The Forsyte saga - Complete
the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour,
glowing, burnished—an early autumn. If it were his own life,
would he be taking that risk? “But _she’d_ take the risk of
losing me,” he thought, “sooner than lose her child! She doesn’t
really love me!” What could one expect—a girl and French? The one
thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and
their futures, was a child! “I’ve been through a lot for this,”
he thought, “I’ll hold on—hold on. There’s a chance of keeping
both—a chance!” One kept till things were taken—one naturally
kept! He began walking round the gallery. He had made one
purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he
halted before it—a girl with dull gold hair which looked like
filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was
holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just
feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made—admire
the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s
figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold
filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster.
Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if...! He
turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window.
Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the
dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the
clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew
far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed
the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her
hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came
into his throat. She would not—could not die! She was too—too
sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in
spite of her fair prettiness.
It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and
stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the
stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound
caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and
his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death
coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She
came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly:
“The doctor wants to see you, sir.”
He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and
said:
“Oh, Sir! it’s over.”
“Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you mean?”
“It’s born, sir.”
He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on
the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow.
“Well?” he said; “quick!”
“Both living; it’s all right, I think.”
Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes.
“I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was touch and
go.”
Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face.
“Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?”
“Daughter—luckily; a son would have killed her—the head.”
A daughter!
“The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and we shall
do. When does the mother come?”
“To-night, between nine and ten, I hope.”
“I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?”
“Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have dinner sent up
to you.” And he went downstairs.
Relief unspeakable, and yet—a daughter! It seemed to him unfair.
To have taken that risk—to have been through this agony—and what
agony!—for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood
logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust
himself. “My father!” he thought. A bitter disappointment, no
disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And
there was no other—at least, if there was, it was no use!
While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him.
“Come up at once, your father sinking fast.—MOTHER.”
He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he
couldn’t feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this.
Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame’s
train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty—he would meet
that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner
mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him.
“They’re sleeping.”
“I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I
have to—go up. Is it all right?”
The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If
they were all as unemotional” he might have been saying.
“Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down soon?”
“To-morrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.”
The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy.
“Good-night!” said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on
his fur coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a
cigarette in the carriage—one of his rare cigarettes. The night
was windy and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to
search out the way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless
night—to die!
The London train came in just as he reached the station, and
Madame Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the
lamplight, came towards the exit with a dressing-bag.
“This all you have?” asked Soames.
“But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?”
“Doing well—both. A girl!”
“A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!”
Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing,
climbed into the brougham.
“And you, _mon cher?_”
“My father’s dying,” said Soames between his teeth. “I’m going
up. Give my love to Annette.”
“_Tiens!_” murmured Madame Lamotte; “_quel malheur!_”
Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. “The
French!” he thought.
CHAPTER XIII JAMES IS TOLD
A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the
air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the
room he had not left since the middle of September—and James was
in deep waters. A little cold, passing his little strength and
flying quickly to his lungs. “He mustn’t catch cold,” the doctor
had declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt
it in his throat he had said to his nurse—for he had one
now—“There, I knew how it would be, airing the room like that!”
For a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and went in
advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath
with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour.
Emily was not alarmed.
But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: “He won’t
have his temperature taken.”
Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said
softly, “How do you feel, James?” holding the thermometer to his
lips. James looked up at her.
“What’s the good of that?” he murmured huskily; “I don’t want to
know.”
Then she _was_ alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked
terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had
“had trouble” with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been
James for nearly fifty years; she couldn’t remember or imagine
life without James—James, behind all his fussiness, his
pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and
generous to them all!
All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was
in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his
face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope.
His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of
energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It
touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and
comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when she
was out of it.
About tea-time on the third day—she had just changed her dress,
keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed
everything—she saw a difference. “It’s no use; I’m tired,” was
written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to
him, he muttered: “Send for Soames.”
“Yes, James,” she said comfortably; “all right—at once.” And she
kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it
off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and
without hope now, she sent Soames the telegram.
When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was
still as a grave. Warmson’s broad face looked almost narrow; he
took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying:
“Will you have a glass of wine, sir?”
Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry.
Warmson’s lips twitched. “He’s asking for you, sir;” and suddenly
he blew his nose. “It’s a long time, sir,” he said, “that I’ve
been with Mr. Forsyte—a long time.”
Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs.
This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never
seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last
pilgrimage to his father’s room. It was not his taste; but in its
own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and
security. And the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold
and lonely!
He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned
the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived.
The light was shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the
far side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side
where was an empty chair. “For me!” thought Soames. As he moved
from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his
hand and they sat down again. He went up to the chair and stood
looking at his father. James’ breathing was as if strangled; his
eyes were closed. And in Soames, looking on his father so worn
and white and wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there
rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel,
inexorable Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body,
slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the
being who was dearest to him in the world. His father, of all
men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was
his reward—to have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him!
And, without knowing that he spoke, he said: “It’s cruel!”
He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face
towards the bed. Women! They put up with things so much better
than men. He took a step nearer to his father. For three days
James had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered
with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead. It softened his
face, gave it a queer look already not of this world. His eyes
opened. Soames went quite close and bent over. The lips moved.
“Here I am, Father:”
“Um—what—what news? They never tell....” the voice died, and a
flood of emotion made Soames’ face work so that he could not
speak. Tell him?—yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his