The Forsyte saga - Complete
Jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped
that no divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover’s name.
“Let us hear what Irene _is_ going to do,” he said.
Irene’s lips quivered, but she spoke calmly.
“I’d better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me.”
“How horrible!” cried June.
“What else can I do?”
“Out of the question,” said Jolyon very quietly, “_sans amour_.”
He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she
half turned her back on them, and stood regaining control of
herself.
June said suddenly:
“Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone.
What does he want at his age?”
“A child. It’s not unnatural”
“A child!” cried June scornfully. “Of course! To leave his money
to. If he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have
one; then you can divorce him, and he can marry her.”
Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring
June—her violent partizanship was fighting Soames’ battle.
“It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill,
and see how things shape.”
“Of course,” said June; “only....”
Irene looked full at Jolyon—in all his many attempts afterwards
to analyze that glance he never could succeed.
“No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad.”
He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant
thought flashed through him: “Well, I could see her there.” But
he said:
“Don’t you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he
followed?”
“I don’t know. I can but try.”
June sprang up and paced the room. “It’s all horrible,” she said.
“Why should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless
year after year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?” But
someone had come into the room, and June came to a standstill.
Jolyon went up to Irene:
“Do you want money?”
“No.”
“And would you like me to let your flat?”
“Yes, Jolyon, please.”
“When shall you be going?”
“To-morrow.”
“You won’t go back there in the meantime, will you?” This he said
with an anxiety strange to himself.
“No; I’ve got all I want here.”
“You’ll send me your address?”
She put out her hand to him. “I feel you’re a rock.”
“Built on sand,” answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; “but
it’s a pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And
if you change your mind...! Come along, June; say good-bye.”
June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene.
“Don’t think of him,” she said under her breath; “enjoy yourself,
and bless you!”
With a memory of tears in Irene’s eyes, and of a smile on her
lips, they went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had
interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the
table.
Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed:
“Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!”
But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father’s
balance, and could see things impartially even when his emotions
were roused. Irene was right; Soames’ position was as bad or
worse than her own. As for the law—it catered for a human nature
of which it took a naturally low view. And, feeling that if he
stayed in his daughter’s company he would in one way or another
commit an indiscretion, he told her he must catch his train back
to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner’s water-colours,
with the promise that he would think over that Gallery.
But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to
love! If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he
pitied her profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so
handicapped and lonely! “I hope to goodness she’ll keep her
head!” he thought; “she might easily grow desperate.” In fact,
now that she had cut loose from her poor threads of occupation,
he couldn’t imagine how she would go on—so beautiful a creature,
hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his exasperation was more
than a little fear and jealousy. Women did strange things when
they were driven into corners. “I wonder what Soames will do
now!” he thought. “A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I
suppose they would say it was her own fault.” Very preoccupied
and sore at heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and
on the platform at Oxford took his hat off to a lady whose face
he seemed to remember without being able to put a name to her,
not even when he saw her having tea at the Rainbow.
CHAPTER IV WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD
Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco
case still flat against his heart, Soames revolved thoughts
bitter as death. A spider’s web! Walking fast, and noting nothing
in the moonlight, he brooded over the scene he had been through,
over the memory of her figure rigid in his grasp. And the more he
brooded, the more certain he became that she had a lover—her
words, “I would sooner die!” were ridiculous if she had not. Even
if she had never loved him, she had made no fuss until Bosinney
came on the scene. No; she was in love again, or she would not
have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal, which in all
the circumstances was reasonable! Very well! That simplified
matters.
“I’ll take steps to know where I am,” he thought; “I’ll go to
Polteed’s the first thing tomorrow morning.”
But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble
with himself. He had employed Polteed’s agency several times in
the routine of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie’s
case, but he had never thought it possible to employ them to
watch his own wife.
It was too insulting to himself!
He slept over that project and his wounded pride—or rather, kept
vigil. Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she
called herself by her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not
know, at first at all events, whose wife she was, would not look
at him obsequiously and leer behind his back. She would just be
the wife of one of his clients. And that would be true—for was he
not his own solicitor?
He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at
the first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail
himself. And making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he
stole out of the house before the hour of breakfast. He walked
rapidly to one of those small West End streets where Polteed’s
and other firms ministered to the virtues of the wealthier
classes. Hitherto he had always had Polteed to see him in the
Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at the
opening hour. In the outer office, a room furnished so cosily
that it might have been a money-lender’s, he was attended by a
lady who might have been a schoolmistress.
“I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me—never mind my
name.”
To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was
reduced to having his wife spied on, was the overpowering
consideration.
Mr. Claud Polteed—so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed—was one of
those men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown
eyes, who might be taken for Jews but are really Phœnicians; he
received Soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and
curtains. It was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without
trace of document anywhere to be seen.
Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door
with a certain ostentation.
“If a client sends for me,” he was in the habit of saying, “he
takes what precaution he likes. If he comes here, we convince him
that we have no leakages. I may safely say we lead in security,
if in nothing else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
Soames’ gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was
absolutely necessary to hide from this man that he had any but
professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face
assumed its sideway smile.
“I’ve come to you early like this because there’s not an hour to
lose”—if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! “Have you a
really trustworthy woman free?”
Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his
eyes over it, and locked the drawer up again.
“Yes,” he said; “the very woman.”
Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs—nothing but a
faint flush, which might have been his normal complexion,
betrayed him.
“Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat
C, Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Polteed; “divorce, I presume?” and he blew
into a speaking-tube. “Mrs. Blanch in? I shall want to speak to
her in ten minutes.”
“Deal with any reports yourself,” resumed Soames, “and send them
to me personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My
client exacts the utmost secrecy.”
Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, “You are teaching your
grandmother, my dear sir;” and his eyes slid over Soames’ face
for one unprofessional instant.
“Make his mind perfectly easy,” he said. “Do you smoke?”
“No,” said Soames. “Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a
name gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very
serious consequences.”
Mr. Polteed nodded. “I can put it into the cipher category. Under
that system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers.”
He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote
on them, and handed one to Soames.
“Keep that, sir; it’s your key. I retain this duplicate. The case
we’ll call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the watcher 19; the
Mansions 25; yourself—I should say, your firm—31; my firm 32,
myself 2. In case you should have to mention your client in
writing I have called him 43; any person we suspect will be 47; a
second person 51. Any special hint or instruction while we’re
about it?”
“No,” said Soames; “that is—every consideration compatible.”
Again Mr. Polteed nodded. “Expense?”
Soames shrugged. “In reason,” he answered curtly, and got up.
“Keep it entirely in your own hands.”
“Entirely,” said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and
the door. “I shall be seeing you in that other case before long.
Good morning, sir.” His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames
once more, and he unlocked the door.
“Good morning,” said Soames, looking neither to right nor left.
Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A
spider’s web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret,
unclean method, so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his
private life as his most sacred piece of property. But the die
was cast, he could not go back. And he went on into the Poultry,
and locked away the green morocco case and the key to that cipher
destined to make crystal-clear his domestic bankruptcy.