The Forsyte saga - Complete
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, Félice, 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