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diff --git a/old/24092004.4397.txt b/old/24092004.4397.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6d03e57..0000000 --- a/old/24092004.4397.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,38158 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forsyte Saga, Complete, by John Galsworthy - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net - - -Title: The Forsyte Saga, Complete - -Author: John Galsworthy - -Release Date: September 24, 2004 [EBook #4397] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, COMPLETE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger - - - - -[NOTE: The 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 - -Complete - - -By John Galsworthy - - - -Contents: - Part 1. The Man of Property - Part 2. Indian Summer of a Forsyte - In Chancery - Part 3. Awakening - To Let - - - - -THE MAN OF PROPERTY - - - -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 I 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 heat 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 corner 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 Thornworthy (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 he 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 hummed 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 Littlemaster'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 not-inconsiderable -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 golden-pink 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 cigar-case 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 disappointingly 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 irritatingly 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 superintendent'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 humanitarianism. 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 Underground 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, frock-coated 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 -Englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, twirling -their partners at great pace, without pedantic attention to 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, and 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 by-ways 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 farm work 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 something 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 grandfather? 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 he 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 black-stained 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 dining-room 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 dim-shaped 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 half-cracked!' - -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 and 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 he 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 outstretched. 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 - -By John Galsworthy - -Part 2 - - - -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 visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as if -his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was -which fulfilled that sort of thing. And before the mirror he -straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over his great -white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de Cologne, and rang -the bell. - -"I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. Let cook -do something extra, and tell Beacon to have the landau and pair at -half-past ten to drive her back to Town to-night. Is Miss Holly asleep?" - -The maid thought not. And old Jolyon, passing down the gallery, stole on -tiptoe towards the nursery, and opened the door whose hinges he kept -specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the evenings without -being heard. - -But Holly was asleep, and lay like a miniature Madonna, of that type -which the old painters could not tell from Venus, when they had completed -her. Her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on her face was perfect -peace--her little arrangements were evidently all right again. And old -Jolyon, in the twilight of the room, stood adoring her! It was so -charming, solemn, and loving--that little face. He had more than his -share of the blessed capacity of living again in the young. They were to -him his future life--all of a future life that his fundamental pagan -sanity perhaps admitted. There she was with everything before her, and -his blood--some of it--in her tiny veins. There she was, his little -companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her, so that she -knew nothing but love. His heart swelled, and he went out, stilling the -sound of his patent-leather boots. In the corridor an eccentric notion -attacked him: To think that children should come to that which Irene had -told him she was helping! Women who were all, once, little things like -this one sleeping there! 'I must give her a cheque!' he mused; 'Can't -bear to think of them!' They had never borne reflecting on, those poor -outcasts; wounding too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under -layers of conformity to the sense of property--wounding too grievously -the deepest thing in him--a love of beauty which could give him, even -now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society of a -pretty woman. And he went downstairs, through the swinging doors, to the -back regions. There, in the wine-cellar, was a hock worth at least two -pounds a bottle, a Steinberg Cabinet, better than any Johannisberg that -ever went down throat; a wine of perfect bouquet, sweet as a -nectarine--nectar indeed! He got a bottle out, handling it like a baby, -and holding it level to the light, to look. Enshrined in its coat of -dust, that mellow coloured, slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure. -Three years to settle down again since the move from Town--ought to be in -prime condition! Thirty-five years ago he had bought it--thank God he had -kept his palate, and earned the right to drink it. She would appreciate -this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He wiped the bottle, drew the -cork with his own hands, put his nose down, inhaled its perfume, and went -back to the music room. - -Irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a lace -scarf she had been wearing, so that her gold-coloured hair was visible, -and the pallor of her neck. In her grey frock she made a pretty picture -for old Jolyon, against the rosewood of the piano. - -He gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. The room, which had been -designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort, held now but a -little round table. In his present solitude the big dining-table -oppressed old Jolyon; he had caused it to be removed till his son came -back. Here in the company of two really good copies of Raphael Madonnas -he was wont to dine alone. It was the only disconsolate hour of his day, -this summer weather. He had never been a large eater, like that great -chap Swithin, or Sylvanus Heythorp, or Anthony Thornworthy, those cronies -of past times; and to dine alone, overlooked by the Madonnas, was to him -but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might -come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. But this -evening was a different matter! His eyes twinkled at her across the -little table and he spoke of Italy and Switzerland, telling her stories -of his travels there, and other experiences which he could no longer -recount to his son and grand-daughter because they knew them. This fresh -audience was precious to him; he had never become one of those old men -who ramble round and round the fields of reminiscence. Himself quickly -fatigued by the insensitive, he instinctively avoided fatiguing others, -and his natural flirtatiousness towards beauty guarded him specially in -his relations with a woman. He would have liked to draw her out, but -though she murmured and smiled and seemed to be enjoying what he told -her, he remained conscious of that mysterious remoteness which -constituted half her fascination. He could not bear women who threw -their shoulders and eyes at you, and chattered away; or hard-mouthed -women who laid down the law and knew more than you did. There was only -one quality in a woman that appealed to him--charm; and the quieter it -was, the more he liked it. And this one had charm, shadowy as afternoon -sunlight on those Italian hills and valleys he had loved. The feeling, -too, that she was, as it were, apart, cloistered, made her seem nearer to -himself, a strangely desirable companion. When a man is very old and -quite out of the running, he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of -youth, for he would still be first in the heart of beauty. And he drank -his hock, and watched her lips, and felt nearly young. But the dog -Balthasar lay watching her lips too, and despising in his heart the -interruptions of their talk, and the tilting of those greenish glasses -full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to him. - -The light was just failing when they went back into the music-room. And, -cigar in mouth, old Jolyon said: - -"Play me some Chopin." - -By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the -texture of men's souls. Old Jolyon could not bear a strong cigar or -Wagner's music. He loved Beethoven and Mozart, Handel and Gluck, and -Schumann, and, for some occult reason, the operas of Meyerbeer; but of -late years he had been seduced by Chopin, just as in painting he had -succumbed to Botticelli. In yielding to these tastes he had been -conscious of divergence from the standard of the Golden Age. Their -poetry was not that of Milton and Byron and Tennyson; of Raphael and -Titian; Mozart and Beethoven. It was, as it were, behind a veil; their -poetry hit no one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and -turned and twisted, and melted up the heart. And, never certain that -this was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could see the -pictures of the one or hear the music of the other. - -Irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with -pearl-grey, and old Jolyon, in an armchair, whence he could see her, -crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. She sat a few moments -with her hands on the keys, evidently searching her mind for what to give -him. Then she began and within old Jolyon there arose a sorrowful -pleasure, not quite like anything else in the world. He fell slowly into -a trance, interrupted only by the movements of taking the cigar out of -his mouth at long intervals, and replacing it. She was there, and the -hock within him, and the scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of -sunshine lingering into moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and -bluish trees above, glowing with blurs of wine-red roses, and fields of -lavender where milk-white cows were grazing, and a woman all shadowy, -with dark eyes and a white neck, smiled, holding out her arms; and -through air which was like music a star dropped and was caught on a cow's -horn. He opened his eyes. Beautiful piece; she played well--the touch -of an angel! And he closed them again. He felt miraculously sad and -happy, as one does, standing under a lime-tree in full honey flower. Not -live one's own life again, but just stand there and bask in the smile of -a woman's eyes, and enjoy the bouquet! And he jerked his hand; the dog -Balthasar had reached up and licked it. - -"Beautiful!" He said: "Go on--more Chopin!" - -She began to play again. This time the resemblance between her and -'Chopin' struck him. The swaying he had noticed in her walk was in her -playing too, and the Nocturne she had chosen and the soft darkness of her -eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight from a golden moon. -Seductive, yes; but nothing of Delilah in her or in that music. A long -blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed. 'So we go out!' he -thought. 'No more beauty! Nothing?' - -Again Irene stopped. - -"Would you like some Gluck? He used to write his music in a sunlit -garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine beside him." - -"Ah! yes. Let's have 'Orfeo.'" Round about him now were fields of gold -and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, bright birds -flying to and fro. All was summer. Lingering waves of sweetness and -regret flooded his soul. Some cigar ash dropped, and taking out a silk -handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a mingled scent as of snuff and -eau de Cologne. 'Ah!' he thought, 'Indian summer--that's all!' and he -said: "You haven't played me 'Che faro.'" - -She did not answer; did not move. He was conscious of something--some -strange upset. Suddenly he saw her rise and turn away, and a pang of -remorse shot through him. What a clumsy chap! Like Orpheus, she of -course--she too was looking for her lost one in the hall of memory! And -disturbed to the heart, he got up from his chair. She had gone to the -great window at the far end. Gingerly he followed. Her hands were -folded over her breast; he could just see her cheek, very white. And, -quite emotionalized, he said: - -"There, there, my love!" The words had escaped him mechanically, for -they were those he used to Holly when she had a pain, but their effect -was instantaneously distressing. She raised her arms, covered her face -with them, and wept. - -Old Jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. The -passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike the -control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never before -broken down in the presence of another being. - -"There, there--there, there!" he murmured, and putting his hand out -reverently, touched her. She turned, and leaned the arms which covered -her face against him. Old Jolyon stood very still, keeping one thin hand -on her shoulder. Let her cry her heart out--it would do her good. - -And the dog Balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine them. - -The window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the last of -daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the lamp within; -there was a scent of new-mown grass. With the wisdom of a long life old -Jolyon did not speak. Even grief sobbed itself out in time; only Time -was good for sorrow--Time who saw the passing of each mood, each emotion -in turn; Time the layer-to-rest. There came into his mind the words: 'As -panteth the hart after cooling streams'--but they were of no use to him. -Then, conscious of a scent of violets, he knew she was drying her eyes. -He put his chin forward, pressed his moustache against her forehead, and -felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body, as of a tree which -shakes itself free of raindrops. She put his hand to her lips, as if -saying: "All over now! Forgive me!" - -The kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to where she -had been so upset. And the dog Balthasar, following, laid the bone of -one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet. - -Anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think of -nothing better than china; and moving with her slowly from cabinet to -cabinet, he kept taking up bits of Dresden and Lowestoft and Chelsea, -turning them round and round with his thin, veined hands, whose skin, -faintly freckled, had such an aged look. - -"I bought this at Jobson's," he would say; "cost me thirty pounds. It's -very old. That dog leaves his bones all over the place. This old -'ship-bowl' I picked up at the sale when that precious rip, the Marquis, -came to grief. But you don't remember. Here's a nice piece of Chelsea. -Now, what would you say this was?" And he was comforted, feeling that, -with her taste, she was taking a real interest in these things; for, -after all, nothing better composes the nerves than a doubtful piece of -china. - -When the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he said: - -"You must come again; you must come to lunch, then I can show you these -by daylight, and my little sweet--she's a dear little thing. This dog -seems to have taken a fancy to you." - -For Balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing his side -against her leg. Going out under the porch with her, he said: - -"He'll get you up in an hour and a quarter. Take this for your -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......!' - -Generated TOC, Edit, Use, or Remove. - -Contents - -II - -III - -IV - -IN CHANCERY - -PART 1 - -CHAPTER I - -CHAPTER II - -CHAPTER III - -CHAPTER IV - -CHAPTER V - -CHAPTER VI - -CHAPTER VII - -CHAPTER VIII - -CHAPTER IX - -CHAPTER X - -CHAPTER XI - -CHAPTER XII - -CHAPTER XIII - -CHAPTER XIV - -PART II - -CHAPTER I - -CHAPTER II - -CHAPTER III - -CHAPTER IV - -CHAPTER V - -CHAPTER VI - -CHAPTER VII - -CHAPTER VIII - -CHAPTER IX - -CHAPTER X - -CHAPTER XI - -CHAPTER XII - -CHAPTER XIII - -CHAPTER XIV - -PART III - -CHAPTER I - -CHAPTER II - -CHAPTER III - -CHAPTER IV - -CHAPTER V - -CHAPTER VI - -CHAPTER VII - -CHAPTER VIII - -CHAPTER IX - -CHAPTER X - -CHAPTER XI - -CHAPTER XII - -CHAPTER XIII - -CHAPTER XIV - - - - -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 civilisation--so much older than this -of his old age--had never thought about such primitive things. - -"That's a comfort," he said. "You can see the Grand Stand to-day. Shall -we take a turn round?" - -Through the flower and fruit garden, against whose high outer walls peach -trees and nectarines were trained to the sun, through the stables, the -vinery, the mushroom house, the asparagus beds, the rosery, the -summer-house, he conducted her--even into the kitchen garden to see the -tiny green peas which Holly loved to scoop out of their pods with her -finger, and lick up from the palm of her little brown hand. Many -delightful things he showed her, while Holly and the dog Balthasar danced -ahead, or came to them at intervals for attention. It was one of the -happiest afternoons he had ever spent, but it tired him and he was glad -to sit down in the music room and let her give him tea. A special little -friend of Holly's had come in--a fair child with short hair like a boy's. -And the two sported in the distance, under the stairs, on the stairs, and -up in the gallery. Old Jolyon begged for Chopin. She played studies, -mazurkas, waltzes, till the two children, creeping near, stood at the -foot of the piano their dark and golden heads bent forward, listening. -Old Jolyon watched. - -"Let's see you dance, you two!" - -Shyly, with a false start, they began. Bobbing and circling, earnest, -not very adroit, they went past and past his chair to the strains of that -waltz. He watched them and the face of her who was playing turned -smiling towards those little dancers thinking: - -'Sweetest picture I've seen for ages.' - -A voice said: - -"Hollee! Mais enfin--qu'est-ce que tu fais la--danser, le dimanche! -Viens, donc!" - -But the children came close to old Jolyon, knowing that he would save -them, and gazed into a face which was decidedly 'caught out.' - -"Better the day, better the deed, Mam'zelle. It's all my doing. Trot -along, chicks, and have your tea." - -And, when they were gone, followed by the dog Balthasar, who took every -meal, he looked at Irene with a twinkle and said: - -"Well, there we are! Aren't they sweet? Have you any little ones among -your pupils?" - -"Yes, three--two of them darlings." - -"Pretty?" - -"Lovely!" - -Old Jolyon sighed; he had an insatiable appetite for the very young. "My -little sweet," he said, "is devoted to music; she'll be a musician some -day. You wouldn't give me your opinion of her playing, I suppose?" - -"Of course I will." - -"You wouldn't like--" but he stifled the words "to give her lessons." -The idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him; yet it would mean -that he would see her regularly. She left the piano and came over to his -chair. - -"I would like, very much; but there is--June. When are they coming -back?" - -Old Jolyon frowned. "Not till the middle of next month. What does that -matter?" - -"You said June had forgiven me; but she could never forget, Uncle -Jolyon." - -Forget! She must forget, if he wanted her to. - -But as if answering, Irene shook her head. "You know she couldn't; one -doesn't forget." - -Always that wretched past! And he said with a sort of vexed finality: - -"Well, we shall see." - -He talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred little -things, till the carriage came round to take her home. And when she had -gone he went back to his chair, and sat there smoothing his face and -chin, dreaming over the day. - -That evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of paper. -He stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose and stood under the -masterpiece 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.' He was not thinking of that -picture, but of his life. He was going to leave her something in his -Will; nothing could so have stirred the stilly deeps of thought and -memory. He was going to leave her a portion of his wealth, of his -aspirations, deeds, qualities, work--all that had made that wealth; -going to leave her, too, a part of all he had missed in life, by his sane -and steady pursuit of wealth. All! What had he missed? 'Dutch Fishing -Boats' responded blankly; he crossed to the French window, and drawing -the curtain aside, opened it. A wind had got up, and one of last year's -oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was dragging -itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in the -twilight. Except for that it was very quiet out there, and he could -smell the heliotrope watered not long since. A bat went by. A bird -uttered its last 'cheep.' And right above the oak tree the first star -shone. Faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of -youth. Morbid notion! No such bargain was possible, that was real -tragedy! No making oneself new again for love or life or anything. -Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and -leave it something in your Will. But how much? And, as if he could not -make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country -night, he turned back and went up to the chimney-piece. There were his -pet bronzes--a Cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a -greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses. -'They last!' he thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a -thousand years of life before them! - -'How much?' Well! enough at all events to save her getting old before her -time, to keep the lines out of her face as long as possible, and grey -from soiling that bright hair. He might live another five years. She -would be well over thirty by then. 'How much?' She had none of his -blood in her! In loyalty to the tenor of his life for forty years and -more, ever since he married and founded that mysterious thing, a family, -came this warning thought--None of his blood, no right to anything! It -was a luxury then, this notion. An extravagance, a petting of an old -man's whim, one of those things done in dotage. His real future was -vested in those who had his blood, in whom he would live on when he was -gone. He turned away from the bronzes and stood looking at the old -leather chair in which he had sat and smoked so many hundreds of cigars. -And suddenly he seemed to see her sitting there in her grey dress, -fragrant, soft, dark-eyed, graceful, looking up at him. Why! She cared -nothing for him, really; all she cared for was that lost lover of hers. -But she was there, whether she would or no, giving him pleasure with her -beauty and grace. One had no right to inflict an old man's company, no -right to ask her down to play to him and let him look at her--for no -reward! Pleasure must be paid for in this world. 'How much?' After -all, there was plenty; his son and his three grandchildren would never -miss that little lump. He had made it himself, nearly every penny; he -could leave it where he liked, allow himself this little pleasure. He -went back to the bureau. 'Well, I'm going to,' he thought, 'let them -think what they like. I'm going to!' And he sat down. - -'How much?' Ten thousand, twenty thousand--how much? If only with his -money he could buy one year, one month of youth. And startled by that -thought, he wrote quickly: - -'DEAR HERRING,--Draw me a codicil to this effect: "I leave to my niece -Irene Forsyte, born Irene Heron, by which name she now goes, fifteen -thousand pounds free of legacy duty." 'Yours faithfully, 'JOLYON -FORSYTE.' - -When he had sealed and stamped the envelope, he went back to the window -and drew in a long breath. It was dark, but many stars shone now. - - - - -IV - -He woke at half-past two, an hour which long experience had taught him -brings panic intensity to all awkward thoughts. Experience had also -taught him that a further waking at the proper hour of eight showed the -folly of such panic. On this particular morning the thought which -gathered rapid momentum was that if he became ill, at his age not -improbable, he would not see her. From this it was but a step to -realisation that he would be cut off, too, when his son and June returned -from Spain. How could he justify desire for the company of one who had -stolen--early morning does not mince words--June's lover? That lover -was dead; but June was a stubborn little thing; warm-hearted, but -stubborn as wood, and--quite true--not one who forgot! By the middle of -next month they would be back. He had barely five weeks left to enjoy -the new interest which had come into what remained of his life. Darkness -showed up to him absurdly clear the nature of his feeling. Admiration -for beauty--a craving to see that which delighted his eyes. - -Preposterous, at his age! And yet--what other reason was there for asking -June to undergo such painful reminder, and how prevent his son and his -son's wife from thinking him very queer? He would be reduced to sneaking -up to London, which tired him; and the least indisposition would cut him -off even from that. He lay with eyes open, setting his jaw against the -prospect, and calling himself an old fool, while his heart beat loudly, -and then seemed to stop beating altogether. He had seen the dawn -lighting the window chinks, heard the birds chirp and twitter, and the -cocks crow, before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane. Five -weeks before he need bother, at his age an eternity! But that early -morning panic had left its mark, had slightly fevered the will of one who -had always had his own way. He would see her as often as he wished! Why -not go up to town and make that codicil at his solicitor's instead of -writing about it; she might like to go to the opera! But, by train, for -he would not have that fat chap Beacon grinning behind his back. -Servants were such fools; and, as likely as not, they had known all the -past history of Irene and young Bosinney--servants knew everything, and -suspected the rest. He wrote to her that morning: - -"MY DEAR IRENE,--I have to be up in town to-morrow. If you would like to -have a look in at the opera, come and dine with me quietly ...." - -But where? It was decades since he had dined anywhere in London save at -his Club or at a private house. Ah! that new-fangled place close to -Covent Garden.... - -"Let me have a line to-morrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel whether to -expect you there at 7 o'clock." -"Yours affectionately, -"JOLYON FORSYTE." - -She would understand that he just wanted to give her a little pleasure; -for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to see her was -instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should -go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a woman. - -The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer's, -tired him. It was hot too, and after dressing for dinner he lay down on -the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. He must have had a sort of -fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some -difficulty rose and rang the bell. Why! it was past seven! And there he -was and she would be waiting. But suddenly the dizziness came on again, -and he was obliged to relapse on the sofa. He heard the maid's voice -say: - -"Did you ring, sir?" - -"Yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of -his eyes. "I'm not well, I want some sal volatile." - -"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded frightened. - -Old Jolyon made an effort. - -"Don't go. Take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the hall--a -lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well--the heat. He is very sorry; -if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner." - -When she was gone, he thought feebly: 'Why did I say a lady in grey--she -may be in anything. Sal volatile!' He did not go off again, yet was not -conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling -salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. He heard her -say anxiously: "Dear Uncle Jolyon, what is it?" was dimly conscious of -the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of -smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed. - -"Ha!" he said, "it's nothing. How did you get here? Go down and -dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right in a -minute." - -He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided -between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right. - -"Why! You are in grey!" he said. "Help me up." Once on his feet he gave -himself a shake. - -"What business had I to go off like that!" And he moved very slowly to -the glass. What a cadaverous chap! Her voice, behind him, murmured: - -"You mustn't come down, Uncle; you must rest." - -"Fiddlesticks! A glass of champagne'll soon set me to rights. I can't -have you missing the opera." - -But the journey down the corridor was troublesome. What carpets they had -in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up in them at every -step! In the lift he noticed how concerned she looked, and said with the -ghost of a twinkle: - -"I'm a pretty host." - -When the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent its -slipping under him; but after soup and a glass of champagne he felt much -better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought such solicitude -into her manner towards him. - -"I should have liked you for a daughter," he said suddenly; and watching -the smile in her eyes, went on: - -"You mustn't get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; plenty of -that when you get to my age. That's a nice dress--I like the style." - -"I made it myself." - -Ah! A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her -interest in life. - -"Make hay while the sun shines," he said; "and drink that up. I want to -see some colour in your cheeks. We mustn't waste life; it doesn't do. -There's a new Marguerite to-night; let's hope she won't be fat. And -Mephisto--anything more dreadful than a fat chap playing the Devil I -can't imagine." - -But they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up from dinner -the dizziness came over him again, and she insisted on his staying quiet -and going to bed early. When he parted from her at the door of the -hotel, having paid the cabman to drive her to Chelsea, he sat down again -for a moment to enjoy the memory of her words: "You are such a darling to -me, Uncle Jolyon!" Why! Who wouldn't be! He would have liked to stay up -another day and take her to the Zoo, but two days running of him would -bore her to death. No, he must wait till next Sunday; she had promised -to come then. They would settle those lessons for Holly, if only for a -month. It would be something. That little Mam'zelle Beauce wouldn't -like it, but she would have to lump it. And crushing his old opera hat -against his chest he sought the lift. - -He drove to Waterloo next morning, struggling with a desire to say: -'Drive me to Chelsea.' But his sense of proportion was too strong. -Besides, he still felt shaky, and did not want to risk another aberration -like that of last night, away from home. Holly, too, was expecting him, -and what he had in his bag for her. Not that there was any cupboard love -in his little sweet--she was a bundle of affection. Then, with the -rather bitter cynicism of the old, he wondered for a second whether it -was not cupboard love which made Irene put up with him. No, she was not -that sort either. She had, if anything, too little notion of how to -butter her bread, no sense of property, poor thing! Besides, he had not -breathed a word about that codicil, nor should he--sufficient unto the -day was the good thereof. - -In the victoria which met him at the station Holly was restraining the -dog Balthasar, and their caresses made 'jubey' his drive home. All the -rest of that fine hot day and most of the next he was content and -peaceful, reposing in the shade, while the long lingering sunshine -showered gold on the lawns and the flowers. But on Thursday evening at -his lonely dinner he began to count the hours; sixty-five till he would -go down to meet her again in the little coppice, and walk up through the -fields at her side. He had intended to consult the doctor about his -fainting fit, but the fellow would be sure to insist on quiet, no -excitement and all that; and he did not mean to be tied by the leg, did -not want to be told of an infirmity--if there were one, could not afford -to hear of it at his time of life, now that this new interest had come. -And he carefully avoided making any mention of it in a letter to his son. -It would only bring them back with a run! How far this silence was due -to consideration for their pleasure, how far to regard for his own, he -did not pause to consider. - -That night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was dozing -off, when he heard the rustle of a gown, and was conscious of a scent of -violets. Opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in grey, standing by the -fireplace, holding out her arms. The odd thing was that, though those -arms seemed to hold nothing, they were curved as if round someone's neck, -and her own neck was bent back, her lips open, her eyes closed. She -vanished at once, and there were the mantelpiece and his bronzes. But -those bronzes and the mantelpiece had not been there when she was, only -the fireplace and the wall! Shaken and troubled, he got up. 'I must -take medicine,' he thought; 'I can't be well.' His heart beat too fast, -he had an asthmatic feeling in the chest; and going to the window, he -opened it to get some air. A dog was barking far away, one of the dogs -at Gage's farm no doubt, beyond the coppice. A beautiful still night, -but dark. 'I dropped off,' he mused, 'that's it! And yet I'll swear my -eyes were open!' A sound like a sigh seemed to answer. - -"What's that?" he said sharply, "who's there?" - -Putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he -stepped out on the terrace. Something soft scurried by in the dark. -"Shoo!" It was that great grey cat. 'Young Bosinney was like a great -cat!' he thought. 'It was him in there, that she--that she was--He's -got her still!' He walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked down -into the darkness; he could just see the powdering of the daisies on the -unmown lawn. Here to-day and gone to-morrow! And there came the moon, -who saw all, young and old, alive and dead, and didn't care a dump! His -own turn soon. For a single day of youth he would give what was left! -And he turned again towards the house. He could see the windows of the -night nursery up there. His little sweet would be asleep. 'Hope that -dog won't wake her!' he thought. 'What is it makes us love, and makes us -die! I must go to bed.' - -And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed -back within. - -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 well" and from the cab window, already moving away, he saw -her face screwed round towards him, and her hand put out in a gesture -which seemed to linger. - -He sought his room slowly. They never gave him the same, and he could -not get used to these 'spick-and-spandy' bedrooms with new furniture and -grey-green carpets sprinkled all over with pink roses. He was wakeful -and that wretched Habanera kept throbbing in his head. - -His French had never been equal to its words, but its sense he knew, if -it had any sense, a gipsy thing--wild and unaccountable. Well, there was -in life something which upset all your care and plans--something which -made men and women dance to its pipes. And he lay staring from deep-sunk -eyes into the darkness where the unaccountable held sway. You thought -you had hold of life, but it slipped away behind you, took you by the -scruff of the neck, forced you here and forced you there, and then, -likely as not, squeezed life out of you! It took the very stars like -that, he shouldn't wonder, rubbed their noses together and flung them -apart; it had never done playing its pranks. Five million people in this -great blunderbuss of a town, and all of them at the mercy of that -Life-Force, like a lot of little dried peas hopping about on a board when -you struck your fist on it. Ah, well! Himself would not hop much -longer--a good long sleep would do him good! - -How hot it was up here!--how noisy! His forehead burned; she had kissed -it just where he always worried; just there--as if she had known the very -place and wanted to kiss it all away for him. But, instead, her lips -left a patch of grievous uneasiness. She had never spoken in quite that -voice, had never before made that lingering gesture or looked back at him -as she drove away. - -He got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced down over -the river. There was little air, but the sight of that breadth of water -flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. 'The great thing,' he thought -'is not to make myself a nuisance. I'll think of my little sweet, and go -to sleep.' But it was long before the heat and throbbing of the London -night died out into the short slumber of the summer morning. And old -Jolyon had but forty winks. - -When he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, and with -the help of Holly, who was very delicate with flowers, gathered a great -bunch of carnations. They were, he told her, for 'the lady in grey'--a -name still bandied between them; and he put them in a bowl in his study -where he meant to tackle Irene the moment she came, on the subject of -June and future lessons. Their fragrance and colour would help. After -lunch he lay down, for he felt very tired, and the carriage would not -bring her from the station till four o'clock. But as the hour approached -he grew restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive. -The sun-blinds were down, and Holly was there with Mademoiselle Beauce, -sheltered from the heat of a stifling July day, attending to their -silkworms. Old Jolyon had a natural antipathy to these methodical -creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of elephants; who nibbled -such quantities of holes in nice green leaves; and smelled, as he -thought, horrid. He sat down on a chintz-covered windowseat whence he -could see the drive, and get what air there was; and the dog Balthasar -who appreciated chintz on hot days, jumped up beside him. Over the -cottage piano a violet dust-sheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and -on it the first lavender, whose scent filled the room. In spite of the -coolness here, perhaps because of that coolness the beat of life -vehemently impressed his ebbed-down senses. Each sunbeam which came -through the chinks had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled very strong; -the lavender perfume was overpowering; those silkworms heaving up their -grey-green backs seemed horribly alive; and Holly's dark head bent over -them had a wonderfully silky sheen. A marvellous cruelly strong thing -was life when you were old and weak; it seemed to mock you with its -multitude of forms and its beating vitality. He had never, till those -last few weeks, had this curious feeling of being with one half of him -eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and with the other half left -on the bank, watching that helpless progress. Only when Irene was with -him did he lose this double consciousness. - -Holly turned her head, pointed with her little brown fist to the -piano--for to point with a finger was not 'well-brrred'--and said slyly: - -"Look at the 'lady in grey,' Gran; isn't she pretty to-day?" - -Old Jolyon's heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was clouded; -then it cleared, and he said with a twinkle: - -"Who's been dressing her up?" - -"Mam'zelle." - -"Hollee! Don't be foolish!" - -That prim little Frenchwoman! She hadn't yet got over the music lessons -being taken away from her. That wouldn't help. His little sweet was the -only friend they had. Well, they were her lessons. And he shouldn't -budge shouldn't budge for anything. He stroked the warm wool on -Balthasar's head, and heard Holly say: "When mother's home, there won't -be any changes, will there? She doesn't like strangers, you know." - -The child's words seemed to bring the chilly atmosphere of opposition -about old Jolyon, and disclose all the menace to his new-found freedom. -Ah! He would have to resign himself to being an old man at the mercy of -care and love, or fight to keep this new and prized companionship; and to -fight tired him to death. But his thin, worn face hardened into -resolution till it appeared all Jaw. This was his house, and his affair; -he should not budge! He looked at his watch, old and thin like himself; -he had owned it fifty years. Past four already! And kissing the top of -Holly's head in passing, he went down to the hall. He wanted to get hold -of her before she went up to give her lesson. At the first sound of -wheels he stepped out into the porch, and saw at once that the victoria -was empty. - -"The train's in, sir; but the lady 'asn't come." - -Old Jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push away -that fat chap's curiosity, and defy him to see the bitter disappointment -he was feeling. - -"Very well," he said, and turned back into the house. He went to his -study and sat down, quivering like a leaf. What did this mean? She might -have lost her train, but he knew well enough she hadn't. 'Good-bye, dear -Uncle Jolyon.' Why 'Good-bye' and not 'Good-night'? And that hand of -hers lingering in the air. And her kiss. What did it mean? Vehement -alarm and irritation took possession of him. He got up and began to pace -the Turkey carpet, between window and wall. She was going to give him -up! He felt it for certain--and he defenceless. An old man wanting to -look on beauty! It was ridiculous! Age closed his mouth, paralysed his -power to fight. He had no right to what was warm and living, no right to -anything but memories and sorrow. He could not plead with her; even an -old man has his dignity. Defenceless! For an hour, lost to bodily -fatigue, he paced up and down, past the bowl of carnations he had -plucked, which mocked him with its scent. Of all things hard to bear, -the prostration of will-power is hardest, for one who has always had his -way. Nature had got him in its net, and like an unhappy fish he turned -and swam at the meshes, here and there, found no hole, no breaking point. -They brought him tea at five o'clock, and a letter. For a moment hope -beat up in him. He cut the envelope with the butter knife, and read: - -"DEAREST UNCLE JOLYON,--I can't bear to write anything that may -disappoint you, but I was too cowardly to tell you last night. I feel I -can't come down and give Holly any more lessons, now that June is coming -back. Some things go too deep to be forgotten. It has been such a joy -to see you and Holly. Perhaps I shall still see you sometimes when you -come up, though I'm sure it's not good for you; I can see you are tiring -yourself too much. I believe you ought to rest quite quietly all this -hot weather, and now you have your son and June coming back you will be -so happy. Thank you a million times for all your sweetness to me. - -"Lovingly your IRENE." - -So, there it was! Not good for him to have pleasure and what he chiefly -cared about; to try and put off feeling the inevitable end of all things, -the approach of death with its stealthy, rustling footsteps. Not good -for him! Not even she could see how she was his new lease of interest in -life, the incarnation of all the beauty he felt slipping from him. - -His tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he paced, -torn between his dignity and his hold on life. Intolerable to be -squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on when your will -was in the hands of others bent on weighing you to the ground with care -and love. Intolerable! He would see what telling her the truth would -do--the truth that he wanted the sight of her more than just a lingering -on. He sat down at his old bureau and took a pen. But he could not -write. There was something revolting in having to plead like this; plead -that she should warm his eyes with her beauty. It was tantamount to -confessing dotage. He simply could not. And instead, he wrote: - -"I had hoped that the memory of old sores would not be allowed to stand -in the way of what is a pleasure and a profit to me and my little -grand-daughter. But old men learn to forego their whims; they are -obliged to, even the whim to live must be foregone sooner or later; and -perhaps the sooner the better. -"My love to you, -"JOLYON FORSYTE." - -'Bitter,' he thought, 'but I can't help it. I'm tired.' He sealed and -dropped it into the box for the evening post, and hearing it fall to the -bottom, thought: 'There goes all I've looked forward to!' - -That evening after dinner which he scarcely touched, after his cigar -which he left half-smoked for it made him feel faint, he went very slowly -upstairs and stole into the night-nursery. He sat down on the -window-seat. A night-light was burning, and he could just see Holly's -face, with one hand underneath the cheek. An early cockchafer buzzed in -the Japanese paper with which they had filled the grate, and one of the -horses in the stable stamped restlessly. To sleep like that child! He -pressed apart two rungs of the venetian blind and looked out. The moon -was rising, blood-red. He had never seen so red a moon. The woods and -fields out there were dropping to sleep too, in the last glimmer of the -summer light. And beauty, like a spirit, walked. 'I've had a long life,' -he thought, 'the best of nearly everything. I'm an ungrateful chap; I've -seen a lot of beauty in my time. Poor young Bosinney said I had a sense -of beauty. There's a man in the moon to-night!' A moth went by, -another, another. 'Ladies in grey!' He closed his eyes. A feeling that -he would never open them again beset him; he let it grow, let himself -sink; then, with a shiver, dragged the lids up. There was something -wrong with him, no doubt, deeply wrong; he would have to have the doctor -after all. It didn't much matter now! Into that coppice the 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, whatever that might be. She was -coming; she had not given him up! He had everything in life he -wanted--except a little more breath, and less weight--just here! He -would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying just a -little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and dandelions and -'soldiers' on the lawn--the soldiers with their flowery crowns. He would -not move, but she would come up to him and say: 'Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am -sorry!' and sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he -had not been very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her -hand. That dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good dog. - -It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, only -make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the Grand Stand at -Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows cropping the clover in the -field and swishing at the flies with their tails. He smelled the scent -of limes, and lavender. Ah! that was why there was such a racket of -bees. They were excited--busy, as his heart was busy and excited. -Drowsy, too, drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was -drugged and drowsy. Summer--summer--they seemed saying; great bees and -little bees, and the flies too! - -The stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. He would -have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little sleep of late; and -then he would be fresh for her, fresh for youth and beauty, coming -towards him across the sunlit lawn--lady in grey! And settling back in -his chair he closed his eyes. Some thistle-down came on what little air -there was, and pitched on his moustache more white than itself. He did -not know; but his breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight -struck through and lodged on his boot. A bumble-bee alighted and -strolled on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge of -slumber reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head swayed forward -and rested on his breast. Summer--summer! So went the hum. - -The stable clock struck the quarter past. The dog Balthasar stretched -and looked up at his master. The thistledown no longer moved. The dog -placed his chin over the sunlit foot. It did not stir. The dog withdrew -his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old Jolyon's lap, looked in his -face, whined; then, leaping down, sat on his haunches, gazing up. And -suddenly he uttered a long, long howl. - -But the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old master. - -Summer--summer--summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass! -1917 - - - - -IN CHANCERY - -Two households both alike in dignity, From ancient grudge, break into new -mutiny. - ---Romeo and Juliet -TO JESSIE AND JOSEPH CONRAD - - - - -PART 1 - - - - -CHAPTER I - -AT TIMOTHY'S - -The possessive instinct never stands still. Through florescence and -feud, frosts and fires, it followed the laws of progression even in the -Forsyte family which had believed it fixed for ever. Nor can it be -dissociated from environment any more than the quality of potato from the -soil. - -The historian of the English eighties and nineties will, in his good -time, depict the somewhat rapid progression from self-contented and -contained provincialism to still more self-contented if less contained -imperialism--in other words, the 'possessive' instinct of the nation on -the move. And so, as if in conformity, was it with the Forsyte family. -They were spreading not merely on the surface, but within. - -When, in 1895, Susan Hayman, the married Forsyte sister, followed her -husband at the ludicrously low age of seventy-four, and was cremated, it -made strangely little stir among the six old Forsytes left. For this -apathy there were three causes. First: the almost surreptitious burial -of old Jolyon in 1892 down at Robin Hill--first of the Forsytes to -desert the family grave at Highgate. That burial, coming a year after -Swithin's entirely proper funeral, had occasioned a great deal of talk on -Forsyte 'Change, the abode of Timothy Forsyte on the Bayswater Road, -London, which still collected and radiated family gossip. Opinions -ranged from the lamentation of Aunt Juley to the outspoken assertion of -Francie that it was 'a jolly good thing to stop all that stuffy Highgate -business.' Uncle Jolyon in his later years--indeed, ever since the -strange and lamentable affair between his granddaughter June's lover, -young Bosinney, and Irene, his nephew Soames Forsyte's wife--had -noticeably rapped the family's knuckles; and that way of his own which he -had always taken had begun to seem to them a little wayward. The -philosophic vein in him, of course, had always been too liable to crop -out of the strata of pure Forsyteism, so they were in a way prepared for -his interment in a strange spot. But the whole thing was an odd -business, and when the contents of his Will became current coin on -Forsyte 'Change, a shiver had gone round the clan. Out of his estate -(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 -themselves, 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 provincialism stared out even -more than it used to. Why, old Nicholas was still a Free Trader, and a -member of that antediluvian home of Liberalism, the Remove Club--though, -to be sure, the members were pretty well all Conservatives now, or he -himself could not have joined; and Timothy, they said, still wore a -nightcap. Aunt Juley spoke again. Dear Soames was looking so well, -hardly a day older than he did when dear Ann died, and they were all -there together, dear Jolyon, and dear Swithin, and dear Roger. She -paused and caught the tear which had climbed the pout on her right cheek. -Did he--did he ever hear anything of Irene nowadays? Aunt Hester visibly -interposed her shoulder. Really, Juley was always saying something! The -smile left Soames' face, and he put his cup down. Here was his subject -broached for him, and for all his desire to expand, he could not take -advantage. - -Aunt Juley went on rather hastily: - -"They say dear Jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out and out; -then of course he saw it would not be right, and made it for her life -only." - -Had Soames heard that? - -Soames nodded. - -"Your cousin Jolyon is a widower now. He is her trustee; you knew that, -of course?" - -Soames shook his head. He did know, but wished to show no interest. -Young Jolyon and he had not met since the day of Bosinney's death. - -"He must be quite middle-aged by now," went on Aunt Juley dreamily. "Let -me see, he was born when your dear uncle lived in Mount Street; long -before they went to Stanhope Gate in December. Just before that dreadful -Commune. Over fifty! Fancy that! Such a pretty baby, and we were all -so proud of him; the very first of you all." Aunt Juley sighed, and a -lock of not quite her own hair came loose and straggled, so that Aunt -Hester gave a little shiver. Soames rose, he was experiencing a curious -piece of self-discovery. That old wound to his pride and self-esteem was -not yet closed. He had come thinking he could talk of it, even wanting -to talk of his fettered condition, and--behold! he was shrinking away -from this reminder by Aunt Juley, renowned for her Malapropisms. - -Oh, Soames was not going already! - -Soames smiled a little vindictively, and said: - -"Yes. Good-bye. Remember me to Uncle Timothy!" And, leaving a cold -kiss on each forehead, whose wrinkles seemed to try and cling to his lips -as if longing to be kissed away, he left them looking brightly after -him--dear Soames, it had been so good of him to come to-day, when they -were not feeling very....! - -With compunction tweaking at his chest Soames descended the stairs, where -was always that rather pleasant smell of camphor and port wine, and house -where draughts are not permitted. The poor old things--he had not meant -to be unkind! And in the street he instantly forgot them, repossessed by -the image of Annette and the thought of the cursed coil around him. Why -had he not pushed the thing through and obtained divorce when that -wretched Bosinney was run over, and there was evidence galore for the -asking! And he turned towards his sister Winifred Dartie's residence in -Green Street, Mayfair. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD - -That a man of the world so subject to the vicissitudes of fortunes as -Montague Dartie should still be living in a house he had inhabited twenty -years at least would have been more noticeable if the rent, rates, taxes, -and repairs of that house had not been defrayed by his father-in-law. By -that simple if wholesale device James Forsyte had secured a certain -stability in the lives of his daughter and his grandchildren. After all, -there is something invaluable about a safe roof over the head of a -sportsman so dashing as Dartie. Until the events of the last few days he -had been almost-supernaturally steady all this year. The fact was he had -acquired a half share in a filly of George Forsyte's, who had gone -irreparably on the turf, to the horror of Roger, now stilled by the -grave. Sleeve-links, by Martyr, out of Shirt-on-fire, by Suspender, was -a bay filly, three years old, who for a variety of reasons had never -shown her true form. With half ownership of this hopeful animal, all the -idealism latent somewhere in Dartie, as in every other man, had put up -its head, and kept him quietly ardent for months past. When a man has -some thing good to live for it is astonishing how sober he becomes; and -what Dartie had was really good--a three to one chance for an autumn -handicap, publicly assessed at twenty-five to one. The old-fashioned -heaven was a poor thing beside it, and his shirt was on the daughter of -Shirt-on-fire. But how much more than his shirt depended on this -granddaughter of Suspender! At that roving age of forty-five, trying to -Forsytes--and, though perhaps less distinguishable from any other age, -trying even to Darties--Montague had fixed his current fancy on a dancer. -It was no mean passion, but without money, and a good deal of it, likely -to remain a love as airy as her skirts; and Dartie never had any money, -subsisting miserably on what he could beg or borrow from Winifred--a -woman of character, who kept him because he was the father of her -children, and from a lingering admiration for those now-dying Wardour -Street good looks which in their youth had fascinated her. She, together -with anyone else who would lend him anything, and his losses at cards and -on the turf (extraordinary how some men make a good thing out of losses!) -were his whole means of subsistence; for James was now too old and -nervous to approach, and Soames too formidably adamant. It is not too -much to say that Dartie had been living on hope for months. He had never -been fond of money for itself, had always despised the Forsytes with -their investing habits, though careful to make such use of them as he -could. What he liked about money was what it bought--personal sensation. - -"No real sportsman cares for money," he would say, borrowing a 'pony' if -it was no use trying for a 'monkey.' There was something delicious about -Montague Dartie. He was, as George Forsyte said, a 'daisy.' - -The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day of -September, and Dartie who had travelled to Newmarket the night before, -arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an eminence to see his -half of the filly take her final canter: If she won he would be a cool -three thou. in pocket--a poor enough recompense for the sobriety and -patience of these weeks of hope, while they had been nursing her for this -race. But he had not been able to afford more. Should he 'lay it off' -at the eight to one to which she had advanced? This was his single -thought while the larks sang above him, and the grassy downs smelled -sweet, and the pretty filly passed, tossing her head and glowing like -satin. - -After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to 'lay it off' -would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred--hardly enough to -purchase a dancer out and out. Even more potent was the itch in the -blood of all the Darties for a real flutter. And turning to George he -said: "She's a clipper. She'll win hands down; I shall go the whole -hog." George, who had laid off every penny, and a few besides, and stood -to win, however it came out, grinned down on him from his bulky height, -with the words: "So ho, my wild one!" for after a chequered -apprenticeship weathered with the money of a deeply complaining Roger, -his Forsyte blood was beginning to stand him in good stead in the -profession of owner. - -There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which the -sensitive recorder shrinks. Suffice it to say that the good thing fell -down. Sleeve-links finished in the ruck. Dartie's shirt was lost. - -Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned his -face towards Green Street, what had not happened! - -When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised -self-control for months from religious motives, and remains unrewarded, -he does not curse God and die, he curses God and lives, to the distress -of his family. - -Winifred--a plucky woman, if a little too fashionable--who had borne the -brunt of him for exactly twenty-one years, had never really believed that -he would do what he now did. Like so many wives, she thought she knew -the worst, but she had not yet known him in his forty-fifth year, when -he, like other men, felt that it was now or never. Paying on the 2nd of -October a visit of inspection to her jewel case, she was horrified to -observe that her woman's crown and glory was gone--the pearls which -Montague had given her in '86, when Benedict was born, and which James -had been compelled to pay for in the spring of '87, to save scandal. She -consulted her husband at once. He 'pooh-poohed' the matter. They would -turn up! Nor till she said sharply: "Very well, then, Monty, I shall go -down to Scotland Yard myself," did he consent to take the matter in hand. -Alas! that the steady and resolved continuity of design necessary to the -accomplishment of sweeping operations should be liable to interruption by -drink. That night Dartie returned home without a care in the world or a -particle of reticence. Under normal conditions Winifred would merely -have locked her door and let him sleep it off, but torturing suspense -about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him. Taking a small -revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining table, he told her -at once that he did not care a cursh whether she lived s'long as she was -quiet; but he himself wash tired 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 complaining that life was a burden to him--they called him -Pubby. Winifred--a woman of real decision--promptly changed his school -and his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an initial. - -At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, light -eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, considerable knowledge -of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to do. -Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled--the engaging rascal. -After kissing his mother and pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a -time, and came down four, dressed for dinner. He was awfully sorry, but -his 'trainer,' who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford -and Cambridge; it wouldn't do to miss--the old chap would be hurt. -Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. She had wanted him at home, -but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him. He went -out with a wink at Imogen, saying: "I say, Mother, could I have two -plover's eggs when I come in?--cook's got some. They top up so jolly -well. Oh! and look here--have you any money?--I had to borrow a fiver -from old Snobby." - -Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: - -"My dear, you are naughty about money. But you shouldn't pay him -to-night, anyway; you're his guest. How nice and slim he looked in his -white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!" - -"Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I ought -to stand the tickets; he's always hard up, you know." - -Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: - -"Well, perhaps you'd better pay him, but you mustn't stand the tickets -too." - -Val pocketed the fiver. - -"If I do, I can't," he said. "Good-night, Mum!" - -He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing the -air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert. Jolly good biz! -After that mouldy old slow hole down there! - -He found his 'tutor,' not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but at the -Goat's Club. This 'tutor' was a year older than himself, a good-looking -youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a small mouth, an oval -face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men who -without effort establish moral ascendancy over their companions. He had -missed being expelled from school a year before Val, had spent that year -at Oxford, and Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name was -Crum, and no one could get through money quicker. It seemed to be his -only aim in life--dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the Forsyte -would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that money -was. - -They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking cigars, -with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into stalls at the -Liberty. For Val the sound of comic songs, the sight of lovely legs were -fogged and interrupted by haunting fears that he would never equal Crum's -quiet dandyism. His idealism was roused; and when that is so, one is -never quite at ease. Surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut of -waistcoat, no braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had no thin -black stitchings down the back. Besides, he laughed too much--Crum never -laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a little so -that they formed a gable over his just drooped lids. No! he would never -be Crum's equal. All the same it was a jolly good show, and Cynthia Dark -simply ripping. Between the acts Crum regaled him with particulars of -Cynthia's private life, and the awful knowledge became Val's that, if he -liked, Crum could go behind. He simply longed to say: "I say, take me!" -but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this made the last act or -two almost miserable. On coming out Crum said: "It's half an hour before -they close; let's go on to the Pandemonium." They took a hansom to -travel the hundred yards, and seats costing seven-and-six apiece because -they were going to stand, and walked into the Promenade. It was in these -little things, this utter negligence of money that Crum had such engaging -polish. The ballet was on its last legs and night, and the traffic of -the Promenade was suffering for the moment. Men and women were crowded -in three rows against the barrier. The whirl and dazzle on the stage, -the half dark, the mingled tobacco fumes and women's scent, all that -curious lure to promiscuity which belongs to Promenades, began to free -young Val from his idealism. He looked admiringly in a young woman's -face, saw she was not young, and quickly looked away. Shades of Cynthia -Dark! The young woman's arm touched his unconsciously; there was a scent -of musk and mignonette. Val looked round the corner of his lashes. -Perhaps she was young, after all. Her foot trod on his; she begged his -pardon. He said: - -"Not at all; jolly good ballet, isn't it?" - -"Oh, I'm tired of it; aren't you?" - -Young Val smiled--his wide, rather charming smile. Beyond that he did -not go--not yet convinced. The Forsyte in him stood out for greater -certainty. And on the stage the ballet whirled its kaleidoscope of -snow-white, salmon-pink, and emerald-green and violet and seemed suddenly -to freeze into a stilly spangled pyramid. Applause broke out, and it was -over! Maroon curtains had cut it off. The semi-circle of men and women -round the barrier broke up, the young woman's arm pressed his. A little -way off disturbance seemed centring round a man with a pink carnation; -Val stole another glance at the young woman, who was looking towards it. -Three men, unsteady, emerged, walking arm in arm. The one in the centre -wore the pink carnation, a white waistcoat, a dark moustache; he reeled a -little as he walked. Crum's voice said slow and level: "Look at that -bounder, he's screwed!" Val turned to look. The 'bounder' had -disengaged his arm, and was pointing straight at them. Crum's voice, -level as ever, said: - -"He seems to know you!" The 'bounder' spoke: - -"H'llo!" he said. "You f'llows, look! There's my young rascal of a -son!" - -Val saw. It was his father! He could have sunk into the crimson carpet. -It was not the meeting in this place, not even that his father was -'screwed'; it was Crum's word 'bounder,' which, as by heavenly -revelation, he perceived at that moment to be true. Yes, his father -looked a bounder with his dark good looks, and his pink carnation, and -his square, self-assertive walk. And without a word he ducked behind the -young woman and slipped out of the Promenade. He heard the word, "Val!" -behind him, and ran down deep-carpeted steps past the 'chuckersout,' into -the Square. - -To be ashamed of his own father is perhaps the bitterest experience a -young man can go through. It seemed to Val, hurrying away, that his -career had ended before it had begun. How could he go up to Oxford now -amongst all those chaps, those splendid friends of Crum's, who would know -that his father was a 'bounder'! And suddenly he hated Crum. Who the -devil was Crum, to say that? If Crum had been beside him at that moment, -he would certainly have been jostled off the pavement. His own -father--his own! A choke came up in his throat, and he dashed his hands -down deep into his overcoat pockets. Damn Crum! He conceived the wild -idea of running back and fending his father, taking him by the arm and -walking about with him in front of Crum; but gave it up at once and -pursued his way down Piccadilly. A young woman planted herself before -him. "Not so angry, darling!" He shied, dodged her, and suddenly became -quite cool. If Crum ever said a word, he would jolly well punch his -head, and there would be an end of it. He walked a hundred yards or -more, contented with that thought, then lost its comfort utterly. It -wasn't simple like that! He remembered how, at school, when some parent -came down who did not pass the standard, it just clung to the fellow -afterwards. It was one of those things nothing could remove. Why had -his mother married his father, if he was a 'bounder'? It was bitterly -unfair--jolly low-down on a fellow to give him a 'bounder' for father. -The worst of it was that now Crum had spoken the word, he realised that -he had long known subconsciously that his father was not 'the clean -potato.' It was the beastliest thing that had ever happened to -him--beastliest thing that had ever happened to any fellow! And, -down-hearted as he had never yet been, he came to Green Street, and let -himself in with a smuggled latch-key. In the dining-room his plover's -eggs were set invitingly, with some cut bread and butter, and a little -whisky at the bottom of a decanter--just enough, as Winifred had -thought, for him to feel himself a man. It made him sick to look at -them, and he went upstairs. - -Winifred heard him pass, and thought: 'The dear boy's in. Thank -goodness! If he takes after his father I don't know what I shall do! -But he won't he's like me. Dear Val!' - - - - -CHAPTER III - -SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS - -When Soames entered his sister's little Louis Quinze drawing-room, with -its small balcony, always flowered with hanging geraniums in the summer, -and now with pots of Lilium Auratum, he was struck by the immutability of -human affairs. It looked just the same as on his first visit to the -newly married Darties twenty-one years ago. He had chosen the furniture -himself, and so completely that no subsequent purchase had ever been able -to change the room's atmosphere. Yes, he had founded his sister well, -and she had wanted it. Indeed, it said a great deal for Winifred that -after all this time with Dartie she remained well-founded. From the -first Soames had nosed out Dartie's nature from underneath the -plausibility, savoir faire, and good looks which had dazzled Winifred, -her mother, and even James, to the extent of permitting the fellow to -marry his daughter without bringing anything but shares of no value into -settlement. - -Winifred, whom he noticed next to the furniture, was sitting at her Buhl -bureau with a letter in her hand. She rose and came towards him. Tall -as himself, strong in the cheekbones, well tailored, something in her -face disturbed Soames. She crumpled the letter in her hand, but seemed -to change her mind and held it out to him. He was her lawyer as well as -her brother. - -Soames read, on Iseeum Club paper, these words: - -'You will not get chance to insult in my own again. I am leaving country -to-morrow. It's played out. I'm tired of being insulted by you. You've -brought on yourself. No self-respecting man can stand it. I shall not -ask you for anything again. Good-bye. I took the photograph of the two -girls. Give them my love. I don't care what your family say. It's all -their doing. I'm going to live new life. -'M.D.' - -This after-dinner note had a splotch on it not yet quite dry. He looked -at Winifred--the splotch had clearly come from her; and he checked the -words: 'Good riddance!' Then it occurred to him that with this letter -she was entering that very state which he himself so earnestly desired to -quit--the state of a Forsyte who was not divorced. - -Winifred had turned away, and was taking a long sniff from a little -gold-topped bottle. A dull commiseration, together with a vague sense of -injury, crept about Soames' heart. He had come to her to talk of his own -position, and get sympathy, and here was she in the same position, -wanting of course to talk of it, and get sympathy from him. It was -always like that! Nobody ever seemed to think that he had troubles and -interests of his own. He folded up the letter with the splotch inside, -and said: - -"What's it all about, now?" - -Winifred recited the story of the pearls calmly. - -"Do you think he's really gone, Soames? You see the state he was in when -he wrote that." - -Soames who, when he desired a thing, placated Providence by pretending -that he did not think it likely to happen, answered: - -"I shouldn't think so. I might find out at his Club." - -"If George is there," said Winifred, "he would know." - -"George?" said Soames; "I saw him at his father's funeral." - -"Then he's sure to be there." - -Soames, whose good sense applauded his sister's acumen, said grudgingly: -"Well, I'll go round. Have you said anything in Park Lane?" - -"I've told Emily," returned Winifred, who retained that 'chic' way of -describing her mother. "Father would have a fit." - -Indeed, anything untoward was now sedulously kept from James. With -another look round at the furniture, as if to gauge his sister's exact -position, Soames went out towards Piccadilly. The evening was drawing -in--a touch of chill in the October haze. He walked quickly, with his -close and concentrated air. He must get through, for he wished to dine -in Soho. On hearing from the hall porter at the Iseeum that Mr. Dartie -had not been in to-day, he looked at the trusty fellow and decided only -to ask if Mr. George Forsyte was in the Club. He was. Soames, who -always looked askance at his cousin George, as one inclined to jest at -his expense, followed the pageboy, slightly reassured by the thought that -George had just lost his father. He must have come in for about thirty -thousand, besides what he had under that settlement of Roger's, which had -avoided death duty. He found George in a bow-window, staring out across -a half-eaten plate of muffins. His tall, bulky, black-clothed figure -loomed almost threatening, though preserving still the supernatural -neatness of the racing man. With a faint grin on his fleshy face, he -said: - -"Hallo, Soames! Have a muffin?" - -"No, thanks," murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the desire to -say something suitable and sympathetic, added: - -"How's your mother?" - -"Thanks," said George; "so-so. Haven't seen you for ages. You never go -racing. How's the City?" - -Soames, scenting the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered: - -"I wanted to ask you about Dartie. I hear he's...." - -"Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good for -Winifred and the little Darties. He's a treat." - -Soames nodded. Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie made -them kin. - -"Uncle James'll sleep in his bed now," resumed George; "I suppose he's -had a lot off you, too." - -Soames smiled. - -"Ah! You saw him further," said George amicably. "He's a real rouser. -Young Val will want a bit of looking after. I was always sorry for -Winifred. She's a plucky woman." - -Again Soames nodded. "I must be getting back to her," he said; "she just -wanted to know for certain. We may have to take steps. I suppose there's -no mistake?" - -"It's quite O.K.," said George--it was he who invented so many of those -quaint sayings which have been assigned to other sources. "He was drunk -as a lord last night; but he went off all right this morning. His ship's -the Tuscarora;" and, fishing out a card, he read mockingly: - -"'Mr. Montague Dartie, Poste Restante, Buenos Aires.' I should hurry up -with the steps, if I were you. He fairly fed me up last night." - -"Yes," said Soames; "but it's not always easy." Then, conscious from -George's eyes that he had roused reminiscence of his own affair, he got -up, and held out his hand. George rose too. - -"Remember me to Winifred.... You'll enter her for the Divorce Stakes -straight off if you ask me." - -Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway. George had -seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked big and lonely -in those black clothes. Soames had never known him so subdued. 'I -suppose he feels it in a way,' he thought. 'They must have about fifty -thousand each, all told. They ought to keep the estate together. If -there's a war, house property will go down. Uncle Roger was a good judge, -though.' And the face of Annette rose before him in the darkening -street; her brown hair and her blue eyes with their dark lashes, her -fresh lips and cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of London, her perfect -French figure. 'Take steps!' he thought. Re-entering Winifred's house -he encountered Val, and they went in together. An idea had occurred to -Soames. His cousin Jolyon was Irene's trustee, the first step would be to -go down and see him at Robin Hill. Robin Hill! The odd--the very odd -feeling those words brought back! Robin Hill--the house Bosinney had -built for him and Irene--the house they had never lived in--the fatal -house! And Jolyon lived there now! H'm! And suddenly he thought: 'They -say he's got a boy at Oxford! Why not take young Val down and introduce -them! It's an excuse! Less bald--very much less bald!' So, as they went -upstairs, he said to Val: - -"You've got a cousin at Oxford; you've never met him. I should like to -take you down with me to-morrow to where he lives and introduce you. -You'll find it useful." - -Val, receiving the idea with but moderate transports, Soames clinched it. - -"I'll call for you after lunch. It's in the country--not far; you'll -enjoy it." - -On the threshold of the drawing-room he recalled with an effort that the -steps he contemplated concerned Winifred at the moment, not himself. - -Winifred was still sitting at her Buhl bureau. - -"It's quite true," he said; "he's gone to Buenos Aires, started this -morning--we'd better have him shadowed when he lands. I'll cable at -once. Otherwise we may have a lot of expense. The sooner these things -are done the better. I'm always regretting that I didn't..." he stopped, -and looked sidelong at the silent Winifred. "By the way," he went on, -"can you prove cruelty?" - -Winifred said in a dull voice: - -"I don't know. What is cruelty?" - -"Well, has he struck you, or anything?" - -Winifred shook herself, and her jaw grew square. - -"He twisted my arm. Or would pointing a pistol count? Or being too -drunk to undress himself, or--No--I can't bring in the children." - -"No," said Soames; "no! I wonder! Of course, there's legal -separation--we can get that. But separation! Um!" - -"What does it mean?" asked Winifred desolately. - -"That he can't touch you, or you him; you're both of you married and -unmarried." And again he grunted. What was it, in fact, but his own -accursed position, legalised! No, he would not put her into that! - -"It must be divorce," he said decisively; "failing cruelty, there's -desertion. There's a way of shortening the two years, now. We get the -Court to give us restitution of conjugal rights. Then if he doesn't -obey, we can bring a suit for divorce in six months' time. Of course you -don't want him back. But they won't know that. Still, there's the risk -that he might come. I'd rather try cruelty." - -Winifred shook her head. "It's so beastly." - -"Well," Soames murmured, "perhaps there isn't much risk so long as he's -infatuated and got money. Don't say anything to anybody, and don't pay -any of his debts." - -Winifred sighed. In spite of all she had been through, the sense of loss -was heavy on her. And this idea of not paying his debts any more brought -it home to her as nothing else yet had. Some richness seemed to have -gone out of life. Without her husband, without her pearls, without that -intimate sense that she made a brave show above the domestic whirlpool, -she would now have to face the world. She felt bereaved indeed. - -And into the chilly kiss he placed on her forehead, Soames put more than -his usual warmth. - -"I have to go down to Robin Hill to-morrow," he said, "to see young -Jolyon on business. He's got a boy at Oxford. I'd like to take Val with -me and introduce him. Come down to 'The Shelter' for the week-end and -bring the children. Oh! by the way, no, that won't do; I've got some -other people coming." So saying, he left her and turned towards Soho. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -SOHO - -Of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called London, Soho is -perhaps least suited to the Forsyte spirit. 'So-ho, my wild one!' -George would have said if he had seen his cousin going there. Untidy, -full of Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, tomatoes, restaurants, -organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, people looking out of upper -windows, it dwells remote from the British Body Politic. Yet has it -haphazard proprietary instincts of its own, and a certain possessive -prosperity which keeps its rents up when those of other quarters go down. -For long years Soames' acquaintanceship with Soho had been confined to -its Western bastion, Wardour Street. Many bargains had he picked up -there. Even during those seven years at Brighton after Bosinney's death -and Irene's flight, he had bought treasures there sometimes, though he -had no place to put them; for when the conviction that his wife had gone -for good at last became firm within him, he had caused a board to be put -up in Montpellier Square: - - FOR SALE - THE LEASE OF THIS DESIRABLE RESIDENCE - - Enquire of Messrs. Lesson and Tukes, - Court Street, Belgravia. - -It had sold within a week--that desirable residence, in the shadow of -whose perfection a man and a woman had eaten their hearts out. - -Of a misty January evening, just before the board was taken down, Soames -had gone there once more, and stood against the Square railings, looking -at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of possessive memories which -had turned so bitter in the mouth. Why had she never loved him? Why? -She had been given all she had wanted, and in return had given him, for -three long years, all he had wanted--except, indeed, her heart. He had -uttered a little involuntary groan, and a passing policeman had glanced -suspiciously at him who no longer possessed the right to enter that green -door with the carved brass knocker beneath the board 'For Sale!' A -choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he had hurried away into -the mist. That evening he had gone to Brighton to live.... - -Approaching Malta Street, Soho, and the Restaurant Bretagne, where -Annette would be drooping her pretty shoulders over her accounts, Soames -thought with wonder of those seven years at Brighton. How had he managed -to go on so long in that town devoid of the scent of sweetpeas, where he -had not even space to put his treasures? True, those had been years with -no time at all for looking at them--years of almost passionate -money-making, during which Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte had become -solicitors to more limited Companies than they could properly attend to. -Up to the City of a morning in a Pullman car, down from the City of an -evening in a Pullman car. Law papers again after dinner, then the sleep -of the tired, and up again next morning. Saturday to Monday was spent at -his Club in town--curious reversal of customary procedure, based on the -deep and careful instinct that while working so hard he needed sea air to -and from the station twice a day, and while resting must indulge his -domestic affections. The Sunday visit to his family in Park Lane, to -Timothy's, and to Green Street; the occasional visits elsewhere had -seemed to him as necessary to health as sea air on weekdays. Even since -his migration to Mapledurham he had maintained those habits until--he had -known Annette. - -Whether Annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or that -outlook had produced Annette, he knew no more than we know where a circle -begins. It was intricate and deeply involved with the growing -consciousness that property without anyone to leave it to is the negation -of true Forsyteism. To have an heir, some continuance of self, who would -begin where he left off--ensure, in fact, that he would not leave -off--had quite obsessed him for the last year and more. After buying a -bit of Wedgwood one evening in April, he had dropped into Malta Street to -look at a house of his father's which had been turned into a -restaurant--a risky proceeding, and one not quite in accordance with the -terms of the lease. He had stared for a little at the outside painted a -good cream colour, with two peacock-blue tubs containing little bay-trees -in a recessed doorway--and at the words 'Restaurant Bretagne' above them -in gold letters, rather favourably impressed. Entering, he had noticed -that several people were already seated at little round green tables with -little pots of fresh flowers on them and Brittany-ware plates, and had -asked of a trim waitress to see the proprietor. They had shown him into -a back room, where a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered with -papers, and a small round, table was laid for two. The impression of -cleanliness, order, and good taste was confirmed when the girl got up, -saying, "You wish to see Maman, Monsieur?" in a broken accent. - -"Yes," Soames had answered, "I represent your landlord; in fact, I'm his -son." - -"Won't you sit down, sir, please? Tell Maman to come to this gentleman." - -He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed, because it showed business -instinct; and suddenly he noticed that she was remarkably pretty--so -remarkably pretty that his eyes found a difficulty in leaving her face. -When she moved to put a chair for him, she swayed in a curious subtle -way, as if she had been put together by someone with a special secret -skill; and her face and neck, which was a little bared, looked as fresh -as if they had been sprayed with dew. Probably at this moment Soames -decided that the lease had not been violated; though to himself and his -father he based the decision on the efficiency of those illicit -adaptations in the building, on the signs of prosperity, and the obvious -business capacity of Madame Lamotte. He did not, however, neglect to -leave certain matters to future consideration, which had necessitated -further visits, so that the little back room had become quite accustomed -to his spare, not unsolid, but unobtrusive figure, and his pale, chinny -face with clipped moustache and dark hair not yet grizzling at the sides. - -"Un Monsieur 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 -drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression on -her face, different from any he knew, so much more open, so confiding, as -though to her music she was giving a heart he had never seen. And he -remembered how she stopped and looked round, how her face changed back to -that which he did know, and what an icy shiver had gone through him, for -all that the next moment he was fondling her shoulders. Yes, she had -made him suffer! Divorce! It seemed ridiculous, after all these years of -utter separation! But it would have to be. No other way! 'The -question,' he thought with sudden realism, 'is--which of us? She or me? -She deserted me. She ought to pay for it. There'll be someone, I -suppose.' Involuntarily he uttered a little snarling sound, and, -turning, made his way back to Park Lane. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -JAMES SEES VISIONS - -The butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, detained -Soames on the inner mat. - -"The master's poorly, sir," he murmured. "He wouldn't go to bed till you -came in. He's still in the diningroom." - -Soames responded in the hushed tone to which the house was now -accustomed. - -"What's the matter with him, Warmson?" - -"Nervous, sir, I think. Might be the funeral; might be Mrs. Dartie's -comin' round this afternoon. I think he overheard something. I've took -him in a negus. The mistress has just gone up." - -Soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag's-horn. - -"All right, Warmson, you can go to bed; I'll take him up myself." And he -passed into the dining-room. - -James was sitting before the fire, in a big armchair, with a camel-hair -shawl, very light and warm, over his frock-coated shoulders, on to which -his long white whiskers drooped. His white hair, still fairly thick, -glistened in the lamplight; a little moisture from his fixed, light-grey -eyes stained the cheeks, still quite well coloured, and the long deep -furrows running to the corners of the clean-shaven lips, which moved as -if mumbling thoughts. His long legs, thin as a crow's, in shepherd's -plaid trousers, were bent at less than a right angle, and on one knee a -spindly hand moved continually, with fingers wide apart and glistening -tapered nails. Beside him, on a low stool, stood a half-finished glass -of negus, bedewed with beads of heat. There he had been sitting, with -intervals for meals, all day. At eighty-eight he was still organically -sound, but suffering terribly from the thought that no one ever told him -anything. It is, indeed, doubtful how he had become aware that Roger was -being buried that day, for Emily had kept it from him. She was always -keeping things from him. Emily was only seventy! James had a grudge -against his wife's youth. He felt sometimes that he would never have -married her if he had known that she would have so many years before her, -when he had so few. It was not natural. She would live fifteen or -twenty years after he was gone, and might spend a lot of money; she had -always had extravagant tastes. For all he knew she might want to buy one -of these motor-cars. Cicely and Rachel and Imogen and all the young -people--they all rode those bicycles now and went off Goodness knew -where. And now Roger was gone. He didn't know--couldn't tell! The -family was breaking up. Soames would know how much his uncle had left. -Curiously he thought of Roger as Soames' uncle not as his own brother. -Soames! It was more and more the one solid spot in a vanishing world. -Soames was careful; he was a warm man; but he had no one to leave his -money to. There it was! He didn't know! And there was that fellow -Chamberlain! For James' political principles had been fixed between '70 -and '85 when 'that rascally Radical' had been the chief thorn in the side -of property and he distrusted him to this day in spite of his conversion; -he would get the country into a mess and make money go down before he had -done with it. A stormy petrel of a chap! Where was Soames? He had gone -to the funeral of course which they had tried to keep from him. He knew -that perfectly well; he had seen his son's trousers. Roger! Roger in his -coffin! He remembered how, when they came up from school together from -the West, on the box seat of the old Slowflyer in 1824, Roger had got -into the 'boot' and gone to sleep. James uttered a thin cackle. A funny -fellow--Roger--an original! He didn't know! Younger than himself, and -in his coffin! The family was breaking up. There was Val going to the -university; he never came to see him now. He would cost a pretty penny -up there. It was an extravagant age. And all the pretty pennies that -his four grandchildren would cost him danced before James' eyes. He did -not grudge them the money, but he grudged terribly the risk which the -spending of that money might bring on them; he grudged the diminution of -security. And now that Cicely had married, she might be having children -too. He didn't know--couldn't tell! Nobody thought of anything but -spending money in these days, and racing about, and having what they -called 'a good time.' A motor-car went past the window. Ugly great -lumbering thing, making all that racket! But there it was, the country -rattling to the dogs! People in such a hurry that they couldn't even -care for style--a neat turnout like his barouche and bays was worth all -those new-fangled things. And consols at 116! There must be a lot of -money in the country. And now there was this old Kruger! They had tried -to keep old Kruger from him. But he knew better; there would be a pretty -kettle of fish out there! He had known how it would be when that fellow -Gladstone--dead now, thank God! made such a mess of it after that -dreadful business at Majuba. He shouldn't wonder if the Empire split up -and went to pot. And this vision of the Empire going to pot filled a -full quarter of an hour with qualms of the most serious character. He -had eaten a poor lunch because of them. But it was after lunch that the -real disaster to his nerves occurred. He had been dozing when he became -aware of voices--low voices. Ah! they never told him anything! -Winifred's and her mother's. "Monty!" That fellow Dartie--always that -fellow Dartie! The voices had receded; and James had been left alone, -with his ears standing up like a hare's, and fear creeping about his -inwards. Why did they leave him alone? Why didn't they come and tell -him? And an awful thought, which through long years had haunted -him, concreted again swiftly in his brain. Dartie had gone -bankrupt--fraudulently bankrupt, and to save Winifred and the children, -he--James--would have to pay! Could he--could Soames turn him into a -limited company? No, he couldn't! There it was! With every minute -before Emily came back the spectre fiercened. Why, it might be forgery! -With eyes fixed on the doubted Turner in the centre of the wall, James -suffered tortures. He saw Dartie in the dock, his grandchildren in the -gutter, and himself in bed. He saw the doubted Turner being sold at -Jobson's, and all the majestic edifice of property in rags. He saw in -fancy Winifred unfashionably dressed, and heard in fancy Emily's voice -saying: "Now, don't fuss, James!" She was always saying: "Don't fuss!" -She had no nerves; he ought never to have married a woman eighteen years -younger than himself. Then Emily's real voice said: - -"Have you had a nice nap, James?" - -Nap! He was in torment, and she asked him that! - -"What's this about Dartie?" he said, and his eyes glared at her. - -Emily's self-possession never deserted her. - -"What have you been hearing?" she asked blandly. - -"What's this about Dartie?" repeated James. "He's gone bankrupt." - -"Fiddle!" - -James made a great effort, and rose to the full height of his stork-like -figure. - -"You never tell me anything," he said; "he's gone bankrupt." - -The destruction of that fixed idea seemed to Emily all that mattered at -the moment. - -"He has not," she answered firmly. "He's gone to Buenos Aires." - -If she had said "He's gone to Mars" she could not have dealt James a more -stunning blow; his imagination, invested entirely in British securities, -could as little grasp one place as the other. - -"What's he gone there for?" he said. "He's got no money. What did he -take?" - -Agitated within by Winifred's news, and goaded by the constant -reiteration of this jeremiad, Emily said calmly: - -"He took Winifred's pearls and a dancer." - -"What!" said James, and sat down. - -His sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she said: - -"Now, don't fuss, James!" - -A dusky red had spread over James' cheeks and forehead. - -"I paid for them," he said tremblingly; "he's a thief! I--I knew how it -would be. He'll be the death of me; he ...." Words failed him and he -sat quite still. Emily, who thought she knew him so well, was alarmed, -and went towards the sideboard where she kept some sal volatile. She -could not see the tenacious Forsyte spirit working in that thin, -tremulous shape against the extravagance of the emotion called up by this -outrage on Forsyte principles--the Forsyte spirit deep in there, saying: -'You mustn't get into a fantod, it'll never do. You won't digest your -lunch. You'll have a fit!' All unseen by her, it was doing better work -in James than sal volatile. - -"Drink this," she said. - -James waved it aside. - -"What was Winifred about," he said, "to let him take her pearls?" Emily -perceived the crisis past. - -"She can have mine," she said comfortably. "I never wear them. She'd -better get a divorce." - -"There you go!" said James. "Divorce! We've never had a divorce in the -family. Where's Soames?" - -"He'll be in directly." - -"No, he won't," said James, almost fiercely; "he's at the funeral. You -think I know nothing." - -"Well," said Emily with calm, "you shouldn't get into such fusses when we -tell you things." And plumping up his cushions, and putting the sal -volatile beside him, she left the room. - -But James sat there seeing visions--of Winifred in the Divorce Court, and -the family name in the papers; of the earth falling on Roger's coffin; of -Val taking after his father; of the pearls he had paid for and would -never see again; of money back at four per cent., and the country going -to the dogs; and, as the afternoon wore into evening, and tea-time -passed, and dinnertime, those visions became more and more mixed and -menacing--of being told nothing, till he had nothing left of all his -wealth, and they told him nothing of it. Where was Soames? Why didn't -he come in?... His hand grasped the glass of negus, he raised it to -drink, and saw his son standing there looking at him. A little sigh of -relief escaped his lips, and putting the glass down, he said: - -"There you are! Dartie's gone to Buenos Aires." - -Soames nodded. "That's all right," he said; "good riddance." - -A wave of assuagement passed over James' brain. Soames knew. Soames was -the only one of them all who had sense. Why couldn't he come and live at -home? He had no son of his own. And he said plaintively: - -"At my age I get nervous. I wish you were more at home, my boy." - -Again Soames nodded; the mask of his countenance betrayed no -understanding, but he went closer, and as if by accident touched his -father's shoulder. - -"They sent their love to you at Timothy's," he said. "It went off all -right. I've been to see Winifred. I'm going to take steps." And he -thought: 'Yes, and you mustn't hear of them.' - -James looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin throat -between the points of his collar looked very gristly and naked. - -"I've been very poorly all day," he said; "they never tell me anything." - -Soames' heart twitched. - -"Well, it's all right. There's nothing to worry about. Will you come up -now?" and he put his hand under his father's arm. - -James obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together they went -slowly across the room, which had a rich look in the firelight, and out -to the stairs. Very slowly they ascended. - -"Good-night, my boy," said James at his bedroom door. - -"Good-night, father," answered Soames. His hand stroked down the sleeve -beneath the shawl; it seemed to have almost nothing in it, so thin was -the arm. And, turning away from the light in the opening doorway, he -went up the extra flight to his own bedroom. - -'I want a son,' he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed; 'I want a -son.' - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME - -Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper lawn at -Robin Hill looked no day older than when Bosinney sprawled under it and -said to Soames: "Forsyte, I've found the very place for your house." -Since then Swithin had dreamed, and old Jolyon died, beneath its -branches. And now, close to the swing, no-longer-young Jolyon often -painted there. Of all spots in the world it was perhaps the most sacred -to him, for he had loved his father. - -Contemplating its great girth--crinkled and a little mossed, but not yet -hollow--he would speculate on the passage of time. That tree had seen, -perhaps, all real English history; it dated, he shouldn't wonder, from -the days of Elizabeth at least. His own fifty years were as nothing to -its wood. When the house behind it, which he now owned, was three -hundred years of age instead of twelve, that tree might still be standing -there, vast and hollow--for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it -down? A Forsyte might perhaps still be living in that house, to guard it -jealously. And Jolyon would wonder what the house would look like coated -with such age. Wistaria was already about its walls--the new look had -gone. Would it hold its own and keep the dignity Bosinney had bestowed -on it, or would the giant London have lapped it round and made it into an -asylum in the midst of a jerry-built wilderness? Often, within and -without of it, he was persuaded that Bosinney had been moved by the -spirit when he built. He had put his heart into that house, indeed! It -might even become one of the 'homes of England'--a rare achievement for a -house in these degenerate days of building. And the aesthetic spirit, -moving hand in hand with his Forsyte sense of possessive continuity, -dwelt with pride and pleasure on his ownership thereof. There was the -smack of reverence and ancestor-worship (if only for one ancestor) in his -desire to hand this house down to his son and his son's son. His father -had loved the house, had loved the view, the grounds, that tree; his last -years had been happy there, and no one had lived there before him. These -last eleven years at Robin Hill had formed in Jolyon's life as a painter, -the important period of success. He was now in the very van of -water-colour art, hanging on the line everywhere. His drawings fetched -high prices. Specialising in that one medium with the tenacity of his -breed, he had 'arrived'--rather late, but not too late for a member of -the family which made a point of living for ever. His art had really -deepened and improved. In conformity with his position he had grown a -short fair beard, which was just beginning to grizzle, and hid his -Forsyte chin; his brown face had lost the warped expression of his -ostracised period--he looked, if anything, younger. The loss of his wife -in 1894 had been one of those domestic tragedies which turn out in the -end for the good of all. He had, indeed, loved her to the last, for his -was an affectionate spirit, but she had become increasingly difficult: -jealous of her step-daughter June, jealous even of her own little -daughter Holly, and making ceaseless plaint that he could not love her, -ill as she was, and 'useless to everyone, and better dead.' He had -mourned her sincerely, but his face had looked younger since she died. -If she could only have believed that she made him happy, how much happier -would the twenty years of their companionship have been! - -June had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly taken -her own mother's place; and ever since old Jolyon died she had been -established in a sort of studio in London. But she had come back to -Robin Hill on her stepmother's death, and gathered the reins there into -her small decided hands. Jolly was then at Harrow; Holly still learning -from Mademoiselle Beauce. There had been nothing to keep Jolyon at home, -and he had removed his grief and his paint-box abroad. There he had -wandered, for the most part in Brittany, and at last had fetched up in -Paris. He had stayed there several months, and come back with the -younger face and the short fair beard. Essentially a man who merely -lodged in any house, it had suited him perfectly that June should reign -at Robin Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and -when he liked. She was inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather -as an asylum for her 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 motorcars and cabs, of which -he disapproved aesthetically. He counted these vehicles from his hansom, -and made the proportion of them one in twenty. 'They were one in thirty -about a year ago,' he thought; 'they've come to stay. Just so much more -rattling round of wheels and general stink'--for he was one of those -rather rare Liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material -form; and he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly, out -of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing -screen of plane-trees. At the little block of flats which stood back -some fifty yards from the Embankment, he told the cabman to wait, and -went up to the first floor. - -Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home! - -The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent to him -remembering the threadbare refinement in that tiny flat eight years ago -when he announced her good fortune. Everything was now fresh, dainty, -and smelled of flowers. The general effect was silvery with touches of -black, hydrangea colour, and gold. 'A woman of great taste,' he thought. -Time had dealt gently with Jolyon, for he was a Forsyte. But with Irene -Time hardly seemed to deal at all, or such was his impression. She -appeared to him not a day older, standing there in mole-coloured velvet -corduroy, with soft dark eyes and dark gold hair, with outstretched hand -and a little smile. - -"Won't you sit down?" - -He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of -embarrassment. - -"You look absolutely unchanged," he said. - -"And you look younger, Cousin Jolyon." - -Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a -comfort to him. - -"I'm ancient, but I don't feel it. That's one thing about painting, it -keeps you young. Titian lived to ninety-nine, and had to have plague to -kill him off. Do you know, the first time I ever saw you I thought of a -picture by him?" - -"When did you see me for the first time?" - -"In the Botanical Gardens." - -"How did you know me, if you'd never seen me before?" - -"By someone who came up to you." He was looking at her hardily, but her -face did not change; and she said quietly: - -"Yes; many lives ago." - -"What is your recipe for youth, Irene?" - -"People who don't live are wonderfully preserved." - -H'm! a bitter little saying! People who don't live! But an opening, and -he took it. "You remember my Cousin Soames?" - -He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality, and at once went on: - -"He came to see me the day before yesterday! He wants a divorce. Do -you?" - -"I?" The word seemed startled out of her. "After twelve years? It's -rather late. Won't it be difficult?" - -Jolyon looked hard into her face. "Unless...." he said. - -"Unless I have a lover now. But I have never had one since." - -What did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words? Relief, -surprise, pity! Venus for twelve years without a lover! - -"And yet," he said, "I suppose you would give a good deal to be free, -too?" - -"I don't know. What does it matter, now?" - -"But if you were to love again?" - -"I should love." In that simple answer she seemed to sum up the whole -philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back. - -"Well! Is there anything you would like me to say to him?" - -"Only that I'm sorry he's not free. He had his chance once. I don't -know why he didn't take it." - -"Because he was a Forsyte; we never part with things, you know, unless we -want something in their place; and not always then." - -Irene smiled. "Don't you, Cousin Jolyon?--I think you do." - -"Of course, I'm a bit of a mongrel--not quite a pure Forsyte. I never -take the halfpennies off my cheques, I put them on," said Jolyon -uneasily. - -"Well, what does Soames want in place of me now?" - -"I don't know; perhaps children." - -She was silent for a little, looking down. - -"Yes," she murmured; "it's hard. I would help him to be free if I -could." - -Jolyon gazed into his hat, his embarrassment was increasing fast; so was -his admiration, his wonder, and his pity. She was so lovely, and so -lonely; and altogether it was such a coil! - -"Well," he said, "I shall have to see Soames. If there's anything I can -do for you I'm always at your service. You must think of me as a -wretched substitute for my father. At all events I'll let you know what -happens when I speak to Soames. He may supply the material himself." - -She shook her head. - -"You see, he has a lot to lose; and I have nothing. I should like him to -be free; but I don't see what I can do." - -"Nor I at the moment," said Jolyon, and soon after took his leave. He -went down to his hansom. Half-past three! Soames would be at his office -still. - -"To the Poultry," he called through the trap. In front of the Houses of -Parliament and in Whitehall, newsvendors were calling, "Grave situation -in the Transvaal!" but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in -recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her soft dark glance, and -the words: "I have never had one since." What on earth did such a woman -do with her life, back-watered like this? Solitary, unprotected, with -every man's hand against her or rather--reaching out to grasp her at the -least sign. And year after year she went on like that! - -The word 'Poultry' above the passing citizens brought him back to -reality. - -'Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,' in black letters on a ground the colour -of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went up the stone -stairs muttering: "Fusty musty ownerships! Well, we couldn't do without -them!" - -"I want Mr. Soames Forsyte," he said to the boy who opened the door. - -"What name?" - -"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte." - -The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a Forsyte with a -beard, and vanished. - -The offices of 'Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte' had slowly absorbed the -offices of 'Tooting and Bowles,' and occupied the whole of the first -floor. - -The firm consisted now of nothing but Soames and a number of managing and -articled clerks. The complete retirement of James some six years ago had -accelerated business, to which the final touch of speed had been imparted -when Bustard dropped off, worn out, as many believed, by the suit of -'Fryer versus Forsyte,' more in Chancery than ever and less likely to -benefit its beneficiaries. Soames, with his saner grasp of actualities, -had never permitted it to worry him; on the contrary, he had long -perceived that Providence had presented him therein with 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 whimsical thought flashed through him: 'I wonder if -I shall get a bill of costs for this--"To attending Mr. Jolyon Forsyte in -the matter of my divorce, to receiving his account of his visit to my -wife, and to advising him to go and see her again, sixteen and -eightpence."' - -Suddenly Soames said: "I can't go on like this. I tell you, I can't go -on like this." His eyes were shifting from side to side, like an -animal's when it looks for way of escape. 'He really suffers,' thought -Jolyon; 'I've no business to forget that, just because I don't like him.' - -"Surely," he said gently, "it lies with yourself. A man can always put -these things through if he'll take it on himself." - -Soames turned square to him, with a sound which seemed to come from -somewhere very deep. - -"Why should I suffer more than I've suffered already? Why should I?" - -Jolyon could only shrug his shoulders. His reason agreed, his instinct -rebelled; he could not have said why. - -"Your father," went on Soames, "took an interest in her--why, goodness -knows! And I suppose you do too?" he gave Jolyon a sharp look. "It -seems to me that one only has to do another person a wrong to get all the -sympathy. I don't know in what way I was to blame--I've never known. I -always treated her well. I gave her everything she could wish for. I -wanted her." - -Again Jolyon's reason nodded; again his instinct shook its head. 'What is -it?' he thought; 'there must be something wrong in me. Yet if there is, -I'd rather be wrong than right.' - -"After all," said Soames with a sort of glum fierceness, "she was my -wife." - -In a flash the thought went through his listener: 'There it is! -Ownerships! Well, we all own things. But--human beings! Pah!' - -"You have to look at facts," he said drily, "or rather the want of them." - -Soames gave him another quick suspicious look. - -"The want of them?" he said. "Yes, but I am not so sure." - -"I beg your pardon," replied Jolyon; "I've told you what she said. It was -explicit." - -"My experience has not been one to promote blind confidence in her word. -We shall see." - -Jolyon got up. - -"Good-bye," he said curtly. - -"Good-bye," returned Soames; and Jolyon went out trying to understand the -look, half-startled, half-menacing, on his cousin's face. He sought -Waterloo Station in a disturbed frame of mind, as though the skin of his -moral being had been scraped; and all the way down in the train he -thought of Irene in her lonely flat, and of Soames in his lonely office, -and of the strange paralysis of life that lay on them both. 'In -chancery!' he thought. 'Both their necks in chancery--and her's so -pretty!' - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -VAL HEARS THE NEWS - -The keeping of engagements had not as yet been a conspicuous feature in -the life of young Val Dartie, so that when he broke two and kept one, it -was the latter event which caused him, if anything, the greater surprise, -while jogging back to town from Robin Hill after his ride with Holly. -She had been even prettier than he had thought her yesterday, on her -silver-roan, long-tailed 'palfrey'; and it seemed to him, self-critical -in the brumous October gloaming and the outskirts of London, that only -his boots had shone throughout their two-hour companionship. He took out -his new gold 'hunter'--present from James--and looked not at the time, -but at sections of his face in the glittering back of its opened case. -He had a temporary spot over one eyebrow, and it displeased him, for it -must have displeased her. Crum never had any spots. Together with Crum -rose the scene in the promenade of the Pandemonium. To-day he had not -had the faintest desire to unbosom himself to Holly about his father. -His father lacked poetry, the stirrings of which he was feeling for the -first time in his nineteen years. The Liberty, with Cynthia Dark, that -almost mythical embodiment of rapture; the Pandemonium, with the woman of -uncertain age--both seemed to Val completely 'off,' fresh from communion -with this new, shy, dark-haired young cousin of his. She rode 'Jolly -well,' too, so that it had been all the more flattering that she had let -him lead her where he would in the long gallops of Richmond Park, though -she knew them so much better than he did. Looking back on it all, he was -mystified by the barrenness of his speech; he felt that he could say 'an -awful lot of fetching things' if he had but the chance again, and the -thought that he must go back to Littlehampton on the morrow, and to -Oxford on the twelfth--'to that beastly exam,' too--without the faintest -chance of first seeing her again, caused darkness to settle on his spirit -even more quickly than on the evening. He should write to her, however, -and she had promised to answer. Perhaps, too, she would come up to -Oxford to see her brother. That thought was like the first star, which -came out as he rode into Padwick's livery stables in the purlieus of -Sloane Square. He got off and stretched himself luxuriously, for he had -ridden some twenty-five good miles. The Dartie within him made him -chaffer for five minutes with young Padwick concerning the favourite for -the Cambridgeshire; then with the words, "Put the gee down to my -account," he walked away, a little wide at the knees, and flipping his -boots with his knotty little cane. 'I don't feel a bit inclined to go -out,' he thought. 'I wonder if mother will stand fizz for my last night!' -With 'fizz' and recollection, he could well pass a domestic evening. - -When he came down, speckless after his bath, he found his mother -scrupulous in a low evening dress, and, to his annoyance, his Uncle -Soames. They stopped talking when he came in; then his uncle said: - -"He'd better be told." - -At those words, which meant something about his father, of course, Val's -first thought was of Holly. Was it anything beastly? His mother began -speaking. - -"Your father," she said in her fashionably appointed voice, while her -fingers plucked rather pitifully at sea-green brocade, "your father, my -dear boy, has--is not at Newmarket; he's on his way to South America. -He--he's left us." - -Val looked from her to Soames. Left them! Was he sorry? Was he fond of -his father? It seemed to him that he did not know. Then, suddenly--as -at a whiff of gardenias and cigars--his heart twitched within him, and he -was sorry. One's father belonged to one, could not go off in this -fashion--it was not done! Nor had he always been the 'bounder' of the -Pandemonium promenade. There were precious memories of tailors' shops -and horses, tips at school, and general lavish kindness, when in luck. - -"But why?" he said. Then, as a sportsman himself, was sorry he had -asked. The mask of his mother's face was all disturbed; and he burst -out: - -"All right, Mother, don't tell me! Only, what does it mean?" - -"A divorce, Val, I'm afraid." - -Val uttered a queer little grunt, and looked quickly at his uncle--that -uncle whom he had been taught to look on as a guarantee against the -consequences of having a father, even against the Dartie blood in his own -veins. The flat-checked visage seemed to wince, and this upset him. - -"It won't be public, will it?" - -So vividly before him had come recollection of his own eyes glued to the -unsavoury details of many a divorce suit in the Public Press. - -"Can't it be done quietly somehow? It's so disgusting for--for mother, -and--and everybody." - -"Everything will be done as quietly as it can, you may be sure." - -"Yes--but, why is it necessary at all? Mother doesn't want to marry -again." - -Himself, the girls, their name tarnished in the sight of his -schoolfellows and of Crum, of the men at Oxford, of--Holly! Unbearable! -What was to be gained by it? - -"Do you, Mother?" he said sharply. - -Thus brought face to face with so much of her own feeling by the one she -loved best in the world, Winifred rose from the Empire chair in which she -had been sitting. She saw that her son would be against her unless he -was told everything; and, yet, how could she tell him? Thus, still -plucking at the green brocade, she stared at Soames. Val, too, stared at -Soames. Surely this embodiment of respectability and the sense of -property could not wish to bring such a slur on his own sister! - -Soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth surface -of a marqueterie table; then, without looking at his nephew, he began: - -"You don't understand what your mother has had to put up with these -twenty years. This is only the last straw, Val." And glancing up -sideways at Winifred, he added: - -"Shall I tell him?" - -Winifred was silent. If he were not told, he would be against her! Yet, -how dreadful to be told such things of his own father! Clenching her -lips, she nodded. - -Soames spoke in a rapid, even voice: - -"He has always been a burden round your mother's neck. She has paid his -debts over and over again; he has often been drunk, abused and threatened -her; and now he is gone to Buenos Aires with a dancer." And, as if -distrusting the efficacy of those words on the boy, he went on quickly: - -"He took your mother's pearls to give to her." - -Val jerked up his hand, then. At that signal of distress Winifred cried -out: - -"That'll do, Soames--stop!" - -In the boy, the Dartie and the Forsyte were struggling. For debts, -drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy; but the pearls--no! That was -too much! And suddenly he found his mother's hand squeezing his. - -"You see," he heard Soames say, "we can't have it all begin over again. -There's a limit; we must strike while the iron's hot." - -Val freed his hand. - -"But--you're--never going to bring out that about the pearls! I couldn't -stand that--I simply couldn't!" - -Winifred cried out: - -"No, no, Val--oh no! That's only to show you how impossible your father -is!" And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a cigarette. -His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! it was -unbearable--just as he was going up to Oxford! - -"Can't mother be protected without?" he said. "I could look after her. -It could always be done later if it was really necessary." - -A smile played for a moment round Soames' lips, and became bitter. - -"You don't know what you're talking of; nothing's so fatal as delay in -such matters." - -"Why?" - -"I tell you, boy, nothing's so fatal. I know from experience." - -His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him round-eyed, -never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. Oh! Yes--he -remembered now--there had been an Aunt Irene, and something had -happened--something which people kept dark; he had heard his father once -use an unmentionable word of her. - -"I don't want to speak ill of your father," Soames went on doggedly, "but -I know him well enough to be sure that he'll be back on your mother's -hands before a year's over. You can imagine what that will mean to her -and to all of you after this. The only thing is to cut the knot for -good." - -In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at his -mother's face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight into the -fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most. - -"All right, mother," he said; "we'll back you up. Only I'd like to know -when it'll be. It's my first term, you know. I don't want to be up -there when it comes off." - -"Oh! my dear boy," murmured Winifred, "it is a bore for you." So, by -habit, she phrased what, from the expression of her face, was the most -poignant regret. "When will it be, Soames?" - -"Can't tell--not for months. We must get restitution first." - -'What the deuce is that?' thought Val. 'What silly brutes lawyers are! -Not for months! I know one thing: I'm not going to dine in!' And he -said: - -"Awfully sorry, mother, I've got to go out to dinner now." - -Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; they -both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the expression of -feeling. - -Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and depressed. -And not till he reached Piccadilly did he discover that he had only -eighteen-pence. One couldn't dine off eighteen-pence, and he was very -hungry. He looked longingly at the windows of the Iseeum Club, where he -had often eaten of the best with his father! Those pearls! There was no -getting over them! But the more he brooded and the further he walked the -hungrier he naturally became. Short of trailing home, there were only two -places where he could go--his grandfather's in Park Lane, and Timothy's -in the Bayswater Road. Which was the less deplorable? At his -grandfather's he would probably get a better dinner on the spur of the -moment. At Timothy's they gave you a jolly good feed when they expected -you, not otherwise. He decided on Park Lane, not unmoved by the thought -that to go up to Oxford without affording his grandfather a chance to tip -him was hardly fair to either of them. His mother would hear he had been -there, of course, and might think it funny; but he couldn't help that. -He rang the bell. - -"Hullo, Warmson, any dinner for me, d'you think?" - -"They're just going in, Master Val. Mr. Forsyte will be very glad to see -you. He was saying at lunch that he never saw you nowadays." - -Val grinned. - -"Well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Warmson, let's have fizz." - -Warmson smiled faintly--in his opinion Val was a young limb. - -"I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val." - -"I say," Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, "I'm not at school any -more, you know." - -Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the -stag's-horn coat stand, with the words: - -"Mr. Valerus, ma'am." - -"Confound him!" thought Val, entering. - -A warm embrace, a "Well, Val!" from Emily, and a rather quavery "So there -you are at last!" from James, restored his sense of dignity. - -"Why didn't you let us know? There's only saddle of mutton. Champagne, -Warmson," said Emily. And they went in. - -At the great dining-table, shortened to its utmost, under which so many -fashionable legs had rested, James sat at one end, Emily at the other, -Val half-way between them; and something of the loneliness of his -grandparents, now that all their four children were flown, reached the -boy's spirit. 'I hope I shall kick the bucket long before I'm as old as -grandfather,' he thought. 'Poor old chap, he's as thin as a rail!' And -lowering his voice while his grandfather and Warmson were in discussion -about sugar in the soup, he said to Emily: - -"It's pretty brutal at home, Granny. I suppose you know." - -"Yes, dear boy." - -"Uncle Soames was there when I left. I say, isn't there anything to be -done to prevent a divorce? Why is he so beastly keen on it?" - -"Hush, my dear!" murmured Emily; "we're keeping it from your -grandfather." - -James' voice sounded from the other end. - -"What's that? What are you talking about?" - -"About Val's college," returned Emily. "Young Pariser was there, James; -you remember--he nearly broke the Bank at Monte Carlo afterwards." - -James muttered that he did not know--Val must look after himself up -there, or he'd get into bad ways. And he looked at his grandson with -gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered. - -"What I'm afraid of," said Val to his plate, "is of being hard up, you -know." - -By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of -insecurity for his grandchildren. - -"Well," said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, "you'll have -a good allowance; but you must keep within it." - -"Of course," murmured Val; "if it is good. How much will it be, -Grandfather?" - -"Three hundred and fifty; it's too much. I had next to nothing at your -age." - -Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. "I don't -know what your young cousin has," said James; "he's up there. His -father's a rich man." - -"Aren't you?" asked Val hardily. - -"I?" replied James, flustered. "I've got so many expenses. Your -father...." and he was silent. - -"Cousin Jolyon's got an awfully jolly place. I went down there with -Uncle Soames--ripping stables." - -"Ah!" murmured James profoundly. "That house--I knew how it would be!" -And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish-bones. His son's -tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the Forsyte family, had -still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and -misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of Robin Hill, because Robin Hill -meant Holly, turned to Emily and said: - -"Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?" And, receiving her nod, -went on: "I wish you'd tell me about him, Granny. What became of Aunt -Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully worked-up about something -to-night." - -Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James' -ear. - -"What's that?" he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips. -"Who's been seeing her? I knew we hadn't heard the last of that." - -"Now, James," said Emily, "eat your dinner. Nobody's been seeing -anybody." - -James put down his fork. - -"There you go," he said. "I might die before you'd tell me of it. Is -Soames getting a divorce?" - -"Nonsense," said Emily with incomparable aplomb; "Soames is much too -sensible." - -James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers -together on the skin and bone of it. - -"She--she was always...." he said, and with that enigmatic remark the -conversation lapsed, for Warmson had returned. But later, when the -saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert, and -Val had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather's -kiss--like no other kiss in the world, from lips pushed out with a sort -of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to weakness--he returned to the -charge in the hall. - -"Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on mother's -getting a divorce?" - -"Your Uncle Soames," said Emily, and her voice had in it an exaggerated -assurance, "is a lawyer, my dear boy. He's sure to know best." - -"Is he?" muttered Val. "But what did become of Aunt Irene? I remember -she was jolly good-looking." - -"She--er...." said Emily, "behaved very badly. We don't talk about it." - -"Well, I don't want everybody at Oxford to know about our affairs," -ejaculated Val; "it's a brutal idea. Why couldn't father be prevented -without its being made public?" - -Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of divorce, -owing to her fashionable proclivities--so many of those whose legs had -been under her table having gained a certain notoriety. When, however, -it touched her own family, she liked it no better than other people. But -she was eminently practical, and a woman of courage, who never pursued a -shadow in preference to its substance. - -"Your mother," she said, "will be happier if she's quite free, Val. -Good-night, my dear boy; and don't wear loud waistcoats up at Oxford, -they're not the thing just now. Here's a little present." - -With another five pounds in his hand, and a little warmth in his heart, -for he was fond of his grandmother, he went out into Park Lane. A wind -had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were rustling, and the stars were -shining. With all that money in his pocket an impulse to 'see life' -beset him; but he had not gone forty yards in the direction of Piccadilly -when Holly's shy face, and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity, -came up before him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the -pressure of her warm gloved hand. 'No, dash it!' he thought, 'I'm going -home!' - - - - -CHAPTER X - -SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE - -It was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely, and summer -lingered below the yellowing leaves. Soames took many looks at the day -from his riverside garden near Mapledurham that Sunday morning. - -With his own hands he put flowers about his little house-boat, and -equipped the punt, in which, after lunch, he proposed to take them on the -river. Placing those Chinese-looking cushions, he could not tell whether -or no he wished to take Annette alone. She was so very pretty--could he -trust himself not to say irrevocable words, passing beyond the limits of -discretion? Roses on the veranda were still in bloom, and the hedges -ever-green, so that there was almost nothing of middle-aged autumn to -chill the mood; yet was he nervous, fidgety, strangely distrustful of his -powers to steer just the right course. This visit had been planned to -produce in Annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions, so that -they should be ready to receive with respect any overture he might later -be disposed to make. He dressed with great care, making himself neither -too young nor too old, very thankful that his hair was still thick and -smooth and had no grey in it. Three times he went up to his -picture-gallery. If they had any knowledge at all, they must see at once -that his collection alone was worth at least thirty thousand pounds. He -minutely inspected, too, the pretty bedroom overlooking the river where -they would take off their hats. It would be her bedroom if--if the matter -went through, and she became his wife. Going up to the dressing-table he -passed his hand over the lilac-coloured pincushion, into which were stuck -all kinds of pins; a bowl of pot-pourri exhaled a scent that made his -head turn just a little. His wife! If only the whole thing could be -settled out of hand, and there was not the nightmare of this divorce to -be gone through first; and with gloom puckered on his forehead, he looked -out at the river shining beyond the roses and the lawn. Madame Lamotte -would never resist this prospect for her child; Annette would never -resist her mother. If only he were free! He drove to the station to -meet them. What taste Frenchwomen had! Madame Lamotte was in black with -touches of lilac colour, Annette in greyish lilac linen, with cream -coloured gloves and hat. Rather pale she looked and Londony; and her -blue eyes were demure. Waiting for them to come down to lunch, Soames -stood in the open french-window of the diningroom moved by that sensuous -delight in sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the full -when youth and beauty were there to share it with one. He had ordered -the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was a very special -Sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the coffee served -on the veranda super-excellent. Madame Lamotte accepted creme de menthe; -Annette refused. Her manners were charming, with just a suspicion of -'the conscious beauty' creeping into them. 'Yes,' thought Soames, -'another year of London and that sort of life, and she'll be spoiled.' - -Madame was in sedate French raptures. "Adorable! Le soleil est si bon! -How everything is chic, is it not, Annette? Monsieur is a real Monte -Cristo." Annette murmured assent, with a look up at Soames which he -could not read. He proposed a turn on the river. But to punt two persons -when one of them looked so ravishing on those Chinese cushions was merely -to suffer from a sense of lost opportunity; so they went but a short way -towards Pangbourne, drifting slowly back, with every now and then an -autumn leaf dropping on Annette or on her mother's black amplitude. And -Soames was not happy, worried by the thought: 'How--when--where--can I -say--what?' They did not yet even know that he was married. To tell them -he was married might jeopardise his every chance; yet, if he did not -definitely make them understand that he wished for Annette's hand, it -would be dropping into some other clutch before he was free to claim it. - -At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the Transvaal. - -"There'll be war," he said. - -Madame Lamotte lamented. - -"Ces pauvres gens bergers!" Could they not be left to themselves? - -Soames smiled--the question seemed to him absurd. - -Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not -abandon their legitimate commercial interests. - -"Ah! that!" But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a little -hypocrite. They were talking of justice and the Uitlanders, not of -business. Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that. - -"The Boers are only half-civilised," remarked Soames; "they stand in the -way of progress. It will never do to let our suzerainty go." - -"What does that mean to say? Suzerainty!" - -"What a strange word!" Soames became eloquent, roused by these threats -to the principle of possession, and stimulated by Annette's eyes fixed on -him. He was delighted when presently she said: - -"I think Monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson." She was -sensible! - -"Of course," he said, "we must act with moderation. I'm no jingo. We -must be firm without bullying. Will you come up and see my pictures?" -Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that -they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, that remarkable study of -a 'Hay-cart going Home,' as if it were a lithograph. He waited almost -with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection--an -Israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost -certain it had reached top value, and would be better on the market -again. They did not view it at all. This was a shock; and yet to have -in Annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly, -half-baked predilections of the English middle-class to deal with. At -the end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather ashamed ---Meissonier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte stopped before -it. - -"Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!" Soames took advantage of that moment. -Very gently touching Annette's arm, he said: - -"How do you like my place, Annette?" - -She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked down, -and murmured: - -"Who would not like it? It is so beautiful!" - -"Perhaps some day--" Soames said, and stopped. - -So pretty she was, so self-possessed--she frightened him. Those -cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate -curves--she was a standing temptation to indiscretion! No! No! One must -be sure of one's ground--much surer! 'If I hold off,' he thought, 'it -will tantalise her.' And he crossed over to Madame Lamotte, who was -still in front of the Meissonier. - -"Yes, that's quite a good example of his later work. You must come -again, Madame, and see them lighted up. You must both come and spend a -night." - -Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By moonlight -too, the river must be ravishing! - -Annette murmured: - -"Thou art sentimental, Maman!" - -Sentimental! That black-robed, comely, substantial Frenchwoman of the -world! And suddenly he was certain as he could be that there was no -sentiment in either of them. All the better. Of what use sentiment? -And yet....! - -He drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. To the -tightened pressure of his hand it seemed that Annette's fingers responded -just a little; her face smiled at him through the dark. - -He went back to the carriage, brooding. "Go on home, Jordan," he said to -the coachman; "I'll walk." And he strode out into the darkening lanes, -caution and the desire of possession playing see-saw within him. 'Bon -soir, monsieur!' How softly she had said it. To know what was in her -mind! The French--they were like cats--one could tell nothing! But--how -pretty! What a perfect young thing to hold in one's arms! What a mother -for his heir! And he thought, with a smile, of his family and their -surprise at a French wife, and their curiosity, and of the way he would -play with it and buffet it confound them! - -The, poplars sighed in the darkness; an owl hooted. Shadows deepened in -the water. 'I will and must be free,' he thought. 'I won't hang about -any longer. I'll go and see Irene. If you want things done, do them -yourself. I must live again--live and move and have my being.' And in -echo to that queer biblicality church-bells chimed the call to evening -prayer. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -AND VISITS THE PAST - -On a Tuesday evening after dining at his club Soames set out to do what -required more courage and perhaps less delicacy than anything he had yet -undertaken in his life--save perhaps his birth, and one other action. He -chose the evening, indeed, partly because Irene was more likely to be in, -but mainly because he had failed to find sufficient resolution by -daylight, had needed wine to give him extra daring. - -He left his hansom on the Embankment, and walked up to the Old Church, -uncertain of the block of flats where he knew she lived. He found it -hiding behind a much larger mansion; and having read the name, 'Mrs. -Irene Heron'--Heron, forsooth! Her maiden name: so she used that again, -did she?--he stepped back into the road to look up at the windows of the -first floor. Light was coming through in the corner 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 atmosphere itself within him and outside. A kind of -defensive irony welled up in him. - -"Yes, it's a queer visit! I hope you're well." - -"Thank you. Will you sit down?" - -She had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a window-seat, -sinking on to it, with her hands clasped in her lap. Light fell on her -there, so that Soames could see her face, eyes, hair, strangely as he -remembered them, strangely beautiful. - -He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with -silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing. - -"You have not changed," he said. - -"No? What have you come for?" - -"To discuss things." - -"I have heard what you want from your cousin." - -"Well?" - -"I am willing. I have always been." - -The sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her figure -watchfully poised, defensive, was helping him now. A thousand memories -of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, and.... - -"Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on which I -can act. The law must be complied with." - -"I have none to give you that you don't know of." - -"Twelve years! Do you suppose I can believe that?" - -"I don't suppose you will believe anything I say; but it's the truth." - -Soames looked at her hard. He had said that she had not changed; now he -perceived that she had. Not in face, except that it was more beautiful; -not in form, except that it was a little fuller--no! She had changed -spiritually. There was more of her, as it were, something of activity -and daring, where there had been sheer passive resistance. 'Ah!' he -thought, 'that's her independent income! Confound Uncle Jolyon!' - -"I suppose you're comfortably off now?" he said. - -"Thank you, yes." - -"Why didn't you let me provide for you? I would have, in spite of -everything." - -A faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer. - -"You are still my wife," said Soames. Why he said that, what he meant by -it, he knew neither when he spoke nor after. It was a truism almost -preposterous, but its effect was startling. She rose from the -window-seat, and stood for a moment perfectly still, looking at him. He -could see her bosom heaving. Then she turned to the window and threw it -open. - -"Why do that?" he said sharply. "You'll catch cold in that dress. I'm -not dangerous." And he uttered a little sad laugh. - -She echoed it--faintly, bitterly. - -"It was--habit." - -"Rather odd habit," said Soames as bitterly. "Shut the window!" - -She shut it and sat down again. She had developed power, this -woman--this--wife of his! He felt it issuing from her as she sat there, -in a sort of armour. And almost unconsciously he rose and moved nearer; -he wanted to see the expression on her face. Her eyes met his -unflinching. Heavens! how clear they were, and what a dark brown against -that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair! And how white her shoulders. - -Funny sensation this! He ought to hate her. - -"You had better tell me," he said; "it's to your advantage to be free as -well as to mine. That old matter is too old." - -"I have told you." - -"Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing--nobody?" - -"Nobody. You must go to your own life." - -Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to the -hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in their -drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him. - -"That won't do," he said. "You deserted me. In common justice it's for -you...." - -He saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur: - -"Yes. Why didn't you divorce me then? Should I have cared?" - -He stopped, and looked at her intently with a sort of curiosity. What on -earth did she do with herself, if she really lived quite alone? And why -had he not divorced her? The old feeling that she had never understood -him, never done him justice, bit him while he stared at her. - -"Why couldn't you have made me a good wife?" he said. - -"Yes; it was a crime to marry you. I have paid for it. You will find -some way perhaps. You needn't mind my name, I have none to lose. Now I -think you had better go." - -A sense of defeat--of being defrauded of his self-justification, and of -something else beyond power of explanation to himself, beset Soames like -the breath of a cold fog. Mechanically he reached up, took from the -mantel-shelf a little china bowl, reversed it, and said: - -"Lowestoft. Where did you get this? I bought its fellow at Jobson's." -And, visited by the sudden memory of how, those many years ago, he and -she had bought china together, he remained staring at the little bowl, as -if it contained all the past. Her voice roused him. - -"Take it. I don't want it." - -Soames put it back on the shelf. - -"Will you shake hands?" he said. - -A faint smile curved her lips. She held out her hand. It was cold to -his rather feverish touch. 'She's made of ice,' he thought--'she was -always made of ice!' But even as that thought darted through him, his -senses were assailed by the perfume of her dress and body, as though the -warmth within her, which had never been for him, were struggling to show -its presence. And he turned on his heel. He walked out and away, as if -someone with a whip were after him, not even looking for a cab, glad of -the empty Embankment and the cold river, and the thick-strewn shadows of -the plane-tree leaves--confused, flurried, sore at heart, and vaguely -disturbed, as though he had made some deep mistake whose consequences he -could not foresee. And the fantastic thought suddenly assailed him if -instead of, 'I think you had better go,' she had said, 'I think you had -better stay!' What should he have felt, what would he have done? That -cursed attraction of her was there for him even now, after all these -years of estrangement and bitter thoughts. It was there, ready to mount -to his head at a sign, a touch. 'I was a fool to go!' he muttered. -'I've advanced nothing. Who could imagine? I never thought!' Memory, -flown back to the first years of his marriage, played him torturing -tricks. She had not deserved to keep her beauty--the beauty he had owned -and known so well. And a kind of bitterness at the tenacity of his own -admiration welled up in him. Most men would have hated the sight of her, -as she had deserved. She had spoiled his life, wounded his pride to -death, defrauded him of a son. And yet the mere sight of her, cold and -resisting as ever, had this power to upset him utterly! It was some -damned magnetism she had! And no wonder if, as she asserted; she had -lived untouched these last twelve years. So Bosinney--cursed be his -memory!--had lived on all this time with her! Soames could not tell -whether he was glad of that knowledge or no. - -Nearing his Club at last he stopped to buy a paper. A headline ran: -'Boers reported to repudiate suzerainty!' Suzerainty! 'Just like her!' -he thought: 'she always did. Suzerainty! I still have it by rights. -She must be awfully lonely in that wretched little flat!' - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -ON FORSYTE 'CHANGE - -Soames belonged to two clubs, 'The Connoisseurs,' which he put on his -cards and seldom visited, and 'The Remove,' which he did not put on his -cards and frequented. He had joined this Liberal institution five years -ago, having made sure that its members were now nearly all sound -Conservatives in heart and pocket, if not in principle. Uncle Nicholas -had put him up. The fine reading-room was decorated in the Adam style. - -On entering that evening he glanced at the tape for any news about the -Transvaal, and noted that Consols were down seven-sixteenths since the -morning. He was turning away to seek the reading-room when a voice -behind him said: - -"Well, Soames, that went off all right." - -It was Uncle Nicholas, in a frock-coat and his special cut-away collar, -with a black tie passed through a ring. Heavens! How young and dapper -he looked at eighty-two! - -"I think Roger'd have been pleased," his uncle went on. "The thing was -very well done. Blackley's? I'll make a note of them. Buxton's done me -no good. These Boers are upsetting me--that fellow Chamberlain's driving -the country into war. What do you think?" - -"Bound to come," murmured Soames. - -Nicholas passed his hand over his thin, clean-shaven cheeks, very rosy -after his summer cure; a slight pout had gathered on his lips. This -business had revived all his Liberal principles. - -"I mistrust that chap; he's a stormy petrel. House-property will go down -if there's war. You'll have trouble with Roger's estate. I often told -him he ought to get out of some of his houses. He was an opinionated -beggar." - -'There was a pair of you!' thought Soames. But he never argued with an -uncle, in that way preserving their opinion of him as 'a long-headed -chap,' and the legal care of their property. - -"They tell me at Timothy's," said Nicholas, lowering his voice, "that -Dartie has gone off at last. That'll be a relief to your father. He was -a rotten egg." - -Again Soames nodded. If there was a subject on which the Forsytes really -agreed, it was the character of Montague Dartie. - -"You take care," said Nicholas, "or he'll turn up again. Winifred had -better have the tooth out, I should say. No use preserving what's gone -bad." - -Soames looked at him sideways. His nerves, exacerbated by the interview -he had just come through, disposed him to see a personal allusion in -those words. - -"I'm advising her," he said shortly. - -"Well," said Nicholas, "the brougham's waiting; I must get home. I'm very -poorly. Remember me to your father." - -And having thus reconsecrated the ties of blood, he passed down the steps -at his youthful gait and was wrapped into his fur coat by the junior -porter. - -'I've never known Uncle Nicholas other than "very poorly,"' mused Soames, -'or seen him look other than everlasting. What a family! Judging by him, -I've got thirty-eight years of health before me. Well, I'm not going to -waste them.' And going over to a mirror he stood looking at his face. -Except for a line or two, and three or four grey hairs in his little dark -moustache, had he aged any more than Irene? The prime of life--he and -she in the very prime of life! And a fantastic thought shot into his -mind. Absurd! Idiotic! But again it came. And genuinely alarmed by the -recurrence, as one is by the second fit of shivering which presages a -feverish cold, he sat down on the weighing machine. Eleven stone! He had -not varied two pounds in twenty years. What age was she? Nearly -thirty-seven--not too old to have a child--not at all! Thirty-seven on -the ninth of next month. He remembered her birthday well--he had always -observed it religiously, even that last birthday so soon before she left -him, when he was almost certain she was faithless. Four birthdays in his -house. He had looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a -semblance of gratitude, a certain attempt at warmth. Except, indeed, -that last birthday--which had tempted him to be too religious! And he -shied away in thought. Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, -from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense. And then he -thought suddenly: 'I could send her a present for her birthday. After -all, we're Christians! Couldn't!--couldn't we join up again!' And he -uttered a deep sigh sitting there. Annette! Ah! but between him and -Annette was the need for that wretched divorce suit! And how? - -"A man can always work these things, if he'll take it on himself," Jolyon -had said. - -But why should he take the scandal on himself with his whole career as a -pillar of the law at stake? It was not fair! It was quixotic! Twelve -years' separation in which he had taken no steps to free himself put out -of court the possibility of using her conduct with Bosinney as a ground -for divorcing her. By doing nothing to secure relief he had acquiesced, -even if the evidence could now be gathered, which was more than doubtful. -Besides, his own pride would never let him use that old incident, he had -suffered from it too much. No! Nothing but fresh misconduct on her -part--but she had denied it; and--almost--he had believed her. Hung up! -Utterly hung up! - -He rose from the scooped-out red velvet seat with a feeling of -constriction about his vitals. He would never sleep with this going on -in him! And, taking coat and hat again, he went out, moving eastward. -In Trafalgar Square he became aware of some special commotion travelling -towards him out of the mouth of the Strand. It materialised in newspaper -men calling out so loudly that no words whatever could be heard. He -stopped to listen, and one came by. - -"Payper! Special! Ultimatium by Krooger! Declaration of war!" Soames -bought the paper. There it was in the stop press....! His first thought -was: 'The Boers are committing suicide.' His second: 'Is there anything -still I ought to sell?' If so he had missed the chance--there would -certainly be a slump in the city to-morrow. He swallowed this thought -with a nod of defiance. That ultimatum was insolent--sooner than let it -pass he was prepared to lose money. They wanted a lesson, and they would -get it; but it would take three months at least to bring them to heel. -There weren't the troops out there; always behind time, the Government! -Confound those newspaper rats! What was the use of waking everybody up? -Breakfast to-morrow was quite soon enough. And he thought with alarm of -his father. They would cry it down Park Lane. Hailing a hansom, he got -in and told the man to drive there. - -James and Emily had just gone up to bed, and after communicating the news -to Warmson, Soames prepared to follow. He paused by after-thought to -say: - -"What do you think of it, Warmson?" - -The butler ceased passing a hat brush over the silk hat Soames had taken -off, and, inclining his face a little forward, said in a low voice: -"Well, sir, they 'aven't a chance, of course; but I'm told they're very -good shots. I've got a son in the Inniskillings." - -"You, Warmson? Why, I didn't know you were married." - -"No, sir. I don't talk of it. I expect he'll be going out." - -The slighter shock Soames had felt on discovering that he knew so little -of one whom he thought he knew so well was lost in the slight shock of -discovering that the war might touch one personally. Born in the year of -the Crimean War, he had only come to consciousness by the time the Indian -Mutiny was over; since then the many little wars of the British Empire -had been entirely professional, quite unconnected with the Forsytes and -all they stood for in the body politic. This war would surely be no -exception. But his mind ran hastily over his family. Two of the -Haymans, he had heard, were in some Yeomanry or other--it had always been -a pleasant thought, there was a certain distinction about the Yeomanry; -they wore, or used to wear, a blue uniform with silver about it, and rode -horses. And Archibald, he remembered, had once on a time joined the -Militia, but had given it up because his father, Nicholas, had made such -a fuss about his 'wasting his time peacocking about in a uniform.' -Recently he had heard somewhere that young Nicholas' eldest, very young -Nicholas, had become a Volunteer. 'No,' thought Soames, mounting the -stairs slowly, 'there's nothing in that!' - -He stood on the landing outside his parents' bed and dressing rooms, -debating whether or not to put his nose in and say a reassuring word. -Opening the landing window, he listened. The rumble from Piccadilly was -all the sound he heard, and with the thought, 'If these motor-cars -increase, it'll affect house property,' he was about to pass on up to the -room always kept ready for him when he heard, distant as yet, the hoarse -rushing call of a newsvendor. There it was, and coming past the house! -He knocked on his mother's door and went in. - -His father was sitting up in bed, with his ears pricked under the white -hair which Emily kept so beautifully cut. He looked pink, and -extraordinarily clean, in his setting of white sheet and pillow, out of -which the points of his high, thin, nightgowned shoulders emerged in -small peaks. His eyes alone, grey and distrustful under their withered -lids, were moving from the window to Emily, who in a wrapper was walking -up and down, squeezing a rubber ball attached to a scent bottle. The -room reeked faintly of the eau-de-Cologne she was spraying. - -"All right!" said Soames, "it's not a fire. The Boers have declared -war--that's all." - -Emily stopped her spraying. - -"Oh!" was all she said, and looked at James. - -Soames, too, looked at his father. He was taking it differently from -their expectation, as if some thought, strange to them, were working in -him. - -"H'm!" he muttered suddenly, "I shan't live to see the end of this." - -"Nonsense, James! It'll be over by Christmas." - -"What do you know about it?" James answered her with asperity. "It's a -pretty mess at this time of night, too!" He lapsed into silence, and his -wife and son, as if hypnotised, waited for him to say: 'I can't tell--I -don't know; I knew how it would be!' But he did not. The grey eyes -shifted, evidently seeing nothing in the room; then movement occurred -under the bedclothes, and the knees were drawn up suddenly to a great -height. - -"They ought to send out Roberts. It all comes from that fellow Gladstone -and his Majuba." - -The two listeners noted something beyond the usual in his voice, -something of real anxiety. It was as if he had said: 'I shall never see -the old country peaceful and safe again. I shall have to die before I -know she's won.' And in spite of the feeling that James must not be -encouraged to be fussy, they were touched. Soames went up to the bedside -and stroked his father's hand which had emerged from under the -bedclothes, long and wrinkled with veins. - -"Mark my words!" said James, "consols will go to par. For all I know, -Val may go and enlist." - -"Oh, come, James!" cried Emily, "you talk as if there were danger." - -Her comfortable voice seemed to soothe James for once. - -"Well," he muttered, "I told you how it would be. I don't know, I'm -sure--nobody tells me anything. Are you sleeping here, my boy?" - -The crisis was past, he would now compose himself to his normal degree of -anxiety; and, assuring his father that he was sleeping in the house, -Soames pressed his hand, and went up to his room. - -The following afternoon witnessed the greatest crowd Timothy's had known -for many a year. On national occasions, such as this, it was, indeed, -almost impossible to avoid going there. Not that there was any danger or -rather only just enough to make it necessary to assure each other that -there was none. - -Nicholas was there early. He had seen Soames the night before--Soames -had said it was bound to come. This old Kruger was in his dotage--why, -he must be seventy-five if he was a day! - -(Nicholas was eighty-two.) What had Timothy said? He had had a fit after -Majuba. These Boers were a grasping lot! The dark-haired Francie, who -had arrived on his heels, with the contradictious touch which became the -free spirit of a daughter of Roger, chimed in: - -"Kettle and pot, Uncle Nicholas. What price the Uitlanders?" What price, -indeed! A new expression, and believed to be due to her brother George. - -Aunt Juley thought Francie ought not to say such a thing. Dear Mrs. -MacAnder's boy, Charlie MacAnder, was one, and no one could call him -grasping. At this Francie uttered one of her mots, scandalising, and so -frequently repeated: - -"Well, his father's a Scotchman, and his mother's a cat." - -Aunt Juley covered her ears, too late, but Aunt Hester smiled; as for -Nicholas, he pouted--witticism of which he was not the author was hardly -to his taste. Just then Marian Tweetyman arrived, followed almost -immediately by young Nicholas. On seeing his son, Nicholas rose. - -"Well, I must be going," he said, "Nick here will tell you what'll win -the race." And with this hit at his eldest, who, as a pillar of -accountancy, and director of an insurance company, was no more addicted -to sport than his father had ever been, he departed. Dear Nicholas! -What race was that? Or was it only one of his jokes? He was a wonderful -man for his age! How many lumps would dear Marian take? And how were -Giles and Jesse? Aunt Juley supposed their Yeomanry would be very busy -now, guarding the coast, though of course the Boers had no ships. But -one never knew what the French might do if they had the chance, -especially since that dreadful Fashoda scare, which had upset Timothy so -terribly that he had made no investments for months afterwards. It was -the ingratitude of the Boers that was so dreadful, after everything had -been done for them--Dr. Jameson imprisoned, and he was so nice, Mrs. -MacAnder had always said. And Sir Alfred Milner sent out to talk to -them--such a clever man! She didn't know what they wanted. - -But at this moment occurred one of those sensations--so precious at -Timothy's--which great occasions sometimes bring forth: - -"Miss June Forsyte." - -Aunts Juley and Hester were on their feet at once, trembling from -smothered resentment, and old affection bubbling up, and pride at the -return of a prodigal June! Well, this was a surprise! Dear June--after -all these years! And how well she was looking! Not changed at all! It -was almost on their lips to add, 'And how is your dear grandfather?' -forgetting in that giddy moment that poor dear Jolyon had been in his -grave for seven years now. - -Ever the most courageous and downright of all the Forsytes, June, with -her decided chin and her spirited eyes and her hair like flame, sat down, -slight and short, on a gilt chair with a bead-worked seat, for all the -world as if ten years had not elapsed since she had been to see them--ten -years of travel and independence and devotion to lame ducks. Those ducks -of late had been all definitely painters, etchers, or sculptors, so that -her impatience with the Forsytes and their hopelessly inartistic outlook -had become intense. Indeed, she had almost ceased to believe that her -family existed, and looked round her now with a sort of challenging -directness which brought exquisite discomfort to the roomful. She had -not expected to meet any of them but 'the poor old things'; and why she -had come to see them she hardly knew, except that, while on her way from -Oxford Street to a studio in Latimer Road, she had suddenly remembered -them with compunction as two long-neglected old lame ducks. - -Aunt Juley broke the hush again. "We've just been saying, dear, how -dreadful it is about these Boers! And what an impudent thing of that old -Kruger!" - -"Impudent!" said June. "I think he's quite right. What business have we -to meddle with them? If he turned out all those wretched Uitlanders it -would serve them right. They're only after money." - -The silence of sensation was broken by Francie saying: - -"What? Are you a pro-Boer?" (undoubtedly the first use of that -expression). - -"Well! Why can't we leave them alone?" said June, just as, in the open -doorway, the maid said "Mr. Soames Forsyte." Sensation on sensation! -Greeting was almost held up by curiosity to see how June and he would -take this encounter, for it was shrewdly suspected, if not quite known, -that they had not met since that old and lamentable affair of her fiance -Bosinney with Soames' wife. They were seen to just touch each other's -hands, and look each at the other's left eye only. Aunt Juley came at -once to the rescue: - -"Dear June is so original. Fancy, Soames, she thinks the Boers are not -to blame." - -"They only want their independence," said June; "and why shouldn't they -have it?" - -"Because," answered Soames, with his smile a little on one side, "they -happen to have agreed to our suzerainty." - -"Suzerainty!" repeated June scornfully; "we shouldn't like anyone's -suzerainty over us." - -"They got advantages in payment," replied Soames; "a contract is a -contract." - -"Contracts are not always just," fumed out June, "and when they're not, -they ought to be broken. The Boers are much the weaker. We could afford -to be generous." - -Soames sniffed. "That's mere sentiment," he said. - -Aunt Hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of -disagreement, here leaned forward and remarked decisively: - -"What lovely weather it has been for the time of year?" - -But June was not to be diverted. - -"I don't know why sentiment should be sneered at. It's the best thing in -the world." She looked defiantly round, and Aunt Juley had to intervene -again: - -"Have you bought any pictures lately, Soames?" - -Her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her. -Soames flushed. To disclose the name of his latest purchases would be -like walking into the jaws of disdain. For somehow they all knew of -June's predilection for 'genius' not yet on its legs, and her contempt -for 'success' unless she had had a finger in securing it. - -"One or two," he muttered. - -But June's face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing its -chance. Why should not Soames buy some of the pictures of Eric -Cobbley--her last lame duck? And she promptly opened her attack: Did -Soames know his work? It was so wonderful. He was the coming man. - -Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view 'splashy,' and would -never get hold of the public. - -June blazed up. - -"Of course it won't; that's the last thing one would wish for. I thought -you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer." - -"Of course Soames is a connoisseur," Aunt Juley said hastily; "he has -wonderful taste--he can always tell beforehand what's going to be -successful." - -"Oh!" gasped June, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, "I hate -that standard of success. Why can't people buy things because they like -them?" - -"You mean," said Francie, "because you like them." - -And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently that -Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn't know if they -were any use. - -"Well, good-bye, Auntie," said June; "I must get on," and kissing her -aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said "Good-bye" again, and -went. A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if everyone had sighed. - -The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak: - -"Mr. James Forsyte." - -James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat which gave -him a fictitious bulk. - -Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at Timothy's -for nearly two years. - -"It's hot in here," he said. - -Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help admiring -the glossy way his father was turned out. James sat down, all knees, -elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers. - -"What's the meaning of that?" he said. - -Though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew that he -was referring to June. His eyes searched his son's face. - -"I thought I'd come and see for myself. What have they answered Kruger?" - -Soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline. - -"'Instant action by our Government--state of war existing!'" - -"Ah!" said James, and sighed. "I was afraid they'd cut and run like old -Gladstone. We shall finish with them this time." - -All stared at him. James! Always fussy, nervous, anxious! James with -his continual, 'I told you how it would be!' and his pessimism, and his -cautious investments. There was something uncanny about such resolution -in this the oldest living Forsyte. - -"Where's Timothy?" said James. "He ought to pay attention to this." - -Aunt Juley said she didn't know; Timothy had not said much at lunch -to-day. Aunt Hester rose and threaded her way out of the room, and -Francie said rather maliciously: - -"The Boers are a hard nut to crack, Uncle James." - -"H'm!" muttered James. "Where do you get your information? Nobody tells -me." - -Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest) was now -going to drill regularly. - -"Ah!" muttered James, and stared before him--his thoughts were on Val. -"He's got to look after his mother," he said, "he's got no time for -drilling and that, with that father of his." This cryptic saying -produced silence, until he spoke again. - -"What did June want here?" And his eyes rested with suspicion on all of -them in turn. "Her father's a rich man now." The conversation turned on -Jolyon, and when he had been seen last. It was supposed that he went -abroad and saw all sorts of people now that his wife was dead; his -water-colours were on the line, and he was a successful man. Francie -went so far as to say: - -"I should like to see him again; he was rather a dear." - -Aunt Juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day, where -James was sitting. He had always been very amiable; what did Soames -think? - -Knowing that Jolyon was Irene's trustee, all felt the delicacy of this -question, and looked at Soames with interest. A faint pink had come up -in his cheeks. - -"He's going grey," he said. - -Indeed! Had Soames seen him? Soames nodded, and the pink vanished. - -James said suddenly: "Well--I don't know, I can't tell." - -It so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that there was -something behind everything, that nobody responded. But at this moment -Aunt Hester returned. - -"Timothy," she said in a low voice, "Timothy has bought a map, and he's -put in--he's put in three flags." - -Timothy had ....! A sigh went round the company. - -If Timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!--it showed what -the nation could do when it was roused. The war was as good as over. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS - -Jolyon stood at the window in Holly's old night nursery, converted into a -studio, not because it had a north light, but for its view over the -prospect away to the Grand Stand at Epsom. He shifted to the side window -which overlooked the stableyard, and whistled down to the dog Balthasar -who lay for ever under the clock tower. The old dog looked up and wagged -his tail. 'Poor old boy!' thought Jolyon, shifting back to the other -window. - -He had been restless all this week, since his attempt to prosecute -trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which was ever acute, disturbed in -his sense of compassion which was easily excited, and with a queer -sensation as if his feeling for beauty had received some definite -embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of the old oak-tree, its leaves were -browning. Sunshine had been plentiful and hot this summer. As with -trees, so with men's lives! 'I ought to live long,' thought Jolyon; 'I'm -getting mildewed for want of heat. If I can't work, I shall be off to -Paris.' But memory of Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how could he -go? He must stay and see what Soames was going to do. 'I'm her trustee. -I can't leave her unprotected,' he thought. It had been striking him as -curious how very clearly he could still see Irene in her little -drawing-room which he had only twice entered. Her beauty must have a -sort of poignant harmony! No literal portrait would ever do her justice; -the essence of her was--ah I what?... The noise of hoofs called him back -to the other window. Holly was riding into the yard on her long-tailed -'palfrey.' She looked up and he waved to her. She had been rather -silent lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her future, as -they all did--youngsters! - -Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste this -swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took up his brush. -But it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye--besides, the light -was going. 'I'll go up to town,' he thought. In the hall a servant met -him. - -"A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron." - -Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as it was -still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window. - -She came towards him saying: - -"I've been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden. I -always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon." - -"You couldn't trespass here," replied Jolyon; "history makes that -impossible. I was just thinking of you." - -Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere -spirituality--serener, completer, more alluring. - -"History!" she answered; "I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was for -ever. Well, it isn't. Only aversion lasts." - -Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last? - -"Yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a -natural product of the nerves, and we don't change them." - -"I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a thing that -frightened me. He said: 'You are still my wife!'" - -"What!" ejaculated Jolyon. "You ought not to live alone." And he -continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where Beauty -was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was why so many -people looked on it as immoral. - -"What more?" - -"He asked me to shake hands. - -"Did you?" - -"Yes. When he came in I'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while he -was there." - -"Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone." - -"I know no woman I could ask; and I can't take a lover to order, Cousin -Jolyon." - -"Heaven forbid!" said Jolyon. "What a damnable position! Will you stay -to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted to go up -this evening." - -"Truly?" - -"Truly. I'll be ready in five minutes." - -On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music, -contrasting the English and French characters and the difference in their -attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges of the long -straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept pace with them, the -perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of her neck, the -fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and then, the lure of her -whole figure, made a deeper impression than the remarks they exchanged. -Unconsciously he held himself straighter, walked with a more elastic -step. - -In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she did -with her days. - -Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, -translated from the French. - -She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which supplemented her -income a little. She seldom went out in the evening. "I've been living -alone so long, you see, that I don't mind it a bit. I believe I'm -naturally solitary." - -"I don't believe that," said Jolyon. "Do you know many people?" - -"Very few." - -At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her -mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said: - -"You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let me -know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene." - -"Good-bye," she answered softly. - -Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked her to -dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved, hung-up life -that she had! "Hotch Potch Club," he said through the trap-door. As his -hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a man in top-hat and overcoat -passed, walking quickly, so close to the wall that he seemed to be -scraping it. - -'By Jove!' thought Jolyon; 'Soames himself! What's he up to now?' And, -stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and retraced his steps to -where he could see the entrance to the mansions. Soames had halted in -front of them, and was looking up at the light in her windows. 'If he -goes in,' thought Jolyon, 'what shall I do? What have I the right to -do?' What the fellow had said was true. She was still his wife, -absolutely without protection from annoyance! 'Well, if he goes in,' he -thought, 'I follow.' And he began moving towards the mansions. Again -Soames advanced; he was in the very entrance now. But suddenly he -stopped, spun round on his heel, and came back towards the river. 'What -now?' thought Jolyon. 'In a dozen steps he'll recognise me.' And he -turned tail. His cousin's footsteps kept pace with his own. But he -reached his cab, and got in before Soames had turned the corner. "Go -on!" he said through the trap. Soames' figure ranged up alongside. - -"Hansom!" he said. "Engaged? Hallo!" - -"Hallo!" answered Jolyon. "You?" - -The quick suspicion on his cousin's face, white in the lamplight, decided -him. - -"I can give you a lift," he said, "if you're going West." - -"Thanks," answered Soames, and got in. - -"I've been seeing Irene," said Jolyon when the cab had started. - -"Indeed!" - -"You went to see her yesterday yourself, I understand." - -"I did," said Soames; "she's my wife, you know." - -The tone, the half-lifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in Jolyon; -but he subdued it. - -"You ought to know best," he said, "but if you want a divorce it's not -very wise to go seeing her, is it? One can't run with the hare and hunt -with the hounds?" - -"You're very good to warn me," said Soames, "but I have not made up my -mind." - -"She has," said Jolyon, looking straight before him; "you can't take -things up, you know, as they were twelve years ago." - -"That remains to be seen." - -"Look here!" said Jolyon, "she's in a damnable position, and I am the -only person with any legal say in her affairs." - -"Except myself," retorted Soames, "who am also in a damnable position. -Hers is what she made for herself; mine what she made for me. I am not -at all sure that in her own interests I shan't require her to return to -me." - -"What!" exclaimed Jolyon; and a shiver went through his whole body. - -"I don't know what you may mean by 'what,'" answered Soames coldly; "your -say in her affairs is confined to paying out her income; please bear that -in mind. In choosing not to disgrace her by a divorce, I retained my -rights, and, as I say, I am not at all sure that I shan't require to -exercise them." - -"My God!" ejaculated Jolyon, and he uttered a short laugh. - -"Yes," said Soames, and there was a deadly quality in his voice. "I've -not forgotten the nickname your father gave me, 'The man of property'! -I'm not called names for nothing." - -"This is fantastic," murmured Jolyon. Well, the fellow couldn't force -his wife to live with him. Those days were past, anyway! And he looked -around at Soames with the thought: 'Is he real, this man?' But Soames -looked very real, sitting square yet almost elegant with the clipped -moustache on his pale face, and a tooth showing where a lip was lifted in -a fixed smile. There was a long silence, while Jolyon thought: 'Instead -of helping her, I've made things worse.' Suddenly Soames said: - -"It would be the best thing that could happen to her in many ways." - -At those words such a turmoil began taking place in Jolyon that he could -barely sit still in the cab. It was as if he were boxed up with hundreds -of thousands of his countrymen, boxed up with that something in the -national character which had always been to him revolting, something -which he knew to be extremely natural and yet which seemed to him -inexplicable--their intense belief in contracts and vested rights, their -complacent sense of virtue in the exaction of those rights. Here beside -him in the cab was the very embodiment, the corporeal sum as it were, of -the possessive instinct--his own kinsman, too! It was uncanny and -intolerable! 'But there's something more in it than that!' he thought -with a sick feeling. 'The dog, they say, returns to his vomit! The -sight of her has reawakened something. Beauty! The devil's in it!' - -"As I say," said Soames, "I have not made up my mind. I shall be obliged -if you will kindly leave her quite alone." - -Jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed the -thought of one now. - -"I can give you no such promise," he said shortly. - -"Very well," said Soames, "then we know where we are. I'll get down -here." And stopping the cab he got out without word or sign of farewell. -Jolyon travelled on to his Club. - -The first news of the war was being called in the streets, but he paid no -attention. What could he do to help her? If only his father were alive! -He could have done so much! But why could he not do all that his father -could have done? Was he not old enough?--turned fifty and twice married, -with grown-up daughters and a son. 'Queer,' he thought. 'If she were -plain I shouldn't be thinking twice about it. Beauty is the devil, when -you're sensitive to it!' And into the Club reading-room he went with a -disturbed heart. In that very room he and Bosinney had talked one summer -afternoon; he well remembered even now the disguised and secret lecture -he had given that young man in the interests of June, the diagnosis of -the Forsytes he had hazarded; and how he had wondered what sort of woman -it was he was warning him against. And now! He was almost in want of a -warning himself. 'It's deuced funny!' he thought, 'really deuced -funny!' - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE WANTS - -It is so much easier to say, "Then we know where we are," than to mean -anything particular by the words. And in saying them Soames did but vent -the jealous rankling of his instincts. He got out of the cab in a state -of wary anger--with himself for not having seen Irene, with Jolyon for -having seen her; and now with his inability to tell exactly what he -wanted. - -He had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain seated -beside his cousin, and walking briskly eastwards he thought: 'I wouldn't -trust that fellow Jolyon a yard. Once outcast, always outcast!' The -chap had a natural sympathy with--with--laxity (he had shied at the word -sin, because it was too melodramatic for use by a Forsyte). - -Indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. He was like a child -between a promised toy and an old one which had been taken away from him; -and he was astonished at himself. Only last Sunday desire had seemed -simple--just his freedom and Annette. 'I'll go and dine there,' he -thought. To see her might bring back his singleness of intention, calm -his exasperation, clear his mind. - -The restaurant was fairly full--a good many foreigners and folk whom, -from their appearance, he took to be literary or artistic. Scraps of -conversation came his way through the clatter of plates and glasses. He -distinctly heard the Boers sympathised with, the British Government -blamed. 'Don't think much of their 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 grandfather, -had a son called Soames--whereby hangs a tale of no love lost, and I -don't think I'll tell it you. James and the other eight children of -'Superior Dosset,' of whom there are still five alive, may be said to -have represented Victorian England, with its principles of trade and -individualism at five per cent. and your money back--if you know what -that means. At all events they've turned thirty thousand pounds into a -cool million between them in the course of their long lives. They never -did a wild thing--unless it was your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe -was once swindled at thimble-rig, and was called 'Four-in-hand Forsyte' -because he drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their type, not -altogether for the advantage of the country. They were pedestrian, but -they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon Forsyte--a poor holder of -the name--" - -"No, Dad," said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand. - -"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, I'm afraid, -nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and -individual liberty--a different thing from individualism, Jolly. You are -the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the ball of the new -century." - -As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said: -"It's fascinating, Dad." - -None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave. - -The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for lack of -modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting-room, in which -Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone, when the only guest -arrived. Rather as one would touch a moth, Val took her hand. And -wouldn't she wear this 'measly flower'? It would look ripping in her -hair. He removed a gardenia from his coat. - -"Oh! No, thank you--I couldn't!" But she took it and pinned it at her -neck, having suddenly remembered that word 'showy'! Val's buttonhole -would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to like him. Did she -realise that Val was at his best and quietest in her presence, and was -that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction for her? - -"I never said anything about our ride, Val." - -"Rather not! It's just between us." - -By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was -giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too--the wish -to make him happy. - -"Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely." - -Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; the -lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps. "Only," he -added, "of course I wish I was in town, and could come down and see you." - -Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped. - -"You haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering courage, "that we're -going mad-rabbiting together?" - -Holly smiled. - -"Oh! That was only make-believe. One can't do that sort of thing after -one's grown up, you know." - -"Dash it! cousins can," said Val. "Next Long Vac.--it begins in June, -you know, and goes on for ever--we'll watch our chance." - -But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly shook -her head. "It won't come off," she murmured. - -"Won't it!" said Val fervently; "who's going to stop it? Not your father -or your brother." - -At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance fled into Val's -patent leather and Holly's white satin toes, where it itched and tingled -during an evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness. - -Sensitive to atmosphere, Jolyon soon felt the latent antagonism between -the boys, and was puzzled by Holly; so he became unconsciously ironical, -which is fatal to the expansiveness of youth. A letter, handed to him -after dinner, reduced him to a silence hardly broken till Jolly and Val -rose to go. He went out with them, smoking his cigar, and walked with -his son to the gates of Christ Church. Turning back, he took out the -letter and read it again beneath a lamp. - -"DEAR JOLYON, - -"Soames came again to-night--my thirty-seventh birthday. You were right, -I mustn't stay here. I'm going to-morrow to the Piedmont Hotel, but I -won't go abroad without seeing you. I feel lonely and down-hearted. - -"Yours affectionately, -"IRENE." - -He folded the letter back into his pocket and walked on, astonished at -the violence of his feelings. What had the fellow said or done? - -He turned into High Street, down the Turf, and on among a maze of spires -and domes and long college fronts and walls, bright or dark-shadowed in -the strong moonlight. In this very heart of England's gentility it was -difficult to realise that a lonely woman could be importuned or hunted, -but what else could her letter mean? Soames must have been pressing her -to go back to him again, with public opinion and the Law on his side, -too! 'Eighteen-ninety-nine!,' he thought, gazing at the broken glass -shining on the top of a villa garden wall; 'but when it comes to property -we're still a heathen people! I'll go up to-morrow morning. I dare say -it'll be best for her to go abroad.' Yet the thought displeased him. Why -should Soames hunt her out of England! Besides, he might follow, and out -there she would be still more helpless against the attentions of her own -husband! 'I must tread warily,' he thought; 'that fellow could make -himself very nasty. I didn't like his manner in the cab the other -night.' His thoughts turned to his daughter June. Could she help? Once -on a time Irene had been her greatest friend, and now she was a 'lame -duck,' such as must appeal to June's nature! He determined to wire to -his daughter to meet him at Paddington Station. Retracing his steps -towards the Rainbow he questioned his own sensations. Would he be -upsetting himself over every woman in like case? No! he would not. The -candour of this conclusion discomfited him; and, finding that Holly had -gone up to bed, he sought his own room. But he could not sleep, and sat -for a long time at his window, huddled in an overcoat, watching the -moonlight on the roofs. - -Next door Holly too was awake, thinking of the lashes above and below -Val's eyes, especially below; and of what she could do to make Jolly like -him better. The scent of the gardenia was strong in her little bedroom, -and pleasant to her. - -And Val, leaning out of his first-floor window in B.N.C., was gazing at a -moonlit quadrangle without seeing it at all, seeing instead Holly, slim -and white-frocked, as she sat beside the fire when he first went in. - -But Jolly, in his bedroom narrow as a ghost, lay with a hand beneath his -cheek and dreamed he was with Val in one boat, rowing a race against him, -while his father was calling from the towpath: 'Two! Get your hands away -there, bless you!' - - - - -CHAPTER II - -SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH - -Of all those radiant firms which emblazon with their windows the West End -of London, Gaves and Cortegal were considered by Soames the most -'attractive' word just coming into fashion. He had never had his Uncle -Swithin's taste in precious stones, and the abandonment by Irene when she -left his house in 1887 of all the glittering things he had given her had -disgusted him with this form of investment. But he still knew a diamond -when he saw one, and during the week before her birthday he had taken -occasion, on his way into the Poultry or his way out therefrom, to dally -a little before the greater jewellers where one got, if not one's money's -worth, at least a certain cachet with the goods. - -Constant cogitation since his drive with Jolyon had convinced him more -and more of the supreme importance of this moment in his life, the -supreme need for taking steps and those not wrong. And, alongside the -dry and reasoned sense that it was now or never with his -self-preservation, now or never if he were to range himself and found a -family, went the secret urge of his senses roused by the sight of her who -had once been a passionately desired wife, and the conviction that it was -a sin against common sense and the decent secrecy of Forsytes to waste -the wife he had. - -In an opinion on Winifred's case, Dreamer, Q.C.--he would much have -preferred Waterbuck, but they had made him a judge (so late in the day as -to rouse the usual suspicion of a political job)--had advised that they -should go forward and obtain restitution of conjugal rights, a point -which to Soames had never been in doubt. When they had obtained a decree -to that effect they must wait to see if it was obeyed. If not, it would -constitute legal desertion, and they should obtain evidence of misconduct -and file their petition for divorce. All of which Soames knew perfectly -well. They had marked him ten and one. This simplicity in his sister's -case only made him the more desperate about the difficulty in his own. -Everything, in fact, was driving him towards the simple solution of -Irene's return. If it were still against the grain with her, had he not -feelings to subdue, injury to forgive, pain to forget? He at least had -never injured her, and this was a world of compromise! He could offer -her so much more than she had now. He would be prepared to make a -liberal settlement on her which could not be upset. He often scrutinised -his image in these days. He had never been a peacock like that fellow -Dartie, or fancied himself a woman's man, but he had a certain belief in -his own appearance--not unjustly, for it was well-coupled and preserved, -neat, healthy, pale, unblemished by drink or excess of any kind. The -Forsyte jaw and the concentration of his face were, in his eyes, virtues. -So far as he could tell there was no feature of him which need inspire -dislike. - -Thoughts and yearnings, with which one lives daily, become natural, even -if far-fetched in their inception. If he could only give tangible proof -enough of his determination to let bygones be bygones, and to do all in -his power to please her, why should she not come back to him? - -He entered Gaves and Cortegal's therefore, on the morning of November the -9th, to buy a certain diamond brooch. "Four twenty-five and dirt cheap, -sir, at the money. It's a lady's brooch." There was that in his mood -which made him accept without demur. And he went on into the Poultry -with the flat green morocco case in his breast pocket. Several times -that day he opened it to look at the seven soft shining stones in their -velvet oval nest. - -"If the lady doesn't like it, sir, happy to exchange it any time. But -there's no fear of that." If only there were not! He got through a vast -amount of work, only soother of the nerves he knew. A cablegram came -while he was in the office with details from the agent in Buenos Aires, -and the name and address of a stewardess who would be prepared to swear -to what was necessary. It was a timely spur to Soames, with his rooted -distaste for the washing of dirty linen in public. And when he set forth -by Underground to Victoria Station he received a fresh impetus towards -the renewal of his married life from the account in his evening paper of -a fashionable divorce suit. The homing instinct of all true Forsytes in -anxiety and trouble, the corporate tendency which kept them strong and -solid, made him choose to dine at Park Lane. He neither could nor would -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 enlisting jostled -his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the -Boers rolled over like rabbits. And, turning up his smarting eyes, he -saw the stars shining between the housetops of the High, and himself -lying out on the Karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a blanket, with his -rifle ready and his gaze fixed on a glittering heaven. - -He had a fearful 'head' next morning, which he doctored, as became one of -'the best,' by soaking it in cold water, brewing strong coffee which he -could not drink, and only sipping a little Hock at lunch. The legend -that 'some fool' had run into him round a corner accounted for a bruise -on his cheek. He would on no account have mentioned the fight, for, on -second thoughts, it fell far short of his standards. - -The next day he went 'down,' and travelled through to Robin Hill. Nobody -was there but June and Holly, for his father had gone to Paris. He spent -a restless and unsettled Vacation, quite out of touch with either of his -sisters. June, indeed, was occupied with lame ducks, whom, as a rule, -Jolly could not stand, especially that Eric Cobbley and his family, -'hopeless outsiders,' who were always littering up the house in the -Vacation. And between Holly and himself there was a strange division, as -if she were beginning to have opinions of her own, which was -so--unnecessary. He punched viciously at a ball, rode furiously but -alone in Richmond Park, making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles -put up to close certain worn avenues of grass--keeping his nerve in, he -called it. Jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most boys are. He -bought a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home field, shooting -across the pond into the kitchen-garden wall, to the peril of gardeners, -with the thought that some day, perhaps, he would enlist and save South -Africa for his country. In fact, now that they were appealing for -Yeomanry recruits the boy was thoroughly upset. Ought he to go? None of -'the best,' so far as he knew--and he was in correspondence with -several--were thinking of joining. If they had been making a move he -would have gone at once--very competitive, and with a strong sense of -form, he could not bear to be left behind in anything--but to do it off -his own bat might look like 'swagger'; because of course it wasn't really -necessary. Besides, he did not want to go, for the other side of this -young Forsyte recoiled from leaping before he looked. It was altogether -mixed pickles within him, hot and sickly pickles, and he became quite -unlike his serene and rather lordly self. - -And then one day he saw that which moved him to uneasy wrath--two riders, -in a glade of the Park close to the Ham Gate, of whom she on the -left-hand was most assuredly Holly on her silver roan, and he on the -right-hand as assuredly that 'squirt' Val Dartie. His first impulse was -to urge on his own horse and demand the meaning of this portent, tell the -fellow to 'bunk,' and take Holly home. His second--to feel that he would -look a fool if they refused. He reined his horse in behind a tree, then -perceived that it was equally impossible to spy on them. Nothing for it -but to go home and await her coming! Sneaking out with that young -bounder! He could not consult with June, because she had gone up that -morning in the train of Eric Cobbley and his lot. And his father was -still in 'that rotten Paris.' He felt that this was emphatically one of -those moments for which he had trained himself, assiduously, at school, -where he and a boy called Brent had frequently set fire to newspapers and -placed them in the centre of their studies to accustom them to coolness -in moments of danger. He did not feel at all cool waiting in the -stable-yard, idly stroking the dog Balthasar, who queasy as an old fat -monk, and sad in the absence of his master, turned up his face, panting -with gratitude for this attention. It was half an hour before Holly -came, flushed and ever so much prettier than she had any right to look. -He saw her look at him quickly--guiltily of course--then followed her in, -and, taking her arm, conducted her into what had been their grandfather's -study. The room, not much used now, was still vaguely haunted for them -both by a presence with which they associated tenderness, large drooping -white moustaches, the scent of cigar smoke, and laughter. Here Jolly, in -the prime of his youth, before he went to school at all, had been wont to -wrestle with his grandfather, who even at eighty had an irresistible -habit of crooking his leg. Here Holly, perched on the arm of the great -leather chair, had stroked hair curving silvery over an ear into which -she would whisper secrets. Through that window they had all three -sallied times without number to cricket on the lawn, and a mysterious -game called 'Wopsy-doozle,' not to be understood by outsiders, which made -old Jolyon very hot. Here once on a warm night Holly had appeared in her -'nighty,' having had a bad dream, to have the clutch of it released. And -here Jolly, having begun the day badly by introducing fizzy magnesia into -Mademoiselle Beauce's new-laid egg, and gone on to worse, had been sent -down (in the absence of his father) to the ensuing dialogue: - -"Now, my boy, you mustn't go on like this." - -"Well, she boxed my ears, Gran, so I only boxed hers, and then she boxed -mine again." - -"Strike a lady? That'll never do! Have you begged her pardon?" - -"Not yet." - -"Then you must go and do it at once. Come along." - -"But she began it, Gran; and she had two to my one." - -"My dear, it was an outrageous thing to do." - -"Well, she lost her temper; and I didn't lose mine." - -"Come along." - -"You come too, then, Gran." - -"Well--this time only." - -And they had gone hand in hand. - -Here--where the Waverley novels and Byron's works and Gibbon's Roman -Empire and Humboldt's Cosmos, and the bronzes on the mantelpiece, and -that masterpiece of the oily school, 'Dutch Fishing-Boats at Sunset,' -were fixed as fate, and for all sign of change old Jolyon might have been -sitting there still, with legs crossed, in the arm chair, and domed -forehead and deep eyes grave above The Times--here they came, those two -grandchildren. And Jolly said: - -"I saw you and that fellow in the Park." - -The sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some satisfaction; -she ought to be ashamed! - -"Well?" she said. - -Jolly was surprised; he had expected more, or less. - -"Do you know," he said weightily, "that he called me a pro-Boer last -term? And I had to fight him." - -"Who won?" - -Jolly wished to answer: 'I should have,' but it seemed beneath him. - -"Look here!" he said, "what's the meaning of it? Without telling -anybody!" - -"Why should I? Dad isn't here; why shouldn't I ride with him?" - -"You've got me to ride with. I think he's an awful young rotter." - -Holly went pale with anger. - -"He isn't. It's your own fault for not liking him." - -And slipping past her brother she went out, leaving him staring at the -bronze Venus sitting on a tortoise, which had been shielded from him so -far by his sister's dark head under her soft felt riding hat. He felt -queerly disturbed, shaken to his young foundations. A lifelong -domination lay shattered round his feet. He went up to the Venus and -mechanically inspected the tortoise. - -Why didn't he like Val Dartie? He could not tell. Ignorant of family -history, barely aware of that vague feud which had started thirteen years -before with Bosinney's defection from June in favour of Soames' wife, -knowing really almost nothing about Val he was at sea. He just did -dislike him. The question, however, was: What should he do? Val Dartie, -it was true, was a second-cousin, but it was not the thing for Holly to -go about with him. And yet to 'tell' of what he had chanced on was -against his creed. In this dilemma he went and sat in the old leather -chair and crossed his legs. It grew dark while he sat there staring out -through the long window at the old oak-tree, ample yet bare of leaves, -becoming slowly just a shape of deeper dark printed on the dusk. - -'Grandfather!' he thought without sequence, and took out his watch. He -could not see the hands, but he set the repeater going. 'Five o'clock!' -His grandfather's first gold hunter watch, butter-smooth with age--all -the milling worn from it, and dented with the mark of many a fall. The -chime was like a little voice from out of that golden age, when they -first came from St. John's Wood, London, to this house--came driving -with grandfather in his carriage, and almost instantly took to the trees. -Trees to climb, and grandfather watering the geranium-beds below! What -was to be done? Tell Dad he must come home? Confide in June?--only she -was so--so sudden! Do nothing and trust to luck? After all, the Vac. -would soon be over. Go up and see Val and warn him off? But how get his -address? Holly wouldn't give it him! A maze of paths, a cloud of -possibilities! He lit a cigarette. When he had smoked it halfway -through his brow relaxed, almost as if some thin old hand had been passed -gently over it; and in his ear something seemed to whisper: 'Do nothing; -be nice to Holly, be nice to her, my dear!' And Jolly heaved a sigh of -contentment, blowing smoke through his nostrils.... - -But up in her room, divested of her habit, Holly was still frowning. 'He -is not--he is not!' were the words which kept forming on her lips. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -JOLYON IN TWO MINDS - -A little private hotel over a well-known restaurant near the Gare St. -Lazare was Jolyon's haunt in Paris. He hated his fellow Forsytes -abroad--vapid as fish out of water in their well-trodden runs, the Opera, -Rue de Rivoli, and Moulin Rouge. Their air of having come because they -wanted to be somewhere else as soon as possible annoyed him. But no -other Forsyte came near this haunt, where he had a wood fire in his -bedroom and the coffee was excellent. Paris was always to him more -attractive in winter. The acrid savour from woodsmoke and -chestnut-roasting braziers, the sharpness of the wintry sunshine on -bright rays, the open 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 sensuous and yet -impersonal sensation. He was going to sit and feast his eyes, and come -away knowing her no better, but ready to go and feast his eyes again -to-morrow. Such was his feeling, when in the tarnished and ornate little -lounge of a quiet hotel near the river she came to him preceded by a -small page-boy who uttered the word, "Madame," and vanished. Her face, -her smile, the poise of her figure, were just as he had pictured, and the -expression of her face said plainly: 'A friend!' - -"Well," he said, "what news, poor exile?" - -"None." - -"Nothing from Soames?" - -"Nothing." - -"I have let the flat for you, and like a good steward I bring you some -money. How do you like Paris?" - -While he put her through this catechism, it seemed to him that he had -never seen lips so fine and sensitive, the lower lip curving just a -little upwards, the upper touched at one corner by the least conceivable -dimple. It was like discovering a woman in what had hitherto been a sort -of soft and breathed-on statue, almost impersonally admired. She owned -that to be alone in Paris was a little difficult; and yet, Paris was so -full of its own life that it was often, she confessed, as innocuous as a -desert. Besides, the English were not liked just now! - -"That will hardly be your case," said Jolyon; "you should appeal to the -French." - -"It has its disadvantages." - -Jolyon nodded. - -"Well, you must let me take you about while I'm here. We'll start -to-morrow. Come and dine at my pet restaurant; and we'll go to the -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 dining-room comfortably--you must stay -and have dinner with us. Leave it to me to tell your father." And, as -Winifred moved towards the door, she turned out the light. Not till then -did they see the disaster in the corridor. - -There, attracted by light from a room never lighted, James was standing -with his duncoloured camel-hair shawl folded about him, so that his arms -were not free and his silvered head looked cut off from his fashionably -trousered legs as if by an expanse of desert. He stood, inimitably -stork-like, with an expression as if he saw before him a frog too large -to swallow. - -"What's all this?" he said. "Tell your father? You never tell me -anything." - -The moment found Emily without reply. It was Winifred who went up to -him, and, laying one hand on each of his swathed, helpless arms, said: - -"Monty's not gone bankrupt, Father. He's only come back." - -They all three expected something serious to happen, and were glad she -had kept that grip of his arms, but they did not know the depth of root -in that shadowy old Forsyte. Something wry occurred about his shaven -mouth and chin, something scratchy between those long silvery whiskers. -Then he said with a sort of dignity: "He'll be the death of me. I knew -how it would be." - -"You mustn't worry, Father," said Winifred calmly. "I mean to make him -behave." - -"Ah!" said James. "Here, take this thing off, I'm hot." They unwound -the shawl. He turned, and walked firmly to the dining-room. - -"I don't want any soup," he said to Warmson, and sat down in his chair. -They all sat down too, Winifred still in her hat, while Warmson laid the -fourth place. When he left the room, James said: "What's he brought -back?" - -"Nothing, Father." - -James concentrated his eyes on his own image in a tablespoon. "Divorce!" -he muttered; "rubbish! What was I about? I ought to have paid him an -allowance to stay out of England. Soames you go and propose it to him." - -It seemed so right and simple a suggestion that even Winifred was -surprised when she said: "No, I'll keep him now he's back; he must just -behave--that's all." - -They all looked at her. It had always been known that Winifred had -pluck. - -"Out there!" said James elliptically, "who knows what cut-throats! You -look for his revolver! Don't go to bed without. You ought to have -Warmson to sleep in the house. I'll see him myself tomorrow." - -They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said comfortably: -"That's right, James, we won't have any nonsense." - -"Ah!" muttered James darkly, "I can't tell." - -The advent of Warmson with fish diverted conversation. - -When, directly after dinner, Winifred went over to kiss her father -good-night, he looked up with eyes so full of question and distress that -she put all the comfort she could into her voice. - -"It's all right, Daddy, dear; don't worry. I shan't need anyone--he's -quite bland. I shall only be upset if you worry. Good-night, bless -you!" - -James repeated the words, "Bless you!" as if he did not quite know what -they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door. - -She reached home before nine, and went straight upstairs. - -Dartie was lying on the bed in his dressing-room, fully redressed in a -blue serge suit and pumps; his arms were crossed behind his head, and an -extinct cigarette drooped from his mouth. - -Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes after a -blazing summer day; the way they lay, or rather stood--parched, yet -rested by the sun's retreat. It was as if a little dew had come already -on her burnt-up husband. - -He said apathetically: "I suppose you've been to Park Lane. How's the -old man?" - -Winifred could not help the bitter answer: "Not dead." - -He winced, actually he winced. - -"Understand, Monty," she said, "I will not have him worried. If you -aren't going to behave yourself, you may go back, you may go anywhere. -Have you had dinner?" - -No. - -"Would you like some?" - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -"Imogen offered me some. I didn't want any." - -Imogen! In the plenitude of emotion Winifred had forgotten her. - -"So you've seen her? What did she say?" - -"She gave me a kiss." - -With mortification Winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed. 'Yes!' -she thought, 'he cares for her, not for me a bit.' - -Dartie's eyes were moving from side to side. - -"Does she know about me?" he said. - -It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed. He -minded their knowing! - -"No. Val knows. The others don't; they only know you went away." - -She heard him sigh with relief. - -"But they shall know," she said firmly, "if you give me cause." - -"All right!" he muttered, "hit me! I'm down!" - -Winifred went up to the bed. "Look here, Monty! I don't want to hit -you. I don't want to hurt you. I shan't allude to anything. I'm not -going to worry. What's the use?" She was silent a moment. "I can't stand -any more, though, and I won't! You'd better know. You've made me suffer. -But I used to be fond of you. For the sake of that...." She met the -heavy-lidded gaze of his brown eyes with the downward stare of her -green-grey eyes; touched his hand suddenly, turned her back, and went -into her room. - -She sat there a long time before her glass, fingering her rings, thinking -of this subdued dark man, almost a stranger to her, on the bed in the -other room; resolutely not 'worrying,' but gnawed by jealousy of what he -had been through, and now and again just visited by pity. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -OUTLANDISH NIGHT - -Soames doggedly let the spring come--no easy task for one conscious that -time was flying, his birds in the bush no nearer the hand, no issue from -the web anywhere visible. Mr. Polteed reported nothing, except that his -watch went on--costing a lot of money. Val and his cousin were gone to -the war, whence came news more favourable; Dartie was behaving himself so -far; James had retained his health; business prospered almost -terribly--there was nothing to worry Soames except that he was 'held up,' -could make no step in any direction. - -He did not exactly avoid Soho, for he could not afford to let them think -that he had 'piped off,' as James would have put it--he might want to -'pipe on' again at any minute. But he had to be so restrained and -cautious that he would often pass the door of the Restaurant Bretagne -without going in, and wander out of the purlieus of that region which -always gave him the feeling of having been possessively irregular. - -He wandered thus one May night into Regent Street and the most amazing -crowd he had ever seen; a shrieking, whistling, dancing, jostling, -grotesque and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses and mouth-organs, -penny whistles and long feathers, every appanage of idiocy, as it seemed -to him. Mafeking! Of course, it had been relieved! Good! But was that -an excuse? Who were these people, what were they, where had they come -from into the West End? His face was tickled, his ears whistled into. -Girls cried: 'Keep your hair on, stucco!' A youth so knocked off his -top-hat that he recovered it with difficulty. Crackers were exploding -beneath his nose, between his feet. He was bewildered, exasperated, -offended. This stream of people came from every quarter, as if impulse -had unlocked flood-gates, let flow waters of whose existence he had -heard, perhaps, but believed in never. This, then, was the populace, the -innumerable living negation of gentility and Forsyteism. This -was--egad!--Democracy! It stank, yelled, was hideous! In the East End, -or even Soho, perhaps--but here in Regent Street, in Piccadilly! What -were the police about! In 1900, Soames, with his Forsyte thousands, had -never seen the cauldron with the lid off; and now looking into it, could -hardly believe his scorching eyes. The whole thing was unspeakable! -These people had no restraint, they seemed to think him funny; such -swarms of them, rude, coarse, laughing--and what laughter! - -Nothing sacred to them! He shouldn't be surprised if they began to break -windows. In Pall Mall, past those august dwellings, to enter which -people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, dancing dervish of a -crowd was swarming. From the Club windows his own kind were looking out -on them with regulated amusement. They didn't realise! Why, this was -serious--might come to anything! The crowd was cheerful, but some day -they would come in different mood! He remembered there had been a mob in -the late eighties, when he was at Brighton; they had smashed things and -made speeches. But more than dread, he felt a deep surprise. They were -hysterical--it wasn't English! And all about the relief of a little -town as big as--Watford, six thousand miles away. Restraint, reserve! -Those qualities to him more dear almost than life, those indispensable -attributes of property and culture, where were they? It wasn't English! -No, it wasn't English! So Soames brooded, threading his way on. It was -as if he had suddenly caught sight of someone cutting the covenant 'for -quiet possession' out of his legal documents; or of a monster lurking and -stalking out in the future, casting its shadow before. Their want of -stolidity, their want of reverence! It was like discovering that -nine-tenths of the people of England were foreigners. And if that were -so--then, anything might happen! - -At Hyde Park Corner he ran into George Forsyte, very sunburnt from -racing, holding a false nose in his hand. - -"Hallo, Soames!" he said, "have a nose!" - -Soames responded with a pale smile. - -"Got this from one of these sportsmen," went on George, who had evidently -been dining; "had to lay him out--for trying to bash my hat. I say, one -of these days we shall have to fight these chaps, they're getting so -damned cheeky--all radicals and socialists. They want our goods. You -tell Uncle James that, it'll make him sleep." - -'In vino veritas,' thought Soames, but he only nodded, and passed on up -Hamilton Place. There was but a trickle of roysterers in Park Lane, not -very noisy. And looking up at the houses he thought: 'After all, we're -the backbone of the country. They won't upset us easily. Possession's -nine points of the law.' - -But, as he closed the door of his father's house behind him, all that -queer outlandish nightmare in the streets passed out of his mind almost -as completely as if, having dreamed it, he had awakened in the warm clean -morning comfort of his spring-mattressed bed. - -Walking into the centre of the great empty drawing-room, he stood still. - -A wife! Somebody to talk things over with. One had a right! Damn it! -One had a right! - - - - -PART III - - - - -CHAPTER I - -SOAMES IN PARIS - -Soames had travelled little. Aged nineteen he had made the 'petty tour' -with his father, mother, and Winifred--Brussels, the Rhine, Switzerland, -and home by way of Paris. Aged twenty-seven, just when he began to take -interest in pictures, he had spent five hot weeks in Italy, looking into -the Renaissance--not so much in it as he had been led to expect--and a -fortnight in Paris on his way back, looking into himself, as became a -Forsyte surrounded by people so strongly self-centred and 'foreign' as -the French. His knowledge of their language being derived from his -public school, he did not understand them when they spoke. Silence he -had found better for all parties; one did not make a fool of oneself. He -had disliked the look of the men's clothes, the closed-in cabs, the -theatres which looked like bee-hives, the Galleries which smelled of -beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore that side of Paris -supposed by Forsytes to constitute its attraction under the rose; and as -for a collector's bargain--not one to be had! As Nicholas might have put -it--they were a grasping lot. He had come back uneasy, saying Paris was -overrated. - -When, therefore, in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his third -attempt on the centre of civilisation. This time, however, the mountain -was going to Mahomet; for he felt by now more deeply civilised than -Paris, and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had a definite objective. -This was no mere genuflexion to a shrine of taste and immorality, but the -prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. He went, indeed, because -things were getting past a joke. The watch went on and on, -and--nothing--nothing! Jolyon had never returned to Paris, and no one -else was 'suspect!' Busy with new and very confidential matters, Soames -was realising more than ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. -But at night and in his leisure moments he was ravaged by the thought -that time was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as -much 'in irons' as ever. Since Mafeking night he had become aware that a -'young fool of a doctor' was hanging round Annette. Twice he had come -across him--a cheerful young fool, not more than thirty. - -Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulness--an indecent, extravagant -sort of quality, which had no relation to facts. The mixture of his -desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming torture; and lately the -thought had come to him that perhaps Irene knew she was being shadowed: -It was this which finally decided him to go and see for himself; to go -and once more try to break down her repugnance, her refusal to make her -own and his path comparatively smooth once more. If he failed -again--well, he would see what she did with herself, anyway! - -He went to an hotel in the Rue Caumartin, highly recommended to Forsytes, -where practically nobody spoke French. He had formed no plan. He did -not want to startle her; yet must contrive that she had no chance to -evade him by flight. And next morning he set out in bright weather. - -Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star-shape which almost -annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely, his nose lifted a little sideways in -real curiosity. He desired now to understand things French. Was not -Annette French? There was much to be got out of his visit, if he could -only get it. In this laudable mood and the Place de la Concorde he was -nearly run down three times. He came on the 'Cours la Reine,' where -Irene's hotel was situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed -on his procedure. Crossing over to the river side, he noted the building, -white and cheerful-looking, with green sunblinds, seen through a screen -of plane-tree leaves. And, conscious that it would be far better to meet -her casually in some open place than to risk a call, he sat down on a -bench whence he could watch the entrance. It was not quite eleven -o'clock, and improbable that she had yet gone out. Some pigeons were -strutting and preening their feathers in the pools of sunlight between -the shadows of the plane-trees. A workman in a blue blouse passed, and -threw them crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. A 'bonne' -coiffed with ribbon shepherded two little girls with pig-tails and -frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose cocher wore a blue coat and a -black-glazed hat. To Soames a kind of affectation seemed to cling about -it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date. A theatrical -people, the French! He lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a sense of -injury that Fate should be casting his life into outlandish waters. He -shouldn't wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this foreign life; she had never -been properly English--even to look at! And he began considering which of -those windows could be hers under the green sunblinds. How could he word -what he had come to say so that it might pierce the defence of her proud -obstinacy? He threw the fag-end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the -thought: 'I can't stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. Better give it -up and call on her in the late afternoon.' But he still sat on, heard -twelve strike, and then half-past. 'I'll wait till one,' he thought, -'while I'm about it.' But just then he started up, and shrinkingly sat -down again. A woman had come out in a cream-coloured frock, and was -moving away under a fawn-coloured parasol. Irene herself! He waited till -she was too far away to recognise him, then set out after her. She was -strolling as though she had no particular objective; moving, if he -remembered rightly, toward the Bois de Boulogne. For half an hour at -least he kept his distance on the far side of the way till she had passed -into the Bois itself. Was she going to meet someone after all? Some -confounded Frenchman--one of those 'Bel Ami' chaps, perhaps, who had -nothing to do but hang about women--for he had read that book with -difficulty and a sort of disgusted fascination. He followed doggedly -along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then when the path -curved. And it came back to him how, long ago, one night in Hyde Park he -had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, hunting -blindly, ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young Bosinney. -The path bent sharply, and, hurrying, he came on her sitting in front of -a small fountain--a little green-bronze Niobe veiled in hair to her -slender hips, gazing at the pool she had wept: He came on her so suddenly -that he was past before he could turn and take off his hat. She did not -start up. She had always had great self-command--it was one of the -things he most admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against -her, because he had never been able to tell what she was thinking. Had -she realised that he was following? Her self-possession made him angry; -and, disdaining to explain his presence, he pointed to the mournful -little Niobe, and said: - -"That's rather a good thing." - -He could see, then, that she was struggling to preserve her composure. - -"I didn't want to startle you; is this one of your haunts?" - -"Yes." - -"A little lonely." As he spoke, a lady, strolling by, paused to look at -the fountain and passed on. - -Irene's eyes followed her. - -"No," she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, "never lonely. One -has always one's shadow." - -Soames understood; and, looking at her hard, he exclaimed: - -"Well, it's your own fault. You can be free of it at any moment. Irene, -come back to me, and be free." - -Irene laughed. - -"Don't!" cried Soames, stamping his foot; "it's inhuman. Listen! Is -there any condition I can make which will bring you back to me? If I -promise you a separate house--and just a visit now and then?" - -Irene rose, something wild suddenly in her face and figure. - -"None! None! None! You may hunt me to the grave. I will not come." - -Outraged and on edge, Soames recoiled. - -"Don't make a scene!" he said sharply. And they both stood motionless, -staring at the little Niobe, whose greenish flesh the sunlight was -burnishing. - -"That's your last word, then," muttered Soames, clenching his hands; "you -condemn us both." - -Irene bent her head. "I can't come back. Good-bye!" - -A feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in Soames. - -"Stop!" he said, "and listen to me a moment. You gave me a sacred -vow--you came to me without a penny. You had all I could give you. You -broke that vow without cause, you made me a by-word; you refused me a -child; you've left me in prison; you--you still move me so that I want -you--I want you. Well, what do you think of yourself?" - -Irene turned, her face was deadly pale, her eyes burning dark. - -"God made me as I am," she said; "wicked if you like--but not so wicked -that I'll give myself again to a man I hate." - -The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to lay a -caress all down her clinging cream-coloured frock. - -Soames could neither speak nor move. That word 'hate'--so extreme, so -primitive--made all the Forsyte in him tremble. With a deep imprecation -he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran almost into the arms -of the lady sauntering back--the fool, the shadowing fool! - -He was soon dripping with perspiration, in the depths of the Bois. - -'Well,' he thought, 'I need have no consideration for her now; she has -not a grain of it for me. I'll show her this very day that she's my wife -still.' - -But on the way home to his hotel, he was forced to the conclusion that he -did not know what he meant. One could not make scenes in public, and -short of scenes in public what was there he could do? He almost cursed -his own thin-skinnedness. She might deserve no consideration; but -he--alas! deserved some at his own hands. And sitting lunchless in the -hall of his hotel, with tourists passing every moment, Baedeker in hand, -he was visited by black dejection. In irons! His whole life, with every -natural instinct and every decent yearning gagged and fettered, and all -because Fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon -this woman--so utterly, that even now he had no real heart to set on any -other! Cursed was the day he had met her, and his eyes for seeing in her -anything but the cruel Venus she was! And yet, still seeing her with the -sunlight on the clinging China crepe of her gown, he uttered a little -groan, so that a tourist who was passing, thought: 'Man in pain! Let's -see! what did I have for lunch?' - -Later, in front of a 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 rabbit-holes -and the oak-trees, talking of Jolly. He left her two hours later at the -Richmond Hill Gate, and turned towards home. - -'She knows of my feeling for her, then,' he thought. Of course! One -could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman! - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -OVER THE RIVER - -Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now too wan and -weak to dream again; left him to lie torpid, faintly remembering far-off -things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze through the window near his -cot at the trickle of river running by in the sands, at the straggling -milk-bush of the Karoo beyond. He knew what the Karoo was now, even if -he had not seen a Boer roll over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of -flying bullets. This pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled -powder. A thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit--who -knew? Not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil thing its -victory--just enough to know that there were many lying here with him, -that he was sore with frenzied dreaming; just enough to watch that thread -of river and be able to remember faintly those far-away things.... - -The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have liked -to know the time--to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth, to hear the -repeater strike. It would have been friendly, home-like. He had not even -strength to remember that the old watch was last wound the day he began -to lie here. The pulse of his brain beat so feebly that faces which came -and went, nurse's, doctor's, orderly's, were indistinguishable, just one -indifferent face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same -thing, and that almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though far -and faint, were more distinct--walking past the foot of the old steps at -Harrow 'bill'--'Here, sir! Here, sir!'--wrapping boots in the -Westminster Gazette, greenish paper, shining boots--grandfather coming -from somewhere dark--a smell of earth--the mushroom house! Robin Hill! -Burying poor old Balthasar in the leaves! Dad! Home.... - -Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water in -it--someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What could one want? -Too weak to want--only to hear his watch strike.... - -Holly! She wouldn't bowl properly. Oh! Pitch them up! Not sneaks!... -'Back her, Two and Bow!' He was Two!... Consciousness came once more -with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a rising blood-red crescent -moon. His eyes rested on it fascinated; in the long minutes of -brain-nothingness it went moving up and up.... - -"He's going, doctor!" Not pack boots again? Never? 'Mind your form, -Two!' Don't cry! Go quietly--over the river--sleep!... Dark? If -somebody would--strike--his--watch!... - - - - -CHAPTER V - -SOAMES ACTS - -A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Polteed remained unopened in -Soames' pocket throughout two hours of sustained attention to the affairs -of the 'New Colliery Company,' which, declining almost from the moment of -old Jolyon's retirement from the Chairmanship, had lately run down so -fast that there was now nothing for it but a 'winding-up.' He took the -letter out to lunch at his City Club, sacred to him for the meals he had -eaten there with his father in the early seventies, when James used to -like him to come and see for himself the nature of his future life. - -Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed potato, -he read: - -"DEAR SIR, - -"In accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the matter up at -the other end with gratifying results. Observation of 47 has enabled us -to locate 17 at the Green Hotel, Richmond. The two have been observed to -meet daily during the past week in Richmond Park. Nothing absolutely -crucial has so far been notified. But in conjunction with what we had -from Paris at the beginning of the year, I am confident we could now -satisfy the Court. We shall, of course, continue to watch the matter -until we hear from you. - -"Very faithfully yours, -"CLAUD POLTEED." - -Soames read it through twice and beckoned to the waiter: - -"Take this away; it's cold." - -"Shall I bring you some more, sir?" - -"No. Get me some coffee in the other room." - -And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two -acquaintances without sign of recognition. - -'Satisfy the Court!' he thought, sitting at a little round marble table -with the coffee before him. That fellow Jolyon! He poured out his -coffee, sweetened and drank it. He would disgrace him in the eyes of his -own children! And rising, with that resolution hot within him, he found -for the first time the inconvenience of being his own solicitor. He -could not treat this scandalous matter in his own office. He must commit -the soul of his private dignity to a stranger, some other professional -dealer in family dishonour. Who was there he could go to? Linkman and -Laver in Budge Row, perhaps--reliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding -acquaintances. But before he saw them he must see Polteed again. But at -this thought Soames had a moment of sheer weakness. To part with his -secret? How find the words? How subject himself to contempt and secret -laughter? Yet, after all, the fellow knew already--oh yes, he knew! -And, feeling that he must finish with it now, he took a cab into the West -End. - -In this hot weather the window of Mr. Polteed's room was positively open, -and the only precaution was a wire gauze, preventing the intrusion of -flies. Two or three had tried to come in, and been caught, so that they -seemed to be clinging there with the intention of being devoured -presently. Mr. Polteed, following the direction of his client's eye, -rose apologetically and closed the window. - -'Posing ass!' thought Soames. Like all who fundamentally believe in -themselves he was rising to the occasion, and, with his little sideway -smile, he said: "I've had your letter. I'm going to act. I suppose you -know who the lady you've been watching really is?" Mr. Polteed's -expression at that moment was a masterpiece. It so clearly said: 'Well, -what do you think? But mere professional knowledge, I assure you--pray -forgive it!' He made a little half airy movement with his hand, as who -should say: 'Such things--such things will happen to us all!' - -"Very well, then," said Soames, moistening his lips: "there's no need to -say more. I'm instructing Linkman and Laver of Budge Row to act for me. -I don't want to hear your evidence, but kindly make your report to them -at five o'clock, and continue to observe the utmost secrecy." - -Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. "My dear -sir," he said. - -"Are you convinced," asked Soames with sudden energy, "that there is -enough?" - -The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Polteed's shoulders. - -"You can risk it," he murmured; "with what we have, and human nature, you -can risk it." - -Soames rose. "You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks; don't get up." He -could not bear Mr. Polteed to slide as usual between him and the door. -In the sunlight of Piccadilly he wiped his forehead. This had been the -worst of it--he could stand the strangers better. And he went back into -the City to do what still lay before him. - -That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed -by his old longing for a son--a son, to watch him eat as he went down the -years, to be taken on his knee as James on a time had been wont to take -him; a son of his own begetting, who could understand him because he was -the same flesh and blood--understand, and comfort him, and become more -rich and cultured than himself because he would start even better off. -To get old--like that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting there--and be -quite alone with possessions heaping up around him; to take no interest -in anything because it had no future and must pass away from him to hands -and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! No! He would force it -through now, and be free to marry, and have a son to care for him before -he grew to be like the old old man his father, wistfully watching now his -sweetbread, now his son. - -In that mood he went up to bed. But, lying warm between those fine linen -sheets of Emily's providing, he was visited by memories and torture. -Visions of Irene, almost the solid feeling of her body, beset him. Why -had he ever been fool enough to see her again, and let this flood back on -him so that it was pain to think of her with that fellow--that stealing -fellow. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -A SUMMER DAY - -His boy was seldom absent from Jolyon's mind in the days which followed -the first walk with Irene in Richmond Park. No further news had come; -enquiries at the War Office elicited nothing; nor could he expect to hear -from June and Holly for three weeks at least. In these days he felt how -insufficient were his memories of Jolly, and what an amateur of a father -he had been. There was not a single memory in which anger played a part; -not one reconciliation, because there had never been a rupture; nor one -heart-to-heart confidence, not even when Jolly's mother died. Nothing but -half-ironical affection. He had been too afraid of committing himself in -any direction, for fear of losing his liberty, or interfering with that -of his boy. - -Only in Irene's presence had he relief, highly complicated by the -ever-growing perception of how divided he was between her and his son. -With Jolly was bound up all that sense of continuity and social creed of -which he had drunk deeply in his youth and again during his boy's public -school and varsity life--all that sense of not going back on what father -and son expected of each other. With Irene was bound up all his delight -in beauty and in Nature. And he seemed to know less and less which was -the stronger within him. From such sentimental paralysis he was rudely -awakened, however, one afternoon, just as he was starting off to -Richmond, by a young man with a bicycle and a face oddly familiar, who -came forward faintly smiling. - -"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte? Thank you!" Placing an envelope in Jolyon's hand -he wheeled off the path and rode away. Bewildered, Jolyon opened it. - -"Admiralty Probate and Divorce, Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte!" - -A sensation of shame and disgust was followed by the instant reaction -'Why, here's the very thing you want, and you don't like it!' But she -must have had one too; and he must go to her at once. He turned things -over as he went along. It was an ironical business. For, whatever the -Scriptures said about the heart, it took more than mere longings to -satisfy the law. They could perfectly well defend this suit, or at least -in good faith try to. But the idea of doing so revolted Jolyon. If not -her lover in deed he was in desire, and he knew that she was ready to -come to him. Her face had told him so. Not that he exaggerated her -feeling for him. She had had her grand passion, and he could not expect -another from her at his age. But she had trust in him, affection for -him, and must feel that he would be a refuge. Surely she would not ask -him to defend the suit, knowing that he adored her! Thank Heaven she had -not that maddening British conscientiousness which refused happiness for -the sake of refusing! She must rejoice at this chance of being free -after seventeen years of death in life! As to publicity, the fat was in -the fire! To defend the suit would not take away the slur. Jolyon had -all the proper feeling of a Forsyte whose privacy is threatened: If he -was to be hung by the Law, by all means let it be for a sheep! Moreover -the notion of standing in a witness box and swearing to the truth that no -gesture, not even a word of love had passed between them seemed to him -more degrading than to take the tacit stigma of being an adulterer--more -truly degrading, considering the feeling in his heart, and just as bad -and painful for his children. The thought of explaining away, if he -could, before a judge and twelve average Englishmen, their meetings in -Paris, and the walks in Richmond Park, horrified him. The brutality and -hypocritical censoriousness of the whole process; the probability that -they would not be believed--the mere vision of her, whom he looked on as -the embodiment of Nature and of Beauty, standing there before all those -suspicious, gloating eyes was hideous to him. No, no! To defend a suit -only made a London holiday, and sold the newspapers. A thousand times -better accept what Soames and the gods had sent! - -'Besides,' he thought honestly, 'who knows whether, even for my boy's -sake, I could have stood this state of things much longer? Anyway, her -neck will be out of chancery at last!' Thus absorbed, he was hardly -conscious of the heavy heat. The sky had become overcast, purplish with -little streaks of white. A heavy heat-drop plashed a little star pattern -in the dust of the road as he entered the Park. 'Phew!' he thought, -'thunder! I hope she's not come to meet me; there's a ducking up there!' -But at that very minute he saw Irene coming towards the Gate. 'We must -scuttle back to Robin Hill,' he thought. - - *************************** - -The storm had passed over the Poultry at four o'clock, bringing welcome -distraction to the clerks in every office. Soames was drinking a cup of -tea when a note was brought in to him: - -"DEAR SIR, - -"Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte - -"In accordance with your instructions, we beg to inform you that we -personally served the respondent and co-respondent in this suit to-day, -at Richmond, and Robin Hill, respectively. -"Faithfully yours, -"LINKMAN AND LAVER." - -For some minutes Soames stared at that note. Ever since he had given -those instructions he had been tempted to annul them. It was so -scandalous, such a general disgrace! The evidence, too, what he had -heard of it, had never seemed to him conclusive; somehow, he believed -less and less that those two had gone all lengths. But this, of course, -would drive them to it; and he suffered from the thought. That fellow to -have her love, where he had failed! Was it too late? Now that they had -been brought up sharp by service of this petition, had he not a lever -with which he could force them apart? 'But if I don't act at once,' he -thought, 'it will be too late, now they've had this thing. I'll go and -see him; I'll go down!' - -And, sick with nervous anxiety, he sent out for one of the 'new-fangled' -motor-cabs. It might take a long time to run that fellow to ground, and -Goodness knew what decision they might come to after such a shock! 'If I -were a theatrical ass,' he thought, 'I suppose I should be taking a -horse-whip or a pistol or something!' He took instead a bundle of papers -in the case of 'Magentie versus Wake,' intending to read them on the way -down. He did not even open them, but sat quite still, jolted and jarred, -unconscious of the draught down the back of his neck, or the smell of -petrol. He must be guided by the fellow's attitude; the great thing was -to keep his head! - -London had already begun to disgorge its workers as he neared Putney -Bridge; the ant-heap was on the move outwards. What a lot of ants, all -with a living to get, holding on by their eyelids in the great scramble! -Perhaps for the first time in his life Soames thought: 'I could let go if -I liked! Nothing could touch me; I could snap my fingers, live as I -wished--enjoy myself!' No! One could not live as he had and just drop -it all--settle down in Capua, to spend the money and reputation he had -made. A man's life was what he possessed and sought to possess. Only -fools thought otherwise--fools, and socialists, and libertines! - -The cab was passing villas now, going a great pace. 'Fifteen miles an -hour, I should think!' he mused; 'this'll take people out of town to -live!' and he thought of its bearing on the portions of London owned by -his father--he himself had never taken to that form of investment, the -gambler in him having all the outlet needed in his pictures. And the cab -sped on, down the hill past Wimbledon Common. This interview! Surely a -man of fifty-two with grown-up children, and hung on the line, would not -be reckless. 'He won't want to disgrace the family,' he thought; 'he was -as fond of his father as I am of mine, and they were brothers. That -woman brings destruction--what is it in her? I've never known.' The cab -branched off, along the side of a wood, and he heard a late cuckoo -calling, almost the first he had heard that year. He was now almost -opposite the site he had originally chosen for his house, and which had -been so unceremoniously rejected by Bosinney in favour of his own choice. -He began passing his handkerchief over his face and hands, taking deep -breaths to give him steadiness. 'Keep one's head,' he thought, 'keep -one's head!' - -The cab turned in at the drive which might have been his own, and the -sound of music met him. He had forgotten the fellow's daughters. - -"I may be out again directly," he said to the driver, "or I may be kept -some time"; and he rang the bell. - -Following the maid through the curtains into the inner hall, he felt -relieved that the impact of this meeting would be broken by June or -Holly, whichever was playing in there, so that with complete surprise he -saw Irene at the piano, and Jolyon sitting in an armchair listening. -They both stood up. Blood surged into Soames' brain, and all his -resolution to be guided by this or that left him utterly. The look of -his farmer forbears--dogged Forsytes down by the sea, from 'Superior -Dosset' back--grinned out of his face. - -"Very pretty!" he said. - -He heard the fellow murmur: - -"This is hardly the place--we'll go to the study, if you don't mind." -And they both passed him through the curtain opening. In the little room -to which he followed them, Irene stood by the open window, and the -'fellow' close to her by a big chair. Soames pulled the door to behind -him with a slam; the sound carried him back all those years to the day -when he had shut out Jolyon--shut him out for meddling with his affairs. - -"Well," he said, "what have you to say for yourselves?" - -The fellow had the effrontery to smile. - -"What we have received to-day has taken away your right to ask. I should -imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery." - -"Oh!" said Soames; "you think so! I came to tell you that I'll divorce -her with every circumstance of disgrace to you both, unless you swear to -keep clear of each other from now on." - -He was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering and his -hands twitching. Neither of them answered; but their faces seemed to him -as if contemptuous. - -"Well," he said; "you--Irene?" - -Her lips moved, but Jolyon laid his hand on her arm. - -"Let her alone!" said Soames furiously. "Irene, will you swear it?" - -"No." - -"Oh! and you?" - -"Still less." - -"So then you're guilty, are you?" - -"Yes, guilty." It was Irene speaking in that serene voice, with that -unreached air which had maddened him so often; and, carried beyond -himself, he cried: - -"You are a devil" - -"Go out! Leave this house, or I'll do you an injury." - -That fellow to talk of injuries! Did he know how near his throat was to -being scragged? - -"A trustee," he said, "embezzling trust property! A thief, stealing his -cousin's wife." - -"Call me what you like. You have chosen your part, we have chosen ours. -Go out!" - -If he had brought a weapon Soames might have used it at that moment. - -"I'll make you pay!" he said. - -"I shall be very happy." - -At that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of him who -had nicknamed him 'the man of property,' Soames stood glaring. It was -ridiculous! - -There they were, kept from violence by some secret force. No blow -possible, no words to meet the case. But he could not, did not know how -to turn and go away. His eyes fastened on Irene's face--the last time -he would ever see that fatal face--the last time, no doubt! - -"You," he said suddenly, "I hope you'll treat him as you treated -me--that's all." - -He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite -relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and got -into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with his eyes shut. Never -in his life had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown -away the restraint which was his second nature. He had a stripped and -naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of him--life meaningless, -mind-striking work. Sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The -scene he had passed through had gone from him already, what was before -him would not materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt -frightened, as if he had been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as if -with another turn of the screw sanity would have failed him. 'I'm not -fit for it,' he thought; 'I mustn't--I'm not fit for it.' The cab sped -on, and in mechanical procession trees, houses, people passed, but had no -significance. 'I feel very queer,' he thought; 'I'll take a Turkish -bath.--I've been very near to something. It won't do.' The cab whirred -its way back over the bridge, up the Fulham Road, along the Park. - -"To the Hammam," said Soames. - -Curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so comforting! -Crossing into the hot room he met George Forsyte coming out, red and -glistening. - -"Hallo!" said George; "what are you training for? You've not got much -superfluous." - -Buffoon! Soames passed him with his sideway smile. Lying back, rubbing -his skin uneasily for the first signs of perspiration, he thought: 'Let -them laugh! I won't feel anything! I can't stand violence! It's not -good for me!' - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -A SUMMER NIGHT - -Soames left dead silence in the little study. "Thank you for that good -lie," said Jolyon suddenly. "Come out--the air in here is not what it -was!" - -In front of a long high southerly wall on which were trained peach-trees -the two walked up and down in silence. Old Jolyon had planted some -cupressus-trees, at intervals, between this grassy terrace and the -dipping meadow full of buttercups and ox-eyed daisies; for twelve years -they had flourished, till their dark spiral shapes had quite a look of -Italy. Birds fluttered softly in the wet shrubbery; the swallows swooped -past, with a steel-blue sheen on their swift little bodies; the grass -felt springy beneath the feet, its green refreshed; butterflies chased -each other. After that painful scene the quiet of Nature was wonderfully -poignant. Under the sun-soaked wall ran a narrow strip of garden-bed -full of mignonette and pansies, and from the bees came a low hum in which -all other sounds were set--the mooing of a cow deprived of her calf, the -calling of a cuckoo from an elm-tree at the bottom of the meadow. Who -would have thought that behind them, within ten miles, London began--that -London of the Forsytes, with its wealth, its misery; its dirt and noise; -its jumbled stone isles of beauty, its grey sea of hideous brick and -stucco? That London which had seen Irene's early tragedy, and Jolyon's -own hard days; that web; that princely workhouse of the possessive -instinct! - -And while they walked Jolyon pondered those words: 'I hope you'll treat -him as you treated me.' That would depend on himself. Could he trust -himself? Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave of what he -adored? Could beauty be confided to him? Or should she not be just a -visitor, coming when she would, possessed for moments which passed, to -return only at her own choosing? 'We are a breed of spoilers!' thought -Jolyon, 'close and greedy; the bloom of life is not safe with us. Let -her come to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will not. -Let me be just her stand-by, her perching-place; never-never her cage!' - -She was the chink of beauty in his dream. Was he to pass through the -curtains now and reach her? Was the rich stuff of many possessions, the -close encircling fabric of the possessive instinct walling in that little -black figure of himself, and Soames--was it to be rent so that he could -pass through into his vision, find there something not of the senses -only? 'Let me,' he thought, 'ah! let me only know how not to grasp and -destroy!' - -But at dinner there were plans to be made. To-night she would go back to -the hotel, but tomorrow he would take her up to London. He must instruct -his solicitor--Jack Herring. Not a finger must be raised to hinder the -process of the Law. Damages exemplary, judicial strictures, costs, what -they liked--let it go through at the first moment, so that her neck might -be out of chancery at last! To-morrow he would see Herring--they would -go and see him together. And then--abroad, leaving no doubt, no -difficulty about evidence, making the lie she had told into the truth. -He looked round at her; and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than -a woman was sitting there. The spirit of universal beauty, deep, -mysterious, which the old painters, Titian, Giorgione, Botticelli, had -known how to capture and transfer to the faces of their women--this -flying beauty seemed to him imprinted on her brow, her hair, her lips, -and in her eyes. - -'And this is to be mine!' he thought. 'It frightens me!' - -After dinner they went out on to the terrace to have coffee. They sat -there long, the evening was so lovely, watching the summer night come -very slowly on. It was still warm and the air smelled of lime -blossom--early this summer. Two bats were flighting with the faint -mysterious little noise they make. He had placed the chairs in front of -the study window, and moths flew past to visit the discreet light in -there. There was no wind, and not a whisper in the old oak-tree twenty -yards away! The moon rose from behind the copse, nearly full; and the -two lights struggled, till moonlight conquered, changing the colour and -quality of all the garden, stealing along the flagstones, reaching their -feet, climbing up, changing their faces. - -"Well," said Jolyon at last, "you'll be tired, dear; we'd better start. -The maid will show you Holly's room," and he rang the study bell. The -maid who came handed him a telegram. Watching her take Irene away, he -thought: 'This must have come an hour or more ago, and she didn't bring -it out to us! That shows! Well, we'll be hung for a sheep soon!' And, -opening the telegram, he read: - -"JOLYON FORSYTE, Robin Hill.--Your son passed painlessly away on June -20th. Deep sympathy"--some name unknown to him. - -He dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. The moon shone in on him; a -moth flew in his face. The first day of all that he had not thought -almost ceaselessly of Jolly. He went blindly towards the window, struck -against the old armchair--his father's--and sank down on to the arm of -it. He sat there huddled' forward, staring into the night. Gone out -like a candle flame; far from home, from love, all by himself, in the -dark! His boy! From a little chap always so good to him--so friendly! -Twenty years old, and cut down like grass--to have no life at all! 'I -didn't really know him,' he thought, 'and he didn't know me; but we loved -each other. It's only love that matters.' - -To die out there--lonely--wanting them--wanting home! This seemed to his -Forsyte heart more painful, more pitiful than death itself. No shelter, -no protection, no love at the last! And all the deeply rooted clanship -in him, the family feeling and essential clinging to his own flesh and -blood which had been so strong in old Jolyon was so strong in all the -Forsytes--felt outraged, cut, and torn by his boy's lonely passing. -Better far if he had died in battle, without time to long for them to -come to him, to call out for them, perhaps, in his delirium! - -The moon had passed behind the oak-tree now, endowing it with uncanny -life, so that it seemed watching him--the oak-tree his boy had been so -fond of climbing, out of which he had once fallen and hurt himself, and -hadn't cried! - -The door creaked. He saw Irene come in, pick up the telegram and read -it. He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She sank on her knees close -to him, and he forced himself to smile at her. She stretched up her arms -and drew his head down on her shoulder. The perfume and warmth of her -encircled him; her presence gained slowly his whole being. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -JAMES IN WAITING - -Sweated to serenity, Soames dined at the Remove and turned his face -toward Park Lane. His father had been unwell lately. This would have to -be kept from him! Never till that moment had he realised how much the -dread of bringing James' grey hairs down with sorrow to the grave had -counted with him; how intimately it was bound up with his own shrinking -from scandal. His affection for his father, always deep, had increased -of late years with the knowledge that James looked on him as the real -prop of his decline. It seemed pitiful that one who had been so careful -all his life and done so much for the family name--so that it was almost -a byword for solid, wealthy respectability--should at his last gasp have -to see it in all the newspapers. This was like lending a hand to Death, -that final enemy of Forsytes. 'I must tell mother,' he thought, 'and -when it comes on, we must keep the papers from him somehow. He sees -hardly anyone.' Letting himself in with his latchkey, he was beginning -to ascend he stairs when he became conscious of commotion on the -second-floor landing. His mother's voice was saying: - -"Now, James, you'll catch cold. Why can't you wait quietly?" - -His father's answering - -"Wait? I'm always waiting. Why doesn't he come in?" - -"You can speak to him to-morrow morning, instead of making a guy of -yourself on the landing." - -"He'll go up to bed, I shouldn't wonder. I shan't sleep." - -"Now come back to bed, James." - -"Um! I might die before to-morrow morning for all you can tell." - -"You shan't have to wait till to-morrow morning; I'll go down and bring -him up. Don't fuss!" - -"There you go--always so cock-a-hoop. He mayn't come in at all." - -"Well, if he doesn't come in you won't catch him by standing out here in -your dressing-gown." - -Soames rounded the last bend and came in sight of his father's tall -figure wrapped in a brown silk quilted gown, stooping over the balustrade -above. Light fell on his silvery hair and whiskers, investing his head -with, a sort of halo. - -"Here he is!" he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured, and his -mother's comfortable answer from the bedroom door: - -"That's all right. Come in, and I'll brush your hair." James extended a -thin, crooked finger, oddly like the beckoning of a skeleton, and passed -through the doorway of his bedroom. - -'What is it?' thought Soames. 'What has he got hold of now?' - -His father was sitting before the dressing-table sideways to the mirror, -while Emily slowly passed two silver-backed brushes through and through -his hair. She would do this several times a day, for it had on him -something of the effect produced on a cat by scratching between its ears. - -"There you are!" he said. "I've been waiting." - -Soames stroked his shoulder, and, taking up a silver button-hook, -examined the mark on it. - -"Well," he said, "you're looking better." - -James shook his head. - -"I want to say something. Your mother hasn't heard." He announced -Emily's ignorance of what he hadn't told her, as if it were a grievance. - -"Your father's been in a great state all the evening. I'm sure I don't -know what about." - -The faint 'whisk-whisk' of the brushes continued the soothing of her -voice. - -"No! you know nothing," said James. "Soames can tell me." And, fixing -his grey eyes, in which there was a look of strain, uncomfortable to -watch, on his son, he muttered: - -"I'm getting on, Soames. At my age I can't tell. I might die any time. -There'll be a lot of money. There's Rachel and Cicely got no children; -and Val's out there--that chap his father will get hold of all he can. -And somebody'll pick up Imogen, I shouldn't wonder." - -Soames listened vaguely--he had heard all this before. Whish-whish! went -the brushes. - -"If that's all!" said Emily. - -"All!" cried James; "it's nothing. I'm coming to that." And again his -eyes strained pitifully at Soames. - -"It's you, my boy," he said suddenly; "you ought to get a divorce." - -That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for Soames' -composure. His eyes reconcentrated themselves quickly on the buttonhook, -and as if in apology James hurried on: - -"I don't know what's become of her--they say she's abroad. Your Uncle -Swithin used to admire her--he was a funny fellow." (So he always -alluded to his dead twin-'The Stout and the Lean of it,' they had been -called.) "She wouldn't be alone, I should say." And with that -summing-up of the effect of beauty on human nature, he was silent, -watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird's. Soames, too, was silent. -Whish-whish went the brushes. - -"Come, James! Soames knows best. It's his 'business." - -"Ah!" said James, and the word came from deep down; "but there's all my -money, and there's his--who's it to go to? And when he dies the name -goes out." - -Soames replaced the button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the -dressing-table coverlet. - -"The name?" said Emily, "there are all the other Forsytes." - -"As if that helped me," muttered James. "I shall be in my grave, and -there'll be nobody, unless he marries again." - -"You're quite right," said Soames quietly; "I'm getting a divorce." - -James' eyes almost started from his head. - -"What?" he cried. "There! nobody tells me anything." - -"Well," said Emily, "who would have imagined you wanted it? My dear boy, -that is a surprise, after all these years." - -"It'll be a scandal," muttered James, as if to himself; "but I can't help -that. Don't brush so hard. When'll it come on?" - -"Before the Long Vacation; it's not defended." - -James' lips moved in secret calculation. "I shan't live to see my -grandson," he muttered. - -Emily ceased brushing. "Of course you will, James. Soames will be as -quick as he can." - -There was a long silence, till James reached out his arm. - -"Here! let's have the eau-de-Cologne," and, putting it to his nose, he -moved his forehead in the direction of his son. Soames bent over and -kissed that brow just where the hair began. A relaxing quiver passed -over James' face, as though the wheels of anxiety within were running -down. - -"I'll get to bed," he said; "I shan't want to see the papers when that -comes. They're a morbid lot; I can't pay attention to them, I'm too -old." - -Queerly affected, Soames went to the door; he heard his father say: - -"Here, I'm tired. I'll say a prayer in bed." - -And his mother answering - -"That's right, James; it'll be ever so much more comfy." - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -OUT OF THE WEB - -On Forsyte 'Change the announcement of Jolly's death, among a batch of -troopers, caused mixed sensation. Strange to read that Jolyon Forsyte -(fifth of the name in direct descent) had died of disease in the service -of his country, and not be able to feel it personally. It revived the -old grudge against his father for having estranged himself. For such was -still the prestige of old Jolyon that the other Forsytes could never -quite feel, as might have been expected, that it was they who had cut off -his descendants for irregularity. The news increased, of course, the -interest and anxiety about Val; but then Val's name was Dartie, and even -if he were killed in battle or got the Victoria Cross, it would not be at -all the same as if his name were Forsyte. Not even casualty or glory to -the Haymans would be really satisfactory. Family pride felt defrauded. - -How the rumour arose, then, that 'something very dreadful, my dear,' was -pending, no one, least of all Soames, could tell, secret as he kept -everything. Possibly some eye had seen 'Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte,' -in the cause list; and had added it to 'Irene in Paris with a fair -beard.' Possibly some wall at Park Lane had ears. The fact remained -that it was known--whispered among the old, discussed among the -young--that family pride must soon receive a blow. - -Soames, paying one, of his Sunday visits to Timothy's--paying it with the -feeling that after the suit came on he would be paying no more--felt -knowledge in the air as he came in. Nobody, of course, dared speak of it -before him, but each of the four other Forsytes present held their -breath, aware that nothing could prevent Aunt Juley from making them all -uncomfortable. She looked so piteously at Soames, she checked herself on -the point of speech so often, that Aunt Hester excused herself and said -she must go and bathe Timothy's eye--he had a sty coming. Soames, -impassive, slightly supercilious, did not stay long. He went out with a -curse stifled behind his pale, just smiling lips. - -Fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the coming -scandal, he was kept busy day and night with plans for his -retirement--for he had come to that grim conclusion. To go on seeing all -those people who had known him as a 'long-headed chap,' an astute -adviser--after that--no! The fastidiousness and pride which was so -strangely, so inextricably blended in him with possessive obtuseness, -revolted against the thought. He would retire, live privately, go on -buying pictures, make a great name as a collector--after all, his heart -was more in that than it had ever been in Law. In pursuance of this now -fixed resolve, he had to get ready to amalgamate his business with -another firm without letting people know, for that would excite curiosity -and make humiliation cast its shadow before. He had pitched on the firm -of Cuthcott, Holliday and Kingson, two of whom were dead. The full name -after the amalgamation would therefore be Cuthcott, Holliday, Kingson, -Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. But after debate as to which of the dead -still had any influence with the living, it was decided to reduce the -title to Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte, of whom Kingson would be the -active and Soames the sleeping partner. For leaving his name, prestige, -and clients behind him, Soames would receive considerable value. - -One night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a stage of -his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth, and after writing -off liberally for depreciation by the war, found his value to be some -hundred and thirty thousand pounds. At his father's death, which could -not, alas, be delayed much longer, he must come into at least another -fifty thousand, and his yearly expenditure at present just reached two. -Standing among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains -earned by the trained faculty of knowing better than other people. -Selling what was about to decline, keeping what was still going up, and -exercising judicious insight into future taste, he would make a unique -collection, which at his death would pass to the nation under the title -'Forsyte Bequest.' - -If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with Madame -Lamotte. She had, he knew, but one real ambition--to live on her -'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 night-birds in his head! Like those doves perched -half-sleeping on their dovecot, like the furry creatures in the woods on -the far side, and the simple folk in their cottages, like the trees and -the river itself, whitening fast in twilight, like the darkening -cornflower-blue sky where stars were coming up--let him cease from -himself, and rest! - - - - -CHAPTER X - -PASSING OF AN AGE - -The marriage of Soames with Annette took place in Paris on the last day -of January, 1901, with such privacy that not even Emily was told until it -was accomplished. - -The day after the wedding he brought her to one of those quiet hotels in -London where greater expense can be incurred for less result than -anywhere else under heaven. Her beauty in the best Parisian frocks was -giving him more satisfaction than if he had collected a perfect bit of -china, or a jewel of a picture; he looked forward to the moment when he -would exhibit her in Park Lane, in Green Street, and at Timothy's. - -If some one had asked him in those days, "In confidence--are you in love -with this girl?" he would have replied: "In love? What is love? If you -mean do I feel to her as I did towards Irene in those old days when I -first met her and she would not have me; when I sighed and starved after -her and couldn't rest a minute until she yielded--no! If you mean do I -admire her youth and prettiness, do my senses ache a little when I see -her moving about--yes! Do I think she will keep me straight, make me a -creditable wife and a good mother for my children?--again, yes!" - -"What more do I need? and what more do three-quarters of the women who -are married get from the men who marry them?" And if the enquirer had -pursued his query, "And do you think it was fair to have tempted this -girl to give herself to you for life unless you have really touched her -heart?" he would have answered: "The French see these things differently -from us. They look at marriage from the point of view of establishments -and children; and, from my own experience, I am not at all sure that -theirs is not the sensible view. I shall not expect this time more than -I can get, or she can give. Years hence I shouldn't be surprised if I -have trouble with her; but I shall be getting old, I shall have children -by then. I shall shut my eyes. I have had my great passion; hers is -perhaps to come--I don't suppose it will be for me. I offer her a great -deal, and I don't expect much in return, except children, or at least a -son. But one thing I am sure of--she has very good sense!" - -And if, insatiate, the enquirer had gone on, "You do not look, then, for -spiritual union in this marriage?" Soames would have lifted his sideway -smile, and rejoined: "That's as it may be. If I get satisfaction for my -senses, perpetuation of myself; good taste and good humour in the house; -it is all I can expect at my age. I am not likely to be going out of my -way towards any far-fetched sentimentalism." Whereon, the enquirer must -in good taste have ceased enquiry. - -The Queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth grey with -unshed tears. Fur-coated and top-hatted, with Annette beside him in dark -furs, Soames crossed Park Lane on the morning of the funeral procession, -to the rails in Hyde Park. Little moved though he ever was by public -matters, this event, supremely symbolical, this summing-up of a long rich -period, impressed his fancy. In '37, when she came to the throne, -'Superior Dosset' was still building houses to make London hideous; and -James, a stripling of twenty-six, just laying the foundations of his -practice in the Law. Coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved their -upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; 'tigers' swung behind cabriolets; -women said, 'La!' and owned no property; there were manners in the land, -and pigsties for the poor; unhappy devils were hanged for little crimes, -and Dickens had but just begun to write. Well-nigh two generations had -slipped by--of steamboats, railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric -light, telephones, and now these motorcars--of such accumulated wealth, -that eight per cent. had become three, and Forsytes were numbered by the -thousand! Morals had changed, manners had changed, men had become -monkeys twice-removed, God had become Mammon--Mammon so respectable as to -deceive himself: Sixty-four years that favoured property, and had made -the upper middle class; buttressed, chiselled, polished it, till it was -almost indistinguishable in manners, morals, speech, appearance, habit, -and soul from the nobility. An epoch which had gilded individual liberty -so that if a man had money, he was free in law and fact, and if he had -not money he was free in law and not in fact. An era which had canonised -hypocrisy, so that to seem to be respectable was to be. A great Age, -whose transmuting influence nothing had escaped save the nature of man -and the nature of the Universe. - -And to witness the passing of this Age, London--its pet and fancy--was -pouring forth her citizens through every gate into Hyde Park, hub of -Victorianism, happy hunting-ground of Forsytes. Under the grey heavens, -whose drizzle just kept off, the dark concourse gathered to see the show. -The 'good old' Queen, full of years and virtue, had emerged from her -seclusion for the last time to make a London holiday. From Houndsditch, -Acton, Ealing, Hampstead, Islington, and Bethnal Green; from Hackney, -Hornsey, Leytonstone, Battersea, and Fulham; and from those green -pastures where Forsytes flourish--Mayfair and Kensington, St. James' and -Belgravia, Bayswater and Chelsea and the Regent's Park, the people -swarmed down on to the roads where death would presently pass with dusky -pomp and pageantry. Never again would a Queen reign so long, or people -have a chance to see so much history buried for their money. A pity the -war dragged on, and that the Wreath of Victory could not be laid upon her -coffin! All else would be there to follow and commemorate--soldiers, -sailors, foreign princes, half-masted bunting, tolling bells, and above -all the surging, great, dark-coated crowd, with perhaps a simple sadness -here and there deep in hearts beneath black clothes put on by regulation. -After all, more than a Queen was going to her rest, a woman who had -braved sorrow, lived well and wisely according to her lights. - -Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in Annette's, -Soames waited. Yes! the Age was passing! What with this Trade Unionism, -and Labour fellows in the House of Commons, with continental fiction, and -something in the general feel of everything, not to be expressed in -words, things were very different; he recalled the crowd on Mafeking -night, and George Forsyte saying: "They're all socialists, they want our -goods." Like James, Soames didn't know, he couldn't tell--with Edward on -the throne! Things would never be as safe again as under good old Viccy! -Convulsively he pressed his young wife's arm. There, at any rate, was -something substantially his own, domestically certain again at last; -something which made property worth while--a real thing once more. -Pressed close against her and trying to ward others off, Soames was -content. The crowd swayed round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs; -boys who had climbed the plane-trees chattered above like monkeys, threw -twigs and orange-peel. It was past time; they should be coming soon! -And, suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish man -with a soft hat and short grizzling beard, and a tallish woman in a -little round fur cap and veil. Jolyon and Irene talking, smiling at each -other, close together like Annette and himself! They had not seen him; -and stealthily, with a very queer feeling in his heart, Soames watched -those two. They looked happy! What had they come here for--inherently -illicit creatures, rebels from the Victorian ideal? What business had -they in this crowd? Each of them twice exiled by morality--making a -boast, as it were, of love and laxity! He watched them fascinated; -admitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through Annette's -that--that she--Irene--No! he would not admit it; and he turned his eyes -away. He would not see them, and let the old bitterness, the old longing -rise up within him! And then Annette turned to him and said: "Those two -people, Soames; they know you, I am sure. Who are they?" - -Soames nosed sideways. - -"What people?" - -"There, you see them; just turning away. They know you." - -"No," Soames answered; "a mistake, my dear." - -"A lovely face! And how she walk! Elle est 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 knowledge, even then, that she did not love him! But -this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling for Annette! -Many times these last months, especially since she had been growing -frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of her own, was selfish in -her French way. And yet--so pretty! What would she wish--to take the -risk. 'I know she wants the child,' he thought. 'If it's born dead, and -no more chance afterwards--it'll upset her terribly. No more chance! -All for nothing! Married life with her for years and years without a -child. Nothing to steady her! She's too young. Nothing to look forward -to, for her--for me! For me!' He struck his hands against his chest! -Why couldn't he think without bringing himself in--get out of himself and -see what he ought to do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it -had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself! Impossible! -Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space! The very idea -was ghastly, futile! And touching there the bedrock of reality, the -bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment. When one -ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there'd be nothing in it! - -He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. He -must decide! If against the operation and she died, how face her mother -and the doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? It was his child -that she was having. If for the operation--then he condemned them both -to childlessness. And for what else had he married her but to have a -lawful heir? And his father--at death's door, waiting for the news! -'It's cruel!' he thought; 'I ought never to have such a thing to settle! -It's cruel!' He turned towards the house. Some deep, simple way of -deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he knew -he would not abide by what came up! He went into the dining-room, -furthest away from that room whence the sounds issued. The doctor had -said there was a chance. In here that chance seemed greater; the river -did not flow, nor the leaves fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked -the tantalus. He hardly ever touched spirits, but now--he poured himself -out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. 'That -fellow Jolyon,' he thought; 'he had children already. He has the woman I -really loved; and now a son by her! And I--I'm asked to destroy my only -child! Annette can't die; it's not possible. She's strong!' - -He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the -doctor's carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to come -downstairs. - -"Well, doctor?" - -"The situation's the same. Have you decided?" - -"Yes," said Soames; "don't operate!" - -"Not? You understand--the risk's great?" - -In Soames' set face nothing moved but the lips. - -"You said there was a chance?" - -"A chance, yes; not much of one." - -"You say the baby must be born dead if you do?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you still think that in any case she can't have another?" - -"One can't be absolutely sure, but it's most unlikely." - -"She's strong," said Soames; "we'll take the risk." - -The doctor looked at him very gravely. "It's on your shoulders," he -said; "with my own wife, I couldn't." - -Soames' chin jerked up as if someone had hit him. - -"Am I of any use up there?" he asked. - -"No; keep away." - -"I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where." - -The doctor nodded, and went upstairs. - -Soames continued to stand, listening. 'By this time to-morrow,' he -thought, 'I may have her death on my hands.' No! it was unfair ---monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him again, and he -went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The wind was in the -north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy ragged white clouds -chasing across; the river blue, too, through the screen of goldening -trees; the woods all rich with colour, glowing, burnished-an early -autumn. If it were his own life, would he be taking that risk? 'But -she'd take the risk of losing me,' he thought, 'sooner than lose her -child! She doesn't really love me!' What could one expect--a girl and -French? The one thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage -and their futures, was a child! 'I've been through a lot for this,' he -thought, 'I'll hold on--hold on. There's a chance of keeping both--a -chance!' One kept till things were taken--one naturally kept! He began -walking round the gallery. He had made one purchase lately which he knew -was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it--a girl with dull gold -hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden -monster she was holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he -could just feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had -made--admire the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl's -figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of -her hair, the bright gold of the little monster. Collecting pictures; -growing richer, richer! What use, if....! He turned his back abruptly -on the picture, and went to the window. Some of his doves had flown up -from their perches round the dovecot, and were stretching their wings in -the wind. In the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. -They flew far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette -fed the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her hand; -they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came into his -throat. She would not--could 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 substantial, lincrusta way it -was the acme of comfort and security. And the night was so dark and -windy; the grave so cold and lonely! - -He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned the -handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived. The light was -shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the far side of the bed; -the nurse was moving away from the near side where was an empty chair. -'For me!' thought Soames. As he moved from the door his mother and -sister rose, but he signed with his hand and they sat down again. He -went up to the chair and stood looking at his father. James' breathing -was as if strangled; his eyes were closed. And in Soames, looking on his -father so worn and white and wasted, listening to his strangled -breathing, there rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, -cruel, inexorable Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body, -slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the being who -was dearest to him in the world. His father, of all men, had lived a -careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was his reward--to have life -slowly, painfully squeezed out of him! And, without knowing that he -spoke, he said: "It's cruel!" - -He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face towards the -bed. Women! They put up with things so much better than men. He took a -step nearer to his father. For three days James had not been shaved, and -his lips and chin were covered with hair, hardly more snowy than his -forehead. It softened his face, gave it a queer look already not of this -world. His eyes opened. Soames went quite close and bent over. The -lips moved. - -"Here I am, Father:" - -"Um--what--what news? They never tell...." the voice died, and a flood -of emotion made Soames' face work so that he could not speak. Tell -him?--yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his lips together, and -said: - -"Good news, dear, good--Annette, a son." - -"Ah!" It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful, -triumphant--like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. The eyes -closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again. Soames -recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. The lie he had told, based, -as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct that after death James -would not know the truth, had taken away all power of feeling for the -moment. His arm brushed against something. It was his father's naked -foot. In the struggle to breathe he had pushed it out from under the -clothes. Soames took it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, -very cold. What use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder -soon! He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his father's -laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose again within him. A -little sob, quickly smothered, came from Winifred, but his mother sat -unmoving with her eyes fixed on James. Soames signed to the nurse. - -"Where's the doctor?" he whispered. - -"He's been sent for." - -"Can't you do anything to ease his breathing?" - -"Only an injection; and he can't stand it. The doctor said, while he was -fighting...." - -"He's not fighting," whispered Soames, "he's being slowly smothered. -It's awful." - -James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. Soames rose -and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands, and Soames took -them. - -"He wants to be pulled up," whispered the nurse. - -Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of anger -passed over James' face. The nurse plumped the pillows. Soames laid the -hands down, and bending over kissed his father's forehead. As he was -raising himself again, James' eyes bent on him a look which seemed to -come from the very depths of what was left within. 'I'm done, my boy,' -it seemed to say, 'take care of them, take care of yourself; take care--I -leave it all to you.' - -"Yes, Yes," Soames whispered, "yes, yes." - -Behind him the nurse did he knew, not what, for his father made a tiny -movement of repulsion as if resenting that interference; and almost at -once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay very still. The -strained expression on his face passed, a curious white tranquillity took -its place. His eyelids quivered, rested; the whole face rested; at ease. -Only by the faint puffing of his lips could they tell that he was -breathing. Soames sank back on his chair, and fell to cherishing the -foot again. He heard the nurse quietly crying over there by the fire; -curious that she, a stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! -He heard the quiet lick and flutter of the fire flames. One more old -Forsyte going to his long rest--wonderful, they were!--wonderful how he -had held on! His mother and Winifred were leaning forward, hanging on -the sight of James' lips. But Soames bent sideways over the feet, -warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder though they -grew. Suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful sound such as he had -never heard, was coming from his father's lips, as if an outraged heart -had broken with a long moan. What a strong heart, to have uttered that -farewell! It ceased. Soames looked into the face. No motion; no -breath! Dead! He kissed the brow, turned round and went out of the -room. He ran upstairs to the bedroom, his old bedroom, still kept for -him; flung himself face down on the bed, and broke into sobs which he -stilled with the pillow.... - -A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James lay -alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with the gravity -on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the worn fine gravity of -old coins. - -Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room with -windows thrown open to the London night. - -"Good-bye!" he whispered, and went out. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -HIS - -He had much to see to, that night and all next day. A telegram at -breakfast reassured him about Annette, and he only caught the last train -back to Reading, with Emily's kiss on his forehead and in his ears her -words: - -"I don't know what I should have done without you, my dear boy." - -He reached his house at midnight. The weather had changed, was mild -again, as though, having finished its work and sent a Forsyte to his last -account, it could relax. A second telegram, received at dinner-time, had -confirmed the good news of Annette, and, instead of going in, Soames -passed down through the garden in the moonlight to his houseboat. He -could sleep there quite well. Bitterly tired, he lay down on the sofa in -his fur coat and fell asleep. He woke soon after dawn and went on deck. -He stood against the rail, looking west where the river swept round in a -wide curve under the woods. In Soames, appreciation of natural beauty -was curiously like that of his farmer ancestors, a sense of grievance if -it wasn't there, sharpened, no doubt, and civilised, by his researches -among landscape painting. But dawn has power to fertilise the most -matter-of-fact vision, and he was stirred. It was another world from the -river he knew, under that remote cool light; a world into which man had -not entered, an unreal world, like some strange shore sighted by -discovery. Its colour was not the colour of convention, was hardly -colour at all; its shapes were brooding yet distinct; its silence -stunning; it had no scent. Why it should move him he could not tell, -unless it were that he felt so alone in it, bare of all relationship and -all possessions. Into such a world his father might be voyaging, for all -resemblance it had to the world he had left. And Soames took refuge from -it in wondering what painter could have done it justice. The white-grey -water was like--like the belly of a fish! Was it possible that this -world on which he looked was all private property, except the water--and -even that was tapped! No tree, no shrub, not a blade of grass, not a -bird or beast, not even a fish that was not owned. And once on a time all -this was jungle and marsh and water, and weird creatures roamed and -sported without human cognizance to give them names; rotting luxuriance -had rioted where those tall, carefully planted woods came down to the -water, and marsh-misted reeds on that far side had covered all the -pasture. Well! they had got it under, kennelled it all up, labelled it, -and stowed it in lawyers' offices. And a good thing too! But once in a -way, as now, the ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and -whisper to any human who chanced to be awake: 'Out of my unowned -loneliness you all came, into it some day you will all return.' - -And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world-new to him -and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of its past--went -down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he had drunk it, he -took out writing materials and wrote two paragraphs: - -"On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte, in his -ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at Highgate. No flowers -by request." - -"On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife of Soames -Forsyte, of a daughter." And underneath on the blottingpaper he traced -the word "son." - -It was eight o'clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to -the house. Bushes across the river stood round and bright-coloured out -of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue and straight; and his doves -cooed, preening their feathers in the sunlight. - -He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and -dark clothes. - -Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down. - -She looked at his clothes, said, "Don't tell me!" and pressed his hand. -"Annette is prettee well. But the doctor say she can never have no more -children. You knew that?" Soames nodded. "It's a pity. Mais la petite -est adorable. Du 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! By God! this--this thing was his! - - - - - - -THE FORSYTE SAGA - -Part 3 - - - -AWAKENING and TO LET - -By John Galsworthy - - - - -AWAKENING - - -TO LET - -TO CHARLES SCRIBNER - - - - -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, he 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 -upstairs. 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 inglenook 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 and 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 he -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 THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, COMPLETE *** - -***** This file should be named 4397.txt or 4397.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.net/4/3/9/4397/ - -Produced by David Widger - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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