The Forsyte saga - Complete
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....”
Jun’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 Jun’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 charlotte’s
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