The Forsyte saga - Complete
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