brilliant in colour just beginning to -tone down. 'There's no real life in it,' thought Soames. 'Why -doesn't she come?' - - - - -X - -TRIO - - -Among those four Forsytes of the third, and, as one might say, fourth -generation, at Wansdon under the Downs, a week-end prolonged unto the -ninth day had stretched the crossing threads of tenacity almost to -snapping-point. Never had Fleur been so "fine," Holly so watchful, -Val so stable-secretive, Jon so silent and disturbed. What he -learned of farming in that week might have been balanced on the point -of a penknife and puffed off. He, whose nature was essentially -averse from intrigue, and whose adoration of Fleur disposed him to -think that any need for concealing it was "skittles," chafed and -fretted, yet obeyed, taking what relief he could in the few moments -when they were alone. On Thursday, while they were standing in the -bay window of the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, she said to him: - -"Jon, I'm going home on Sunday by the 3.40 from Paddington; if you -were to go home on Saturday you could come up on Sunday and take me -down, and just get back here by the last train, after. You were -going home anyway, weren't you?" - -Jon nodded. - -"Anything to be with you," he said; "only why need I pretend--" - -Fleur slipped her little finger into his palm: - -"You have no instinct, Jon; you must leave things to me. It's -serious about our people. We've simply got to be secret at present, -if we want to be together." The door was opened, and she added -loudly: "You are a duffer, Jon." - -Something turned over within Jon; he could not bear this subterfuge -about a feeling so natural, so overwhelming, and so sweet. - -On Friday night about eleven he had packed his bag, and was leaning -out of his window, half miserable, and half lost in a dream of -Paddington station, when he heard a tiny sound, as of a finger-nail -tapping on his door. He rushed to it and listened. Again the sound. -It was a nail. He opened. Oh! What a lovely thing came in! - -"I wanted to show you my fancy dress," it said, and struck an -attitude at the foot of his bed. - -Jon drew a long breath and leaned against the door. The apparition -wore white muslin on its head, a fichu round its bare neck over a -wine-coloured dress, fulled out below its slender waist. - -It held one arm akimbo, and the other raised, right-angled, holding a -fan which touched its head. - -"This ought to be a basket of grapes," it whispered, "but I haven't -got it here. It's my Goya dress. And this is the attitude in the -picture. Do you like it?" - -"It's a dream." - -The apparition pirouetted. "Touch it, and see." - -Jon knelt down and took the skirt reverently. - -"Grape colour," came the whisper, "all grapes--La Vendimia--the -vintage." - -Jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he looked up, -with adoring eyes. - -"Oh! Jon," it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouetted again, -and, gliding out, was gone. - -Jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against the bed. -How long he stayed like that he did not know. The little noises--of -the tapping nail, the feet, the skirts rustling--as in a dream--went -on about him; and before his closed eyes the figure stood and smiled -and whispered, a faint perfume of narcissus lingering in the air. -And his forehead where it had been kissed had a little cool place -between the brows, like the imprint of a flower. Love filled his -soul, that love of boy for girl which knows so little, hopes so much, -would not brush the down off for the world, and must become in time a -fragrant memory--a searing passion--a humdrum mateship--or, once in -many times, vintage full and sweet with sunset colour on the grapes. - -Enough has been said about Jon Forsyte here and in another place to -show what long marches lay between him and his great-great- -grandfather, the first Jolyon, in Dorset down by the sea. Jon was -sensitive as a girl, more sensitive than nine out of ten girls of the -day; imaginative as one of his half-sister June's "lame duck" -painters; affectionate as a son of his father and his mother -naturally would be. And yet, in his inner tissue, there was -something of the old founder of his family, a secret tenacity of -soul, a dread of showing his feelings, a determination not to know -when he was beaten. Sensitive, imaginative, affectionate boys get a -bad time at school, but Jon had instinctively kept his nature dark, -and been but normally unhappy there. Only with his mother had he, up -till then, been absolutely frank and natural; and when he went home -to Robin Hill that Saturday his heart was heavy because Fleur had -said that he must not be frank and natural with her from whom he had -never yet kept anything, must not even tell her that they had met -again, unless he found that she knew already. So intolerable did -this seem to him that he was very near to telegraphing an excuse and -staying up in London. And the first thing his mother said to him -was: - -"So you've had our little friend of the confectioner's there, Jon. -What is she like on second thoughts?" - -With relief, and a high colour, Jon answered: - -"Oh! awfully jolly, Mum." - -Her arm pressed his. - -Jon had never loved her so much as in that minute which seemed to -falsify Fleur's fears and to release his soul. He turned to look at -her, but something in her smiling face--something which only he -perhaps would have caught--stopped the words bubbling up in him. -Could fear go with a smile? If so, there was fear in her face. And -out of Jon tumbled quite other words, about farming, Holly, and the -Downs. Talking fast, he waited for her to come back to Fleur. But -she did not. Nor did his father mention her, though of course he, -too, must know. What deprivation, and killing of reality was in his -silence about Fleur--when he was so full of her; when his mother was -so full of Jon, and his father so full of his mother! And so the -trio spent the evening of that Saturday. - -After dinner his mother played; she seemed to play all the things he -liked best, and he sat with one knee clasped, and his hair standing -up where his fingers had run through it. He gazed at his mother -while she played, but he saw Fleur--Fleur in the moonlit orchard, -Fleur in the sunlit gravel-pit, Fleur in that fancy dress, swaying, -whispering, stooping, kissing his forehead. Once, while he listened, -he forgot himself and glanced at his father in that other easy chair. -What was Dad looking like that for? The expression on his face was -so sad and puzzling. It filled him with a sort of remorse, so that -he got up and went and sat on the arm of his father's chair. From -there he could not see his face; and again he saw Fleur--in his -mother's hands, slim and white on the keys, in the profile of her -face and her powdery hair; and down the long room in the open window -where the May night walked outside. - -When he went up to bed his mother came into his room. She stood at -the window, and said: - -"Those cypresses your grandfather planted down there have done -wonderfully. I always think they look beautiful under a dropping -moon. I wish you had known your grandfather, Jon." - -"Were you married to father when he was alive?" asked Jon suddenly. - -"No, dear; he died in '92--very old--eighty-five, I think." - -"Is Father like him?" - -"A little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid." - -"I know, from grandfather's portrait; who painted that?" - -"One of June's 'lame ducks.' But it's quite good." - -Jon slipped his hand through his mother's arm. "Tell me about the -family quarrel, Mum." - -He felt her arm quivering. "No, dear; that's for your Father some -day, if he thinks fit." - -"Then it was serious," said Jon, with a catch in his breath. - -"Yes." And there was a silence, during which neither knew whether -the arm or the hand within it were quivering most. - -"Some people," said Irene softly, "think the moon on her back is -evil; to me she's always lovely. Look at those cypress shadows! -Jon, Father says we may go to Italy, you and I, for two months. -Would you like?" - -Jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was so sharp and -so confused. Italy with his mother! A fortnight ago it would have -been perfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the -sudden suggestion had to do with Fleur. He stammered out: - -"Oh! yes; only--I don't know. Ought I--now I've just begun? I'd -like to think it over." - -Her voice answered, cool and gentle: - -"Yes, dear; think it over. But better now than when you've begun -farming seriously. Italy with you! It would be nice!" - -Jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as a girl's. - -"Do you think you ought to leave Father?" he said feebly, feeling -very mean. - -"Father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see Italy at least -before you settle down to anything." - -The sense of meanness died in Jon; he knew, yes--he knew--that his -father and his mother were not speaking frankly, no more than he -himself. They wanted to keep him from Fleur. His heart hardened. -And, as if she felt that process going on, his mother said: - -"Good-night, darling. Have a good sleep and think it over. But it -would be lovely!" - -She pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her face. Jon -stood feeling exactly as he used to when he was a naughty little boy; -sore because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his -own eyes. - -But Irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room, passed -through the dressing-room between it and her husband's. - -"Well?" - -"He will think it over, Jolyon." - -Watching her lips that wore a little drawn smile, Jolyon said -quietly: - -"You had better let me tell him, and have done with it. After all, -Jon has the instincts of a gentleman. He has only to understand--" - -"Only! He can't understand; that's impossible." - -"I believe I could have at his age." - -Irene caught his hand. "You were always more of a realist than Jon; -and never so innocent." - -"That's true," said Jolyon. "It's queer, isn't it? You and I would -tell our stories to the world without a particle of shame; but our -own boy stumps us." - -"We've never cared whether the world approves or not." - -"Jon would not disapprove of us!" - -"Oh! Jolyon, yes. He's in love, I feel he's in love. And he'd say: -'My mother once married without love! How could she have!' It'll -seem to him a crime! And so it was!" - -Jolyon took her hand, and said with a wry smile: - -"Ah! why on earth are we born young? Now, if only we were born old -and grew younger year by year, we should understand how things -happen, and drop all our cursed intolerance. But you know if the boy -is really in love, he won't forget, even if he goes to Italy. We're -a tenacious breed; and he'll know by instinct why he's being sent. -Nothing will really cure him but the shock of being told." - -"Let me try, anyway." - -Jolyon stood a moment without speaking. Between this devil and this -deep sea--the pain of a dreaded disclosure and the grief of losing -his wife for two months--he secretly hoped for the devil; yet if she -wished for the deep sea he must put up with it. After all, it would -be training for that departure from which there would be no return. -And, taking her in his arms, he kissed her eyes, and said: - -"As you will, my love." - - - - -XI - -DUET - - -That "small" emotion, love, grows amazingly when threatened with -extinction. Jon reached Paddington station half an hour before his -time and a full week after, as it seemed to him. He stood at the -appointed bookstall, amid a crowd of Sunday travellers, in a Harris -tweed suit exhaling, as it were, the emotion of his thumping heart. -He read the names of the novels on the book-stall, and bought one at -last, to avoid being regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. -It was called "The Heart of the Trail!" which must mean something, -though it did not seem to. He also bought "The Lady's Mirror" and -"The Landsman." Every minute was an hour long, and full of horrid -imaginings. After nineteen had passed, he saw her with a bag and a -porter wheeling her luggage. She came swiftly; she came cool. She -greeted him as if he were a brother. - -"First class," she said to the porter, "corner seats; opposite." - -Jon admired her frightful self-possession. - -"Can't we get a carriage to ourselves," he whispered. - -"No good; it's a stopping train. After Maidenhead perhaps. Look -natural, Jon." - -Jon screwed his features into a scowl. They got in--with two other -beasts!--oh! heaven! He tipped the porter unnaturally, in his -confusion. The brute deserved nothing for putting them in there, and -looking as if he knew all about it into the bargain. - -Fleur hid herself behind "The Lady's Mirror." Jon imitated her -behind "The Landsman." The train started. Fleur let "The Lady's -Mirror" fall and leaned forward. - -"Well?" she said. - -"It's seemed about fifteen days." - -She nodded, and Jon's face lighted up at once. - -"Look natural," murmured Fleur, and went off into a bubble of -laughter. It hurt him. How could he look natural with Italy hanging -over him? He had meant to break it to her gently, but now he blurted -it out. - -"They want me to go to Italy with Mother for two months." - -Fleur drooped her eyelids; turned a little pale, and bit her lips. -"Oh!" she said. It was all, but it was much. - -That "Oh!" was like the quick drawback of the wrist in fencing ready -for riposte. It came. - -"You must go!" - -"Go?" said Jon in a strangled voice. - -"Of course." - -"But--two months--it's ghastly." - -"No," said Fleur, "six weeks. You'll have forgotten me by then. -We'll meet in the National Gallery the day after you get back." - -Jon laughed. - -"But suppose you've forgotten me," he muttered into the noise of the -train. - -Fleur shook her head. - -"Some other beast--" murmured Jon. - -Her foot touched his. - -"No other beast," she said, lifting "The Lady's Mirror." - -The train stopped; two passengers got out, and one got in. - -'I shall die,' thought Jon, 'if we're not alone at all.' - -The train went on; and again Fleur leaned forward. - -"I never let go," she said; "do you?" - -Jon shook his head vehemently. - -"Never!" he said. "Will you write to me?" - -"No; but you can--to my Club." - -She had a Club; she was wonderful! - -"Did you pump Holly?" he muttered. - -"Yes, but I got nothing. I didn't dare pump hard." - -"What can it be?" cried Jon. - -"I shall find out all right." - -A long silence followed till Fleur said: "This is Maidenhead; stand -by, Jon!" - -The train stopped. The remaining passenger got out. Fleur drew down -her blind. - -"Quick!" she cried. "Hang out! Look as much of a beast as you can." - -Jon blew his nose, and scowled; never in all his life had he scowled -like that! An old lady recoiled, a young one tried the handle. It -turned, but the door would not open. The train moved, the young lady -darted to another carriage. - -"What luck!" cried Jon. "It Jammed." - -"Yes," said Fleur; "I was holding it." - -The train moved out, and Jon fell on his knees. - -"Look out for the corridor," she whispered; "and--quick!" - -Her lips met his. And though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten -seconds, Jon's soul left his body and went so far beyond, that, when -he was again sitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as -death. He heard her sigh, and the sound seemed to him the most -precious he had ever heard--an exquisite declaration that he meant -something to her. - -"Six weeks isn't really long," she said; "and you can easily make it -six if you keep your head out there, and never seem to think of me." - -Jon gasped. - -"This is just what's really wanted, Jon, to convince them, don't you -see? If we're just as bad when you come back they'll stop being -ridiculous about it. Only, I'm sorry it's not Spain; there's a girl -in a Goya picture at Madrid who's like me, Father says. Only she -isn't--we've got a copy of her." - -It was to Jon like a ray of sunshine piercing through a fog. "I'll -make it Spain," he said, "Mother won't mind; she's never been there. -And my Father thinks a lot of Goya." - -"Oh! yes, he's a painter--isn't he?" - -"Only water-colour," said Jon, with honesty. - -"When we come to Reading, Jon, get out first and go down to Caversham -lock and wait for me. I'll send the car home and we'll walk by the -towing-path." - -Jon seized her hand in gratitude, and they sat silent, with the world -well lost, and one eye on the corridor. But the train seemed to run -twice as fast now, and its sound was almost lost in that of Jon's -sighing. - -"We're getting near," said Fleur; "the towing-path's awfully exposed. -One more! Oh! Jon, don't forget me." - -Jon answered with his kiss. And very soon, a flushed, distracted- -looking youth could have been seen--as they say--leaping from the -train and hurrying along the platform, searching his pockets for his -ticket. - -When at last she rejoined him on the towing-path a little beyond -Caversham lock he had made an effort, and regained some measure of -equanimity. If they had to part, he would not make a scene! A -breeze by the bright river threw the white side of the willow leaves -up into the sunlight, and followed those two with its faint rustle. - -"I told our chauffeur that I was train-giddy," said Fleur. "Did you -look pretty natural as you went out?" - -"I don't know. What is natural?" - -"It's natural to you to look seriously happy. When I first saw you I -thought you weren't a bit like other people." - -"Exactly what I thought when I saw you. I knew at once I should -never love anybody else." - -Fleur laughed. - -"We're absurdly young. And love's young dream is out of date, Jon. -Besides, it's awfully wasteful. Think of all the fun you might have. -You haven't begun, even; it's a shame, really. And there's me. I -wonder!" - -Confusion came on Jon's spirit. How could she say such things just -as they were going to part? - -"If you feel like that," he said, "I can't go. I shall tell Mother -that I ought to try and work. There's always the condition of the -world!" - -"The condition of the world!" - -Jon thrust his hands deep into his pockets. - -"But there is," he said; "think of the people starving!" - -Fleur shook her head. "No, no, I never, never will make myself -miserable for nothing." - -"Nothing! But there's an awful state of things, and of course one -ought to help." - -"Oh! yes, I know all that. But you can't help people, Jon; they're -hopeless. When you pull them out they only get into another hole. -Look at them, still fighting and plotting and struggling, though -they're dying in heaps all the time. Idiots!" - -"Aren't you sorry for them?" - -"Oh! sorry--yes, but I'm not going to make myself unhappy about it; -that's no good." - -And they were silent, disturbed by this first glimpse of each other's -natures. - -"I think people are brutes and idiots," said Fleur stubbornly. - -"I think they're poor wretches," said Jon. It was as if they had -quarrelled--and at this supreme and awful moment, with parting -visible out there in that last gap of the willows! - -"Well, go and help your poor wretches, and don't think of me." - -Jon stood still. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbs -trembled. Fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river. - -"I must believe in things," said Jon with a sort of agony; "we're all -meant to enjoy life." - -Fleur laughed. "Yes; and that's what you won't do, if you don't take -care. But perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make yourself -wretched. There are lots of people like that, of course." - -She was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. Was it -Fleur thus staring at the water? Jon had an unreal feeling as if he -were passing through the scene in a book where the lover has to -choose between love and duty. But just then she looked round at him. -Never was anything so intoxicating as that vivacious look. It acted -on him exactly as the tug of a chain acts on a dog--brought him up to -her with his tail wagging and his tongue out. - -"Don't let's be silly," she said, "time's too short. Look, Jon, you -can just see where I've got to cross the river. There, round the -bend, where the woods begin." - -Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the trees- --and felt his heart sink. - -"I mustn't dawdle any more. It's no good going beyond the next -hedge, it gets all open. Let's get on to it and say good-bye." - -They went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, -where the may-flower, both pink and white, was in full bloom. - -"My Club's the 'Talisman,' Stratton Street, Piccadilly. Letters -there will be quite safe, and I'm almost always up once a week." - -Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared -straight before him. - -"To-day's the twenty-third of May," said Fleur; "on the ninth of July -I shall be in front of the 'Bacchus and Ariadne' at three o'clock; -will you?" - -"I will." - -"If you feel as bad as I it's all right. Let those people pass!" - -A man and woman airing their children went by strung out in Sunday -fashion. - -The last of them passed the wicket gate. - -"Domesticity!" said Fleur, and blotted herself against the hawthorn -hedge. The blossom sprayed out above her head, and one pink cluster -brushed her cheek. Jon put up his hand jealously to keep it off. - -"Good-bye, Jon." For a second they stood with hands hard clasped. -Then their lips met for the third time, and when they parted Fleur -broke away and fled through the wicket gate. Jon stood where she had -left him, with his forehead against that pink cluster. Gone! For an -eternity--for seven weeks all but two days! And here he was, wasting -the last sight of her! He rushed to the gate. She was walking -swiftly on the heels of the straggling children. She turned her -head, he saw her hand make a little flitting gesture; then she sped -on, and the trailing family blotted her out from his view. - -The words of a comic song-- - - "Paddington groan-worst ever known-- - He gave a sepulchral Paddington groan--" - -came into his head, and he sped incontinently back to Reading -station. All the way up to London and down to Wansdon he sat with -"The Heart of the Trail" open on his knee, knitting in his head a -poem so full of feeling that it would not rhyme. - - - - -XII - -CAPRICE - - -Fleur sped on. She had need of rapid motion; she was late, and -wanted all her wits about her when she got in. She passed the -islands, the station, and hotel, and was about to take the ferry, -when she saw a skiff with a young man standing up in it, and holding -to the bushes. - -"Miss Forsyte," he said; "let me put you across. I've come on -purpose." - -She looked at him in blank amazement. - -"It's all right, I've been having tea with your people. I thought -I'd save you the last bit. It's on my way, I'm just off back to -Pangbourne. My name's Mont. I saw you at the picture-gallery--you -remember--when your father invited me to see his pictures." - -"Oh!" said Fleur; "yes--the handkerchief." - -To this young man she owed Jon; and, taking his hand, she stepped -down into the skiff. Still emotional, and a little out of breath, -she sat silent; not so the young man. She had never heard any one -say so much in so short a time. He told her his age, twenty-four; -his weight, ten stone eleven; his place of residence, not far away; -described his sensations under fire, and what it felt like to be -gassed; criticized the Juno, mentioned his own conception of that -goddess; commented on the Goya copy, said Fleur was not too awfully -like it; sketched in rapidly the condition of England; spoke of -Monsieur Profond--or whatever his name was--as "an awful sport"; -thought her father had some "ripping" pictures and some rather "dug- -up"; hoped he might row down again and take her on the river because -he was quite trustworthy; inquired her opinion of Tchekov, gave her -his own; wished they could go to the Russian ballet together some -time--considered the name Fleur Forsyte simply topping; cursed his -people for giving him the name of Michael on the top of Mont; -outlined his father, and said that if she wanted a good book she -should read "Job"; his father was rather like Job while Job still had -land. - -"But Job didn't have land," Fleur murmured; "he only had flocks and -herds and moved on." - -"Ah!" answered Michael Mont, "I wish my gov'nor would move on. Not -that I want his land. Land's an awful bore in these days, don't you -think?" - -"We never have it in my family," said Fleur. "We have everything -else. I believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental farm -in Dorset, because we came from there originally, but it cost him -more than it made him happy." - -"Did he sell it?" - -"No; he kept it." - -"Why?" - -"Because nobody would buy it." - -"Good for the old boy!" - -"No, it wasn't good for him. Father says it soured him. His name -was Swithin." - -"What a corking name!" - -"Do you know that we're getting farther off, not nearer? This river -flows." - -"Splendid!" cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; "it's good to -meet a girl who's got wit." - -"But better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural." - -Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair. - -"Look out!" cried Fleur. "Your scull!" - -"All right! It's thick enough to bear a scratch." - -"Do you mind sculling?" said Fleur severely. "I want to get in." - -"Ah!" said Mont; "but when you get in, you see, I shan't see you any -more to-day. Fini, as the French girl said when she jumped on her -bed after saying her prayers. Don't you bless the day that gave you -a French mother, and a name like yours?" - -"I like my name, but Father gave it me. Mother wanted me called -Marguerite." - -"Which is absurd. Do you mind calling me M. M. and letting me call -you F. F.? It's in the spirit of the age." - -"I don't mind anything, so long as I get in." - -Mont caught a little crab, and answered: "That was a nasty one!" - -"Please row." - -"I am." And he did for several strokes, looking at her with rueful -eagerness. "Of course, you know," he ejaculated, pausing, "that I -came to see you, not your father's pictures." - -Fleur rose. - -"If you don't row, I shall get out and swim." - -"Really and truly? Then I could come in after you." - -"Mr. Mont, I'm late and tired; please put me on shore at once." - -When she stepped out on to the garden landing-stage he rose, and -grasping his hair with both hands, looked at her. - -Fleur smiled. - -"Don't!" cried the irrepressible Mont. "I know you're going to say: -'Out, damned hair!'" - -Fleur whisked round, threw him a wave of her hand. "Good-bye, Mr. -M.M.!" she called, and was gone among the rose-trees. She looked at -her wrist-watch and the windows of the house. It struck her as -curiously uninhabited. Past six! The pigeons were just gathering to -roost, and sunlight slanted on the dovecot, on their snowy feathers, -and beyond in a shower on the top boughs of the woods. The click of -billiard-balls came from the ingle-nook--Jack Cardigan, no doubt; a -faint rustling, too, from an eucalyptus-tree, startling Southerner in -this old English garden. She reached the verandah and was passing -in, but stopped at the sound of voices from the drawing-room to her -left. Mother! Monsieur Profond! From behind the verandah screen -which fenced the ingle-nook she heard these words: - -"I don't, Annette." - -Did Father know that he called her mother "Annette"? Always on the -side of her Father--as children are ever on one side or the other in -houses where relations are a little strained--she stood, uncertain. -Her mother was speaking in her low, pleasing, slightly metallic -voice--one word she caught: "Demain." And Profond's answer: "All -right." Fleur frowned. A little sound came out into the stillness. -Then Profond's voice: "I'm takin' a small stroll." - -Fleur darted through the window into the morning-room. There he came -from the drawing-room, crossing the verandah, down the lawn; and the -click of billiard-balls which, in listening for other sounds, she had -ceased to hear, began again. She shook herself, passed into the -hall, and opened the drawing-room door. Her mother was sitting on -the sofa between the windows, her knees crossed, her head resting on -a cushion, her lips half parted, her eyes half closed. She looked -extraordinarily handsome. - -"Ah! Here you are, Fleur! Your father is beginning to fuss." - -"Where is he?" - -"In the picture-gallery. Go up!" - -"What are you going to do to-morrow, Mother?" - -"To-morrow? I go up to London with your aunt." - -"I thought you might be. Will you get me a quite plain parasol?" -What colour?" - -"Green. They're all going back, I suppose." - -"Yes, all; you will console your father. Kiss me, then." - -Fleur crossed the room, stooped, received a kiss on her forehead, and -went out past the impress of a form on the sofa-cushions in the other -corner. She ran up-stairs. - -Fleur was by no means the old-fashioned daughter who demands the -regulation of her parents' lives in accordance with the standard -imposed upon herself. She claimed to regulate her own life, not -those of others; besides, an unerring instinct for what was likely to -advantage her own case was already at work. In a disturbed domestic -atmosphere the heart she had set on Jon would have a better chance. -None the less was she offended, as a flower by a crisping wind. If -that man had really been kissing her mother it was--serious, and her -father ought to know. "Demain!" "All right!" And her mother going -up to Town! She turned into her bedroom and hung out of the window -to cool her face, which had suddenly grown very hot. Jon must be at -the station by now! What did her father know about Jon? Probably -everything--pretty nearly! - -She changed her dress, so as to look as if she had been in some time, -and ran up to the gallery. - -Soames was standing stubbornly still before his Alfred Stevens--the -picture he loved best. He did not turn at the sound of the door, but -she knew he had heard, and she knew he was hurt. She came up softly -behind him, put her arms round his neck, and poked her face over his -shoulder till her cheek lay against his. It was an advance which had -never yet failed, but it failed her now, and she augured the worst. -"Well," he said stonily, "so you've come!" - -"Is that all," murmured Fleur, "from a bad parent?" And she rubbed -her cheek against his. - -Soames shook his head so far as that was possible. - -"Why do you keep me on tenterhooks like this, putting me off and -off?" - -"Darling, it was very harmless." - -"Harmless! Much you know what's harmless and what isn't." - -Fleur dropped her arms. - -"Well, then, dear, suppose you tell me; and be quite frank about it." - -And she went over to the window-seat. - -Her father had turned from his picture, and was staring at his feet. -He looked very grey. 'He has nice small feet,' she thought, catching -his eye, at once averted from her. - -"You're my only comfort," said Soames suddenly, "and you go on like -this." - -Fleur's heart began to beat. - -"Like what, dear?" - -Again Soames gave her a look which, but for the affection in it, -might have been called furtive. - -"You know what I told you," he said. "I don't choose to have -anything to do with that branch of our family." - -"Yes, ducky, but I don't know why I shouldn't." - -Soames turned on his heel. - -"I'm not going into the reasons," he said; "you ought to trust me, -Fleur!" - -The way he spoke those words affected Fleur, but she thought of Jon, -and was silent, tapping her foot against the wainscot. Unconsciously -she had assumed a modern attitude, with one leg twisted in and out of -the other, with her chin on one bent wrist, her other arm across her -chest, and its hand hugging her elbow; there was not a line of her -that was not involuted, and yet--in spite of all--she retained a -certain grace. - -"You knew my wishes," Soames went on, "and yet you stayed on there -four days. And I suppose that boy came with you to-day." - -Fleur kept her eyes on him. - -"I don't ask you anything," said Soames; "I make no inquisition where -you're concerned." - -Fleur suddenly stood up, leaning out at the window with her chin on -her hands. The sun had sunk behind trees, the pigeons were perched, -quite still, on the edge of the dove-cot; the click of the billiard- -balls mounted, and a faint radiance shone out below where Jack -Cardigan had turned the light up. - -"Will it make you any happier," she said suddenly, "if I promise you -not to see him for say--the next six weeks?" She was not prepared for -a sort of tremble in the blankness of his voice. - -"Six weeks? Six years--sixty years more like. Don't delude -yourself, Fleur; don't delude yourself!" - -Fleur turned in alarm. - -"Father, what is it?" - -Soames came close enough to see her face. - -"Don't tell me," he said, "that you're foolish enough to have any -feeling beyond caprice. That would be too much!" And he laughed. - -Fleur, who had never heard him laugh like that, thought: 'Then it is -deep! Oh! what is it?' And putting her hand through his arm she -said lightly: - -"No, of course; caprice. Only, I like my caprices and I don't like -yours, dear." - -"Mine!" said Soames bitterly, and turned away. - -The light outside had chilled, and threw a chalky whiteness on the -river. The trees had lost all gaiety of colour. She felt a sudden -hunger for Jon's face, for his hands, and the feel of his lips again -on hers. And pressing her arms tight across her breast she forced -out a little light laugh. - -"O la! la! What a small fuss! as Profond would say. Father, I don't -like that man." - -She saw him stop, and take something out of his breast pocket. - -"You don't?" he said. "Why?" - -"Nothing," murmured Fleur; "just caprice!" - -"No," said Soames; "not caprice!" And he tore what was in his hands -across. "You're right. I don't like him either!" - -"Look!" said Fleur softly. "There he goes! I hate his shoes; they -don't make any noise." - -Down in the failing light Prosper Profond moved, his hands in his -side pockets, whistling softly in his beard; he stopped, and glanced -up at the sky, as if saying: "I don't think much of that small moon." - -Fleur drew back. "Isn't he a great cat?" she whispered; and the -sharp click of the billiard-balls rose, as if Jack Cardigan had -capped the cat, the moon, caprice, and tragedy with: "In off the -red!" - -Monsieur Profond had resumed his stroll, to a teasing little tune in -his beard. What was it? Oh! yes, from "Rigoletto": "Donna a -mobile." Just what he would think! She squeezed her father's arm. - -"Prowling!" she muttered, as he turned the corner of the house. It -was past that disillusioned moment which divides the day and night- -still and lingering and warm, with hawthorn scent and lilac scent -clinging on the riverside air. A blackbird suddenly burst out. Jon -would be in London by now; in the Park perhaps, crossing the -Serpentine, thinking of her! A little sound beside her made her turn -her eyes; her father was again tearing the paper in his hands. Fleur -saw it was a cheque. - -"I shan't sell him my Gauguin," he said. "I don't know what your -aunt and Imogen see in him." - -"Or Mother." - -"Your mother!" said Soames. - -'Poor Father!' she thought. 'He never looks happy--not really happy. -I don't want to make him worse, but of course I shall have to, when -Jon comes back. Oh! well, sufficient unto the night!' - -"I'm going to dress," she said. - -In her room she had a fancy to put on her "freak" dress. It was of -gold tissue with little trousers of the same, tightly drawn in at the -ankles, a page's cape slung from the shoulders, little gold shoes, -and a gold-winged Mercury helmet; and all over her were tiny gold -bells, especially on the helmet; so that if she shook her head she -pealed. When she was dressed she felt quite sick because Jon could -not see her; it even seemed a pity that the sprightly young man -Michael Mont would not have a view. But the gong had sounded, and -she went down. - -She made a sensation in the drawing-room. Winifred thought it "Most -amusing." Imogen was enraptured. Jack Cardigan called it -"stunning," "ripping," "topping," and "corking." - -Monsieur Profond, smiling with his eyes, said: "That's a nice small -dress!" Her mother, very handsome in black, sat looking at her, and -said nothing. It remained for her father to apply the test of common -sense. "What did you put on that thing for? You're not going to -dance." - -Fleur spun round, and the bells pealed. - -"Caprice!" - -Soames stared at her, and, turning away, gave his arm to Winifred. -Jack Cardigan took her mother. Prosper Profond took Imogen. Fleur -went in by herself, with her bells jingling.... - -The "small" moon had soon dropped down, and May night had fallen soft -and warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its scents the -billion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of men -and women. Happy was Jack Cardigan who snored into Imogen's white -shoulder, fit as a flea; or Timothy in his "mausoleum," too old for -anything but baby's slumber. For so many lay awake, or dreamed, -teased by the criss-cross of the world. - -The dew fell and the flowers closed; cattle grazed on in the river -meadows, feeling with their tongues for the grass they could not see; -and the sheep on the Downs lay quiet as stones. Pheasants in the -tall trees of the Pangbourne woods, larks on their grassy nests above -the gravel-pit at Wansdon, swallows in the eaves at Robin Hill, and -the sparrows of Mayfair, all made a dreamless night of it, soothed by -the lack of wind. The Mayfly filly, hardly accustomed to her new -quarters, scraped at her straw a little; and the few night-flitting -things--bats, moths, owls--were vigorous in the warm darkness; but -the peace of night lay in the brain of all day-time Nature, -colourless and still. Men and women, alone, riding the hobby-horses -of anxiety or love, burned their wavering tapers of dream and thought -into the lonely hours. - -Fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled -chime of twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an -aspen's leaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the -distant rumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which -none can put a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of -uncatalogued emotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, -maybe, from departed Forsytes, Darties, Cardigans, taking night -strolls back into a world which had once suited their embodied -spirits. But Fleur heeded not these sounds; her spirit, far from -disembodied, fled with swift wing from railway-carriage to flowery -hedge, straining after Jon, tenacious of his forbidden image, and the -sound of his voice, which was taboo. And she crinkled her nose, -retrieving from the perfume of the riverside night that moment when -his hand slipped between the mayflowers and her cheek. Long she -leaned out in her freak dress, keen to burn her wings at life's -candle; while the moths brushed her cheeks on their pilgrimage to the -lamp on her dressing-table, ignorant that in a Forsyte's house there -is no open flame. But at last even she felt sleepy, and, forgetting -her bells, drew quickly in. - -Through the open window of his room, alongside Annette's, Soames, -wakeful too, heard their thin faint tinkle, as it might be shaken -from stars, or the dewdrops falling from a flower, if one could hear -such sounds. - -'Caprice!' he thought. 'I can't tell. She's wilful. What shall I -do? Fleur!' - -And long into the "small" night he brooded. - - - - - - -PART II - - - -I - -MOTHER AND SON - - -To say that Jon Forsyte accompanied his mother to Spain unwillingly -would scarcely have been adequate. He went as a well-natured dog -goes for a walk with its mistress, leaving a choice mutton-bone on -the lawn. He went looking back at it. Forsytes deprived of their -mutton-bones are wont to sulk. But Jon had little sulkiness in his -composition. He adored his mother, and it was his first travel. -Spain had become Italy by his simply saying: "I'd rather go to Spain, -Mum; you've been to Italy so many times; I'd like it new to both of -us." - -The fellow was subtle besides being naive. He never forgot that he -was going to shorten the proposed two months into six weeks, and must -therefore show no sign of wishing to do so. For one with so enticing -a mutton-bone and so fixed an idea, he made a good enough travelling -companion, indifferent to where or when he arrived, superior to food, -and thoroughly appreciative of a country strange to the most -travelled Englishman. Fleur's wisdom in refusing to write to him was -profound, for he reached each new place entirely without hope or -fever, and could concentrate immediate attention on the donkeys and -tumbling bells, the priests, patios, beggars, children, crowing -cocks, sombreros, cactus-hedges, old high white villages, goats, -olive-trees, greening plains, singing birds in tiny cages, -watersellers, sunsets, melons, mules, great churches, pictures, and -swimming grey-brown mountains of a fascinating land. - -It was already hot, and they enjoyed an absence of their compatriots. -Jon, who, so far as he knew, had no blood in him which was not -English, was often innately unhappy in the presence of his own -countrymen. He felt they had no nonsense about them, and took a more -practical view of things than himself. He confided to his mother -that he must be an unsociable beast--it was jolly to be away from -everybody who could talk about the things people did talk about. To -which Irene had replied simply: - -"Yes, Jon, I know." - -In this isolation he had unparalleled opportunities of appreciating -what few sons can apprehend, the whole-heartedness of a mother's -love. Knowledge of something kept from her made him, no doubt, -unduly sensitive; and a Southern people stimulated his admiration for -her type of beauty, which he had been accustomed to hear called -Spanish, but which he now perceived to be no such thing. Her beauty -was neither English, French, Spanish, nor Italian--it was special! -He appreciated, too, as never before, his mother's subtlety of -instinct. He could not tell, for instance, whether she had noticed -his absorption in that Goya picture, "La Vendimia," or whether she -knew that he had slipped back there after lunch and again next -morning, to stand before it full half an hour, a second and third -time. It was not Fleur, of course, but like enough to give him -heartache--so dear to lovers--remembering her standing at the foot of -his bed with her hand held above her head. To keep a postcard -reproduction of this picture in his pocket and slip it out to look at -became for Jon one of those bad habits which soon or late disclose -themselves to eyes sharpened by love, fear, or jealousy. And his -mother's were sharpened by all three. In Granada he was fairly -caught, sitting on a sun-warmed stone bench in a little battlemented -garden on the Alhambra hill, whence he ought to have been looking at -the view. His mother, he had thought, was examining the potted -stocks between the polled acacias, when her voice said: - -"Is that your favourite Goya, Jon?" - -He checked, too late, a movement such as he might have made at school -to conceal some surreptitious document, and answered: "Yes." - -"It certainly is most charming; but I think I prefer the 'Quitasol' -Your father would go crazy about Goya; I don't believe he saw them -when he was in Spain in '92." - -In '92--nine years before he had been born! What had been the -previous existences of his father and his mother? If they had a -right to share in his future, surely he had a right to share in their -pasts. He looked up at her. But something in her face--a look of -life hard-lived, the mysterious impress of emotions, experience, and -suffering-seemed, with its incalculable depth, its purchased -sanctity, to make curiosity impertinent. His mother must have had a -wonderfully interesting life; she was so beautiful, and so--so--but -he could not frame what he felt about her. He got up, and stood -gazing down at the town, at the plain all green with crops, and the -ring of mountains glamorous in sinking sunlight. Her life was like -the past of this old Moorish city, full, deep, remote--his own life -as yet such a baby of a thing, hopelessly ignorant and innocent! -They said that in those mountains to the West, which rose sheer from -the blue-green plain, as if out of a sea, Phoenicians had dwelt--a -dark, strange, secret race, above the land! His mother's life was as -unknown to him, as secret, as that Phoenician past was to the town -down there, whose cocks crowed and whose children played and -clamoured so gaily, day in, day out. He felt aggrieved that she -should know all about him and he nothing about her except that she -loved him and his father, and was beautiful. His callow ignorance-- -he had not even had the advantage of the War, like nearly everybody -else!--made him small in his own eyes. - -That night, from the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed down on the -roof of the town--as if inlaid with honeycomb of jet, ivory, and -gold; and, long after, he lay awake, listening to the cry of the -sentry as the hours struck, and forming in his head these lines: - - "Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping - Spanish city darkened under her white stars! - - "What says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish? - Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? - Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song? - - "No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, - Just his cry: 'How long?'" - -The word "deprived" seemed to him cold and unsatisfactory, but -"bereaved" was too final, and no other word of two syllables short- -long came to him, which would enable him to keep "whose lover's heart -is weeping." It was past two by the time he had finished it, and -past three before he went to sleep, having said it over to himself at -least twenty-four times. Next day he wrote it out and enclosed it in -one of those letters to Fleur which he always finished before he went -down, so as to have his mind free and companionable. - -About noon that same day, on the tiled terrace of their hotel, he -felt a sudden dull pain in the back of his head, a queer sensation in -the eyes, and sickness. The sun had touched him too affectionately. -The next three days were passed in semi-darkness, and a dulled, -aching indifference to all except the feel of ice on his forehead and -his mother's smile. She never moved from his room, never relaxed her -noiseless vigilance, which seemed to Jon angelic. But there were -moments when he was extremely sorry for himself, and wished terribly -that Fleur could see him. Several times he took a poignant imaginary -leave of her and of the earth, tears oozing out of his eyes. He even -prepared the message he would send to her by his mother--who would -regret to her dying day that she had ever sought to separate them-- -his poor mother! He was not slow, however, in perceiving that he had -now his excuse for going home. - -Toward half-past six each evening came a "gasgacha" of bells--a -cascade of tumbling chimes, mounting from the city below and falling -back chime on chime. After listening to them on the fourth day he -said suddenly: - -"I'd like to be back in England, Mum, the sun's too hot." - -"Very well, darling. As soon as you're fit to travel" And at once -he felt better, and--meaner. - -They had been out five weeks when they turned toward home. Jon's -head was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a -hat lined by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk and -he still walked from choice in the shade. As the long struggle of -discretion between them drew to its close, he wondered more and more -whether she could see his eagerness to get back to that which she had -brought him away from. Condemned by Spanish Providence to spend a -day in Madrid between their trains, it was but natural to go again to -the Prado. Jon was elaborately casual this time before his Goya -girl. Now that he was going back to her, he could afford a lesser -scrutiny. It was his mother who lingered before the picture, saying: - -"The face and the figure of the girl are exquisite." - -Jon heard her uneasily. Did she understand? But he felt once more -that he was no match for her in self-control and subtlety. She -could, in some supersensitive way, of which he had not the secret, -feel the pulse of his thoughts; she knew by instinct what he hoped -and feared and wished. It made him terribly uncomfortable and -guilty, having, beyond most boys, a conscience. He wished she would -be frank with him, he almost hoped for an open struggle. But none -came, and steadily, silently, they travelled north. Thus did he -first learn how much better than men women play a waiting game. In -Paris they had again to pause for a day. Jon was grieved because it -lasted two, owing to certain matters in connection with a dressmaker; -as if his mother, who looked beautiful in anything, had any need of -dresses! The happiest moment of his travel was that when he stepped -on to the Folkestone boat. - -Standing by the bulwark rail, with her arm in his, she said - -"I'm afraid you haven't enjoyed it much, Jon. But you've been very -sweet to me." - -Jon squeezed her arm. - -"Oh I yes, I've enjoyed it awfully-except for my head lately." - -And now that the end had come, he really had, feeling a sort of -glamour over the past weeks--a kind of painful pleasure, such as he -had tried to screw into those lines about the voice in the night -crying; a feeling such as he had known as a small boy listening -avidly to Chopin, yet wanting to cry. And he wondered why it was -that he couldn't say to her quite simply what she had said to him: - -"You were very sweet to me." Odd--one never could be nice and -natural like that! He substituted the words: "I expect we shall be -sick." - -They were, and reached London somewhat attenuated, having been away -six weeks and two days, without a single allusion to the subject -which had hardly ever ceased to occupy their minds. - - - - -II - -FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS - - -Deprived of his wife and son by the Spanish adventure, Jolyon found -the solitude at Robin Hill intolerable. A philosopher when he has -all that he wants is different from a philosopher when he has not. -Accustomed, however, to the idea, if not to the reality of -resignation, he would perhaps have faced it out but for his daughter -June. He was a "lame duck" now, and on her conscience. Having -achieved--momentarily--the rescue of an etcher in low circumstances, -which she happened to have in hand, she appeared at Robin Hill a -fortnight after Irene and Jon had gone. June was living now in a -tiny house with a big studio at Chiswick. A Forsyte of the best -period, so far as the lack of responsibility was concerned, she had -overcome the difficulty of a reduced income in a manner satisfactory -to herself and her father. The rent of the Gallery off Cork Street -which he had bought for her and her increased income tax happening to -balance, it had been quite simpl--she no longer paid him the rent. -The Gallery might be expected now at any time, after eighteen years -of barren usufruct, to pay its way, so that she was sure her father -would not feel it. Through this device she still had twelve hundred -a year, and by reducing what she ate, and, in place of two Belgians -in a poor way, employing one Austrian in a poorer, practically the -same surplus for the relief of genius. After three days at Robin -Hill she carried her father back with her to Town. In those three -days she had stumbled on the secret he had kept for two years, and -had instantly decided to cure him. She knew, in fact, the very man. -He had done wonders with. Paul Post--that painter a little in -advance of Futurism; and she was impatient with her father because -his eyebrows would go up, and because he had heard of neither. Of -course, if he hadn't "faith" he would never get well! It was absurd -not to have faith in the man who had healed Paul Post so that he had -only just relapsed, from having overworked, or overlived, himself -again. The great thing about this healer was that he relied on -Nature. He had made a special study of the symptoms of Nature--when -his patient failed in any natural symptom he supplied the poison -which caused it--and there you were! She was extremely hopeful. Her -father had clearly not been living a natural life at Robin Hill, and -she intended to provide the symptoms. He was--she felt--out of touch -with the times, which was not natural; his heart wanted stimulating. -In the little Chiswick house she and the Austrian--a grateful soul, -so devoted to June for rescuing her that she was in danger of decease -from overwork--stimulated Jolyon in all sorts of ways, preparing him -for his cure. But they could not keep his eyebrows down; as, for -example, when the Austrian woke him at eight o'clock just as he was -going to sleep, or June took The Times away from him, because it was -unnatural to read "that stuff" when he ought to be taking an interest -in "life." He never failed, indeed, to be astonished at her -resource, especially in the evenings. For his benefit, as she -declared, though he suspected that she also got something out of it, -she assembled the Age so far as it was satellite to genius; and with -some solemnity it would move up and down the studio before him in the -Fox-trot, and that more mental form of dancing--the One-step--which -so pulled against the music, that Jolyon's eyebrows would be almost -lost in his hair from wonder at the strain it must impose on the -dancer's will-power. Aware that, hung on the line in the Water -Colour Society, he was a back number to those with any pretension to -be called artists, he would sit in the darkest corner he could find, -and wonder about rhythm, on which so long ago he had been raised. -And when June brought some girl or young man up to him, he would rise -humbly to their level so far as that was possible, and think: 'Dear -me! This is very dull for them!' Having his father's perennial -sympathy with Youth, he used to get very tired from entering into -their points of view. But it was all stimulating, and he never -failed in admiration of his daughter's indomitable spirit. Even -genius itself attended these gatherings now and then, with its nose -on one side; and June always introduced it to her father. This, she -felt, was exceptionally good for him, for genius was a natural -symptom he had never had--fond as she was of him. - -Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often -wondered whence she got herself--her red-gold hair, now greyed into a -special colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his own -rather folded and subtilised countenance, her little lithe figure, -when he and most of the Forsytes were tall. And he would dwell on -the origin of species, and debate whether she might be Danish or -Celtic. Celtic, he thought, from her pugnacity, and her taste in -fillets and djibbahs. It was not too much to say that he preferred -her to the Age with which she was surrounded, youthful though, for -the greater part, it was. She took, however, too much interest in -his teeth, for he still had some of those natural symptoms. Her -dentist at once found "Staphylococcus aureus present in pure culture" -(which might cause boils, of course), and wanted to take out all the -teeth he had and supply him with two complete sets of unnatural -symptoms. Jolyon's native tenacity was roused, and in the studio -that evening he developed his objections. He had never had any -boils, and his own teeth would last his time. Of course--June -admitted--they would last his time if he didn't have them out! But -if he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time would -be longer. His recalcitrance--she said--was a symptom of his whole -attitude; he was taking it lying down. He ought to be fighting. -When was he going to see the man who had cured Paul Post? Jolyon was -very sorry, but the fact was he was not going to see him. June -chafed. Pondridge--she said--the healer, was such a fine man, and he -had such difficulty in making two ends meet, and getting his theories -recognised. It was just such indifference and prejudice as her -father manifested which was keeping him back. It would be so -splendid for both of them! - -"I perceive," said Jolyon, "that you are trying to kill two birds -with one stone." - -"To cure, you mean!" cried June. - -"My dear, it's the same thing." - -June protested. It was unfair to say that without a trial. - -Jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after. - -"Dad!" cried June, "you're hopeless." - -"That," said Jolyon, "is a fact, but I wish to remain hopeless as -long as possible. I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. They are -quiet at present." - -"That's not giving science a chance," cried June. "You've no idea -how devoted Pondridge is. He puts his science before everything." - -"Just," replied Jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he was -reduced, "as Mr. Paul Post puts his art, eh? Art for Art's sake-- -Science for the sake of Science. I know those enthusiastic egomaniac -gentry. They vivisect you without blinking. I'm enough of a Forsyte -to give them the go-by, June." - -"Dad," said June, "if you only knew how old-fashioned that sounds! -Nobody can afford to be half-hearted nowadays." - -"I'm afraid," murmured Jolyon, with his smile, "that's the only -natural symptom with which Mr. Pondridge need not supply me. We are -born to be extreme or to be moderate, my dear; though, if you'll -forgive my saying so, half the people nowadays who believe they're -extreme are really very moderate. I'm getting on as well as I can -expect, and I must leave it at that." - -June was silent, having experienced in her time the inexorable -character of her father's amiable obstinacy so far as his own freedom -of action was concerned. - -How he came to let her know why Irene had taken Jon to Spain puzzled -Jolyon, for he had little confidence in her discretion. After she -had brooded on the news, it brought a rather sharp discussion, during -which he perceived to the full the fundamental opposition between her -active temperament and his wife's passivity. He even gathered that a -little soreness still remained from that generation-old struggle -between them over the body of Philip Bosinney, in which the passive -had so signally triumphed over the active principle. - -According to June, it was foolish and even cowardly to hide the past -from Jon. Sheer opportunism, she called it. - -"Which," Jolyon put in mildly, "is the working principle of real -life, my dear." - -"Oh!" cried June, "you don't really defend her for not telling Jon, -Dad. If it were left to you, you would." - -"I might, but simply because I know he must find out, which will be -worse than if we told him." - -"Then why don't you tell him? It's just sleeping dogs again." - -"My dear," said Jolyon, "I wouldn't for the world go against Irene's -instinct. He's her boy." - -"Yours too," cried June. - -"What is a man's instinct compared with a mother's?" - -"Well, I think it's very weak of you." - -"I dare say," said Jolyon, "I dare say." - -And that was all she got from him; but the matter rankled in her -brain. She could not bear sleeping dogs. And there stirred in her a -tortuous impulse to push the matter toward decision. Jon ought to be -told, so that either his feeling might be nipped in the bud, or, -flowering in spite of the past, come to fruition. And she determined -to see Fleur, and judge for herself. When June determined on -anything, delicacy became a somewhat minor consideration. After all, -she was Soames' cousin, and they were both interested in pictures. -She would go and tell him that he ought to buy a Paul Post, or -perhaps a piece of sculpture by Boris Strumolowski, and of course she -would say nothing to her father. She went on the following Sunday, -looking so determined that she had some difficulty in getting a cab -at Reading station. The river country was lovely in those days of -her own month, and June ached at its loveliness. She who had passed -through this life without knowing what union was had a love of -natural beauty which was almost madness. And when she came to that -choice spot where Soames had pitched his tent, she dismissed her cab, -because, business over, she wanted to revel in the bright water and -the woods. She appeared at his front door, therefore, as a mere -pedestrian, and sent in her card. It was in June's character to know -that when her nerves were fluttering she was doing something worth -while. If one's nerves did not flutter, she was taking the line of -least resistance, and knew that nobleness was not obliging her. She -was conducted to a drawing-room, which, though not in her style, -showed every mark of fastidious elegance. Thinking, 'Too much taste- --too many knick-knacks,' she saw in an old lacquer-framed mirror the -figure of a girl coming in from the verandah. Clothed in white, and -holding some white roses in her hand, she had, reflected in that -silvery-grey pool of glass, a vision-like appearance, as if a pretty -ghost had come out of the green garden. - -"How do you do?" said June, turning round. "I'm a cousin of your -father's." - -"Oh, yes; I saw you in that confectioner's." - -"With my young stepbrother. Is your father in?" - -"He will be directly. He's only gone for a little walk." - -June slightly narrowed her blue eyes, and lifted her decided chin. - -"Your name's Fleur, isn't it? I've heard of you from Holly. What do -you think of Jon?" - -The girl lifted the roses in her hand, looked at them, and answered -calmly: - -"He's quite a nice boy." - -"Not a bit like Holly or me, is he?" - -"Not a bit." - -'She's cool,' thought June. - -And suddenly the girl said: "I wish you'd tell me why our families -don't get on?" - -Confronted with the question she had advised her father to answer, -June was silent; whether because this girl was trying to get -something out of her, or simply because what one would do -theoretically is not always what one will do when -it comes to the point. - -"You know," said the girl, "the surest way to make people find out -the worst is to keep them ignorant. My father's told me it was a -quarrel about property. But I don't believe it; we've both got -heaps. They wouldn't have been so bourgeois as all that." - -June flushed. The word applied to her grandfather and father -offended her. - -"My grandfather," she said, "was very generous, and my father is, -too; neither of them was in the least bourgeois." - -"Well, what was it then?" repeated the girl: Conscious that this -young Forsyte meant having what she wanted, June at once determined -to prevent her, and to get something for herself instead. - -"Why do you want to know?" - -The girl smelled at her roses. "I only want to know because they -won't tell me." - -"Well, it was about property, but there's more than one kind." - -"That makes it worse. Now I really must know." - -June's small and resolute face quivered. She was wearing a round -cap, and her hair had fluffed out under it. She looked quite young -at that moment, rejuvenated by encounter. - -"You know," she said, "I saw you drop your handkerchief. Is there -anything between you and Jon? Because, if so, you'd better drop that -too." - -The girl grew paler, but she smiled. - -"If there were, that isn't the way to make me." - -At the gallantry of that reply, June held out her hand. - -"I like you; but I don't like your father; I never have. We may as -well be frank." - -"Did you come down to tell him that?" - -June laughed. "No; I came down to see you." - -"How delightful of you." - -This girl could fence. - -"I'm two and a half times your age," said June, "but I quite -sympathize. It's horrid not to have one's own way." - -The girl smiled again. "I really think you might tell me." - -How the child stuck to her point - -"It's not my secret. But I'll see what I can do, because I think -both you and Jon ought to be told. And now I'll say good-bye." - -"Won't you wait and see Father?" - -June shook her head. "How can I get over to the other side?" - -"I'll row you across." - -"Look!" said June impulsively, "next time you're in London, come and -see me. This is where I live. I generally have young people in the -evening. But I shouldn't tell your father that you're coming." - -The girl nodded. - -Watching her scull the skiff across, June thought: 'She's awfully -pretty and well made. I never thought Soames would have a daughter -as pretty as this. She and Jon would make a lovely couple. - -The instinct to couple, starved within herself, was always at work -in June. She stood watching Fleur row back; the girl took her hand -off a scull to wave farewell, and June walked languidly on between -the meadows and the river, with an ache in her heart. Youth to -youth, like the dragon-flies chasing each other, and love like the -sun warming them through and through. Her youth! So long ago--when -Phil and she--And since? Nothing--no one had been quite what she had -wanted. And so she had missed it all. But what a coil was round -those two young things, if they really were in love, as Holly would -have it--as her father, and Irene, and Soames himself seemed to -dread. What a coil, and what a barrier! And the itch for the -future, the contempt, as it were, for what was overpast, which forms -the active principle, moved in the heart of one who ever believed -that what one wanted was more important than what other people did -not want. From the bank, awhile, in the warm summer stillness, she -watched the water-lily plants and willow leaves, the fishes rising; -sniffed the scent of grass and meadow-sweet, wondering how she could -force everybody to be happy. Jon and Fleur! Two little lame ducks-- -charming callow yellow little ducks! A great pity! Surely something -could be done! One must not take such situations lying down. She -walked on, and reached a station, hot and cross. - -That evening, faithful to the impulse toward direct action, which -made many people avoid her, she said to her father: - -"Dad, I've been down to see young Fleur. I think she's very -attractive. It's no good hiding our heads under our wings, is it?" - -The startled Jolyon set down his barley-water, and began crumbling -his bread. - -"It's what you appear to be doing," he said. "Do you realise whose -daughter she is?" - -"Can't the dead past bury its dead?" - -Jolyon rose. - -"Certain things can never be buried." - -"I disagree," said June. "It's that which stands in the way of all -happiness and progress. You don't understand the Age, Dad. It's got -no use for outgrown things. Why do you think it matters so terribly -that Jon should know about his mother? Who pays any attention to -that sort of thing now? The marriage laws are just as they were when -Soames and Irene couldn't get a divorce, and you had to come in. -We've moved, and they haven't. So nobody cares. Marriage without a -decent chance of relief is only a sort of slave-owning; people -oughtn't to own each other. Everybody sees that now. If Irene broke -such laws, what does it matter?" - -"It's not for me to disagree there," said Jolyon; "but that's all -quite beside the mark. This is a matter of human feeling." - -"Of course it is," cried June, "the human feeling of those two young -things." - -"My dear," said Jolyon with gentle exasperation; "you're talking -nonsense." - -"I'm not. If they prove to be really fond of each other, why should -they be made unhappy because of the past?" - -"You haven't lived that past. I have--through the feelings of my -wife; through my own nerves and my imagination, as only one who is -devoted can." - -June, too, rose, and began to wander restlessly. - -"If," she said suddenly, "she were the daughter of Philip Bosinney, I -could understand you better. Irene loved him, she never loved -Soames." - -Jolyon uttered a deep sound-the sort of noise an Italian peasant -woman utters to her mule. His heart had begun beating furiously, but -he paid no attention to it, quite carried away by his feelings. - -"That shows how little you understand. Neither I nor Jon, if I know -him, would mind a love-past. It's the brutality of a union without -love. This girl is the daughter of the man who once owned Jon's -mother as a negro-slave was owned. You can't lay that ghost; don't -try to, June! It's asking us to see Jon joined to the flesh and -blood of the man who possessed Jon's mother against her will. It's -no good mincing words; I want it clear once for all. And now I -mustn't talk any more, or I shall have to sit up with this all -night." And, putting his hand over his heart, Jolyon turned his back -on his daughter and stood looking at the river Thames. - -June, who by nature never saw a hornet's nest until she had put her -head into it, was seriously alarmed. She came and slipped her arm -through his. Not convinced that he was right, and she herself wrong, -because that was not natural to her, she was yet profoundly impressed -by the obvious fact that the subject was very bad for him. She -rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and said nothing. - -After taking her elderly cousin across, Fleur did not land at once, -but pulled in among the reeds, into the sunshine. The peaceful -beauty of the afternoon seduced for a little one not much given to -the vague and poetic. In the field beyond the bank where her skiff -lay up, a machine drawn by a grey horse was turning an early field of -hay. She watched the grass cascading over and behind the light -wheels with fascination--it looked so cool and fresh. The click and -swish blended with the rustle of the willows and the poplars, and the -cooing of a wood-pigeon, in a true river song. Alongside, in the -deep green water, weeds, like yellow snakes, were writhing and nosing -with the current; pied cattle on the farther side stood in the shade -lazily swishing their tails. It was an afternoon to dream. And she -took out Jon's letters--not flowery effusions, but haunted in their -recital of things seen and done by a longing very agreeable to her, -and all ending "Your devoted J." Fleur was not sentimental, her -desires were ever concrete and concentrated, but what poetry there -was in the daughter of Soames and Annette had certainly in those -weeks of waiting gathered round her memories of Jon. They all -belonged to grass and blossom, flowers and running water. She -enjoyed him in the scents absorbed by her crinkling nose. The stars -could persuade her that she was standing beside him in the centre of -the map of Spain; and of an early morning the dewy cobwebs, the hazy -sparkle and promise of the day down in the garden, were Jon -personified to her. - -Two white swans came majestically by, while she was reading his -letters, followed by their brood of six young swans in a line, with -just so much water between each tail and head, a flotilla of grey -destroyers. Fleur thrust her letters back, got out her sculls, and -pulled up to the landing-stage. Crossing the lawn, she wondered -whether she should tell her father of June's visit. If he learned of -it from the butler, he might think it odd if she did not. It gave -her, too, another chance to startle out of him the reason of the -feud. She went, therefore, up the road to meet him. - -Soames had gone to look at a patch of ground on which the Local -Authorities were proposing to erect a Sanatorium for people with weak -lungs. Faithful to his native individualism, he took no part in -local affairs, content to pay the rates which were always going up. -He could not, however, remain indifferent to this new and dangerous -scheme. The site was not half a mile from his own house. He was -quite of opinion that the country should stamp out tuberculosis; but -this was not the place. It should be done farther away. He took, -indeed, an attitude common to all true Forsytes, that disability of -any sort in other people was not his affair, and the State should do -its business without prejudicing in any way the natural advantages -which he had acquired or inherited. Francie, the most free-spirited -Forsyte of his generation (except perhaps that fellow Jolyon) had -once asked him in her malicious way: "Did you ever see the name -Forsyte in a subscription list, Soames? "That was as it might be, -but a Sanatorium would depreciate the neighbourhood, and he should -certainly sign the petition which was being got up against it. -Returning with this decision fresh within him, he saw Fleur coming. - -She was showing him more affection of late, and the quiet time down -here with her in this summer weather had been making him feel quite -young; Annette was always running up to Town for one thing or -another, so that he had Fleur to himself almost as much as he could -wish. To be sure, young Mont had formed a habit of appearing on his -motor-cycle almost every other day. Thank goodness, the young fellow -had shaved off his half-toothbrushes, and no longer looked like a -mountebank! With a girl friend of Fleur's who was staying in the -house, and a neighbouring youth or so, they made two couples after -dinner, in the hall, to the music of the electric pianola, which -performed Fox-trots unassisted, with a surprised shine on its -expressive surface. Annette, even, now and then passed gracefully up -and down in the arms of one or other of the young men. And Soames, -coming to the drawing-room door, would lift his nose a little -sideways, and watch them, waiting to catch a smile from Fleur; then -move back to his chair by the drawing-room hearth, to peruse The -Times or some other collector's price list. To his ever-anxious eyes -Fleur showed no signs of remembering that caprice of hers. - -When she reached him on the dusty road, he slipped his hand within -her arm. - -"Who, do you think, has been to see you, Dad? She couldn't wait! -Guess!" - -"I never guess," said Soames uneasily. "Who?" - -"Your cousin, June Forsyte." - -Quite unconsciously Soames gripped her arm. "What did she want?" - -"I don't know. But it was rather breaking through the feud, wasn't -it?" - -"Feud? What feud?" - -"The one that exists in your imagination, dear." - -Soames dropped her arm. Was she mocking, or trying to draw him on? - -"I suppose she wanted me to buy a picture," he said at last. - -"I don't think so. Perhaps it was just family affection." - -"She's only a first cousin once removed," muttered Soames. - -"And the daughter of your enemy." - -"What d'you mean by that?" - -"I beg your pardon, dear; I thought he was." - -"Enemy!" repeated Soames. "It's ancient history. I don't know where -you get your notions." - -"From June Forsyte." - -It had come to her as an inspiration that if he thought she knew, or -were on the edge of knowledge, he would tell her. - -Soames was startled, but she had underrated his caution and tenacity. - -"If you know," he said coldly, "why do you plague me?" - -Fleur saw that she had overreached herself. - -"I don't want to plague you, darling. As you say, why want to know -more? Why want to know anything of that 'small' mystery--Je m'en -fiche, as Profond says?" - -"That chap!" said Soames profoundly. - -That chap, indeed, played a considerable, if invisible, part this -summer--for he had not turned up again. Ever since the Sunday when -Fleur had drawn attention to him prowling on the lawn, Soames had -thought of him a good deal, and always in connection with Annette, -for no reason, except that she was looking handsomer than for some -time past. His possessive instinct, subtle, less formal, more -elastic since the War, kept all misgiving underground. As one looks -on some American river, quiet and pleasant, knowing that an alligator -perhaps is lying in the mud with his snout just raised and -indistinguishable from a snag of wood--so Soames looked on the river -of his own existence, subconscious of Monsieur Profond, refusing to -see more than the suspicion of his snout. He had at this epoch in -his life practically all he wanted, and was as nearly happy as his -nature would permit. His senses were at rest; his affections found -all the vent they needed in his daughter; his collection was well -known, his money well invested; his health excellent, save for a -touch of liver now and again; he had not yet begun to worry seriously -about what would happen after death, inclining to think that nothing -would happen. He resembled one of his own gilt-edged securities, and -to knock the gilt off by seeing anything he could avoid seeing would -be, he felt instinctively, perverse and retrogressive. Those two -crumpled rose-leaves, Fleur's caprice and Monsieur Profond's snout, -would level away if he lay on them industriously. - -That evening Chance, which visits the lives of even the best-invested -Forsytes, put a clue into Fleur's hands. Her father came down to -dinner without a handkerchief, and had occasion to blow his nose. - -"I'll get you one, dear," she had said, and ran upstairs. In the -sachet where she sought for it--an old sachet of very faded silk-- -there were two compartments: one held handkerchiefs; the other was -buttoned, and contained something flat and hard. By some childish -impulse Fleur unbuttoned it. There was a frame and in it a -photograph of herself as a little girl. She gazed at it, fascinated, -as one is by one's own presentment. It slipped under her fidgeting -thumb, and she saw that another photograph was behind. She pressed -her own down further, and perceived a face, which she seemed to know, -of a young woman, very good-looking, in a very old style of evening -dress. Slipping her own photograph up over it again, she took out a -handkerchief and went down. Only on the stairs did she identify that -face. Surely--surely Jon's mother! The conviction came as a shock. -And she stood still in a flurry of thought. Why, of course! Jon's -father had married the woman her father had wanted to marry, had -cheated him out of her, perhaps. Then, afraid of showing by her -manner that she had lighted on his secret, she refused to think -further, and, shaking out the silk handkerchief, entered the dining- -room. - -"I chose the softest, Father." - -"H'm!" said Soames; "I only use those after a cold. Never mind!" - -That evening passed for Fleur in putting two and two together; -recalling the look on her father's face in the confectioner's shop--a -look strange and coldly intimate, a queer look. He must have loved -that woman very much to have kept her photograph all this time, in -spite of having lost her. Unsparing and matter-of-fact, her mind -darted to his relations with her own mother. Had he ever really -loved her? She thought not. Jon was the son of the woman he had -really loved. Surely, then, he ought not to mind his daughter loving -him; it only wanted getting used to. And a sigh of sheer relief was -caught in the folds of her nightgown slipping over her head. - - - - -III - -MEETINGS - - -Youth only recognises Age by fits and starts. Jon, for one, had -never really seen his father's age till he came back from Spain. The -face of the fourth Jolyon, worn by waiting, gave him quite a shock-- -it looked so wan and old. His father's mask had been forced awry by -the emotion of the meeting, so that the boy suddenly realised how -much he must have felt their absence. He summoned to his aid the -thought: 'Well, I didn't want to go!' It was out of date for Youth -to defer to Age. But Jon was by no means typically modern. His -father had always been "so jolly" to him, and to feel that one meant -to begin again at once the conduct which his father had suffered six -weeks' loneliness to cure was not agreeable. - -At the question, "Well, old man, how did the great Goya strike you?" -his conscience pricked him badly. The great Goya only existed -because he had created a face which resembled Fleur's. - -On the night of their return, he went to bed full of compunction; but -awoke full of anticipation. It was only the fifth of July, and no -meeting was fixed with Fleur until the ninth. He was to have three -days at home before going back to farm. Somehow he must contrive to -see her! - -In the lives of men an inexorable rhythm, caused by the need for -trousers, not even the fondest parents can deny. On the second day, -therefore, Jon went to Town, and having satisfied his conscience by -ordering what was indispensable in Conduit Street, turned his face -toward Piccadilly. Stratton Street, where her Club was, adjoined -Devonshire House. It would be the merest chance that she should be -at her Club. But he dawdled down Bond Street with a beating heart, -noticing the superiority of all other young men to himself. They -wore their clothes with such an air; they had assurance; they were -old. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction that Fleur must -have forgotten him. Absorbed in his own feeling for her all these -weeks, he had mislaid that possibility. The corners of his mouth -drooped, his hands felt clammy. Fleur with the pick of youth at the -beck of her smile-Fleur incomparable! It was an evil moment. Jon, -however, had a great idea that one must be able to face anything. -And he braced himself with that dour refection in front of a bric-a- -brac shop. At this high-water mark of what was once the London -season, there was nothing to mark it out from any other except a grey -top hat or two, and the sun. Jon moved on, and turning the corner -into Piccadilly, ran into Val Dartie moving toward the Iseeum Club, -to which he had just been elected. - -"Hallo! young man! Where are you off to?" - -Jon gushed. "I've just been to my tailor's." - -Val looked him up and down. "That's good! I'm going in here to -order some cigarettes; then come and have some lunch." - -Jon thanked him. He might get news of her from Val! - -The condition of England, that nightmare of its Press and Public men, -was seen in different perspective within the tobacconist's which they -now entered. - -"Yes, sir; precisely the cigarette I used to supply your father with. -Bless me! Mr. Montague Dartie was a customer here from--let me see-- -the year Melton won the Derby. One of my very best customers he -was." A faint smile illumined the tobacconist's face. "Many's the -tip he's given me, to be sure! I suppose he took a couple of hundred -of these every week, year in, year out, and never changed his -cigarette. Very affable gentleman, brought me a lot of custom. I -was sorry he met with that accident. One misses an old customer like -him." - -Val smiled. His father's decease had closed an account which had -been running longer, probably, than any other; and in a ring of smoke -puffed out from that time-honoured cigarette he seemed to see again -his father's face, dark, good-looking, moustachioed, a little puffy, -in the only halo it had earned. His father had his fame here, -anyway--a man who smoked two hundred cigarettes a week, who could -give tips, and run accounts for ever! To his tobacconist a hero! -Even that was some distinction to inherit! - -"I pay cash," he said; "how much?" - -"To his son, sir, and cash--ten and six. I shall never forget Mr. -Montague Dartie. I've known him stand talkin' to me half an hour. -We don't get many like him now, with everybody in such a hurry. The -War was bad for manners, sir--it was bad for manners. You were in -it, I see." - -"No," said Val, tapping his knee, "I got this in the war before. -Saved my life, I expect. Do you want any cigarettes, Jon?" - -Rather ashamed, Jon murmured, "I don't smoke, you know," and saw the -tobacconist's lips twisted, as if uncertain whether to say "Good -God!" or "Now's your chance, sir!" - -"That's right," said Val; "keep off it while you can. You'll want it -when you take a knock. This is really the same tobacco, then?" - -"Identical, sir; a little dearer, that's all. Wonderful staying -power--the British Empire, I always say." - -"Send me down a hundred a week to this address, and invoice it -monthly. Come on, Jon." - -Jon entered the Iseeum with curiosity. Except to lunch now and then -at the Hotch-Potch with his father, he had never been in a London -Club. The Iseeum, comfortable and unpretentious, did not move, could -not, so long as George Forsyte sat on its Committee, where his -culinary acumen was almost the controlling force. The Club had made -a stand against the newly rich, and it had taken all George Forsyte's -prestige, and praise of him as a "good sportsman," to bring in -Prosper Profond. - -The two were lunching together when the half-brothers-in-law entered -the dining-room, and attracted by George's forefinger, sat down at -their table, Val with his shrewd eyes and charming smile, Jon with -solemn lips and an attractive shyness in his glance. There was an -air of privilege around that corner table, as though past masters -were eating there. Jon was fascinated by the hypnotic atmosphere. -The waiter, lean in the chaps, pervaded with such free-masonical -deference. He seemed to hang on George Forsyte's lips, to watch the -gloat in his eye with a kind of sympathy, to follow the movements of -the heavy club-marked silver fondly. His liveried arm and -confidential voice alarmed Jon, they came so secretly over his -shoulder. - -Except for George's "Your grandfather tipped me once; he was a deuced -good judge of a cigar!" neither he nor the other past master took any -notice of him, and he was grateful for this. The talk was all about -the breeding, points, and prices of horses, and he listened to it -vaguely at first, wondering how it was possible to retain so much -knowledge in a head. He could not take his eyes off the dark past -master--what he said was so deliberate and discouraging--such heavy, -queer, smiled-out words. Jon was thinking of butterflies, when he -heard him say: - -"I want to see Mr. Soames Forsyde take an interest in 'orses." - -"Old Soames! He's too dry a file!" - -With all his might Jon tried not to grow red, while the dark past -master went on. - -"His daughter's an attractive small girl. Mr. Soames Forsyde is a -bit old-fashioned. I want to see him have a pleasure some day." -George Forsyte grinned. - -"Don't you worry; he's not so miserable as he looks. He'll never -show he's enjoying anything--they might try and take it from him. -Old Soames! Once bit, twice shy!" - -"Well, Jon," said Val, hastily, "if you've finished, we'll go and -have coffee." - -"Who were those?" Jon asked, on the stairs. "I didn't quite---" - -"Old George Forsyte is a first cousin of your father's and of my -Uncle Soames. He's always been here. The other chap, Profond, is a -queer fish. I think he's hanging round Soames' wife, if you ask me!" - -Jon looked at him, startled. "But that's awful," he said: "I mean-- -for Fleur." - -"Don't suppose Fleur cares very much; she's very up-to-date." - -"Her mother!" - -"You're very green, Jon." - -Jon grew red. "Mothers," he stammered angrily, "are different." - -"You're right," said Val suddenly; "but things aren't what they were -when I was your age. There's a 'To-morrow we die' feeling. That's -what old George meant about my Uncle Soames. He doesn't mean to die -to-morrow." - -Jon said, quickly: "What's the matter between him and my father?" - -"Stable secret, Jon. Take my advice, and bottle up. You'll do no -good by knowing. Have a liqueur?" - -Jon shook his head. - -"I hate the way people keep things from one," he muttered, "and then -sneer at one for being green." - -"Well, you can ask Holly. If she won't tell you, you'll believe it's -for your own good, I suppose." - -Jon got up. "I must go now; thanks awfully for the lunch." - -Val smiled up at him half-sorry, and yet amused. The boy looked so -upset. - -"All right! See you on Friday." - -"I don't know," murmured Jon. - -And he did not. This conspiracy of silence made him desperate. It -was humiliating to be treated like a child! He retraced his moody -steps to Stratton Street. But he would go to her Club now, and find -out the worst! To his enquiry the reply was that Miss Forsyte was -not in the Club. She might be in perhaps later. She was often in on -Monday--they could not say. Jon said he would call again, and, -crossing into the Green Park, flung himself down under a tree. The -sun was bright, and a breeze fluttered the leaves of the young lime- -tree beneath which he lay; but his heart ached. Such darkness seemed -gathered round his happiness. He heard Big Ben chime "Three" above -the traffic. The sound moved something in him, and, taking out a -piece of paper, he began to scribble on it with a pencil. He had -jotted a stanza, and was searching the grass for another verse, when -something hard touched his shoulder-a green parasol. There above him -stood Fleur! - -"They told me you'd been, and were coming back. So I thought you -might be out here; and you are--it's rather wonderful!" - -"Oh, Fleur! I thought you'd have forgotten me." - -"When I told you that I shouldn't!" - -Jon seized her arm. - -"It's too much luck! Let's get away from this side." He almost -dragged her on through that too thoughtfully regulated Park, to find -some cover where they could sit and hold each other's hands. - -"Hasn't anybody cut in?" he said, gazing round at her lashes, in -suspense above her cheeks. - -"There is a young idiot, but he doesn't count." - -Jon felt a twitch of compassion for the-young idiot. - -"You know I've had sunstroke; I didn't tell you." - -"Really! Was it interesting?" - -"No. Mother was an angel. Has anything happened to you?" - -"Nothing. Except that I think I've found out what's wrong between -our families, Jon." - -His heart began beating very fast. - -"I believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father got -her instead." - -"Oh!" - -"I came on a photo of her; it was in a frame behind a photo of me. -Of course, if he was very fond of her, that would have made him -pretty mad, wouldn't it?" - -Jon thought for a minute. "Not if she loved my father best." - -"But suppose they were engaged?" - -"If we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, I might -go cracked, but I shouldn't grudge it you." - -"I should. You mustn't ever do that with me, Jon. - -"My God! Not much!" - -"I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother." - -Jon was silent. Val's words--the two past masters in the Club! - -"You see, we don't know," went on Fleur; "it may have been a great -shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do." - -"My mother wouldn't." - -Fleur shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think we know much about our -fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way they -treat us; but they've treated other people, you know, before we were -born-plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your -father, with three separate families!" - -"Isn't there any place," cried Jon, "in all this beastly London where -we can be alone?" - -"Only a taxi." - -"Let's get one, then." - -When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly: "Are you going back -to Robin Hill? I should like to see where you live, Jon. I'm -staying with my aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for -dinner. I wouldn't come to the house, of course." - -Jon gazed at her enraptured. - -"Splendid! I can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet anybody. -There's a train at four." - -The god of property and his Forsytes great and small, leisured, -official, commercial, or professional, like the working classes, -still worked their seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourth -generation travelled down to Robin Hill in an empty first-class -carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. They -travelled in blissful silence, holding each other's hands. - -At the station they saw no one except porters, and a villager or two -unknown to Jon, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust and -honeysuckle. - -For Jon--sure of her now, and without separation before him--it was a -miraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the Downs, or along -the river Thames. It was love-in-a-mist--one of those illumined -pages of Life, where every word and smile, and every light touch they -gave each other were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and -flowers and birds scrolled in among the text--a happy communing, -without afterthought, which lasted thirty-seven minutes. They -reached the coppice at the milking hour. Jon would not take her as -far as the farmyard; only to where she could see the field leading up -to the gardens, and the house beyond. They turned in among the -larches, and suddenly, at the winding of the path, came on Irene, -sitting on an old log seat. - -There are various kinds of shocks: to the vertebrae; to the nerves; -to moral sensibility; and, more potent and permanent, to personal -dignity. This last was the shock Jon received, coming thus on his -mother. He became suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate -thing. To have brought Fleur down openly--yes! But to sneak her in -like this! Consumed with shame, he put on a front as brazen as his -nature would permit. - -Fleur was smiling, a little defiantly; his mother's startled face was -changing quickly to the impersonal and gracious. It was she who -uttered the first words: - -"I'm very glad to see you. It was nice of Jon to think of bringing -you down to us." - -"We weren't coming to the house," Jon blurted out. "I just wanted -Fleur to see where I lived." - -His mother said quietly: - -"Won't you come up and have tea?" - -Feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heard -Fleur answer: - -"Thanks very much; I have to get back to dinner. I met Jon by -accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly just to see his -home." - -How self-possessed she was! - -"Of course; but you must have tea. We'll send you down to the -station. My husband will enjoy seeing you." - -The expression of his mother's eyes, resting on him for a moment, -cast Jon down level with the ground--a true worm. Then she led on, -and Fleur followed her. He felt like a child, trailing after those -two, who were talking so easily about Spain and Wansdon, and the -house up there beyond the trees and the grassy slope. He watched the -fencing of their eyes, taking each other in--the two beings he loved -most in the world. - -He could see his father sitting under the oaktree; and suffered in -advance all the loss of caste he must go through in the eyes of that -tranquil figure, with his knees crossed, thin, old, and elegant; -already he could feel the faint irony which would come into his voice -and smile. - -"This is Fleur Forsyte, Jolyon; Jon brought her down to see the -house. Let's have tea at once--she has to catch a train. Jon, tell -them, dear, and telephone to the Dragon for a car." - -To leave her alone with them was strange, and yet, as no doubt his -mother had foreseen, the least of evils at the moment; so he ran up -into the house. Now he would not see Fleur alone again--not for a -minute, and they had arranged no further meeting! When he returned -under cover of the maids and teapots, there was not a trace of -awkwardness beneath the tree; it was all within himself, but not the -less for that. They were talking of the Gallery off Cork Street. - -"We back numbers," his father was saying, "are awfully anxious to -find out why we can't appreciate the new stuff; you and Jon must tell -us." - -"It's supposed to be satiric, isn't it?" said Fleur. - -He saw his father's smile. - -"Satiric? Oh! I think it's more than that. What do you say, Jon?" - -"I don't know at all," stammered Jon. His father's face had a sudden -grimness. - -"The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with their -heads, they say--smash their idols! And let's get back to-nothing! -And, by Jove, they've done it! Jon's a poet. He'll be going in, -too, and stamping on what's left of us. Property, beauty, sentiment- --all smoke. We mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. -They stand in the way of--Nothing." - -Jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, -behind which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn't -want to stamp on anything! - -"Nothing's the god of to-day," continued Jolyon; "we're back where -the Russians were sixty years ago, when they started Nihilism." - -"No, Dad," cried Jon suddenly, "we only want to live, and we don't -know how, because of the Past--that's all!" - -"By George!" said Jolyon, "that's profound, Jon. Is it your own? -The Past! Old ownerships, old passions, and their aftermath. Let's -have cigarettes." - -Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, -as if to hush something, Jon handed the cigarettes. He lighted his -father's and Fleur's, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock -that Val had spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed, -grey when he had; he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense -of equality it gave him. He was glad no one said: "So you've begun!" -He felt less young. - -Fleur looked at her watch, and rose. His mother went with her into -the house. Jon stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette. - -"See her into the car, old man," said Jolyon; "and when she's gone, -ask your mother to come back to me." - -Jon went. He waited in the hall. He saw her into the car. There -was no chance for any word; hardly for a pressure of the hand. He -waited all that evening for something to be said to him. Nothing was -said. Nothing might have happened. He went up to bed, and in the -mirror on his dressing-table met himself. He did not speak, nor did -the image; but both looked as if they thought the more. - - - - -IV - -IN GREEN STREET - - -Uncertain whether the impression that Prosper Profond was dangerous -should be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly filly; to a -remark of Fleur's: "He's like the hosts of Midian--he prowls and -prowls around"; to his preposterous inquiry of Jack Cardigan: "What's -the use of keepin' fit?" or, more simply, to the fact that he was a -foreigner, or alien as it was now called. Certain, that Annette was -looking particularly handsome, and that Soames--had sold him a -Gauguin and then torn up the cheque, so that Monsieur Profond himself -had said: "I didn't get that small picture I bought from Mr. -Forsyde." - -However suspiciously regarded, he still frequented Winifred's -evergreen little house in Green Street, with a good-natured -obtuseness which no one mistook for naiv ete, a word hardly -applicable to Monsieur Prosper Profond. Winifred still found him -"amusing," and would write him little notes saying: "Come and have a -'jolly' with us"--it was breath of life to her to keep up with the -phrases of the day. - -The mystery, with which all felt him to be surrounded, was due to his -having done, seen, heard, and known everything, and found nothing in -it--which was unnatural. The English type of disillusionment was -familiar enough to Winifred, who had always moved in fashionable -circles. It gave a certain cachet or distinction, so that one got -something out of it. But to see nothing in anything, not as a pose, -but because there was nothing in anything, was not English; and that -which was not English one could not help secretly feeling dangerous, -if not precisely bad form. It was like having the mood which the War -had left, seated--dark, heavy, smiling, indifferent--in your Empire -chair; it was like listening to that mood talking through thick pink -lips above a little diabolic beard. It was, as Jack Cardigan -expressed it--for the English character at large--"a bit too thick"-- -for if nothing was really worth getting excited about, there were -always games, and one could make it so! Even Winifred, ever a -Forsyte at heart, felt that there was nothing to be had out of such a -mood of disillusionment, so that it really ought not to be there. -Monsieur Profond, in fact, made the mood too plain in a country which -decently veiled such realities. - -When Fleur, after her hurried return from Robin Hill, came down to -dinner that evening, the mood was standing at the window of -Winifred's little drawing-room, looking out into Green Street, with -an air of seeing nothing in it. And Fleur gazed promptly into the -fireplace with an air of seeing a fire which was not there. - -Monsieur Profond came from the window. He was in full fig, with a -white waistcoat and a white flower in his buttonhole. - -"Well, Miss Forsyde," he said, "I'm awful pleased to see you. Mr. -Forsyde well? I was sayin' to-day I want to see him have some -pleasure. He worries." - -"You think so?" said Fleur shortly. - -"Worries," repeated Monsieur Profond, burring the r's. - -Fleur spun round. "Shall I tell you," she said, "what would give him -pleasure?" But the words, "To hear that you had cleared out," died -at the expression on his face. All his fine white teeth were -showing. - -"I was hearin' at the Club to-day about his old trouble." -Fleur opened her eyes. "What do you mean?" - -Monsieur Profond moved his sleek head as if to minimize his -statement. - -"Before you were born," he said; "that small business." - -Though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own share -in her father's worry, Fleur was unable to withstand a rush of -nervous curiosity. "Tell me what you heard." - -"Why!" murmured Monsieur Profond, "you know all that." - -"I expect I do. But I should like to know that you haven't heard it -all wrong." - -"His first wife," murmured Monsieur Profond. - -Choking back the words, "He was never married before," she said: -"Well, what about her?" - -"Mr. George Forsyde was tellin' me about your father's first wife -marryin' his cousin Jolyon afterward. It was a small bit unpleasant, -I should think. I saw their boy--nice boy!" - -Fleur looked up. Monsieur Profond was swimming, heavily diabolical, -before her. That--the reason! With the most heroic effort of her -life so far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure. She could -not tell whether he had noticed. And just then Winifred came in. - -"Oh! here you both are already; Imogen and I have had the most -amusing afternoon at the Babies' bazaar." - -"What babies?" said Fleur mechanically. - -"The 'Save the Babies.' I got such a bargain, my dear. A piece of -old Armenian work--from before the Flood. I want your opinion on it, -Prosper." - -"Auntie," whispered Fleur suddenly. - -At the tone in the girl's voice Winifred closed in on her.' - -"What's the matter? Aren't you well?" - -Monsieur Profond had withdrawn into the window, where he was -practically out of hearing. - -"Auntie, he-he told me that father has been married before. Is it -true that he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte's father?" - -Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had -Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so -pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained. - -"Your father didn't wish you to hear," she said, with all the aplomb -she could muster. "These things will happen. I've often told him he -ought to let you know." - -"Oh!" said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat her -shoulder--a firm little shoulder, nice and white! She never could -help an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who -would have to be married, of course--though not to that boy Jon. - -"We've forgotten all about it years and years ago," she said -comfortably. "Come and have dinner!" - -"No, Auntie. I don't feel very well. May I go upstairs?" - -"My dear!" murmured Winifred, concerned, "you're not taking this to -heart? Why, you haven't properly come out yet! That boy's a child!" - -"What boy? I've only got a headache. But I can't stand that man to- -night." - -"Well, well," said Winifred, "go and lie down. I'll send you some -bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business had he -to gossip? Though I must say I think it's much better you should -know." - -Fleur smiled. "Yes," she said, and slipped from the room. - -She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a -guttered frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yet -had she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what -she had set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had been -full and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of -them had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden -that photograph, so secretly behind her own-ashamed of having kept -it! But could he hate Jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? She -pressed her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. -Had they told Jon--had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell -him? Everything now turned on that! She knew, they all knew, -except--perhaps--Jon! - -She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard. -Jon loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She -could not tell. But if they had not told him, should she not--could -she not get him for herself--get married to him, before he knew? She -searched her memories of Robin Hill. His mother's face so passive-- -with its dark eyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile-- -baffled her; and his father's--kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively -she felt they would shrink from telling Jon, even now, shrink from -hurting him--for of course it would hurt him awfully to know! - -Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long -as neither she herself nor Jon were supposed to know, there was still -a chance--freedom to cover one's tracks, and get what her heart was -set on. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Every -one's hand was against her--every one's! It was as Jon had said--he -and she just wanted to live and the past was in their way, a past -they hadn't shared in, and didn't understand! Oh! What a shame! And -suddenly she thought of June. Would she help them? For somehow June -had left on her the impression that she would be sympathetic with -their love, impatient of obstacle. Then, instinctively, she thought: -'I won't give anything away, though, even to her. I daren't. I mean -to have Jon; against them all.' - -Soup was brought up to her, and one of Winifred's pet headache -cachets. She swallowed both. Then Winifred herself appeared. Fleur -opened her campaign with the words: - -"You know, Auntie, I do wish people wouldn't think I'm in love with -that boy. Why, I've hardly seen him!" - -Winifred, though experienced, was not "fine." She accepted the -remark with considerable relief. Of course, it was not pleasant for -the girl to hear of the family scandal, and she set herself to -minimise the matter, a task for which she was eminently qualified, -"raised" fashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose -nerves might not be shaken, and for many years the wife of Montague -Dartie. Her description was a masterpiece of understatement. -Fleur's father's first wife had been very foolish. There had been a -young man who had got run over, and she had left Fleur's father. -Then, years after, when it might all have come--right again, she had -taken up with their cousin Jolyon; and, of course, her father had -been obliged to have a divorce. Nobody remembered anything of it -now, except just the family. And, perhaps, it had all turned out for -the best; her father had Fleur; and Jolyon and Irene had been quite -happy, they said, and their boy was a nice boy. "Val having Holly, -too, is a sort of plaster, don't you know?" With these soothing -words, Winifred patted her niece's shoulder; thought: 'She's a nice, -plump little thing!' and went back to Prosper Profond, who, in spite -of his indiscretion, was very "amusing" this evening. - -For some minutes after her aunt had gone Fleur remained under -influence of bromide material and spiritual. But then reality came -back. Her aunt had left out all that mattered--all the feeling, the -hate, the love, the unforgivingness of passionate hearts. She, who -knew so little of life, and had touched only the fringe of love, was -yet aware by instinct that words have as little relation to fact and -feeling as coin to the bread it buys. 'Poor Father!' she thought. -'Poor me! Poor Jon! But I don't care, I mean to have him!' From -the window of her darkened room she saw "that man" issue from the -door below and "prowl" away. If he and her mother--how would that -affect her chance? Surely it must make her father cling to her more -closely, so that he would consent in the end to anything she wanted, -or become reconciled the sooner to what she did without his -knowledge. - -She took some earth from the flower-box in the window, and with all -her might flung it after that disappearing figure. It fell short, -but the action did her good. - -And a little puff of air came up from Green Street, smelling of -petrol, not sweet. - - - - -V - -PURELY FORSYTE AFFAIRS - - -Soames, coming up to the City, with the intention of calling in at -Green Street at the end of his day and taking Fleur back home with -him, suffered from rumination. Sleeping partner that he was, he -seldom visited the City now, but he still had a room of his own at -Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte's, and one special clerk and a half -assigned to the management of purely Forsyte affairs. They were -somewhat in flux just now--an auspicious moment for the disposal of -house property. And Soames was unloading the estates of his father -and Uncle Roger, and to some extent of his Uncle Nicholas. His -shrewd and matter-of-course probity in all money concerns had made -him something of an autocrat in connection with these trusts. If -Soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the -bother of thinking too. He guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility -to numerous Forsytes of the third and fourth generations. His fellow -trustees, such as his cousins Roger or Nicholas, his cousins-in-law -Tweetyman and Spender, or his sister Cicely's husband, all trusted -him; he signed first, and where he signed first they signed after, -and nobody was a penny the worse. Just now they were all a good many -pennies the better, and Soames was beginning to see the close of -certain trusts, except for distribution of the income from securities -as gilt-edged as was compatible with the period. - -Passing the more feverish parts of the City toward the most perfect -backwater in London, he ruminated. Money was extraordinarily tight; -and morality extraordinarily loose! The War had done it. Banks were -not lending; people breaking contracts all over the place. There was -a feeling in the air and a look on faces that he did not like. The -country seemed in for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies. There -was satisfaction in the thought that neither he nor his trusts had an -investment which could be affected by anything less maniacal than -national repudiation or a levy on capital. If Soames had faith, it -was in what he called "English common sense"--or the power to have -things, if not one way then another. He might--like his father James -before him--say he didn't know what things were coming to, but he -never in his heart believed they were. If it rested with him, they -wouldn't--and, after all, he was only an Englishman like any other, -so quietly tenacious of what he had that he knew he would never -really part with it without something more or less equivalent in -exchange. His mind was essentially equilibristic in material -matters, and his way of putting the national situation difficult to -refute in a world composed of human beings. Take his own case, for -example! He was well off. Did that do anybody harm? He did not eat -ten meals a day; he ate no more than, perhaps not so much as, a poor -man. He spent no money on vice; breathed no more air, used no more -water to speak of than the mechanic or the porter. He certainly had -pretty things about him, but they had given employment in the making, -and somebody must use them. He bought pictures, but Art must be -encouraged. He was, in fact, an accidental channel through which -money flowed, employing labour. What was there objectionable in -that? In his charge money was in quicker and more useful flux than -it would be in charge of the State and a lot of slow-fly money- -sucking officials. And as to what he saved each year--it was just as -much in flux as what he didn't save, going into Water Board or -Council Stocks, or something sound and useful. The State paid him no -salary for being trustee of his own or other people's money he did -all that for nothing. Therein lay the whole case against -nationalisation--owners of private property were unpaid, and yet had -every incentive to quicken up the flux. Under nationalisation--just -the opposite! In a country smarting from officialism he felt that he -had a strong case. - -It particularly annoyed him, entering that backwater of perfect -peace, to think that a lot of unscrupulous Trusts and Combinations -had been cornering the market in goods of all kinds, and keeping -prices at an artificial height. Such abusers of the individualistic -system were the ruffians who caused all the trouble, and it was some -satisfaction to see them getting into a stew at fast lest the whole -thing might come down with a run--and land them in the soup. - -The offices of Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte occupied the ground and -first floors of a house on the right-hand side; and, ascending to his -room, Soames thought: 'Time we had a coat of paint.' - -His old clerk Gradman was seated, where he always was, at a huge -bureau with countless pigeonholes. Half-the-clerk stood beside him, -with a broker's note recording investment of the proceeds from sale -of the Bryanston Square house, in Roger Forsyte's estate. Soames -took it, and said: - -"Vancouver City Stock. H'm. It's down today!" - -With a sort of grating ingratiation old Gradman answered him: - -"Ye-es; but everything's down, Mr. Soames." And half-the-clerk -withdrew. - -Soames skewered the document on to a number of other papers and hung -up his hat. - -"I want to look at my Will and Marriage Settlement, Gradman." - -Old Gradman, moving to the limit of his swivel chair, drew out two -drafts from the bottom lefthand drawer. Recovering his body, he -raised his grizzle-haired face, very red from stooping. - -"Copies, Sir." - -Soames took them. It struck him suddenly how like Gradman was to the -stout brindled yard dog they had been wont to keep on his chain at -The Shelter, till one day Fleur had come and insisted it should be -let loose, so that it had at once bitten the cook and been destroyed. -If you let Gradman off his chain, would he bite the cook? - -Checking this frivolous fancy, Soames unfolded his Marriage -Settlement. He had not looked at it for over eighteen years, not -since he remade his Will when his father died and Fleur was born. He -wanted to see whether the words "during coverture" were in. Yes, -they were--odd expression, when you thought of it, and derived -perhaps from horse-breeding! Interest on fifteen thousand pounds -(which he paid her without deducting income tax) so long as she -remained his wife, and afterward during widowhood "dum casta"--old- -fashioned and rather pointed words, put in to insure the conduct of -Fleur's mother. His Will made it up to an annuity of a thousand -under the same conditions. All right! He returned the copies to -Gradman, who took them without looking up, swung the chair, restored -the papers to their drawer, and went on casting up. - -"Gradman! I don't like the condition of the country; there are a lot -of people about without any common sense. I want to find a way by -which I can safeguard Miss Fleur against anything which might arise." - -Gradman wrote the figure "2" on his blotting-paper. - -"Ye-es," he said; "there's a nahsty spirit." - -"The ordinary restraint against anticipation doesn't meet the case." - -"Nao," said Gradman. - -"Suppose those Labour fellows come in, or worse! It's these people -with fixed ideas who are the danger. Look at Ireland!" - -"Ah!" said Gradman. - -"Suppose I were to make a settlement on her at once with myself as -beneficiary for life, they couldn't take anything but the interest -from me, unless of course they alter the law." - -Gradman moved his head and smiled. - -"Ah!" he said, "they wouldn't do tha-at!" - -"I don't know," muttered Soames; "I don't trust them." - -"It'll take two years, sir, to be valid against death duties." - -Soames sniffed. Two years! He was only sixty-five! - -"That's not the point. Draw a form of settlement that passes all my -property to Miss Fleur's children in equal shares, with antecedent -life-interests first to myself and then to her without power of -anticipation, and add a clause that in the event of anything -happening to divert her life-interest, that interest passes to the -trustees, to apply for her benefit, in their absolute discretion." - -Gradman grated: "Rather extreme at your age, sir; you lose control." - -"That's my business," said Soames sharply. - -Gradman wrote on a piece of paper: "Life-interest--anticipation-- -divert interest--absolute discretion...." and said: - -"What trustees? There's young Mr. Kingson; he's a nice steady young -fellow." - -"Yes, he might do for one. I must have three. There isn't a Forsyte -now who appeals to me." - -"Not young Mr. Nicholas? He's at the Bar. We've given 'im briefs." - -"He'll never set the Thames on fire," said Soames. - -A smile oozed out on Gradman's face, greasy from countless mutton- -chops, the smile of a man who sits all day. - -"You can't expect it, at his age, Mr. Soames." - -"Why? What is he? Forty?" - -"Ye-es, quite a young fellow." - -"Well, put him in; but I want somebody who'll take a personal -interest. There's no one that I can see." - -"What about Mr. Valerius, now he's come home?" - -"Val Dartie? With that father?" - -"We-ell," murmured Gradman, "he's been dead seven years--the Statute -runs against him." - -"No," said Soames. "I don't like the connection." He rose. Gradman -said suddenly: - -"If they were makin' a levy on capital, they could come on the -trustees, sir. So there you'd be just the same. I'd think it over, -if I were you." - -"That's true," said Soames. "I will. What have you done about that -dilapidation notice in Vere Street?" - -"I 'aven't served it yet. The party's very old. She won't want to -go out at her age." - -"I don't know. This spirit of unrest touches every one." - -"Still, I'm lookin' at things broadly, sir. She's eighty-one." - -"Better serve it," said Soames, "and see what she says. Oh! and Mr. -Timothy? Is everything in order in case of--" - -"I've got the inventory of his estate all ready; had the furniture -and pictures valued so that we know what reserves to put on. I shall -be sorry when he goes, though. Dear me! It is a time since I first -saw Mr. Timothy!" - -"We can't live for ever," said Soames, taking down his hat. - -"Nao," said Gradman; "but it'll be a pity--the last of the old -family! Shall I take up the matter of that nuisance in Old Compton -Street? Those organs--they're nahsty things." - -"Do. I must call for Miss Fleur and catch the four o'clock. Good- -day, Gradman." - -"Good-day, Mr. Soames. I hope Miss Fleur--" - -"Well enough, but gads about too much." - -"Ye-es," grated Gradman; "she's young." - -Soames went out, musing: "Old Gradman! If he were younger I'd put -him in the trust. There's nobody I can depend on to take a real -interest." - -Leaving the bilious and mathematical exactitude, the preposterous -peace of that backwater, he thought suddenly: 'During coverture! Why -can't they exclude fellows like Profond, instead of a lot of hard- -working Germans?' and was surprised at the depth of uneasiness which -could provoke so unpatriotic a thought. But there it was! One never -got a moment of real peace. There was always something at the back -of everything! And he made his way toward Green Street. - -Two hours later by his watch, Thomas Gradman, stirring in his swivel -chair, closed the last drawer of his bureau, and putting into his -waistcoat pocket a bunch of keys so fat that they gave him a -protuberance on the liver side, brushed his old top hat round with -his sleeve, took his umbrella, and descended. Thick, short, and -buttoned closely into his old frock coat, he walked toward Covent -Garden market. He never missed that daily promenade to the Tube for -Highgate, and seldom some critical transaction on the way in -connection with vegetables and fruit. Generations might be born, and -hats might change, wars be fought, and Forsytes fade away, but Thomas -Gradman, faithful and grey, would take his daily walk and buy his -daily vegetable. Times were not what they were, and his son had lost -a leg, and they never gave him those nice little plaited baskets to -carry the stuff in now, and these Tubes were convenient things--still -he mustn't complain; his health was good considering his time of -life, and after fifty-four years in the Law he was getting a round -eight hundred a year and a little worried of late, because it was -mostly collector's commission on the rents, and with all this -conversion of Forsyte property going on, it looked like drying up, -and the price of living still so high; but it was no good worrying--" -The good God made us all"--as he was in the habit of saying; still, -house property in London--he didn't know what Mr. Roger or Mr. James -would say if they could see it being sold like this--seemed to show a -lack of faith; but Mr. Soames--he worried. Life and lives in being -and twenty-one years after--beyond that you couldn't go; still, he -kept his health wonderfully--and Miss Fleur was a pretty little -thing--she was; she'd marry; but lots of people had no children -nowadays--he had had his first child at twenty-two; and Mr. Jolyon, -married while he was at Cambridge, had his child the same year-- -gracious Peter! That was back in '69, a long time before old Mr. -Jolyon--fine judge of property--had taken his Will away from Mr. -James--dear, yes! Those were the days when they were buyin' property -right and left, and none of this khaki and fallin' over one another -to get out of things; and cucumbers at twopence; and a melon--the old -melons, that made your mouth water! Fifty years since he went into -Mr. James' office, and Mr. James had said to him: "Now, Gradman, -you're only a shaver--you pay attention, and you'll make your five -hundred a year before you've done." And he had, and feared God, and -served the Forsytes, and kept a vegetable diet at night. And, buying -a copy of John Bull--not that he approved of it, an extravagant -affair--he entered the Tube elevator with his mere brown-paper -parcel, and was borne down into the bowels of the earth. - - - - -VI - -SOAMES' PRIVATE LIFE - - -On his way to Green Street it occurred to Soames that he ought to go -into Dumetrius' in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the -Bolderby Old Crome. Almost worth while to have fought the war to -have the Bolderby Old Crome, as it were, in flux! Old Bolderby had -died, his son and grandson had been killed--a cousin was coming into -the estate, who meant to sell it, some said because of the condition -of England, others said because he had asthma. - -If Dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive; -it was necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumetrius had got it, -before he tried to get it himself. He therefore confined himself to -discussing with Dumetrius whether Monticellis would come again now -that it was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a -picture; and the future of Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton -Knights. It was only when leaving that he added: "So they're not -selling the Bolderby Old Crome, after all? "In sheer pride of racial -superiority, as he had calculated would be the case, Dumetrius -replied: - -"Oh! I shall get it, Mr. Forsyte, sir!" - -The flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to write -direct to the new Bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way of -dealing with an Old Crome was to avoid dealers. He therefore said, -"Well, good-day!" and went, leaving Dumetrius the wiser. - -At Green Street he found that Fleur was out and would be all the -evening; she was staying one more night in London. He cabbed on -dejectedly, and caught his train. - -He reached his house about six o'clock. The air was heavy, midges -biting, thunder about. Taking his letters he went up to his -dressing-room to cleanse himself of London. - -An uninteresting post. A receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of -Fleur. A circular about an exhibition of etchings. A letter -beginning: - -"SIR, -"I feel it my duty..." - -That would be an appeal or something unpleasant. He looked at once -for the signature. There was none! Incredulously he turned the page -over and examined each corner. Not being a public man, Soames had -never yet had an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear -it up, as a dangerous thing; his second to read it, as a thing still -more dangerous. - -"SIR, -"I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the -matter your lady is carrying on with a foreigner--" - -Reaching that word Soames stopped mechanically and examined the -postmark. So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in -which the Post Office had wrapped it, there was something with a -"sea" at the end and a "t" in it. Chelsea? No! Battersea? Perhaps! -He read on. - -"These foreigners are all the same. Sack the lot. This one meets -your lady twice a week. I know it of my own knowledge--and to see an -Englishman put on goes against the grain. You watch it and see if -what I say isn't true. I shouldn't meddle if it wasn't a dirty -foreigner that's in it. Yours obedient." - -The sensation with which Soames dropped the letter was similar to -that he would have had entering his bedroom and finding it full of -black-beetles. The meanness of anonymity gave a shuddering obscenity -to the moment. And the worst of it was that this shadow had been at -the back of his mind ever since the Sunday evening when Fleur had -pointed down at Prosper Profond strolling on the lawn, and said: -"Prowling cat!" Had he not in connection therewith, this very day, -perused his Will and Marriage Settlement? And now this anonymous -ruffian, with nothing to gain, apparently, save the venting of his -spite against foreigners, had wrenched it out of the obscurity in -which he had hoped and wished it would remain. To have such -knowledge forced on him, at his time of life, about Fleur's mother I -He picked the letter up from the carpet, tore it across, and then, -when it hung together by just the fold at the back, stopped tearing, -and reread it. He was taking at that moment one of the decisive -resolutions of his life. He would not be forced into another -scandal. No! However he decided to deal with this matter--and it -required the most far-sighted and careful consideration he would do -nothing that might injure Fleur. That resolution taken, his mind -answered the helm again, and he made his ablutions. His hands -trembled as he dried them. Scandal he would not have, but something -must be done to stop this sort of thing! He went into his wife's -room and stood looking around him. The idea of searching for -anything which would incriminate, and entitle him to hold a menace -over her, did not even come to him. There would be nothing--she was -much too practical. The idea of having her watched had been -dismissed before it came--too well he remembered his previous -experience of that. No! He had nothing but this torn-up letter from -some anonymous ruffian, whose impudent intrusion into his private -life he so violently resented. It was repugnant to him to make use -of it, but he might have to. What a mercy Fleur was not at home to- -night! A tap on the door broke up his painful cogitations. - -"Mr. Michael Mont, sir, is in the drawing-room. Will you see him?" - -"No," said Soames; "yes. I'll come down." - -Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes! - -Michael Mont in flannels stood on the verandah smoking a cigarette. -He threw it away as Soames came up, and ran his hand through his -hair. - -Soames' feeling toward this young man was singular. He was no doubt -a rackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yet -somehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting -out his opinions. - -"Come in," he said; "have you had tea?" - -Mont came in. - -"I thought Fleur would have been back, sir; but I'm glad she isn't. -The fact is, I--I'm fearfully gone on her; so fearfully gone that I -thought you'd better know. It's old-fashioned, of course, coming to -fathers first, but I thought you'd forgive that. I went to my own -Dad, and he says if I settle down he'll see me through. He rather -cottons to the idea, in fact. I told him about your Goya." - -"Oh!" said Soames, inexpressibly dry. "He rather cottons?" - -"Yes, sir; do you?" - -Soames smiled faintly. - -"You see," resumed Mont, twiddling his straw hat, while his hair, -ears, eyebrows, all seemed to stand up from excitement, "when you've -been through the War you can't help being in a hurry." - -"To get married; and unmarried afterward," said Soames slowly. - -"Not from Fleur, sir. Imagine, if you were me!" - -Soames cleared his throat. That way of putting it was forcible -enough. - -"Fleur's too young," he said. - -"Oh! no, sir. We're awfully old nowadays. My Dad seems to me a -perfect babe; his thinking apparatus hasn't turned a hair. But he's -a Baronight, of course; that keeps him back." - -"Baronight," repeated Soames; "what may that be?" - -"Bart, sir. I shall be a Bart some day. But I shall live it down, -you know." - -"Go away and live this down," said Soames. - -Young Mont said imploringly: "Oh! no, sir. I simply must hang -around, or I shouldn't have a dog's chance. You'll let Fleur do what -she likes, I suppose, anyway. Madame passes me." - -"Indeed!" said Soames frigidly. - -"You don't really bar me, do you?" and the young man looked so -doleful that Soames smiled. - -"You may think you're very old," he said; "but you strike me as -extremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of -maturity." - -"All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I mean -business--I've got a job." - -"Glad to hear it." - -"Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes." - -Soames put his hand over his mouth--he had so very nearly said: "God -help the publisher!" His grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young -man. - -"I don't dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me: -Everything--do you understand?" - -"Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me." - -"That's as may be. I'm glad you've told me, however. And now I -think there's nothing more to be said." - -"I know it rests with her, sir." - -"It will rest with her a long time, I hope." - -"You aren't cheering," said Mont suddenly. - -"No," said Soames, "my experience of life has not made me anxious to -couple people in a hurry. Good-night, Mr. Mont. I shan't tell Fleur -what you've said." - -"Oh!" murmured Mont blankly; "I really could knock my brains out for -want of her. She knows that perfectly well." - -"I dare say." And Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, a -heavy sigh, and soon after sounds from the young man's motor-cycle -called up visions of flying dust and broken bones. - -'The younger generation!' he thought heavily, and went out on to the -lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell -of fresh-cut grass--the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. -The sky was of a purplish hue--the poplars black. Two or three boats -passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the -storm. 'Three days' fine weather,' thought Soames, 'and then a -storm!' Where was Annette? With that chap, for all he knew--she was -a young woman! Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he -entered the summerhouse and sat down. The fact was--and he admitted -it--Fleur was so much to him that his wife was very little--very -little; French--had never been much more than a mistress, and he was -getting indifferent to that side of things! It was odd how, with all -this ingrained care for moderation and secure investment, Soames ever -put his emotional eggs into one basket. First Irene--now Fleur. He -was dimly conscious of it, sitting there, conscious of its odd -dangerousness. It had brought him to wreck and scandal once, but -now--now it should save him! He cared so much for Fleur that he -would have no further scandal. If only he could get at that -anonymous letter-writer, he would teach him not to meddle and stir up -mud at the bottom of water which he wished should remain stagnant!... -A distant flash, a low rumble, and large drops of rain spattered on -the thatch above him. He remained indifferent, tracing a pattern -with his finger on the dusty surface of a little rustic table. -Fleur's future! 'I want fair sailing for her,' he thought. 'Nothing -else matters at my time of life.' A lonely business--life! What you -had you never could keep to yourself! As you warned one off, you let -another in. One could make sure of nothing! He reached up and -pulled a red rambler rose from a cluster which blocked the window. -Flowers grew and dropped--Nature was a queer thing! The thunder -rumbled and crashed, travelling east along a river, the paling -flashes flicked his eyes; the poplar tops showed sharp and dense -against the sky, a heavy shower rustled and rattled and veiled in the -little house wherein he sat, indifferent, thinking. - -When the storm was over, he left his retreat and went down the wet -path to the river bank. - -Two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds. He knew the birds -well, and stood watching the dignity in the curve of those white -necks and formidable snake-like heads. 'Not dignified--what I have -to do!' he thought. And yet it must be tackled, lest worse befell. -Annette must be back by now from wherever she had gone, for it was -nearly dinner-time, and as the moment for seeing her approached, the -difficulty of knowing what to say and how to say it had increased. A -new and scaring thought occurred to him. Suppose she wanted her -liberty to marry this fellow! Well, if she did, she couldn't have -it. He had not married her for that. The image of Prosper Profond -dawdled before him reassuringly. Not a marrying man! No, no! Anger -replaced that momentary scare. 'He had better not come my way,' he -thought. The mongrel represented---! But what did Prosper Profond -represent? Nothing that mattered surely. And yet something real -enough in the world--unmorality let off its chain, disillusionment on -the prowl! That expression Annette had caught from him: "Je m'en -fiche! "A fatalistic chap! A continental--a cosmopolitan--a product -of the age! If there were condemnation more complete, Soames felt -that he did not know it. - -The swans had turned their heads, and were looking past him into some -distance of their own. One of them uttered a little hiss, wagged its -tail, turned as if answering to a rudder, and swam away. The other -followed. Their white bodies, their stately necks, passed out of his -sight, and he went toward the house. - -Annette was in the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, and he thought -as he went up-stairs 'Handsome is as handsome does.' Handsome! -Except for remarks about the curtains in the drawing-room, and the -storm, there was practically no conversation during a meal -distinguished by exactitude of quantity and perfection of quality. -Soames drank nothing. He followed her into the drawing-room -afterward, and found her smoking a cigarette on the sofa between the -two French windows. She was leaning back, almost upright, in a low -black frock, with her knees crossed and her blue eyes half-closed; -grey-blue smoke issued from her red, rather full lips, a fillet bound -her chestnut hair, she wore the thinnest silk stockings, and shoes -with very high heels showing off her instep. A fine piece in any -room! Soames, who held that torn letter in a hand thrust deep into -the side-pocket of his dinner-jacket, said: - -"I'm going to shut the window; the damp's lifting in." - -He did so, and stood looking at a David Cox adorning the cream- -panelled wall close by. - -What was she thinking of? He had never understood a woman in his -life--except Fleur--and Fleur not always! His heart beat fast. But -if he meant to do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David -Cox, he took out the torn letter. - -"I've had this." - -Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened. - -Soames handed her the letter. - -"It's torn, but you can read it." And he turned back to the David -Cox--a sea-piece, of good tone--but without movement enough. 'I -wonder what that chap's doing at this moment?' he thought. 'I'll -astonish him yet.' Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annette -holding the letter rigidly; her eyes moved from side to side under -her darkened lashes and frowning darkened eyes. She dropped the -letter, gave a little shiver, smiled, and said: - -"Dirrty!" - -"I quite agree," said Soames; "degrading. Is it true?" - -A tooth fastened on her red lower lip. "And what if it were?" - -She was brazen! - -"Is that all you have to say?" - -"No." - - -"Well, speak out!" - -"What is the good of talking?" - -Soames said icily: "So you admit it?" - -"I admit nothing. You are a fool to ask. A man like you should not -ask. It is dangerous." - -Soames made a tour of the room, to subdue his rising anger. - -"Do you remember," he said, halting in front of her, "what you were -when I married you? Working at accounts in a restaurant." - -"Do you remember that I was not half your age?" - -Soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes, and went back to -the David Cox. - -"I am not going to bandy words. I require you to give up this-- -friendship. I think of the matter entirely as it affects Fleur." - -"Ah!--Fleur!" - -"Yes," said Soames stubbornly; "Fleur. She is your child as well as -mine." - -"It is kind to admit that!" - -"Are you going to do what I say?" - -"I refuse to tell you." - -"Then I must make you." - -Annette smiled. - -"No, Soames," she said. "You are helpless. Do not say things that -you will regret." - -Anger swelled the veins on his forehead. He opened his mouth to vent -that emotion, and could not. Annette went on: - -"There shall be no more such letters, I promise you. That is -enough." - -Soames writhed. He had a sense of being treated like a child by this -woman who had deserved he did not know what. - -"When two people have married, and lived like us, Soames, they had -better be quiet about each other. There are things one does not drag -up into the light for people to laugh at. You will be quiet, then; -not for my sake for your own. You are getting old; I am not, yet. -You have made me ver-ry practical" - -Soames, who had passed through all the sensations of being choked, -repeated dully: - -"I require you to give up this friendship." - -"And if I do not?" - -"Then--then I will cut you out of my Will." - -Somehow it did not seem to meet the case. Annette laughed. - -"You will live a long time, Soames." - -"You--you are a bad woman," said Soames suddenly. - -Annette shrugged her shoulders. - -"I do not think so. Living with you has killed things in me, it is -true; but I am not a bad woman. I am sensible--that is all. And so -will you be when you have thought it over." - -"I shall see this man," said Soames sullenly, "and warn him off." - -"Mon cher, you are funny. You do not want me, you have as much of me -as you want; and you wish the rest of me to be dead. I admit -nothing, but I am not going to be dead, Soames, at my age; so you had -better be quiet, I tell you. I myself will make no scandal; none. -Now, I am not saying any more, whatever you do." - -She reached out, took a French novel off a little table, and opened -it. Soames watched her, silenced by the tumult of his feelings. The -thought of that man was almost making him want her, and this was a -revelation of their relationship, startling to one little given to -introspective philosophy. Without saying another word he went out -and up to the picture-gallery. This came of marrying a Frenchwoman! -And yet, without her there would have been no Fleur! She had served -her purpose. - -'She's right,' he thought; 'I can do nothing. I don't even know that -there's anything in it.' The instinct of self-preservation warned -him to batten down his hatches, to smother the fire with want of air. -Unless one believed there was something in a thing, there wasn't. - -That night he went into her room. She received him in the most -matter-of-fact way, as if there had been no scene between them. And -he returned to his own room with a curious sense of peace. If one -didn't choose to see, one needn't. And he did not choose--in future -he did not choose. There was nothing to be gained by it--nothing! -Opening the drawer he took from the sachet a handkerchief, and the -framed photograph of Fleur. When he had looked at it a little he -slipped it down, and there was that other one--that old one of Irene. -An owl hooted while he stood in his window gazing at it. The owl -hooted, the red climbing roses seemed to deepen in colour, there came -a scent of lime-blossom. God! That had been a different thing! -Passion--Memory! Dust! - - - - -VII - -JUNE TAKES A HAND - - -One who was a sculptor, a Slav, a sometime resident in New York, -an egoist, and impecunious, was to be found of an evening in June -Forsyte's studio on the bank of the Thames at Chiswick. On the -evening of July 6, Boris Strumolowski--several of whose works were on -show there because they were as yet too advanced to be on show -anywhere else--had begun well, with that aloof and rather Christ-like -silence which admirably suited his youthful, round, broad cheek-boned -countenance framed in bright hair banged like a girl's. June had -known him three weeks, and he still seemed to her the principal -embodiment of genius, and hope of the future; a sort of Star of the -East which had strayed into an unappreciative West. Until that -evening he had conversationally confined himself to recording his -impressions of the United States, whose dust he had just shaken from -off his feet--a country, in his opinion, so barbarous in every way -that he had sold practically nothing there, and become an object of -suspicion to the police; a country, as he said, without a race of its -own, without liberty, equality, or fraternity, without principles, -traditions, taste, without--in a word--a soul. He had left it for -his own good, and come to the only other country where he could live -well. June had dwelt unhappily on him in her lonely moments, -standing before his creations--frightening, but powerful and symbolic -once they had been explained! That he, haloed by bright hair like an -early Italian painting, and absorbed in his genius to the exclusion -of all else--the only sign of course by which real genius could be -told--should still be a "lame duck" agitated her warm heart almost to -the exclusion of Paul Post. And she had begun to take steps to clear -her Gallery, in order to fill it with Strumolowski masterpieces. She -had at once encountered trouble. Paul Post had kicked; Vospovitch -had stung. With all the emphasis of a genius which she did not as -yet deny them, they had demanded another six weeks at least of her -Gallery. The American stream, still flowing in, would soon be -flowing out. The American stream was their right, their only hope, -their salvation--since nobody in this "beastly" country cared for -Art. June had yielded to the demonstration. After all Boris would -not mind their having the full benefit of an American stream, which -he himself so violently despised. - -This evening she had put that to Boris with nobody else present, -except Hannah Hobdey, the mediaeval black-and-whitist, and Jimmy -Portugal, editor of the Neo-Artist. She had put it to him with that -sudden confidence which continual contact with the neo-artistic world -had never been able to dry up in her warm and generous nature. He -had not broken his Christ-like silence, however, for more than two -minutes before she began to move her blue eyes from side to side, as -a cat moves its tail. This--he said--was characteristic of England, -the most selfish country in the world; the country which sucked the -blood of other countries; destroyed the brains and hearts of -Irishmen, Hindus, Egyptians, Boers, and Burmese, all the best races -in the world; bullying, hypocritical England! This was what he had -expected, coming to, such a country, where the climate was all fog, -and the people all tradesmen perfectly blind to Art, and sunk in -profiteering and the grossest materialism. Conscious that Hannah -Hobdey was murmuring, "Hear, hear!" and Jimmy Portugal sniggering, -June grew crimson, and suddenly rapped out: - -"Then why did you ever come? We didn't ask you." - -The remark was so singularly at variance with all she had led him to -expect from her, that Strumolowski stretched out his hand and took a -cigarette. - -"England never wants an idealist," he said. - -But in June something primitively English was thoroughly upset; old -Jolyon's sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed. "You come -and sponge on us," she said, "and then abuse us. If you think that's -playing the game, I don't." - -She now discovered that which others had discovered before her--the -thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius is -sometimes veiled. Strumolowski's young and ingenuous face became the -incarnation of a sneer. - -"Sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing--a tenth part -of what is owing. You will repent to say that, Miss Forsyte." - -"Oh, no," said June, "I shan't." - -"Ah! We know very well, we artists--you take us to get what you can -out of us. I want nothing from you"--and he blew out a cloud of -June's smoke. - -Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame -within her. "Very well, then, you can take your things away." - -And, almost in the same moment, she thought: 'Poor boy! He's only -got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. In front of these -people, too; it's positively disgusting!' - -Young Strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick, smooth, -close as a golden plate, did not fall off. - -"I can live on nothing," he said shrilly; "I have often had to for -the sake of my Art. It is you bourgeois who force us to spend -money." - -The words hit June like a pebble, in the ribs. After all she had -done for Art, all her identification with its troubles and lame -ducks. She was struggling for adequate words when the door was -opened, and her Austrian murmured: - -"A young lady, gnadiges Fraulein." - -"Where?" - -"In the little meal-room." - -With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at Jimmy -Portugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity. -Entering the "little meal-room," she perceived the young lady to be -Fleur--looking very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted moment a -little lame duck of her own breed was welcome to June, so -homoeopathic by instinct. - -The girl must have come, of course, because of Jon; or, if not, at -least to get something out of her. And June felt just then that to -assist somebody was the only bearable thing. - -"So you've remembered to come," she said. - -"Yes. What a jolly little duck of a house! But please don't let me -bother you, if you've got people." - -"Not at all," said June. "I want to let them stew in their own juice -for a bit. Have you come about Jon?" - -"You said you thought we ought to be told. Well, I've found out." - -"Oh!" said June blankly. "Not nice, is it?" - -They were standing one on each side of the little bare table at which -June took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland poppies; the -girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved finger. To her -new-fangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight below the knees, -June took a sudden liking--a charming colour, flax-blue. - -'She makes a picture,' thought June. Her little room, with its -whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its black -paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the sunlight was -shining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, -with the creamy, slightly frowning face. She remembered with sudden -vividness how nice she herself had looked in those old days when her -heart was set on Philip Bosinney, that dead lover, who had broken -from her to destroy for ever Irene's allegiance to this girl's -father. Did Fleur know of that, too? - -"Well," she said, "what are you going to do?" - -It was some seconds before Fleur answered. - -"I don't want Jon to suffer. I must see him once more to put an end -to it." - -"You're going to put an end to it!" - -"What else is there to do?" - -The girl seemed to June, suddenly, intolerably spiritless. - -"I suppose you're right," she muttered. "I know my father thinks so; -but--I should never have done it myself. I can't take things lying -down." - -How poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her voice -sounded! - -"People will assume that I'm in love." - -"Well, aren't you?" - -Fleur shrugged her shoulders. 'I might have known it,' thought June; -'she's Soames' daughter--fish! And yet--he!' - -"What do you want me to do then?" she said with a sort of disgust. - -"Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd -come if you sent him a line to-night. And perhaps afterward you'd -let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that they -needn't tell Jon about his mother." - -"All right!" said June abruptly. "I'll write now, and you can post -it. Half-past two tomorrow. I shan't be in, myself." - -She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she -looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the -poppies with her gloved finger. - -June licked a stamp. "Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of -course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky." - -Fleur took the note. "Thanks awfully!" - -'Cold-blooded little baggage!' thought June. Jon, son of her -father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of--Soames! It -was humiliating! - -"Is that all?" - -Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward the -door. - -"Good-bye!" - -"Good-bye!... Little piece of fashion!" muttered June, closing the -door. "That family!" And she marched back toward her studio. Boris -Strumolowski had regained his Christ-like silence and Jimmy Portugal -was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf he ran the -Neo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and several other -"lame-duck" genii who at one time or another had held first place in -the repertoire of June's aid and adoration. She experienced a sense -of futility and disgust, and went to the window to let the river-wind -blow those squeaky words away. - -But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished, and gone with Hannah -Hobdey, she sat down and mothered young Strumolowski for half an -hour, promising him a month, at least, of the American stream; so -that he went away with his halo in perfect order. 'In spite of all,' -June thought, 'Boris is wonderful' - - - - -VIII - -THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH - - -To know that your hand is against every one's is--for some natures-- -to experience a sense of moral release. Fleur felt no remorse when -she left June's house. Reading condemnatory resentment in her little -kinswoman's blue eyes-she was glad that she had fooled her, despising -June because that elderly idealist had not seen what she was after. - -End it, forsooth! She would soon show them all that she was only -just beginning. And she smiled to herself on the top of the bus -which carried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed out -by spasms of anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to manage -Jon? She had taken the bit between her teeth, but could she make him -take it too? She knew the truth and the real danger of delay--he -knew neither; therein lay all the difference in the world. - -'Suppose I tell him,' she thought; 'wouldn't it really be safer?' -This hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see that! -They could not let it! People always accepted an accomplished fact -in time! From that piece of philosophy--profound enough at her age-- -she passed to another consideration less philosophic. If she -persuaded Jon to a quick and secret marriage, and he found out -afterward that she had known the truth. What then? Jon hated -subterfuge. Again, then, would it not be better to tell him? But -the memory of his mother's face kept intruding on that impulse. -Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over him; more power perhaps -than she herself. Who could tell? It was too great a risk. Deep- -sunk in these instinctive calculations she was carried on past Green -Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got down there, and walked back -on the Green Park side. The storm had washed every tree; they still -dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she -crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up -she saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in the bay window. -Turning into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw "that -prowler" coming up. He took off his hat--a glossy "bowler" such as -she particularly detested. - -"Good evenin'! Miss Forsyde. Isn't there a small thing I can do for -you?" - -"Yes, pass by on the other side." - -"I say! Why do you dislike me?" - -"Do I?" - -"It looks like it." - -"Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living." - -Monsieur Profond smiled. - -"Look here, Miss Forsyde, don't worry. It'll be all right. Nothing -lasts." - -"Things do last," cried Fleur; "with me anyhow--especially likes and -dislikes." - -"Well, that makes me a bit un'appy." - -"I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy." - -"I don't like to annoy other people. I'm goin' on my yacht." - -Fleur looked at him, startled. - -"Where?" - -"Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere," said Monsieur Profond. - -Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to -convey that he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have -anything to break, and yet how dared he break it? - -"Good-night, Miss Forsyde! Remember me to Mrs. Dartie. I'm not so -bad really. Good-night!" Fleur left him standing there with his hat -raised. Stealing a look round, she saw him stroll--immaculate and -heavy--back toward his Club. - -'He can't even love with conviction,' she thought. 'What will Mother -do?' - -Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy and -unrested, and went at once to the study of Whitaker's Almanac. A -Forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of any -situation. She might conquer Jon's prejudice, but without exact -machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing would happen. -From the invaluable tome she learned that they must each be twenty- -one; or some one's consent would be necessary, which of course was -unobtainable; then she became lost in directions concerning licenses, -certificates, notices, districts, coming finally to the word -"perjury." But that was nonsense! Who would really mind their -giving wrong ages in order to be married for love! She ate hardly -any breakfast, and went back to Whitaker. The more she studied the -less sure she became; till, idly turning the pages, she came to -Scotland. People could be married there without any of this -nonsense. She had only to go and stay there twenty-one days, then -Jon could come, and in front of two people they could declare -themselves married. And what was more--they would be! It was far -the best way; and at once she ran over her schoolfellows. There was -Mary Lambe who lived in Edinburgh and was "quite a sport!" - -She had a brother too. She could stay with Mary Lambe, who with her -brother would serve for witnesses. She well knew that some girls -would think all this unnecessary, and that all she and Jon need do -was to go away together for a weekend and then say to their people: -"We are married by Nature, we must now be married by Law." But Fleur -was Forsyte enough to feel such a proceeding dubious, and to dread -her father's face when he heard of it. Besides, she did not believe -that Jon would do it; he had an opinion of her such as she could not -bear to diminish. No! Mary Lambe was preferable, and it was just -the time of year to go to Scotland. More at ease now she packed, -avoided her aunt, and took a bus to Chiswick. She was too early, and -went on to Kew Gardens. She found no peace among its flower-beds, -labelled trees, and broad green spaces, and having lunched off -anchovy-paste sandwiches and coffee, returned to Chiswick and rang -June's bell. The Austrian admitted her to the "little meal-room." -Now that she knew what she and Jon were up against, her longing for -him had increased tenfold, as if he were a toy with sharp edges or -dangerous paint such as they had tried to take from her as a child. -If she could not have her way, and get Jon for good and all, she felt -like dying of privation. By hook or crook she must and would get -him! A round dim mirror of very old glass hung over the pink brick -hearth. She stood looking at herself reflected in it, pale, and -rather dark under the eyes; little shudders kept passing through her -nerves. Then she heard the bell ring, and, stealing to the window, -saw him standing on the doorstep smoothing his hair and lips, as if -he too were trying to subdue the fluttering of his nerves. - -She was sitting on one of the two rush-seated chairs, with her back -to the door, when he came in, and she said at once - -"Sit down, Jon, I want to talk seriously." - -Jon sat on the table by her side, and without looking at him she went -on: - -"If you don't want to lose me, we must get married." - -Jon gasped. - -"Why? Is there anything new?" - -"No, but I felt it at Robin Hill, and among my people." - -"But--" stammered Jon, "at Robin Hill--it was all smooth--and they've -said nothing to me." - -"But they mean to stop us. Your mother's face was enough. And my -father's." - -"Have you seen him since?" - -Fleur nodded. What mattered a few supplementary lies? - -"But," said Jon eagerly, "I can't see how they can feel like that -after all these years." - -Fleur looked up at him. - -"Perhaps you don't love me enough." -"Not love you enough! Why--!" - -"Then make sure of me." - -"Without telling them?" - -"Not till after." - -Jon was silent. How much older he looked than on that day, barely -two months ago, when she first saw him--quite two years older! - -"It would hurt Mother awfully," he said. - -Fleur drew her hand away. - -"You've got to choose." - -Jon slid off the table on to his knees. - -"But why not tell them? They can't really stop us, Fleur!" - -"They can! I tell you, they can." - -"How?" - -"We're utterly dependent--by putting money pressure, and all sorts of -other pressure. I'm not patient, Jon." - -"But it's deceiving them." - -Fleur got up. - -"You can't really love me, or you wouldn't hesitate. 'He either -fears his fate too much!'" - -Lifting his hands to her waist, Jon forced her to sit down again. -She hurried on: - -"I've planned it all out. We've only to go to Scotland. When we're -married they'll soon come round. People always come round to facts. -Don't you see, Jon?" - -"But to hurt them so awfully!" - -So he would rather hurt her than those people of his! "All right, -then; let me go!" - -Jon got up and put his back against the door. - -"I expect you're right," he said slowly; "but I want to think it -over." - -She could see that he was seething with feelings he wanted to -express; but she did not mean to help him. She hated herself at this -moment and almost hated him. Why had she to do all the work to -secure their love? It wasn't fair. And then she saw his eyes, -adoring and distressed. - -"Don't look like that! I only don't want to lose you, Jon." - -"You can't lose me so long as you want me." - -"Oh, yes, I can." - -Jon put his hands on her shoulders. - -"Fleur, do you know anything you haven't told me?" - -It was the point-blank question she had dreaded. She looked straight -at him, and answered: "No." She had burnt her boats; but what did it -matter, if she got him? He would forgive her. And throwing her arms -round his neck, she kissed him on the lips. She was winning! She -felt it in the beating of his heart against her, in the closing of -his eyes. "I want to make sure! I want to make sure!" she -whispered. "Promise!" - -Jon did not answer. His face had the stillness of extreme trouble. -At last he said: - -"It's like hitting them. I must think a little, Fleur. I really -must." - -Fleur slipped out of his arms. - -"Oh! Very well!" And suddenly she burst into tears of disappointment, -shame, and overstrain. Followed five minutes of acute misery. Jon's -remorse and tenderness knew no bounds; but he did not promise. -Despite her will to cry, "Very well, then, if you don't love me -enough-goodbye!" she dared not. From birth accustomed to her own -way, this check from one so young, so tender, so devoted, baffled and -surprised her. She wanted to push him away from her, to try what -anger and coldness would do, and again she dared not. The knowledge -that she was scheming to rush him blindfold into the irrevocable -weakened everything--weakened the sincerity of pique, and the -sincerity of passion; even her kisses had not the lure she wished for -them. That stormy little meeting ended inconclusively. - -"Will you some tea, gnadiges Fraulein?" - -Pushing Jon from her, she cried out: - -"No-no, thank you! I'm just going." - -And before he could prevent her she was gone. - -She went stealthily, mopping her gushed, stained cheeks, frightened, -angry, very miserable. She had stirred Jon up so fearfully, yet -nothing definite was promised or arranged! But the more uncertain -and hazardous the future, the more "the will to have" worked its -tentacles into the flesh of her heart--like some burrowing tick! - -No one was at Green Street. Winifred had gone with Imogen to see a -play which some said was allegorical, and others "very exciting, -don't you know." It was because of what others said that Winifred -and Imogen had gone. Fleur went on to Paddington. Through the -carriage the air from the brick-kilns of West Drayton and the late -hayfields fanned her still gushed cheeks. Flowers had seemed to be -had for the picking; now they were all thorned and prickled. But the -golden flower within the crown of spikes seemed to her tenacious -spirit all the fairer and more desirable. - - - - -IX - -THE FAT IN THE FIRE - - -On reaching home Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it -penetrated even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her -mother was inaccessibly entrenched in a brown study; her father -contemplating fate in the vinery. Neither of them had a word to -throw to a dog. 'Is it because of me?' thought Fleur. 'Or because -of Profond?' To her mother she said: - -"What's the matter with Father?" - -Her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders. - -To her father: - -"What's the matter with Mother?" - -Her father answered: - -"Matter? What should be the matter?" and gave her a sharp look. - -"By the way," murmured Fleur, "Monsieur Profond is going a 'small' -voyage on his yacht, to the South Seas." - -Soames examined a branch on which no grapes were growing. - -"This vine's a failure," he said. "I've had young Mont here. He -asked me something about you." - -"Oh! How do you like him, Father?" - -"He--he's a product--like all these young people." - -"What were you at his age, dear?" - -Soames smiled grimly. - -"We went to work, and didn't play about--flying and motoring, and -making love." - -"Didn't you ever make love?" - -She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him well -enough. His pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where darkness was -still mingled with the grey, had come close together. - -"I had no time or inclination to philander." - -"Perhaps you had a grand passion." - -Soames looked at her intently. - -"Yes--if you want to know--and much good it did me." He moved away, -along by the hot-water pipes. Fleur tiptoed silently after him. - -"Tell me about it, Father!" - -Soames became very still. - -"What should you want to know about such things, at your age?" - -"Is she alive?" - -He nodded. - -"And married?" Yes." - -"It's Jon Forsyte's mother, isn't it? And she was your wife first." - -It was said in a flash of intuition. Surely his opposition came from -his anxiety that she should not know of that old wound to his pride. -But she was startled. To see some one so old and calm wince as if -struck, to hear so sharp a note of pain in his voice! - -"Who told you that? If your aunt! I can't bear the affair talked -of." - -"But, darling," said Fleur, softly, "it's so long ago." - -"Long ago or not, I...." - -Fleur stood stroking his arm. - -"I've tried to forget," he said suddenly; "I don't wish to be -reminded." And then, as if venting some long and secret irritation, -he added: "In these days people don't understand. Grand passion, -indeed! No one knows what it is." - -"I do," said Fleur, almost in a whisper. - -Soames, who had turned his back on her, spun round. - -"What are you talking of--a child like you!" - -"Perhaps I've inherited it, Father." - -"What?" - -"For her son, you see." - -He was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad. They stood -staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scent -of earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming along fast. - -"This is crazy," said Soames at last, between dry lips. - -Scarcely moving her own, she murmured: - -"Don't be angry, Father. I can't help it." - -But she could see he wasn't angry; only scared, deeply scared. - -"I thought that foolishness," he stammered, "was all forgotten." - -"Oh, no! It's ten times what it was." - -Soames kicked at the hot-water pipe. The hapless movement touched -her, who had no fear of her father--none. - -"Dearest!" she said. "What must be, must, you know." - -"Must!" repeated Soames. "You don't know what you're talking of. -Has that boy been told?" - -The blood rushed into her cheeks. - -"Not yet." - -He had turned from her again, and, with one shoulder a little raised, -stood staring fixedly at a joint in the pipes. - -"It's most distasteful to me," he said suddenly; "nothing could be -more so. Son of that fellow! It's--it's--perverse!" - -She had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say "son of that -woman," and again her intuition began working. - -Did the ghost of that grand passion linger in some corner of his -heart? - -She slipped her hand under his arm. - -"Jon's father is quite ill and old; I saw him." - -"You--?" - -"Yes, I went there with Jon; I saw them both." - -"Well, and what did they say to you?" - -"Nothing. They were very polite." - -"They would be." He resumed his contemplation of the pipe-joint, and -then said suddenly: - -"I must think this over--I'll speak to you again to-night." - -She knew this was final for the moment, and stole away, leaving him -still looking at the pipe-joint. She wandered into the fruit-garden, -among the raspberry and currant bushes, without impetus to pick and -eat. Two months ago--she was light-hearted! Even two days ago-- -light-hearted, before Prosper Profond told her. Now she felt tangled -in a web-of passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the -ties of love and hate. At this dark moment of discouragement there -seemed, even to her hold-fast nature, no way out. How deal with it-- -how sway and bend things to her will, and get her heart's desire? -And, suddenly, round the corner of the high box hedge, she came plump -on her mother, walking swiftly, with an open letter in her hand. Her -bosom was heaving, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed. Instantly -Fleur thought: 'The yacht! Poor Mother!' - -Annette gave her a wide startled look, and said: - -"J'ai la migraine." - -"I'm awfully sorry, Mother." - -"Oh, yes! you and your father--sorry!" - -"But, Mother--I am. I know what it feels like." - -Annette's startled eyes grew wide, till the whites showed above them. - -"Poor innocent!" she said. - -Her mother--so self-possessed, and commonsensical--to look and speak -like this! It was all frightening! Her father, her mother, herself! -And only two months back they had seemed to have everything they -wanted in this world. - -Annette crumpled the letter in her hand. Fleur knew that she must -ignore the sight. - -"Can't I do anything for your head, Mother?" - -Annette shook that head and walked on, swaying her hips. - -'It's cruel,' thought Fleur, 'and I was glad! That man! What do men -come prowling for, disturbing everything! I suppose he's tired of -her. What business has he to be tired of my mother? What business!' -And at that thought, so natural and so peculiar, she uttered a little -choked laugh. - -She ought, of course, to be delighted, but what was there to be -delighted at? Her father didn't really care! Her mother did, -perhaps? She entered the orchard, and sat down under a cherry-tree. -A breeze sighed in the higher boughs; the sky seen through their -green was very blue and very white in cloud--those heavy white clouds -almost always present in river landscape. Bees, sheltering out of -the wind, hummed softly, and over the lush grass fell the thick shade -from those fruit-trees planted by her father five-and-twenty, years -ago. Birds were almost silent, the cuckoos had ceased to sing, but -wood-pigeons were cooing. The breath and drone and cooing of high -summer were not for long a sedative to her excited nerves. Crouched -over her knees she began to scheme. Her father must be made to back -her up. Why should he mind so long as she was happy? She had not -lived for nearly nineteen years without knowing that her future was -all he really cared about. She had, then, only to convince him that -her future could not be happy without Jon. He thought it a mad -fancy. How foolish the old were, thinking they could tell what the -young felt! Had not he confessed that he--when young--had loved with -a grand passion? He ought to understand! 'He piles up his money for -me,' she thought; 'but what's the use, if I'm not going to be happy?' -Money, and all it bought, did not bring happiness. Love only brought -that. The ox-eyed daisies in this orchard, which gave it such a -moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy, and had their hour. 'They -oughtn't to have called me Fleur,' she mused, 'if they didn't mean me -to have my hour, and be happy while it lasts.' Nothing real stood in -the way, like poverty, or disease--sentiment only, a ghost from the -unhappy past! Jon was right. They wouldn't let you live, these old -people! They made mistakes, committed crimes, and wanted their -children to go on paying! The breeze died away; midges began to -bite. She got up, plucked a piece of honeysuckle, and went in. - -It was hot that night. Both she and her mother had put on thin, pale -low frocks. The dinner flowers were pale. Fleur was struck with the -pale look of everything; her father's face, her mother's shoulders; -the pale panelled walls, the pale grey velvety carpet, the lamp- -shade, even the soup was pale. There was not one spot of colour in -the room, not even wine in the pale glasses, for no one drank it. -What was not pale was black--her father's clothes, the butler's -clothes, her retriever stretched out exhausted in the window, the -curtains black with a cream pattern. A moth came in, and that was -pale. And silent was that half-mourning dinner in the heat. - -Her father called her back as she was following her mother out. - -She sat down beside him at the table, and, unpinning the pale -honeysuckle, put it to her nose. - -"I've been thinking," he said. - -"Yes, dear?" - -"It's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no help for it. -I don't know if you understand how much you are to me I've never -spoken of it, I didn't think it necessary; but--but you're -everything. Your mother--" he paused, staring at his finger-bowl of -Venetian glass. - -"Yes?"' - -"I've only you to look to. I've never had--never wanted anything -else, since you were born." - -"I know," Fleur murmured. - -Soames moistened his lips. - -"You may think this a matter I can smooth over and arrange for you. -You're mistaken. I'm helpless." - -Fleur did not speak. - -"Quite apart from my own feelings," went on Soames with more -resolution, "those two are not amenable to anything I can say. They- --they hate me, as people always hate those whom they have injured." -"But he--Jon--" - -"He's their flesh and blood, her only child. Probably he means to -her what you mean to me. It's a deadlock." - -"No," cried Fleur, "no, Father!" - -Soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on the -betrayal of no emotion. - -"Listen!" he said. "You're putting the feelings of two months--two -months--against the feelings of thirty-five years! What chance do -you think you have? Two months--your very first love affair, a -matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few kisses- --against, against what you can't imagine, what no one could who -hasn't been through it. Come, be reasonable, Fleur! It's midsummer -madness!" - -Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits. - -"The madness is in letting the past spoil it all. - -"What do we care about the past? It's our lives, not yours." - -Soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw -moisture shining. - -"Whose child are you?" he said. "Whose child is he? The present is -linked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting away -from that." - -She had never heard philosophy pass those lips before. Impressed -even in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin -on her hands. - -"But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other. There's -ever so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment. -Let's bury the past, Father." - -His answer was a sigh. - -"Besides," said Fleur gently, "you can't prevent us." - -"I don't suppose," said Soames, "that if left to myself I should try -to prevent you; I must put up with things, I know, to keep your -affection. But it's not I who control this matter. That's what I -want you to realise before it's too late. If you go on thinking you -can get your way and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much -heavier when you find you can't." - -"Oh!" cried Fleur, "help me, Father; you can help me, you know." - -Soames made a startled movement of negation. "I?" he said bitterly. -"Help? I am the impediment--the just cause and impediment--isn't -that the jargon? You have my blood in your veins." - -He rose. - -"Well, the fat's in the fire. If you persist in your wilfulness -you'll have yourself to blame. Come! Don't be foolish, my child--my -only child!" - -Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder. - -All was in such turmoil within her. But no good to show it! No good -at all! She broke away from him, and went out into the twilight, -distraught, but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and vague within -her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except--her will to -have. A poplar pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white -star there. The dew wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare -shoulders. She went down to the river bank, and stood gazing at a -moonstreak on the darkening water. Suddenly she smelled tobacco -smoke, and a white figure emerged as if created by the moon. It was -young Mont in flannels, standing in his boat. She heard the tiny -hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water. - -"Fleur," came his voice, "don't be hard on a poor devil! I've been -waiting hours." - -"For what?" - -"Come in my boat!" - -"Not I." - -"Why not?" - -"I'm not a water-nymph." - -"Haven't you any romance in you? Don't be modern, Fleur!" - -He appeared on the path within a yard of her. - -"Go away!" - -"Fleur, I love you. Fleur!" - -Fleur uttered a short laugh. - -"Come again," she said, "when I haven't got my wish." - -"What is your wish?" - -"Ask another." - -"Fleur," said Mont, and his voice sounded strange, "don't mock me! -Even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're cut up -for good." - -Fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling. - -"Well, you shouldn't make me jump. Give me a cigarette." - -Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself. - -"I don't want to talk rot," he said, "but please imagine all the rot -that all the lovers that ever were have talked, and all my special -rot thrown in." - -"Thank you, I have imagined it. Good-night!" They stood for a -moment facing each other in the shadow of an acacia-tree with very -moonlit blossoms, and the smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the -air between them. - -"Also ran: 'Michael Mont'?" he said. Fleur turned abruptly toward -the house. On the lawn she stopped to look back. Michael Mont was -whirling his arms above him; she could see them dashing at his head; -then waving at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. His voice just -reached her. "Jolly-jolly!" Fleur shook herself. She couldn't help -him, she had too much trouble of her own! On the verandah she -stopped very suddenly again. Her mother was sitting in the drawing- -room at her writing bureau, quite alone. There was nothing -remarkable in the expression of her face except its utter immobility. -But she looked desolate! Fleur went upstairs. At the door of her -room she paused. She could hear her father walking up and down, up -and down the picture-gallery. - -'Yes,' she thought, jolly! Oh, Jon!' - - - - -X - -DECISION - - -When Fleur left him Jon stared at the Austrian. She was a thin woman -with a dark face and the concerned expression of one who has watched -every little good that life once had slip from her, one by one. -"No tea?" she said. - -Susceptible to the disappointment in her voice, Jon murmured: - -"No, really; thanks." - -"A lil cup--it ready. A lil cup and cigarette." - -Fleur was gone! Hours of remorse and indecision lay before him! And -with a heavy sense of disproportion he smiled, and said: - -"Well--thank you!" - -She brought in a little pot of tea with two little cups, and a silver -box of cigarettes on a little tray. - -"Sugar? Miss Forsyte has much sugar--she buy my sugar, my friend's -sugar also. Miss Forsyte is a veree kind lady. I am happy to serve -her. You her brother?" - -"Yes," said Jon, beginning to puff the second cigarette of his life. - -"Very young brother," said the Austrian, with a little anxious smile, -which reminded him of the wag of a dog's tail. - -"May I give you some?" he said. "And won't you sit down, please?" - -The Austrian shook her head. - -"Your father a very nice old man--the most nice old man I ever see. -Miss Forsyte tell me all about him. Is he better?" - -Her words fell on Jon like a reproach. "Oh Yes, I think he's all -right." - -"I like to see him again," said the Austrian, putting a hand on her -heart; "he have veree kind heart." - -"Yes," said Jon. And again her words seemed to him a reproach. - -"He never give no trouble to no one, and smile so gentle." - -"Yes, doesn't he?" - -"He look at Miss Forsyte so funny sometimes. I tell him all my -story; he so sympatisch. Your mother--she nice and well?" - -"Yes, very." - -"He have her photograph on his dressing-table. Veree beautiful" - -Jon gulped down his tea. This woman, with her concerned face and her -reminding words, was like the first and second murderers. - -"Thank you," he said; "I must go now. May--may I leave this with -you?" - -He put a ten-shilling note on the tray with a doubting hand and -gained the door. He heard the Austrian gasp, and hurried out. He -had just time to catch his train, and all the way to Victoria looked -at every face that passed, as lovers will, hoping against hope. On -reaching Worthing he put his luggage into the local train, and set -out across the Downs for Wansdon, trying to walk off his aching -irresolution. So long as he went full bat, he could enjoy the beauty -of those green slopes, stopping now and again to sprawl on the grass, -admire the perfection of a wild rose or listen to a lark's song. But -the war of motives within him was but postponed--the longing for -Fleur, and the hatred of deception. He came to the old chalk-pit -above Wansdon with his mind no more made up than when he started. To -see both sides of a question vigorously was at once Jon's strength -and weakness. He tramped in, just as the first dinner-bell rang. -His things had already been brought up. He had a hurried bath and -came down to find Holly alone--Val had gone to Town and would not be -back till the last train. - -Since Val's advice to him to ask his sister what was the matter -between the two families, so much had happened--Fleur's disclosure in -the Green Park, her visit to Robin Hill, to-day's meeting--that there -seemed nothing to ask. He talked of Spain, his sunstroke, Val's -horses, their father's health. Holly startled him by saying that she -thought their father not at all well. She had been twice to Robin -Hill for the week-end. He had seemed fearfully languid, sometimes -even in pain, but had always refused to talk about himself. - -"He's awfully dear and unselfish--don't you think, Jon?" - -Feeling far from dear and unselfish himself, Jon answered: "Rather!" - -"I think, he's been a simply perfect father, so long as I can -remember." - -"Yes," answered Jon, very subdued. - -"He's never interfered, and he's always seemed to understand. I -shall never forget his letting me go to South Africa in the Boer War -when I was in love with Val." - -"That was before he married Mother, wasn't it?" said Jon suddenly. - -"Yes. Why?" - -"Oh! nothing. Only, wasn't she engaged to Fleur's father first?" - -Holly put down the spoon she was using, and raised her eyes. Her -stare was circumspect. What did the boy know? Enough to make it -better to tell him? She could not decide. He looked strained and -worried, altogether older, but that might be the sunstroke. - -"There was something," she said. "Of course we were out there, and -got no news of anything." She could not take the risk. - -It was not her secret. Besides, she was in the dark about his -feelings now. Before Spain she had made sure he was in love; but -boys were boys; that was seven weeks ago, and all Spain between. - -She saw that he knew she was putting him off, and added: - -"Have you heard anything of Fleur?" - -"Yes." - -His face told her, then, more than the most elaborate explanations. -So he had not forgotten! - -She said very quietly: "Fleur is awfully attractive, Jon, but you -know--Val and I don't really like her very much." - -"Why?" - -"We think she's got rather a 'having' nature." - -"'Having'? I don't know what you mean. She--she--" he pushed his -dessert plate away, got up, and went to the window. - -Holly, too, got up, and put her arm round his waist. - -"Don't be angry, Jon dear. We can't all see people in the same -light, can we? You know, I believe each of us only has about one or -two people who can see the best that's in us, and bring it out. For -you I think it's your mother. I once saw her looking at a letter of -yours; it was wonderful to see her face. I think she's the most -beautiful woman I ever saw--Age doesn't seem to touch her." - -Jon's face softened; then again became tense. Everybody--everybody -was against him and Fleur! It all strengthened the appeal of her -words: "Make sure of me--marry me, Jon!" - -Here, where he had passed that wonderful week with her--the tug of -her enchantment, the ache in his heart increased with every minute -that she was not there to make the room, the garden, the very air -magical. Would he ever be able to live down here, not seeing her? -And he closed up utterly, going early to bed. It would not make him -healthy, wealthy, and wise, but it closeted him with memory of Fleur -in her fancy frock. He heard Val's arrival--the Ford discharging -cargo, then the stillness of the summer night stole back--with only -the bleating of very distant sheep, and a night-Jar's harsh purring. -He leaned far out. Cold moon--warm air--the Downs like silver! -Small wings, a stream bubbling, the rambler roses! God--how empty -all of it without her! In the Bible it was written: Thou shalt leave -father and mother and cleave to--Fleur! - -Let him have pluck, and go and tell them! They couldn't stop him -marrying her--they wouldn't want to stop him when they knew how he -felt. Yes! He would go! Bold and open--Fleur was wrong! - -The night-jar ceased, the sheep were silent; the only sound in the -darkness was the bubbling of the stream. And Jon in his bed slept, -freed from the worst of life's evils--indecision. - - - - -XI - -TIMOTHY PROPHESIES - - -On the day of the cancelled meeting at the National Gallery began the -second anniversary of the resurrection of England's pride and glory-- -or, more shortly, the top hat. "Lord's"--that festival which the -War had driven from the field--raised its light and dark blue flags -for the second time, displaying almost every feature of a glorious -past. Here, in the luncheon interval, were all species of female and -one species of male hat, protecting the multiple types of face -associated with "the classes." The observing Forsyte might discern -in the free or unconsidered seats a certain number of the squash- -hatted, but they hardly ventured on the grass; the old school--or -schools--could still rejoice that the proletariat was not yet paying -the necessary half-crown. Here was still a close borough, the only -one left on a large scale--for the papers were about to estimate the -attendance at ten thousand. And the ten thousand, all animated by -one hope, were asking each other one question: "Where are you -lunching?" Something wonderfully uplifting and reassuring in that -query and the sight of so many people like themselves voicing it! -What reserve power in the British realm--enough pigeons, lobsters, -lamb, salmon mayonnaise, strawberries, and bottles of champagne to -feed the lot! No miracle in prospect--no case of seven loaves and a -few fishes--faith rested on surer foundations. Six thousand top -hats, four thousand parasols would be doffed and furled, ten thousand -mouths all speaking the same English would be filled. There was life -in the old dog yet! Tradition! And again Tradition! How strong and -how elastic! Wars might rage, taxation prey, Trades Unions take -toll, and Europe perish of starvation; but the ten thousand would be -fed; and, within their ring fence, stroll upon green turf, wear their -top hats, and meet--themselves. The heart was sound, the pulse still -regular. E-ton! E-ton! Har-r-o-o-o-w! - -Among the many Forsytes, present on a hunting-ground theirs, by -personal prescriptive right, or proxy, was Soames with his wife and -daughter. He had not been at either school, he took no interest in -cricket, but he wanted Fleur to show her frock, and he wanted to wear -his top hat parade it again in peace and plenty among his peers. He -walked sedately with Fleur between him and Annette. No women -equalled them, so far as he could see. They could walk, and hold -themselves up; there was substance in their good looks; the modern -woman had no build, no chest, no anything! He remembered suddenly -with what intoxication of pride he had walked round with Irene in the -first years of his first marriage. And how they used to lunch on the -drag which his mother would make his father have, because it was so -"chic"--all drags and carriages in those days, not these lumbering -great Stands! And how consistently Montague Dartie had drunk too -much. He supposed that people drank too much still, but there was -not the scope for it there used to be. He remembered George Forsyte- --whose brothers Roger and Eustace had been at Harrow and Eton-- -towering up on the top of the drag waving a light-blue flag with one -hand and a dark-blue flag with the other, and shouting "Etroow- -Harrton!" Just when everybody was silent, like the buffoon he had -always been; and Eustace got up to the nines below, too dandified to -wear any colour or take any notice. H'm! Old days, and Irene in -grey silk shot with palest green. He looked, sideways, at Fleur's -face. Rather colourless-no light, no eagerness! That love affair -was preying on her--a bad business! He looked beyond, at his wife's -face, rather more touched up than usual, a little disdainful--not -that she had any business to disdain, so far as he could see. She -was taking Profond's defection with curious quietude; or was his -"small" voyage just a blind? If so, he should refuse to see it! -Having promenaded round the pitch and in front of the pavilion, they -sought Winifred's table in the Bedouin Club tent. This Club--a new -"cock and hen"--had been founded in the interests of travel, and of a -gentleman with an old Scottish name, whose father had somewhat -strangely been called Levi. Winifred had joined, not because she had -travelled, but because instinct told her that a Club with such a name -and such a founder was bound to go far; if one didn't join at once -one might never have the chance. Its tent, with a text from the -Koran on an orange ground, and a small green camel embroidered over -the entrance, was the most striking on the ground. Outside it they -found Jack Cardigan in a dark blue tie (he had once played for -Harrow), batting with a Malacca cane to show how that fellow ought to -have hit that ball. He piloted them in. Assembled in Winifred's -corner were Imogen, Benedict with his young wife, Val Dartie without -Holly, Maud and her husband, and, after Soames and his two were -seated, one empty place. - -"I'm expecting Prosper," said Winifred, "but he's so busy with his -yacht." - -Soames stole a glance. No movement in his wife's face! Whether that -fellow were coming or not, she evidently knew all about it. It did -not escape him that Fleur, too, looked at her mother. If Annette -didn't respect his feelings, she might think of Fleur's! The -conversation, very desultory, was syncopated by Jack Cardigan talking -about "mid-off." He cited all the "great mid-offs" from the -beginning of time, as if they had been a definite racial entity in -the composition of the British people. Soames had finished his -lobster, and was beginning on pigeon-pie, when he heard the words, -"I'm a small bit late, Mrs. Dartie," and saw that there was no longer -any empty place. That fellow was sitting between Annette and Imogen. -Soames ate steadily on, with an occasional word to Maud and Winifred. -Conversation buzzed around him. He heard the voice of Profond say: - -"I think you're mistaken, Mrs. Forsyde; I'll--I'll bet Miss Forsyde -agrees with me." - -"In what?" came Fleur's clear voice across the table. - -"I was sayin', young gurls are much the same as they always were-- -there's very small difference." - -"Do you know so much about them?" - - -That sharp reply caught the ears of all, and Soames moved uneasily on -his thin green chair. - -"Well, I don't know, I think they want their own small way, and I -think they always did." - -"Indeed!" - -"Oh, but--Prosper," Winifred interjected comfortably, "the girls in -the streets--the girls who've been in munitions, the little flappers -in the shops; their manners now really quite hit you in the eye." - -At the word "hit" Jack Cardigan stopped his disquisition; and in the -silence Monsieur Profond said: - -"It was inside before, now it's outside; that's all." - -"But their morals!" cried Imogen. - -"Just as moral as they ever were, Mrs. Cardigan, but they've got more -opportunity." - -The saying, so cryptically cynical, received a little laugh from -Imogen, a slight opening of Jack Cardigan's mouth, and a creak from -Soames' chair. - -Winifred said: "That's too bad, Prosper." - -"What do you say, Mrs. Forsyde; don't you think human nature's always -the same?" - -Soames subdued a sudden longing to get up and kick the fellow. He -heard his wife reply: - -"Human nature is not the same in England as anywhere else." That was -her confounded mockery! - -"Well, I don't know much about this small country"--'No, thank God!' -thought Soames--"but I should say the pot was boilin' under the lid -everywhere. We all want pleasure, and we always did." - -Damn the fellow! His cynicism was--was outrageous! - -When lunch was over they broke up into couples for the digestive -promenade. Too proud to notice, Soames knew perfectly that Annette -and that fellow had gone prowling round together. Fleur was with -Val; she had chosen him, no doubt, because he knew that boy. He -himself had Winifred for partner. They walked in the bright, -circling stream, a little flushed and sated, for some minutes, till -Winifred sighed: - -"I wish we were back forty years, old boy!" - -Before the eyes of her spirit an interminable procession of her own -"Lord's" frocks was passing, paid for with the money of her father, -to save a recurrent crisis. "It's been very amusing, after all. -Sometimes I even wish Monty was back. What do you think of people -nowadays, Soames?" - -"Precious little style. The thing began to go to pieces with -bicycles and motor-cars; the War has finished it." - -"I wonder what's coming?" said Winifred in a voice dreamy from -pigeon-pie. "I'm not at all sure we shan't go back to crinolines and -pegtops. Look at that dress!" - -Soames shook his head. - -"There's money, but no faith in things. We don't lay by for the -future. These youngsters--it's all a short life and a merry one with -them." - -"There's a hat!" said Winifred. "I don't know--when you come to -think of the people killed and all that in the War, it's rather -wonderful, I think. There's no other country--Prosper says the rest -are all bankrupt, except America; and of course her men always took -their style in dress from us." - -"Is that chap," said Soames, "really going to the South Seas?" - -"Oh! one never knows where Prosper's going!" - -"He's a sign of the times," muttered Soames, "if you like." - -Winifred's hand gripped his arm. - -"Don't turn your head," she said in a low voice, "but look to your -right in the front row of the Stand." - -Soames looked as best he could under that limitation. A man in a -grey top hat, grey-bearded, with thin brown, folded cheeks, and a -certain elegance of posture, sat there with a woman in a lawn- -coloured frock, whose dark eyes were fixed on himself. Soames looked -quickly at his feet. How funnily feet moved, one after the other -like that! Winifred's voice said in his ear: - -"Jolyon looks very ill; but he always had style. She doesn't change- --except her hair." - -"Why did you tell Fleur about that business?" - -"I didn't; she picked it up. I always knew she would." - -"Well, it's a mess. She's set her heart upon their boy." - -"The little wretch," murmured Winifred. "She tried to take me in -about that. What shall you do, Soames?" - -"Be guided by events." - -They moved on, silent, in the almost solid crowd. - -"Really," said Winifred suddenly; "it almost seems like Fate. Only -that's so old-fashioned. Look! there are George and Eustace!" - -George Forsyte's lofty bulk had halted before them. - -"Hallo, Soames!" he said. "Just met Profond and your wife. You'll -catch 'em if you put on pace. Did you ever go to see old Timothy?" - -Soames nodded, and the streams forced them apart. - -"I always liked old George," said Winifred. "He's so droll." - -"I never did," said Soames. "Where's your seat? I shall go to mine. -Fleur may be back there." - -Having seen Winifred to her seat, he regained his own, conscious of -small, white, distant figures running, the click of the bat, the -cheers and counter-cheers. No Fleur, and no Annette! You could -expect nothing of women nowadays! They had the vote. They were -"emancipated," and much good it was doing them! So Winifred would go -back, would she, and put up with Dartie all over again? To have the -past once more--to be sitting here as he had sat in '83 and '84, -before he was certain that his marriage with Irene had gone all -wrong, before her antagonism had become so glaring that with the best -will in the world he could not overlook it. The sight of her with -that fellow had brought all memory back. Even now he could not -understand why she had been so impracticable. She could love other -men; she had it in her! To himself, the one person she ought to have -loved, she had chosen to refuse her heart. It seemed to him, -fantastically, as he looked back, that all this modern relaxation of -marriage--though its forms and laws were the same as when he married -her--that all this modern looseness had come out of her revolt; it -seemed to him, fantastically, that she had started it, till all -decent ownership of anything had gone, or was on the point of going. -All came from her! And now--a pretty state of things! Homes! How -could you have them without mutual ownership? Not that he had ever -had a real home! But had that been his fault? He had done his best. -And his rewards were--those two sitting in that Stand, and this -affair of Fleur's! - -And overcome by loneliness he thought: 'Shan't wait any longer! They -must find their own way back to the hotel--if they mean to come!' -Hailing a cab outside the ground, he said: - -"Drive me to the Bayswater Road." His old aunts had never failed -him. To them he had meant an ever-welcome visitor. Though they were -gone, there, still, was Timothy! - -Smither was standing in the open doorway. - -"Mr. Soames! I was just taking the air. Cook will be so pleased." - -"How is Mr. Timothy?" - -"Not himself at all these last few days, sir; he's been talking a -great deal. Only this morning he was saying: 'My brother James, he's -getting old.' His mind wanders, Mr. Soames, and then he will talk of -them. He troubles about their investments. The other day he said: -'There's my brother Jolyon won't look at Consols'--he seemed quite -down about it. Come in, Mr. Soames, come in! It's such a pleasant -change!" - -"Well," said Soames, "just for a few minutes." - -"No," murmured Smither in the hall, where the air had the singular -freshness of the outside day, "we haven't been very satisfied with -him, not all this week. He's always been one to leave a titbit to -the end; but ever since Monday he's been eating it first. If you -notice a dog, Mr. Soames, at its dinner, it eats the meat first. -We've always thought it such a good sign of Mr. Timothy at his age to -leave it to the last, but now he seems to have lost all his self- -control; and, of course, it makes him leave the rest. The doctor -doesn't make anything of it, but"--Smither shook her head--"he seems -to think he's got to eat it first, in case he shouldn't get to it. -That and his talking makes us anxious." - -"Has he said anything important?" - -"I shouldn't like to say that, Mr. Soames; but he's turned against -his Will. He gets quite pettish--and after having had it out every -morning for years, it does seem funny. He said the other day: 'They -want my money.' It gave me such a turn, because, as I said to him, -nobody wants his money, I'm sure. And it does seem a pity he should -be thinking about money at his time of life. I took my courage in my -'ands. 'You know, Mr. Timothy,' I said, 'my dear mistress'--that's -Miss Forsyte, Mr. Soames, Miss Ann that trained me--'she never -thought about money,' I said, 'it was all character with her.' He -looked at me, I can't tell you how funny, and he said quite dry: -'Nobody wants my character.' Think of his saying a thing like that! -But sometimes he'll say something as sharp and sensible as anything." - -Soames, who had been staring at an old print by the hat-rack, -thinking, 'That's got value!' murmured: "I'll go up and see him, -Smither." - -"Cook's with him," answered Smither above her corsets; "she will be -pleased to see you." - -He mounted slowly, with the thought: 'Shan't care to live to be that -age.' - -On the second floor, he paused, and tapped. The door was opened, and -he saw the round homely face of a woman about sixty. - -"Mr. Soames!" she said: "Why! Mr. Soames!" - -Soames nodded. "All right, Cook!" and entered. - -Timothy was propped up in bed, with his hands joined before his -chest, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where a fly was standing -upside down. Soames stood at the foot of the bed, facing him. - -"Uncle Timothy," he said, raising his voice. "Uncle Timothy!" - -Timothy's eyes left the fly, and levelled themselves on his visitor. -Soames could see his pale tongue passing over his darkish lips. - -"Uncle Timothy," he said again, "is there anything I can do for you? -Is there anything you'd like to say?" - -"Ha!" said Timothy. - -"I've come to look you up and see that everything's all right." - -Timothy nodded. He seemed trying to get used to the apparition -before him. - -"Have you got everything you want?" - -"No," said Timothy. - -"Can I get you anything?" - -"No," said Timothy. - -"I'm Soames, you know; your nephew, Soames Forsyte. Your brother -James' son." - -Timothy nodded. - -"I shall be delighted to do anything I can for you." - -Timothy beckoned. Soames went close to him: - -"You--" said Timothy in a voice which seemed to have outlived tone, -"you tell them all from me--you tell them all--" and his finger -tapped on Soames' arm, "to hold on--hold on--Consols are goin' up," -and he nodded thrice. - -"All right!" said Soames; "I will." - -"Yes," said Timothy, and, fixing his eyes again on the ceiling, he -added: "That fly!" - -Strangely moved, Soames looked at the Cook's pleasant fattish face, -all little puckers from staring at fires. - -"That'll do him a world of good, sir," she said. - -A mutter came from Timothy, but he was clearly speaking to himself, -and Soames went out with the cook. - -"I wish I could make you a pink cream, Mr. Soames, like in old days; -you did so relish them. Good-bye, sir; it has been a pleasure." - -"Take care of him, Cook, he is old." - -And, shaking her crumpled hand, he went down-stairs. Smither was -still taking the air in the doorway. - -"What do you think of him, Mr. Soames?" - -"H'm!" Soames murmured: "He's lost touch." - -"Yes," said Smither, "I was afraid you'd think that coming fresh out -of the world to see him like." - -"Smither," said Soames, "we're all indebted to you." - -"Oh, no, Mr. Soames, don't say that! It's a pleasure--he's such a -wonderful man." - -"Well, good-bye!" said Soames, and got into his taxi. - -'Going up!' he thought; 'going up!' - -Reaching the hotel at Knightsbridge he went to their sitting-room, -and rang for tea. Neither of them were in. And again that sense of -loneliness came over him. These hotels. What monstrous great places -they were now! He could remember when there was nothing bigger than -Long's or Brown's, Morley's or the Tavistock, and the heads that were -shaken over the Langham and the Grand. Hotels and Clubs--Clubs and -Hotels; no end to them now! And Soames, who had just been watching -at Lord's a miracle of tradition and continuity, fell into reverie -over the changes in that London where he had been born five-and-sixty -years before. Whether Consols were going up or not, London had -become a terrific property. No such property in the world, unless it -were New York! There was a lot of hysteria in the papers nowadays; -but any one who, like himself, could remember London sixty years ago, -and see it now, realised the fecundity and elasticity of wealth. -They had only to keep their heads, and go at it steadily. Why! he -remembered cobblestones, and stinking straw on the floor of your cab. -And old Timothy--what could be not have told them, if he had kept his -memory! Things were unsettled, people in a funk or in a hurry, but -here were London and the Thames, and out there the British Empire, -and the ends of the earth. "Consols are goin' up!" He should n't be -a bit surprised. It was the breed that counted. And all that was -bull-dogged in Soames stared for a moment out of his grey eyes, till -diverted by the print of a Victorian picture on the walls. The hotel -had bought three dozen of that little lot! The old hunting or -"Rake's Progress" prints in the old inns were worth looking at--but -this sentimental stuff--well, Victorianism had gone! "Tell them to -hold on!" old Timothy had said. But to what were they to hold on in -this modern welter of the "democratic principle"? Why, even privacy -was threatened! And at the thought that privacy might perish, Soames -pushed back his teacup and went to the window. Fancy owning no more -of Nature than the crowd out there owned of the flowers and trees and -waters of Hyde Park! No, no! Private possession underlay everything -worth having. The world had slipped its sanity a bit, as dogs now -and again at full moon slipped theirs and went off for a night's -rabbiting; but the world, like the dog, knew where its bread was -buttered and its bed warm, and would come back sure enough to the -only home worth having--to private ownership. The world was in its -second childhood for the moment, like old Timothy--eating its titbit -first! - -He heard a sound behind him, and saw that his wife and daughter had -come in. - -"So you're back!" he said. - -Fleur did not answer; she stood for a moment looking at him and her -mother, then passed into her bedroom. Annette poured herself out a -cup of tea. - -"I am going to Paris, to my mother, Soames." "Oh! To your mother?" - -"Yes." - -"For how long?" - -"I do not know." - -"And when are you going?" - -"On Monday." - -Was she really going to her mother? Odd, how indifferent he felt! -Odd, how clearly she had perceived the indifference he would feel so -long as there was no scandal. And suddenly between her and himself -he saw distinctly the face he had seen that afternoon--Irene's. - -"Will you want money?" - -"Thank you; I have enough." - -"Very well. Let us know when you are coming back." - -Annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up through -darkened lashes, said: - -"Shall I give Maman any message?" - -"My regards." - -Annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in -French: - -"What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!" Then rising, she -too left the room. Soames was glad she had spoken it in French--it -seemed to require no dealing with. Again that other face--pale, -dark-eyed, beautiful still! And there stirred far down within him -the ghost of warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of -flaky ash. And Fleur infatuated with her boy! Queer chance! Yet, -was there such a thing as chance? A man went down a street, a brick -fell on his head. Ah! that was chance, no doubt. But this! -"Inherited," his girl had said. She--she was "holding on"! - - - - - - -PART III - - -I - -OLD JOLYON WALKS - - -Twofold impulse had made Jolyon say to his wife at breakfast -"Let's go up to Lord's!" - -"Wanted"--something to abate the anxiety in which those two had lived -during the sixty hours since Jon had brought Fleur down. "Wanted"-- -too, that which might assuage the pangs of memory in one who knew he -might lose them any day! - -Fifty-eight years ago Jolyon had become an Eton boy, for old Jolyon's -whim had been that he should be canonised at the greatest possible -expense. Year after year he had gone to Lord's from Stanhope Gate -with a father whose youth in the eighteen-twenties had been passed -without polish in the game of cricket. Old Jolyon would speak quite -openly of swipes, full tosses, half and three-quarter balls; and -young Jolyon with the guileless snobbery of youth had trembled lest -his sire should be overheard. Only in this supreme matter of cricket -he had been nervous, for his father--in Crimean whiskers then--had -ever impressed him as the beau ideal. Though never canonised -himself, Old Jolyon's natural fastidiousness and balance had saved -him from the errors of the vulgar. How delicious, after howling in a -top hat and a sweltering heat, to go home with his father in a hansom -cab, bathe, dress, and forth to the "Disunion" Club, to dine off -white bait, cutlets, and a tart, and go--two "swells," old and young, -in lavender kid gloves--to the opera or play. And on Sunday, when -the match was over, and his top hat duly broken, down with his father -in a special hansom to the "Crown and Sceptre," and the terrace above -the river--the golden sixties when the world was simple, dandies -glamorous, Democracy not born, and the books of Whyte Melville coming -thick and fast. - -A generation later, with his own boy, Jolly, Harrow-buttonholed with -corn-flowers--by old Jolyon's whim his grandson had been canonised at -a trifle less expense--again Jolyon had experienced the heat and -counter-passions of the day, and come back to the cool and the -strawberry beds of Robin Hill, and billiards after dinner, his boy -making the most heart-breaking flukes and trying to seem languid and -grown-up. Those two days each year he and his son had been alone -together in the world, one on each side--and Democracy just born! - -And so, he had unearthed a grey top hat, borrowed a tiny bit of -light-blue ribbon from Irene, and gingerly, keeping cool, by car and -train and taxi, had reached Lord's Ground. There, beside her in a -lawn-coloured frock with narrow black edges, he had watched the game, -and felt the old thrill stir within him. - -When Soames passed, the day was spoiled. Irene's face was distorted -by compression of the lips. No good to go on sitting here with -Soames or perhaps his daughter recurring in front of them, like -decimals. And he said: - -"Well, dear, if you've had enough--let's go!" - -That evening Jolyon felt exhausted. Not wanting her to see him thus, -he waited till she had begun to play, and stole off to the little -study. He opened the long window for air, and the door, that he -might still hear her music drifting in; and, settled in his father's -old armchair, closed his eyes, with his head against the worn brown -leather. Like that passage of the Cesar Franck Sonata--so had been -his life with her, a divine third movement. And now this business of -Jon's--this bad business! Drifted to the edge of consciousness, he -hardly knew if it were in sleep that he smelled the scent of a cigar, -and seemed to see his father in the blackness before his closed eyes. -That shape formed, went, and formed again; as if in the very chair -where he himself was sitting, he saw his father, black-coated, with. -knees crossed, glasses balanced between thumb and finger; saw the big -white moustaches, and the deep eyes looking up below a dome of -forehead and seeming to search his own, seeming to speak. "Are you -facing it, Jo? It's for you to decide. She's only a woman!" Ah! -how well he knew his father in that phrase; how all the Victorian Age -came up with it! And his answer "No, I've funked it--funked hurting -her and Jon and myself. I've got a heart; I've funked it." But the -old eyes, so much older, so much younger than his own, kept at it; -"It's your wife, your son; your past. Tackle it, my boy!" Was it a -message from walking spirit; or but the instinct of his sire living -on within him? And again came that scent of cigar smoke-from the old -saturated leather. Well! he would tackle it, write to Jon, and put -the whole thing down in black and white! And suddenly he breathed -with difficulty, with a sense of suffocation, as if his heart were -swollen. He got up and went out into the air. The stars were very -bright. He passed along the terrace round the corner of the house, -till, through the window of the music-room, he could see Irene at the -piano, with lamp-light falling on her powdery hair; withdrawn into -herself she seemed, her dark eyes staring straight before her, her -hands idle. Jolyon saw her raise those hands and clasp them over her -breast. 'It's Jon, with her,' he thought; 'all Jon! I'm dying out of -her--it's natural!' - -And, careful not to be seen, he stole back. - -Next day, after a bad night, he sat down to his task. He wrote with -difficulty and many erasures. - - -"MY DEAREST BOY, - -"You are old enough to understand how very difficult it is for elders -to give themselves away to their young. Especially when--like your -mother and myself, though I shall never think of her as anything but -young--their hearts are altogether set on him to whom they must -confess. I cannot say we are conscious of having sinned exactly-- -people in real life very seldom are, I believe--but most persons -would say we had, and at all events our conduct, righteous or not, -has found us out. The truth is, my dear, we both have pasts, which -it is now my task to make known to you, because they so grievously -and deeply affect your future. Many, very many years ago, as far -back indeed as 1883, when she was only twenty, your mother had the -great and lasting misfortune to make an unhappy marriage--no, not -with me, Jon. Without money of her own, and with only a stepmother-- -closely related to Jezebel--she was very unhappy in her home life. -It was Fleur's father that she married, my cousin Soames Forsyte. He -had pursued her very tenaciously and to do him justice was deeply in -love with her. Within a week she knew the fearful mistake she had -made. It was not his fault; it was her error of judgment--her -misfortune." - -So far Jolyon had kept some semblance of irony, but now his subject -carried him away. - -"Jon, I want to explain to you if I can--and it's very hard--how it -is that an unhappy marriage such as this can so easily come about. -You will of course say: 'If she didn't really love him how could she -ever have married him?' You would be right if it were not for one or -two rather terrible considerations. From this initial mistake of -hers all the subsequent trouble, sorrow, and tragedy have come, and -so I must make it clear to you if I can. You see, Jon, in those days -and even to this day--indeed, I don't see, for all the talk of -enlightenment, how it can well be otherwise--most girls are married -ignorant of the sexual side of life. Even if they know what it means -they have not experienced it. That's the crux. It is this actual -lack of experience, whatever verbal knowledge they have, which makes -all the difference and all the trouble. In a vast number of -marriages-and your mother's was one--girls are not and cannot be -certain whether they love the man they marry or not; they do not know -until after that act of union which makes the reality of marriage. -Now, in many, perhaps in most doubtful cases, this act cements and -strengthens the attachment, but in other cases, and your mother's -was one, it is a revelation of mistake, a destruction of such -attraction as there was. There is nothing more tragic in a woman's -life than such a revelation, growing daily, nightly clearer. -Coarse-grained and unthinking people are apt to laugh at such a -mistake, and say, 'What a fuss about nothing!' Narrow and self- -righteous people, only capable of judging the lives of others by -their own, are apt to condemn those who make this tragic error, to -condemn them for life to the dungeons they have made for themselves. -You know the expression: 'She has made her bed, she must lie on it!' -It is a hard-mouthed saying, quite unworthy of a gentleman or lady in -the best sense of those words; and I can use no stronger -condemnation. I have not been what is called a moral man, but I wish -to use no words to you, my dear, which will make you think lightly of -ties or contracts into which you enter. Heaven forbid! But with the -experience of a life behind me I do say that those who condemn the -victims of these tragic mistakes, condemn them and hold out no hands -to help them, are inhuman, or rather they would be if they had the -understanding to know what they are doing. But they haven't! Let -them go! They are as much anathema to me as I, no doubt, am to them. -I have had to say all this, because I am going to put you into a -position to judge your mother, and you are very young, without -experience of what life is. To go on with the story. After three -years of effort to subdue her shrinking--I was going to say her -loathing and it's not too strong a word, for shrinking soon becomes -loathing under such circumstances--three years of what to a -sensitive, beauty-loving nature like your mother's, Jon, was torment, -she met a young man who fell in love with her. He was the architect -of this very house that we live in now, he was building it for her -and Fleur's father to live in, a new prison to hold her, in place of -the one she inhabited with him in London. Perhaps that fact played -some part in what came of it. But in any case she, too, fell in love -with him. I know it's not necessary to explain to you that one does -not precisely choose with whom one will fall in love. It comes. -Very well! It came. I can imagine--though she never said much to me -about it--the struggle that then took place in her, because, Jon, she -was brought up strictly and was not light in her ideas--not at all. -However, this was an overwhelming feeling, and it came to pass that -they loved in deed as well as in thought. Then came a fearful -tragedy. I must tell you of it because if I don't you will never -understand the real situation that you have now to face. The man -whom she had married--Soames Forsyte, the father of Fleur one night, -at the height of her passion for this young man, forcibly reasserted -his rights over her. The next day she met her lover and told him of -it. Whether he committed suicide or whether he was accidentally run -over in his distraction, we never knew; but so it was. Think of your -mother as she was that evening when she heard of his death. I -happened to see her. Your grandfather sent me to help her if I -could. I only just saw her, before the door was shut against me by -her husband. But I have never forgotten her face, I can see it now. -I was not in love with her then, not for twelve years after, but I -have never for gotten. My dear boy--it is not easy to write like -this. But you see, I must. Your mother is wrapped up in you, -utterly, devotedly. I don't wish to write harshly of Soames Forsyte. -I don't think harshly of him. I have long been sorry for him; -perhaps I was sorry even then. As the world judges she was in error, -he within his rights. He loved her--in his way. She was his -property. That is the view he holds of life--of human feelings and -hearts--property. It's not his fault--so was he born. To me it is a -view that has always been abhorrent--so was I born! Knowing you as I -do, I feel it cannot be otherwise than abhorrent to you. Let me go -on with the story. Your mother fled from his house that night; for -twelve years she lived quietly alone without companionship of any -sort, until in 1899 her husband--you see, he was still her husband, -for he did not attempt to divorce her, and she of course had no right -to divorce him--became conscious, it seems, of the want of children, -and commenced a long attempt to induce her to go back to him and give -him a child. I was her trustee then, under your Grandfather's Will, -and I watched this going on. While watching, I became attached to -her, devotedly attached. His pressure increased, till one day she -came to me here and practically put herself under my protection. Her -husband, who was kept informed of all her movements, attempted to -force us apart by bringing a divorce suit, or possibly he really -meant it, I don't know; but anyway our names were publicly joined. -That decided us, and we became united in fact. She was divorced, -married me, and you were born. We have lived in perfect happiness, -at least I have, and I believe your mother also. Soames, soon after -the divorce, married Fleur's mother, and she was born. That is the -story, Jon. I have told it you, because by the affection which we -see you have formed for this man's daughter you are blindly moving -toward what must utterly destroy your mother's happiness, if not your -own. I don't wish to speak of myself, because at my age there's no -use supposing I shall cumber the ground much longer, besides, what I -should suffer would be mainly on her account, and on yours. But what -I want you to realise is that feelings of horror and aversion such as -those can never be buried or forgotten. They are alive in her to-day. -Only yesterday at Lord's we happened to see Soames Forsyte. Her -face, if you had seen it, would have convinced you. The idea that -you should marry his daughter is a nightmare to her, Jon. I have -nothing to say against Fleur save that she is his daughter. But your -children, if you married her, would be the grandchildren of Soames, -as much as of your mother, of a man who once owned your mother as a -man might own a slave. Think what that would mean. By such a -marriage you enter the camp which held your mother prisoner and -wherein she ate her heart out. You are just on the threshold of -life, you have only known this girl two months, and however deeply -you think you love her, I appeal to you to break it off at once. -Don't give your mother this rankling pain and humiliation during the -rest of her life. Young though she will always seem to me, she is -fifty-seven. Except for us two she has no one in the world. She -will soon have only you. Pluck up your spirit, Jon, and break away. -Don't put this cloud and barrier between you. Don't break her heart! -Bless you, my dear boy, and again forgive me for all the pain this -letter must bring you--we tried to spare it you, but Spain--it seems- ---was no good. - -"Ever your devoted father - -"JOLYON FORSYTE." - - -Having finished his confession, Jolyon sat with a thin cheek on his -hand, re-reading. There were things in it which hurt him so much, -when he thought of Jon reading them, that he nearly tore the letter -up. To speak of such things at all to a boy--his own boy--to speak -of them in relation to his own wife and the boy's own mother, seemed -dreadful to the reticence of his Forsyte soul. And yet without -speaking of them how make Jon understand the reality, the deep -cleavage, the ineffaceable scar? Without them, how justify this -stiffing of the boy's love? He might just as well not write at all! - -He folded the confession, and put it in his pocket. It was--thank -Heaven!--Saturday; he had till Sunday evening to think it over; for -even if posted now it could not reach Jon till Monday. He felt a -curious relief at this delay, and at the fact that, whether sent or -not, it was written. - -In the rose garden, which had taken the place of the old fernery, he -could see Irene snipping and pruning, with a little basket on her -arm. She was never idle, it seemed to him, and he envied her now -that he himself was idle nearly all his time. He went down to her. -She held up a stained glove and smiled. A piece of lace tied under -her chin concealed her hair, and her oval face with its still dark -brows looked very young. - -"The green-fly are awful this year, and yet it's cold. You look -tired, Jolyon." - -Jolyon took the confession from his pocket. "I've been writing this. -I think you ought to see it?" - -"To Jon?" Her whole face had changed, in that instant, becoming -almost haggard. - -"Yes; the murder's out." - -He gave it to her, and walked away among the roses. Presently, -seeing that she had finished reading and was standing quite still -with the sheets of the letter against her skirt, he came back to her. - -"Well?" - -"It's wonderfully put. I don't see how it could be put better. -Thank you, dear." - -"Is there anything you would like left out?" - -She shook her head. - -"No; he must know all, if he's to understand." - -"That's what I thought, but--I hate it!" - -He had the feeling that he hated it more than she--to him sex was so -much easier to mention between man and woman than between man and -man; and she had always been more natural and frank, not deeply -secretive like his Forsyte self. - -"I wonder if he will understand, even now, Jolyon? He's so young; -and he shrinks from the physical." - -"He gets that shrinking from my father, he was as fastidious as a -girl in all such matters. Would it be better to rewrite the whole -thing, and just say you hated Soames?" - -Irene shook her head. - -"Hate's only a word. It conveys nothing. No, better as it is." - -"Very well. It shall go to-morrow." - -She raised her face to his, and in sight of the big house's many -creepered windows, he kissed her. - - - - -II - -CONFESSION - - -Late that same afternoon, Jolyon had a nap in the old armchair. -Face down on his knee was La Rotisserie de la Refine Pedauque, and -just before he fell asleep he had been thinking: 'As a people shall -we ever really like the French? Will they ever really like us!' He -himself had always liked the French, feeling at home with their wit, -their taste, their cooking. Irene and he had paid many visits to -France before the War, when Jon had been at his private school. His -romance with her had begun in Paris--his last and most enduring -romance. But the French--no Englishman could like them who could not -see them in some sort with the detached aesthetic eye! And with that -melancholy conclusion he had nodded off. - -When he woke he saw Jon standing between him and the window. The boy -had evidently come in from the garden and was waiting for him to -wake. Jolyon smiled, still half asleep. How nice the chap looked-- -sensitive, affectionate, straight! Then his heart gave a nasty jump; -and a quaking sensation overcame him. Jon! That confession! He -controlled himself with an effort. "Why, Jon, where did you spring -from?" - -Jon bent over and kissed his forehead. - -Only then he noticed the look on the boy's face. - -"I came home to tell you something, Dad." - -With all his might Jolyon tried to get the better of the jumping, -gurgling sensations within his chest. - -"Well, sit down, old man. Have you seen your mother?" - -"No." The boy's flushed look gave place to pallor; he sat down on -the arm of the old chair, as, in old days, Jolyon himself used to sit -beside his own father, installed in its recesses. Right up to the -time of the rupture in their relations he had been wont to perch -there--had he now reached such a moment with his own son? All his -life he had hated scenes like poison, avoided rows, gone on his own -way quietly and let others go on theirs. But now--it seemed--at the -very end of things, he had a scene before him more painful than any -he had avoided. He drew a visor down over his emotion, and waited -for his son to speak. - -"Father," said Jon slowly, "Fleur and I are engaged." - -'Exactly!' thought Jolyon, breathing with difficulty. - -"I know that you and Mother don't like the idea. Fleur says that -Mother was engaged to her father before you married her. Of course I -don't know what happened, but it must be ages ago. I'm devoted to -her, Dad, and she says she is to me." - -Jolyon uttered a queer sound, half laugh, half groan. - -"You are nineteen, Jon, and I am seventy-two. How are we to -understand each other in a matter like this, eh?" - -"You love Mother, Dad; you must know what we feel. It isn't fair to -us to let old things spoil our happiness, is it?" - -Brought face to face with his confession, Jolyon resolved to do -without it if by any means he could. He laid his hand on the boy's -arm. - -"Look, Jon! I might put you off with talk about your both being too -young and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn't -listen, besides, it doesn't meet the case--Youth, unfortunately, -cures itself. You talk lightly about 'old things like that,' knowing -nothing--as you say truly--of what happened. Now, have I ever given -you reason to doubt my love for you, or my word?" - -At a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict -his words aroused--the boy's eager clasp, to reassure him on these -points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring -forth; but he could only feel grateful for the squeeze. - -"Very well, you can believe what I tell you. If you don't give up -this love affair, you will make Mother wretched to the end of her -days. Believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can't be -buried--it can't indeed." - -Jon got off the arm of the chair. - -'The girl'--thought Jolyon--'there she goes--starting up before him-- -life itself--eager, pretty, loving!' - -"I can't, Father; how can I--just because you say that? Of course, I -can't!" - -"Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without -hesitation; you would have to! Can't you believe me?" - -"How can you tell what I should think? Father, I love her better -than anything in the world." - -Jolyon's face twitched, and he said with painful slowness: - -"Better than your mother, Jon?" - -From the boy's face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the -stress and struggle he was going through. - -"I don't know," he burst out, "I don't know! But to give Fleur up -for nothing--for something I don't understand, for something that I -don't believe can really matter half so much, will make me--make me" - -"Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier--yes. But that's better than -going on with this." - -"I can't. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust you; -why don't you trust me, Father? We wouldn't want to know anything-- -we wouldn't let it make any difference. It'll only make us both love -you and Mother all the more." - -Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again -empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth. - -"Think what your mother's been to you, Jon! She has nothing but you; -I shan't last much longer." - -"Why not? It isn't fair to--Why not?" - -"Well," said Jolyon, rather coldly, "because the doctors tell me I -shan't; that's all." - -"Oh, Dad!" cried Jon, and burst into tears. - -This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, -moved Jolyon terribly. He recognised to the full how fearfully soft -the boy's heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and -in life generally. And he reached out his hand helplessly--not -wishing, indeed not daring to get up. - -"Dear man," he said, "don't--or you'll make me!" - -Jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, very -still. - -'What now?' thought Jolyon. 'What can I say to move him?' - -"By the way, don't speak of that to Mother," he said; "she has enough -to frighten her with this affair of yours. I know how you feel. -But, Jon, you know her and me well enough to be sure we wouldn't wish -to spoil your happiness lightly. Why, my dear boy, we don't care for -anything but your happiness--at least, with me it's just yours and -Mother's and with her just yours. It's all the future for you both -that's at stake." - -Jon turned. His face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, -seemed to burn. - -"What is it? What is it? Don't keep me like this!" - -Jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into his -breast pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, -his eyes closed. The thought passed through his mind: 'I've had a -good long innings--some pretty bitter moments--this is the worst!' -Then he brought his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of -fatigue: "Well, Jon, if you hadn't come to-day, I was going to send -you this. I wanted to spare you--I wanted to spare your mother and -myself, but I see it's no good. Read it, and I think I'll go into -the garden." He reached forward to get up. - -Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, "No, I'll go"; and was -gone. - -Jolyon sank back in his chair. A blue-bottle chose that moment to -come buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, -better than nothing.... Where had the boy gone to read his letter? -The wretched letter--the wretched story! A cruel business--cruel to -her--to Soames--to those two children--to himself!... His heart -thumped and pained him. Life--its loves--its work--its beauty--its -aching, and--its end! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; -until--you regretted that you had ever been born. Life--it wore you -down, yet did not make you want to die--that was the cunning evil! -Mistake to have a heart! Again the blue-bottle came buzzing-- -bringing in all the heat and hum and scent of summer--yes, even the -scent--as of ripe fruits, dried grasses, sappy shrubs, and the -vanilla breath of cows. And out there somewhere in the fragrance Jon -would be reading that letter, turning and twisting its pages in his -trouble, his bewilderment and trouble--breaking his heart about it! -The thought made Jolyon acutely miserable. Jon was such a tender- -hearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious, too--it -was so unfair, so damned unfair! He remembered Irene saying to him -once: "Never was any one born more loving and lovable than Jon." -Poor little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all of a summer -afternoon! Youth took things so hard! And stirred, tormented by -that vision of Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of his chair, -and went to the window. The boy was nowhere visible. And he passed -out. If one could take any help to him now--one must! - -He traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden--no Jon! -Nor where the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and -colour. He passed the Cupressus trees, dark and spiral, into the -meadow. Where had the boy got to? Had he rushed down to the -coppice--his old hunting-ground? Jolyon crossed the rows of hay. -They would cock it on Monday and be carrying the day after, if rain -held off. Often they had crossed this field together--hand in hand, -when Jon was a little chap. Dash it! The golden age was over by the -time one was ten! He came to the pond, where flies and gnats were -dancing over a bright reedy surface; and on into the coppice. It was -cool there, fragrant of larches. Still no Jon! He called. No -answer! On the log seat he sat down, nervous, anxious, forgetting -his own physical sensations. He had been wrong to let the -boy get away with that letter; he ought to have kept him under his -eye from the start! Greatly troubled, he got up to retrace his -steps. At the farm-buildings he called again, and looked into the -dark cow-house. There in the cool, and the scent of vanilla and -ammonia, away from flies, the three Alderneys were chewing the quiet -cud; just milked, waiting for evening, to be turned out again into -the lower field. One turned a lazy head, a lustrous eye; Jolyon -could see the slobber on its grey lower lip. He saw everything with -passionate clearness, in the agitation of his nerves--all that in his -time he had adored and tried to paint--wonder of light and shade and -colour. No wonder the legend put Christ into a manger--what more -devotional than the eyes and moon-white horns of a chewing cow in the -warm dusk! He called again. No answer! And he hurried away out of -the coppice, past the pond, up the hill. Oddly ironical--now he came -to think of it--if Jon had taken the gruel of his discovery down in -the coppice where his mother and Bosinney in those old days had made -the plunge of acknowledging their love. Where he himself, on the log -seat the Sunday morning he came back from Paris, had realised to the -full that Irene had become the world to him. That would have been -the place for Irony to tear the veil from before the eyes of Irene's -boy! But he was not here! Where had he got to? One must find the -poor chap! - -A gleam of sun had come, sharpening to his hurrying senses all the -beauty of the afternoon, of the tall trees and lengthening shadows, -of the blue, and the white clouds, the scent of the hay, and the -cooing of the pigeons; and the flower shapes standing tall. He came -to the rosery, and the beauty of the roses in that sudden sunlight -seemed to him unearthly. "Rose, you Spaniard!" Wonderful three -words! There she had stood by that bush of dark red roses; had stood -to read and decide that Jon must know it all! He knew all now! Had -she chosen wrong? He bent and sniffed a rose, its petals brushed his -nose and trembling lips; nothing so soft as a rose-leaf's velvet, -except her neck--Irene! On across the lawn he went, up the slope, to -the oak-tree. Its top alone was glistening, for the sudden sun was -away over the house; the lower shade was thick, blessedly cool--he -was greatly overheated. He paused a minute with his hand on the rope -of the swing--Jolly, Holly--Jon! The old swing! And suddenly, he -felt horribly--deadly ill. 'I've over done it!' he thought: 'by -Jove! I've overdone it--after all!' He staggered up toward the -terrace, dragged himself up the steps, and fell against the wall of -the house. He leaned there gasping, his face buried in the honey- -suckle that he and she had taken such trouble with that it might -sweeten the air which drifted in. Its fragrance mingled with awful -pain. 'My love!' he thought; 'the boy!' And with a great effort he -tottered in through the long window, and sank into old Jolyon's -chair. The book was there, a pencil in it; he caught it up, -scribbled a word on the open page.... His hand dropped.... So it -was like this--was it?... - -There was a great wrench; and darkness.... - - - - -III - -IRENE - - -When Jon rushed away with the letter in his hand, he ran along the -terrace and round the corner of the house, in fear and confusion. -Leaning against the creepered wall he tore open the letter. It was -long--very long! This added to his fear, and he began reading. When -he came to the words: "It was Fleur's father that she married," -everything seemed to spin before him. He was close to a window, and -entering by it, he passed, through music-room and hall, up to his -bedroom. Dipping his face in cold water, he sat on his bed, and went -on reading, dropping each finished page on the bed beside him. His -father's writing was easy to read--he knew it so well, though he had -never had a letter from him one quarter so long. He read with a dull -feeling--imagination only half at work. He best grasped, on that -first reading, the pain his father must have had in writing such a -letter. He let the last sheet fall, and in a sort of mental, moral -helplessness began to read the first again. It all seemed to him -disgusting--dead and disgusting. Then, suddenly, a hot wave of -horrified emotion tingled through him. He buried his face in his -hands. His mother! Fleur's father! He took up the letter again, -and read on mechanically. And again came the feeling that it was all -dead and disgusting; his own love so different! This letter said his -mother--and her father! An awful letter! - -Property! Could there be men who looked on women as their property? -Faces seen in street and countryside came thronging up before him-- -red, stock-fish faces; hard, dull faces; prim, dry faces; violent -faces; hundreds, thousands of them! How could he know what men who -had such faces thought and did? He held his head in his hands and -groaned. His mother! He caught up the letter and read on again: -"horror and aversion-alive in her to-day.... your children.... -grandchildren.... of a man who once owned your mother as a man might -own a slave...." He got up from his bed. This cruel shadowy past, -lurking there to murder his love and Fleur's, was true, or his father -could never have written it. 'Why didn't they tell me the first -thing,' he thought, 'the day I first saw Fleur? They knew "I'd seen -her. They were afraid, and--now--I've--got it!' Overcome by misery -too acute for thought or reason, he crept into a dusky corner of the -room and sat down on the floor. He sat there, like some unhappy -little animal. There was comfort in dusk, and the floor--as if he -were back in those days when he played his battles sprawling all over -it. He sat there huddled, his hair ruffled, his hands clasped round -his knees, for how long he did not know. He was wrenched from his -blank wretchedness by the sound of the door opening from his mother's -room. The blinds were down over the windows of his room, shut up in -his absence, and from where he sat he could only hear a rustle, her -footsteps crossing, till beyond the bed he saw her standing before -his dressing-table. She had something in her hand. He hardly -breathed, hoping she would not see him, and go away. He saw her -touch things on the table as if they had some virtue in them, then -face the window-grey from head to foot like a ghost. The least turn -of her head, and she must see him! Her lips moved: "Oh! Jon!" She -was speaking to herself; the tone of her voice troubled Jon's heart. -He saw in her hand a little photograph. She held it toward the -light, looking at it--very small. He knew it--one of himself as a -tiny boy, which she always kept in her bag. His heart beat fast. -And, suddenly as if she had heard it, she turned her eyes and saw -him. At the gasp she gave, and the movement of her hands pressing -the photograph against her breast, he said: - -"Yes, it's me." - -She moved over to the bed, and sat down on it, quite close to him, -her hands still clasping her breast, her feet among the sheets of the -letter which had slipped to the floor. She saw them, and her hands -grasped the edge of the bed. She sat very upright, her dark eyes -fixed on him. At last she spoke. - -"Well, Jon, you know, I see." - -"Yes." - -"You've seen Father?" - -"Yes." - -There was a long silence, till she said: - -"Oh! my darling!" - -"It's all right." The emotions in him were so, violent and so mixed -that he dared not move--resentment, despair, and yet a strange -yearning for the comfort of her hand on his forehead. - -"What are you going to do?" - -"I don't know." - -There was another long silence, then she got up. She stood a moment, -very still, made a little movement with her hand, and said: "My -darling boy, my most darling boy, don't think of me--think of -yourself," and, passing round the foot of the bed, went back into her -room. - -Jon turned--curled into a sort of ball, as might a hedgehog--into the -corner made by the two walls. - -He must have been twenty minutes there before a cry roused him. It -came from the terrace below. He got up, scared. Again came the cry: -"Jon!" His mother was calling! He ran out and down the stairs, -through the empty dining-room into the study. She was kneeling -before the old armchair, and his father was lying back quite white, -his head on his breast, one of his hands resting on an open book, -with a pencil clutched in it--more strangely still than anything he -had ever seen. She looked round wildly, and said: - -"Oh! Jon--he's dead--he's dead!" - -Jon flung himself down, and reaching over the arm of the chair, where -he had lately been sitting, put his lips to the forehead. Icy cold! -How could--how could Dad be dead, when only an hour ago--! His -mother's arms were round the knees; pressing her breast against them. -"Why--why wasn't I with him?" he heard her whisper. Then he saw the -tottering word "Irene" pencilled on the open page, and broke down -himself. It was his first sight of human death, and its unutterable -stillness blotted from him all other emotion; all else, then, was but -preliminary to this! All love and life, and joy, anxiety, and -sorrow, all movement, light and beauty, but a beginning to this -terrible white stillness. It made a dreadful mark on him; all seemed -suddenly little, futile, short. He mastered himself at last, got up, -and raised her. - -"Mother! don't cry--Mother!" - -Some hours later, when all was done that had to be, and his mother -was lying down, he saw his father alone, on the bed, covered with a -white sheet. He stood for a long time gazing at that face which had -never looked angry--always whimsical, and kind. "To be kind and keep -your end up--there's nothing else in it," he had once heard his -father say. How wonderfully Dad had acted up to that philosophy! He -understood now that his father had known for a long time past that -this would come suddenly--known, and not said a word. He gazed with -an awed and passionate reverence. The loneliness of it--just to -spare his mother and himself! His own trouble seemed small while he -was looking at that face. The word scribbled on the page! The -farewell word! Now his mother had no one but himself! He went up -close to the dead face--not changed at all, and yet completely -changed. He had heard his father say once that he did not believe in -consciousness surviving death, or that if it did it might be just -survival till the natural age limit of the body had been reached--the -natural term of its inherent vitality; so that if the body were -broken by accident, excess, violent disease, consciousness might -still persist till, in the course of Nature uninterfered with, it -would naturally have faded out. It had struck him because he had -never heard any one else suggest it. When the heart failed like -this--surely it was not quite natural! Perhaps his father's -consciousness was in the room with him. Above the bed hung a picture -of his father's father. Perhaps his consciousness, too, was still -alive; and his brother's--his half-brother, who had died in the -Transvaal. Were they all gathered round this bed? Jon kissed the -forehead, and stole back to his own room. The door between it and -his mother's was ajar; she had evidently been in--everything was -ready for him, even some biscuits and hot milk, and the letter no -longer on the floor. He ate and drank, watching the last light fade. -He did not try to see into the future--just stared at the dark -branches of the oak-tree, level with his window, and felt as if life -had stopped. Once in the night, turning in his heavy sleep, he was -conscious of something white and still, beside his bed, and started -up. - -His mother's voice said: - -"It's only I, Jon dear!" Her hand pressed his forehead gently back; -her white figure disappeared. - -Alone! He fell heavily asleep again, and dreamed he saw his mother's -name crawling on his bed. - - - - -IV - -SOAMES COGITATES - - -The announcement in The Times of his cousin Jolyon's death affected -Soames quite simply. So that chap was gone! There had never been a -time in their two lives when love had not been lost between them. -That quick-blooded sentiment hatred had run its course long since in -Soames' heart, and he had refused to allow any recrudescence, but he -considered this early decease a piece of poetic justice. For twenty -years the fellow had enjoyed the reversion of his wife and house, -and--he was dead! The obituary notice, which appeared a little -later, paid Jolyon--he thought--too much attention. It spoke of that -"diligent and agreeable painter whose work we have come to look on as -typical of the best late-Victorian water-colour art." Soames, who -had almost mechanically preferred Mole, Morpin, and Caswell Baye, and -had always sniffed quite audibly when he came to one of his cousin's -on the line, turned The Times with a crackle. - -He had to go up to Town that morning on Forsyte affairs, and was -fully conscious of Gradman's glance sidelong over his spectacles. -The old clerk had about him an aura of regretful congratulation. He -smelled, as it were, of old days. One could almost hear him -thinking: "Mr. Jolyon, ye-es--just my age, and gone--dear, dear! I -dare say she feels it. She was a mice-lookin' woman. Flesh is -flesh! They've given 'im a notice in the papers. Fancy!" His -atmosphere in fact caused Soames to handle certain leases and -conversions with exceptional swiftness. - -"About that settlement on Miss Fleur, Mr. Soames?" - -"I've thought better of that," answered Soames shortly. - -"Ah! I'm glad of that. I thought you were a little hasty. The -times do change." - -How this death would affect Fleur had begun to trouble Soames. He -was not certain that she knew of it--she seldom looked at the paper, -never at the births, marriages, and deaths. - -He pressed matters on, and made his way to Green Street for lunch. -Winifred was almost doleful. Jack Cardigan had broken a splashboard, -so far as one could make out, and would not be "fit" for some time. -She could not get used to the idea. - -"Did Profond ever get off?" he said suddenly. - -"He got off," replied Winifred, "but where--I don't know." - -Yes, there it was--impossible to tell anything! Not that he wanted -to know. Letters from Annette were coming from Dieppe, where she and -her mother were staying. - -"You saw that fellow's death, I suppose?" - -"Yes," said Winifred. "I'm sorry for--for his children. He was very -amiable." Soames uttered a rather queer sound. A suspicion of the -old deep truth--that men were judged in this world rather by what -they were than by what they did--crept and knocked resentfully at the -back doors of his mind. - -"I know there was a superstition to that effect," he muttered. - -"One must do him justice now he's dead." - -"I should like to have done him justice before," said Soames; "but I -never had the chance. Have you got a 'Baronetage' here?" - -"Yes; in that bottom row." - -Soames took out a fat red book, and ran over the leaves. - -"Mont-Sir Lawrence, 9th Bt., cr. 1620, e. s. of Geoffrey, 8th Bt., -and Lavinia, daur. of Sir Charles Muskham, Bt., of Muskham Hall, -Shrops: marr. 1890 Emily, daur. of Conway Charwell, Esq., of -Condaford Grange, co. Oxon; 1 son, heir Michael Conway, b. 1895, 2 -daurs. Residence: Lippinghall Manor, Folwell, Bucks. Clubs: Snooks': -Coffee House: Aeroplane. See BidIicott." - -"H'm!" he said. "Did you ever know a publisher?" - -"Uncle Timothy." - -"Alive, I mean." - -"Monty knew one at his Club. He brought him here to dinner once. -Monty was always thinking of writing a book, you know, about how to -make money on the turf. He tried to interest that man." - -"Well?" - -"He put him on to a horse--for the Two Thousand. We didn't see him -again. He was rather smart, if I remember." - -"Did it win?" - -"No; it ran last, I think. You know Monty really was quite clever in -his way." - -"Was he?" said Soames. "Can you see any connection between a sucking -baronet and publishing?" - -"People do all sorts of things nowadays," replied Winifred. "The -great stunt seems not to be idle--so different from our time. To do -nothing was the thing then. But I suppose it'll come again." - -"This young Mont that I'm speaking of is very sweet on Fleur. If it -would put an end to that other affair I might encourage it." - -"Has he got style?" asked Winifred. - -"He's no beauty; pleasant enough, with some scattered brains. -There's a good deal of land, I believe. He seems genuinely attached. -But I don't know." - -"No," murmured Winifred; "it's--very difficult. I always found it -best to do nothing. It is such a bore about Jack; now we shan't get -away till after Bank Holiday. Well, the people are always amusing, I -shall go into the Park and watch them." - -"If I were you," said Soames, "I should have a country cottage, and -be out of the way of holidays and strikes when you want." - -"The country bores me," answered Winifred, "and I found the railway -strike quite exciting." - -Winifred had always been noted for sang-froid. - -Soames took his leave. All the way down to Reading he debated -whether he should tell Fleur of that boy's father's death. It did -not alter the situation except that he would be independent now, and -only have his mother's opposition to encounter. He would come into a -lot of money, no doubt, and perhaps the house--the house built for -Irene and himself--the house whose architect had wrought his domestic -ruin. His daughter--mistress of that house! That would be poetic -justice! Soames uttered a little mirthless laugh. He had designed -that house to re-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat -of his descendants, if he could have induced Irene to give him one! -Her son and Fleur! Their children would be, in some sort, offspring -of the union between himself and her! - -The theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense. -And yet--it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the -impasse, now that Jolyon was gone. The juncture of two Forsyte -fortunes had a kind of conservative charm. And she--Irene-would be -linked to him once more. Nonsense! Absurd! He put the notion from -his head. - -On arriving home he heard the click of billiard-balls, and through -the window saw young Mont sprawling over the table. Fleur, with her -cue akimbo, was watching with a smile. How pretty she looked! No -wonder that young fellow was out of his mind about her. A title-- -land! There was little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a -title. The old Forsytes had always had a kind of contempt for -titles, rather remote and artificial things--not worth the money they -cost, and having to do with the Court. They had all had that feeling -in differing measure--Soames remembered. Swithin, indeed, in his -most expansive days had once attended a Levee. He had come away -saying he shouldn't go again--"all that small fry." It was suspected -that he had looked too big in knee-breeches. Soames remembered how -his own mother had wished to be presented because of the fashionable -nature of the performance, and how his father had put his foot down -with unwonted decision. What did she want with that peacocking-- -wasting time and money; there was nothing in it! - -The instinct which had made and kept the English Commons the chief -power in the State, a feeling that their own world was good enough -and a little better than any other because it was their world, had -kept the old Forsytes singularly free of "flummery," as Nicholas had -been wont to call it when he had the gout. Soames' generation, more -self-conscious and ironical, had been saved by a sense of Swithin in -knee-breeches. While the third and the fourth generation, as it -seemed to him, laughed at everything. - -However, there was no harm in the young fellow's being heir to a -title and estate--a thing one couldn't help. He entered quietly, as -Mont missed his shot. He noted the young man's eyes, fixed on Fleur -bending over in her turn; and the adoration in them almost touched -him. - -She paused with the cue poised on the bridge of her slim hand, and -shook her crop of short dark chestnut hair. - -"I shall never do it." - -"'Nothing venture.'" - -"All right." The cue struck, the ball rolled. "There!" - -"Bad luck! Never mind!" - -Then they saw him, and Soames said: - -"I'll mark for you." - -He sat down on the raised seat beneath the marker, trim and tired, -furtively studying those two young faces. When the game was over -Mont came up to him. - -"I've started in, sir. Rum game, business, isn't it? I suppose you -saw a lot of human nature as a solicitor." - -"I did." - -"Shall I tell you what I've noticed: People are quite on the wrong -tack in offering less than they can afford to give; they ought to -offer more, and work backward." - -Soames raised his eyebrows. - -"Suppose the more is accepted?" - -"That doesn't matter a little bit," said Mont; "it's much more paying -to abate a price than to increase it. For instance, say we offer an -author good terms--he naturally takes them. Then we go into it, find -we can't publish at a decent profit and tell him so. He's got -confidence in us because we've been generous to him, and he comes -down like a lamb, and bears us no malice. But if we offer him poor -terms at the start, he doesn't take them, so we have to advance them -to get him, and he thinks us damned screws into the bargain. - -"Try buying pictures on that system," said Soames; "an offer accepted -is a contract--haven't you learned that?" - -Young Mont turned his head to where Fleur was standing in the window. - -"No," he said, "I wish I had. Then there's another thing. Always -let a man off a bargain if he wants to be let off." - -"As advertisement?" said Soames dryly. - -"Of course it is; but I meant on principle." - -"Does your firm work on those lines?" - -"Not yet," said Mont, "but it'll come." - -"And they will go." - -"No, really, sir. I'm making any number of observations, and they -all confirm my theory. Human nature is consistently underrated in -business, people do themselves out of an awful lot of pleasure and -profit by that. Of course, you must be perfectly genuine and open, -but that's easy if you feel it. The more human and generous you are -the better chance you've got in business." - -Soames rose. - -"Are you a partner?" - -"Not for six months, yet." - -"The rest of the firm had better make haste and retire." - -Mont laughed. - -"You'll see," he said. "There's going to be a big change. The -possessive principle has got its shutters up." - -"What?" said Soames. - -"The house is to let! Good-bye, sir; I'm off now." - -Soames watched his daughter give her hand, saw her wince at the -squeeze it received, and distinctly heard the young man's sigh as he -passed out. Then she came from the window, trailing her finger along -the mahogany edge of the billiard-table. Watching her, Soames knew -that she was going to ask him something. Her finger felt round the -last pocket, and she looked up. - -"Have you done anything to stop Jon writing to me, Father?" - -Soames shook his head. - -"You haven't seen, then?" he said. "His father died just a week ago -to-day." - -"Oh!" - -In her startled, frowning face he saw the instant struggle to -apprehend what this would mean. - -"Poor Jon! Why didn't you tell me, Father?" - -"I never know!" said Soames slowly; "you don't confide in me." - -"I would, if you'd help me, dear." - -"Perhaps I shall." - -Fleur clasped her hands. "Oh! darling--when one wants a thing -fearfully, one doesn't think of other people. Don't be angry with -me." - -Soames put out his hand, as if pushing away an aspersion. - -"I'm cogitating," he said. What on earth had made him use a word -like that! "Has young Mont been bothering you again?" - -Fleur smiled. "Oh! Michael! He's always bothering; but he's such a -good sort--I don't mind him." - -"Well," said Soames, "I'm tired; I shall go and have a nap before -dinner." - -He went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, and -closed his eyes. A terrible responsibility this girl of his--whose -mother was--ah! what was she? A terrible responsibility! Help her-- -how could he help her? He could not alter the fact that he was her -father. Or that Irene--! What was it young Mont had said--some -nonsense about the possessive instinct--shutters up--To let? Silly! - -The sultry air, charged with a scent of meadow-sweet, of river and -roses, closed on his senses, drowsing them. - - - - -V - -THE FIXED IDEA - - -"The fixed idea," which has outrun more constables than any other form -of human disorder, has never more speed and stamina than when it -takes the avid guise of love. To hedges and ditches, and doors, to -humans without ideas fixed or otherwise, to perambulators and the -contents sucking their fixed ideas, even to the other sufferers from -this fast malady--the fixed idea of love pays no attention. It runs -with eyes turned inward to its own light, oblivious of all other -stars. Those with the fixed ideas that human happiness depends on -their art, on vivisecting dogs, on hating foreigners, on paying -supertax, on remaining Ministers, on making wheels go round, on -preventing their neighbours from being divorced, on conscientious -objection, Greek roots, Church dogma, paradox and superiority to -everybody else, with other forms of ego-mania--all are unstable -compared with him or her whose fixed idea is the possession of some -her or him. And though Fleur, those chilly summer days, pursued the -scattered life of a little Forsyte whose frocks are paid for, and -whose business is pleasure, she was--as Winifred would have said in -the latest fashion of speech--"honest to God" indifferent to it all. -She wished and wished for the moon, which sailed in cold skies above -the river or the Green Park when she went to Town. She even kept -Jon's letters, covered with pink silk, on her heart, than which in -days when corsets were so low, sentiment so despised, and chests so -out of fashion, there could, perhaps, have been no greater proof of -the fixity of her idea. - -After hearing of his father's death, she wrote to Jon, and received -his answer three days later on her return from a river picnic. It -was his first letter since their meeting at June's. She opened it -with misgiving, and read it with dismay. - -"Since I saw you I've heard everything about the past. I won't tell -it you--I think you knew when we met at June's. She says you did. -If you did, Fleur, you ought to have told me. I expect you only -heard your father's side of it. I have heard my mother's. It's -dreadful. Now that she's so sad I can't do anything to hurt her -more. Of course, I long for you all day, but I don't believe now -that we shall ever come together--there's something too strong -pulling us apart." - -So! Her deception had found her out. But Jon--she felt--had -forgiven that. It was what he said of his mother which caused the -guttering in her heart and the weak sensation in her legs. - -Her first impulse was to reply--her second, not to reply. These -impulses were constantly renewed in the days which followed, while -desperation grew within her. She was not her father's child for -nothing. The tenacity which had at once made and undone Soames was -her backbone, too, frilled and embroidered by French grace and -quickness. Instinctively she conjugated the verb "to have" always -with the pronoun "I." She concealed, however, all signs of her -growing desperation, and pursued such river pleasures as the winds -and rain of a disagreeable July permitted, as if she had no care in -the world; nor did any "sucking baronet" ever neglect the business of -a publisher more consistently than her attendant spirit, Michael -Mont. - -To Soames she was a puzzle. He was almost deceived by this careless -gaiety. Almost--because he did not fail to mark her eyes often fixed -on nothing, and the film of light shining from her bedroom window -late at night. What was she thinking and brooding over into small -hours when she ought to have been asleep? But he dared not ask what -was in her mind; and, since that one little talk in the billiard- -room, she said nothing to him. - -In this taciturn condition of affairs it chanced that Winifred -invited them to lunch and to go afterward to "a most amusing little -play, 'The Beggar's Opera'" and would they bring a man to make four? -Soames, whose attitude toward theatres was to go to nothing, -accepted, because Fleur's attitude was to go to everything. They -motored up, taking Michael Mont, who, being in his seventh heaven, -was found by Winifred "very amusing." "The Beggar's Opera" puzzled -Soames. The people were very unpleasant, the whole thing very -cynical. Winifred was "intrigued"--by the dresses. The music, too, -did not displease her. At the Opera, the night before, she had -arrived too early for the Russian Ballet, and found the stage -occupied by singers, for a whole hour pale or apoplectic from terror -lest by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune. -Michael Mont was enraptured with the whole thing. And all three -wondered what Fleur was thinking of it. But Fleur was not thinking -of it. Her fixed idea stood on the stage and sang with Polly -Peachum, mimed with Filch, danced with Jenny Diver, postured with -Lucy Lockit, kissed, trolled, and cuddled with Macheath. Her lips -might smile, her hands applaud, but the comic old masterpiece made no -more impression on her than if it had been pathetic, like a modern -"Revue." When they embarked in the car to return, she ached because -Jon was not sitting next her instead of Michael Mont. When, at some -jolt, the young man's arm touched hers as if by accident, she only -thought: 'If that were Jon's arm!' When his cheerful voice, tempered -by her proximity, murmured above the sound of the car's progress, she -smiled and answered, thinking: 'If that were Jon's voice!' and when -once he said, "Fleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!" she -answered, "Oh, do you like it? thinking, 'If only Jon could see it!' - -During this drive she took a resolution. She would go to Robin Hill -and see him--alone; she would take the car, without word beforehand -to him or to her father. It was nine days since his letter, and she -could wait no longer. On Monday she would go! The decision made her -well disposed toward young Mont. With something to look forward to -she could afford to tolerate and respond. He might stay to dinner; -propose to her as usual; dance with her, press her hand, sigh--do -what he liked. He was only a nuisance when he interfered with her -fixed idea. She was even sorry for him so far as it was possible to -be sorry for anybody but herself just now. At dinner he seemed to -talk more wildly than usual about what he called "the death of the -close borough"--she paid little attention, but her father seemed -paying a good deal, with the smile on his face which meant -opposition, if not anger. - -"The younger generation doesn't think as you do, sir; does it, -Fleur?" - -Fleur shrugged her shoulders--the younger generation was just Jon, -and she did not know what he was thinking. - -"Young people will think as I do when they're my age, Mr. Mont. -Human nature doesn't change." - -"I admit that, sir; but the forms of thought change with the times. -The pursuit of self-interest is a form of thought that's going out." - -"Indeed! To mind one's own business is not a form of thought, Mr. -Mont, it's an instinct." - -Yes, when Jon was the business! - -"But what is one's business, sir? That's the point. Everybody's -business is going to be one's business. Isn't it, Fleur?" - -Fleur only smiled. - -"If not," added young Mont, "there'll be blood." - -"People have talked like that from time immemorial" - -"But you'll admit, sir, that the sense of property is dying out?" - -"I should say increasing among those who have none." - -"Well, look at me! I'm heir to an entailed estate. I don't want the -thing; I'd cut the entail to-morrow." - -"You're not married, and you don't know what you're talking about." - -Fleur saw the young man's eyes turn rather piteously upon her. - -"Do you really mean that marriage--?" he began. - -"Society is built on marriage," came from between her father's close -lips; "marriage and its consequences. Do you want to do away with -it?" - -Young Mont made a distracted gesture. Silence brooded over the -dinner table, covered with spoons bearing the Forsyte crest--a -pheasant proper--under the electric light in an alabaster globe. And -outside, the river evening darkened, charged with heavy moisture and -sweet scents. - -'Monday,' thought Fleur; 'Monday!' - - - - -VI - -DESPERATE - - -The weeks which followed the death of his father were sad and empty -to the only Jolyon Forsyte left. The necessary forms and ceremonies- --the reading of the Will, valuation of the estate, distribution of -the legacies--were enacted over the head, as it were, of one not yet -of age. Jolyon was cremated. By his special wish no one attended -that ceremony, or wore black for him. The succession of his -property, controlled to some extent by old Jolyon's Will, left his -widow in possession of Robin Hill, with two thousand five hundred -pounds a year for life. Apart from this the two Wills worked -together in some complicated way to insure that each of Jolyon's -three children should have an equal share in their grandfather's and -father's property in the future as in the present, save only that -Jon, by virtue of his sex, would have control of his capital when he -was twenty-one, while June and Holly would only have the spirit of -theirs, in order that their children might have the body after them. -If they had no children, it would all come to Jon if he outlived -them; and since June was fifty, and Holly nearly forty, it was -considered in Lincoln's Inn Fields that but for the cruelty of income -tax, young Jon would be as warm a man as his grandfather when he -died. All this was nothing to Jon, and little enough to his mother. -It was June who did everything needful for one who had left his -affairs in perfect order. When she had gone, and those two were -alone again in the great house, alone with death drawing them -together, and love driving them apart, Jon passed very painful days -secretly disgusted and disappointed with himself. His mother would -look at him with such a patient sadness which yet had in it an -instinctive pride, as if she were reserving her defence. If she -smiled he was angry that his answering smile should be so grudging -and unnatural. He did not judge or condemn her; that was all too -remote--indeed, the idea of doing so had never come to him. No! he -was grudging and unnatural because he couldn't have what he wanted be -cause of her. There was one alleviation--much to do in connection -with his father's career, which could not be safely entrusted to -June, though she had offered to undertake it. Both Jon and his -mother had felt that if she took his portfolios, unexhibited drawings -and unfinished matter, away with her, the work would encounter such -icy blasts from Paul Post and other frequenters of her studio, that -it would soon be frozen out even of her warm heart. On its old- -fashioned plane and of its kind the work was good, and they could not -bear the thought of its subjection to ridicule. A one-man exhibition -of his work was the least testimony they could pay to one they had -loved; and on preparation for this they spent many hours together. -Jon came to have a curiously increased respect for his father. The -quiet tenacity with which he had converted a mediocre talent into -something really individual was disclosed by these researches. There -was a great mass of work with a rare continuity of growth in depth -and reach of vision. Nothing certainly went very deep, or reached -very high--but such as the work was, it was thorough, conscientious, -and complete. And, remembering his father's utter absence of "side" -or self-assertion, the chaffing humility with which he had always -spoken of his own efforts, ever calling himself "an amateur," Jon -could not help feeling that he had never really known his father. To - take himself seriously, yet never bore others by letting them know -that he did so, seemed to have been his ruling principle. There was -something in this which appealed to the boy, and made him heartily -endorse his mother's comment: "He had true refinement; he couldn't -help thinking of others, whatever he did. And when he took a -resolution which went counter, he did it with the minimum of -defiance--not like the Age, is it? Twice in his life he had to go -against everything; and yet it never made him bitter." Jon saw tears -running down her face, which she at once turned away from him. She -was so quiet about her loss that sometimes he had thought she didn't -feel it much. Now, as he looked at her, he felt how far he fell -short of the reserve power and dignity in both his father and his -mother. And, stealing up to her, he put his arm round her waist. -She kissed him swiftly, but with a sort of passion, and went out of -the room. - -The studio, where they had been sorting and labelling, had once been -Holly's schoolroom, devoted to her silkworms, dried lavender, music, -and other forms of instruction. Now, at the end of July, despite its -northern and eastern aspects, a warm and slumberous air came in -between the long-faded lilac linen curtains. To redeem a little the -departed glory, as of a field that is golden and gone, clinging to a -room which its master has left, Irene had placed on the paint-stained -table a bowl of red roses. This, and Jolyon's favourite cat, who -still clung to the deserted habitat, were the pleasant spots in that -dishevelled, sad workroom. Jon, at the north window, sniffing air -mysteriously scented with warm strawberries, heard a car drive up. -The lawyers again about some nonsense! Why did that scent so make -one ache? And where did it come from--there were no strawberry beds -on this side of the house. Instinctively he took a crumpled sheet of -paper from his pocket, and wrote down some broken words. A warmth -began spreading in his chest; he rubbed the palms of his hands -together. Presently he had jotted this: - -"If I could make a little song -A little song to soothe my heart! -I'd make it all of little things -The plash of water, rub of wings, -The puffing-off of dandies crown, -The hiss of raindrop spilling down, -The purr of cat, the trill of bird, -And ev'ry whispering I've heard -From willy wind in leaves and grass, -And all the distant drones that pass. -A song as tender and as light -As flower, or butterfly in flight; -And when I saw it opening, -I'd let it fly and sing!" - -He was still muttering it over to himself at the window, when he -heard his name called, and, turning round, saw Fleur. At that -amazing apparition, he made at first no movement and no sound, while -her clear vivid glance ravished his heart. Then he went forward to -the table, saying, "How nice of you to come!" and saw her flinch as -if he had thrown something at her. - -"I asked for you," she said, "and they showed me up here. But I can -go away again." - -Jon clutched the paint-stained table. Her face and figure in its -frilly frock photographed itself with such startling vividness upon -his eyes, that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have -seen her. - -"I know I told you a lie, Jon. But I told it out of love." - -"Yes, oh! yes! That's nothing!" - -"I didn't answer your letter. What was the use--there wasn't -anything to answer. I wanted to see you instead." She held out both -her hands, and Jon grasped them across the table. He tried to say -something, but all his attention was given to trying not to hurt her -hands. His own felt so hard and hers so soft. She said almost -defiantly: - -"That old story--was it so very dreadful?" - -"Yes." In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance. - -She dragged her hands away. "I didn't think in these days boys were -tied to their mothers' apron-strings." - -Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck. - -"Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!" Swiftly -she came close to him. "Jon, dear; I didn't mean it." - -"All right." - -She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on -them; the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. -But, in a sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of his -shoulder and drew away. - -"Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never thought you'd have -given me up." - -"I haven't," cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. "I can't. I'll try -again." - -Her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. "Jon--I love you! Don't -give me up! If you do, I don't know what--I feel so desperate. What -does it matter--all that past-compared with this?" - -She clung to him. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. But -while he kissed her he saw, the sheets of that letter fallen down on -the floor of his bedroom--his father's white dead face--his mother -kneeling before it. Fleur's whispered, "Make her! Promise! Oh! Jon, -try!" seemed childish in his ear. He felt curiously old. - -"I promise!" he muttered. "Only, you don't understand." - -"She wants to spoil our lives, just because--" - -"Yes, of what?" - -Again that challenge in his voice, and she did not answer. Her arms -tightened round him, and he returned her kisses; but even while he -yielded, the poison worked in him, the poison of the letter. Fleur -did not know, she did not understand--she misjudged his mother; she -came from the enemy's camp! So lovely, and he loved her so--yet, -even in her embrace, he could not help the memory of Holly's words: -"I think she has a 'having' nature," and his mother's "My darling -boy, don't think of me--think of yourself!" - -When she was gone like a passionate dream, leaving her image on his -eyes, her kisses on his lips, such an ache in his heart, Jon leaned -in the window, listening to the car bearing her away. Still the -scent as of warm strawberries, still the little summer sounds that -should make his song; still all the promise of youth and happiness in -sighing, floating, fluttering July--and his heart torn; yearning -strong in him; hope high in him yet with its eyes cast down, as if -ashamed. The miserable task before him! If Fleur was desperate, so -was he--watching the poplars swaying, the white clouds passing, the -sunlight on the grass. - -He waited till evening, till after their almost silent dinner, till -his mother had played to him and still he waited, feeling that she -knew what he was waiting to say. She kissed him and went up-stairs, -and still he lingered, watching the moonlight and the moths, and that -unreality of colouring which steals along and stains a summer night. -And he would have given anything to be back again in the past--barely -three months back; or away forward, years, in the future. The -present with this dark cruelty of a decision, one way or the other, -seemed impossible. He realised now so much more keenly what his -mother felt than he had at first; as if the story in that letter had -been a poisonous germ producing a kind of fever of partisanship, so -that he really felt there were two camps, his mother's and his-- -Fleur's and her father's. It might be a dead thing, that old tragic -ownership and enmity, but dead things were poisonous till time had -cleaned them away. Even his love felt tainted, less illusioned, more -of the earth, and with a treacherous lurking doubt lest Fleur, like -her father, might want to own; not articulate, just a stealing haunt, -horribly unworthy, which crept in and about the ardour of his -memories, touched with its tarnishing breath the vividness and grace -of that charmed face and figure--a doubt, not real enough to convince -him of its presence, just real enough to deflower a perfect faith. -And perfect faith, to Jon, not yet twenty, was essential. He still -had Youth's eagerness to give with both hands, to take with neither-- -to give lovingly to one who had his own impulsive generosity. Surely -she had! He got up from the window-seat and roamed in the big grey -ghostly room, whose walls were hung with silvered canvas. This house -his father said in that death-bed letter--had been built for his -mother to live in--with Fleur's father! He put out his hand in the -half-dark, as if to grasp the shadowy hand of the dead. He clenched, -trying to feel the thin vanished fingers of his father; to squeeze -them, and reassure him that he-he was on his father's side. Tears, -prisoned within him, made his eyes feel dry and hot. He went back to -the window. It was warmer, not so eerie, more comforting outside, -where the moon hung golden, three days off full; the freedom of the -night was comforting. If only Fleur and he had met on some desert -island without a past--and Nature for their house! Jon had still his -high regard for desert islands, where breadfruit grew, and the water -was blue above the coral. The night was deep, was free--there was -enticement in it; a lure, a promise, a refuge from entanglement, and -love! Milksop tied to his mother's...! His cheeks burned. He shut -the window, drew curtains over it, switched off the lighted sconce, -and went up-stairs. - -The door of his room was open, the light turned up; his mother, still -in her evening gown, was standing at the window. She turned and -said: - -"Sit down, Jon; let's talk." She sat down on the window-seat, Jon on -his bed. She had her profile turned to him, and the beauty and grace -of her figure, the delicate line of the brow, the nose, the neck, the -strange and as it were remote refinement of her, moved him. His -mother never belonged to her surroundings. She came into them from -somewhere--as it were! What was she going to say to him, who had in -his heart such things to say to her? - -"I know Fleur came to-day. I'm not surprised." It was as though she -had added: "She is her father's daughter!" And Jon's heart hardened. -Irene went on quietly: - -"I have Father's letter. I picked it up that night and kept it. -Would you like it back, dear?" - -Jon shook his head. - -"I had read it, of course, before he gave it to you. It didn't quite -do justice to my criminality." - -'Mother!" burst from Jon's lips. - -"He put it very sweetly, but I know that in marrying Fleur's father -without love I did a dreadful thing. An unhappy marriage, Jon, can -play such havoc with other lives besides one's own. You are -fearfully young, my darling, and fearfully loving. Do you think you -can possibly be happy with this girl?" - -Staring at her dark eyes, darker now from pain, Jon answered - -"Yes; oh! yes--if you could be." - -Irene smiled. - -"Admiration of beauty and longing for possession are not love. If -yours were another case like mine, Jon--where the deepest things are -stifled; the flesh joined, and the spirit at war!" - -"Why should it, Mother? You think she must be like her father, but -she's not. I've seen him." - -Again the smile came on Irene's lips, and in Jon something wavered; -there was such irony and experience in that smile. - -"You are a giver, Jon; she is a taker." - -That unworthy doubt, that haunting uncertainty again! He said with -vehemence: - -"She isn't--she isn't. It's only because I can't bear to make you -unhappy, Mother, now that Father--" He thrust his fists against his -forehead. - -Irene got up. - -"I told you that night, dear, not to mind me. I meant it. Think of -yourself and your own happiness! I can stand what's left--I've -brought it on myself." - -Again the word "Mother!" burst from Jon's lips. - -She came over to him and put her hands over his. - -"Do you feel your head, darling?" - -Jon shook it. What he felt was in his chest--a sort of tearing -asunder of the tissue there, by the two loves. - -"I shall always love you the same, Jon, whatever you do. You won't -lose anything." She smoothed his hair gently, and walked away. - -He heard the door shut; and, rolling over on the bed, lay, stifling -his breath, with an awful held-up feeling within him. - - - - -VII - -EMBASSY - - -Enquiring for her at tea time Soames learned that Fleur had been out -in the car since two. Three hours! Where had she gone? Up to -London without a word to him? He had never become quite reconciled -with cars. He had embraced them in principle--like the born -empiricist, or Forsyte, that he was--adopting each symptom of -progress as it came along with: "Well, we couldn't do without them -now." But in fact he found them tearing, great, smelly things. -Obliged by Annette to have one--a Rollhard with pearl-grey cushions, -electric light, little mirrors, trays for the ashes of cigarettes, -flower vases--all smelling of petrol and stephanotis--he regarded it -much as he used to regard his brother-in-law, Montague Dartie. The -thing typified all that was fast, insecure, and subcutaneously oily -in modern life. As modern life became faster, looser, younger, -Soames was becoming older, slower, tighter, more and more in thought -and language like his father James before him. He was almost aware -of it himself. Pace and progress pleased him less and less; there -was an ostentation, too, about a car which he considered provocative -in the prevailing mood of Labour. On one occasion that fellow Sims -had driven over the only vested interest of a working man. Soames -had not forgotten the behaviour of its master, when not many people -would have stopped to put up with it. He had been sorry for the dog, -and quite prepared to take its part against the car, if that ruffian -hadn't been so outrageous. With four hours fast becoming five, and -still no Fleur, all the old car-wise feelings he had experienced in -person and by proxy balled within him, and sinking sensations -troubled the pit of his stomach. At seven he telephoned to Winifred -by trunk call. No! Fleur had not been to Green Street. Then where -was she? Visions of his beloved daughter rolled up in her pretty -frills, all blood and dust-stained, in some hideous catastrophe, -began to haunt him. He went to her room and spied among her things. -She had taken nothing--no dressing-case, no Jewellery. And this, a -relief in one sense, increased his fears of an accident. Terrible to -be helpless when his loved one was missing, especially when he -couldn't bear fuss or publicity of any kind! What should he do if -she were not back by nightfall? - -At a quarter to eight he heard the car. A great weight lifted from -off his heart; he hurried down. She was getting out--pale and tired- -looking, but nothing wrong. He met her in the hall. - -"You've frightened me. Where have you been?" - -"To Robin Hill. I'm sorry, dear. I had to go; I'll tell you -afterward." And, with a flying kiss, she ran up-stairs. - -Soames waited in the drawing-room. To Robin Hill! What did that -portend? - -It was not a subject they could discuss at dinner--consecrated to the -susceptibilities of the butler. The agony of nerves Soames had been -through, the relief he felt at her safety, softened his power to -condemn what she had done, or resist what she was going to do; he -waited in a relaxed stupor for her revelation. Life was a queer -business. There he was at sixty-five and no more in command of -things than if he had not spent forty years in building up security- -always something one couldn't get on terms with! In the pocket of -his dinner-jacket was a letter from Annette. She was coming back in -a fortnight. He knew nothing of what she had been doing out there. -And he was glad that he did not. Her absence had been a relief. Out -of sight was out of mind! And now she was coming back. Another -worry! And the Bolderby Old Crome was gone--Dumetrius had got it-- -all because that anonymous letter had put it out of his thoughts. He -furtively remarked the strained look on his daughter's face, as if -she too were gazing at a picture that she couldn't buy. He almost -wished the War back. Worries didn't seem, then, quite so worrying. -From the caress in her voice, the look on her face, he became certain -that she wanted something from him, uncertain whether it would be -wise of him to give it her. He pushed his savoury away uneaten, and -even joined her in a cigarette. - -After dinner she set the electric piano-player going. And he augured -the worst when she sat down on a cushion footstool at his knee, and -put her hand on his. - -"Darling, be nice to me. I had to see Jon--he wrote to me. He's -going to try what he can do with his mother. But I've been thinking. -It's really in your hands, Father. If you'd persuade her that it -doesn't mean renewing the past in any way! That I shall stay yours, -and Jon will stay hers; that you need never see him or her, and she -need never see you or me! Only you could persuade her, dear, because -only you could promise. One can't promise for other people. Surely -it wouldn't be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that -Jon's father is dead?" - -"Too awkward?" Soames repeated. "The whole thing's preposterous." - -"You know," said Fleur, without looking up, "you wouldn't mind seeing -her, really." - -Soames was silent. Her words had expressed a truth too deep for him -to admit. She slipped her fingers between his own--hot, slim, eager, -they clung there. This child of his would corkscrew her way into a -brick wall! - -"What am I to do if you won't, Father?" she said very softly. - -"I'll do anything for your happiness," said Soanies; "but this isn't -for your happiness." - -"Oh! it is; it is!" - -"It'll only stir things up," he said grimly. - -"But they are stirred up. The thing is to quiet them. To make her -feel that this is just our lives, and has nothing to do with yours or -hers. You can do it, Father, I know you can." - -"You know a great deal, then," was Soames' glum answer. - -"If you will, Jon and I will wait a year--two years if you like." - -"It seems to me," murmured Soames, "that you care nothing about what -I feel." - -Fleur pressed his hand against her cheek. - -"I do, darling. But you wouldn't like me to be awfully miserable." - -How she wheedled to get her ends! And trying with all his might to -think she really cared for him--he was not sure--not sure. All she -cared for was this boy! Why should he help her to get this boy, who -was killing her affection for himself? Why should he? By the laws -of the Forsytes it was foolish! There was nothing to be had out of -it--nothing! To give her to that boy! To pass her into the enemy's -camp, under the influence of the woman who had injured him so deeply! -Slowly--inevitably--he would lose this flower of his life! And -suddenly he was conscious that his hand was wet. His heart gave a -little painful jump. He couldn't bear her to cry. He put his other -hand quickly over hers, and a tear dropped on that, too. He couldn't -go on like this! "Well, well," he said, "I'll think it over, and do -what I can. Come, come!" If she must have it for her happiness--she -must; he couldn't refuse to help her. And lest she should begin to -thank him he got out of his chair and went up to the piano-player-- -making that noise! It ran down, as he reached it, with a faint buzz. -That musical box of his nursery days: "The Harmonious Blacksmith," -"Glorious Port"--the thing had always made him miserable when his -mother set it going on Sunday afternoons. Here it was again--the -same thing, only larger, more expensive, and now it played "The Wild, -Wild Women," and "The Policeman's Holiday," and he was no longer in -black velvet with a sky blue collar. 'Profond's right,' he thought, -'there's nothing in it! We're all progressing to the grave!' And -with that surprising mental comment he walked out. - -He did not see Fleur again that night. But, at breakfast, her eyes -followed him about with an appeal he could not escape--not that he -intended to try. No! He had made up his mind to the nerve-racking -business. He would go to Robin Hill--to that house of memories. -Pleasant memory--the last! Of going down to keep that boy's father -and Irene apart by threatening divorce. He had often thought, since, -that it had clinched their union. And, now, he was going to clinch -the union of that boy with his girl. 'I don't know what I've done,' -he thought, 'to have such things thrust on me!' He went up by train -and down by train, and from the station walked by the long rising -lane, still very much as he remembered it over thirty years ago. -Funny--so near London! Some one evidently was holding on to the land -there. This speculation soothed him, moving between the high hedges -slowly, so as not to get overheated, though the day was chill enough. -After all was said and done there was something real about land, it -didn't shift. Land, and good pictures! The values might fluctuate a -bit, but on the whole they were always going up--worth holding on to, -in a world where there was such a lot of unreality, cheap building, -changing fashions, such a "Here to-day and gone to-morrow" spirit. -The French were right, perhaps, with their peasant proprietorship, -though he had no opinion of the French. One's bit of land! -Something solid in it! He had heard peasant proprietors described as -a pig-headed lot; had heard young Mont call his father a pigheaded -Morning Poster--disrespectful young devil. Well, there were worse -things than being pig-headed or reading the Morning Post. There was -Profond and his tribe, and all these Labour chaps, and loud-mouthed -politicians and 'wild, wild women'! A lot of worse things! And -suddenly Soames became conscious of feeling weak, and hot, and shaky. -Sheer nerves at the meeting before him! As Aunt Juley might have -said--quoting "Superior Dosset"--his nerves were "in a proper -fautigue." He could see the house now among its trees, the house he -had watched being built, intending it for himself and this woman, -who, by such strange fate, had lived in it with another after all! -He began to think of Dumetrius, Local Loans, and other forms of -investment. He could not afford to meet her with his nerves all -shaking; he who represented the Day of Judgment for her on earth as -it was in heaven; he, legal ownership, personified, meeting lawless -beauty, incarnate. His dignity demanded impassivity during this -embassy designed to link their offspring, who, if she had behaved -herself, would have been brother and sister. That wretched tune, -"The Wild, Wild Women," kept running in his head, perversely, for -tunes did not run there as a rule. Passing the poplars in front of -the house, he thought: 'How they've grown; I had them planted!' -A maid answered his ring. - -"Will you say--Mr. Forsyte, on a very special matter." - -If she realised who he was, quite probably she would not see him. -'By George!' he thought, hardening as the tug came. 'It's a topsy- -turvy affair!' - -The maid came back. "Would the gentleman state his business, -please?" - -"Say it concerns Mr. Jon," said Soames. - -And once more he was alone in that hall with the pool of grey-white -marble designed by her first lover. Ah! she had been a bad lot--had -loved two men, and not himself! He must remember that when he came -face to face with her once more. And suddenly he saw her in the -opening chink between the long heavy purple curtains, swaying, as if -in hesitation; the old perfect poise and line, the old startled dark- -eyed gravity, the old calm defensive voice: "Will you come in, -please?" - -He passed through that opening. As in the picture-gallery and the -confectioner's shop, she seemed to him still beautiful. And this was -the first time--the very first--since he married her seven-and-thirty -years ago, that he was speaking to her without the legal right to -call her his. She was not wearing black--one of that fellow's -radical notions, he supposed. - -"I apologise for coming," he said glumly; "but this business must be -settled one way or the other." - -"Won't you sit down?" - -"No, thank you." - -Anger at his false position, impatience of ceremony between them, -mastered him, and words came tumbling out: - -"It's an infernal mischance; I've done my best to discourage it. I -consider my daughter crazy, but I've got into the habit of indulging -her; that's why I'm here. I suppose you're fond of your son." - -"Devotedly." - -"Well?" - -"It rests with him." - -He had a sense of being met and baffled. Always--always she had -baffled him, even in those old first married days. - -"It's a mad notion," he said. - -"It is." - -"If you had only--! Well--they might have been--" he did not finish -that sentence "brother and sister and all this saved," but he saw her -shudder as if he had, and stung by the sight he crossed over to the -window. Out there the trees had not grown--they couldn't, they were -old - -"So far as I'm concerned," he said, "you may make your mind easy. I -desire to see neither you nor your son if this marriage comes about. -Young people in these days are--are unaccountable. But I can't bear -to see my daughter unhappy. What am I to say to her when I go back?" - -"Please say to her as I said to you, that it rests with Jon." - -"You don't oppose it?" - -"With all my heart; not with my lips." - -Soames stood, biting his finger. - -"I remember an evening--" he said suddenly; and was silent. What was -there--what was there in this woman that would not fit into the four -corners of his hate or condemnation? "Where is he--your son?" - -"Up in his father's studio, I think." - -"Perhaps you'd have him down." - -He watched her ring the bell, he watched the maid come in. - -"Please tell Mr. Jon that I want him." - -"If it rests with him," said Soames hurriedly, when the maid was -gone, "I suppose I may take it for granted that this unnatural -marriage will take place; in that case there'll be formalities. Whom -do I deal with--Herring's?" - -Irene nodded. - -"You don't propose to live with them?" - -Irene shook her head. - -"What happens to this house?" - -"It will be as Jon wishes." - -"This house," said Soames suddenly: "I had hopes when I began it. If -they live in it--their children! They say there's such a thing as -Nemesis. Do you believe in it?" - -"Yes." - -"Oh! You do!" - -He had come back from the window, and was standing close to her, who, -in the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed. - -"I'm not likely to see you again," he said slowly. "Will you shake -hands"--his lip quivered, the words came out jerkily--"and let the -past die." He held out his hand. Her pale face grew paler, her eyes -so dark, rested immovably on his, her hands remained clasped in front -of her. He heard a sound and turned. That boy was standing in the -opening of the curtains. Very queer he looked, hardly recognisable -as the young fellow he had seen in the Gallery off Cork Street--very -queer; much older, no youth in the face at all--haggard, rigid, his -hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head. Soames made an effort, and -said with a lift of his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer: - -"Well, young man! I'm here for my daughter; it rests with you, it -seems--this matter. Your mother leaves it in your hands." - -The boy continued staring at his mother's face, and made no answer. - -"For my daughter's sake I've brought myself to come," said Soames. -"What am I to say to her when I go back?" - -Still looking at his mother, the boy said, quietly: - -"Tell Fleur that it's no good, please; I must do as my father wished -before he died." - -"Jon!" - -"It's all right, Mother." - -In a kind of stupefaction Soames looked from one to the other; then, -taking up hat and umbrella which he had put down on a chair, he -walked toward the curtains. The boy stood aside for him to go by. -He passed through and heard the grate of the rings as the curtains -were drawn behind him. The sound liberated something in his chest. - -'So that's that!' he thought, and passed out of the front door. - - - - -VIII - -THE DARK TUNE - - -As Soames walked away from the house at Robin Hill the sun broke -through the grey of that chill afternoon, in smoky radiance. So -absorbed in landscape painting that he seldom looked seriously for -effects of Nature out of doors--he was struck by that moody -effulgence--it mourned with a triumph suited to his own feeling. -Victory in defeat. His embassy had come to naught. But he was rid -of those people, had regained his daughter at the expense of--her -happiness. What would Fleur say to him? Would she believe he had -done his best? And under that sunlight faring on the elms, hazels, -hollies of the lane and those unexploited fields, Soames felt dread. -She would be terribly upset! He must appeal to her pride. That boy -had given her up, declared part and lot with the woman who so long -ago had given her father up! Soames clenched his hands. Given him -up, and why? What had been wrong with him? And once more he felt -the malaise of one who contemplates himself as seen by another--like -a dog who chances on his refection in a mirror and is intrigued and -anxious at the unseizable thing. - -Not in a hurry to get home, he dined in town at the Connoisseurs. -While eating a pear it suddenly occurred to him that, if he had not -gone down to Robin Hill, the boy might not have so decided. He -remembered the expression on his face while his mother was refusing -the hand he had held out. A strange, an awkward thought! Had Fleur -cooked her own goose by trying to make too sure? - -He reached home at half-past nine. While the car was passing in at -one drive gate he heard the grinding sputter of a motor-cycle passing -out by the other. Young Mont, no doubt, so Fleur had not been -lonely. But he went in with a sinking heart. In the cream-panelled -drawing-room she was sitting with her elbows on her knees, and her -chin on her clasped hands, in front of a white camellia plant which -filled the fireplace. That glance at her before she saw him renewed -his dread. What was she seeing among those white camellias? - -"Well, Father!" - -Soames shook his head. His tongue failed him. This was murderous -work! He saw her eyes dilate, her lips quivering. - -"What? What? Quick, Father!" - -"My dear," said Soames, "I--I did my best, but--" And again he shook -his head. - -Fleur ran to him, and put a hand on each of his shoulders. - -"She?" - -"No," muttered Soames; "he. I was to tell you that it was no use; he -must do what his father wished before he died." He caught her by the -waist. "Come, child, don't let them hurt you. They're not worth -your little finger." - -Fleur tore herself from his grasp. - -"You didn't you--couldn't have tried. You--you betrayed me, Father!" - -Bitterly wounded, Soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing -there in front of him. - -"You didn't try--you didn't--I was a fool! Iwon't believe he could-- -he ever could! Only yesterday he--! Oh! why did I ask you?" - -"Yes," said Soames, quietly, "why did you? I swallowed my feelings; -I did my best for you, against my judgment--and this is my reward. -Good-night!" - -With every nerve in his body twitching he went toward the door. - -Fleur darted after him. - -"He gives me up? You mean that? Father!" - -Soames turned and forced himself to answer: - -"Yes." - -"Oh!" cried Fleur. "What did you--what could you have done in those -old days?" - -The breathless sense of really monstrous injustice cut the power of -speech in Soames' throat. What had he done! What had they done to -him! - -And with quite unconscious dignity he put his hand on his breast, and -looked at her. - -"It's a shame!" cried Fleur passionately. - -Soames went out. He mounted, slow and icy, to his picture gallery, -and paced among his treasures. Outrageous! Oh! Outrageous! She -was spoiled! Ah! and who had spoiled her? He stood still before the -Goya copy. Accustomed to her own way in everything. Flower of his -life! And now that she couldn't have it! He turned to the window -for some air. Daylight was dying, the moon rising, gold behind the -poplars! What sound was that? Why! That piano thing! A dark tune, -with a thrum and a throb! She had set it going--what comfort could -she get from that? His eyes caught movement down there beyond the -lawn, under the trellis of rambler roses and young acacia-trees, -where the moonlight fell. There she was, roaming up and down. His -heart gave a little sickening jump. What would she do under this -blow? How could he tell? What did he know of her--he had only loved -her all his life--looked on her as the apple of his eye! He knew -nothing--had no notion. There she was--and that dark tune--and the -river gleaming in the moonlight! - -'I must go out,' he thought. - -He hastened down to the drawing-room, lighted just as he had left it, -with the piano thrumming out that waltz, or fox-trot, or whatever -they called it in these days, and passed through on to the verandah. - -Where could he watch, without her seeing him? And he stole down -through the fruit garden to the boat-house. He was between her and -the river now, and his heart felt lighter. She was his daughter, and -Annette's--she wouldn't do anything foolish; but there it was--he -didn't know! From the boat house window he could see the last acacia -and the spin of her skirt when she turned in her restless march. -That tune had run down at last--thank goodness! He crossed the floor -and looked through the farther window at the water slow-flowing past -the lilies. It made little bubbles against them, bright where a -moon-streak fell. He remembered suddenly that early morning when he -had slept on the house-boat after his father died, and she had just -been born--nearly nineteen years ago! Even now he recalled the -unaccustomed world when he woke up, the strange feeling it had given -him. That day the second passion of his life began--for this girl of -his, roaming under the acacias. What a comfort she had been to him! -And all the soreness and sense of outrage left him. If he could make -her happy again, he didn't care! An owl flew, queeking, queeking; a -bat flitted by; the moonlight brightened and broadened on the water. -How long was she going to roam about like this! He went back to the -window, and suddenly saw her coming down to the bank. She stood -quite close, on the landing-stage. And Soames watched, clenching his -hands. Should he speak to her? His excitement was intense. The -stillness of her figure, its youth, its absorption in despair, in -longing, in--itself. He would always remember it, moonlit like that; -and the faint sweet reek of the river and the shivering of the willow -leaves. She had everything in the world that he could give her, -except the one thing that she could not have because of him! The -perversity of things hurt him at that moment, as might a fish-bone in -his throat. - -Then, with an infinite relief, he saw her turn back toward the house. -What could he give her to make amends? Pearls, travel, horses, other -young men--anything she wanted--that he might lose the memory of her -young figure lonely by the water! There! She had set that tune -going again! Why--it was a mania! Dark, thrumming, faint, -travelling from the house. It was as though she had said: "If I -can't have something to keep me going, I shall die of this!" Soames -dimly understood. Well, if it helped her, let her keep it thrumming -on all night! And, mousing back through the fruit garden, he -regained the verandah. Though he meant to go in and speak to her -now, he still hesitated, not knowing what to say, trying hard to -recall how it felt to be thwarted in love. He ought to know, ought -to remember--and he could not! Gone--all real recollection; except -that it had hurt him horribly. In this blankness he stood passing -his handkerchief over hands and lips, which were very dry. By -craning his head he could just see Fleur, standing with her back to -that piano still grinding out its tune, her arms tight crossed on her -breast, a lighted cigarette between her lips, whose smoke half veiled -her face. The expression on it was strange to Soames, the eyes shone -and stared, and every feature was alive with a sort of wretched scorn -and anger. Once or twice he had seen Annette look like that--the -face was too vivid, too naked, not his daughter's at that moment. -And he dared not go in, realising the futility of any attempt at -consolation. He sat down in the shadow of the ingle-nook. - -Monstrous trick, that Fate had played him! Nemesis! That old -unhappy marriage! And in God's name-why? How was he to know, when -he wanted Irene so violently, and she consented to be his, that she -would never love him? The tune died and was renewed, and died again, -and still Soames sat in the shadow, waiting for he knew not what. -The fag of Fleur's cigarette, flung through the window, fell on the -grass; he watched it glowing, burning itself out. The moon had freed -herself above the poplars, and poured her unreality on the garden. -Comfortless light, mysterious, withdrawn--like the beauty of that -woman who had never loved him--dappling the nemesias and the stocks -with a vesture not of earth. Flowers! And his flower so unhappy! -Ah! Why could one not put happiness into Local Loans, gild its -edges, insure it against going down? - -Light had ceased to flow out now from the drawing-room window. All -was silent and dark in there. Had she gone up? He rose, and, -tiptoeing, peered in. It seemed so! He entered. The verandah kept -the moonlight out; and at first he could see nothing but the outlines -of furniture blacker than the darkness. He groped toward the farther -window to shut it. His foot struck a chair, and he heard a gasp. -There she was, curled and crushed into the corner of the sofa! His -hand hovered. Did she want his consolation? He stood, gazing at -that ball of crushed frills and hair and graceful youth, trying to -burrow its way out of sorrow. How leave her there? At last he -touched her hair, and said: - -"Come, darling, better go to bed. I'll make it up to you, somehow." -How fatuous! But what could he have said? - - - - -IX - -UNDER THE OAK-TREE - - -When their visitor had disappeared Jon and his mother stood without -speaking, till he said suddenly: - -"I ought to have seen him out." - -But Soames was already walking down the drive, and Jon went upstairs -to his father's studio, not trusting himself to go back. - -The expression on his mother's face confronting the man she had once -been married to, had sealed a resolution growing within him ever -since she left him the night before. It had put the finishing touch -of reality. To marry Fleur would be to hit his mother in the face; -to betray his dead father! It was no good! Jon had the least -resentful of natures. He bore his parents no grudge in this hour of -his distress. For one so young there was a rather strange power in -him of seeing things in some sort of proportion. It was worse for -Fleur, worse for his mother even, than it was for him. Harder than -to give up was to be given up, or to be the cause of some one you -loved giving up for you. He must not, would not behave grudgingly! -While he stood watching the tardy sunlight, he had again that sudden -vision of the world which had come to him the night before. Sea on -sea, country on country, millions on millions of people, all with -their own lives, energies, joys, griefs, and suffering--all with -things they had to give up, and separate struggles for existence. -Even though he might be willing to give up all else for the one thing -he couldn't have, he would be a fool to think his feelings mattered -much in so vast a world, and to behave like a cry-baby or a cad. He -pictured the people who had nothing--the millions who had given up -life in the War, the millions whom the War had left with life and -little else; the hungry children he had read of, the shattered men; -people in prison, every kind of unfortunate. And--they did not help -him much. If one had to miss a meal, what comfort in the knowledge -that many others had to miss it too? There was more distraction in -the thought of getting away out into this vast world of which he knew -nothing yet. He could not go on staying here, walled in and -sheltered, with everything so slick and comfortable, and nothing to -do but brood and think what might have been. He could not go back to -Wansdon, and the memories of Fleur. If he saw her again he could not -trust himself; and if he stayed here or went back there, he would -surely see her. While they were within reach of each other that must -happen. To go far away and quickly was the only thing to do. But, -however much he loved his mother, he did not want to go away with -her. Then feeling that was brutal, he made up his mind desperately -to propose that they should go to Italy. For two hours in that -melancholy room he tried to master himself, then dressed solemnly for -dinner. - -His mother had done the same. They ate little, at some length, and -talked of his father's catalogue. The show was arranged for October, -and beyond clerical detail there was nothing more to do. - -After dinner she put on a cloak and they went out; walked a little, -talked a little, till they were standing silent at last beneath the -oak-tree. Ruled by the thought: 'If I show anything, I show all,' -Jon put his arm through hers and said quite casually: - -"Mother, let's go to Italy." - -Irene pressed his arm, and said as casually: - -"It would be very nice; but I've been thinking you ought to see and -do more than you would if I were with you." - -"But then you'd be alone." - -"I was once alone for more than twelve years. Besides, I should like -to be here for the opening of Father's show." - -Jon's grip tightened round her arm; he was not deceived. - -"You couldn't stay here all by yourself; it's too big." - -"Not here, perhaps. In London, and I might go to Paris, after the -show opens. You ought to have a year at least, Jon, and see the -world." - -"Yes, I'd like to see the world and rough it. But I don't want to -leave you all alone." - -"My dear, I owe you that at least. If it's for your good, it'll be -for mine. Why not start tomorrow? You've got your passport." - -"Yes; if I'm going it had better be at once. Only--Mother--if--if I -wanted to stay out somewhere--America or anywhere, would you mind -coming presently?" - -"Wherever and whenever you send for me. But don't send until you -really want me." - -Jon drew a deep breath. - -"I feel England's choky." - -They stood a few minutes longer under the oak-tree--looking out to -where the grand stand at Epsom was veiled in evening. The branches -kept the moonlight from them, so that it only fell everywhere else-- -over the fields and far away, and on the windows of the creepered -house behind, which soon would be to let. - - - - -X - -FLEUR'S WEDDING - - -The October paragraphs describing the wedding of Fleur Forsyte to -Michael Mont hardly conveyed the symbolic significance of this event. -In the union of the great-granddaughter of "Superior Dosset" with the -heir of a ninth baronet was the outward and visible sign of that -merger of class in class which buttresses the political stability of -a realm. The time had come when the Forsytes might resign their -natural resentment against a "flummery" not theirs by birth, and -accept it as the still more natural due of their possessive -instincts. Besides, they had to mount to make room for all those so -much more newly rich. In that quiet but tasteful ceremony in Hanover -Square, and afterward among the furniture in Green Street, it had -been impossible for those not in the know to distinguish the Forsyte -troop from the Mont contingent--so far away was "Superior Dosset" -now. Was there, in the crease of his trousers, the expression of his -moustache, his accent, or the shine on his top-hat, a pin to choose -between Soames and the ninth baronet himself? Was not Fleur as self- -possessed, quick, glancing, pretty, and hard as the likeliest -Muskham, Mont, or Charwell filly present? If anything, the Forsytes -had it in dress and looks and manners. They had become "upper class" -and now their name would be formally recorded in the Stud Book, their -money joined to land. Whether this was a little late in the day, and -those rewards of the possessive instinct, lands and money, destined -for the melting-pot--was still a question so moot that it was not -mooted. After all, Timothy had said Consols were goin' up. Timothy, -the last, the missing link; Timothy, in extremis on the Bayswater -Road--so Francie had reported. It was whispered, too, that this -young Mont was a sort of socialist--strangely wise of him, and in the -nature of insurance, considering the days they lived in. There was -no uneasiness on that score. The landed classes produced that sort -of amiable foolishness at times, turned to safe uses and confined to -theory. As George remarked to his sister Francie: "They'll soon be -having puppies--that'll give him pause." - -The church with white flowers and something blue in the middle of the -East window looked extremely chaste, as though endeavouring to -counteract the somewhat lurid phraseology of a Service calculated to -keep the thoughts of all on puppies. Forsytes, Haymans, Tweetymans, -sat in the left aisle; Monts, Charwells; Muskhams in the right; while -a sprinkling of Fleur's fellow-sufferers at school, and of Mont's -fellow-sufferers in, the War, gaped indiscriminately from either -side, and three maiden ladies, who had dropped in on their way from -Skyward's brought up the rear, together with two Mont retainers and -Fleur's old nurse. In the unsettled state of the country as full a -house as could be expected. - -Mrs. Val Dartie, who sat with her husband in the third row, squeezed -his hand more than once during the performance. To her, who knew the -plot of this tragi-comedy, its most dramatic moment was well-nigh -painful. 'I wonder if Jon knows by instinct,' she thought--Jon, out -in British Columbia. She had received a letter from him only that -morning which had made her smile and say: - -"Jon's in British Columbia, Val, because he wants to be in -California. He thinks it's too nice there." - -"Oh!" said Val, "so he's beginning to see a joke again." - -"He's bought some land and sent for his mother." - -"What on earth will she do out there?" - -"All she cares about is Jon. Do you still think it a happy release?" - -Val's shrewd eyes narrowed to grey pin-points between their dark -lashes. - -"Fleur wouldn't have suited him a bit. She's not bred right." - -"Poor little Fleur!" sighed Holly. Ah! it was strange--this -marriage. The young man, Mont, had caught her on the rebound, of -course, in the reckless mood of one whose ship has just gone down. -Such a plunge could not but be--as Val put it--an outside chance. -There was little to be told from the back view of her young cousin's -veil, and Holly's eyes reviewed the general aspect of this Christian -wedding. She, who had made a love-match which had been successful, -had a horror of unhappy marriages. This might not be one in the end- --but it was clearly a toss-up; and to consecrate a toss-up in this -fashion with manufactured unction before a crowd of fashionable free- -thinkers--for who thought otherwise than freely, or not at all, when -they were "dolled" up--seemed to her as near a sin as one could find -in an age which had abolished them. Her eyes wandered from the -prelate in his robes (a Charwell-the Forsytes had not as yet produced -a prelate) to Val, beside her, thinking--she was certain--of the -Mayfly filly at fifteen to one for the Cambridgeshire. They passed -on and caught the profile of the ninth baronet, in counterfeitment of -the kneeling process. She could just see the neat ruck above his -knees where he had pulled his trousers up, and thought: 'Val's -forgotten to pull up his!' Her eyes passed to the pew in front of -her, where Winifred's substantial form was gowned with passion, and -on again to Soames and Annette kneeling side by side. A little smile -came on her lips--Prosper Profond, back from the South Seas of the -Channel, would be kneeling too, about six rows behind. Yes! This -was a funny "small" business, however it turned out; still it was in -a proper church and would be in the proper papers to-morrow morning. - -They had begun a hymn; she could hear the ninth baronet across the -aisle, singing of the hosts of Midian. Her little finger touched -Val's thumb--they were holding the same hymn-book--and a tiny thrill -passed through her, preserved--from twenty years ago. He stooped and -whispered: - -"I say, d'you remember the rat?" The rat at their wedding in Cape -Colony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at the -Registrar's! And between her little and third forgers she squeezed -his thumb hard. - -The hymn was over, the prelate had begun to deliver his discourse. -He told them of the dangerous times they lived in, and the awful -conduct of the House of Lords in connection with divorce. They were -all soldiers--he said--in the trenches under the poisonous gas of the -Prince of Darkness, and must be manful. The purpose of marriage was -children, not mere sinful happiness. - -An imp danced in Holly's eyes--Val's eyelashes were meeting. -Whatever happened; he must not snore. Her finger and thumb closed on -his thigh till he stirred uneasily. - -The discourse was over, the danger past. They were signing in the -vestry; and general relaxation had set in. - -A voice behind her said: - -"Will she stay the course?" - -"Who's that?" she whispered. - -"Old George Forsyte!" - -Holly demurely scrutinized one of whom she had often heard. Fresh -from South Africa, and ignorant of her kith and kin, she never saw -one without an almost childish curiosity. He was very big, and very -dapper; his eyes gave her a funny feeling of having no particular -clothes. - -"They're off!" she heard him say. - -They came, stepping from the chancel. Holly looked first in young -Mont's face. His lips and ears were twitching, his eyes, shifting -from his feet to the hand within his arm, stared suddenly before them -as if to face a firing party. He gave Holly the feeling that he was -spiritually intoxicated. But Fleur! Ah! That was different. The -girl was perfectly composed, prettier than ever, in her white robes -and veil over her banged dark chestnut hair; her eyelids hovered -demure over her dark hazel eyes. Outwardly, she seemed all there. -But inwardly, where was she? As those two passed, Fleur raised her -eyelids--the restless glint of those clear whites remained on Holly's -vision as might the flutter of caged bird's wings. - -In Green Street Winifred stood to receive, just a little less -composed than usual. Soames' request for the use of her house had -come on her at a deeply psychological moment. Under the influence of -a remark of Prosper Profond, she had begun to exchange her Empire for -Expressionistic furniture. There were the most amusing arrangements, -with violet, green, and orange blobs and scriggles, to be had at -Mealard's. Another month and the change would have been complete. -Just now, the very "intriguing" recruits she had enlisted, did not -march too well with the old guard. It was as if her regiment were -half in khaki, half in scarlet and bearskins. But her strong and -comfortable character made the best of it in a drawing-room which -typified, perhaps, more perfectly than she imagined, the semi- -bolshevized imperialism of her country. After all, this was a day of -merger, and you couldn't have too much of it! Her eyes travelled -indulgently among her guests. Soames had gripped the back of a buhl -chair; young Mont was behind that "awfully amusing" screen, which no -one as yet had been able to explain to her. The ninth baronet had -shied violently at a round scarlet table, inlaid under glass with -blue Australian butteries' wings, and was clinging to her Louis- -Quinze cabinet; Francie Forsyte had seized the new mantel-board, -finely carved with little purple grotesques on an ebony ground; -George, over by the old spinet, was holding a little sky-blue book as -if about to enter bets; Prosper Profond was twiddling the knob of the -open door, black with peacock-blue panels; and Annette's hands, close -by, were grasping her own waist; two Muskhams clung to the balcony -among the plants, as if feeling ill; Lady Mont, thin and brave- -looking, had taken up her long-handled glasses and was gazing at the -central light shade, of ivory and orange dashed with deep magenta, as -if the heavens had opened. Everybody, in fact, seemed holding on to -something. Only Fleur, still in her bridal dress, was detached from -all support, flinging her words and glances to left and right. - -The room was full of the bubble and the squeak of conversation. -Nobody could hear anything that anybody said; which seemed of little -consequence, since no one waited for anything so slow as an answer. -Modern conversation seemed to Winifred so different from the days of -her prime, when a drawl was all the vogue. Still it was "amusing," -which, of course, was all that mattered. Even the Forsytes were -talking with extreme rapidity--Fleur and Christopher, and Imogen, and -young Nicholas's youngest, Patrick. Soames, of course, was silent; -but George, by the spinet, kept up a running commentary, and Francie, -by her mantel-shelf. Winifred drew nearer to the ninth baronet. He -seemed to promise a certain repose; his nose was fine and drooped a -little, his grey moustaches too; and she said, drawling through her -smile: - -"It's rather nice, isn't it?" - -His reply shot out of his smile like a snipped bread pellet - -"D'you remember, in Frazer, the tribe that buries the bride up to the -waist?" - -He spoke as fast as anybody! He had dark lively little eyes, too, -all crinkled round like a Catholic priest's. Winifred felt suddenly -he might say things she would regret. - -"They're always so amusing--weddings," she murmured, and moved on to -Soames. He was curiously still, and Winifred saw at once what was -dictating his immobility. To his right was George Forsyte, to his -left Annette and Prosper Profond. He could not move without either -seeing those two together, or the reflection of them in George -Forsyte's japing eyes. He was quite right not to be taking notice. - -"They say Timothy's sinking;" he said glumly. - -"Where will you put him, Soames?" - -"Highgate." He counted on his fingers. "It'll make twelve of them -there, including wives. How do you think Fleur looks?" - -"Remarkably well." - -Soames nodded. He had never seen her look prettier, yet he could not -rid himself of the impression that this business was unnatural-- -remembering still that crushed figure burrowing into the corner of -the sofa. From that night to this day he had received from her no -confidences. He knew from his chauffeur that she had made one more -attempt on Robin Hill and drawn blank--an empty house, no one at -home. He knew that she had received a letter, but not what was in -it, except that it had made her hide herself and cry. He had -remarked that she looked at him sometimes when she thought he wasn't -noticing, as if she were wondering still what he had done--forsooth-- -to make those people hate him so. Well, there it was! Annette had -come back, and things had worn on through the summer--very miserable, -till suddenly Fleur had said she was going to marry young Mont. She -had shown him a little more affection when she told him that. And he -had yielded--what was the good of opposing it? God knew that he had -never wished to thwart her in anything! And the young man seemed -quite delirious about her. No doubt she was in a reckless mood, and -she was young, absurdly young. But if he opposed her, he didn't know -what she would do; for all he could tell she might want to take up a -profession, become a doctor or solicitor, some nonsense. She had no -aptitude for painting, writing, music, in his view the legitimate -occupations of unmarried women, if they must do something in these -days. On the whole, she was safer married, for he could see too well -how feverish and restless she was at home. Annette, too, had been in -favour of it--Annette, from behind the veil of his refusal to know -what she was about, if she was about anything. Annette had said: -"Let her marry this young man. He is a nice boy--not so highty- -flighty as he seems." Where she got her expressions, he didn't know- --but her opinion soothed his doubts. His wife, whatever her conduct, -had clear eyes and an almost depressing amount of common sense. He -had settled fifty thousand on Fleur, taking care that there was no -cross settlement in case it didn't turn out well. Could it turn out -well? She had not got over that other boy--he knew. They were to go -to Spain for the honeymoon. He would be even lonelier when she was -gone. But later, perhaps, she would forget, and turn to him again! -Winifred's voice broke on his reverie. - -"Why! Of all wonders-June!" - -There, in a djibbah--what things she wore!--with her hair straying -from under a fillet, Soames saw his cousin, and Fleur going forward -to greet her. The two passed from their view out on to the stairway. - -"Really," said Winifred, "she does the most impossible things! Fancy -her coming!" - -"What made you ask her?" muttered Soames. - -"Because I thought she wouldn't accept, of course." - -Winifred had forgotten that behind conduct lies the main trend of -character; or, in other words, omitted to remember that Fleur was now -a "lame duck." - -On receiving her invitation, June had first thought, 'I wouldn't go -near them for the world!' and then, one morning, had awakened from a -dream of Fleur waving to her from a boat with a wild unhappy gesture. -And she had changed her mind. - -When Fleur came forward and said to her, "Do come up while I'm -changing my dress," she had followed up the stairs. The girl led the -way into Imogen's old bedroom, set ready for her toilet. - -June sat down on the bed, thin and upright, like a little spirit in -the sear and yellow. Fleur locked the door. - -The girl stood before her divested of her wedding dress. What a -pretty thing she was - -"I suppose you think me a fool," she said, with quivering lips, "when -it was to have been Jon. But what does it matter? Michael wants me, -and I don't care. It'll get me away from home." Diving her hand -into the frills on her breast, she brought out a letter. "Jon wrote -me this." - -June read: "Lake Okanagen, British Columbia. I'm not coming back to -England. Bless you always. Jon." - -"She's made safe, you see," said Fleur. - -June handed back the letter. - -"That's not fair to Irene," she said, "she always told Jon he could -do as he wished." - -Fleur smiled bitterly. "Tell me, didn't she spoil your life too?" -June looked up. "Nobody can spoil a life, my dear. That's nonsense. -Things happen, but we bob up." - -With a sort of terror she saw the girl sink on her knees and bury her -face in the djibbah. A strangled sob mounted to June's ears. - -"It's all right--all right," she murmured, "Don't! There, there!" - -But the point of the girl's chin was pressed ever closer into her -thigh, and the sound was dreadful of her sobbing. - -Well, well! It had to come. She would feel better afterward! June -stroked the short hair of that shapely head; and all the scattered -mother-sense in her focussed itself and passed through the tips of -her fingers into the girl's brain. - -"Don't sit down under it, my dear," she said at last. "We can't -control life, but we can fight it. Make the best of things. I've -had to. I held on, like you; and I cried, as you're crying now. And -look at me!" - -Fleur raised her head; a sob merged suddenly into a little choked -laugh. In truth it was a thin and rather wild and wasted spirit she -was looking at, but it had brave eyes. - -"All right!" she said. "I'm sorry. I shall forget him, I suppose, -if I fly fast and far enough." - -And, scrambling to her feet, she went over to the wash-stand. - -June watched her removing with cold water the traces of emotion. -Save for a little becoming pinkness there was nothing left when she -stood before the mirror. June got off the bed and took a pin-cushion -in her hand. To put two pins into the wrong places was all the vent -she found for sympathy. - -"Give me a kiss," she said when Fleur was ready, and dug her chin -into the girl's warm cheek. - -"I want a whiff," said Fleur; "don't wait." - -June left her, sitting on the bed with a cigarette between her lips -and her eyes half closed, and went down-stairs. In the doorway of -the drawing-room stood Soames as if unquiet at his daughter's -tardiness. June tossed her head and passed down on to the half- -landing. Her cousin Francie was standing there. - -"Look!" said June, pointing with her chin at Soames. "That man's -fatal!" - -"How do you mean," said Francie, "fatal?" - -June did not answer her. "I shan't wait to see them off," she said. -"Good-bye!" - -"Good-bye!" said Francie, and her eyes, of a Celtic grey, goggled. -That old feud! Really, it was quite romantic! - -Soames, moving to the well of the staircase, saw June go, and drew a -breath of satisfaction. Why didn't Fleur come? They would miss -their train. That train would bear her away from him, yet he could -not help fidgeting at the thought that they would lose it. And then -she did come, running down in her tan-coloured frock and black velvet -cap, and passed him into the drawing-room. He saw her kiss her -mother, her aunt, Val's wife, Imogen, and then come forth, quick and -pretty as ever. How would she treat him at this last moment of her -girlhood? He couldn't hope for much! - -Her lips pressed the middle of his cheek. - -"Daddy!" she said, and was past and gone! Daddy! She hadn't called -him that for years. He drew a long breath and followed slowly down. -There was all the folly with that confetti stuff and the rest of it -to go through with yet. But he would like just to catch her smile, -if she leaned out, though they would hit her in the eye with the -shoe, if they didn't take care. Young Mont's voice said fervently in -his ear: - -"Good-bye, sir; and thank you! I'm so fearfully bucked." - -"Good-bye," he said; "don't miss your train." - -He stood on the bottom step but three, whence he could see above the -heads--the silly hats and heads. They were in the car now; and there -was that stuff, showering, and there went the shoe. A flood of -something welled up in Soames, and--he didn't know--he couldn't see! - - - - -XI - -THE LAST OF THE OLD FORSYTES - -When they came to prepare that terrific symbol Timothy Forsyte--the -one pure individualist left, the only man who hadn't heard of the -Great War--they found him wonderful--not even death had undermined -his soundness. - -To Smither and Cook that preparation came like final evidence of what -they had never believed possible--the end of the old Forsyte family -on earth. Poor Mr. Timothy must now take a harp and sing in the -company of Miss Forsyte, Mrs. Julia, Miss Hester; with Mr. Jolyon, -Mr. Swithin, Mr. James, Mr. Roger, and Mr. Nicholas of the party. -Whether Mrs. Hayman would be there was more doubtful, seeing that she -had been cremated. Secretly Cook thought that Mr. Timothy would be -upset--he had always been so set against barrel organs. How many -times had she not said: "Drat the thing! There it is again! -Smither, you'd better run up and see what you can do." And in her -heart she would so have enjoyed the tunes, if she hadn't known that -Mr. Timothy would ring the bell in a minute and say: "Here, take him -a halfpenny and tell him to move on." Often they had been obliged to -add threepence of their own before the man would go--Timothy had ever -underrated the value of emotion. Luckily he had taken the organs for -blue-bottles in his last years, which had been a comfort, and they -had been able to enjoy the tunes. But a harp! Cook wondered. It -was a change! And Mr. Timothy had never liked change. But she did -not speak of this to Smither, who did so take a line of her own in -regard to heaven that it quite put one about sometimes. - -She cried while Timothy was being prepared, and they all had sherry -afterward out of the yearly Christmas bottle, which would not be -needed now. Ah! dear! She had been there five-and-forty years and -Smither three-and-forty! And now they would be going to a tiny house -in Tooting, to live on their savings and what Miss Hester had so -kindly left them--for to take fresh service after the glorious past-- -No! But they would like just to see Mr. Soames again, and Mrs. -Dartie, and Miss Francie, and Miss Euphemia. And even if they had to -take their own cab, they felt they must go to the funeral. For six -years Mr. Timothy had been their baby, getting younger and younger -every day, till at last he had been too young to live. - -They spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and dusting, -in catching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the last beetle so -as to leave it nice, discussing with each other what they would buy -at the sale. Miss Ann's workbox; Miss Juley's (that is Mrs. Julia's) -seaweed album; the fire-screen Miss Hester had crewelled; and Mr. -Timothy's hair--little golden curls, glued into a black frame. Oh! -they must have those--only the price of things had gone up so! - -It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral. He had them -drawn up by Gradman in his office--only blood relations, and no -flowers. Six carriages were ordered. The Will would be read -afterward at the house. - -He arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. At a quarter -past old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his hat. He and -Soames stood in the drawing-room waiting. At half-past eleven the -carriages drew up in a long row. But no one else appeared. Gradman -said: - -"It surprises me, Mr. Soames. I posted them myself." - -"I don't know," said Soames; "he'd lost touch with the family." -Soames had often noticed in old days how much more neighbourly his -family were to the dead than to the living. But, now, the way they -had flocked to Fleur's wedding and abstained from Timothy's funeral, -seemed to show some vital change. There might, of course, be another -reason; for Soames felt that if he had not known the contents of -Timothy's Will, he might have stayed away himself through delicacy. -Timothy had left a lot of money, with nobody in particular to leave -it to. They mightn't like to seem to expect something. - -At twelve o'clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in the -first carriage under glass. Then Soames alone; then Gradman alone; -then Cook and Smither together. They started at a walk, but were -soon trotting under a bright sky. At the entrance to Highgate -Cemetery they were delayed by service in the Chapel. Soames would -have liked to stay outside in the sunshine. He didn't believe a word -of it; on the other hand, it was a form of insurance which could not -safely be neglected, in case there might be something in it after -all. - -They walked up two and two--he and Gradman, Cook and Smither--to the -family vault. It was not very distinguished for the funeral of the -last old Forsyte. - -He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the Bayswater -Road with a certain glow in his heart. He had a surprise in pickle -for the old chap who had served the Forsytes four-and-fifty years-a -treat that was entirely his doing. How well he remembered saying to -Timothy the day--after Aunt Hester's funeral: "Well; Uncle Timothy, -there's Gradman. He's taken a lot of trouble for the family. What -do you say to leaving him five thousand?" and his surprise, seeing -the difficulty there had been in getting Timothy to leave anything, -when Timothy had nodded. And now the old chap would be as pleased as -Punch, for Mrs. Gradman, he knew, had a weak heart, and their son had -lost a leg in the War. It was extraordinarily gratifying to Soames -to have left him five thousand pounds of Timothy's money. They sat -down together in the little drawing-room, whose walls--like a vision -of heaven--were sky-blue and gold with every picture-frame -unnaturally bright, and every speck of dust removed from every piece -of furniture, to read that little masterpiece--the Will of Timothy. -With his back to the light in Aunt Hester's chair, Soames faced -Gradman with his face to the light, on Aunt Ann's sofa; and, crossing -his legs, began: - -"This is the last Will and Testament of me Timothy Forsyte of The -Bower Bayswater Road, London I appoint my nephew Soames Forsyte of -The Shelter Mapleduram and Thomas Gradman of 159 Folly Road Highgate -(hereinafter called my Trustees) to be the trustees and executors of -this my Will To the said Soames Forsyte I leave the sum of one -thousand pounds free of legacy duty and to the said Thomas Gradman I -leave the sum of five thousand pounds free of legacy duty." - -Soames paused. Old Gradman was leaning forward, convulsively -gripping a stout black knee with each of his thick hands; his mouth -had fallen open so that the gold fillings of three teeth gleamed; his -eyes were blinking, two tears rolled slowly out of them. Soames read -hastily on. - -"All the rest of my property of whatsoever description I bequeath to -my Trustees upon Trust to convert and hold the same upon the -following trusts namely To pay thereout all my debts funeral expenses -and outgoings of any kind in connection with my Will and to hold the -residue thereof in trust for that male lineal descendant of my father -Jolyon Forsyte by his marriage with Ann Pierce who after the decease -of all lineal descendants whether male or female of my said father by -his said marriage in being at the time of my death shall last attain -the age of twenty-one years absolutely it being my desire that my -property shall be nursed to the extreme limit permitted by the laws -of England for the benefit of such male lineal descendant as -aforesaid." - -Soames read the investment and attestation clauses, and, ceasing, -looked at Gradman. The old fellow was wiping his brow with a large -handkerchief, whose brilliant colour supplied a sudden festive tinge -to the proceedings. - -"My word, Mr. Soames!" he said, and it was clear that the lawyer in -him had utterly wiped out the man: "My word! Why, there are two -babies now, and some quite young children--if one of them lives to be -eighty--it's not a great age--and add twenty-one--that's a hundred -years; and Mr. Timothy worth a hundred and fifty thousand pound net -if he's worth a penny. Compound interest at five per cent. doubles -you in fourteen years. In fourteen years three hundred thousand-six -hundred thousand in twenty-eight--twelve hundred thousand in forty- -two--twenty-four hundred thousand in fifty-six--four million eight -hundred thousand in seventy--nine million six hundred thousand in -eighty-four--Why, in a hundred years it'll be twenty million! And we -shan't live to use it! It is a Will!" - -Soames said dryly: "Anything may happen. The State might take the -lot; they're capable of anything in these days." - -"And carry five," said Gradman to himself. "I forgot--Mr. Timothy's -in Consols; we shan't get more than two per cent. with this income -tax. To be on the safe side, say eight millions. Still, that's a -pretty penny." - -Soames rose and handed him the Will. "You're going into the City. -Take care of that, and do what's necessary. Advertise; but there are -no debts. When's the sale?" - -"Tuesday week," said Gradman. "Life or lives in bein' and twenty-one -years afterward--it's a long way off. But I'm glad he's left it in -the family...." - -The sale--not at Jobson's, in view of the Victorian nature of the -effects--was far more freely attended than the funeral, though not by -Cook and Smither, for Soames had taken it on himself to give them -their heart's desires. Winifred was present, Euphemia, and Francie, -and Eustace had come in his car. The miniatures, Barbizons, and J. -R. drawings had been bought in by Soames; and relics of no marketable -value were set aside in an off-room for members of the family who -cared to have mementoes. These were the only restrictions upon -bidding characterised by an almost tragic languor. Not one piece of -furniture, no picture or porcelain figure appealed to modern taste. -The humming birds had fallen like autumn leaves when taken from where -they had not hummed for sixty years. It was painful to Soames to see -the chairs his aunts had sat on, the little grand piano they had -practically never played, the books whose outsides they had gazed at, -the china they had dusted, the curtains they had drawn, the hearth- -rug which had warmed their feet; above all, the beds they had lain -and died in--sold to little dealers, and the housewives of Fulham. -And yet--what could one do? Buy them and stick them in a lumber- -room? No; they had to go the way of all flesh and furniture, and be -worn out. But when they put up Aunt Ann's sofa and were going to -knock it down for thirty shillings, he cried out, suddenly: "Five -pounds!" The sensation was considerable, and the sofa his. - -When that little sale was over in the fusty saleroom, and those -Victorian ashes scattered, he went out into the misty October -sunshine feeling as if cosiness had died out of the world, and the -board "To Let" was up, indeed. Revolutions on the horizon; Fleur in -Spain; no comfort in Annette; no Timothy's on the Bayswater Road. In -the irritable desolation of his soul he went into the Goupenor -Gallery. That chap Jolyon's watercolours were on view there. He -went in to look down his nose at them--it might give him some faint -satisfaction. The news had trickled through from June to Val's wife, -from her to Val, from Val to his mother, from her to Soames, that the -house--the fatal house at Robin Hill--was for sale, and Irene going -to join her boy out in British Columbia, or some such place. For one -wild moment the thought had come to Soames: 'Why shouldn't I buy it -back? I meant it for my!' No sooner come than gone. Too lugubrious -a triumph; with too many humiliating memories for himself and Fleur. -She would never live there after what had happened. No, the place -must go its way to some peer or profiteer. It had been a bone of -contention from the first, the shell of the feud; and with the woman -gone, it was an empty shell. "For Sale or To Let." With his mind's -eye he could see that board raised high above the ivied wall which he -had built. - -He passed through the first of the two rooms in the Gallery. There -was certainly a body of work! And now that the fellow was dead it -did not seem so trivial. The drawings were pleasing enough, with -quite a sense of atmosphere, and something individual in the brush -work. 'His father and my father; he and I; his child and mine!' -thought Soames. So it had gone on! And all about that woman! -Softened by the events of the past week, affected by the melancholy -beauty of the autumn day, Soames came nearer than he had ever been to -realisation of that truth--passing the understanding of a Forsyte -pure--that the body of Beauty has a spiritual essence, uncapturable -save by a devotion which thinks not of self. After all, he was near -that truth in his devotion to his daughter; perhaps that made him -understand a little how he had missed the prize. And there, among -the drawings of his kinsman, who had attained to that which he had -found beyond his reach, he thought of him and her with a tolerance -which surprised him. But he did not buy a drawing. - -Just as he passed the seat of custom on his return to the outer air -he met with a contingency which had not been entirely absent from his -mind when he went into the Gallery--Irene, herself, coming in. So -she had not gone yet, and was still paying farewell visits to that -fellow's remains! He subdued the little involuntary leap of his -subconsciousness, the mechanical reaction of his senses to the charm -of this once-owned woman, and passed her with averted eyes. But when -he had gone by he could not for the life of him help looking back. -This, then, was finality--the heat and stress of his life, the -madness and the longing thereof, the only defeat he had known, would -be over when she faded from his view this time; even such memories -had their own queer aching value. - -She, too, was looking back. Suddenly she lifted her gloved hand, her -lips smiled faintly, her dark eyes seemed to speak. It was the turn -of Soames to make no answer to that smile and that little farewell -wave; he went out into the fashionable street quivering from head to -foot. He knew what she had meant to say: "Now that I am going for -ever out of the reach of you and yours--forgive me; I wish you well." -That was the meaning; last sign of that terrible reality--passing -morality, duty, common sense--her aversion from him who had owned her -body, but had never touched her spirit or her heart. It hurt; yes-- -more than if she had kept her mask unmoved, her hand unlifted. - -Three days later, in that fast-yellowing October, Soames took a taxi- -cab to Highgate Cemetery and mounted through its white forest to the -Forsyte vault. Close to the cedar, above catacombs and columbaria, -tall, ugly, and individual, it looked like an apex of the competitive -system. He could remember a discussion wherein Swithin had advocated -the addition to its face of the pheasant proper. The proposal had -been rejected in favour of a wreath in stone, above the stark words: -"The family vault of Jolyon Forsyte: 1850." It was in good order. -All trace of the recent interment had been removed, and its sober -grey gloomed reposefully in the sunshine. The whole family lay there -now, except old Jolyon's wife, who had gone back under a contract to -her own family vault in Suffolk; old Jolyon himself lying at Robin -Hill; and Susan Hayman, cremated so that none knew where she might -be. Soames gazed at it with satisfaction--massive, needing little -attention; and this was important, for he was well aware that no one -would attend to it when he himself was gone, and he would have to be -looking out for lodgings soon. He might have twenty years before -him, but one never knew. Twenty years without an aunt or uncle, with -a wife of whom one had better not know anything, with a daughter gone -from home. His mood inclined to melancholy and retrospection. - -This cemetery was full, they said--of people with extraordinary -names, buried in extraordinary taste. Still, they had a fine view up -here, right over London. Annette had once given him a story to read -by that Frenchman, Maupassant, most lugubrious concern, where all the -skeletons emerged from their graves one night, and all the pious -inscriptions on the stones were altered to descriptions of their -sins. Not a true story at all. He didn't know about the French, but -there was not much real harm in English people except their teeth and -their taste, which was certainly deplorable. "The family vault of -Jolyon Forsyte: 1850." A lot of people had been buried here since -then--a lot of English life crumbled to mould and dust! The boom of -an airplane passing under the gold-tinted clouds caused him to lift -his eyes. The deuce of a lot of expansion had gone on. But it all -came back to a cemetery--to a name and a date on a tomb. And he -thought with a curious pride that he and his family had done little -or nothing to help this feverish expansion. Good solid middlemen, -they had gone to work with dignity to manage and possess. "Superior -Dosset," indeed, had built in a dreadful, and Jolyon painted in a -doubtful, period, but so far as he remembered not another of them all -had soiled his hands by creating anything--unless you counted Val -Dartie and his horse-breeding. Collectors, solicitors, barristers, -merchants, publishers, accountants, directors, land agents, even -soldiers--there they had been! The country had expanded, as it were, -in spite of them. They had checked, controlled, defended, and taken -advantage of the process and when you considered how "Superior -Dosset" had begun life with next to nothing, and his lineal -descendants already owned what old Gradman estimated at between a -million and a million and a half, it was not so bad! And yet he -sometimes felt as if the family bolt was shot, their possessive -instinct dying out. They seemed unable to make money--this fourth -generation; they were going into art, literature, farming, or the -army; or just living on what was left them--they had no push and no -tenacity. They would die out if they didn't take care. - -Soames turned from the vault and faced toward the breeze. The air up -here would be delicious if only he could rid his nerves of the -feeling that mortality was in it. He gazed restlessly at the crosses -and the urns, the angels, the "immortelles," the flowers, gaudy or -withering; and suddenly he noticed a spot which seemed so different -from anything else up there that he was obliged to walk the few -necessary yards and look at it. A sober corner, with a massive -queer-shaped cross of grey rough-hewn granite, guarded by four dark -yew-trees. The spot was free from the pressure of the other graves, -having a little box-hedged garden on the far side, and in front a -goldening birch-tree. This oasis in the desert of conventional -graves appealed to the aesthetic sense of Soames, and he sat down -there in the sunshine. Through those trembling gold birch leaves he -gazed out at London, and yielded to the waves of memory. He thought -of Irene in Montpellier Square, when her hair was rusty-golden and -her white shoulders his--Irene, the prize of his love-passion, -resistant to his ownership. He saw Bosinney's body lying in that -white mortuary, and Irene sitting on the sofa looking at space with -the eyes of a dying bird. Again he thought of her by the little -green Niobe in the Bois de Boulogne, once more rejecting him. His -fancy took him on beside his drifting river on the November day when -Fleur was to be born, took him to the dead leaves floating on the -green-tinged water and the snake-headed weed for ever swaying and -nosing, sinuous, blind, tethered. And on again to the window opened -to the cold starry night above Hyde Park, with his father lying dead. -His fancy darted to that picture of "the future town," to that boy's -and Fleur's first meeting; to the bluish trail of Prosper Profond's -cigar, and Fleur in the window pointing down to where the fellow -prowled. To the sight of Irene and that dead fellow sitting side by -side in the stand at Lord's. To her and that boy at Robin Hill. To -the sofa, where Fleur lay crushed up in the corner; to her lips -pressed into his cheek, and her farewell "Daddy." And suddenly he -saw again Irene's grey-gloved hand waving its last gesture of -release. - -He sat there a long time dreaming his career, faithful to the scut of -his possessive instinct, warming himself even with its failures. - -"To Let"--the Forsyte age and way of life, when a man owned his soul, -his investments, and his woman, without check or question. And now -the State had, or would have, his investments, his woman had herself, -and God knew who had his soul. "To Let"--that sane and simple creed! - -The waters of change were foaming in, carrying the promise of new -forms only when their destructive flood should have passed its full. -He sat there, subconscious of them, but with his thoughts resolutely -set on the past--as a man might ride into a wild night with his face -to the tail of his galloping horse. Athwart the Victorian dykes the -waters were rolling on property, manners, and morals, on melody and -the old forms of art--waters bringing to his mouth a salt taste as of -blood, lapping to the foot of this Highgate Hill where Victorianism -lay buried. And sitting there, high up on its most individual spot, -Soames--like a figure of Investment--refused their restless sounds. -Instinctively he would not fight them--there was in him too much -primeval wisdom, of Man the possessive animal. They would quiet down -when they had fulfilled their tidal fever of dispossessing and -destroying; when the creations and the properties of others were -sufficiently broken and defected--they would lapse and ebb, and fresh -forms would rise based on an instinct older than the fever of change ---the instinct of Home. - -"Je m'en fiche," said Prosper Profond. Soames did not say "Je m'en -fiche"--it was French, and the fellow was a thorn in his side--but -deep down he knew that change was only the interval of death between -two forms of life, destruction necessary to make room for fresher -property. What though the board was up, and cosiness to let?--some -one would come along and take it again some day. - -And only one thing really troubled him, sitting there--the melancholy -craving in his heart--because the sun was like enchantment on his -face and on the clouds and on the golden birch leaves, and the wind's -rustle was so gentle, and the yewtree green so dark, and the sickle -of a moon pale in the sky. - -He might wish and wish and never get it--the beauty and the loving in -the world! - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Forsyte Saga, Complete, by John Galsworthy - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, COMPLETE *** - -This file should be named fsaga11.txt or fsaga11.zip -Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, fsaga12.txt -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, fsaga11a.txt - -Produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> -With proofing assistance from Fredrik Hausmann - -Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US -unless a copyright notice is included. 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