The Forsyte saga - Complete
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.”
“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.