The Forsyte saga - Complete
“Of course Soames is a connoisseur,” Aunt Juley said hastily; “he
has wonderful taste—he can always tell beforehand what’s going to
be successful.”
“Oh!” gasped June, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, “I
hate that standard of success. Why can’t people buy things
because they like them?”
“You mean,” said Francie, “because _you_ like them.”
And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently
that Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn’t
know if they were any use.
“Well, good-bye, Auntie,” said June; “I must get on,” and kissing
her aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said “Good-bye”
again, and went. A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if
everyone had sighed.
The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak:
“Mr. James Forsyte.”
James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat
which gave him a fictitious bulk.
Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at
Timothy’s for nearly two years.
“It’s hot in here,” he said.
Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help
admiring the glossy way his father was turned out. James sat
down, all knees, elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers.
“What’s the meaning of that?” he said.
Though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew
that he was referring to June. His eyes searched his son’s face.
“I thought I’d come and see for myself. What have they answered
Kruger?”
Soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline.
“‘Instant action by our Government—state of war existing!’”
“Ah!” said James, and sighed. “I was afraid they’d cut and run
like old Gladstone. We shall finish with them this time.”
All stared at him. James! Always fussy, nervous, anxious! James
with his continual, “I told you how it would be!” and his
pessimism, and his cautious investments. There was something
uncanny about such resolution in this the oldest living Forsyte.
“Where’s Timothy?” said James. “He ought to pay attention to
this.”
Aunt Juley said she didn’t know; Timothy had not said much at
lunch to-day. Aunt Hester rose and threaded her way out of the
room, and Francie said rather maliciously:
“The Boers are a hard nut to crack, Uncle James.”
“H’m!” muttered James. “Where do you get your information? Nobody
tells me.”
Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest)
was now going to drill regularly.
“Ah!” muttered James, and stared before him—his thoughts were on
Val. “He’s got to look after his mother,” he said, “he’s got no
time for drilling and that, with that father of his.” This
cryptic saying produced silence, until he spoke again.
“What did June want here?” And his eyes rested with suspicion on
all of them in turn. “Her father’s a rich man now.” The
conversation turned on Jolyon, and when he had been seen last. It
was supposed that he went abroad and saw all sorts of people now
that his wife was dead; his water-colours were on the line, and
he was a successful man. Francie went so far as to say:
“I should like to see him again; he was rather a dear.”
Aunt Juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day,
where James was sitting. He had always been very amiable; what
did Soames think?
Knowing that Jolyon was Irene’s trustee, all felt the delicacy of
this question, and looked at Soames with interest. A faint pink
had come up in his cheeks.
“He’s going grey,” he said.
Indeed! Had Soames seen him? Soames nodded, and the pink
vanished.
James said suddenly: “Well—I don’t know, I can’t tell.”
It so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that
there was something behind everything, that nobody responded. But
at this moment Aunt Hester returned.
“Timothy,” she said in a low voice, “Timothy has bought a map,
and he’s put in—he’s put in three flags.”
Timothy had...! A sigh went round the company.
If Timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!—it showed
what the nation could do when it was roused. The war was as good
as over.
CHAPTER XIII JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS
Jolyon stood at the window in Holly’s old night nursery,
converted into a studio, not because it had a north light, but
for its view over the prospect away to the Grand Stand at Epsom.
He shifted to the side window which overlooked the stableyard,
and whistled down to the dog Balthasar who lay for ever under the
clock tower. The old dog looked up and wagged his tail. “Poor old
boy!” thought Jolyon, shifting back to the other window.
He had been restless all this week, since his attempt to
prosecute trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which was ever
acute, disturbed in his sense of compassion which was easily
excited, and with a queer sensation as if his feeling for beauty
had received some definite embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of
the old oak-tree, its leaves were browning. Sunshine had been
plentiful and hot this summer. As with trees, so with men’s
lives! “_I_ ought to live long,” thought Jolyon; “I’m getting
mildewed for want of heat. If I can’t work, I shall be off to
Paris.” But memory of Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how
could he go? He must stay and see what Soames was going to do.
“I’m her trustee. I can’t leave her unprotected,” he thought. It
had been striking him as curious how very clearly he could still
see Irene in her little drawing-room which he had only twice
entered. Her beauty must have a sort of poignant harmony! No
literal portrait would ever do her justice; the essence of her
was—ah I what?... The noise of hoofs called him back to the other
window. Holly was riding into the yard on her long-tailed
“palfrey.” She looked up and he waved to her. She had been rather
silent lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her
future, as they all did—youngsters!
Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste
this swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took
up his brush. But it was no use; he could not concentrate his
eye—besides, the light was going. “I’ll go up to town,” he
thought. In the hall a servant met him.
“A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron.”
Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as
it was still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window.
She came towards him saying:
“I’ve been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden.
I always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon.”
“You couldn’t trespass here,” replied Jolyon; “history makes that
impossible. I was just thinking of you.”
Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere
spirituality—serener, completer, more alluring.
“History!” she answered; “I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was
for ever. Well, it isn’t. Only aversion lasts.”
Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last?
“Yes!” he said, “aversion’s deeper than love or hate because it’s
a natural product of the nerves, and we don’t change them.”
“I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a
thing that frightened me. He said: ‘You are still my wife!’”
“What!” ejaculated Jolyon. “You ought not to live alone.” And he
continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where
Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was
why so many people looked on it as immoral.
“What more?”
“He asked me to shake hands.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. When he came in I’m sure he didn’t want to; he changed
while he was there.”
“Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone.”
“I know no woman I could ask; and I can’t take a lover to order,
Cousin Jolyon.”
“Heaven forbid!” said Jolyon. “What a damnable position! Will you
stay to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted
to go up this evening.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music,
contrasting the English and French characters and the difference
in their attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges
of the long straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept
pace with them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the
turn of her neck, the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him
now and then, the lure of her whole figure, made a deeper
impression than the remarks they exchanged. Unconsciously he held
himself straighter, walked with a more elastic step.
In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what
she did with her days.
Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano,
translated from the French.
She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which
supplemented her income a little. She seldom went out in the
evening. “I’ve been living alone so long, you see, that I don’t
mind it a bit. I believe I’m naturally solitary.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Jolyon. “Do you know many people?”
“Very few.”
At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door
of her mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said:
“You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must
let me know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene.”
“Good-bye,” she answered softly.
Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked
her to dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved,
hung-up life that she had! “Hotch Potch Club,” he said through
the trap-door. As his hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a
man in top-hat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close to
the wall that he seemed to be scraping it.
“By Jove!” thought Jolyon; “Soames himself! What’s _he_ up to
now?” And, stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and
retraced his steps to where he could see the entrance to the
mansions. Soames had halted in front of them, and was looking up
at the light in her windows. “If he goes in,” thought Jolyon,
“what shall I do? What have I the right to do?” What the fellow
had said was true. She was still his wife, absolutely without
protection from annoyance! “Well, if he goes in,” he thought, “I
follow.” And he began moving towards the mansions. Again Soames
advanced; he was in the very entrance now. But suddenly he
stopped, spun round on his heel, and came back towards the river.
“What now?” thought Jolyon. “In a dozen steps he’ll recognise
me.” And he turned tail. His cousin’s footsteps kept pace with
his own. But he reached his cab, and got in before Soames had
turned the corner. “Go on!” he said through the trap. Soames’
figure ranged up alongside.
“Hansom!” he said. “Engaged? Hallo!”
“Hallo!” answered Jolyon. “You?”