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The  Forsyte  Saga 


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This  edition  is  limited  to  2']<,  copies^  numbered 
and  signed  by  the  author,  of  which  250  are  for 
sale  in  the  United  Kingdom  only,  and  25  are 
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JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

From  the  Camera  Portrait  specially  taken 
for  this  edition  by  E.  O.  Hoppe' 


The  Forsyte  Saga 


By 


John    Galsworthy 


London :  William  Heinemann 


TO 

MY    WIFE 

1     DEDICATE    THE    FORSYTE    SAGA 

IN    ITS    ENTIRETY, 

BELIEVING    IT    TO    BE    OF    ALL    MY    VVORK 

THE    LEAST    UNWORTHY    OF    ONE 

WITHOUT    WHOSE    ENCOURAGEMENT,     SYMPATHY, 

AND    CRITICISM 

I    COULD    NEVER    HAVE    BECOME     EVES 

SUCH    A    WRITER    AS    I    AM 


PREFACE 

*  The  Forsyte  Saga '  was  the  title  originally  destined  for 
the  part  of  it  which  is  called  ^The  Pv^an  of  Property'  ;  and 
to  adopt  it  for  the  collected  chronicles  of  the  Forsyte  family 
has  indulged  the  Forsytean  tenacity  which  is  in  all  of  us. 
The  word  Saga  might  be  objected  to  on  the  ground  that  it 
connotes  the  heroic  and  that  there  is  little  of  heroism  in 
these  pages.  But  it  is  used  with  a  suitable  irony  ;  and,  after 
all,  this  long  tale,  though  it  may  deal  with  folk  in  frock 
coats,  furbelows,  and  a  gilt-edged  period,  is  not  devoid  of 
the  essential  heat  of  conflict.  Discounting  for  the  gigantic 
stature  and  blood-thirstiness  of  old  days,  as  they  have  come 
down  to  us  in  fairy-tale  and  legend,  the  folk  of  the  old  Saeas 
were  Forsytes,  assuredly,  in  their  possessive  instincts,  and  as 
little  proof  against  the  inroads  of  beauty  and  passion  as 
Swithin,  Soames,  or  even  young  Jolyon.  And  if  heroic 
figures,  in  days  that  never  v/ere,  seem  to  startle  out  from 
their  surroundings  in  fashion  unbecoming  to  a  Forsyte  of  the 
Victorian  era,  we  may  be  sure  that  tribal  instinct  was  even 
then  the  prime  force,  and  that  '  family '  and  the  sense  of 
home  and  property  counted  as  they  do  to  this  day,  for  all 
the  recent  efforts  to  ^  talk  them  out.' 

So  many  people  have  written  and  claimed  that  their 
families  were  the  originals  of  the  Forsytes,  that  one  has  been 
almost  encouraged  to  believe  in  the  typicality  of  that  species. 

ix  1* 


xii  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

complain  that  Irene  and  Jolyon— those  rebels  against 
property — claim  spiritual  property  in  their  son  Jon.  But, 
in  truth,  it  would  be  hypcrcriticism  of  the  story  as  told.  For 
no  father  and  mother  could  have  let  the  boy  marry  Fleur 
without  knowledge  of  the  facts  ;  and  the  facts  determine  Jon, 
not  the  persuasion  of  his  parents.  Moreover,  Jolyon's 
persuasion  is  not  on  his  own  account,  but  on  Irene's,  and 
Irene's  persuasion  becomes  a  reiterated  :  *  Don't  think  of  me, 
think  of  yourself ! '  That  Jon,  knowing  the  facts,  realises 
his  mother's  feelings,  can  hardly  with  justice  be  held  proof 
that  she  is,  after  all,  a  Forsyte. 

But,  though  the  impingement  of  Beauty,  and  the  claims  of 
Freedom,  on  a  possessive  world,  are  the  main  prepossessions 
of  the  Forsyte  Saga,  it  cannot  be  absolved  from  the  charge 
of  embalming  the  upper-middle  class.  As  the  old  Egyptians 
placed  around  their  mummies  the  necessaries  of  a  future 
existence,  so  I  have  endeavoured  to  lay  beside  the  figures  of 
Aunts  Ann  and  Juley  and  Hester,  of  Timothy  and  Swithin, 
of  old  Jolyon  and  James,  and  of  their  sons,  that  which  shall 
guarantee  them  a  little  life  hereafter,  a  little  balm  in  the 
hurried  Gilead  of  a  dissolving  *  Progress.' 

If  the  upper-middle  class,  with  other  classes,  is  destined  to 
*  move  on  '  into  amorphism,  here,  pickled  in  these  pages,  it 
lies  under  glass  for  strollers  in  the  wide  and  ill-arranged 
museum  of  Letters  to  gaze  at.  Here  it  rests,  preserved  in 
its  own  juice  :  The  Sense  of  Property. 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY. 

1922. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I. 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

PART  I. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    'AT    HOME'    AT   OLD   JOLYON'S   -                -  -  -           3 

II.   OLD  JOLYON   GOES   TO   THE   OPERA         -  -  -25 

III.    DINNER    AT   SWITHIN'S    -                -                -  -  "43 

hV.    PROJECTION   OF   THE   HOUSE        -                -  -  -        61 

V.   A   FORSYTE   MENAGE         -               -                -  -  '73 

VI.   JAMES   AT   LARGE                 -                -                 -  -  -         81 

VII.   OLD  JOLYON'S    PECCADILLO          -                -  -  -        92 

VIII.    PLANS    OF  THE   HOUSE    -                -                -  -  -      I02 

IX.    DEATH    OF   AUNT   ANN     -                -                -  -  -      112 

PART  II. 

I.    PROGRESS   OF   THE   HOUSE            -                -  -  "      I25 

II.  JUNE'S   TREAT      -                -                -               -  -  "135 

III.  DRIVE   WITH   SWITHIN    -                -                -  -  -      144 

IV.  JAMES   GOES   TO   SEE    FOR    HIMSELF        -  -  "157 
V.    SOAMES   AND    BOSINNEY  CORRESPOND  -  -  -      I/O 

VI.    OLD   JOLYON    AT   THE  ZOO            -                -  "  -      188 

VII.    AFTERNOON   AT  TIMOTHY'S         -               -  -  *      195 

VIII.    DANCE   AT    ROGER'S           -                 ...  -      2lo 

IX.    EVENING    AT    RICHMOND                .                _  -  -      220 

X.    DIAGNOSIS   OF   A    FORSYTE            -                .  _  -      233 

XI.    BOSINNEY   ON    PAROLE    -----      244 

XII.   JUNE   PAYS   SOME   CALLS                -                -  -  -      250 

XIII.  PERFECTION   OF  THE   HOUSE      -                -  -  -      261 

XIV.  SOAMES    SITS    ON    THE    STAIRS     -                -  -  -      2/1 

xiii 


xvi  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

CHAPTliR  PAGE 

IV.  THE   MAUSOLEUM               .....  83O 
V.    THE    NATIVE    HEATH        -                -                -                *                -  84I 

VI.   JON            -                -                -                 -                -                •                 -  351 

VII.    FLEUR      -------  857 

VIII.    IDVLL    ON    GRASS                ....                -  864 

IX.  GOYA         ...---.  869 
X.   TRIO          ...--.-  882 

XI.    DUET        .-.---.  889 

XII.  CAPRICE                  ...                -                -                .               -  896 

PART    II. 

I.    MOTHER    AND    SON             ...                -                -  899 

II.    FATHERS   AND    DAUGHTERS         -                -                -                '  9^5 

III.  MEETINGS                ......  932 

IV.  IN    GREEN    STREET            .                .                 .                -                 -  944 
V.    PURELY    FORSYTE   AFFAIRS          -                -                -                -  951 

VI.    SOAMES'    PRIVATE   LIFE                  .                .                -                -  959 

VII.    JUNE   TAKES   A    HAND     -                -                 •                 -                 -  971 

VIII.    THE    BIT    BETWEEN    THE   TEETH               -                -                -  977 

IX.   THE    FAT    IN    THE    FIRE                   _                .                -                -  984 

X.    DECISION                 ...                  ...  Q94 

XI.    TIMOTHY   PROPHESIES    -                .                -                -                -  999 

PART  III. 

I.    OLD   JOLYON   WALKS        -                -                -                -                -  IOI5 

II.    CONFESSION          ..-.-.  1025 

III.    IRENE  !    -                -                 -                -                -                -                -  1033 

IV.   SOAMES  COGITATES          ...                -               -  1038 

V.  THE    FIXED    IDEA               .                 _                -                .                -  1046 
VI.   DESPERATE           -                •                -                -                -                -  IO51 

VII.    EMBASSY                  .-.-..  1060 

VIII.   THE   DARK   TUNE               .                -                .                -                -  1069 

IX.    UNDER   THE   OAK-TREE                  ....  1975 

X.  FLEUR'S   WEDDING            .                 .                -                -                 .  1078 
XI.    THE    LAST   OF   THE   OLD    FORSYTES         -                -                -  109c 


FORSYTE  FAMILY  TREE. 


,  JOLYON  FOBSTTE  (Farmer, 

Deocotnbe,  Dorset),  d.  1812, 

ffl.  Julia  Hayter,  1768. 


1  Pierce,  daughter  of  Country 


,i^^, 


Julia. 
.  Nightingale. 


(2) 


d.  1880.     DaughK 


Jolyon." 


I 

ea  Merchant :  ■'  Forsy 
effry."     Chairman  of 
panies.)     Stanhope  Gate. 
1846,  Edith  Moor,  d.  187 
daughter  of  Barrister. 


6.  181 1.  James,  d.  1901. 

(Solicitor.     Founder  of  firm 

"  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte." 

Park  Lane- 
m.  1852,  Emily  Golding,  b.  1831 


m.  i8B5(i), Irene,  m. 
daughter  of  Pro-       b 
fessor  Heron  ; 
b.  1663,  divorced 


b.  1811.  Swithin.  d  1891.  b.  1813.  Boger.  d.  1899. 
(Estate  and  Land  Agent.  "  Four-  (Collector  of  House  Pro- 
in-hand  Forsyte. ")     Hyde  perty.)     Princes  Gardens. 
Park  Mansions.  m.  1853,  Mary  Monk. 


b.  1814.  Julia,  d.  igo; 
in.  Septimus  Small,  of  \ 


■Winifred.       Rachel.       Cicely. 


I                    I                      I  I 

George.    Francie.  Eustace.  Thomas. 

Composer  m.  No  m.   No 

and  offspring,  offspring. 


House  Property.) 

Ladbroke  Grove. 

m.  1848,  Elizabeth  Blaine. 


b.  1849.  b.  1853. 


b.  1857.         b.  1859. 


b.  1819,  Timothy,  d.  1920 

(Publisher.     In  Consols.) 

Bayswater  Road. 


Campden  Hill. 


St.  John,     Augustus.       Annabel.        OileB.        Jesse. 
"'-  m.  wi.  Spender.     "  The  Dromlos." 


*   ,86,  jJne 
(EnKaged'to  Philip 
Bosinney,      Never 


ffl.  1900.  Holly 
(daughter  of 
Young  Jolyon). 


1 

b.  1S90,  Roger. 
"  Very  Young  Roger' 
Wounded  in  the  War 


b.  1879,  Nicholas. 
"Very  Young  Nicholas.' 
(Barrister,  O.B.E.|     m. 


b.  1881,  ChrisI 

(Inclining  t( 

stage.) 


BOOK  I 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 


"...    You  will  answer 
The  slaves  arc  ours  ..." 

Merchant  of  Vtnict, 


TO 

EDWARD    GARNETT 


PART    I 
CHAPTER  I 

*AT    home'    at    old    JOLYON's 

Those  privileged  to  be  present  at  a  family  festival  of  the 
Forsytes  have  seen  that  charming  and  instructive  sight — 
an  upper  middle-class  family  in  full  plumage.  But  who- 
soever of  these  favoured  persons  has  possessed  the  gift  of 
psychological  analysis  (a  talent  without  monetary  value  and 
properly  ignored  by  the  Forsytes),  has  witnessed  a  spectacle, 
not  only  delightful  in  itself,  but  illustrative  of  an  obscure 
human  problem.  In  plainer  words,  he  has  gleaned  from 
a  gathering  of  this  family — no  branch  of  which  had  a  liking 
for  the  other,  between  no  three  members  of  whom  existed 
anything  worthy  of  the  name  of  sympathy — evidence  of  that 
mysterious  concrete  tenacity  which  renders  a  family  so 
formidable  a  unit  of  society,  so  clear  a  reproduction  of 
society  in  miniature.  He  has  been  admitted  to  a  vision 
of  the  dim  roads  of  social  progress,  has  understood  some- 
thing of  patriarchal  life,  of  the  swarmings  of  savage  hordes, 
of  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations.  He  is  like  one  who,  having 
watched  a  tree  grow  from  its  planting  —  a  paragon  of 
tenacity,  insulation,  and   success,    amidst    the    deaths    of   a 


4  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hundred  other  plants  less  fibrous,  sappy,  and  persistent — 
one  day  will  see  it  flourishing  with  bland,  full  foliage, 
in  an  almost  repugnant  prosperity,  at  the  summit  of  its 
efflorescence. 

On  June  15,  1886,  about  four  of  the  afternoon,  the 
observer  who  chanced  to  be  present  at  the  house  of  old 
Jolyon  Forsyte  in  Stanhope  Gate,  might  have  seen  the 
highest  efflorescence  of  the  Forsytes. 

This  was  the  occasion  of  an  *  at  home '  to  celebrate  the 
engagement  of  Miss  June  Forsyte,  old  Jolyon's  grand- 
daughter, to  Mr.  Philip  Bosinney.  In  the  bravery  of  light 
gloves,  bufF  waistcoats,  feathers  and  frocks,  the  family  were 
present — even  Aunt  Ann,  who  now  but  seldom  left  the 
corner  of  her  brother  Timothy's  green  drawing-room,  where, 
under  the  aegis  of  a  plume  of  dyed  pampas  grass  in  a  light 
blue  vase,  she  sat  all  day  reading  and  knitting,  surrounded 
by  the  effigies  of  three  generations  of  Forsytes.  Even  Aunt 
Ann  was  there  ;  her  inflexible  back,  and  the  dignity  of  her 
calm  old  face  personifying  the  rigid  possessiveness  of  the 
family  idea. 

When  a  Forsyte  was  engaged,  married,  or  born,  the 
Forsytes  were  present  ;  when  a  Forsyte  died  —  but  no 
Forsyte  had  as  yet  died  ;  they  did  not  die  ;  death  being 
contrary  to  their  principles,  they  took  precautions  against 
it,  the  instinctive  precautions  of  highly  vitalized  persons 
who  resent  encroachments  on  their  property. 

About  the  Forsytes  mingling  that  day  with  the  crowd  of 
other  guests,  there  was  a  more  than  ordinarily  groomed  look, 
an  alert,  inquisitive  assurance,  a  brilliant  respectability,  as 
though  they  were  attired  in  defiance  of  something.  The 
habitual  sniflF  on  the  face  of  Soames  Forsyte  had  spread 
through  their  ranks  ;  they  were  on  their  guard. 

The  subconscious  offensiveness  of  their  attitude  has 
constituted    old    Jolyon's    ^  at    home '    the    psychological 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  5 

moment  of  the  family  history,  made  it  the  prelude  of  their 
drama. 

The  Forsytes  were  resentful  of  something,  not  individu- 
ally, but  as  a  family  ;  this  resentment  expressed  itself  in 
an  added  perfection  of  raiment,  an  exuberance  of  family 
cordiality,  an  exaggeration  of  family  importance,  and — the 
sniff.  Danger — so  indispensable  in  bringing  out  the  funda- 
mental quality  of  any  society,  group,  or  individual — was 
what  the  Forsytes  scented  ;  the  premonition  of  danger  put 
a  burnish  on  their  armour.  For  the  first  time,  as  a  family, 
they  appeared  to  have  an  instinct  of  being  in  contact  with 
some  strange  and  unsafe  thing. 

Over  against  the  piano  a  man  ot  bulk  and  stature  was 
wearing  two  waistcoats  on  his  wide  chest,  two  waistcoats 
and  a  ruby  pin,  instead  of  the  single  satin  waistcoat  and 
diamond  pin  of  more  usual  occasions,  and  his  shaven,  square, 
old  face,  the  colour  of  pale  leather,  with  pale  eyes,  had 
its  most  dignified  look,  above  his  satin  stock.  This  was 
Swithin  Forsyte.  Close  to  the  window,  where  he  could  get 
more  than  his  fair  share  of  fresh  air,  the  other  twin,  James — 
the  fat  and  the  lean  of  it,  old  Jolyon  called  these  brothers — 
like  the  bulky  Swithin,  over  six  feet  in  height,  but  very 
lean,  as  though  destined  from  his  birth  to  strike  a  balance 
and  maintain  an  average,  brooded  over  the  scene  with  his 
permanent  stoop ;  his  gray  eyes  had  an  air  of  fixed  absorption 
in  some  secret  worry,  broken  at  intervals  by  a  rapid,  shifting 
scrutiny  or  surrounding  facts  ;  his  cheeks,  thinned  by  two 
parallel  folds,  and  a  long,  clean-shaven  upper  lip,  were  framed 
within  Dundreary  whiskers.  In  his  hands  he  turned  and 
turned  a  piece  of  china.  Not  far  off,  listening  to  a  lady  in 
brown,  his  only  son  Soames,  pale  and  well-shaved,  dark- 
haired,  rather  bald,  had  poked  his  chin  up  sideways,  carrying 
his  nose  with  that  aforesaid  appearance  of  ^  sniff,'  as  though 
despising    an    egg    which    he    knew    he    could    not    digest. 


6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Behind  him  his  cousin,  the  tall  George,  son  of  the  fifth 
Forsyte,  Roger,  had  a  Quilpish  look  on  his  fleshy  race, 
pondering  one  of  his  sardonic  jests. 

Something  inherent  to  the  occasion  had  affected  them  all. 

Seated  in  a  row  close  to  one  another  were  three  ladies — 
Aunts  Ann,  Hester  (the  two  Forsyte  maids),  and  Juley 
(short  for  Julia),  who  not  in  first  youth  had  so  far  forgotten 
herself  as  to  marry  Septimus  Small,  a  man  of  poor  constitu- 
tion. She  had  survived  him  for  many  years.  With  her 
elder  and  younger  sister  she  lived  now  in  the  house  of 
Timothy,  her  sixth  and  youngest  brother,  on  the  Bayswater 
Road.  Each  of  these  ladies  held  fans  in  their  hands,  and  each 
with  some  touch  of  colour,  some  emphatic  feather  or  brooch, 
testified  to  the  solemnity  of  the  opportunity. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  under  the  chandelier,  as  became 
a  host,  stood  the  head  of  the  family,  old  Jolyon  himself. 
Eighty  years  of  age,  with  his  fine,  white  hair,  his  dome-like 
forehead,  his  little,  dark  gray  eyes,  and  an  immense  white 
moustache,  which  drooped  and  spread  below  the  level  of  his 
strong  jaw,  he  had  a  patriarchal  look,  and  in  spite  of  lean 
cheeks  and  hollows  at  his  temples,  seemed  master  of  perennial 
youth.  He  held  himselr  extremely  upright,  and  his  shrewd, 
steady  eyes  had  lost  none  of  their  clear  shining.  Thus  he 
gave  an  impression  of  superiority  to  the  doubts  and  dislikes 
of  smaller  men.  Having  had  his  own  way  for  innumerable 
years,  he  had  earned  a  prescriptive  right  to  it.  It  would 
never  have  occurred  to  old  Jolyon  that  it  was  necessary  to 
wear  a  look  of  doubt  or  of  defiance. 

Between  him  and  the  four  other  brothers  who  were 
present,  James,  Swithin,  Nicholas,  and  Roger,  there  was 
much  difference,  much  similarity.  In  turn,  each  of  these 
four  brothers  was  very  different  from  the  other,  yet  they, 
too,  were  alike. 

Through  the  varying  features  and  expression  of  those  five 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  7 

faces  could  be  marked  a  certain  steadfastness  of  chin,  under- 
lying surface  distinctions,  marking  a  racial  stamp,  too  pre- 
historic to  tract,  too  remote  and  permanent  to  discuss — the 
very  hall-mark  and  guarantee  of  the  family  fortunes. 

Among  the  younger  generation,  in  the  tall,  bull-like 
George,  in  pallid  strenuous  Archibald,  in  young  Nicholas 
with  his  sweet  and  tentative  obstinacy,  in  the  grave  and 
foppishly  determined  Eustace,  there  was  this  same  stamp — 
less  meaningful  perhaps,  but  unmistakable — a  sign  of  some- 
thing ineradicable  in  the  family  soul. 

At  one  time  or  another  during  the  afternoon,  all  these 
faces,  so  dissimilar  and  so  alike,  had  worn  an  expression  of 
distrust,  the  object  of  which  was  undoubtedly  the  man  whose 
acquaintance  they  were  thus  assembled  to  make. 

Philip  Bosinney  was  known  to  be  a  young  man  without 
fortune,  but  Forsyte  girls  had  become  engaged  to  such 
before,  and  had  actually  married  them.  It  was  not  alto- 
gether for  this  reason,  therefore,  that  the  minds  of  the 
Forsytes  misgave  them.  They  could  not  have  explained  the 
origin  of  a  misgiving  obscured  by  the  mist  of  family  gossip. 
A  story  was  undoubtedly  told  that  he  had  paid  his  duty  call 
to  Aunts  Ann,  Juley,  and  Hester,  in  a  soft  gray  hat — a  soft 
gray  hat,  not  even  a  new  one — a  dusty  thing  with  a 
shapeless  crown.  'So  extraordinary,  my  dear — so  odd  !* 
Aunt  Hester,  passing  through  the  little,  dark  hall  (she  was 
rather  short-sighted),  had  tried  to  *  shoo '  it  off  a  chair, 
taking  it  for  a  strange,  disreputable  cat — Tommy  had  such 
disgraceful  friends  !     She  was  disturbed  when  it  did  not  move. 

Like  an  artist  for  ever  seeking  to  discover  the  significant 
trifle  which  embodies  the  whole  character  of  a  scene,  or 
place,  or  person,  so  those  unconscious  artists — the  Forsytes — 
had  fastened  by  intuition  on  this  hat ;  it  was  their  significant 
trifle,  the  detail  in  which  was  embedded  the  meaning  of  the 
wliole  matter ;    for  each  had  asked  himself :  '  Come,  now, 


8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

should  /  have  paid  that  visit  in  that  hat  r'  and  each  had 
answered  ^  No  !'  and  some,  with  more  imagination  than  others, 
had  added  :   *  It  would  never  have  come  into  mv  head  !' 

George,  on  hearing  the  story,  grinned.  The  hat  had 
obviously  been  worn  as  a  practical  joke  !  He  himself  was  a 
connoisseur  of  such. 

^  Very  haughty  !'  he  said,  '  tlie  wild  Buccaneer  !' 

And  this  mot^  *  the  Buccaneer,'  was  bandied  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  till  it  became  the  favourite  mode  of  alluding  to 
Bosinney. 

Her  aunts  reproached  June  afterwards  about  the  hat. 

*  We  don't  think  you  ought  to  let  him,  dear !'  they  had 
said. 

June  had  answered  in  her  imperious  brisk  way,  like  the 
little  embodiment  of  will  she  was  : 

^Oh  !  what  does  it  matter?  Phil  never  knows  what  he's 
got  on  !' 

No  one  had  credited  an  answer  so  outrageous.  A  man 
not  know  what  he  had  on  r     No,  no  ! 

What  indeed  was  this  young  man,  who,  in  becoming 
engaged  to  June,  old  Jolyon's  acknowledged  heiress,  had 
done  so  well  for  himself  ?  He  was  an  architect,  not  in  itself 
a  sufficient  reason  for  wearing  such  a  hat.  None  or  the 
Forsytes  happened  to  be  architects,  but  one  of  them  knew 
two  architects  who  would  never  have  worn  such  a  hat  upon 
a  call  or  ceremony  in  the  London  season.  Dangerous — ah, 
dangerous  ! 

June,  of  course,  had  not  seen  this,  but,  though  not  yet 
nineteen,  she  was  notorious.  Had  she  not  said  to  Mrs. 
Soames — who  was  always  so  beautifully  dressed — that 
feathers  were  vulgar?  Mrs.  Soames  had  actually  given  up 
wearing  feathers,  so  dreadfully  downright  was  dear  June  ! 

These  misgivings,  this  disapproval  and  perfectly  genuine 
distrust,  did  not  prevent  the  Forsytes  from  gathering  to  old 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  9 

Jolyon's  invitation.  An  'At  Home  '  at  Stanhope  Gate  was 
a  great  rarity  ;  none  had  been  held  for  twelve  years,  not 
indeed,  since  old  Mrs.  Jolyon  died. 

Never  had  there  been  so  full  an  assembly,  for,  mysteriously 
united  in  spite  or  all  their  differences,  they  had  taken  arms 
against  a  common  peril.  Like  cattle  when  a  dog  comes 
into  the  field,  they  stood  head  to  head  and  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  prepared  to  run  upon  and  trample  the  invader  to 
death.  They  had  come,  too,  no  doubt,  to  get  some  notion 
of  what  sort  of  presents  they  would  ultimately  be  expected 
to  give ;  for  though  the  question  of  wedding  gifts  was 
usually  graduated  in  this  way — '  What  are  you  givin'  ? 
Nicholas  is  givin'  spoons !' — so  very  much  depended  on  the 
bridegroom.  If  he  were  sleek,  well-brushed,  prosperous- 
looking,  it  was  more  necessary  to  give  him  nice  things ;  he 
would  expect  them.  In  the  end  each  gave  exactly  what 
was  right  and  proper,  by  a  species  of  family  adjustment 
arrived  at  as  prices  are  arrived  at  on  the  Stock  Exchange — 
the  exact  niceties  being  regulated  at  Timothy's  commodious, 
red-brick  residence  in  Bayswater,  overlooking  the  Park, 
where  dwelt  Aunts  Ann,  Juley,  and  Hester. 

The  uneasiness  of  the  Forsyte  family  has  been  justified  by 
the  simple  mention  of  the  hat.  How  impossible  and  wrong 
would  it  have  been  for  any  family,  with  the  regard  for 
appearances  which  should  ever  characterize  the  great  upper 
middle-class,  to  feel  otherwise  than  uneasy  ! 

The  author  of  the  uneasiness  stood  talking  to  June  by  the 
further  door ;  his  curly  hair  had  a  rumpled  appearance,  as 
though  he  found  what  was  going  on  around  him  unusual. 
He  had  an  air,  too,  of  having  a  joke  all  to  himself. 

George,  speaking  aside  to  his  brother  Eustace,  said  : 

'  Looks  as  if  he  might  make  a  bolt  of  it — the  dashing 
buccaneer  !' 

This  *  very  singular-looking  man,'  as  Mrs.   Small  after- 


10  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

wards  called  him,  was  of  medium  height  and  strong  build, 
with  a  pale,  brown  face,  a  dust-coloured  moustache,  very 
prominent  cheekbones,  and  hollow  cheeks.  His  forehead 
sloped  back  towards  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  bulged  out 
in  bumps  over  the  eyes,  like  foreheads  seen  in  the  lion-house 
at  the  Zoo.  He  had  sherry-coloured  eyes,  disconcertingly 
inattentive  at  times.  Old  Jolyon's  coachman,  after  driving 
June  and  Bosinney  to  the  theatre,  had  remiarked  to  the 
butler : 

'I  dunno  wliat  to  make  of  'im.  Looks  to  me  for  all  the 
world  like  an  'alf-tame  leopard.' 

And  every  now  and  then  a  Forsyte  would  come  up,  sidle 
round,  and  take  a  look  at  him. 

June  stood  in  front,  fending  off  this  idle  curiosity — a 
little  bit  of  a  thing,  as  somebody  once  said,  '  all  hair  and 
spirit,'  with  fearless  blue  eyes,  a  firm  jaw,  and  a  bright 
colour,  whose  face  and  body  seemed  too  slender  for  her 
crown  of  red-gold  hair. 

A  tall  woman,  with  a  beautiful  figure,  which  some  member 
of  the  family  had  once  compared  to  a  heathen  goddess, 
stood  looking  at  these  two  with  a  shadowy  smile. 

Her  hands,  gloved  in  French  gray,  were  crossed  one  over 
the  other,  her  grave,  charming  face  held  to  one  side,  and  the 
eyes  of  all  men  near  were  fastened  on  it.  Her  figure 
swayed,  so  balanced  that  the  very  air  seemed  to  set  it 
moving.  There  was  warmth,  but  little  colour,  in  her 
cheeks  ;  her  large,  dark  eyes  were  soft.  But  it  was  at  her 
lips — asking  a  question,  giving  an  answer,  with  that  shadowy 
smile — that  men  looked ;  they  were  sensitive  lips,  sensuous 
and  sweet,  and  through  them  seemed  to  come  warmth  and 
perfume  like  the  warmth  and  perfume  of  a  flower. 

The  engaged  couple  thus  scrutinized  were  unconscious  of 
this  passive  goddess.  It  was  Bosinney  who  first  noticed  her, 
and  asked  her  name. 


THE  .MAN  OF  PROPERTY  u 

June  took  her  lover  up  to  the  woman  with  the  beautiful 
figure. 

*  Irene  is  my  greatest  chum,'  she  said  :  '  Please  be  good 
friends,  you  two  !' 

At  the  little  lady's  command  they  all  three  smiled  ;  and 
while  they  were  smiling,  Soames  Forsyte,  silently  appear- 
ino;  from  behind  the  woman  with  the  beautiful  fisiure,  who 
was  his  wife,  said  : 

"  Ah  !  introduce  me  too  !' 

He  was  seldom,  indeed,  far  from  Irene's  side  at  public 
functions,  and  even  when  separated  by  the  exigencies  of 
social  intercourse,  could  be  seen  following  her  about  with  his 
eyes,  in  which  were  strange  expressions  of  watchfulness  and 
longing. 

At  the  window  his  father,  James,  was  still  scrutinizing  the 
marks  on  the  piece  of  china. 

'  I  wonder  at  Jolyon's  allowing  this  engagement,'  he  said  to 
Aunt  Ann.  '  They  tell  me  there's  no  chance  of  their 
getting  married  for  years.  This  young  Bosinney  '  (he  made 
the  word  a  dactyl  in  opposition  to  general  usage  of  a  short  o) 
*  has  got  nothing.  When  Winifred  married  Dartie,  I  made 
him  bring  every  penny  into  settlement — lucky  thing,  too — 
they'd  ha'  had  nothing  by  this  time  !' 

Aunt  Ann  looked  up  from  her  velvet  chair.  Gray  curls 
banded  her  forehead,  curls  that,  unchanged  for  decades,  had 
extinguished  in  the  family  all  sense  of  time.  She  made  no 
reply,  for  she  rarely  spoke,  husbanding  her  aged  voice  ;  but 
to  James,  uneasy  of  conscience,  her  look  was  as  good  as  an 
answer. 

*Weil,'  he  said,  ^I  couldn't  help  Irene's  having  no  money. 
Soames  was  in  such  a  hurry  ;  he  got  quite  thin  dancing 
attendance  on  her.' 

Putting  the  bowl  pettishly  down  on  the  piano,  he  let  his 
eyes  wander  to  the  group  by  the  door. 


12  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*It's  my  opinion,'  he  said  unexpectedly,  'that  it's  just  as 
well  as  it  is.' 

Aunt  Ann  did  not  ask  him  to  explain  this  strange  utter- 
ance. She  knew  what  he  was  thinking.  If  Irene  had  no 
money  she  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  do  anything  wrong ; 
for  they  said — they  said — she  had  been  asking  for  a  separate 
room  ;  but,  of  course,  Soames  had  not 

James  interrupted  her  reverie  : 

'  But  where,'  he  asked,  '  was  Timothy  ?  Hadn't  he  come 
with  them  ?' 

Through  Aunt  Ann's  compressed  lips  a  tender  smile  forced 
its  way  : 

*  No,  he  had  not  thought  it  wise,  with  so  much  of  this 
diphtheria  about ;  and  he  so  liable  to  take  things.' 

James  answered : 

'  Well,  he  takes  good  care  of  himself.  I  can't  afford  to 
take  the  care  of  myself  that  he  does.' 

Nor  was  it  easy  to  say  which,  of  admiration,  envy,  or 
contempt,  was  dominant  in  that  remark. 

Timothy,  indeed,  was  seldom  seen.  The  baby  of  the 
family,  a  publisher  by  profession,  he  had  some  years  before, 
when  business  was  at  full  tide,  scented  out  the  stagnation 
which,  indeed,  had  not  yet  come,  but  which  ultimately,  as 
all  agreed,  was  bound  to  set  in,  and,  selling  his  share  in  a 
firm  engaged  mainly  in  the  production  of  religious  books,  had 
invested  the  quite  conspicuous  proceeds  in  three  per  cent.  Con- 
sols. By  this  act  he  had  at  once  assumed  an  isolated  position, 
no  other  Forsyte  being  content  with  less  than  four  per  cent,  for 
his  money  ;  and  this  isolation  had  slowly  and  surely  under- 
mined a  spirit  perhaps  better  than  commonly  endowed  with 
caution.  He  had  become  almost  a  myth — a  kind  of  incarna- 
tion of  security  haunting  the  background  of  the  Forsyte 
universe.  He  had  never  committed  the  imprudence  of 
marrying,  or  encumbering  himself  in  any  way  with  children. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  13 

James  resumed,  tapping  the  piece  of  China  : 
*This  isn't  real  old  Worcester.  I  s'pose  Jolyon's  told 
you  something  about  the  young  man.  From  all  /  can  learn, 
he's  got  no  business,  no  income,  and  no  connection  worth 
speaking  of;  but  then,  I  know  nothing — nobody  tells  me 
anything.' 

Aunt  Ann  shook  her  head.  Over  her  square-chinned, 
aquiline  old  face  a  trembling  passed ;  the  spidery  fingers  of 
her  hands  pressed  against  each  other  and  interlaced,  as  though 
she  were  subtly  recharging  her  will. 

The  eldest  by  some  years  of  all  the  Forsytes,  she  held  a 
peculiar  position  amongst  them.  Opportunists  and  egotists 
one  and  all — though  not,  indeed,  more  so  than  their  neigh- 
bours— they  quailed  before  her  incorruptible  figure,  and, 
when  opportunities  were  too  strong,  what  could  they  do  but 
avoid  her  ! 

Twisting  his  long,  thin  legs,  James  went  on  : 
*Jolyon,  he  will  have  his  own  way.  He's  got  no 
children '  and  stopped,  recollecting  the  continued  exist- 
ence of  old  Jolyon's  son,  young  Jolyon,  June's  father,  who 
had  made  such  a  mess  of  it,  and  done  for  himself  by  deserting 
his  wife  and  child  and  running  away  with  that  foreign 
governess.  '  Well,'  he  resumed  hastily,  '  if  he  likes  to  do 
these  things,  I  s'pose  he  can  afford  to.  Now,  what's  he  going 
to  give  her.  I  s'pose  he'll  give  her  a  thousand  a  year';  he's 
got  nobody  else  to  leave  his  money  to.' 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  meet  that  of  a  dapper, 
clean-shaven  man,  with  hardly  a  hair  on  his  head,  a  long, 
broken  nose,  full  lips,  ai  d  cold  gray  eyes  under  rectangular 
brows. 

'  Well,  Nick,'  he  muttered,  '  how  are  you  ?' 
Nicholas  Forsyte,  with  his  bird-like  rapidity  and  the  look 
of  a   preternaturally  sage   schoolboy  (he   had  made  a   large 
fortune,  quite  legitimately,  out  of  the  companies  of  which  he 


14  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  a  director),  placed  within  that  cold   palm  the  tips  of  his 
still  colder  fingers  and  hastily  w^ithdrew  them. 

'  I'm  bad,'  he  said,  pouting — '  been  bad  all  the  week  ; 
don't  sleep  at  night.  The  doctor  can't  tell  why.  He's  a 
clever  fellow,  or  I  shouldn't  have  him,  but  I  get  nothing  out 
of  him  but  bills.' 

*  Doctors  !'  said  James,  coming  down  sharp  on  his  words  ; 
*  Pve  had  all  the  doctors  in  London  for  one  or  another  of  us. 
There's  no  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  them;  they'll  tell  you 
anything.  There's  Swithin,  now.  What  good  haye  they 
done  him  :  There  he  is  ;  he's  bigger  than  ever  ;  he's 
enormous  ;  they  can't  get  his  weight  down.      Look  at  him  !' 

Swithin  Forsyte,  tall,  square,  and  broad,  with  a  chest  like 
a  pouter  pigeon's  in  its  plumage  of  bright  waistcoats,  came 
strutting  towards  them. 

'  Er — how  are  you  r'  he  said  in  his  dandified  way,  aspira- 
ting the  *  h  '  strongly  (this  difficult  letter  was  almost  abso- 
lutely safe  in  his  keeping) — 'how  are  you  r' 

Each  brother  wore  an  air  of  aggravation  as  he  looked  at 
the  other  two,  knowing  by  experience  that  they  would  try  to 
eclipse  his  ailments. 

*  We  were  just  saying,'  said  James,  *  that  you  don't  get  any 
thinner.' 

Swithin  protruded  his  pale  round  eyes  with  the  effort  of 
hearin'g. 

'Thinner:  I'm  in  good  case,'  he  said,  leaning  a  little 
forward,  '  not  one  of  your  thread- papers  like  you  !' 

But,  afraid  of  losing  the  expansion  of  his  chest,  he  leaned 
back  again  into  a  state  of  immobility,  for  he  prized  nothing 
so  highly  as  a  distinguished  appearance. 

Aunt  Ann  turned  her  old  eyes  from  one  to  the  other. 
Indulgent  and  severe  was  her  look.  In  turn  the  three 
brothers  looked  at  Ann.  She  was  getting  shaky.  Wonder- 
ful woman  !     Eighty-six  if  a  day  ;  might  live  another  ten 


THE  MAX  OF  PROPERTY  15 

years,  and  had  never  been  strong.  Swithfn  and  James,  the 
twins,  were  only  seventv-iive,  Nicholas  a  mere  baby  of 
seventy  or  so.  All  vrere  strong,  and  the  inference  was 
comforting.  Of  all  forms  of  property  their  respective  healths 
naturally  concerned  them  m.ost. 

'  I'm  vtry  well  in  myself,'  proceeded  James,  '  but  mv 
nerves  are  out  or  order.  The  least  thing  worries  me  to 
death.     I  shall  have  to  go  to  Bath.' 

*  Bath  !'  said  Nicholas.  ^  I've  tried  Harrogate.  Thafs  no 
good.  What  I  want  is  sea  air.  There's  nothing  like 
Yarmouth.     Now,  when  I  go  there  I  sleep ' 

'My  liver's  very  bad,'  interrupted  Swithin  slowly. 
'  Dreadful  pain  here  ;'  and  he  placed  his  hand  on  his  right 
side. 

'Want  or  exercise,'  muttered  James,  his  eyes  on  the 
china.     He  quickly  added  :   '  I  get  a  pain  there,  too.' 

Swithin  reddened,  a  resemblance  to  a  turkey-cock  coming 
upon  his  old  face. 

'  Exercise  !'  he  said.  '  I  take  plenty  :  I  never  use  the  lift 
at  the  Club.' 

'  I  didn't  know,'  James  hurried  out.  '  I  know  nothing 
about  anybody  ;  nobody  tells  m.e  anything.' 

Swithin  fixed  him  with  a  stare,  and  asked  ; 

'  What  do  you  do  for  a  pain  there  r' 

James  brightened. 

'  I,'  he  began,  '  take  a  compound ' 


'  How  are  you,  uncle 


And  June  stood  before  him,  her  resolute  small  face  raised 
from  her  little  height  to  his  great  height,  and  her  hand 
outheld. 

The  brightness  faded  from  James's  visage. 

'  How  are  you  F  he  said,  brooding  over  her.  '  So  you're 
going  to  Wales  to-morrow  to  visit  your  young  man's  aunts  r 
You'll    have    a    lot    of  rain    there.      This    isn't    real    old 


i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Worcester.'  He  tapped  the  bowl.  ^  Now,  that  set  I  gave 
your  mother  when  she  married  was  the  genuine  thing.' 

Jane  shook  hands  one  by  one  with  her  three  great-uncles, 
and  turned  to  Aunt  Ann.  A  very  sweet  look  had  come  into 
the  old  lady's  face  ;  she  kissed  the  girl's  cheek  with  trembling 
fervour. 

*  Well,  my  dear,'  she  said,  *  and  so  you're  going  for  a 
whole  month  !' 

The  girl  passed  on,  and  Aunt  Ann  looked  after  her  slim 
little  figure.  The  old  lady's  round,  steel-gray  eyes,  over 
which  a  film  like  a  bird's  was  beginning  to  come,  followed 
her  wistfully  amongst  the  bustling  crowd,  for  people  were 
beginning  to  say  good-bye  ;  and  her  finger-tips,  pressing  and 
pressing  against  each  other,  were  busy  again  with  the  re- 
charging of  her  will  against  that  inevitable  ultimate  departure 
of  her  own. 

'  Yes,'  she  thought,  ^  everybody's  been  most  kind  ;  quite 
a  lot  of  people  come  to  congratulate  her.  She  ought  to  be 
very  happy.' 

Amongst  the  throng  of  people  by  the  door — the  well- 
dressed  throng  drawn  from  the  families  of  lawyers  and 
doctors,  from  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  all  the  innumerable 
avocations  of  the  upper  middle  class — there  were  only  some 
twenty  per  cent,  of  Forsytes  ;  but  to  Aunt  Ann  they  seemed 
all  Forsytes — and  certainly  there  was  not  much  difference — 
she  saw  only  her  own  flesh  and  blood.  It  was  her  world, 
this  family,  and  she  knew  no  other,  had  never  perhaps  known 
any  other.  All  their  little  secrets,  illnesses,  engagements,  and 
marriages,  how  they  were  getting  on,  and  whether  they  were 
making  money — all  this  was  her  property,  her  delight,  her 
life  ;  beyond  this  only  a  vague,  shadowy  mist  of  facts  and 
persons  of  no  real  significance.  This  it  was  that  she  would 
have  to  lay  down  when  it  came  to  her  turn  to  die  ;  this 
which  gave  to  her  that  importance,  that  secret  self-impor- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  17 

tance,  without  which  none  of  us  can  bear  to  live  ;  and  to  this 
she  clung  wistfully,  with  a  greed  that  grew  each  day.  If 
life  were  slipping  away  from  her,  this  she  would  retain  to 
the  end. 

She  thought  of  June's  father,  young  Jolyon,  who  had  run 
away  with  that  foreign  girl.  Ah  !  what  a  sad  blow  to  his 
father  and  to  them  all.  Such  a  promising  young  fellow  ! 
A  sad  blow,  though  there  had  been  no  public  scandal,  most 
fortunately,  Jo's  wife  seeking  for  no  divorce  !  A  long 
time  ago  !  And  when  June's  mother  died,  six  years  ago, 
Jo  had  married  that  woman,  and  they  had  two  children  now, 
so  she  had  heard.  Still,  he  had  forfeited  his  right  to  be 
there,  had  cheated  her  of  the  complete  fulfilment  of  her 
family  pride,  deprived  her  of  the  rightful  pleasure  of  seeing 
and  kissing  him  of  whom  she  had  been  so  proud,  such  a  pro- 
mising young  fellow  !  The  thought  rankled  with  the  bitter- 
ness of  a  long-inflicted  injury  in  her  tenacious  old  heart.  A 
little  water  stood  in  her  eyes.  With  a  handkerchief  of  the 
finest  lawn  she  wiped  them  stealthily. 

^  Well,  Aunt  Ann  ?'  said  a  voice  behind. 

Soames  Forsyte,  flat-shouldered,  clean-shaven,  flat-cheeked, 
flat-waisted,  yet  with  something  round  and  secret  about  his 
whole  appearance,  looked  downwards  and  aslant  at  Aunt  Ann, 
as  though  trying  to  see  through  the  side  of  his  own  nose. 

'  And  what  do  you  think  of  the  engagement  ?'  he  asked. 

Aunt  Ann's  eyes  rested  on  him  proudly  ;  the  eldest  of 
the  nephews  since  young  Jolyon's  departure  from  the  family 
nest,  he  was  now  her  favourite,  for  she  recognised  in  him 
a  sure  trustee  of  the  family  soul  that  must  so  soon  slip  beyond 
her  keeping. 

*  Very  nice  for  the  young  man,'  she  said  ;  '  and  he's  a 
good-looking  young  fellow  ;  but  I  doubt  if  he's  quite  the 
right  lover  for  dear  June.' 

Soames  touched  the  edge  of  a  gold-lacquered  lustre. 


1 8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  She'll  tame  him,'  he  said,  stealthily  wetting  his  finger 
and  rubbing  it  on  the  knobby  bulbs.  *  That's  genuine  old 
lacquer  ;  you  can't  get  it  nowadays.  It'd  do  well  in  a  sale 
at  Jobson's.'  He  spoke  with  relish,  as  though  he  felt  that 
he  was  cheering  up  his  old  aunt.  It  was  seldom  he  was  so 
confidential.     '  I  wouldn't  mind  having  it  myself,'  he  added; 

*  you  can  always  get  your  price  for  old  lacquer.' 

*  You're  so  clever  with  all  those  things,'  said  Aunt  Ann. 

*  And  how  is  dear  Irene  ?' 

Soames's  smile  died. 

'  Pretty  well,'  he  said.  *  Complains  she  can't  sleep  ;  she 
sleeps  a  great  deal  better  than  I  do,'  and  he  looked  at  his 
wife,  who  was  talking  to  Bosinney  by  the  door. 

Aunt  Ann  sighed. 

*  Perhaps,'  she  said,  *  it  will  be  just  as  well  for  her  not 
to  see  so  much  of  June.  She's  such  a  decided  character, 
dear  June  !' 

Soames  flushed ;  his  flushes  passed  rapidly  over  his  flat 
cheeks  and  centred  between  his  eyes,  wliere  they  remained, 
the  stamp  of  disturbing  thoughts. 

'  I  don't  know  what  she  sees  in  that  little  flibbertigibbet,' 
he  burst  out,  but  noticing  that  they  were  no  longer  alone,  he 
turned  and  again  began  examining  the  lustre. 

*  They  tell  me  Jolyon's  bought  another  house,'  said  his 
father's  voice  close  by  ;  '  he  must  have  a  lot  of  money — he 
must  have  more  money  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with  ! 
Montpellier  Square,  they  say  ;  close  to  Soames  !  They 
never  told  me — Irene  never  tells  me  anything  !' 

*  Capital  position,  not  tv/o  minutes  from  me,'  said  the 
voice  of  Sv/ithin,  ^and  from  my  rooms  I  cari  drive  to  the 
Club  in  eight.' 

The  position  of  their  houses  was  of  vital  importance  to 
the  Forsytes,  nor  was  this  remarkable,  since  the  whole  spirit 
of  tJieir  success  was  embodied  therein. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  19 

Their  father,  of  farming  stock,  had  come  from  Dorset- 
shire near  the  beginning  of  the  century. 

'  Superior  Dosset  Forsyte,'  as  he  was  called  by  his  inti- 
mates, had  been  a  stonemason  by  trade,  and  risen  to  the 
position  of  a  master-builder.  Towards  the  end  of  his  lire 
he  moved  to  London,  where,  building  on  until  he  died,  he 
was  buried  at  Highgate.  He  left  over  thirty  thousand 
pounds  between  his  ten  children.  Old  Jolyon  alluded  to 
him,  if  at  all,  as  '  A  hard,  thick  sort  of  man  ;■  not  much 
refinement  about  him.'  The  second  generation  of  Forsytes 
felt  indeed  that  he  was  not  greatly  to  their  credit.  The 
only  aristocratic  trait  they  could  find  in  his  character  was 
a  habit  of  drinking  Madeira. 

Aunt  Hester,  an  authority  on  ramily  history,  described 
him  thus  : 

*  I  don't  recollect  that  he  ever  did  anything  ;  at  least,  not 
in  my  time.  He  was  er — an  owner  of  houses,  my  dear. 
His  hair  about  your  Uncle  Swithin's  colour  ;  rather  a  square 
build.  Tall  ?  No-ot  very  tall '  (he  had  been  five  feet  five, 
with  a  mottled  face)  ;  *  a  fresh-coloured  man.  I  remember 
he  used  to  drink  Madeira  ;  but  ask  your  Aunt  Ann.  What 
was  his  father  ?  He — er — had  to  do  with  the  land  down  in 
Dorsetshire,  by  the  sea.' 

James  once  went  down  to  see  for  himself  what  sort  of 
place  this  was  that  they  had  come  from.  He  found  two 
old  farms,  with  a  cart  track  rutted  into  the  pink  earth, 
leading  down  to  a  mill  by  the  beach  ;  a  little  gray  church 
with  a  buttressed  outer  wall,  and  a  smaller  and  grayer  chapel. 
The  stream  which  worked  the  mill  came  bubbling  down 
in  a  dozen  rivulets,  and  pigs  were  hunting  round  that 
estuary.  A  haze  hovered  over  the  prospect.  Down  this 
hollow,  with  their  feet  deep  in  the  mud  and  their  faces 
towards  the  sea,  it  appeared  that  the  primeval  Forsytes  had  been 
content  to  walk  Sunday  after  Sunday  for  hundreds  of  years. 


20 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


Whether  or  no  James  had  cherished  hopes  of  an  inherit- 
ance, or  of  something  rather  distinguished  to  be  found  down 
there,  he  came  back  to  town  in  a  poor  way,  and  went  about 
with  a  pathetic  attempt  at  making  the  best  of  a  bad  job. 

'  There's  very  little  to  be  had  out  of  that,'  he  said  ; 
*  regular  country  little  place,  old  as  the  hills.' 

Its  age  was  felt  to  be  a  comfort.  Old  Jolyon,  in  whom 
a  desperate  honesty  welled  up  at  times,  would  allude  to  his 
ancestors  as  :  '  Yeomen — I  suppose  very  small  beer.'  Yet 
he  would  repeat  the  word  '  yeomen '  as  if  it  afforded  him 
consolation. 

They  had  all  done  so  well  for  themselves,  these  Forsytes, 
that  they  were  all  what  is  called  *of  a  certain  position.' 
They  had  shares  in  all  sorts  of  things,  not  as  yet — with  the 
exception  of  Timothy — in  consols,  for  they  had  no  dread  in 
life  like  that  of  3  per  cent,  for  their  money.  They  collected 
pictures,  too,  and  were  supporters  of  such  charitable  institu- 
tions as  might  be  beneficial  to  their  sick  domestics.  From 
their  father,  the  builder,  they  inherited  a  talent  for 
bricks  and  mortar.  Originally,  perhaps,  members  of  some 
primitive  sect,  they  wore  now  in  the  natural  course  of  things 
members  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  caused  their  wives 
and  children  to  attend  with  some  regularity  the  more  fashion- 
able churches  of  the  Metropolis.  To  have  doubted  their 
Christianity  would  have  caused  them  both  pain  and  surprise. 
Some  of  them  paid  for  pews,  thus  expressing  in  the  most 
practical  form  their  sympathy  with  the  teachings  of  Christ. 

Their  residences,  placed  at  stated  intervals  round  the  park, 
watched  like  sentinels,  lest  the  fair  heart  of  this  London, 
where  their  desires  were  fixed,  should  slip  from  their  clutches, 
and  leave  them  lower  in  their  own  estimations. 

There  was  old  Jolyon  in  Stanhope  Place  ;  the  Jameses  in 
Park  Lane  ;  Swithin  in  the  lonely  glory  of  orange  and  blue 
chambers  in  Hyde  Park  Mansions — he  had  never  married, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  21 

not  he  ! — the  Soameses  in  their  nest  off  Knightsbridge  ;  the 
Rogers  in  Prince's  Gardens  (Roger  was  that  remarkable 
Forsyte  who  had  conceived  and  carried  out  the  notion  of 
bringing  up  his  four  sons  to  a  new  profession.  *  Collect 
house  property — nothing  like  it !'  he  would  say  ;  */  never  did 
anything  else  !'). 

The  Haymans  again — Mrs.  Hayman  was  the  one  married 
Forsyte  sister — in  a  house  high  up  on  Campden  Hill,  shaped 
like  a  giraflfe,  and  so  tall  that  it  gave  the  observer  a  crick  in 
the  neck  ;  the  Nicholases  in  Ladbroke  Grove,  a  spacious 
abode  and  a  great  bargain  ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  Timothy's 
on  the  Bayswater  Road,  where  Ann,  and  Juley,  and  Hester, 
lived  under  his  protection. 

But  all  this  time  James  was  musing,  and  now  he  inquired 
of  his  host  and  brother  what  he  had  given  for  that  house  in 
Montpellier  Square.  He  himself  had  had  his  eye  on  a 
house  there  for  the  last  two  years,  but  they  wanted  such  a 
price. 

Old  Jolyon  recounted  the  details  of  his  purchase. 

*  Twenty-two  years  to  run  ?'  repeated  James ;  ^  the  very 
house  I  was  after — you've  given  too  much  for  it !' 

Old  Jolyon  frowned. 

^  It's  not  that  I  want  it,'  said  James  hastily ;  '  wouldn't 
suit  my  purpose  at  that  price.  Soames  knows  the  house, 
well — he'll  tell  you  it's  too  dear  —  his  opinion's  worth 
having.' 

'  I  don't,'  said  old  Jolyon,  *  care  a  fig  for  his  opinion.' 

^  Well,'  murmured  James,  *  you  will  have  your  own  way 
— it's  a  good  opinion.  Good-bye  !  We're  going  to  drive 
down  to  Hurlingham.  They  tell  me  June's  going  to 
Wales.  You'll  be  lonely  to-morrow.  What'll  you  do  with 
yourself?     You'd  better  come  and  dine  with  us!' 

Old  Jolyon  refused.  He  went  down  to  the  front  door 
and   saw  them  into  their  barouche,  and  twinkled  at  them, 


22  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

having  already  forgotten  his  spleen — Mrs.  James  facing  the 
horses,  tall  and  majestic  with  auburn  hair;  on  her  left, 
Irene — the  tv/o  liusbands,  father  and  son,  sitting  forward,  as 
though  they  expected  something,  opposite  their  wives. 
Bobbing  and  bounding  upon  the  spring  cushions,  silent, 
swaying  to  each  motion  of  their  chariot,  old  Jolyon  watched 
them  drive  away  under  the  sunlight. 

During  the  drive  the  silence  was  broken  by  Mrs.  James. 

*  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  collection  of  rumty-too  people?' 

Soames,  glancing  at  her  beneath  his  eyelids,  nodded,  and 
he  saw  Irene  steal  at  him  one  of  her  unfathomable  looks. 
It  is  likely  enough  that  each  branch  of  the  Forsyte  family 
made  that  remark  as  they  drove  away  from  old  Jolyon's  'At 
Home.' 

Amongst  the  last  of  the  departing  guests  the  fourth  and 
fifth  brothers,  Nicholas  and  Roger,  walked  away  together, 
directing  their  steps  alongside  Hyde  Park  towards  the  Praed 
Street  Station  of  the  Underground.  Like  all  other  Forsytes 
of  a  certain  age  they  kept  carriages  of  their  own,  an.d  never 
took  cabs  if  by  any  means  they  could  avoid  it. 

The  day  was  bright,  the  trees  of  the  Park  in  the  full 
beauty  of  mid-June  foliage  ;  the  brothers  did  not  seem  to 
notice  phenomena,  which  contributed,  nevertheless,  to  the 
jauntiness  of  promenade  and  conversation. 

'  Yes,'  said  Roger,  '  she's  a  good-lookin'  woman,  that  wife 
of  Soames'.     I'm  told  they  don't  get  on.' 

This  brother  had  a  high  forehead,  and  the  freshest  colour 
of  any  of  the  Forsytes ;  his  light  gray  eyes  measured  the 
street  frontage  of  the  houses  by  the  way,  and  now  and  then 
he  would  level  his  umbrella  and  take  a  '  lunar,'  as  he 
expressed  it,  of  the  varying  heights. 

'  She'd  no  money,'  replied  Nicholas., 

He  himself  had  married  a  good  deal  of  money,  of  which, 
it  being  then  the   golden  age  before  the  Married  Women's 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  23 

Property  Act,    he   had  mercifully   been   enabled  to  make  a 
successful  use. 

*  What  was  her  father  r' 

'  Heron  was  his  name,  a  Professor,  so  they  tell  me.* 

Roger  shook  his  head. 

'  There's  no  money  in  that,*  he  said. 

'  They  say  her  mother's  father  was  cement.' 

Roger's  face  brightened. 

'  But  he  went  bankrupt,'  went  on  Nicholas. 

'  Ah  !'  exclaim.ed  Roger,  '  Soames  will  have  trouble  with 
her  ;  you  mark  my  words,  he'll  have  trouble — she's  got 
a  foreign  look.' 

Nicholas  licked  his  lips. 

*  She's  a  pretty  woman,'  and  he  waved  aside  a  crossing- 
sweeper. 

*  How  did  he  get  hold  of  her  r'  asked  Roger  presently. 
*  She  must  cost  him  a  pretty  penny  in  dress  !' 

*  Ann  tells  me,'  replied  Nicholas,  *  he  was  half-cracked 
about  her.  She  refused  him  five  times.  James,  he's  nervous 
about  it,  I  can  see.' 

*  Ah  !'  said  Roger  again  ;  ^  I'm  sorry  for  James  ;  he  had 
trouble  with  Dartie.'  His  pleasant  colour  was  heightened 
by  exercise,  he  swung  his  umbrella  to  the  level  of  his  eye 
more  frequently  than  ever.  Nicholas's  face  also  wore  a 
pleasant  look. 

'  Too  pale  for  me,'  he  said,  '  but  her  figure's  capital  !' 

Roger  made  no  reply. 

'  I  call  her  distinguished-looking,'  he  said  at  last — it  was 
the  highest  praise  in  the  Forsyte  vocabulary.  *  That  young 
Bosinney  will  never  do  any  good  for  himself.  They  say  at 
Burkitt's  he's  one  of  these  artistic  chaps — got  an  idea  of 
improving  English  architecture  ;  there's  no  money  in  that  1 
I  should  like  to  hear  what  Timothy  would  say  to  it.' 

They  entered  the  station. 


24  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

'  What  class  are  you  going  ?     I  go  second.' 

'  No  second  for  me,'  said  Nicholas  ;  *  you  never  know 
what  you  may  catch.' 

He  took  a  first-class  ticket  to  Netting  Hill  Gate  ;  Roger 
a  second  to  South  Kensington.  The  train  coming  in  a 
minute  later,  the  two  brothers  parted  and  entered  their 
respective  compartments.  Each  felt  aggrieved  that  the 
other  had  not  modified  his  habits  to  secure  his  society  a 
little  longer  ;   but  as  Roger  voiced  it  in  his  thoughts  : 

^  Always  a  stubborn  beggar,  Nick  !' 

And  as  Nicholas  expressed  it  to  himself : 

*  Cantankerous  chap  Roger  always  was  !' 

There  was  little  sentimentality  about  the  Forsytes.  In 
that  great  London,  which  they  had  conquered  and  become 
merged  in,  what  time  had  they  to  be  sentimental  ? 


CHAPTER  II 

OLD    JOLYON    GOES    TO    THE    OPERA 

At  five  o'clock  the  following  day  old  Jolyon  sat  alone, 
a  cigar  between  his  lips,  and  on  a  table  by  his  side  a  cup 
of  tea.  He  was  tired,  and  before  he  had  finished  his  cigar 
he  fell  asleep.  A  fly  settled  on  his  hair,  his  breathing 
sounded  heavy  in  the  drowsy  silence,  his  upper  lip  under  the 
white  moustache  puffed  in  and  out.  From  between  the 
fingers  of  his  veined  and  wrinkled  hand  the  cigar,  dropping 
on  the  empty  hearth,  burned  itself  out. 

The  gloomy  little  study,  with  windows  of  stained  glass  to 
exclude  the  view,  was  full  of  dark  green  velvet  and  heavily- 
carved  mahogany — a  suite  of  which  old  Jolyon  was  wont  to 
say  :  *  Shouldn't  wonder  if  it  made  a  big  price  some  day  !' 

It  was  pleasant  to  think  that  in  the  after  life  he  could  get 
more  for  things  than  he  had  given. 

In  the  rich  brown  atmosphere  peculiar  to  back  rooms  in 
the  mansion  of  a  Forsyte,  the  Rembrandtesque  effect  of  his 
great  head,  with  its  white  hair,  against  the  cushion  of  his 
high-backed  seat,  was  spoiled  by  the  moustache,  which 
imparted  a  somewhat  military  look  to  his  face.  An  old 
clock  that  had  been  with  him  since  before  his  marriage  fifty 
years  ago  kept  with  its  ticking  a  jealous  record  of  the  seconds 
slipping  away  for  ever  from  its  old  master. 

He  had  never  cared  for  this  room,  hardly  going  into  it 
from  one  year's  end  to  another,  except  to  take  cigars  from 

25  2* 


26  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  Japanese  cabinet  in  the  corner,  and  the  room  now  had 
its  revenge. 

His  temples,  curving  Hke  thatches  over  the  hollows 
beneath,  his  cheek-bones  and  chin,  all  were  sharpened  in 
his  sleep,  and  there  had  come  upon  his  face  the  confession 
that  he  was  an  old  man. 

He  woke.  June  had  gone  !  James  had  said  he  would  be 
lonely.  James  had  always  been  a  poor  thing.  He  recol- 
lected with  satisfaction  that  he  had  bought  that  house  over 
James's  head.  Sen-e  him  right  for  sticking  at  the  price  5 
the  only  thing  the  fellow  thought  of  was  money.     Had  he 

given  too  much,  though  r     It  wanted  a  lot  of  doing  to 

He  dared  say  he  would  want  all  his  money  before  he  had 
done  with  this  affair  of  June's.  He  ought  never  to  have 
allowed  the  engagement.  She  had  met  this  Bosinnev  at  the 
house  of  Baynes — Baynes  and  Bildeboy,  the  architects.  He 
believed  that  Baynes,  wiiom  he  knew — a  bit  of  an  old 
woman — was  the  young  mean's  uncle  bv  marriage.  After 
that  she'd  been  always  running  after  him  ;  and  when  she 
took  a  thing  into  her  head  there  was  no  stopping  her.  She 
was  continually  taking  up  with  '  lame  ducks '  of  one  sort  or 
another.  This  fellow  had  no  monev,  but  she  must  needs 
become  engaged  to  him — a  harum-scarum,  unpractical  chap, 
who  would  get  himself  into  no  end  of  difficulties. 

She  had  come  to  him  one  dav  in  her  slap-dash  wav  and 
told  him  ;  and,  as  if  it  were  any  consolation,  she  had  added  : 

'  He's  so  splendid  ;  he's  often  lived  on  cocoa  for  a  week  !' 

'  And  he  wants  you  to  live  on  cocoa  too  :' 

*Oh  no  ;   he  is  getting  into  the  swim  now.' 

Old  Jolyon  had  taken  his  cigar  from  under  his  white 
moustaches,  stained  by  coffee  at  the  edge,  and  looked  at  her, 
that  little  slip  of  a  thing  who  had  sot  such  a  grip  of  his 
heart.  He  knew  more  about  '  swims '  than  his  grand- 
daughter.    But  she,  having  clasped  her  hands  on  his  knees, 


TxHE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  27 

rubbed  her  chin  against  him,  making  a  sound  like  a  purring 
cat.  And,  knocking  the  ash  off  his  cigar,  he  had  exploded 
in  nervous  desperation  : 

'  You're  all  alike  :  you  won't  be  satisfied  till  you've  got 
what  you  want.  If  you  must  come  to  grief,  you  must  ;  / 
wash  my  hands  of  it.' 

So,  he  had  washed  his  hands  of  it,  making  the  condition 
that  they  should  not  marry  until  Bosinney  had  at  least  four 
hundred  a  year. 

'  /  shan't  be  able  to  give  you  very  m.uch,'  he  had  said,  a 
formula  to  which  June  was  not  unaccustomed.  *  Perhaps 
this  What's-his-name  will  provide  the  cocoa.' 

He  had  hardly  seen  anything  of  her  since  it  began.  A 
bad  business  !  He  had  no  notion  of  giving  her  a  lot  of 
money  to  enable  a  fellow  he  knew  nothing  about  to  live  on 
in  idleness.  He  had  seen  that  sort  of  thing  before  ;  no  good 
ever  came  of  it.  Worst  of  all,  he  had  no  hope  of  shaking 
her  resolution  ;  she  was  as  obstinate  as  a  mule,  always  had 
been  from  a  child.  He  didn't  see  where  it  was  to  end. 
They  must  cut  their  coat  according  to  their  cloth.  He  would 
not  give  way  till  he  saw  young  Bosinney  with  an  income  of 
his  own.  That  June  would  have  trouble  with  the  fellow 
was  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff;  he  had  no  more  idea  of  money 
than  a  cow.  As  to  this  rushing  down  to  Wales  to  visit 
the  young  man's  aunts,  he  fully  expected  they  were  old 
cats. 

And,  motionless,  old  Jolyon  stared  at  the  wall  ;  but  for 
his  open  eyes,  he  might  have  been  asleep.  .  .  .  The  idea  of 
supposing  that  young  cub  Soames  could  give  him  advice  ! 
He  had  always  been  a  cub,  with  his  nose  in  the  air  !  He 
would  be  setting  up  as  a  man  of  property  next,  with  a  place 
in  the  country  !  A  man  of  property  !  H'mph  1  Like  his 
father,  he  was  always  nosing  out  bargains,  a  cold-blooded 
young  beggar  ! 


28  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  rose,  and,  going  to  the  cabinet,  began  methodically 
stocking  his  cigar-case  from  a  bundle  fresh  in.  They  were 
not  bad  at  the  price,  but  you  couldn't  get  a  good  cigar  nowa- 
days, nothing  to  hold  a  candle  to  those  old  Superfinos  of 
Hanson  and  Bridger's.      That  was  a  cigar  ! 

The  thought,  like  some  stealing  perfume,  carried  him  back 
to  those  wonderful  nights  at  Richmond  when  after  dinner 
he  sat  smoking  on  the  terrace  of  the  Crown  and  Sceptre 
with  Nicholas  TrefFry  and  Traquair  and  Jack  Herring  and 
Anthony  Thornworthy.  How  good  his  cigars  were  then  ! 
Poor  old  Nick  ! — dead,  and  Jack  Herring — dead,  and  Tra- 
quair— dead  of  that  wife  of  his,  and  Thornworthy — awfully 
shaky  (no  wonder,  with  his  appetite). 

Of  all  the  company  of  those  days  he  himself  alone  seemed 
left,  except  Swithin,  of  course,  and  he  so  outrageously  big 
there  was  no  doing  anything  with  him. 

Difficult  to  believe  it  was  so  long  ago ;  he  felt  young  still  ! 
Of  all  his  thoughts,  as  he  stood  there  counting  his  cigars, 
this  was  the  most  poignant,  the  most  bitter.  With  his 
white  head  and  his  loneliness  he  had  remained  young  and 
green  at  heart.  And  those  Sunday  afternoons  on  Hamp- 
stead  Heath,  when  young  Jolyon  and  he  went  for  a  stretch 
along  the  Spaniard's  Road  to  Highgate,  to  Child's  Hill,  and 
back  over  the  Heath  again  to  dine  at  Jack  Straw's  Castle — 
how  delicious  his  cigars  were  then  !  And  such  weather  ! 
There  was  no  weather  now. 

When  June  was  a  toddler  of  five,  and  every  other  Sunday 
he  took  her  to  the  Zoo,  away  from  the  society  of  those  two 
good  women,  her  mother  and  her  grandmother,  and  at  the 
top  of  the  bear-den  baited  his  umbrella  with  buns  for  her 
favourite  bears,  how  sweet  his  cigars  were  then ! 

Cigars !  He  had  not  even  succeeded  in  outliving  his 
palate — the  famous  palate  that  in  the  fifties  men  swore  by, 
and   speaking    of   him,  said :  *  Forsyte — the  best    palate    in 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  29 

London  !'  The  palate  that  in  a  sense  had  made  his  fortune 
— the  fortune  of  the  celebrated  tea  men,  Forsyte  and 
TrefFry,  whose  tea,  like  no  other  man's  tea,  had  a  romantic 
aroma,  the  charm  of  a  quite  sin2;ular  genuineness.  About 
the  house  of  Forsyte  and  TrefFry  in  the  City  had  clung  an 
air  of  enterprise  and  mystery,  of  special  dealings  in  special 
ships,  at  special  ports,  with  special  Orientals. 

He  had  worked  at  that  business  !  Men  did  work  in  those 
days !  these  young  pups  hardly  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  He  had  gone  into  every  detail,  known  everything 
that  went  on,  sometimes  sat  up  all  night  over  it.  And  he 
had  always  chosen  his  agents  himself,  prided  himself  on  it. 
His  eye  for  men,  he  used  to  say,  had  been  the  secret  of  his 
success,  and  the  exercise  of  this  masterful  power  of  selection 
had  been  the  only  part  of  it  all  that  he  had  really  liked.  Not 
a  career  for  a  man  of  his  ability.  Even  now,  when  the 
business  had  been  turned  into  a  Limited  Liability  Company, 
and  was  declining  (he  had  got  out  of  his  shares  long  ago),  he 
felt  a  sharp  chagrin  in  thinking  of  that  time.  How  much 
better  he  might  have  done !  He  would  have  succeeded 
splendidly  at  the  Bar  !  He  had  even  thought  of  standing  for 
Parliament.  How  often  had  not  Nicholas  TrefFry  said  to 
him :  *  You  could  do  anything,  Jo,  if  you  weren't  so 
d-damned  careful  of  yourself !'  Dear  old  Nick  !  Such  a 
good  fellow,  but  a  racketty  chap!  The  notorious  TrefFry! 
He  had  never  taken  any  care  of  himself.  So  he  was  dead. 
Old  Jolyon  counted  his  cigars  with  a  steady  hand,  and  it 
came  into  his  mind  to  wonder  if  perhaps  he  had  been  too 
careful  of  himself. 

He  put  the  cigar-case  in  the  breast  of  his  coat,  buttoned  it 
in,  and  walked  up  the  long  flights  to  his  bedroom,  leaning  on 
one  foot  and  the  other,  and  helping  himself  by  the  banister. 
The  house  was  too  big.  After  June  was  married,  if  she 
ever  did  marry  this  fellow,  as  he   supposed  she  would,  he 


3P  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

would    let   it  and   go    into   rooms.     What  was  the  use   of 
keeping  half  a  dozen  servants  eating  their  heads  off? 

The  butler  came  to  the  ring  of  his  bell — a  large  man  with 
a  beard,  a  soft  tread,  and  a  peculiar  capacity  for  silence.  Old 
Jolyon  told  him  to  put  his  dress  clothes  out ;  he  was  going 
to  dine  at  the  Club. 

'  How  long  had  the  carriage  been  back  from  taking  Miss 
June  to  the  station  ?  Since  two  ?  Then  let  him  come 
round  at  half- past  six.' 

The  Club  which  old  Jolyon  entered  on  the  stroke  of 
seven  was  one  of  those  political  institutions  of  the  upper- 
middle  class  which  have  seen  better  days.  In  spite  of  being 
talked  about,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  being  talked  about, 
it  betrayed  a  disappointing  vitality.  People  had  grown  tired 
of  saying  that  the  'Disunion'  was  on  its  last  legs.  Old 
Jolyon  would  say  it,  too,  yet  disregarded  the  fact  in  a  manner 
truly  irritating  to  well-constitutioned  Clubmen. 

'  Why  do  you  keep  your  name  on  ?'  Swithin  often  asked 
him  with  profound  vexation.  '  Why  don't  you  join  the 
"  Polyglot  ?"  You  can't  get  a  wine  like  our  Heidsieck  under 
twenty  shillin'  a  bottle  anywhere  in  London  ;'  and,  dropping 
his  voice,  he  added :  '  There's  only  five  thousand  dozen  left. 
I  drink  it  every  night  of  my  life.' 

'  rU  think  of  it,'  old  Jolyon  would  answer ;  but  when  he 
did  think  of  it  there  was  always  the  question  of  fifty  guineas 
entrance  fee,  and  it  would  take  him  four  or  five  years  to  get 
in.     He  continued  to  think  of  it. 

He  was  too  old  to  be  a  Liberal,  had  long  ceased  to  believe 
in  the  political  doctrines  of  his  Club,  had  even  been  known 
to  allude  to  them  as  'wretched  stuff,'  and  it  afforded  him 
pleasure  to  continue  a  member  in  the  teeth  of  principles  so 
opposed  to  his  own.  He  had  always  had  a  contempt  for  the 
place,  having  joined  it  many  years  ago  when  they  refused  to 
have   him  at   the  '  Hotch    Potch  '  owing   to  his  being  '  in 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  31 

trade.'  As  if  he  were  not  as  good  as  any  of  them !  He 
naturally  despised  the  Club  that  did  take  him.  The  members 
were  a  poor  lot,  many  of  them  in  the  City — stockbrokers, 
solicitors,  auctioneers,  what  not !  Like  most  men  of  strong 
character  but  not  too  much  originality,  old  Jolyon  set  small 
store  by  the  class  to  which  he  belonged.  Faithfully  he  fol- 
lowed their  customs,  social  and  otherwise,  and  secretly  he 
thought  them  '  a  common  lot.' 

Years  and  philosophy,  ot  which  he  had  his  share,  had 
dimmed  the  recollection  of  his  defeat  at  the  ^  Hotch  Potch'; 
and  now  in  his  thoughts  it  was  enshrined  as  the  Queen  or 
Clubs.  He  would  have  been  a  member  all  these  years  him- 
self, but,  owing  to  the  slipshod  way  his  proposer.  Jack 
Herring,  had  gone  to  work,  they  had  not  known  what  they 
were  doing  in  keeping  him  out.  Why  !  they  had  taken  his 
son  Jo  at  once,  and  he  believed  the  boy  was  still  a  member ; 
he  had  received  a  letter  dated  from  there  eight  years  ago. 

He  had  not  been  near  the  '  Disunion  '  for  months,  and  the 
house  had  undergone  the  piebald  decoration  which  people 
bestow  on  old  houses  and  old  ships  when  anxious  to  sell 
them. 

'  Beastly  colour,  the  smoking-room  1'  he  thought.  '  The 
dining-room  is  good.' 

Its  gloomy  chocolate,  picked  out  with  light  green,  took 
his  rancy. 

He  ordered  dinner,  and  sat  down  in  ihe  very  corner,  at 
the  very  table  perhaps  (things  did  not  progress  much  at  the 
'  Disunion,'  a  Club  of  almost  Radical  principles)  at  which  he 
and  young  Jolyon  used  to  sit  twenty-five  years  ago,  when 
he  was  taking  the  latter  to  Drury  Lane,  during  his  holidays. 

The  boy  had  loved  the  theatre,  and  old  Jolyon  recalleo 
how  he  used  to  sit  opposite,  concealing  his  excitement  under 
a  careful  but  transparent  nonchalance. 

He  ordered  himself,  too,  the    very   dinner   the  boy   had 


32 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


always  chosen — soup,  whitebait,  cutlets,  and  a  tart.  Ah  ! 
if  he  were  only  opposite  now  ! 

The  two  had  not  met  for  fourteen  years.  And  not  for  the 
first  time  during  those  fourteen  years  old  Jolyon  wondered 
whether  he  had  been  a  little  to  blame  in  the  matter  of  his 
son.  An  unfortunate  love-affair  with  that  precious  flirt 
DanSe  Thornworthy,  now  Danae  Pellew,  Anthony  Thorn- 
worthy's  daughter,  had  thrown  him  on  the  rebound  into  the 
arms  of  June's  mother.  He  ought  perhaps  to  have  put  a 
spoke  in  the  wheel  of  their  marriage;  they  were  too  young; 
but  after  that  experience  of  Jo's  susceptibility  he  had  been 
only  too  anxious  to  see  him  married.  And  in  four  years  the 
crash  had  come !  To  have  approved  his  son's  conduct  in 
that  crash  was,  of  course,  impossible ;  reason  and  training — 
that  combination  of  potent  factors  which  stood  for  his 
principles — told  him  of  this  impossibility,  but  his  heart  cried 
out.  The  grim  remorselessness  of  that  business  had  no  pity 
for  hearts.  There  was  June,  the  atom  with  flaming  hair, 
who  had  climbed  all  over  him,  twined  and  twisted  herself 
about  him — about  his  heart  that  was  made  to  be  the  play- 
thing and  beloved  resort  of  tiny  helpless  things.  With 
characteristic  insight  he  saw  he  must  part  with  one  or  with 
the  other ;  no  half  measures  could  serve  in  such  a  situation. 
In  that  lay  its  tragedy.  And  the  tiny,  helpless  thing 
prevailed.  He  would  not  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with 
the  hounds,  and  so  to  his  son  he  said  good-bye. 

That  good-bye  had  lasted  until  now. 

He  had  proposed  to  continue  a  reduced  allowance  to  young 
Jolyon,  but  this  had  been  refused,  and  perhaps  that  refusal  had 
hurt  him  more  than  anything,  for  with  it  had  gone  the  last 
outlet  of  his  penned-in  affection ;  and  there  had  come  such 
tangible  and  solid  proof  of  rupture  as  only  a  transaction  in 
property,  a  bestowal  or  refusal  of  such,  could  supply. 

His  dinner  tasted  flat.     His  pint  of  champagne  was  dry 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  33 

and  bitter  stuff,  not  like  the  Veuve  Clicquots  of  old 
days. 

Over  his  cup  of  coffee,  he  bethought  him  that  he  would 
go  to  the  opera.  In  the  Times,  therefore — he  had  a  distrust 
of  other  papers — he  read  the  announcement  for  the  evening. 
It  was  '  Fidelio.' 

Mercifully  not  one  of  those  new-fangled  German  panto- 
mines  by  that  fellow  Wagner. 

Putting  on  his  ancient  opera  hat,  which  with  brim 
flattened  by  use,  and  huge  capacity,  looked  like  an  emblem 
of  greater  days,  and  pulling  out  an  old  pair  of  very  thin 
lavender  kid  gloves  smelling  strongly  of  Russia  leather,  from 
habitual  proximity  to  the  cigar-case  in  the  pocket  of  his 
overcoat,  he  stepped  into  a  hansom. 

The  cab  rattled  gaily  along  the  streets,  and  old  Jolyon 
was  struck  by  their  unwonted  animation. 

*  The  hotels  must  be  doing  a  tremendous  business,*  he 
thought.  A  few  years  ago  there  had  been  none  of  these 
big  hotels.  He  made  a  satisfactory  reflection  on  some 
property  he  had  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  must  be  going 
up  in  value  by  leaps  and  bounds  !     What  traffic  ! 

But  from  that  he  began  indulging  in  one  of  those  strange 
impersonal  speculations,  so  uncharacteristic  of  a  Forsyte, 
wherein  lay,  in  part,  the  secret  of  his  supremacy  amongst 
them.  What  atoms  men  were,  and  what  a  lot  of  them  ! 
And  what  would  become  of  them  all  ? 

He  stumbled  as  he  got  out  of  the  cab,  gave  the  man  his 
exact  fare,  walked  up  to  the  ticket  office  to  take  his  stall, 
and  stood  there  with  his  purse  in  his  hand — he  always 
carried  his  money  in  a  purse,  never  having  approved  of 
that  habit  of  carrying  it  loosely  in  the  pockets,  as  so  many 
young  men  did  nowadays.  The  official  leaned  out,  like  an 
old  dog  from  a  kennel. 

*  Why,*  he    said    in    a  surprised  voice,   *  it's  Mr.   Jolyon 


34  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Forsyte  1  So  it  is  !  Haven't  seen  you,  sir,  for  years.  Dear 
me !  Times  aren't  what  they  were.  Why  !  you  and  your 
brother,  and  that  auctioneer  —  Mr.  Traquair,  and  Mr. 
Nicholas  Treftry — you  used  to  have  six  or  seven  stalls  here 
regular  every  season.  And  how  are  you^  sir  ?  We  don't  get 
younger  !' 

The  colour  in  old  Jolyon's  eyes  deepened  ;  he  paid  his 
guinea.  They  had  not  forgotten  him.  He  marched  in,  to 
the  sounds  of  the  overture,  like  an  old  war-horse  to  battle. 

Folding  his  opera  hat,  he  sat  down,  drew  out  his  lavender 
gloves  in  the  old  way,  and  took  up  his  glasses  for  a  long  look 
round  the  house.  Dropping  them  at  last  on  his  folded  hat, 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  curtain.  More  poignantly  than  ever 
he  felt  that  it  was  all  over  and  done  with  him.  Where  were 
all  the  women,  the  pretty  women,  the  house  used  to  be  so 
full  of?  Where  was  that  old  feeling  in  the  heart  as  he 
waited  for  one  of  those  great  singers  ?  Where  that  sensation 
of  the  intoxication  of  life  and  of  his  own  power  to  enjoy  it  all  ? 

The  greatest  opera-goer  of  his  day  !  There  was  no  opera 
now !  That  fellow  Wagner  had  ruined  everything ;  no 
melody  left,  nor  any  voices  to  sing  it.  Ah !  the  wonderful 
singers!  Gone!  He  sat  watching  the  old  scenes  acted, 
a  numb  feeling  at  his  heart. 

From  the  curl  of  silver  over  his  ear  to  the  pose  of  his  foot 
in  its  elastic-sided  patent  boot,  there  was  nothing  clumsy  or 
weak  about  old  Jolyon.  He  was  as  upright — very  nearly — 
as  in  those  old  times  when  he  came  every  night  ;  his  sight 
was  as  good — almost  as  good.  But  what  a  feeling  of 
weariness  and  disillusion  ! 

He  had  been  in  the  habit  all  his  life  of  enjoying  things, 
even  imperfect  things — and  there  had  been  many  imperfect 
things — he  had  enjoyed  them  all  with  moderation,  so  as  to 
keep  himself  young.  But  now  he  was  deserted  by  his 
power  of  enjoyment,  by  his  philosophy,  and  left  with  this 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  35 

dreadful  feeling  that  it  was  all  done  with.  Not  even  the 
Prisoners'  Chorus,  nor  Florian's  Song,  had  the  power  to 
dispel  the  gloom  of  his  loneliness. 

If  Jo  were  only  with  him  !  The  boy  must  be  forty  by 
now.  He  had  wasted  fourteen  years  out  of  the  life  of  his  only 
son.  And  Jo  was  no  longer  a  social  pariah.  He  was 
married.  Old  Jolyon  had  been  unable  to  refrain  from 
marking  his  appreciation  of  the  action  by  enclosing  his  son  a 
cheque  for  ;^500.  The  cheque  had  been  returned  in  a 
letter  from  the  *  Hotch  Potch,'  couched  in  these  words : 

*My  Dearest  Father, 

*  Your  generous  gift  was  welcome  as  a  sign  that  you 
might  think  worse  of  me.  I  return  it,  but  should  you  think 
fit  to  invest  it  for  the  benefit  of  the  little  chap  (we  call  him 
Jolly),  who  bears  our  Christian  and,  by  courtesy,  our  sur- 
name, I  shall  be  very  glad. 

*  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  your  health  is  as  good  as 
ever. 

'  Your  loving  son, 

'Jo.' 

The  letter  was  like  the  boy.  He  had  always  been  an 
amiable  chap.     Old  Jolyon  had  sent  this  reply  : 

*  My  Dear  Jo,  . 

'  The  sum  (;^500)  stands  in  my  books  for  the  benefit 
of  your  boy,  under  the  name  of  Jolyon  Forsyte,  and  will  be 
duly  credited  with  interest  at  5  per  cent.  I  hope  that  you 
are  doing  well.     My  health  remains  good  at  present. 


'  With  love,  I  am. 


*  Your  affectionate  Father, 

*  Jolyon  Forsyte.' 

And  every  year   on  the   ist  of  January   he   had  added  a 


36  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hundred  and  the  interest.  The  sum  was  mounting  up — 
next  New  Year's  Day  it  would  be  fifteen  hundred  and  odd 
pounds  !  And  it  is  difficult  to  say  how  much  satisfaction  he 
had  got  out  of  that  yearly  transaction.  But  the  correspond- 
ence had  ended. 

In  spite  of  his  love  for  his  son,  in  spite  of  an  instinct, 
partly  constitutional,  partly  the  result,  as  in  thousands  of  his 
class,  of  the  continual  handling  and  watching  of  afiairs, 
prompting  him  to  judge  conduct  by  results  rather  than  by 
principle,  there  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  a  sort  of 
uneasiness.  His  son  ought,  under  the  circumstances,  to  have 
gone  to  the  dogs  ;  that  law  was  laid  down  in  all  the  novels, 
sermons,  and  plays  he  had  ever  read,  heard,  or  witnessed. 

After  receiving  the  cheque  back  there  seemed  to  him  to 
be  something  wrong  somewhere.  Why  had  his  son  not 
gone  to  the  dogs  ?     But,  then,  who  could  tell  ? 

He  had  heard,  of  course — in  fact,  he  had  made  it  his 
business  to  find  out — that  Jo  lived  in  St.  John's  Wood,  that  he 
had  a  little  house  in  Wistaria  Avenue  with  a  garden,  and  took 
his  wife  about  with  him  into  society — a  queer  sort  of  society,  no 
doubt — and  that  they  had  two  children — the  little  chap  they 
called  Jolly  (considering  the  circumstances  the  name  struck 
him  as  cynical,  and  old  Jolyon  both  feared  and  disliked 
cynicism),  and  a  girl  called  Holly,  born  since  the  marriage. 
Who  could  tell  what  his  son's  circumstances  really  were? 
He  had  capitalized  the  income  he  had  inherited  from  his 
mother's  father,  and  joined  Lloyd's  as  an  underwriter ;  he 
painted  pictures,  too — water-colours.  Old  Jolyon  knew 
this,  for  he  had  surreptitiously  bought  them  from  time 
to  time,  after  chancing  to  see  his  son's  name  signed  at  the 
bottom  of  a  representation  of  the  river  Thames  in  a  dealer's 
window.  He  thought  them  bad,  and  did  not  hang  them 
because  of  the  signature;  he  kept  them  locked  up  in  a 
drawer. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  37 

In  the  great  opera-house  a  terrible  yearning  came  on  him 
to  see  his  son.  He  remembered  the  days  when  he  had  been 
wont  to  slide  him,  in  a  brown  holland  suit,  to  and  fro  under 
the  arch  of  his  legs ;  the  times  when  he  ran  beside  the  boy's 
pony,  teaching  him  to  ride ;  the  day  he  first  took  him  to  school. 
He  had  been  a  loving,  lovable  little  chap  !  After  he  went 
to  Eton  he  had  acquired,  perhaps,  a  little  too  much  of  that 
desirable  manner  which  old  Jolyon  knew  was  only  to  be 
obtained  at  such  places  and  at  great  expense ;  but  he  had 
always  been  companionable.  Always  a  companion,  even 
after  Cambridge — a  little  far  off,  perhaps,  owing  to  the 
advantages  he  had  received.  Old  Jolyon's  feeling  towards 
our  public  schools  and  *  Varsities  never  wavered,  and  he 
retained  touchingly  his  attitude  of  admiration  and  mistrust 
towards  a  system  appropriate  to  the  highest  in  the  land,  of 
which  he  had  not  himself  been  privileged  to  partake.  .  .  . 
Now  that  June  had  gone  and  left,  or  as  good  as  left  him,  it 
would  have  been  a  comfort  to  see  his  son  again.  Guilty  of 
this  treason  to  his  family,  his  principles,  his  class,  old  Jolyon 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  singer.  A  poor  thing — a  wretched  poor 
thing  !     And  the  Florian  a  perfect  stick  ! 

It  was  over.     They  were  easily  pleased  nowada)-s  ! 

In  the  crowded  street  he  snapped  up  a  cab  under  the  very 
nose  of  a  stout  and  much  younger  gentleman,  who  had 
already  assumed  it  to  be  his  own.  His  route  lay  through 
Pall  Mall,  and  at  the  corner,  instead  of  going  through  the 
Green  Park,  the  cabman  turned  to  drive  up  St.  James's 
Street.  Old  Jolyon  put  his  hand  through  the  trap  (he  could 
not  bear  being  taken  out  of  his  way)  ;  in  turning,  however, 
he  found  himself  opposite  the  *Hotch  Potch,'  and  the  yearning 
that  had  been  secretly  with  him  the  whole  evening  prevailed. 
He  called  to  the  driver  to  stop.  He  would  go  in  and  ask  if 
Jo  still  belonged  there. 

He  went  in.     The  hall  looked  exactly  as  it  did  when  he 


38  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

used  to  dine  there  with  Jack  Herring,  and  they  had  the  best 
cook  in  London  ;  and  he  looked  round  with  the  shrewd, 
straight  glance  that  had  caused  him  all  his  life  to  be  better 
served  than  most  men. 

*  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte  still  a  member  here  ?' 

*  Yes,  sir ;  in  the  Club  now,  sir.     What  name  .'* 
Old  Jolyon  was  taken  aback. 

'  His  father,'  he  said. 

And  having  spoken,  he  took  his  stand,  back  to  the  fire- 
place. 

Young  Jolyon,  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  Club,  had  put 
on  his  hat,  and  was  in  the  act  of  crossing  the  hall,  as  the 
porter  met  him.  He  was  no  longer  young,  with  hair  going 
gray,  and  face — a  narrower  replica  of  his  father's,  with  the 
same  large  drooping  moustache — decidedly  worn.  He  turned 
pale.  This  meeting  was  terrible  after  all  those  years,  for 
nothing  in  the  world  was  so  terrible  as  a  scene.  They  met 
and  crossed  hands  without  a  word.  Then,  with  a  quaver  in 
his  voice,  the  father  said : 

*  How  are  you,  my  boy  ?' 
The  son  answered  : 

'  How  are  you.  Dad  ?* 

Old  Jolyon's  hand  trembled  in  its  thin  lavender  glove. 

*  If  you're  going  my  way,'  he  said,  '  I  can  give  you  a 
lift.' 

And  as  though  in  the  habit  of  taking  each  other  home 
every  night  they  went  out  and  stepped  into  the  cab. 

To  old  Jolyon  it  seemed  that  his  son  had  grown.  *  More 
of  a  man  altogether,'  was  his  comment.  Over  the  natural 
amiability  of  that  son's  face  had  come  a  rather  sardonic 
mask,  as  though  he  had  found  in  the  circumstances  of  his  life 
the  necessity  for  armour.  The  features  were  certainly  those 
of  a  Forsyte,  but  the  expression  was  more  the  introspective 
look  of  a  student  or  philosopher.      He  had   no  doubt  been 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  39 

obliged  to  look  into  himself  a  good  deal  in  the  course  01 
those  fifteen  years. 

To  young  Jolyon  the  first  sight  of  his  father  w«is  un- 
doubtedly a  shock — he  looked  so  worn  and  old.  But  in  the 
cab  he  seemed  hardly  to  have  changed,  still  having  the 
calm  look  so  well  remembered,  still  being  upright  and 
keen-eyed. 

'  You  look  well,  Dad.' 

*•  Middling,'  old  Jolyon  answered. 

He  was  the  prey  of  an  anxiety  that  he  found  he  must  put 
into  words.  Having  got  his  son  back  like  this,  he  felt  he  must 
know  what  was  his  financial  position. 

'  Jo,'  he  said,  *  I  should  like  to  hear  what  sort  of  water 
you're  in.     I  suppose  you're  in  debt  ?' 

He  put  it  this  way  that  his  son  might  find  it  easier  to 
confess. 

Young  Jolyon  answered  in  his  ironical  voice  : 

'  No  !     I'm  not  in  debt  !' 

Old  Jolyon  saw  that  he  was  angry,  and  touched  his  hand. 
He  had  run  a  risk.  It  was  worth  it,  however,  and  Jo  had 
never  been  sulky  with  him.  They  drove  on,  without 
speaking  again,  to  Stanhope  Gate.  Old  Jolyon  invited  him 
in,  but  young  Jolyon  shook  his  head. 

'June's  not  here,'  said  his  father  hastily  :  '  went  off 
to-day  on  a  visit.  I  suppose  you  knov/  that  she's  engaged  to 
be  married  ?' 

'  Already  ?'  murmured  young  Jolyon. 

Old  Jolyon  stepped  out,  and,  in  paying  the  cab  fare,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  gave  the  driver  a  sovereign  in  mistake 
for  a  shilling. 

Placing  the  coin  in  his  mouth,  the  cabman  whipped  his 
horse  secretly  on  the  underneath  and  hurried  away. 

Old  Jolyon  turned  the  key  softly  in  the  lock,  pushed 
open  the  door,  and   beckoned.     His  son  saw  him   gravely 


40  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hanging  up  his  coat,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  like  that 
of  a  boy  who  intends  to  steal  cherries. 

The  door  of  the  dining-room  was  open,  the  gas  turned 
low  ;  a  spirit-urn  hissed  on  a  tea-tray,  and  close  to  it  a 
cynical-looking  cat  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  dining-table. 
Old  Jolyon  *shoo'd '  her  ofFat  once.  The  incident  was  a  relief 
to  his  feelings ;  he  rattled  his  opera  hat  behind  the  animal. 

*  She's  got  fleas,'  he  said,  following  her  out  of  the  room. 
Through  the  door  in  the  hall  leading  to  the  basement  he 
called  '  Hssst  !'  several  times,  as  though  assisting  the  cat's 
departure,  till  by  some  strange  coincidence  the  butler 
appeared  below. 

*  You  can  go  to  bed,  Parfitt,'  said  old  Jolyon.  '  I  will 
lock  up  and  put  out.' 

When  he  again  entered  the  dining-room  the  cat  unfortu- 
nately preceded  him,  with  her  tail  in  the  air,  proclaiming 
that  she  had  seen  through  this  manoeuvre  for  suppressing  the 
butler  from  the  first. 

A  fatality  had  dogged  old  Jolyon's  domestic  stratagems  all 
his  life. 

Young  Jolyon  could  not  help  smiling.  He  was  very  well 
versed  in  irony,  and  everything  that  evening  seemed  to  him 
ironical.  The  episode  of  the  cat ;  the  announcement  of  his 
own  daughter's  engagement.  So  he  had  no  more  part  or 
parcel  in  her  than  he  had  in  the  Puss  !  And  the  poetical 
justice  of  this  appealed  to  him. 

'  What  is  June  like  now  ?'  he  asked. 

*  She's  a  little  thing,'  returned  old  Jolyon  ;  *  they  say  she's 
like  me,  but  that's  their  folly.  She's  more  like  your  mother 
— the  same  eyes  and  hair.' 

*  Ah  !  and  she  is  pretty  ?* 

Old  Jolyon  was  too  much  of  a  Forsyte  to  praise  anything 
freely ;  especially  anything  for  which  he  had  a  genuine 
ad  m  4  rat  ion. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  41 

*Not  bad  looking  —  a  regular  Forsyte  chin.  It'll  be 
lonely  here  when  she's  gone,  Jo.' 

The  look  on  his  face  again  gave  young  Jolyon  the  shock 
he  had  felt  on  first  seeing:  his  father. 

o 

^  What  will  you  do  with  yourself,  Dad  ?  I  suppose  she's 
wrapped  up  in  him  r' 

*  Do  with  myself  r'  repeated  old  Jolyon  with  an  angry 
break  in  his  voice.  '  It'll  be  miserable  work  living  here 
alone.  I  don't  know  how  it's  to  end.  I  wish  to  good- 
ness  '     He  checked  himself,  and  added  :  *  The  question 

is,  what  had  I  better  do  with  this  house  ?' 

Young  Jolyon  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  peculiarly 
vast  and  dreary,  decorated  with  the  enormous  pictures  ot 
still  life  that  he  remembered  as  a  boy — sleeping  dogs  with 
their  noses  resting  on  bunches  of  carrots,  together  with 
onions  and  grapes  lying  side  by  side  in  mild  surprise.  The 
house  was  a  white  elephant,  but  he  could  not  conceive  ot 
his  father  living  in  a  smaller  place  ;  and  all  the  more  did 
it  all  seem  ironical. 

In  his  great  chair  with  the  book-rest  sat  old  Jolyon,  the 
figure-head  of  his  family  and  class  and  creed,  with  his  white 
head  and  dome-like  forehead,  the  representative  of  modera- 
tion, and  order,  and  love  of  property.  As  lonely  an  old 
man  as  there  was  in  London. 

There  he  sat  in  the  gloomy  comfort  of  the  room,  a  puppet 
in  the  power  of  great  forces  that  cared  nothing  for  family  or 
class  or  creed,  but  moved,  machine-like,  with  dread  pro- 
cesses to  inscrutable  ends.  This  was  how  it  struck  young 
Jolyon,  who  had  the  impersonal  eye. 

The  poor  old  Dad  !  So  this  was  the  end,  the  purpose  to 
which  he  had  lived  with  such  magnificent  moderation  !  To 
be  lonely,  and  grow  older  and  older,  yearning  for  a  soul  to 
speak  to  ! 

In    his   turn    old    Jolyon   looked    back    at    his    son.      He 


42  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

wanted  to  talk  about  many  things  that  he  had  been  unable 
to  talk  about  all  these  years.  It  had  been  impossible  to 
seriously  confide  to  June  his  conviction  that  property  in  the 
Soho  quarter  would  go  up  in  value  ;  his  uneasiness  about 
that  tremendous  silence  of  Pippin,  the  superintendent  of  the 
New  Colliery  Com.pany,  of  which  he  had  so  long  been 
chairman  ;  his  disgust  at  the  steady  fall  in  American  Gol- 
gothas,  or  even  to  discuss  how,  by  some  sort  of  settlement, 
he  could  best  avoid  the  payment  of  those  death  duties  which 
would  follow  his  decease.  Under  the  influence,  however, 
of  a  cup  of  tea,  which  he  seemed  to  stir  indefinitely,  he 
began  to  speak  at  last.  A  new  vista  of  life  was  thus  opened 
up,  a  promised  land  of  talk,  where  he  could  find  a  harbour 
against  the  waves  of  anticipation  and  regret ;  where  he 
could  soothe  his  soul  with  the  opium  of  devising  how  to 
round  off  his  property  and  make  eternal  the  only  part  of 
him  that  was  to  remain  alive. 

Young  Jolyon  was  a  good  listener ;  it  v/as  his  great 
quality.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  father's  face,  putting 
a  question  now  and  then. 

The  clock  struck  one  before  old  Jolyon  had  finished,  and 
at  the  sound  of  its  striking  his  principles  came  back.  He 
took  out  his  watch  with  a  look  of  surprise  : 

'  I  must  go  to  bed,  Jo,'  he  said. 

Young  Jolyon  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  to  help  his 
father  up.  The  old  face  looked  v/orn  and  hollow  again  j 
the  eyes  were  steadily  averted. 

'  Good-bye,  my  boy  ;   take  care  of  yourself.' 

A  moment  passed,  and  young  Jolyon,  turning  on  his 
heel,  marched  out  at  the  door.  He  could  hardly  see  ;  his 
smile  quavered.  Never  in  all  the  fifteen  years  since  he  had 
first  found  out  that  life  was  no  simple  business,  had  he  found 
It  so  singularly  complicated. 


CHAPTER  III 

DINNER    AT    SWITHIN'? 

In  Swithin's  orange  and  light-blue  dining  room,  facing  the 
Park,  the  round  table  was  laid  for  twelve. 

A  cut-glass  chandelier  filled  with  lighted  candles  hung  like 
a  giant  stalactite  above  its  centre,  radiating  over  large  gilt- 
framed  mirrors,  slabs  of  marble  on  the  tops  of  side-tables,  and 
heavy  gold  chairs  with  crewel  worked  seats.  Everything 
betokened  that  love  of  beauty  so  deeply  implanted  in  each 
family  which  has  had  its  own  way  to  make  into  Society,  out 
of  the  more  vulgar  heart  of  Nature.  Swithin  had  indeed  an 
impatience  of  simplicity,  a  love  of  ormolu,  which  had  always 
stamped  him  amongst  his  associates  as  a  man  of  great,  if 
somewhat  luxurious  taste  ;  and  out  of  the  knowledge  that  no 
one  could  possibly  enter  his  rooms  without  perceiving  him  to 
be  a  man  of  wealth,  he  had  derived  a  solid  and  prolonged 
happiness  such  as  perhaps  no  other  circumstance  in  life  had 
afforded  him. 

Since  his  retirement  from  house  agency,  a  profession 
deplorable  in  his  estimation,  especially  as  to  its  auctioneering 
department,  he  had  abandoned  himself  to  naturally  aristo- 
cratic tastes. 

The  perfect  luxury  of  his  latter  days  had  embedded  him 
like  a  fly  in  sugar  ;  and  his  mind,  where  very  little  took 
place  from  morning  till  night,  was  the  junction  of  two 
curiously  opposite  emotions,  a  lingering  and  sturdy  satisfaction 

43 


44  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

that  he  had  made  his  own  way  and  his  own  fortune,  and  a 
sense  that  a  man  of  his  distmction  should  never  have  been 
allowed  to  soil  his  mind  with  work. 

He  stood  at  the  sideboard  in  a  white  waistcoat  with  large 
gold  and  onyx  buttons,  watching  his  valet  screw  the  necks  of 
three  champagne  bottles  deeper  into  ice  pails.  Between  the 
points  of  his  stand-up  collar,  which — though  it  hurt  him  to 
move — he  would  on  no  account  have  had  altered,  the  pale 
flesh  of  his  underchin  remained  immovable.  His  eyes  roved 
from  bottle  to  bottle.  He  was  debating,  and  he  argued  like 
this  :  ^  Jolyon  drinks  a  glass,  perhaps  two,  he's  so  careful  of 
himself.  James,  he  can't  take  his  wine  nowadays. 
Nicholas' — Fanny  and  he  would  swill  water  he  shouldn't 
wonder  !  Soames  didn't  count  ;  these  young  nephews — 
Soames  was  thirty-eight — couldn't  drink  !  But  Bosinney  ? 
Encountering  in  the  name  of  this  stranger  something  outside 
the  range  of  his  philosophy,  Swithin  paused.  A  misgiving 
arose  within  him  !  It  was  impossible  to  tell  !  June  was 
only  a  girl,  in  love  too  !  Emily  (Mrs.  James),  liked  a  good 
glass  of  champagne.  It  was  too  dry  for  Juley  poor  old  soul, 
she  had  no  palate.  As  to  Hatty  Chessman  !  The  thought 
of  this  old  friend  caused  a  cloud  of  thought  to  obscure  the 
perfect  glassiness  of  his  eyes  :  He  shouldn't  wonder  if  she 
drank  half  a  bottle  ! 

But  in  thinking  of  his  remaining  guest,  an  expression  like 
that  of  a  cat  who  is  just  going  to  purr  stole  over  his  old  face  : 
Mrs.  Soames  !  She  mightn't  take  much,  but  she  would 
appreciate  what  she  drank  ;  it  was  a  pleasure  to  give 
her  good  wine  1  A  pretty  woman — and  sympathetic  to 
him  ! 

The  thought  of  her  was  like  champagne  itself!  A 
pleasure  to  give  a  good  wine  to  a  young  woman  who  looked 
so  well,  who  knew  how  to  dress,  with  charmmg  manners, 
quite  distinguished — a  pleasure  to  entertain  her.     Between 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  45 

the  points  of  his  collar  he  gave  his  head  the  first  small,  painful 
oscillation  of  the  evening. 

*  Adolf !'  he  said.     '  Put  in  another  bottle.' 

He  himself  might  drink  a  good  deal,  for,  thanks  to  that 
p — prescription  of  Blight's,  he  found  himself  extremely- 
well,  and  he  had  been  careful  to  take  no  lunch.  He  had  not 
felt  so  well  for  weeks.  Puffing  out  his  lower  lip,  he  gave  his 
last  instructions : 

*  Adolf,  the  least  touch  of  the  West  India  when  you 
come  to  the  ham.' 

Passing  into  the  anteroom,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair,  with  his  knees  apart;  and  his  tall,  bulky  form  was 
wrapped  at  once  in  an  expectant,  strange,  primeval  immo- 
bility. He  was  ready  to  rise  at  a  moment's  notice.  He 
had  not  given  a  dinner-party  for  months.  This  dinner  in 
honour  of  June's  engagement  had  seemed  a  bore  at  first 
(among  Forsytes  the  custom  of  solemnizing  engagements  by 
feasts  was  religiously  observed),  but  the  labours  of  sending 
invitations  and  ordering  the  repast  over,  he  felt  pleasantly 
stimulated. 

And  thus  sitting,  a  watch  in  his  hand,  fat,  and  smooth, 
and  golden,  like  a  flattened  globe  of  butter,  he  thought  of 
nothing. 

A  long  man,  with  side  whiskers,  who  had  once  been  in 
Swithin's  service,  but  was  now  a  greengrocer,  entered  and 
proclaimed  : 

'  Mrs.  Chessman,  Mrs.  Septimus  Small !' 

Two  ladies  advanced.  The  one  in  front,  habited  entirely 
in  red,  had  large,  settled  patches  of  the  same  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  and  a  hard,  dashing  eye.  She  walked  at  Swithin, 
holding  out  a  hand  cased  in  a  long,  primrose-coloured  glove : 

*  Well,  Swithin,'  she  said,  ^  I  haven't  seen  you  for  ages. 
How  are  you  ?  Why,  my  dear  boy,  how  stout  you're 
getting  1' 


46  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

The  fixity  of  Swithin's  eye  alone  betrayed  emotion.  A 
dumb  and  grumbling  anger  swelled  his  bosom.  It  was 
vulgar  to  be  stout,  to  talk  of  being  stout ;  he  had  a  chest, 
nothing  more.  Turning  to  his  sister,  he  grasped  her  hand, 
and  said  in  a  tone  of  command : 

'  Well,  Juley.' 

Mrs.  Septimus  Small  was  the  tallest  oi  the  four  sisters  ;  her 
good,  round  old  face  had  gone  a  little  sour ;  an  innumerable 
pout  clung  all  over  it,  as  if  it  had  been  encased  in  an  iron 
wire  mask  up  to  that  evening,  which,  being  suddenly  removed, 
left  little  rolls  of  mutinous  flesh  all  over  her  countenance. 
Even  her  eyes  were  pouting.  It  was  thus  that  she  recorded 
her  permanent  resentment  at  the  loss  of  Septimus  Small. 

She  had  quite  a  reputation  for  saying  the  wrong  thing,  and, 
tenacious  like  all  her  breed,  she  would  hold  to  it  when  she 
had  said  it,  and  add  to  it  another  wrong  thing,  and  so  on. 
With  the  decease  of  her  husband  the  family  tenacity,  the 
family  matter-of-factness,  had  gone  sterile  within  her.  A 
great  talker,  when  allowed,  she  would  converse  without  the 
faintest  animation  for  hours  together,  relating,  with  epic 
monotony,  the  innumerable  occasions  on  which  Fortune  had 
misused  her ;  nor  did  she  ever  perceive  that  her  hearers 
sympathized  with  Fortune,  for  her  heart  was  kind. 

Having  sat,  poor  soul,  long  by  the  bedside  of  Small  (a 
man  of  poor  constitution),  she  had  acquired  the  habit,  and 
there  were  countless  subsequent  occasions  when  she  had  sat 
immense  periods  of  time  to  amuse  sick  people,  children,  and 
other  helpless  persons,  and  she  could  never  divest  herself  of 
the  feeling  that  the  world  was  the  most  ungrateful  place  any- 
body could  live  in.  Sunday  after  Sunday  she  sat  at  the  feet 
of  that  extremely  witty  preacher,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Scoles, 
who  exercised  a  great  influence  over  her ;  but  she  succeeded 
in  convincing  everybody  that  even  this  was  a  misfortune. 
She  had  passed  into  a  proverb  in  the  family,  and  when  any- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  47 

body  was  observed  to  be  peculiarly  distressing,  he  was  known 
as  *  a  regular  Juley/  The  habit  of  her  mind  would  have 
killed  anybody  but  a  Forsyte  at  forty ;  but  she  was  seventy- 
two,  and  had  never  looked  better.  And  one  felt  that  there 
were  capacities  for  enjoyment  about  her  which  might  yet 
come  out.  She  owned  three  canaries,  the  cat  Tommy,  and 
half  a  parrot — in  common  with  her  sister  Hester ;  and  these 
poor  creatures  (kept  carefully  out  of  Timothy's  way — he  was 
nervous  about  animals),  unlike  human  beings,  recognising 
that  she  could  not  help  being  blighted,  attached  themselves 
to  her  passionately. 

She  was  sombrely  magnificent  this  evening  in  black  bom- 
bazine, with  a  mauve  front  cut  in  a  shy  triangle,  and  crowned 
with  a  black  velvet  ribbon  round  the  base  of  her  thin  throat ; 
black  and  mauve  for  evening  wear  was  esteemed  very  chaste 
by  nearly  every  Forsyte. 

Pouting  at  Swithin,  she  said  : 

*Ann  has  been  asking  for  you.  You  haven't  been  near  us 
for  an  age  1' 

Swithin  put  his  thumbs  within  the  armholes  of  his  waist- 
coat, and  replied : 

'  Ann's  getting  very  shaky  ;  she  ought  to  have  a 
doctor  !' 

'  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nicholas  Forsyte  !' 

Nicholas  Forsyte,  cocking  his  rectangular  eyebrows,  wore 
a  smile.  He  had  succeeded  during  the  day  in  bringing  to 
fruition  a  scheme  for  the  employment  of  a  tribe  from  Upper 
India  in  the  gold-mines  of  Ceylon.  A  pet  plan,  carried  at 
last  in  the  teeth  of  great  difiiculties — he  was  justly  pleased. 
It  would  double  the  output  of  his  mines,  and,  as  he  had 
often  forcibly  argued,  all  experience  tended  to  shov/  that  a 
man  must  die ;  and  whether  he  died  of  a  miserable  old  age 
in  his  own  country,  or  prematurely  of  damp  in  the  bottom 
of  a  foreign  mine,  v/as  surely  of  little  consequence,  provided 


48  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

that  by  a  change  in  his  mode  of  life  he  benefited  the  British 
Empire. 

His  ability  was  undoubted.  Raising  his  broken  nose 
towards  his  listener,  he  would  add  : 

'  For  want  of  a  few  hundred  of  these  fellows  we  haven't 
paid  a  dividend  for  years,  and  look  at  the  price  of  the  shares. 
I  can't  get  ten  shillin's  for  them.' 

He  had  been  at  Yarmouth,  too,  and  had  come  back  feeling 
that  he  had  added  at  least  ten  years  to  his  own  life.  He 
grasped  Swithin's  hand,  exclaiming  in  a  jocular  voice  : 

'  Well,  so  here  we  are  again  !' 

Mrs.  Nicholas,  an  effete  woman,  smiled  a  smile  of 
frightened  jollity  behind  his  back. 

*  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Forsyte !  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Soames 
Forsyte  1' 

Swithin  drew  his  heels  together,  his  deportment  ever 
admirable. 

^  Well,  James,  well  Emily !  How  are  you,  Soames  ? 
How  do  you  do  r" 

His  hand  enclosed  Irene's,  and  his  eyes  swelled.  She  was 
a  pretty  woman — a  little  too  pale,  but  her  figure,  her  eyes, 
her  teeth  !     Too  good  for  that  chap  Soames  ! 

The  gods  had  given  Irene  dark  brown  eyes  and  golden 
hair,  that  strange  combination,  provocative  of  men's  glances, 
which  is  said  to  be  the  mark  of  a  weak  character.  And  the 
full,  soft  pallor  of  her  neck  and  shoulders,  above  a  gold- 
coloured  frock,  gave  to  her  personality  an  alluring  strange- 
ness. 

Soames  stood  behind,  his  eyes  fastened  on  his  wife's  neck. 
The  hands  of  Swithin's  watch,  which  he  still  held  open  in 
his  hand,  had  left  eight  behind ;  it  was  half  an  hour  beyond 
his  dinner-time — he  had  had  no  lunch — and  a  strange 
primeval  impatience  surged  up  within  him. 

*  It's  not  like  Jolyon  to  be  late !'  he  said  to  Irene,  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  49 

uncontrollable  vexation.     *  I  suppose  it'll  be  June  keeping 
him  !' 

*  People  in  love  are  always  late,'  she  answered. 
Swithin  stared  at  her ;  a  dusky  orange  dyed  his  cheeks. 

*  They've  no  business  to  be.    Some  fashionable  nonsense  !' 
And   behind    this    outburst    the    inarticulate    violence    of 

primitive  generations  seemed  to  mutter  and  grumble. 

*  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  my  new  star,  Uncle  Swithin,' 
said  Irene  softly. 

Among  the  lace  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  was  shining  a 
five-pointed  star,  made  of  eleven  diamonds. 

Swithin  looked  at  the  star.  He  had  a  pretty  taste  in 
stones;  no  question  could  have  been  more  sympathetically 
devised  to  distract  his  attention. 

*  Who  gave  you  that  ?'  he  asked. 

*  Soames.' 

There  was  no  change  in  her  face,  but  Swithin's  pale  eyes 
bulged  as  though  tie  might  suddenly  have  been  afflicted  with 
insight. 

*  I  dare  say  you're  dull  at  home,'  he  said.  *  Any  day  you 
like  to  come  and  dine  with  me  I'll  give  you  as  good  a  bottle 
of  wine  as  you'll  get  in  London.' 

*  Miss  June  Forsyte — Mr.  Jolyon  Forsvte !  .  .  .  Mr. 
Bo-swainey !  .  .  .' 

Swithin  moved  his  arm,  and  said  in  a  rumbling  voice  : 

'  Dinner,  now — dinner  !' 

He  took  in  Irene,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  not  enter- 
tained her  since  she  was  a  bride.  June  was  the  portion  of 
Bosinney,  who  was  placed  between  Irene  and  his  fiancee. 
On  the  other  side  of  June  was  James  with  Mrs.  Nicholas, 
then  old  Jolyon  with  Mrs.  James,  Nicholas  with  Hatty 
Chessman,  Soames  with  Mrs.  Small,  completing  the  circle 
to  Swithin  again. 

Family  dinners  of  the  Forsytes  observe  certain  traditions. 

3 


50  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

There  are,  for  instance,  no  hors  d'ceuvres.  The  reason  for 
this  is  unknown.  Theory  among  the  younger  members 
traces  it  to  the  disgraceful  price  of  oysters ;  it  is  more  prob- 
ably due  to  a  desire  to  come  to  the  point,  to  a  good  practical 
sense  deciding  at  once  that  hors  d'ceuvres  are  but  poor  things. 
The  Jameses  alone,  unable  to  withstand  a  custom  almost 
universal  in  Park  Lane,  are  now  and  then  unfaithful. 

A  silent,  almost  morose,  inattention  to  each  other  succeeds 
to  the  subsidence  into  their  seats,  lasting  till  well  into  the 
first  entree,  but  interspersed  with  remarks  such  as,  *  Tom's 
bad  again ;  I  can't  tell  what's  the  matter  with  him  !' — *  I 
suppose  Ann  doesn't  come  down  in  the  mornings  ?' — *  What's 
the  name  of  your  doctor,  Fanny  ?  Stubbs  ?  He's  a  quack  !' 
— *  Winifred  ?  She's  got  too  many  children.  Four,  isn't  it  r 
She's  as  thin  as  a  lath  !' — '  What  d'you  give  for  this  sherry, 
Swithin  ?     Too  dry  for  me  !' 

With  the  second  glass  of  champagne,  a  kind  of  hum  makes 
itself  heard,  which,  when  divested  of  casual  accessories  and 
resolved  into  its  primal  element,  is  found  to  be  James  telling 
a  story,  and  this  goes  on  for  a  long  time,  encroaching  some- 
times even  upon  what  must  universally  be  recognised  as  the 
crowning  point  of  a  Forsyte  feast — '  the  saddle  of  mutton.' 

No  Forsyte  has  given  a  dinner  without  providing  a  saddle 
of  mutton.  There  is  something  in  its  succulent  solidity 
which  makes  it  suitable  to  people  '  of  a  certain  position.'  It 
is  nourishing  and — tasty  ;  the  sort  of  thing  a  man  remembers 
eating.  It  has  a  past  and  a  future,  like  a  deposit  paid  into  a 
bank  ;  and  it  is  something  that  can  be  argued  about. 

Each  branch  of  the  family  tenaciously  held  to  a 
particular  locality — old  Jolyon  swearing  by  Dartmoor,  James 
by  Welsh,  Swithin  by  Southdown,  Nicholas  maintaining  that 
people  might  sneer,  but  there  was  nothing  like  New 
Zealand.  As  for  Roger,  the  *  original '  of  the  brothers,  he  had 
been  obliged  to  invent  a  locality  of  his  own,  and  with  an 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  51 

ingenuity  worthy  of  a  man  who  had  devised  a  new  profession 
for  his  sons,  he  had  discovered  a  shop  where  they  sold 
German  ;  on  being  remonstrated  with,  he  had  proved  his 
point  by  producing  a  butcher's  bill,  which  showed  that  he 
paid  more  than  any  of  the  others.  It  was  on  this  occasion 
that  old  Jolyon,  turning  to  June,  had  said  in  one  of  his  bursts 
of  philosophy  : 

'  You  may  depend  upon  it,  they're  a  cranky  lot,  the 
Forsytes — and  you'll  find  it  out,  as  you  grow  older !' 

Timothy  alone  held  apart,  for  though  he  ate  saddle  ot 
mutton  heartily,  he  was,  he  said,  afraid  of  it. 

To  anyone  interested  psychologically  in  Forsytes,  this 
great  saddle-of-mutton  trait  is  of  prime  importance  ;  not  only 
does  it  illustrate  their  tenacity,  both  collectively  and  as 
individuals,  but  it  marks  them  as  belonging  in  fibre  and 
instincts  to  that  great  class  which  believes  in  nourishment  and 
flavour,  and  yields  to  no  sentimental  craving  for  beauty. 

Younger  members  of  the  family  indeed  would  have  done 
without  a  joint  altogether,  preferring  guinea-fowl,  or  lobster 
salad — something  which  appealed  to  the  imagination,  and  had 
less  nourishment — but  these  were  females  ;  or,  if  not,  had 
been  corrupted  by  their  wives,  or  by  mothers,  who  having 
been  forced  to  eat  saddle  of  mutton  throughout  their  married 
lives,  had  passed  a  secret  hostility  towards  it  into  the  fibre  of 
their  sons. 

The  great  saddle  of  mutton  controversy  at  an  end,  a 
Tewkesbury  ham  commenced,  together  with  the  least  touch 
of  West  India — Swithin  was  so  long  over  this  course  that  he 
caused  a  block  in  the  progress  of  the  dinner.  To  devote 
himself  to  it  with  better  heart,  he  paused  in  his  con- 
versation. 

From  his  seat  by  Mrs.  Septimus  Small  Soames  was  watching. 
He  had  a  reason  of  his  own  connected  with  a  pet  building 
scheme,  for  observing  Bosinney.     The  architect  might  do  for 


52  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

his  purpose  ;  he  looked  clever,  as  he  sat  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  moodily  making  little  ramparts  with  bread-crumbs. 
Soames  noted  his  dress  clothes  to  be  well  cut,  but  too  small, 
as  though  made  many  years  ago. 

He  saw  him  turn  to  Irene  and  say  something,  and  her  face 
sparkle  as  he  often  saw  it  sparkle  at  other  people — never  at 
himself.  He  tried  to  catch  what  they  were  saying,  but 
Aunt  Juley  was  speaking. 

Hadn't  that  always  seemed  very  extraordinary  to  Soames  ? 
Only  last  Sunday  dear  Mr.  Scoles  had  been  so  witty  in  his 
sermon,  so  sarcastic :  ' "  For  what,"  he  had  said,  "  shall  it 
profit  a  man  if  he  gain  his  own  soul,  but  lose  all  his  pro- 
perty ?"  *  That,  he  had  said,  was  the  motto  of  the  middle 
class  ;  now,  what  had  he  meant  by  that  ?  Of  course,  it 
might  be  what  middle-class  people  believed  —  she  didn't 
know  ;  what  did  Soames  think  ? 

He  answered  abstractedly  :  '  How  should  I  know  ?  Scoles 
is  a  humbug,  though,  isn't  he  ?*  For  Bosinney  was  looking 
round  the  table,  as  if  pointing  out  the  peculiarities  of  the 
guests,  and  Soames  wondered  what  he  was  saying.  By  her 
smile  Irene  was  evidently  agreeing  with  his  remarks.  She 
seemed  always  to  agree  with  other  people. 

Her  eyes  were  turned  on  himself;  Soames  dropped  his 
glance  at  once.     The  smile  had  died  off  her  lips. 

A  humbug  ?  But  what  did  Soames  mean  ?  If  Mr.  Scoles 
was  a  humbug,  a  clergyman — then  anybody  might  be — it 
was  frightful  ! 

'  Well,  and  so  they  are  T  said  Soames. 

During  Aunt  Juley's  momentary  and  horrified  silence  he 
caught  some  words  of  Irene's  that  sounded  like :  '  Abandon 
hope,  all  ye  who  enter  here !' 

But  Swithin  had  finished  his  ham. 

*  Where  do  you  go  for  your  mushrooms  ?'  he  was  saying  to 
Irene  in  a  voice  like  a  courtier's  ;  *  you  ought  to  go  to  Sniley- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  53 

bob's — he'll  give  'em  you  fresh.  These  little  men,  they  won't 
take  the  trouble  !' 

Irene  turned  to  answer  him,  and  Soames  saw  Bosmney 
watching  her  and  smiling  to  himself.  A  curious  smile  the 
fellow  had.  A  half-simple  arrangement,  like  a  child  who 
smiles  when  he  is  pleased.  As  for  George's  nickname — 
*  The  Buccaneer  ' — he  did  not  think  much  of  that.  And, 
seeing  Bosinney  turn  to  June,  Soames  smiled  too,  but  sar- 
donically— he  did  not  like  June,  who  was  not  looking  too 
pleased. 

This  was  not  surprising,  for  she  had  just  held  the  following 
conversation  with  James  : 

^  I  stayed  on  the  river  on  my  way  home.  Uncle  James,  and 
saw  a  beautiful  site  for  a  house.' 

James,  a  slow  and  thorough  eater,  stopped  the  process  of 
mastication. 

*  Eh  ?'  he  said.     *  Now,  where  was  that  ?* 

*  Close  to  Pangbourne.' 

James  placed  a  piece  of  ham  in  his  mouth,  and  June 
waited. 

*I  suppose  you  wouldn't  know  whether  the  land  about 
there  was  freehold  ?'  he  asked  at  last.  *  Tou  wouldn't  know 
anything  about  the  price  of  land  about  there?' 

'  Yes,'  said  June ;  *  I  made  inquiries.'  Her  little  resolute 
face  under  its  copper  crown  was  suspiciously  eager  and  aglow, 

James  regarded  her  with  the  air  of  an  inquisitor. 

*  What  ?  You're  not  thinking  of  buying  land  !'  he 
ejaculated,  dropping  his  fork. 

June  was  greatly  encouraged  by  his  interest.  It  had  long 
been  her  pet  plan  that  her  uncles  should  benefit  themselves 
and  Bosinney  by  building  country-houses. 

*  Of  course  not,*  she  said.  *  I  thought  it  would  be  such  a 
splendid  place  for — you  or — someone  to  build  a  country- 
house  1' 


54  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

James  looked  at  her  sideways,  and  placed  a  second  piece  of 
ham  in  his  mouth. 

*  Land  ought  to  be  very  dear  about  there,'  he  said. 
What  June  had  taken  for  personal  interest  was  only  the 

impersonal  excitement  of  every  Forsyte  who  hears  of  some- 
thing eligible  in  danger  of  passing  into  other  hands.  But 
she  refused  to  see  the  disappearance  of  her  chance,  and  con- 
tinued to  press  her  point. 

*You  ought  to  go  into  the  country,  Uncle  James.  I 
wish  I  had  a  lot  of  money,  I  wouldn't  live  another  day  in 
London.' 

James  was  stirred  to  the  depths  of  his  long  thin  figure  ;  he 
had  no  idea  his  niece  held  such  downright  views. 

*  Why  don't  you  go  into  the  country  !'  repeated  June :  *  it 
would  do  you  a  lot  of  good  ?' 

*  Why  ?'  began  James  in  a  fluster.  *  Buying  land — what 
good  d'you  suppose  I  can  do  buying  land,  building  houses  ? — 
I  couldn't  get  four  per  cent,  for  my  money  !' 

*  What  does  that  matter  ?     You'd  get  fresh  air.' 

*  Fresh  air !'  exclaimed  James ;  '  what  should  I  do  with 
fresh  air ' 

'  I  should  have  thought  anybody  liked  to  have  fresh  air,* 
said  June  scornfully. 

James  wiped  his  napkin  all  over  his  mouth. 

'  You  don't  know  the  value  of  money,'  he  said,  avoiding 
her  eye. 

'  No  !  and  I  hope  I  never  shall !'  and,  biting  her  lip  with 
inexpressible  mortification,  poor  June  was  silent. 

Why  were  her  own  relations  so  rich,  and  Phil  never  knew 
where  the  money  was  coming  from  for  to-morrow's  tobacco. 
Why  couldn't  they  do  something  for  him  ?  But  they  were 
so  selfish.  Why  couldn't  they  build  country  houses  ?  She 
had  all  that  nal've  dogmatism  which  is  so  pathetic,  and  some- 
times achieves  such  great  results.     Bosinney,  to  whom  she 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  55 

turned  in  her  discomfiture,  was  talking  to  Irene,  and  a  chill 
fell  on  June's  spirit.  Her  eyes  grew  steady  with  anger,  like 
old  Jolyon's  when  his  will  was  crossed. 

James,  too,  was  much  disturbed.  He  felt  as  though  some- 
one had  threatened  his  right  to  invest  his  money  at  five  per 
cent.  Jolyon  had  spoiled  her.  None  of  his  girls  would 
have  said  such  a  thing.  James  had  always  been  exceedingly 
liberal  to  his  children,  and  the  consciousness  of  this  made  him 
feel  it  all  the  more  deeply.  He  trifled  moodily  with  his 
strawberries,  then,  deluging  them  with  cream,  he  ate  them 
quickly;  they,  at  all  events  should  not  escape  him. 

No  wonder  he  was  upset.  Engaged  for  fifty-four  years 
(he  had  been  admitted  a  solicitor  on  the  earliest  day  sanctioned 
by  the  law)  in  arranging  mortgages,  preserving  investments  at 
a  dead  level  of  high  and  safe  interest,  conducting  negociations 
on  the  principle  of  securing  the  utmost  possible  out  of  other 
people  compatible  with  safety  to  his  clients  and  himself,  in 
calculations  as  to  the  exact  pecuniary  possibilities  of  all  the 
relations  of  life,  he  had  come  at  last  to  think  purely  in  terms 
of  money.  Money  was  now  his  light,  his  medium  for  seeing, 
that  without  which  he  was  really  unable  to  see,  really  not 
cognisant  of  phenomena;  and  to  have  this  thing,  'I  hope  I 
shall  never  know  the  value  of  money  !'  said  to  his  face, 
saddened  and  exasperated  him.  He  knew  it  to  be  nonsense, 
or  it  would  have  frightened  him.  What  was  the  world 
coming  to !  Suddenly  recollecting  the  story  of  young 
Jolyon,  however,  he  felt  a  little  comforted,  for  what  could 
you  expect  with  a  father  like  that !  This  turned  his  thought? 
into  a  channel  still  less  pleasant.  What  was  all  this  talk 
about  Soames  and  Irene  ? 

As  in  all  self-respecting  families,  an  emporium  had  been 
established  where  family  secrets  were  bartered,  and  family 
stock  priced.  It  was  known  on  Forsyte  'Change  that  Irene 
regretted  her  marriage.     Her  regret  was  disapproved  of.    She 


56  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

ought  to  have  known  her  own  mind  j  no  dependable  woman 
made  these  mistakes. 

James  reflected  sourly  that  they  had  a  nice  house  (rather 
small)  in  an  excellent  position,  no  children,  and  no  money 
troubles.  Soames  was  reserved  about  his  affairs,  but  he  must 
be  getting  a  very  warm  man.  He  had  a  capital  income  from 
the  business — for  Soames,  like  his  father,  was  a  member  of 
that  well-known  firm  of  solicitors,  Forsyte,  Bustard  and 
Forsyte — and  had  always  been  very  careful.  He  had  done 
quite  unusually  well  with  some  mortgages  he  had  taken  up, 
too — a  little  timely  foreclosure — most  lucky  hits  ! 

There  was  no  reason  why  Irene  should  not  be  happy,  yet 
they  said  she'd  been  asking  for  a  separate  room.  He  knew 
where  that  ended.     It  wasn't  as  if  Soames  drank. 

James  looked  at  his  daughter-in-law.  That  unseen  glance 
of  his  was  cold  and  dubious.  Appeal  and  fear  were  in  it,  and 
a  sense  of  personal  grievance.  Why  should  he  be  worried 
like  this?  It  was  very  likely  all  nonsense;  women  were 
funny  things  !  They  exaggerated  so,  you  didn't  know  what 
to  believe;  and  then,  nobody  told  him  anything,  he  had  to 
find  out  everything  for  himself.  Again  he  looked  furtively 
at  Irene,  and  across  from  her  to  Soames.  The  latter,  listen- 
ing to  Aunt  Juley,  was  looking  up  under  his  brows  in  the 
direction  of  Bosinney. 

*  He's  fond  of  her,  I  know,'  thought  James.  *  Look  at 
the  way  he's  always  giving  her  things.' 

And  the  extraordinary  unreasonableness  of  her  disaffection 
struck  him  with  increased  force.  It  was  a  pity,  too,  she  was 
a  taking  little  thing,  and  he,  James,  would  be  really  quite 
fond  of  her  if  she'd  only  let  him.  She  had  taken  up  lately 
with  June ;  that  was  doing  her  no  good,  that  was  certainly 
doing  her  no  good.  She  was  getting  to  have  opinions  of  her 
own.  He  didn't  know  what  she  wanted  with  anything  of 
the    sort.     She'd    a  good  home,  and    everything  she  could 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  57 

wish  for.      He  felt  that  her  friends  ought  to  be  chosen  for 
her.     To  go  on  like  this  was  dangerous. 

June,  indeed,  with  her  habit  of  championing  the  unfortu- 
nate, had  dragged  from  Irene  a  confession,  and,  in  return, 
had  preached  the  necessity  of  facing  the  evil,  by  separation,  it 
need  be.  But  in  the  face  of  these  exhortations,  Irene  had 
kept  a  brooding  silence,  as  though  she  found  terrible  the 
thought  of  this  struggle  carried  through  in  cold  blood.  He 
would  never  give  her  up,  she  had  said  to  June. 

'Who  cares  r' June  cried;  Met  him  do  what  he  likes — 
you've  only  to  stick  to  it  !'  And  she  had  not  scrupled  to 
say  something  of  this  sort  at  Timothy's  ;  James,  when  he 
heard  of  it,  had  felt  a  natural  indignation  and  horror. 

What  if  Irene  were  to  take  it  into  her  head  to — he  could 
hardly  frame  the  thought — to  leave  Soames  ?  But  he  felt 
this  thought  so  unbearable  that  he  at  once  put  it  away  ;  the 
shady  visions  it  conjured  up,  the  sound  of  family  tongues 
buzzing  in  his  ears,  the  horror  of  the  conspicuous  happening 
so  close  to  him,  to  one  of  his  own  children  !  Luckily,  she 
had  no  money — a  beggarly  fifty  pound  a  year  !  And  he 
thought  of  the  deceased  Heron,  who  had  had  nothing  to  leave 
her,  with  contempt.  Brooding  over  his  glass,  his  long  legs 
twisted  under  the  table,  he  quite  omitted  to  rise  when  the 
ladies  left  the  room.  He  would  have  to  speak  to  Soam^es — 
would  have  to  put  him  on  his  guard  ;  they  could  not  go  on 
like  this,  now  that  such  a  contingency  had  occurred  to  him. 
And  he  noticed  with  sour  disfavour  that  June  had  left  her 
wine-glasses  full  of  wine. 

'  That  little  thing's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,'  he  mused  ; 
^  Irene'd  never  have  thought  of  it  herself.'  James  was  a  man 
of  imagination. 

The  voice  of  Swithin  roused  him  from  his  reverie. 

*  I  gave  four  hundred  pounds  for  it,'  he  was  saying.  ^  Of 
course  it's  a  regular  work  of  art.' 

3"- 


58  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

'  Four  hundred  !  H'm  !  that's  a  lot  of  money  !'  chimed 
in  Nicholas. 

The  object  alluded  to  was  an  elaborate  group  of  statuary 
in  Italian  marble,  which,  placed  upon  a  lofty  stand  (also  of 
marble),  diffused  an  atmosphere  of  culture  throughout  the 
room.  The  subsidiary  figures,  of  which  there  were  six, 
female,  nude,  and  of  highly  ornate  workmanship,  were  all 
pointing  towards  the  central  figure,  also  nude,  and  female, 
who  was  pointing  at  herself ;  and  all  this  gave  the  observer 
a  very  pleasant  sense  of  her  extreme  value.  Aunt  Juley, 
nearly  opposite,  had  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  not  looking 
at  it  all  the  evening. 

Old  Jolyon  spoke  ;  it  was  he  who  had  started  the  dis- 
cussion. 

'  Four  hundred  fiddlesticks  !  Don't  tell  me  you  gave  four 
hundred  for  that  ?' 

Between  the  points  of  his  collar  Swithin's  chin  made  the 
second  painful  oscillatory  movement  of  the  evening.  *  Four 
— hundred — pounds,  of  English  money  ;  not  a  farthing  less. 
I  don't  regret  it.  It's  not  common  English — it's  genuine 
modern  Italian  1' 

Soames  raised  the  corner  of  his  lip  in  a  smile,  and  looked 
across  at  Bosinney.  The  architect  was  grinning  behind  the 
fumes  of  his  cigarette.  Now,  indeed,  he  looked  more  like  a 
buccaneer. 

'  There's  a  lot  of  work  about  it,'  remarked  James  hastily, 
who  was  really  moved  by  the  size  of  the  group.  *  It'd  sell 
v/ell  at  Jobson's.' 

*The  poor  foreign  dey-vil  that  made  it,'  went  on  Swithin, 
^  asked  me  five  hundred — I  gave  him  four.  It's  worth  eight. 
Looked  half-starved,  poor  dey-vil  !' 

'  Ah  !'  chimed  in  Nicholas  suddenly,  *  poor,  seedy-lookin' 
chaps,  these  artists ;  it's  a  v/onder  to  me  how  they  live. 
Now,  there's  young  Flageoletti,  that  Fanny  and  the  girls  are 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  59 

always  havin'  in,  to  play  the  fiddle  ;  if  he  makes  a  hundred 
a  year  it's  as  much  as  ever  he  does  !' 

James  shook  his  head.  '  Ah  !'  he  said,  ^I  don't  know  how 
they  live  !' 

Old  Jolyon  had  risen,  and,  cigar  in  mouth,  went  to  inspect 
the  group  at  close  quarters. 

'  Wouldn't  have  given  two  for  it  !'  he  pronounced  at  last. 

Soames  saw  his  father  and  Nicholas  glance  at  each  other 
anxiously  ;  and,  on  the  other  side  of  Swithin,  Bosinney,  still 
shrouded  in  smoke. 

'  I  wonder  what  he  thinks  of  it  ?'  thought  Soames,  who 
knew  well  enough  that  this  group  was  hopelessly  vieux  jeu ; 
hopelessly  of  the  last  generation.  There  was  no  longer  any 
sale  at  Jobson's  for  such  works  of  art. 

Swithin's  answer  came  at  last.  *  You  never  knew  any- 
thing about  a  statue.  You've  got  your  pictures,  and 
that's  all  1' 

Old  Jolyon  walked  back  to  his  seat,  puffing  his  cigar.  It 
was  not  likely  that  he  was  going  to  be  drawn  into  an  argu- 
ment with  an  obstinate  beggar  like  Swithin,  pig-headed  as  a 
mule,  who  had  never  known  a  statue  from  a — straw  hat. 

^  Stucco  !'  was  all  he  said. 

It  had  long  been  physically  impossible  for  Swithin  to  start  ; 
his  fist  came  down  on  the  table. 

'  Stucco  !  I  should  like  to  see  anything  you've  got  in 
your  house  half  as  good  !' 

And  behind  his  speech  seemed  to  sound  again  that  rumbling 
violence  of  primitive  generations. 

It  was  James  who  saved  the  situation. 

'  Now,  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Bosinney  ?  You're  an  archi- 
tect ;  you  ought  to  know  all  about  statues  and  things  !' 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  Bosinney  ;  all  waited  with  a 
strange,  suspicious  look  for  his  answer. 

And  Soames,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  asked  : 


6o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

'  Yes,  Bosinney,  what  do  you  sayi?' 

Bosinney  replied  coolly  : 

'  The  work  is  a  remarkable  one.' 

His  words  were  addressed  to  Swithin,  his  eyes  smiled  slyly 
at  old  Jolyon  ;  only  Soames  remained  unsatisfied. 

'  Remarkable  for  what  ?' 

*  For  its  naivete.' 

The  answer  was  followed  by  an  impressive  silence  ; 
Swithin  alone  was  not  sure  whether  a  compliment  was 
intended. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PROJECTION    OF    THE    HOUSE 

SoAMEs  Forsyte  walked  out  of  his  green-painted  front  door 
three  days  after  the  dinner  at  Swithin's,  and  looking  back 
from  across  the  Square,  confirmed  his  impression  that  the 
house  wanted  painting. 

He  had  left  his  wife  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room,  her  hands  crossed  in  her  lap,  manifestly  waiting  for 
him  to  go  out.  This  was  not  unusual.  It  happened,  in 
fact,  every  day. 

He  could  not  understand  what  she  found  wrong  with  him. 
It  was  not  as  if  he  drank  !  Did  he  run  into  debt,  or  gamble, 
or  swear  ;  was  he  violent ;  were  his  friends  rackety  ;  did  he 
btay  out  at  night  ?     On  the  contrary. 

The  profound,  subdued  aversion  which  he  felt  in  his  wife 
was  a  mystery  to  him,  and  a  source  of  the  most  terrible 
irritation.  That  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and  did  not  love 
him,  had  tried  to  love  him  and  could  not  love  him,  was 
obviously  no  reason. 

He  that  could  imagine  so  outlandish  a  cause  for  his  wife's 
not  getting  on  with  him  was  certainly  no  Forsyte. 

Soames  was  forced,  therefore,  to  set  the  blame  entirely 
down  to  his  wife.  He  had  never  met  a  woman  so  capable 
of  inspiring  affection.  They  could  not  go  anywhere  with- 
out his  seeing  how  all  the  men  were  attracted  by  her  ;  their 
looks,  manners,  voices,  betrayed  it ;  her  behaviour  under  this 

6i 


62  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

attention  had  been  beyond  reproach.  That  she  was  one  of 
those  women — not  too  common  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  race — 
born  to  be  loved  and  to  love,  who  when  not  loving  are  not 
living,  had  certainly  never  even  occurred  to  him.  Her 
power  of  attraction  he  regarded  as  part  of  her  value  as  his 
property  ;  but  it  made  him,  indeed,  suspect  that  she  could 
give  as  well  as  receive  ;  and  she  gave  him  nothing  !  '  Then 
why  did  she  marry  me  ?'  was  his  continual  thought.  He 
had  forgotten  his  courtship  ;  that  year  and  a  half  when 
he  had  besieged  and  lain  in  wait  for  her,  devising  schemes 
for  her  entertainment,  giving  her  gifts,  proposing  to  her 
periodically,  and  keeping  her  other  admirers  away  with 
his  perpetual  presence.  He  had  forgotten  the  day  when, 
adroitly  taking  advantage  of  an  acute  phase  of  her  dislike  to 
her  home  surroundings,  he  crowned  his  labours  with  success. 
If  he  remembered  anything,  it  was  the  dainty  capriciousness 
with  which  the  gold-haired,  dark-eyed  girl  had  treated  him. 
He  certainly  did  not  remember  the  look  on  her  face — strange, 
passive,  appealing — when  suddenly  one  day  she  had  yielded, 
and  said  that  she  would  marry  him. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  real  devoted  wooings  which  books 
and  people  praise,  when  the  lover  is  at  length  rewarded  for 
hammering  the  iron  till  it  is  malleable,  and  all  must  be 
happy  ever  after  as  the  wedding  bells. 

Soames  walked  eastwards,  mousing  doggedly  along  on  the 
shady  side. 

The  house  wanted  doing  up,  unless  he  decided  to  move 
into  the  country,  and  build. 

For  the  hundredth  time  that  month  he  turned  over  this 
problem.  There  was  no  use  in  rushing  into  things  !  He 
was  very  comfortably  off,  with  an  increasing  income  getting 
on  for  three  thousand  a  year  ;  but  his  invested  capital  was 
not  perhaps  so  large  as  his  father  believed — James  had  a 
tendency  to   expect   that  his   children  should   be   better  off 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  63 

than  they  were.  *  I  can  manage  eight  thousand  easily 
enough,'  he  thought,  '  without  calling  in  either  Robertson's 
or  NichoU's.' 

He  had  stopped  to  look  in  at  a  picture  shop,  for  5oames 
was  an  '  amateur  '  of  pictures,  and  had  a  little  room  in 
No.  62,  Montpellier  Square,  full  of  canvases,  stacked  against 
the  wall,  which  he  had  no  room  to  hang.  He  brought 
them  home  with  him  on  his  way  back  from  the  City, 
generally  after  dark,  and  would  enter  this  room  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  to  spend  hours  turning  the  pictures  to  the  light, 
examining  the  marks  on  their  backs,  and  occasionally  making 
notes. 

They  were  nearly  all  landscapes  with  figures  in  the 
foreground,  a  sign  of  scone  mysterious  revolt  against  London, 
its  tall  houses,  its  interminable  streets,  where  his  life  and 
the  lives  of  his  breed  and  class  were  passed.  Every  now 
and  then  he  would  take  one  or  two  pictures  away  with 
him  in  a  cab,  and  stop  at  Jobson's  on  his  way  into  the 
City. 

He  rarely  showed  them  to  anyone  ;  Irene,  whose  opinion 
he  secretly  respected  and  perhaps  for  that  reason  never 
solicited,  had  only  been  into  the  room  on  rare  occasions, 
in  discharge  of  some  wifely  duty.  She  was  not  asked  to 
look  at  the  pictures,  and  she  never  did.  To  Soames  this 
was  another  grievance.  He  hated  that  pride  of  hers,  and 
secretly  dreaded  it. 

In  the  plate-glass  window  of  the  picture  shop  his  image 
stood  and  looked  at  him. 

His  sleek  hair  under  the  brim  of  the  tall  hat  had  a  sheen 
like  the  hat  itself;  his  cheeks,  pale  and  flat,  the  line  of  his 
clean-shaven  lips,  his  firm  chin  with  its  grayish  shaven  tinge, 
and  the  buttoned  strictness  of  his  black  cut-away  coat, 
conveyed  an  appearance  of  reserve  and  secrecy,  of  imperturb- 
able, enforced  composure  ;  but  his  eyes,  cold,  gray,  strained- 


64  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

looking,  with  a  line  in  the  brow  between  them,  examined 
him  wistfully,  as  if  they  knew  of  a  secret  weakness. 

He  noted  the  subjects  of  the  pictures,  the  names  of  the 
painters,  made  a  calculation  of  their  values,  but  without  the 
satisfaction  he  usually  derived  from  this  inward  appraisement, 
and  walked  on. 

No.  62  would  do  well  enough  for  another  year,  if  he 
decided  to  build  !  The  times  were  good  for  building,  money 
had  not  been  so  dear  for  years  ;  and  the  site  he  had  seen  at 
Robin  Hill,  when  he  had  gone  down  there  in  the  spring 
to  inspect  the  Nicholl  mortgage — what  could  be  better ! 
Within  twelve  miles  of  Hyde  Park  Corner,  the  value  of  the 
land  certain  to  go  up,  would  always  fetch  more  than  he  gave 
for  it ;  so  that  a  house,  if  built  in  really  good  style,  was  a 
first-class  investment. 

The  notion  of  being  the  one  member  of  his  family  with  a 
country  house  weighed  but  little  with  him  ;  for  to  a  true 
Forsyte,  sentiment,  even  the  sentiment  of  social  position,  was 
a  luxury  only  to  be'  indulged  in  after  his  appetite  for  more 
material  pleasure  had  been  satisfied. 

To  get  Irene  out  of  London,  away  from  opportunities 
of  going  about  and  seeing  people,  away  from  her  friends 
and  those  who  put  ideas  into  her  head !  That  was  the 
thing !  She  was  too  thick  with  June  1  June  disliked 
him.  He  returned  the  sentiment.  They  were  of  the  same 
blood. 

It  would  be  everything  to  get  Irene  out  of  town.  The 
house  would  please  her,  she  would  enjoy  messing  about  with 
the  decoration,  she  was  very  artistic  ! 

The  house  must  be  in  good  style,  something  that  would 
always  be  certain  to  command  a  price,  something  unique, 
like  that  last  house  of  Parkes,  which  had  a  tower  ;  but  Parkes 
had  himself  said  that  his  architect  was  ruinous.  You  never 
knew   where   you  were  with  those  fellows  j  if  they  had  a 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  65 

name  they  ran  you  into  no  end  of  expense  and  were  conceited 
into  the  bargain. 

And  a  common  architect  was  no  good — the  memory  of 
Parkes'  tower  precluded  the  employment  of  a  common 
architect. 

This  was  why  he  had  thought  of  Bosinney.  Since  the 
dinner  at  Swithin's  he  had  made  enquiries,  the  result  of 
which  had  been  meagre,  but  encouraging  :  *  One  of  the 
new  school.' 

'  Clever  r' 

*  As  clever  as  you  like, — a  bit — a  bit  up  in  the  air  !"' 

He  had  not  been  able  to  discover  what  houses  Bosinney 
had  built,  nor  what  his  charges  were.  The  impression  he 
gathered  was  that  he  would  be  able  to  make  his  own  terms. 
The  more  he  reflected  on  the  idea,  the  more  he  liked  it.  It 
would  be  keeping  the  thing  in  the  family,  with  Forsytes 
almost  an  instinct ;  and  he  would  be  able  to  get  '  favoured- 
nation,'  if  not  nominal  terms — only  fair,  considering  the 
chance  to  Bosinney  of  displaying  his  talents,  for  this  house 
must  be  no  common  edifice. 

Soames  reflected  complacently  on  the  work  it  would  be 
sure  to  bring  the  young  man  ;  for,  like  every  Forsyte,  he 
could  be  a  thorough  optimist  when  there  was  anything  to  be 
had  out  of  it. 

Bosinney's  office  was  in  Sloane  Street,  close  at  hand,  so 
that  he  would  be  able  to  keep  his  eye  continually  on  the 
plans. 

Again,  Irene  would  not  be  so  likely  to  object  to  leave 
London  if  her  greatest  friend's  lover  were  given  the  job. 
June's  marriage  might  depend  on  it.  Irene  could  not 
decently  stand  in  the  way  of  June's  marriage;  she  would 
never  do  that,  he  knew  her  too  well.  And  June  would  be 
pleased  ;  of  this  he  saw  the  advantage. 

Bosinney  looked  clever,  but  he  had  also — and  it  was  one 


66  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  his  great  attractions — an  air  as  if  he  did  not  quite  know 
on  which  side  his  bread  were  buttered ;  he  should  be  easy  to 
deal  with  in  money  matters.  Soames  made  this  reflection 
in  no  defrauding  spirit ;  it  was  the  natural  attitude  of  his 
mind — of  the  mind  of  any  good  business  man — of  all  those 
thousands  of  good  business  men  through  whom  he  was 
threading  his  way  up  Ludgate  Hill. 

Thus  he  fulfilled  the  inscrutable  laws  of  his  great  class — 
of  human  nature  itself — when  he  reflected,  with  a  sense  of 
comfort,  that  Bosinney  would  be  easy  to  deal  with  in  money 
matters. 

While  he  elbowed  his  way  on,  his  eyes,  which  he  usually 
kept  fixed  on  the  ground  before  his  feet,  were  attracted 
upwards  by  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's.  It  had  a  peculiar 
fascination  for  him,  that  old  dome,  and  not  once,  but  twice 
or  three  times  a  week,  would  he  halt  in  his  daily  pilgrimage 
tio  enter  beneath  and  stop  in  the  side  aisles  for  five  or  ten 
minutes,  scrutinizing  the  names  and  epitaphs  on  the  monu- 
ments. The  attraction  for  him  of  this  great  church  was 
inexplicable,  unless  it  enabled  him  to  concentrate  his 
thoughts  on  the  business  of  the  day.  If  any  affair  ol 
peculiar  moment,  or  demanding  peculiar  acuteness,  was 
weighing  on  his  mind,  he  invariably  went  in,  to  wander 
v/ith  mouse-like  attention  from  epitaph  to  epitaph.  Then 
retiring  in  the  same  noiseless  way,  he  would  hold  steadily  on 
up  Cheapside,  a  thought  more  of  dogged  purpose  in  his  gait, 
as  though  he  had  seen  something  which  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  buy. 

He  went  in  this  morning,  but,  instead  of  stealing  from 
monument  to  monument,  turned  his  eyes  upwards  to  the 
columns  and  spacings  of  the  walls,  and  remained  motionless. 

His  uplifted  face,  with  the  awed  and  wistful  look  which 
faces  take  on  themselves  in  church,  was  whitened  to  a  chalky 
hue  in  the  vast  building.     His  gloved  hands  were  clasped  in 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  67 

front  over  the  handle  of  his  umbrella.  He  lifted  them. 
Some  sacred  inspiration  perhaps  had  come  to  him. 

'  Yes,'  he  thought,  '  I  must  have  room,  to  hang  my 
pictures.' 

That  evening,  on  his  return  from  the  City,  he  called  at 
Bosinney's  office.  He  found  the  architect  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
smoking  a  pipe,  and  ruling  off  lines  on  a  plan.  Soames 
refused  a  drink,  and  came  at  once  to  the  point. 

*  If  you've  nothing  better  to  do  on  Sunday,  come  down 
with  me  to  Robin  Hill,  and  give  me  your  opinion  on  a 
building  site.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  build  r' 

^  Perhaps,'  said  Soames ;  '  but  don't  speak  of  it.  I  just 
want  your  opinion.' 

*■  Quite  so,'  said  the  architect. 
Soames  peered  about  the  room. 

*  You're  rather  high  up  here,'  he  remarked. 

Any  information  he  could  gather  about  the  nature  and 
scope  of  Bosinney's  business  would  be  all  to  the  good. 

'  It  does  well  enough  for  me  so  far,'  answered  the 
architect.      *  You're  accustomed  to  the  swells.' 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe,  but  replaced  it  empty  between 
his  teeth ;  it  assisted  him  perhaps  to  carry  on  the  conversa- 
tion. Soames  noted  a  hollow  in  each  cheek,  made  as  it  were 
by  suction. 

'  What  do  you  pay  for  an  office  like  this  ?'  said  he. 

*  Fifty  too  much,'  replied  Bosinney. 
This  answer  impressed  Soames  favourably. 

*  I  suppose  it  is  dear,'  he  said.  '  I'll  call  for  you  on 
Sunday  about  eleven.' 

The  following  Sunday  therefore  he  called  for  Bosinney  in 
a  hansom,  and  drove  him  to  the  station.  On  arriving  at 
Robin  Hill,  they  found  no  cab,  and  started  to  walk  the  mile 
and  a  half  to  the  site. 


68  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

It  was  the  ist  of  August — a  perfect  day,  with  a  burning 
sun  and  cloudless  sky — and  in  the  straight,  narrow  road 
leading  up  the  hill  their  feet  kicked  up  a  yellow  dust. 

*  Gravel  soil,'  remarked  Soames,  and  sideways  he  glanced 
at  the  coat  Bosinney  wore.  Into  the  side-pockets  of  this 
coat  were  thrust  bundles  of  papers,  and  under  one  arm  was 
carried  a  queer-looking  stick.  Soames  noted  these  and  other 
peculiarities. 

No  one  but  a  clever  man,  or,  indeed,  a  buccaneer,  would 
have  taken  such  liberties  with  his  appearance  ;  and  though 
these  eccentricities  were  revolting  to  Soames,  he  derived  a 
certain  satisfaction  from  them,  as  evidence  of  qualities  by 
which  he  must  inevitably  profit.  If  the  fellow  could  build 
houses,  what  did  his  clothes  matter  ? 

*I  told  you,'  he  said,  'that  I  want  this  house  to  be  a 
surprise,  so  don't  say  anything  about  it.  I  never  talk  of  my 
affairs  until  they're  carried  through.' 

Bosinney  nodded. 

*  Let  women  into  your  plans,'  pursued  Soames,  *  and  you 
never  know  where  it'll  end.' 

'Ah  !'  said  Bosinney,  '  women  are  the  devil  1' 

This  feeling  had  long  been  at  the  bottom  of  Soames's 
heart ;  he  had  never,  however,  put  it  into  words. 

'  Oh  !'    he  muttered,  '  so  you're  beginning   to '     He 

stopped,  but  added,  with  an  uncontrollable  burst  of  spite : 
'  June's  got  a  temper  of  her  own — always  had.' 

'  A  temper's  not  a  bad  thing  in  an  angel.' 

Soames  had  never  called  Irene  an  angel.  He  could  not  so 
have  violated  his  best  instincts,  letting  other  people  into  the 
secret  of  her  value,  and  giving  himself  away.  He  made  no 
reply. 

They  had  struck  into  a  half-made  road  across  a  warren. 
A  cart-track  led  at  right-angles  to  a  gravel  pit,  beyond  which 
the  chimneys  of  a  cottage  rose  amongst  a  clump  of  trees  at 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  69 

the  border  of  a  thick  wood.  Tussocks  of  feathery  grass 
covered  the  rough  surface  of  the  ground,  and  out  of  these 
the  larks  soared  into  the  haze  of  sunshine.  On  the  far 
horizon,  over  a  countless  succession  of  fields  and  hedges, 
rose  a  line  of  downs. 

Soames  led  till  they  had  crossed  to  the  far  side,  and  there 
he  stopped.  It  was  the  chosen  site ;  but  now  that  he  was 
about  to  divulge  the  spot  to  another  he  had  become  uneasy. 

'  The  agent  lives  in  that  cottage,'  he  said ;  *  he'll  give  us 
some  lunch — we'd  better  have  lunch  before  we  go  into  this 
matter.' 

He  again  took  the  lead  to  the  cottage,  where  the  agent,  a 
tall  man  named  Oliver,  with  a  heavy  face  and  grizzled  beard, 
welcomed  them.  During  lunch,  which  Soames  hardly 
touched,  he  kept  looking  at  Bosinney,  and  once  or  twice 
passed  his  silk  handkerchief  stealthily  over  his  forehead. 
The  meal  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  Bosinney  rose. 

*  I  dare  say  you've  got  business  to  talk  over,'  he  said ;  '  I'll 
just  go  and  nose  about  a  bit.'  Without  waiting  for  a  reply 
he  strolled  out. 

Soames  was  solicitor  to  this  estate,  and  he  spent  nearly  an 
hour  in  the  agent's  company,  looking  at  ground-plans  and 
discussing  the  Nicholl  and  other  mortgages  ;  it  was  as  it 
were  by  an  afterthought  that  he  brought  up  the  question  of 
the  building  site. 

'  Your  people,'  he  said,  *  ought  to  come  down  in  their  price 
to  me^  considering  that  I  shall  be  the  first  to  build.' 

Oliver  shook  his  head. 

'  The  site  you've  fixed  on,  sir,'  he  said,  *  is  the  cheapest 
we've  got.  Sites  at  the  top  of  the  slope  are  dearer  by  a 
good  bit.' 

'  Mind,'  said  Soames,  '  I've  not  decided  ;  '  it's  quite 
possible  I  shan't  build  at  all.      The  ground-rent's  very  high.' 

*  Well,  Mr.  Forsyte,  I  shall  be  sorry  if  you  go  oft,  and  I 


70  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

think  you'll  make  a  mistake,  sir.  There's  not  a  bit  of  land 
near  London  with  such  a  view  as  this,  nor  one  that's  cheaper, 
all  things  considered ;  we've  only  to  advertise,  to  get  a  mob 
of  people  after  it.' 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Their  faces  said  very  plainly  : 
*  I  respect  you  as  a  man  of  business  ;  and  you  can't  expect 
me  to  believe  a  word  you  say.' 

'  Well,'  repeated  Soames,  *  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  ; 
the  thing  will  very  likely  go  oflF!'  With  these  words,  taking 
up  his  umbrella,  he  put  his  chilly  hand  into  the  agent's, 
withdrew  it  without  the  faintest  pressure,  and  went  out  into 
the  sun. 

He  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  site  in  deep  thought. 
His  instinct  told  him  that  what  the  agent  had  said  was  true. 
A  cheap  site.  And  the  beauty  of  it  was,  that  he  knew  the 
agent  did  not  really  think  it  cheap ;  so  that  his  own  intuitive 
knowledge  was  a  victory  over  the  agent's. 

'  Cheap  or  not,  I  mean  to  have  it,'  he  thought. 

The  larks  sprang  up  in  front  of  his  feet,  the  air  was  full  of 
butterflies,  a  sweet  fragrance  rose  from  the  wild  grasses.  The 
sappy  scent  of  the  bracken  stole  forth  from  the  wood, 
where,  hidden  in  the  depths,  pigeons  were  cooing,  and  from 
afar  on  the  warm  breeze  came  the  rhythmic  chiming  of  church 
bells. 

Soames  walked  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  his  lips  open- 
ing and  closing  as  though  in  anticipation  of  a  delicious 
morsel.  But  when  he  arrived  at  the  site,  Bosinney  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  After  waiting  some  little  time,  he 
crossed  the  warren  in  the  direction  of  the  slope.  He  would 
have  shouted,  but  dreaded  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

The  warren  was  as  lonely  as  a  prairie,  its  silence  only 
broken  by  the  rustle  of  rabbits  bolting  to  their  holes,  and 
the  song  of  the  larks. 

Soames,   the    pioneer-leader    of   the    great   Forsyte    army 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  71 

advancing  to  the  civilization  of  this  wilderness,  felt  his  spirit 
daunted  by  the  loneliness,  by  the  invisible  singing,  and  the 
hot,  sweet  air.  He  had  begun  to  retrace  his  steps  when  he 
at  last  caught  sight  of  Bosinney. 

The  architect  was  sprawling  under  a  large  oak  tree,  whose 
trunk,  with  a  huge  spread  of  bough  and  foliage,  ragged  with 
age,  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  rise. 

Soames  had  to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder  before  he 
looked  up. 

^  Hallo !  Forsyte,'  he  said,  *  I've  found  the  very  place  for 
your  house  !     Look  here  !' 

Soames  stood  and  looked,  then  he  said,  coldly  : 

'  You  may  be  very  clever,  but  this  site  will  cost  me  half 
as  much  again.' 

*  Hang  the  cost,  man.     Look  at  the  view  !' 

Almost  from  their  feet  stretched  ripe  corn,  dipping  to  a 
small  dark  copse  beyond.  A  plain  of  fields  and  hedges 
spread  to  the  distant  gray-blue  downs.  In  a  silver  streak  to 
the  right  could  be  seen  the  line  of  the  river. 

The  sky  was  so  blue,  and  the  sun  so  bright,  that  an  eternal 
summer  seemed  to  reign  ovefr  this  prospect.  Thistledown 
floated  round  them,  enraptured  by  the  serenity  of  the  ether. 
The  heat  danced  over  the  corn,  and,  pervading  all,  was  a 
soft,  insensible  hum,  like  the  murmur  of  bright  minutes 
holding  revel  between  earth  and  heaven. 

Soames  looked.  In  spite  of  himself,  something  swelled  in 
his  breast.  To  live  here  in  sight  of  all  this,  to  be  able  to 
point  it  out  to  his  friends,  to  talk  of  it,  to  possess  it !  His 
cheeks  flushed.  The  warmth,  the  radiance,  the  glow,  were 
sinking  into  his  senses  as,  four  years  before,  Irene's  beauty 
had  sunk  into  his  senses  and  made  him  long  for  her.  He 
stole  a  glance  at  Bosinney,  whose  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  coach- 
man's '  half-tame  leopard,'  seemed  running  wild  over  the 
landscape.     The  sunlight  had  caught  the  promontories  of  the 


72  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

fellow's  face,  the  bumpy  cheekbones,  the  point  of  his  chin, 
the  vertical  ridges  above  his  brow  ;  and  Soames  watched  this 
ru2:2;ed,  enthusiastic,  careless  face  with  an  unpleasant  feeling. 

A  long,  soft  ripple  of  wind  flowed  over  the  corn,  and 
brou2;ht  a  pufF  of  warm  air  into  their  faces. 

'  I  could  build  you  a  teaser  here,'  said  Bosinney,  breaking 
the  silence  at  last. 

'  I  daresay,'  replied  Soames,  drily.  '  You  haven't  got  to 
pay  for  it.' 

'  For  about  eight  thousand  I  could  build  you  a  palace.' 

Soames  had  become  very  pale — a  struggle  was  going  on 
within  him.      He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  said  stubbornly : 

*  I  can't  afford  it.' 

And  slowly,  with  his  mousing  walk,  he  led  the  way  back 
to  the  first  site. 

They  spent  some  time  there  going  into  particulars  of  the 
projected  house,  and  then  Soames  returned  to  the  agent's 
cottage. 

He  came  out  in  about  half  an  hour,  and,  joining  Bosinney, 
started  for  the  station. 

*  Well,'  he  said,  hardly  opening  his  lips,  *  Fve  taken  that 
site  of  yours,  after  all.' 

And  again  he  was  silent,  confusedly  debating  how  it  was 
that  this  fellow,  whom  by  habit  he  despised,  should  have 
overborne  his  own  decision. 


CHAPTER  V 

A     FORSYTE     MENAGE 

Like  the  enlightened  thousands  of  his  class  and  generation 
in  this  great  city  of  London,  who  no  longer  believe  in  red 
velvet  chairs,  and  know  that  groups  of  modern  Italian  marble 
are  ^vieux  jeu^'  Soames  Forsyte  inhabited  a  house  which  did 
what  it  could.  It  owned  a  copper  door  knocker  of  indi- 
vidual design,  windows  which  had  been  altered  to  open 
outwards,  hanging  flower  boxes  filled  with  fuchsias,  and  at 
the  back  (a  great  feature)  a  little  court  tiled  with  jade-green 
tiles,  and  surrounded  by  pink  hydrangeas  in  peacock-blue 
tubs.  Here,  under  a  parchment-coloured  Japanese  sunshade 
covering  the  whole  end,  inhabitants  or  visitors  could  be 
screened  from  the  eyes  of  the  curious  while  they  drank 
tea  and  examined  at  their  leisure  the  latest  of  Soames's  little 
silver  boxes. 

The  inner  decoration  favoured  the  First  Empire  and 
William  Morris.  For  its  size,  the  house  was  commodious  ; 
there  were  countless  nooks  resembling  birds*  nests,  and  little 
things  made  of  silver  were  deposited  like  eggs. 

In  this  general  perfection  two  kinds  of  fastidiousness  were 
at  war.  There  lived  here  a  mistress  who  would  have  dwelt 
daintily  on  a  desert  island  ;  a  master  whose  daintiness  was, 
as  it  were,  an  investment,  cultivated  by  the  owner  for  his 
advancement,  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  competition. 
This  competitive  daintiness  had  caused  Soames  in  his  Marl- 

73 


74  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

borough  days  to  be  the  first  boy  into  white  waistcoats  in 
summer,  and  corduroy  waistcoats  in  winter,  had  prevented 
him  from  ever  appearing  in  public  with  his  tie  climbing  up 
his  collar,  and  induced  him  to  dust  his  patent  leather  boots 
before  a  great  multitude  assembled  on  Speech  Day  to  hear 
him  recite  Moliere. 

Skin-like  immaculateness  had  grown  over  Soames,  as  over 
many  Londoners :  impossible  to  conceive  of  him  with  a  hair 
out  of  place,  a  tie  deviating  one-eighth  of  an  inch  from  the 
perpendicular,  a  collar  unglossed  !  He  would  not  have  gone 
without  a  bath  for  worlds — it  was  the  fashion  to  take  baths  ; 
and  how  bitter  was  his  scorn  of  people  who  omitted  them  ! 

But  Irene  could  be  imagined,  like  some  nymph,  bathing 
in  wayside  streams,  for  the  joy  of  the  freshness  and  of  seeing 
her  own  fair  body. 

In  this  conflict  throughout  the  house  the  woman  had  gone 
to  the  wall.  As  in  the  struggle  between  Saxon  and  Celt 
still  going  on  within  the  nation,  the  more  impressionable  and 
receptive  temperament  had  had  forced  on  it  a  conventional 
superstructure. 

Thus  the  house  had  acquired  a  close  resemblance  to 
hundreds  of  other  houses  with  the  same  high  aspirations, 
having  become  :  '  That  very  charming  little  house  of  the 
Soames  Forsytes,  quite  individual,  my  dear — really  elegant  !' 

For  Soames  Forsyte — read  James  Peabody,  Thomas  Atkins, 
or  Emmanuel  Spagnoletti,  the  name  in  fact  of  any  upper- 
middle  class  Englishman  in  London  with  any  pretensions  to 
taste  J  and  though  the  decoration  be  different,  the  phrase  is 
jus:. 

On  the  evening  of  August  8,  a  week  after  the  expedition 
to  Robin  Hill,  in  the  dining-room  of  this  house — 'quite 
mdividual,  my  dear — really  elegant  !' — Soames  and  Irene 
were  seated  at  dinner.  A  hot  dinner  on  Sundays  was  a 
little    distinguishing    elegance    common    to  this   house    and 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  75 

many  others.  Early  in  married  life  Soames  had  laid  down 
the  rule  :  '  The  servants  must  give  us  hot  dinner  on  Sundays 
— they've  nothing  to  do  but  play  the  concertina.' 

The  custom  had  produced  no  revolution.  For — to  Soames 
a  rather  deplorable  sign — servants  were  devoted  to  Irene, 
who,  in  defiance  of  all  safe  tradition,  appeared  to  recognise 
their  right  to  a  share  in  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature. 

The  happy  pair  were  seated,  not  opposite  each  other,  but 
rectangularly,  at  the  handsome  rosewood  table  ;  they  dined 
without  a  cloth — a  distinguishing  elegance — and  so  far  had 
not  spoken  a  word. 

Soames  liked  to  talk  during  dinner  about  business,  or  what 
he  had  been  buying,  and  so  long  as  he  talked  Irene's  silence 
did  not  distress  him.  This  evening  he  had  found  it  impos- 
sible to  talk.  The  decision  to  build  had  been  weighing  on 
his  mind  all  the  week,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
tell  her. 

His  nervousness  about  this  disclosure  irritated  him  pro- 
foundly ;  she  had  no  business  to  make  him  feel  like  that — a 
wife  and  a  husband  being  one  person.  She  had  not  looked 
at  him  once  since  they  sat  down  ;  and  he  wondered  what 
on  earth  she  had  been  thinking  about  all  the  time.  It  was 
hard,  when  a  man  worked  as  he  did,  making  money  for  her — 
yes,  and  with  an  ache  in  his  heart — that  she  should  sit  there, 
looking — looking  as  if  she  saw  the  walls  of  the  room  closing 
in.  It  was  enough  to  make  a  man  get  up  and  leave  the 
table.. 

The  light  from  the  rose-shaded  lamp  fell  on  her  neck  and 
arms — Soames  liked  her  to  dine  in  a  low  dress,  it  gave  him 
an  inexpressible  feeling  of  superiority  to  the  majority  of 
his  acquaintance,  whose  wives  were  contented  with  their 
best  high  frocks  or  with  tea-gowns,  when  they  dined  at  home. 
Under  that  rosy  light  her  amber-coloured  hair  and  fair  skin 
made  strange  contrast  with  her  dark  brown  eyes. 


76  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Could  a  man  own  anything  prettier  than  this  dining-table 
with  its  deep  tints,  the  starry,  soft-petalled  roses,  the  ruby- 
coloured  glass,  and  quaint  silver  furnishing  ;  could  a  man  own 
anything  prettier  than  the  woman  who  sat  at  it  ?  Gratitude 
was  no  virtue  among  Forsytes,  who,  competitive,  and  full  of 
common-sense,  had  no  occasion  for  it  ;  and  Soames  only 
experienced  a  sense  of  exasperation  amounting  to  pain,  that 
he  did  not  own  her  as  it  was  his  right  to  own  her,  that  he 
could  not,  as  by  stretching  out  his  hand  to  that  rose,  pluck 
her  and  snifF  the  very  secrets  of  her  heart. 

Out  of  his  other  property,  out  of  all  the  things  he  had 
collected,  his  silver,  his  pictures,  his  houses,  his  investments, 
he  got  a  secret  and  intimate  feeling  ;  out  of  her  he  got  none. 

In  this  house  of  his  there  was  writing  on  every  wall.  His 
business-like  temperament  protested  against  a  mysterious 
warning  that  she  was  not  made  for  him.  He  had  married 
this  woman,  conquered  her,  made  her  his  own,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  contrary  to  the  most  fundamental  of  all  laws,  the  law 
of  possession,  that  he  could  do  no  more  than  own  her  body — 
if  indeed  he  could  do  that,  which  he  was  beginning  to  doubt. 
If  any  one  had  asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  own  her  soul,  the 
question  would  have  seemed  to  him  both  ridiculous  and  senti- 
mental. But  he  did  so  want,  and  the  writing  said  he  never 
would. 

She  was  ever  silent,  passive,  gracefully  averse  ;  as  though 
terrified  lest  by  word,  motion,  or  sign  she  might  lead  him  to 
believe  that  she  was  fond  of  him  ;  and  he  asked  himself : 
Must  I  always  go  on  like  this? 

Like  most  novel  readers  of  his  generation  (and  Soames  was 
a  great  novel  reader),  literature  coloured  his  view  of  life  ;  and 
he  had  imbibed  the  belief  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  time. 
In  the  end  the  husband  always  gained  the  aflFection  of  his 
wife.  Even  in  those  cases — a  class  of  book  he  was  not  very 
fond  of — which  ended  in  tragedy,  the  wife  always  died  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  77 

poignant  regrets  on  her  lips,  or  if  it  were  the  husband  who 
died — unpleasant  thought — threw  herself  on  his  body  in  an 
agony  of  remorse. 

He  often  took  Irene  to  the  theatre,  instinctively  choosing 
the  modern  Society  plays  with  the  modern  Society  conjugal 
problem,  so  fortunately  different  from  any  conjugal  problem 
in  real  life.  He  found  that  they  too  always  ended  in  the 
same  way,  even  when  there  was  a  lover  in  the  case.  While 
he  was  watching  the  play  Soames  often  sympathized  with 
the  lover  ;  but  before  he  reached  home  again,  driving  with 
Irene  in  a  hansom,  he  saw  that  this  would  not  do,  and  he 
was  glad  the  play  had  ended  as  it  had.  There  was  one  class 
of  husband  that  had  just  then  come  into  fashion,  the  strong, 
rather  rough,  but  extremely  sound  man,  who  was  peculiarly 
successful  at  the  end  of  the  play  ;  with  this  person  Soames 
was  really  not  in  sympathy,  and  had  it  not  been  for  his  own 
position,  would  have  expressed  his  disgust  with  the  fellow. 
But  he  was  so  conscious  of  how  vital  to  himself  was  the 
necessity  for  being  a  successful,  even  a  Strong,*  husband, 
that  he  never  spoke  of  a  distaste  born  perhaps  by  the 
perverse  processes  of  Nature  out  of  a  secret  fund  of  brutality 
in  himself. 

But  Irene's  silence  this  evening  was  exceptional.  He 
had  never  before  seen  such  an  expression  on  her  face.  And 
since  it  is  always  the  unusual  which  alarms,  Soames  was 
alarmed.  He  ate  his  savoury,  and  hurried  the  maid  as  she 
swept  off  the  crumbs  with  the  silver  sweeper.  When  she 
had  left  the  room,  he  filled  his  glass  with  wine  and  said  : 

^  Anybody  been  here  this  afternoon  ?* 

'  June.' 

*  What  did  she  want  ?'  It  was  an  axiom  with  the  Forsytes 
that  people  did  not  go  anywhere  unless  they  wanted  some- 
thing.    *  Came  to  talk  about  her  lover,  I  suppose  ?' 

Irene  made  no  reply. 


78  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  It  looks  to  me,'  continued  Soames,  '  as  if  she  were 
sweeter  on  him  than  he  is  on  her.  She's  always  following 
him  about.' 

Irene's  eyes  made  him  feel  uncomfortable. 

*  You're  no  business  to  say  such  a  thing !'  she  exclaimed. 

*  Why  not  ?     Anybody  can  see  it.' 

'They  cannot.  And  if  they  could,  it's  disgraceful  to 
say  so.' 

Soames's  composure  gave  way. 

*  You're  a  pretty  wife !'  he  said.  But  secretly  he  won- 
dered at  the  heat  of  her  reply ;  it  was  unlike  her.  '  You're 
cracked  about  June  !  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  :  now  that 
she  has  the  Buccaneer  in  tow,  she  doesn't  care  twopence 
about  you,  and  you'll  find  it  out.  But  you  won't  see  so 
much  of  her  in  future ;  we're  going  to  live  in  the  country.' 

He  had  been  glad  to  get  his  news  out  under  cover  of  this 
burst  of  irritation.  He  had  expected  a  cry  of  dismay ;  the 
silence  with  which  his  pronouncement  was  received  alarmed 
him. 

'  You  don't  seem  interested,'  he  was  obliged  to  add. 

'  I  knew  it  already.' 

He  looked  at  her  sharply. 

'  Who  told  you  ?' 

*  June.' 

'  How  did  she  know  ?* 

Irene  did  not  answer.    Baffled  and  uncomfortable,  he  said  : 
*It's  a  fine  thing  for  Bosinney;   it'll   be   the  making  of 
him.     I  suppose  she's  told  you  all  about  it  r' 
*Yes.' 
There  was  another  pause,  and  then  Soames  said  : 

*  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  go  ?' 
Irene  made  no  reply. 

*  Well,  I  can't  tell  what  you  want.  You  never  seem 
contented  here.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  79 

*  Have  my  wishes  anything  to  do  with  it  ?' 

She  took  the  vase  of  roses  and  left  the  room.  Soames 
remained  seated.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had  signed  that 
contract  r  Was  it  for  this  that  he  was  going  to  spend  some 
ten  thousand  pounds  ?  Bosinney's  phrase  came  back  to  him  : 
*  Women  are  the  devil !' 

But  presently  he  grew  calmer.  It  might  have  been 
worse.  She  might  have  flared  up.  He  had  expected  some- 
thing more  than  this.  It  was  lucky,  after  all,  that  June  had 
broken  the  ice  for  him.  She  must  have  wormed  it  out  of 
Bosinney ;  he  might  have  known  she  would. 

He  lighted  his  cigarette.  After  all,  Irene  had  not  made  a 
scene  !  She  would  come  round — that  was  the  best  of  her ; 
she  was  cold,  but  not  sulky.  And,  puffing  the  cigarette 
smoke  at  a  lady-bird  on  the  shining  table,  he  plunged  into  a 
reverie  about  the  house.  It  was  no  good  worrying ;  he  would 
go  and  make  it  up  presently.  She  would  be  sitting  out  there 
in  the  dark,  under  the  Japanese  sunshade,  knitting.  A 
beautiful,  warm  night.   .   .   . 

In  truth,  June  had  come  in  that  afternoon  with  shining 
eyes,  and  the  words :  *  Soames  is  a  brick  !  It's  splendid  for 
Phil — the  very  thing  for  him  !' 

Irene's  face  remaining  dark  and  puzzled,  she  went  on : 

'  Your  new  house  at  Robin  Kill,  of  course.  What  : 
Don't  you  know :' 

Irene  did  no:  know. 

*  Oh !  then,  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you  !' 
Looking  impatiently  at  her  friend,  she  cried  :  '  You  look  as 
if  you  didn't  care.  Don't  you  see,  it's  what  I've  been  pray- 
ing for — the  very  chance  he's  been  wanting  all  this  time. 
Now  you'll  see  what  he  can  do ;'  and  thereupon  she  poured 
out  the  whole  story. 

Since  her  own  engagement  she  had  not  seemed  much 
interested  in  her  friend's  position ;  the  hours  she  spent  with 


8o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Irene  were  given  to  confidences  of  her  own ;  and  at  times^ 
for  all  her  affectionate  pity,  it  was  impossible  to  keep  out  of 
her  smile  a  trace  of  compassionate  contempt  for  the  woman 
who  had  made  such  a  mistake  in  her  life — such  a  vast, 
ridiculous  mistake. 

*  He's  to   have  all  the  decorations  as  well — a  free  hand. 

It's  perfect '     June  broke  into  laughter,  her  little  figure 

quivered  gleefully ;  she  raised  her  hand,  and  struck  a  blow  at 
a  muslin    curtain.     *  Do    you    know    I    even   asked  Uncle 

James '     But,  with  a  sudden  dislike  to  mentioning  that 

incident,  she  stopped  ;  and  presently,  finding  her  friend  so 
unresponsive,  went  away.  She  looked  back  from  the  pave- 
ment, and  Irene  was  still  standing  in  the  doorway.  In 
response  to  her  farewell  wave,  Irene  put  her  hand  to  her 
brow,  and,  turning  slowly,  shut  the  door.  .  .  . 

Soames  went  to  the  drawing-room  presently,  and  peered 
at  her  through  the  window. 

Out  in  the  shadow  of  the  Japanese  sunshade  she  was  sitting 
very  still,  the  lace  on  her  white  shoulders  stirring  with  the 
soft  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom. 

But  about  this  silent  creature  sitting  there  so  motionless, 
in  the  dark,  there  seemed  a  warmth,  a  hidden  fervour 
of  feeling,  as  if  the  whole  of  her  being  had  been  stirred, 
and  some  change  were  taking  place  in  its  very  depths. 

He  stole  back  to  the  dining-room  unnoticed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JAMES     AT     LARGE 

It  was  not  long  before  Soames's  determination  to  build  went 
the  round  of  the  family,  and  created  the  flutter  that  any 
decision  connected  with  property  should  make  among 
Forsytes. 

It  was  not  his  fault,  for  he  had  been  determined  that  no 
one  should  know.  June,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  had 
told  Mrs.  Small,  giving  her  leave  only  to  tell  Aunt  Ann — 
she  thought  it  would  cheer  her,  the  poor  old  sweet !  for  Aunt 
Ann  had  kept  her  room  now  for  many  days. 

Mrs.  Small  told  Aunt  Ann  at  once,  who,  smiling  as  she 
lay  back  on  her  pillows,  said  in  her  distinct,  trembling  old 
voice : 

*It's  very  nice  for  dear  June;  but  I  hope  they  will  be 
careful — it's  rather  dangerous  !' 

When  she  was  left  alone  again,  a  frown,  like  a  cloud 
presaging  a  rainy  morrow,  crossed  her  face. 

While  she  was  lying  there  so  many  days  the  process  of 
recharging  her  will  went  on  all  the  time ;  it  spread  to  her 
face,  too,  and  tightening  movements  were  always  in  action 
at  the  corners  of  her  lips. 

The  maid  Smither,  who  had  been  in  her  service  since 
girlhood,  and  was  spoken  of  as  *  Smither — a  good  girl — 
but  so  slow  !* — the  maid  Smither  performed  every  morning 
with  extreme  punctiliousness  the  crowning  ceremony  of  that 

8i  4 


82  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

ancient  toilet.  Taking  from  the  recesses  of  their  pure  white 
band-box  those  flat,  gray  curls,  the  insignia  of  personal 
dignity,  she  placed  them  securely  in  her  mistress's  hands,  and 
turned  her  back. 

And  every  day  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  were  required  to 
come  and  report  on  Timothy;  what  news  there  was  of 
Nicholas  ;  whether  dear  June  had  succeeded  in  getting  Jolyon 
to  shorten  the  engagement,  now  that  Mr.  Bosinney  was  build- 
ing Soames  a  house ;  whether  young  Roger's  wife  was  really 
— expecting ;  how  the  operation  on  Archie  had  succeeded  ; 
and  what  Swithin  had  done  about  that  empty  house  in  Wig- 
more  Street,  where  the  tenant  had  lost  all  his  money  and 
treated  him  so  badly ;  above  ail,  about  Soames ;  was  Irene 
still — still  asking  for  a  separate  room  ?  And  every  morning 
Smither  was  told  :  *  I  shall  be  coming  down  this  afternoon, 
Smither,  about  two  o'clock.  I  shall  want  vour  arm,  after 
all  these  days  in  bed  !' 

After  telling  Aunt  Ann,  Mrs.  Small  had  spoken  of  the 
house  in  the  strictest  confidence  to  Mrs.  Nicholas,  who  in 
her  turn  had  asked  Winifred  Dartie  for  confirmation,  sup- 
posing, of  course,  that,  being  Soames's  sister,  she  would  know 
all  about  it.  Through  her  it  had  in  due  course  come  round 
to  the  ears  of  James.     He  had  been  a  good  deal  agitated. 

*  Nobody,'  he  said,  *  told  him  anything.'  And,  rather 
than  go  direct  to  Soames  himself,  of  whose  taciturnity  he 
was  afraid,  he  took  his  umbrella  and  went  round  to 
Timothy's. 

He  found  Mrs.  Septimus  and  Hester  (who  had  been  told 
— she  was  so  safe,  she  found  it  tiring  to  talk)  ready,  and  indeed 
eager,  to  discuss  the  news.  It  was  very  good  of  dear  Soames, 
they  thought,  to  employ  Mr.  Bosinney,  but  rather  risky. 
What  had  George  named  him  ?  '  The  Buccaneer  !'  How 
droll !  But  George  was  always  droll !  However,  it  would 
be  all  in  the  family — they  supposed  they  must  really  look 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  83 

upon  Mr.  Bosinney  as  belonging  to  the   family,  though  it 
seemed  strange. 

James  here  broke  in : 

*  Nobody  knows  anything  about  him.  I  don't  see  what 
Soames  wants  with  a  young  man  like  that.  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  Irene  had  put  her  oar  in.     I  shall  speak  to ' 

*  Soames/  interposed  Aunt  Juley,  *  teld  Mr.  Bosinney  that 
he  didn't  wish  it  mentioned.  He  wouldn't  like  it  to  be 
talked  about,  I'm  sure,  and  if  Timothy  knew  he  would  be 
rery  vexed,  I ' 

James  put  his  hand  behind  his  ear : 

*  What  ?'  he  said.  '  I'm  getting  very  deaf.  I  suppose  I 
don't  hear  people.  Emily's  got  a  bad  toe.  We  shan't  be 
able  to  start  for  Wales  till  the  end  of  the  month.  There's 
always  something !'  And,  having  got  what  he  wanted,  he 
took  his  hat  and  went  away. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon,  and  he  walked  across  the  Park 
towards  Soames's,  where  he  intended  to  dine,  for  Emily's  toe 
kept  her  in  bed,  and  Rachel  and  Cicely  were  on  a  visit  in  the 
country.  He  took  the  slanting  path  from  the  Bayswater 
side  of  the  Row  to  the  Knightsbridge  Gate,  across  a  pasture 
of  short,  burnt  grass,  dotted  with  blackened  sheep,  strewn 
with  seated  couples  and  strange  waifs  lying  prone  on  their 
faces,  like  corpses  on  a  field  over  which  the  wave  of  battle 
has  rolled. 

He  walked  rapidly,  his  head  bent,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  left.  The  appearance  of  this  park,  the  centre  of 
his  own  battle-field,  where  he  had  all  his  life  been  fighting, 
excited  no  thought  or  speculation  in  his  mind.  These 
corpses  flung  down  there  from  out  the  press  and  turmoil  of 
the  struggle,  these  pairs  of  lovers  sitting  cheek  by  jowl  for 
an  hour  of  idle  Elysium  snatched  from  the  monotony  of 
their  treadmill,  awakened  no  fancies  in  his  mind  ;  he  had 
outlived  that  kind  of  imagination  ;  his  nose,  like  the  nose 


g4  THE  FORSYTE  S.\GA 

of  a   sheep,   was    fastened    to    the    pastures    on    which    he 
browsed. 

One  of  his  tenants  had  lately  shown  a  disposition  to  be 
behind-hand  in  his  rent,  and  it  had  become  a  grave  question 
whether  he  had  not  better  turn  him  out  at  once,  and  so  run 
th€  risk  of  not  rc-letr!ng  before  Christmas.  Swithin  had  just 
been  let  in  verv  badly,  but  it  had  ser.ed  him  right — he  had 
held  on  too  long. 

He  pondered  this  as  he  walked  steadily,  holding  his 
umbrella  carefuUv  bv  the  wood,  just  below  the  crook  of 
the  handle,  so  as  to  keep  the  ferule  off  the  ground,  and  not 
fray  the  silk  in  the  middle.  And,  with  his  thin,  high 
shoulders  stooped,  his  long  legs  moving  with  swift  mechani- 
cal precision,  this  passage  through  the  Park,  where  the  sim 
shone  with  a  clear  fiame  on  so  much  idleness — on  so  many 
human  evidences  of  the  remorseless  battle  of  Property  raging 
beyond  its  rin^ — was  like  the  flight  of  some  land  bird  across 
the  sea. 

He  felt  a  touch  on  tiie  arm  as  he  came  out  at  Albert  Gate. 
It  was  Soames,  who,  crossing  from  the  shady  side  of  Picca- 
dilly, where  he  had  been  walking  home  from  the  o-r.ce,  had 
suddenly  appeared  alongside. 

*  Your  mother's  in  bed,'  said  James  ;  *  I  was  just  coming 
to  you,  but  I  suppose  I  shall  be  in  the  way.' 

The  outward  relations  between  James  and  his  son  were 
marked  by  a  lack  of  sentiment  peculiarly  Forsytean,  but  for 
all  that  the  tw^o  were  by  no  means  unattached.  Perhaps 
they  regarded  one  another  as  an  investment ;  certainly  they 
were  solicitous  of  each  other's  welfare,  glad  of  each  other's 
company.  Thev  had  never  exchanged  two  words  upon  the 
more  intimate  problems  of  life,  or  revealed  in  each  other's 
presence  the  existence  of  any  deep  feeling. 

Something  bevond  the  power  of  word-analysis  bound  them 
together,  something  hidden  deep  in  the  fibre  of  nations  and 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  S5 

families — for  blood,  they  sav,  is  thicker  than  water — and 
neither  of  them  was  a  cold-blooded  man.  Indeed,  in  James 
love  of  his  children  was  now  the  prime  morive  of  his  exist- 
ence. To  have  creatures  who  were  parts  of  himself,  to 
whom  he  might  transmit  the  money  he  saved,  was  at  the 
root  of  his  saving  ;  and,  at  seventy-five,  what  was  left  that 
could  give  him  pleasure,  but — saving  ?  The  kernel  of  life 
was  in  this  saving  for  his  children. 

Than  James  Forsyte,  notwithstanding  ail  his* Jonah-isms," 
there  was  no  saner  man  (if  the  leading  symptom  of  sanity,  as  we 
are  told,  is  self-preservation,  though  without  doubt  Timothy 
went  too  far)  in  all  this  London,  of  which  he  owned  so 
much,  and  loved  with  such  a  dumb  love,  as  the  centre  of  his 
opportunities.  He  had  the  marvellous  instinctive  sanity  of 
the  middle  class.  In  him — more  than  in  Jolyon,  with  his 
masterful  will  and  his  moments  of  tenderness  and  philosophy 
— more  than  in  Swithin,  the  martyr  to  crankiness — Nicholas, 
the  suflFerer  firom  ability — and  Roger,  the  victim  of  enterprise 
— beat  the  true  pulse  of  compromise  ;  of  all  the  brothers  he 
was  least  remarkable  in  mind  and  person,  and  for  that  reason 
more  likeiv  to  live  for  ever. 

To  James,  more  than  to  anv  of  the  others,  was  *  the 
family '  significant  and  dear.  There  had  always  been  some- 
thing primitive  and  cosy  in  his  attitude  towards  life  ;  he 
loved  the  family  hearth,  he  loved  gossip,  and  he  loved 
grumbling.  All  his  decisions  were  formed  of  a  cream  which 
he  skimmed  oflF  the  family  mind  ;  and,  through  that  family, 
oflF  the  minds  of  thousands  of  other  families  of  similar  fibre. 
Year  after  year,  week  after  week,  he  went  to  Timothy's, 
and  in  his  brother's  front  drawing-room — his  legs  twisted,  his 
long  white  whiskers  framing  his  clean-shaven  mouth — would 
sit  watching  the  family  pot  siimner,  the  cream  rising  to  the 
top  ;  and  he  would  go  away  sheltered,  refreshed,  conatorted, 
with  an  indefinable  sense  of  comfort. 


86  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Beneath  the  adamant  of  his  self-preserving  instinct  there 
was  much  real  softness  in  James  ;  a  visit  to  Timothy's  was 
like  an  hour  spent  in  the  lap  of  a  mother  ;  and  the  deep 
craving  he  himself  had  for  the  protection  of  the  family  wing 
reacted  in  turn  on  his  feelings  towards  his  own  children  ;  it 
was  a  nightmare  to  him  to  think  of  them  exposed  to  the 
treatment  of  the  world,  in  money,  health,  or  reputation. 
When  his  old  friend  John  Street's  son  volunteered  for  special 
service,  he  shook  his  head  querulously,  and  wondered  what 
John  Street  was  about  to  allow  it  ;  and  when  young  Street 
was  assagaied,  he  took  it  so  much  to  heart  that  he  made  a 
point  of  calling  everywhere  with  the  special  object  of  saying, 
*  He  knew  how  it  would  be — he'd  no  patience  with  them  !' 

When  his  son-in-law  Dartie  had  that  financial  crisis,  due 
to  speculation  in  Oil  Shares,  James  made  himself  ill  worry- 
ing over  it ;  the  knell  of  all  prosperity  seemed  to  have 
sounded.  It  took  him  three  months  and  a  visit  to  Baden- 
Baden  to  get  better  ;  there  was  something  terrible  in  the 
idea  that  but  for  his,  James's,  money,  Dartie's  name  might 
have  appeared  in  the  Bankruptcy  List. 

Composed  of  a  physiological  mixture  so  sound  that  if  had 
an  earache  he  thought  he  was  dying,  he  regarded  the  occa- 
sional ailments  of  his  wife  and  children  as  in  the  nature  ot 
personal  grievances,  special  interventions  of  Providence  for 
the  purpose  of  destroying  his  peace  of  mind  ;  but  he  did  not 
believe  at  all  in  the  ailments  of  people  outside  his  own 
immediate  family,  affirming  them  in  every  case  to  be  due  to 
neglected  liver. 

His  universal  comment  was  :  *  What  can  they  expect  ?  1 
have  it  myself,  if  I'm  not  careful  !' 

When  he  went  to  Soames's  that  evening  he  felt  that  life 
was  hard  on  him  :  There  was  Emily  with  a  bad  toe,  and 
Rachel  gadding  about  in  the  country  ;  he  got  no  sympathy 
from  anybody  ;  and  Ann,  she  was  ill — he  did  not  believe 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  87 

she  would  last  through  the  summer  ;  he  had  called  there  three 
times  now  without  her  being  able  to  see  him  !  And  this 
idea  of  Soames's,  building  a  house,  that  would  have  to  be 
looked  into.  As  to  the  trouble  with  Irene,  he  didn't  know 
what  was  to  come  of  that — anything  might  come  of  it  ! 

He  entered  62,  Montpellier  Square  with  the  fullest  inten- 
tions of  being  miserable. 

It  was  already  half-past  seven,  and  Irene,  dressed  for 
dinner,  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  wearing 
her  gold-coloured  frock — for,  having  been  displayed  at  a 
dinner-party,  a  soiree,  and  a  dance,  it  was  now  to  be  worn 
at  home — and  she  had  adorned  the  bosom  with  a  cascade  of 
lace,  on  which  James's  eyes  riveted  themselves  at  once. 

*  Where  do  you  get  your  things  r'  he  said  in  an  aggravated 
voice.  'I  never  see  Rachel  and  Cicely  looking  half  so 
well.     That  rose-point,  now — that's  not  real !' 

Irene  came  close,  to  prove  to  him  that  he  was  in  error. 

And,  in  spite  of  himself,  James  felt  the  influence  of  her 
deference,  of  the  faint  seductive  perfume  exhaling  from  her. 
No  self-respecting  Forsyte  surrendered  at  a  blow  ;  so  he 
merely  said  :  He  didn't  know — he  expected  she  was  spending 
a  pretty  penny  on  dress. 

The  gong  sounded,  and,  putting  her  white  arm  within 
his,  Irene  took  him  into  the  dining-room.  She  seated  him 
in  Soames's  usual  place,  round  the  corner  on  her  left.  The 
light  fell  softly  there,  so  that  he  would  not  be  worried  by 
the  gradual  dying  of  the  day  ;  and  she  began  to  talk  to  him 
about  himself. 

Presently,  over  James  came  a  change,  like  the  mellowing 
that  steals  upon  a  fruit  in  the  sun  ;  a  sense  of  being  caressed, 
and  praised,  and  petted,  and  all  without  the  bestowal  of  a 
single  caress  or  word  of  praise.  He  felt  that  what  he  was 
eating  was  agreeing  with  him  ;  he  could  not  get  that  feeling 
at  home  ;  he  did  not  know  when  he  had  enjoyed  a  glass  of 


83  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

champagne  so  much,  and,  on  inquiring  the  brand  and  price, 
was  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  one  of  which  he  had  a  large 
stock  himself,  but  could  never  drink  ;  he  instantly  formed 
the  resolution  to  let  his  wine  merchant  know  that  he  had 
been  swindled. 

Looking  up  from  his  food,  he  remarked : 

*  You've  a  lot  of  nice  things  about  the  place.  Now, 
what  did  you  give  for  that  sugar-sifter  ?  Shouldn't  wonder 
if  it  was  worth  money  !* 

He  was  particularly  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  a 
picture  on  the  wail  opposite,  which  he  himself  had  given  them : 

'  Vd  no  idea  it  was  so  good !'  he  said. 

They  rose  to  go  into  the  drawing-room,  and  James 
followed  Irene  closely. 

*  That's  what  I  call  a  capital  little  dinner,'  he  murmured, 
breathing  pleasantly  down  on  her  shoulder ;  'nothing  heavy — 
and  not  too  Frenchified.  But  /  can't  get  it  at  home.  I  pay 
my  cook  sixty  pounds  a  year,  but  she  can't  give  me  a  dinner 
like  that !' 

He  had  as  yet  made  no  allusion  to  the  building  of  the 
house,  nor  did  he  when  Soames,  pleading  the  excuse  of 
business,  betook  himself  to  the  room  at  the  top,  where  he 
kept  his  pictures. 

James  was  left  alone  with  his  daughter-in-law.  The 
glow  of  the  wine,  and  of  an  excellent  liqueur,  was  still 
within  him.  He  felt  quite  warm  towards  her.  She  was 
really  a  taking  little  thing  ;  she  listened  to  you,  and  seemed 
to  understand  what  you  were  saying  ;  and,  while  talking,  he 
kept  examining  her  figure,  from  her  bronze-coloured  shoes  to 
the  waved  gold  of  her  hair.  She  was  leaning  back  in  an 
Empire  chair,  her  shoulders  poised  against  the  top — her  body, 
flexibly  straight  and  unsupported  from  the  hips,  swaying 
when  she  moved,  as  though  giving  to  the  arms  of  a  lover. 
Her  hps  were  smiling,  her  eyes  half-closed. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  89 

It  may  have  been  a  recognition  of  danger  in  the  very- 
charm  of  her  attitude,  or  a  tw^ang  of  digestion,  that  caused 
a  sudden  dumbness  to  fall  on  James.  He  did  not  remember 
ever  having  been  quite  alone  with  Irene  before.  And,  as  he 
looked  at  her,  an  odd  feeling  crept  over  him,  as  though  he 
had  come  across  something  strange  and  foreign. 

Now  what  was  she  thinking  about — sitting  back  like  that  ? 

Thus  when  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  sharper  voice,  as  if  he 
had  been  awakened  from  a  pleasant  dream. 

'  What  d'you  do  with  yourself  all  day  ?'  he  said.  *  You 
never  come  round  to  Park  Lane !' 

She  seemed  to  be  making  very  lame  excuses,  and  James 
did  not  look  at  her.  He  did  not  want  to  believe  that  she 
was  really  avoiding  them — it  would  mean  too  much. 

'  I  expect  the  fact  is,  you  haven't  time,'  he  said  ;  '  you're 
always  about  with  June.  I  expect  you're  useful  to  her  with 
her  young  man,  chaperoning,  and  one  thing  and  another. 
They  tell  me  she's  never  at  home  now ;  your  Uncle  Jolyon 
he  doesn't  like  it,  I  fancy,  being  left  so  much  alone  as  he  is. 
They  tell  me  she's  always  hanging  about  for  this  young 
Bosinney  ;  I  suppose  he  comes  here  every  day.  Now,  what 
do  you  think  of  him  ?  D'you  think  he  knows  his  own 
mind  ?  He  seems  to  me  a  poor  thing.  I  should  say  the 
gray  mare  was  the  better  horse  !' 

The  colour  deepened  in  Irene's  face  ;  and  James  watched 
her  suspiciously. 

*  Perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand  Mr.  Bosinney,'  she  said. 

*  Don't  understand  him  !'  James  hurried  out  :  '  Why 
not  ? — you  can  see  he's  one  of  these  artistic  chaps.  They 
say  he's  clever — they  all  think  they're  clever.  You  know 
more  about  him  than  I  do,'  he  added  ;  and  again  his 
suspicious  glance  rested  on  her. 

*  He  is  designing  a  house  for  Soames,'  she  said  softly, 
evidently  trying  to  smooth  things  over. 

4* 


90  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*That  brings  me  to  what  I  was  going  to  say,'  continued 
James  ;  *  I  don't  know  what  Soames  wants  with  a  young 
man  like  that  ;  why  doesn't  he  go  to  a  first-rate  man  ?' 

*  Perhaps  Mr.  Bosinney  is  first-rate  !' 
James  rose,  and  took  a  turn  with  bent  head. 

*  That's  it,'  he  said,  '  you  young  people,  you  all  stick  to- 
gether ;  you  all  think  you  know  best !' 

Halting  his  tall,  lank  figure  before  her,  he  raised  a  finger, 
and  levelled  it  at  her  bosom,  as  though  bringing  an  indictment 
against  her  beauty  : 

*  All  I  can  say  is,  these  artistic  people,  or  whatever  they 
call  themselves,  they're  as  unreliable  as  they  can  be  ;  and 
my  advice  to  you  is,  don't  you  have  too  much  to  do  with  him  !' 

Irene  smiled  ;  and  in  the  curve  of  her  lips  was  a  strange 
provocation.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  her  deference.  Her 
breast  rose  and  fell  as  though  with  secret  anger  ;  she  drew 
her  hands  inwards  from  their  rest  on  the  arms  of  her  chair 
until  the  tips  of  her  fingers  met,  and  her  dark  eyes  looked 
unfathomably  at  James. 

The  latter  gloomily  scrutinized  the  floor. 

*  I  tell  you  my  opinion,'  he  said,  '  it's  a  pity  you  haven't 
got  a  child  to  think  about,  and  occupy  you  !' 

A  brooding  look  came  instantly  on  Irene's  face,  and  even 
James  became  conscious  of  the  rigidity  that  took  possession 
of  her  whole  figure  beneath  the  softness  of  its  silk  and  lace 
clothing. 

He  was  frightened  by  the  effect  he  had  produced,  and,  like 
most  men  with  but  little  courage,  he  sought  at  once  to 
justify  himself  by  bullying. 

*  You  don't  seem  to  care  about  going  about.  Why  don't 
you  drive  down  to  Hurlingham  with  us?  And  go  to  the 
theatre  now  and  then.  At  your  time  of  life  you  ought  to 
take  an  interest  in  things.     You're  a  young  woman  !' 

The  brooding  look  darkened  on  her  face  ;   he  grew  nervous. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  91 

*  Well,  I  know  nothing  about  it,'  he  said  ;  'nobody  tells 
me  anything.  Soames  ought  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  him- 
self. If  he  can't  take  care  of  himself  he  mustn't  look  to  me — 
that's  all ' 

Biting  the  corner  of  his  forefinger  he  stole  a  cold,  sharp 
look  at  his  daughter-in-law. 

He  encountered  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  own,  so  dark  and 
deep,  that  he  stopped,  and  broke  into  a  gentle  perspiration. 

'  Well,  I  must  be  going,'  he  said  after  a  short  pause,  and  a 
minute  later  rose,  with  a  slight  appearance  of  surprise,  as 
though  he  had  expected  to  be  asked  to  stop.  Giving  his 
hand  to  Irene,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to  the 
door,  and  let  out  into  the  street.  He  would  not  have  a  cab, 
he  would  walk,  Irene  was  to  say  good-night  to  Soames  for 
him,  and  if  she  wanted  a  little  gaiety,  well,  he  would  drive 
her  down  to  Richmond  any  day. 

He  walked  home,  and  going  upstairs,  woke  Emily  out  of 
the  first  sleep  she  had  had  for  four  and  twenty  hours,  to  tell 
her  that  it  was  his  impression  things  were  in  a  bad  way  at 
Soames'  ;  on  this  theme  he  descanted  for  half  an  hour, 
until  at  last,  saying  that  he  would  not  sleep  a  wink,  he  turned 
on  his  side  and  instantly  began  to  snore. 

In  Montpellier  Square  Soames,  who  had  come  from  the 
picture  room,  stood  invisible  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  watching 
Irene  sort  the  letters  brought  by  the  last  post.  She  turned 
back  into  the  drawing-room  ;  but  in  a  minute  came  out,  and 
stood  as  if  listening.  Then  she  came  stealing  up  the  stairs, 
with  a  kitten  in  her  arms.  He  could  see  her  face  bent  over 
the  little  beast,  which  was  purring  against  her  neck.  Why 
couldn't  she  look  at  him  like  that  ? 

Suddenly  she  saw  him,  and  her  face  changed. 

'  Any  letters  for  me  ?'  he  said. 

'Three.' 

He  stood  aside,  and  without  another  word  she  passed  on 
into  the  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OLD  jolyon's  peccadillo 

Old  Jolyon  came  out  of  Lord's  cricket  ground  that  same 
afternoon  with  the  intention  of  going  home.  He  had  not 
reached  Hamilton  Terrace  before  he  changed  his  mind,  and 
hailing  a  cab,  gave  the  driver  an  address  in  Wistaria  Avenue. 
He  had  taken  a  resolution. 

June  had  hardly  been  at  home  at  all  that  week  ;  she  had 
given  him  nothing  of  her  company  for  a  long  time  past,  not, 
in  fact,  since  she  had  become  engaged  to  Bosinney.  He 
never  asked  her  for  her  company.  It  was  not  his  habit  to 
ask  people  for  things  !  She  had  just  that  one  idea  now — 
Bosinney  and  his  affairs — and  she  left  him  stranded  in  his 
great  house,  with  a  parcel  of  servants,  and  not  a  soul  to 
speak  to  from  morning  to  night.  His  Club  was  closed  for 
cleaning  ;  his  Boards  in  recess  ;  there  was  nothing,  there- 
fore, to  take  him  into  the  City.  June  had  wanted  him  to 
go  away  j  she  would  not  go  herself,  because  Bosinney  was  in 
London. 

But  where  was  he  to  go  by  himself?  He  could  not  go 
abroad  alone ;  the  sea  upset  his  liver ;  he  hated  hotels. 
Roger  went  to  a  hydropathic — he  was  not  going  to  begin 
that  at  his  time  of  life,  those  new-fangled  places  were  all 
humbug  ! 

With  such  formulas  he  clothed  to  himself  the  desolation  of 
his  spirit ;  the  lines  down  his  face  deepening,  his  eyes  day  by 

9a 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  93 

day  looking  forth  with  the  melancholy  that  sat  so  strangely 
on  a  face  that  was  wont  to  be  strong  and  serene. 

And  so  that  afternoon  he  took  this  journey  through  St. 
John's  Wood,  in  the  golden  light  that  sprinkled  the  rounded 
green  bushes  of  the  acacias  before  the  little  houses,  in  the 
summer  sunshine  that  seemed  holding  a  revel  over  the  little 
gardens  ;  and  he  looked  about  him  with  interest ;  for  this 
was  a  district  which  no  Forsyte  entered  without  open  dis- 
approval and  secret  curiosity. 

His  cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  house  of  that  peculiar 
buff  colour  which  implies  a  long  immunity  from  paint.  It 
had  an  outer  gate,  and  a  rustic  approach. 

He  stepped  out,  his  bearing  extremely  composed  ;  his 
massive  head,  with  its  drooping  moustache  and  wings  of 
white  hair,  very  upright,  under  an  excessively  large  top 
hat ;  his  glance  firm,  a  little  angry.  He  had  been  driven 
into  this  ! 

'  Mrs.  Jolyon  Forsyte  at  home  ?' 

'  Oh,  yes,  sir  ! — what  name  shall  I  say,  if  you  please,  sir  ?* 

Old  Jolyon  could  not  help  twinkling  at  the  little  maid  as 
he  gave  his  name.  She  seemed  to  him  such  a  funny  little 
toad  ! 

And  he  followed  her  through  the  dark  hall,  into  a  small 
double  drawing-room,  where  the  furniture  was  covered  in 
chintz,  and  the  little  maid  placed  him  in  a  chair. 

'  They're  all  in  the  garden,  sir  ;  if  you'll  kindly  take  a  seat, 
I'll  tell  them.' 

Old  Jolyon  sat  down  in  the  chintz-covered  chair,  and 
looked  around  him.  The  whole  place  seemed  to  him,  as  he 
would  have  expressed  it,  pokey  ;  there  was  a  certain — he 
could  not  tell  exactly  what — air  of  shabbiness,  or  rather  of 
making  two  ends  meet,  about  everything.  As  far  as  he 
could  see,  not  a  single  piece  of  furniture  was  worth  a  five- 
pound  note.    The  walls,  distempered  rather  a  long  time  ago, 


94  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

were  decorated  with  water-colour  sketches  ;  across  the  ceih'ng 
meandered  a  long  crack. 

These  little  houses  were  all  old,  second-rate  concerns  ;  he 
should  hope  the  rent  was  under  a  hundred  a  year  ;  it  hurt 
him  more  than  he  could  have  said,  to  think  of  a  Forsyte — 
his  own  son — living  in  such  a  place. 

The  little  maid  came  back.  Would  he  please  to  go  down 
into  the  garden  ? 

Old  Jolyon  marched  out  through  the  French  windows. 
In  descending  the  steps  he  noticed  that  they  wanted 
painting. 

Young  Jolyon,  his  wife,  his  two  children,  and  his  dog 
Balthasar,  were  all  out  there  under  a  pear-tree. 

This  walk  towards  them  was  the  most  courageous  act  of 
old  Jolyon's  life  ;  but  no  muscle  of  his  face  moved,  no 
nervous  gesture  betrayed  him.  He  kept  his  deep-set  eyes 
steadily  on  the  enemy. 

In  those  two  minutes  he  demonstrated  to  perfection  all 
that  unconscious  soundness,  balance,  and  vitality  of  fibre 
that  made  of  him  and  so  many  others  of  his  class  the  core  of 
the  nation.  In  the  unostentatious  conduct  of  their  own 
affairs,  to  the  neglect  of  everything  else,  they  typified  the 
essential  individualism,  born  in  the  Briton  from  the  natural 
isolation  of  his  country's  life. 

The  dog  Balthasar  sniffed  round  the  edges  of  his  trousers  ; 
this  friendly  and  cynical  mongrel — offspring  of  a  liaison 
between  a  Russian  poodle  and  a  fox-terrier — had  a  nose  for 
the  unusual. 

The  strange  greetings  over,  old  Jolyon  seated  himself  in  a 
wicker  chair,  and  his  two  grandchildren,  one  on  each  side  of 
his  knees,  looked  at  him  silently,  never  having  seen  so  old 
a  man. 

They  were  unlike,  as  though  recognising  the  difference 
set    between    them    by  the    circumstances   of   their    births. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  95 

Jolly,  the  child  of  sin,  pudgy-faced,  with  his  tow-coloured 
hair  brushed  off  his  forehead,  and  a  dimple  in  his  chin,  had 
an  air  of  stubborn  amiability,  and  the  eyes  of  a  Forsyte  ; 
little  Holly,  the  child  of  wedlock,  was  a  dark-skinned, 
solemn  soul,  with  her  mother's  gray  and  wistful  eyes. 

The  dog  Balthasar,  having  walked  round  the  three  small 
flower-beds,  to  show  his  extreme  contempt  for  things  at 
large,  had  also  taken  a  seat  in  front  of  old  Jolvon,  and, 
oscillating  a  tail  curled  by  Nature  tightly  over  his  back,  was 
staring  up  with  eyes  that  did  not  blink. 

Even  in  the  garden,  that  sense  of  things  being  pokey 
haunted  old  Jolyon  ;  the  wicker  chair  creaked  under  his 
weight ;  the  garden-beds  looked  ^  daverdy ';  on  the  far  side, 
under  the  smut-stained  wall,  cats  had  made  a  path. 

While  he  and  his  grandchildren  thus  regarded  each  other 
with  the  peculiar  scrutiny,  curious  yet  trustful,  that  passes 
between  the  very  young  and  the  very  old,  young  Jolyon 
watched  his  wife. 

The  colour  had  deepened  in  her  thin,  oval  face,  with  its 
straight  brows,  and  large,  gray  eyes.  Her  hair,  brushed  in 
fine,  high  curves  back  from  her  forehead,  was  going  gray, 
like  his  own,  and  this  grayness  made  the  sudden  vivid  colour 
in  her  cheeks  painfully  pathetic. 

The  look  on  her  face,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  there 
before,  such  as  she  had  always  hidden  from  him,  was  full 
of  secret  resentments,  and  longings,  and  fears.  Her  eyes, 
under  their  twitching  brows,  stared  painfully.  And  she  was 
silent. 

Jolly  alone  sustained  the  conversation  ;  he  had  many 
possessions,  and  was  anxious  that  his  unknown  friend  with 
extremely  large  moustaches,  and  hands  all  covered  with  blue 
veins,  who  sat  with  legs  crossed  like  his  own  father  (a  habit 
he  was  himself  trying  to  acquire),  should  know  it ;  but  being 
a  Forsyte,  though  not  yet  quite  eight  years  old,  he  made  no 


96  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

mention  of  the  thing  at  the  moment  dearest  to  his  heart — 
a  camp  of  soldiers  in  a  shop-window,  which  his  father  had 
promised  to  buy.  No  doubt  it  seemed  to  him  too  precious  ; 
a  tempting  of  Providence  to  mention  it  yet. 

And  the  sunlight  played  through  the  leaves  on  that  little 
party  of  the  three  generations  grouped  tranquilly  under  the 
pear-tree,  which  had  long  borne  no  fruit. 

Old  Jolyon's  furrowed  face  was  reddening  patchily,  as  old 
men's  faces  redden  in  the  sun.  He  took  one  of  Jolly's  hands 
in  his  own ;  the  boy  climbed  on  to  his  knee ;  and  little 
Holly,  mesmerized  by  this  sight,  crept  up  to  them ;  the 
sound  of  the  dog  Balthasar's  scratching  arose  rhythmically. 

Suddenly  young  Mrs.  Jolyon  got  up  and  hurried  indoors. 
A  minute  later  her  husband  muttered  an  excuse,  and  followed. 
Old  Jolyon  was  left  alone  with  his  grandchildren. 

And  Nature  with  her  quaint  irony  began  working  in  him 
one  of  her  strange  revolutions,  following  her  cyclic  laws  into 
the  depths  of  his  heart.  And  that  tenderness  for  little 
children,  that  passion  for  the  beginnings  of  life  which  had 
once  made  him  forsake  his  son  and  follow  June,  now 
worked  in  him  to  forsake  June  and  follow  these  littler 
things.  Youth,  like  a  flame,  burned  ever  in  his  breast,  and 
to  youth  he  turned,  to  the  round  little  limbs,  so  reckless, 
that  wanted  care,  to  the  small  round  faces  so  unreasonably 
solemn  or  bright,  to  the  treble  tongues,  and  the  shrill, 
chuckling  laughter,  to  the  insistent  tugging  hands,  and  the 
feel  of  small  bodies  against  his  legs,  to  all  that  was  young 
and  young,  and  once  more  young.  And  his  eyes  grew  soft, 
his  voice,  and  thin,  veined  hands  soft,  and  soft  his  heart 
within  him.  And  to  those  small  creatures  he  became  at 
once  a  place  of  pleasure,  a  place  where  they  were  secure, 
and  could  talk  and  laugh  and  play ;  till,  like  sunshine,  there 
radiated  from  old  Jolyon's  wicker  chair  the  perfect  gaiety 
of  three  hearts. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  97 

But  with  young  Jolyon  following  to  his  wife's  room  it 
was  different. 

He  found  her  seated  on  a  chair  before  her  dressing-glass, 
with  her  hands  before  her  face. 

Her  shoulders  were  shaking  with  sobs.  This  passion  of 
hers  for  suffering  was  mysterious  to  him.  He  had  been 
through  a  hundred  of  these  moods ;  how  he  had  survived 
them  he  never  knew,  for  he  could  never  believe  they  were 
moods,  and  that  the  last  hour  of  his  partnership  had  not 
struck. 

In  the  night  she  would  be  sure  to  throw  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  say  :  '  Oh  !  Jo,  how  I  make  you  suffer  !'  as 
she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before. 

He  reached  out  his  hand,  and,  unseen,  slipped  his  razor- 
case  into  his  pocket. 

^  I  can't  stay  here,'  he  thought,  *  I  must  go  down  !'  With- 
out a  word  he  left  the  room,  and  went  back  to  the  lawn. 

Old  Jolyon  had  little  Holly  on  his  knee  ;  she  had  taken 
possession  of  his  watch  ;  Jolly,  very  red  in  the  face,  was 
trying  to  show  that  he  could  stand  on  his  head.  The  dog 
Balthasar,  as  close  as  might  be  to  the  tea-table,  had  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  cake. 

Young  Jolyon  felt  a  malicious  desire  to  cut  their  enjoyment 
short. 

What  business  had  his  father  to  come  and  upset  his  wife 
like  this  ?  It  was  a  shock,  after  all  these  years  !  He  ought 
to  have  known  ;  he  ought  to  have  given  them  warning  ;  but 
when  did  a  Forsyte  ever  imagine  that  his  conduct  could 
upset  anybody  !  And  in  his  thoughts  he  did  old  Jolyon 
wrong. 

He  spoke  sharply  to  the  children,  and  told  them  to  go  in  to 
their  tea.  Greatly  surprised,  for  they  had  never  heard  their 
father  speak  sharply  before,  they  went  off,  hand  in  hand, 
little  Holly  looking  back  over  her  shoulder. 


98  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Young  Jolyon  poured  out  the  tea. 

^  My  wife's  not  the  thing  to-day,'  he  said,  but  he  knew 
well  enough  that  his  father  had  penetrated  the  cause  of  that 
sudden  withdrawal,  and  almost  hated  the  old  man  for  sitting 
there  so  calmly. 

*  You've  got  a  nice  little  house  here,'  said  old  Jolyon  with 
a  shrewd  look  ;  '  I  suppose  you've  taken  a  lease  of  it !' 

Young  Jolyon  nodded. 

*  I  don't  like  the  neighbourhood,'  said  old  Jolyon  ;  '  a 
ramshackle  lot.' 

Young  Jolyon  replied  :   '  Yes,  we're  a  ramshackle  lot.' 

The  silence  was  now  only  broken  by  the  sound  of  the  dog 
Balthasar's  scratching. 

Old  Jolyon  said  simply  :  '  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have 
come  here  Jo  ;  but  I  get  so  lonely  !' 

At  these  words  young  Jolyon  got  up  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  father's  shoulder. 

In  the  next  house  someone  was  playing  over  and  over 
again  :  '  La  Donna  ^  mobile  '  on  an  untuned  piano  ;  and  the 
little  garden  had  fallen  into  shade,  the  sun  now  only  reached 
the  wall  at  the  end,  whereon  basked  a  crouching  cat,  her 
vellow  eyes  turned  sleepily  down  on  the  dog  Balthasar. 
There  was  a  drowsy  hum  of  very  distant  traffic  ;  the 
creepered  trellis  round  the  garden  shut  out  everything  but  sky^ 
and  house,  and  pear-tree,  with  its  top  branches  still  gilded  by 
the  sun. 

For  some  time  they  sat  there,  talking  but  little.  Then 
old  Jolyon  rose  to  go,  and  not  a  word  was  said  about  his 
coming  again. 

He  walked  away  very  sadly.  What  a  poor  miserable 
place !  And  he  thought  of  the  great,  empty  house  in 
Stanhope  Gate,  fit  residence  for  a  Forsyte,  with  its  huge 
billiard-room  and  drawing-room  that  no  one  entered  from 
one  week's  end  to  another. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  99 

That  woman,  whose  face  he  had  rather  liked,  was  too 
thin-skinned  by  half ;  she  gave  Jo  a  bad  time  he  knew ! 
And  those  sweet  children !  Ah  !  what  a  piece  of  awful 
folly  ! 

He  walked  towards  the  Edgware  Road,  between  rows  of 
little  houses,  all  suggesting  to  him  (erroneously  no  doubt,  but 
the  prejudices  of  a  Forsyte  are  sacred)  shady  histories  of  some 
sort  or  kind. 

Society,  forsooth,  the  chattering  hags  and  jackanapes — 
had  set  themselves  up  to  pass  judgment  on  his  flesh  and  blood  ! 
A  parcel  of  old  women  !  He  stumped  his  umbrella  on  the 
ground,  as  though  to  drive  it  into  the  heart  of  that  unfortu- 
nate body,  which  had  dared  to  ostracize  his  son  and  his  son's 
son,  in  whom  he  could  have  lived  again  ! 

He  stumped  his  umbrella  fiercely  ;  yet  he  himself  had 
followed  Society's  behaviour  for  fifteen  years — had  only- 
to-day  been  false  to  it  1 

He  thought  of  June,  and  her  dead  mother,  and  the  whole 
story,  with  all  his  old  bitterness.     A  wretched  business ! 

He  was  a  long  time  reaching  Stanhope  Gate,  for,  with 
native  perversity,  being  extremely  tired,  he  walked  the  whole 
way. 

After  washing  his  hands  in  the  lavatory  downstairs,  he 
went  to  the  dining-room  to  wait  for  dinner,  the  only  room 
he  used  when  June  was  out — it  was  less  lonely  so.  The 
evening  paper  had  not  yet  come ;  he  had  finished  the 
Times,  there  was  therefore  nothing  to  do. 

The  room  faced  the  backwater  of  traffic,  and  was  very 
silent.  He  disliked  dogs,  but  a  dog  even  would  have  been 
company.  His  gaze,  travelling  round  the  walls,  rested  on  a 
picture  entitled  :  *  Group  of  Dutch  fishing  boats  at  sunset '  ; 
the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  his  collection.  It  gave  him  no  pleasure. 
He  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  lonely !  He  oughtn't  to 
complain,   he  knew,    but  he  couldn't  help  it  :     He  was  a 


100  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

poor  thing — had  always  been  a  poor  thing — no  pluck ! 
Such  was  his  thought. 

The  butler  came  to  lay  the  table  for  dinner,  and  seeing 
his  master  apparently  asleep,  exercised  extreme  caution  in  his 
movements.  This  bearded  man  also  wore  a  moustache, 
which  had  given  rise  to  grave  doubts  in  the  minds  of  many 
members  of  the  family — especially  those  who,  like  Soames, 
had  been  to  public  schools,  and  were  accustomed  to  niceness 
in  such  matters.  Could  he  really  be  considered  a  butler? 
Playful  spirits  alluded  to  him  as  :  '  Uncle  Jolyon's  Non- 
conformist '  ;  George,  the  acknowledged  wag,  had  named 
him  :  *  Sankey.' 

He  moved  to  and  fro  between  the  great  polished  sideboard 
and  the  great  polished  table  inimitably  sleek  and  soft. 

Old  Jolyon  watched  him,  feigning  sleep.  The  fellow 
was  a  sneak — he  had  always  thought  so — who  cared  about 
nothing  but  rattling  through  his  work,  and  getting  out  to  his 
betting  or  his  woman  or  goodness  knew  what !  A  slug ! 
Fat  too  !      And  didn't  care  a  pin  about  his  master ! 

But  then  against  his  will,  came  one  of  those  moments  of 
philosophy  which  made  old  Jolyon  different  from  other 
Forsytes  : 

After  all  why  should  the  man  care  ?  He  wasn't  paid  to 
care,  and  why  expect  it  ?  In  this  world  people  couldn't  look  for 
affection  unless  they  paid  for  it.  It  might  be  different  in  the 
next — he  didn't  know,  he  couldn't  tell !  And  again  he  shut 
his  eyes. 

Relentless  and  stealthy,  the  butler  pursued  his  labours, 
taking  things  from  the  various  compartments  of  the  sideboard. 
His  back  seemed  always  turned  to  old  Jolyon  ;  thus,  he 
robbed  his  operations  of  the  unseemliness  of  being  carried  on 
in  his  master's  presence  ;  now  and  then  he  furtively  breathed 
on  the  silver,  and  wiped  it  with  a  piece  of  chamois  leather. 
He  appeared  to  pore  over   the   quantities    of   wine   in   the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  loi 

decanters,  which  he  carried  carefully  and  rather  high,  letting 
his  beard  droop  over  them  protectingly.  When  he  had 
finished,  he  stood  for  over  a  minute  watching  his  master,  and 
in  his  greenish  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  contempt  : 

After  all,  this  master  of  his  was  an  old  buffer,  who  hadn't 
much  left  in  him  ! 

Soft  as  a  tom-cat,  he  crossed  the  room  to  press  the  bell. 
His  orders  were  '  dinner  at  seven.'  What  if  his  master  were 
asleep ;  he  would  soon  have  him  out  of  that ;  there  was  the 
night  to  sleep  in  !  He  had  himself  to  think  of,  for  he  was 
due  at  his  Club  at  half-past  eight ! 

In  answer  to  the  ring,  appeared  a  page  boy  with  a  silver 
soup  tureen.  The  butler  took  it  from  his  hands  and  placed 
it  on  the  table,  then,  standing  by  the  open  door,  as  though 
about  to  usher  company  into  the  room,  he  said  in  a  solemn 
voice  : 

*  Dinner  is  on  the  table,  sir !' 

Slowly  old  Jolyon  got  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  sat  down 
at  the  table  to  eat  his  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PLANS    OF    THE    HOUSE 

All  Forsytes,  as  is  generally  admitted,  have  shells,  like  that 
extremely  useful  little  animal  which  is  made  into  Turkish 
delight ;  in  other  words,  they  are  never  seen,  or  if  seen 
would  not  be  recognised,  without  habitats,  composed  ot 
circumstance,  property,  acquaintances,  and  wives,  which 
seem  to  move  along  with  them  in  their  passage  through  a 
world  composed  of  thousands  of  other  Forsytes  with  their 
habitats.  Without  a  habitat  a  Forsyte  is  inconceivable — he 
would  be  like  a  novel  without  a  plot,  which  is  well-known 
to  be  an  anomaly. 

To  Forsyte  eyes  Bosinney  appeared  to  have  no  habitat,  he 
seemed  one  of  those  rare  and  unfortunate  men  who  go  through 
life  surrounded  by  circumstance,  property,  acquaintances, 
and  wives  that  do  not  belong  to  them. 

His  rooms  in  Sloane  Street,  on  the  top  floor,  outside  which, 
on  a  plate,  was  his  name,  *  Philip  Baynes  Bosinney,  Archi- 
tect,' were  not  those  of  a  Forsyte.  He  had  no  sitting-room 
apart  from  his  office,  but  a  large  recess  had  been  screened  off 
to  conceal  the  necessaries  of  life — a  couch,  an  easy  chair,  his 
pipes,  spirit  case,  novels,  and  slippers.  The  business  part  of 
the  room  had  the  usual  furniture  ;  an  open  cupboard  with 
pigeon-holes,  a  round  oak  table,  a  folding  wash-stand,  some 
hard  chairs,  a  standing  desk  of  large  dimensions  covered  with 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  103 

drawings  and  designs.  June  had  twice  been  to  tea  there 
under  the  chaperonage  of  his  aunt. 

He  was  believed  to  have  a  bedroom  at  the  back. 

As  far  as  the  family  had  been  able  to  ascertain  his  income, 
it  consisted  of  two  consulting  appointments  at  twenty 
pounds  a  year,  together  with  an  odd  fee  once  in  a  way, 
and — more  worthy  item — a  private  annuity  under  his  father's 
will  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

What  had  transpired  concerning  that  father  was  not  so 
reassuring.  It  appeared  that  he  had  been  a  Lincolnshire 
country  doctor  of  Cornish  extraction,  striking  appearance, 
and  Byronic  tendencies — a  well-known  figure,  in  fact,  in  his 
county.  Bosinney's  uncle  by  marriage,  Baynes,  of  Baynes 
and  Bildeboy,  a  Forsyte  in  instincts  if  not  in  name,  had  but 
little  that  was  worthy  to  relate  of  his  brother-in-law. 

'  An  odd  fellow  !*  he  would  say  :  '  always  spoke  of  his 
three  eldest  boys  as  "good  creatures,  but  so  dull";  they're 
all  doing  capitally  in  the  Indian  Civil !  Philip  was  the  only 
one  he  liked.  I've  heard  him  talk  in  the  queerest  way  ;  he 
once  said  to  me  :  "  My  dear  fellow,  never  let  your  poor  wife 
know  what  you're  thinking  of!"  But  I  didn't  follow  his 
advice  ;  not  I  !  An  eccentric  man  !  He  would  say  to 
Phil  :  "  Whether  you  live  like  a  gentleman  or  not,  my  boy, 
be  sure  you  die  like  one  !"  and  he  had  himself  embalmed  in 
a  frock  coat  suit,  with  a  satin  cravat  and  a  diamond  pin. 
Oh,  quite  an  original,  I  can  assure  you  !' 

Of  Bosinney  himself  Baynes  would  speak  warmly,  with  a 
certain  compassion  :  *  He's  got  a  streak  of  his  father's  By  ronism. 
Why,  look  at  the  way  he  threw  up  his  chances  when  he  left 
my  office  ;  going  ofFlike  that  for  six  months  with  a  knapsack, 
and  all  for  what  ? — to  study  foreign  architecture — foreign  ! 
What  could  he  expect  ?  And  there  he  is — a  clever  young 
fellow — doesn't  make  his  hundred  a  year  !  Now  this 
engagement  is  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened — 


104  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

keep  him  steady  ;  he's  one  or  those  that  go  to  bed  all  day 
and  stay  up  all  night,  simply  because  they've  no  method  ; 
but  no  vice  about  him — not  an  ounce  of  vice.  Old  Forsyte's 
a  rich  man  !' 

Mr.  Baynes  made  himself  extremely  pleasant  to  June,  who 
frequently  visited  his  house  in  Low^ndes  Square  at  this  period. 

'  This  house  of  Mr.  Soames's — what  a  capital  man  of  busi- 
ness— is  the  very  thing  for  Philip,'  he  would  say  to  her  ; 
*  you  mustn't  expect  to  see  too  much  of  him  just  now,  my 
dear  young  lady.  The  good  cause — the  good  cause  !  The 
young  man  must  make  his  way.  When  I  was  his  age  I  was 
at  work  day  and  night.  My  dear  wife  used  to  say  to  me, 
"Bobby,  don't  work  too  hard,  think  of  your  health";  but  I 
never  spared  myself !' 

June  had  complained  that  her  lover  found  no  time  to 
come  to  Stanhope  Gate. 

The  first  time  he  came  again  they  had  not  been  together 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  by  one  of  those  coincidences  of 
which  she  was  a  mistress,  Mrs.  Septimus  Small  arrived. 
Thereon  Bosinney  rose  and  hid  himself,  according  to 
previous  arrangement,  in  the  little  study,  to  wait  for  her 
departure. 

'  My  dear,'  said  Aunt  Juley,  *  how  thin  he  is  !  I've  often 
noticed  it  with  engaged  people  ;  but  you  mustn't  let  it  get 
worse.  There's  Barlow's  extract  of  veal ;  it  did  your  Uncle 
Swithin  a  lot  of  good.' 

June,  her  little  figure  erect  before  the  hearth,  her  small 
face  quivering  grimly,  for  she  regarded  her  Aunt's  untimely 
visit  in  the  light  of  a  personal  injury,  replied  with  scorn  : 

*It's  because  he's  busy;  people  who  can  do  anything 
worth  doing  are  never  fat  !' 

Aunt  Juley  pouted  ;  she  herself  had  always  been  thin,  but 
the  only  pleasure  she  derived  from  the  fact  was  the  oppor- 
tunity of  longing  to  be  stouter. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  105 

'  I  don't  think,'  she  said  mournfully,  *  that  you  ought  to 
let  them  call  him  "The  Buccaneer";  people  might  think  it 
odd,  now  that  he's  going  to  build  a  house  for  Soames.  I  do 
hope  he  will  be  careful ;  it's  so  important  for  him  ;  Soames 
has  such  good  taste  !' 

'  Taste  !'  cried  June,  flaring  up  at  once  ;  '  I  wouldn't  give 
that  for  his  taste,  or  any  of  the  family's  !' 

Mrs.  Small  was  taken  aback. 

'  Your  Uncle  Swithin,'  she  said,  '  always  had  beautiful 
taste  !  And  Soames's  little  house  is  lovely  ;  you  don't  mean 
to  say  you  don't  think  so  !' 

*  H'mph  !'  said  June,  *  that's  only  because  Irene's  there  !' 
Aunt  Juley  tried  to  say  something  pleasant  : 

*  And  how  will  dear  Irene  like  living  in  the  country  ?' 
June  gazed  at  her  intently,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  if 

her  conscience  had  suddenly  leaped  up  into  them  ;  it  passed ; 
and  an  even  more  intent  look  took  its  place,  as  if  she  had 
stared  that  conscience  out  of  countenance.  She  replied 
imperiously  : 

'  Of  course  she'll  like  it  ;  why  shouldn't  she  ?' 

Mrs.  Small  grew  nervous. 

'  I  didn't  know,'  she  said  ;  '  I  thought  she  mightn't  like  to 
leave  her  friends.  Your  Uncle  James  says  she  doesn't  take 
enough  interest  in  life.  We  think — I  mean  Timothy  thinks 
— she  ought  to  go  out  more.  I  expect  you'll  miss  her  very 
much  !' 

June  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  neck. 

*  I  do  wish,'  she  cried,  *  Uncle  Timothy  wouldn't  talk 
about  what  doesn't  concern  him  !' 

Aunt  Juley  rose  to  the  full  height  of  her  tall  figure. 
'  He  never  talks  about  what  doesn't  concern  him,'  she  said. 
June  was  instantly  compunctious ;  she  ran  to  her  aunt  and 
kissed  her. 

'  I'm  very  sorry,  auntie ;  but  I  wish  they'd  let  Irene  alone.* 


io6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Aunt  Juley,  unable  to  think  of  anything  further  on  the 
subject  that  would  be  suitable,  was  silent  ;  she  prepared  for 
departure,  hooking  her  black  silk  cape  across  her  chest,  and, 
taking  up  her  green  reticule  : 

'  And  how  is  your  dear  grandfather  ?'  she  asked  in  the 
hall,  *I  expect  he's  very  lonely  now  that  all  your  time  is 
taken  up  with  Mr.  Bosinney.'  She  bent  and  kissed  her 
niece  hungrily,  and  with  little,  mincing  steps  passed  away. 

The  tears  sprang  up  in  June's  eyes ;  running  into  the  little 
study,  where  Bosinney  was  sitting  at  the  table  drawing  birds 
on  the  back  of  an  envelope,  she  sank  down  by  his  side  and 
cried : 

*  Oh,  Phil !  it's  all  so  horrid  !'  Her  heart  was  as  warm 
as  the  colour  of  her  hair. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning,  while  Soames  was 
shaving,  a  message  was  brought  him  to  the  effect  that 
Mr.  Bosinney  was  below,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  him. 
Opening  the  door  into  his  wife's  room,  he  said: 

*  Bosinney's  downstairs.  Just  go  and  entertain  him  while 
I  finish  shaving.  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute.  It's  about  the 
plans,  I  expect.' 

Irene  looked  at  him,  without  reply,  put  the  finishing  touch 
to  her  dress  and  went  downstairs. 

He  could  not  make  her  out  about  this  house.  She  had 
said  nothing  against  it,  and,  as  far  as  Bosinney  was  con- 
cerned, seemed  friendly  enough. 

From  the  window  of  his  dressing-room  he  could  see  them 
talking  together  in  the  little  court  below. 

He  hurried  on  with  his  shaving,  cutting  his  chin  twice. 
He  heard  them  laugh,  and  thought  to  himself :  *  Well, 
they  get  on  all  right,  anyway  !' 

As  he  expected,  Bosinney  had  come  round  to  fetch  him 
to  look  at  the  plans. 

He  took  his  hat  and  went  over. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  107 

The  plans  were  spread  on  the  oak  table  in  the  architect's 
room ;  and  pale,  imperttirbable,  inquiring,  Soames  bent  over 
them  for  a  long  time  without  speaking. 

He  said  at  last  in  a  puzzled  voice  : 

*  It's  an  odd  sort  of  house  !' 

A  rectangular  house  of  two  stories  was  designed  in  a 
quadrangle  round  a  covered-in  court.  This  court,  encircled 
by  a  gallery  on  the  upper  floor,  was  roofed  with  a  glass 
roof,  supported  by  eight  columns  running  up  from  the 
ground. 

It  was  indeed,  to  Forsyte  eyes,  an  odd  house. 

*  There's  a  lot  of  room  cut  to  waste,'  pursued  Soames. 
Bosinney  began  to  walk  about,  and  Soames  did  not  like 

the  expression  on  his  face. 

*  The  principle  of  this  house,'  said  the  architect,  *  was  that 
you  should  have  room  to  breathe — like  a  gentleman !' 

Soames  extended  his  finger  and  thumb,  as  if  measuring 
the  extent  of  the  distinction  he  should  acquire,  and  replied  : 

*  Oh  !  yes  ;  I  see.' 

The  peculiar  look  came  into  Bosinney's  face  which 
marked  all  his  enthusiasms. 

*  I've  tried  to  plan  you  a  house  here  with  some  self-respect 
of  its  own.  If  you  don't  like  it,  you'd  better  say  so.  It's 
certainly  the  last  thing  to  be  considered — who  wants  self- 
respect  in  a  house,  when  you  can  squeeze  in  an  extra 
lavatory?'  He  put  his  finger  suddenly  down  on  the  left 
division  of  the  centre  oblong  :  *  You  can  swing  a  cat  here. 
This  is  for  your  pictures,  divided  from  this  court  by  curtains  ; 
draw  them  back  and  you'll  have  a  space  of  fifty-one  by 
twenty-three  six.  This  double-faced  stove  in  the  centre, 
here,  looks  one  way  towards  the  court,  one  way  towards  the 
picture  room  j  this  end  wall  is  all  window  ;  you've  a  south- 
east light  from  that,  a  north  light  from  the  court.  The 
rest   of    your    pictures    you    can    hang   round    the   gallery 


io8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

upstairs,  or  in  the  other  rooms.  In  architecture/  he  went  on — 
and  though  looking  at  Soames  he  did  not  seem  to  see  him^ 
which  gave  Soames  an  unpleasant  feeling — *  as  in  life,  you'll 
o-et  no  self-respect  without  regularity.  Fellows  tell  you 
that's  old  fashioned.  It  appears  to  be  peculiar  any  way  ;  it 
never  occurs  to  us  to  embody  the  main  principle  of  life  in  our 
buildings  ;  we  load  our  houses  with  decoration,  gimcracks, 
corners,  anything  to  distract  the  eye.  On  the  contrary  the 
eye  should  rest ;  get  your  effects  with  a  few  strong  lines.  The 
whole  thing  is  regularity — there's  no  self-respect  without  it.' 

Soames,  the  unconscious  ironist,  fixed  his  gaze  on  Bosinney's 
tie,  which  was  far  from  being  in  the  perpendicular  ;  he  was 
unshaven  too,  and  his  dress  not  remarkable  for  order. 
Architecture  appeared  to  have  exhausted  his  regularity. 

'  Won't  it  look  like  a  barrack  r'  he  inquired. 
•  He  did  not  at  once  receive  a  reply. 

*  I  can  see  what  it  is,'  said  Bosinney,  *  you  want  one  of 
Littlemaster's  houses — one  of  the  pretty  and  commodious 
sort,  where  the  servants  will  live  in  garrets,  and  the  front 
door  be  sunk  so  that  you  may  come  up  again.  By  all 
means  try  Littlemaster,  you'll  find  him  a  capital  fellow,  I've 
known  him  all  my  life !' 

Soames  was  alarmed.  He  had  really  been  struck  by  the 
plans,  and  the  concealment  of  his  satisfaction  had  been  merely 
instinctive.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  pay  a  compliment. 
He  despised  people  who  were  lavish  with  their  praises. 

He  found  himself  now  in  the  embarrassing  position  of  one 
who  must  pay  a  compliment  or  run  the  risk  of  losing  a  good 
thing.  Bosinney  was  just  the  fellow  who  might  tear  up  the 
plans  and  refuse  to  act  for  him  ;  a  kind  of  grown-up  child  ! 

This  grown-up  childishness,  to  which  he  felt  so  superior, 
exercised  a  peculiar  and  almost  mesmeric  effect  on  Soames, 
for  he  had  never  felt  anything  like  it  in  himself. 

'  Well,'  he  stammered  at  last,  '  it's — it's  certainly  original.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  109 

He  had  such  a  private  distrust  and  even  dislike  of  the 
\vord  '  original '  that  he  felt  he  had  not  really  given  himself 
aw^ay  by  this  remark. 

Bosinney  seemed  pleased.  It  w^as  the  sort  of  thing  that 
would  please  a  fellow  like  that !  And  his  success  encouraged 
Soames. 

*It's — a  big  place,'  he  said. 

*■  Space,  air,  light,'  he  heard  Bosinney  murmur,  *  you  can't 
live  like  a  gentleman  in  one  of  Littlemaster's — he  builds  for 
manufacturers.' 

Soames  made  a  deprecating  movement  ;  he  had  been 
identified  with  a  gentleman  ;  not  for  a  good  deal  of  money 
now  would  he  be  classed  with  manufacturers.  But  his 
innate  distrust  of  general  principles  revived.  What  the 
deuce  was  the  good  of  talking  about  regularity  and  self- 
respect  ?     It  looked  to  him  as  if  the  house  would  be  cold. 

'  Irene  can't  stand  the  cold !'  he  said. 

*  Ah  !'  said  Bosinney  sarcastically.  '  Your  wire  ?  She 
doesn't  like  the  cold  ?  I'll  see  to  that ;  she  shan't  be  cold. 
Look  here !'  he  pointed  to  four  marks  at  regular  intervals  on 
the  walls  of  the  court.  '  I've  given  you  hot-water  pipes  in 
aluminium  casings ;  you  can  get  them  with  very  good 
designs.' 

Soames  looked  suspiciously  at  these  marks. 

*  It's  all  very  well,  all  this,'  he  said,  *  but  what's  it  going  to 
cost  r' 

The  architect  took  a  sheet  ot  paper  from  his  pocket : 

*  The  house,  of  course,  should  be  built  entirely  of  stone, 
but,  as  I  thought  you  wouldn't  stand  that,  I've  compromised 
for  a  facing.  It  ought  to  have  a  copper  roof,  but  I've  made 
it  green  slate.  As  it  is,  including  metal  work,  it'll  cost  you 
eight  thousand  five  hundred.' 

'  Eight  thousand  five  hundred  ?'  said  Soames.  *  Why, 
I  gave  you  an  outside  limit  of  eight !' 


no  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  Can't  be  done  for  a  penny  less,'  replied  Bosinney  coolly. 
*  You  must  take  it  or  leave  it !' 

It  was  the  only  way,  probably,  that  such  a  proposition 
could  have  been  made  to  Soames.  He  was  nonplussed. 
Conscience  told  him  to  throw  the  whole  thing  up.  But  the 
design  was  good,  and  he  knew  it — there  was  completeness 
about  it,  and  dignity  ;  the  servants'  apartments  were  excellent 
too.  He  would  gain  credit  by  living  in  a  house  like  that — 
with  such  individual  features,  yet  perfectly  well-arranged. 

He  continued  poring  over  the  plans,  while  Bosinney  went 
mto  his  bedroom  to  shave  and  dress. 

The  two  walked  back  to  Montpellier  Square  in  silence, 
Soames  watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

The  Buccaneer  was  rather  a  good-looking  fellow — so  he 
thought — when  he  was  properly  got  up. 

Irene  was  bending  over  her  flowers  when  the  two  men 
came  in. 

She  spoke  of  sending  across  the  Park  to  fetch  June. 

*  No,  no,'  said  Soames,  *  we've  still  got  business  to  talk 
over !' 

At  lunch  he  was  almost  cordial,  and  kept  pressing 
Bosinney  to  eat.  He  was  pleased  to  see  the  architect  in 
such  high  spirits,  and  left  him  to  spend  the  afternoon  with 
Irene,  while  he  stole  off  to  his  pictures,  after  his  Sunday 
habit.  At  tea-time  he  came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
found  them  talking,  as  he  expressed  it,  nineteen  to  the  dozen. 

Unobserved  in  the  doorway,  he  congratulated  himself 
that  things  were  taking  the  right  turn.  It  was  lucky  she 
and  Bosinney  got  on  ;  she  seemed  to  be  falling  into  line 
with  the  idea  of  the  new  house. 

Quiet  meditation  among  his  pictures  had  decided  him  to 
spring  the  five  hundred  if  necessary  ;  but  he  hoped  that  the 
afternoon  might  have  softened  Bosinney's  estimates.  It  was 
so   purely   a  matter    which    Bosinney   could   remedy  if  he 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  in 

liked  ;  there  must  be  a  dozen  ways  in  which  he  could 
cheapen  the  production  of  a  house  without  spoiling  the  effect. 

He  awaited,  therefore,  his  opportunity  till  Irene  was  hand- 
ing the  architect  his  first  cup  of  tea.  A  chink  of  sunshine 
through  the  lace  of  the  blinds  warmed  her  cheek,  shone  in 
the  gold  of  her  hair,  and  in  her  soft  eyes.  Possibly  the  same 
gleam  deepened  Bosinney's  colour,  gave  the  rather  startled 
look  to  his  face. 

Soames  hated  sunshine,  and  he  at  once  got  up  to  draw  the 
blind.  Then  he  took  his  own  cup  of  tea  from  his  wife,  and 
said,  more  coldly  than  he  had  intended : 

'  Can't  you  see  your  way  to  do  it  for  eight  thousand  after 
all  ?     There  must  be  a  lot  of  little  things  you  could  alter.' 

Bosinney  drank  off  his  tea  at  a  gulp,  put  down  his  cup, 
and  answered  : 

'  Not  one  !' 

Soames  saw  that  his  suggestion  had  touched  some  unintel- 
ligible point  of  personal  vanity. 

*  Well,'  he  agreed,  with  sulky  resignation ;  '  you  must 
have  it  your  own  way,  I  suppose.' 

A  few  minutes  later  Bosinney  rose  to  go,  and  Soames  rose 
too,  to  see  him  off  the  premises.  The  architect  seemed  in 
absurdly  high  spirits.  After  watching  him  walk  away  at  a 
swinging  pace,  Soames  returned  moodily  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Irene  was  putting  away  the  music,  and,  moved 
by  an  uncontrollable  spasm  of  curiosity,  he  asked  : 

'  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  "  The  Buccaneer  "?' 

He  looked  at  the  carpet  while  waiting  for  her  answer,  and 
he  had  to  wait  some  time. 

'  I  don't  know,'  she  said  at  last. 

'  Do  you  think  he's  good-looking  ?' 

Irene  smiled.  And  it  seemed  to  Soames  that  she  was 
mocking  him. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered  ;  '  very.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEATH    OF    AUNT    ANN 

"There  came  a  morning  at  the  end  of  September  when  Aunt 
Ann  was  unable  to  take  from  Smither's  hands  the  insignia  of 
personal  dignity.  After  one  look  at  the  old  face,  the  doctor, 
hurriedly  sent  for,  announced  that  Miss  Forsyte  had  passed 
away  in  her  sleep. 

Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  were  overwhelmed  by  the  shock. 
They  had  never  imagined  such  an  ending.  Indeed,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  they  had  ever  realized  that  an  ending  was 
bound  to  come.  Secretly  they  felt  it  unreasonable  of  Ann  to 
have  left  them  like  this  without  a  word,  without  even  a 
struggle.     It  was  unlike  her. 

Perhaps  what  really  affected  them  so  profoundly  was  the 
thought  that  a  Forsyte  should  have  let  go  her  grasp  on  life. 
If  one,  then  why  not  all ! 

It  was  a  full  hour  before  they  could  make  up  their  minds 
to  tell  Timothy.  Ir  only  it  could  be  kept  rrom  him  !  If 
only  it  could  be  broken  to  him  by  degrees ! 

And  long  they  stood  outside  his  door  whispering  together. 
And  when  it  was  over  they  whispered  together  again. 

He  would  feel  it  more,  they  were  afraid,  as  time  went  on. 
Still,  he  had  taken  it  better  than  could  have  been  expected. 
He  would  keep  his  bed,  of  course  ! 

They  separated,  crying  quietly. 

Aunt  Juley  stayed  in  her  room,  prostrated  by  the  blow. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  113 

Her  face,  discoloured  by  tears,  was  divided  into  compartments 
by  the  little  ridges  of  pouting  flesh  which  had  swollen  with 
emotion.  It  was  impossible  to  conceive  of  life  without 
Ann,  who  had  lived  with  her  for  seventy-three  years,  broken 
only  by  the  short  interregnum  of  her  married  life,  which 
seemed  now  so  unreal.  At  fixed  intervals  she  went  to  her 
drawer,  and  took  from  beneath  the  lavender  bags  a  fresh 
pocket-handkerchief.  Her  warm  heart  could  not  bear  the 
thought  that  Ann  was  lying  there  so  cold. 

Aunt  Hester,  the  silent,  the  patient,  that  backwater  of  the 
family  energy,  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  where  the  blinds 
were  drawn ;  and  she,  too,  had  wept  at  first,  but  quietly, 
without  visible  effect.  Her  guiding  principle,  the  conserva- 
tion of  energy,  did  not  abandon  her  in  sorrow.  She  sat, 
slim,  motionless,  studying  the  grate,  her  hands  idle  in  the 
lap  of  her  black  silk  dress.  They  would  want  to  rouse  her 
into  doing  something,  no  doubt.  As  if  there  were  any  good 
in  that !  Doing  something  would  not  bring  back  Ann  ! 
Why  worry  her  ? 

Five  o'clock  brought  three  of  the  brothers,  Jolyon  and 
James  and  Swithin  :  Nicholas  was  at  Yarmouth,  and  Roger 
had  a  bad  attack  of  gout.  Mrs.  Hayman  had  been  by  herself 
earlier  in  the  day,  and,  after  seeing  Ann,  had  gone  away, 
leaving  a  message  for  Timothy — which  was  kept  from  him 
— that  she  ought  to  have  been  told  sooner.  In  fact,  there 
was  a  feeling  amongst  them  all  that  they  ought  to  have  been 
told  sooner,  as  though  they  had  missed  something ;  and 
James  said  : 

^  I  knew  how  it'd  be  ;  I  told  you  she  wouldn't  last  through 
the  summer.' 

Aunt  Hester  made  no  reply  ;  it  was  nearly  October,  but 
what  was  the  good  of  arguing  ;  some  people  were  never 
satisfied. 

She  sent  up  to  tell  her  sister  that  the  brothers  were  there. 

5 


114  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Mrs.  Small  came  down  at  once.  She  had  bathed  her  face, 
which  was  still  swollen,  and  though  she  looked  severely  at 
Swithin's  trousers,  for  they  were  of  light  blue — he  had  come 
straight  from  the  club,  where  the  news  had  reached  him — 
she  wore  a  more  cheerful  expression  than  usual,  the  instinct 
for  doing  the  wrong  thing  being  even  now  too  strong  for  her. 

Presently  all  five  went  up  to  look  at  the  body.  Under 
the  pure  white  sheet  a  quilted  counterpane  had  been  placed, 
for  now,  more  than  ever,  Aunt  Ann  had  need  of  warmth ; 
and,  the  pillows  removed,  her  spine  and  head  rested  flat,  with 
the  semblance  of  their  life-long  inflexibility  ;  the  coif  band- 
ing the  top  of  her  brow  was  drawn  on  either  side  to  the 
level  of  the  ears,  and  between  it  and  the  sheet  her  face, 
almost  as  white,  was  turned  with  closed  eyes  to  the  faces  of 
her  brothers  and  sisters.  In  its  extraordinary  peace  the  face 
was  stronger  than  ever,  nearly  all  bone  now  under  the 
scarce-wrinkled  parchment  of  skin — square  jaw  and  chin, 
cheekbones,  forehead  with  hollow  temples,  chiselled  nose — 
the  fortress  of  an  unconquerable  spirit  that  had  yielded  to 
death,  and  in  its  upward  sightlessness  seemed  trying  to  regain 
that  spirit,  to  regain  the  guardianship  it  had  just  laid  down. 

Swithin  took  but  one  look  at  the  face,  and  left  the  room  ; 
the  sight,  he  said  afterwards,  made  him  very  queer.  He 
w'^nt  downstairs  shaking  the  whole  house,  and,  seizing  his 
hat,  clambered  into  his  brougham,  without  giving  any  direc- 
tions to  the  coachman.  He  was  driven  home,  and  all  the 
evening  sat  in  his  chair  without  moving. 

He  could  take  nothing  for  dinner  but  a  partridge,  with  an 
imperial  pint  of  champagne.  .  .   . 

Old  Jolyon  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  his  hands 
folded  in  front  of  him.  He  alone  of  those  in  the  room 
remembered  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  though  he  looked 
at  Ann,  it  was  of  that  he  was  thinking.  Ann  was  an  old 
woman,  but  death  had  come  to  her  at  last — death  came  to 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  115 

all !     His  face  did  not  move,  his  gaze  seemed  travelling  from 
/ery  far. 

Aunt  Hester  stood  beside  him.  She  did  not  cry  now, 
tears  were  exhausted — her  nature  refused  to  permit  a  further 
escape  of  force  ;  she  twisted  her  hands,  looking,  not  at  Ann, 
but  from  side  to  side,  seeking  some  way  of  escaping  the 
effort  of  realization. 

Of  all  the  brothers  and  sisters  James  manifested  the  most 
emotion.  Tears  rolled  down  the  parallel  furrows  of  his  thin 
face ;  where  he  should  go  now  to  tell  his  troubles  he  did  not 
know  ;  Juley  was  no  good,  Hester  worse  than  useless  !  He 
felt  Ann's  death  more  than  he  had  ever  thought  he  should  ; 
this  would  upset  him  for  weeks ! 

Presently  Aunt  Hester  stole  out,  and  Aunt  Juley  began 
moving  about,  doing  *  what  was  necessary,*  so  that  twice 
she  knocked  against  something.  Old  Jolyon,  roused  from 
his  reverie,  that  reverie  of  the  long,  long  past,  looked  sternly 
at  her,  and  went  away.  James  alone  was  left  by  the  bed- 
side; glancing  stealthily  round,  to  see  that  he  was  not 
observed,  he  twisted  his  long  body  down,  placed  a  kiss  on 
the  dead  forehead,  then  he,  too,  hastily  left  the  room. 
Encountering  Smither  in  the  hall,  he  began  to  ask  her  about 
the  funeral,  and,  finding  that  she  knew  nothing,  complained 
bitterly  that,  if  they  didn't  take  care,  everything  would  go 
wrong.  She  had  better  send  for  Mr.  Soames — he  knew  all 
about  that  sort  of  thing  ;  her  master  was  very  much  upset, 
he  supposed — he  would  want  looking  after;  as  for  her 
mistresses,  they  were  no  good — they  had  no  gumption  ! 
They  would  be  ill  too,  he  shouldn't  wonder.  She  had 
better  send  for  the  doctor;  it  was  best  to  take  things  in 
time.  He  didn't  think  his  sister  Ann  had  had  the  best 
opinion;  if  she'd  had  Blank  she  would  have  been  alive  now. 
Smither  might  send  to  Park  Lane  any  time  she  wanted 
advice.     Of  course,  his  carriage  was  at  their  service  for  the 


n6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

funeral.      He  supposed  she  hadn't  such  a  thing  as  a  glass  of 
claret  and  a  biscuit — he  had  had  no  lunch  ! 

The  days  before  the  funeral  passed  quietly.  It  had  long 
been  known,  of  course,  that  Aunt  Ann  had  left  her  little 
property  to  Timothy.  There  was,  therefore,  no  reason  for 
the  slightest  agitation.  Soames  who  was  sole  executor,  took 
charge  of  all  arrangements,  and  in  due  course  sent  out  the 
following  invitation  to  every  male  member  of  the  family : 

'To 

'  Tour  presence  is  requested  at  the  funeral  of  Miss  Ann 
Forsyte^  in  Highgate  Cemetery,  at  noon  of  Oct.  1st. 
Carriages  will  meet  at  "  The  Bowcr^''  Bayswater  Roady 
at  10.45.      No  flowers  by  request. 

*  R.sy.p: 

The  morning  came,  cold,  with  a  high,  gray,  London  sky, 
and  at  half-past  ten  the  first  carriage,  that  of  James,  drove 
up.  It  contained  James  and  his  son-in-law  Dartie,  a  fine 
man,  with  a  square  chest,  buttoned  very  tightly  into  a  frock 
coat,  and  a  sallow,  fattish  face  adorned  with  dark,  well- 
curled  moustaches,  and  that  incorrigible  commencement  of 
whisker  which,  eluding  the  strictest  attempts  at  shaving, 
seems  the  mark  of  something  deeply  ingrained  in  the  per- 
sonality of  the  shaver,  being  especially  noticeable  in  men  who 
speculate. 

Soames,  in  his  capacity  of  executor,  received  the  guests, 
for  Timothy  still  kept  his  bed ;  he  would  get  up  after  the 
funeral ;  and  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  would  not  be  coming 
down  till  all  was  over,  when  it  was  understood  there  would 
be  lunch  for  anyone  who  cared  to  come  back.  The  next  to 
arrive  was  Roger,  still  limping  from  the  gout,  and  encircled 
by  three  of  his  sons — young  Roger,  Eustace,  and  Thomas. 
George,  the  remaining  son,  arrived  almost  immediately 
afterwards  in  a  hansom,  and  paused  in  the  hall  to  ask  Soames 
how  he  found  undertaking  pay. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  117 

They  disliked  each  other. 

Then  came  two  Haymans — Giles  and  Jesse — perfectly 
silent,  and  very  well  dressed,  with  special  creases  down  their 
evening  trousers.  Then  old  Jolyon  alone.  Next,  Nicholas, 
with  a  healthy  colour  in  his  face,  and  a  carefully  veiled 
sprightliness  in  every  movement  of  his  head  and  body.. 
One  of  his  sons  followed  him,  meek  and  subdued. 
Swithin  Forsyte  and  Bosinney  arrived  at  the  same  moment, 
and  stood  bowing  precedence  to  each  other,  but  on  the  door 
opening  they  tried  to  enter  together  ;  they  renewed  their 
apologies  in  the  hall,  and  Swithin,  settling  his  stock,  which 
had  become  disarranged  in  the  struggle,  very  slowly  mounted 
the  stairs.  The  other  Hayman  ;  two  married  sons  of 
Nicholas,  together  with  Tweetyman,  Spender,  and  Warry, 
the  husbands  of  married  Forsyte  and  Hayman  daughters. 
The  company  was  then  complete,  twenty-one  in  all,  not  a 
male  member  of  the  family  being  absent  but  Timothy  and 
young  Jolyon. 

Entering  the  scarlet  and  green  drawing-room,  whose 
apparel  made  so  vivid  a  setting  for  their  unaccustomed 
costumes,  each  tried  nervously  to  find  a  seat,  desirous  of 
hiding  the  emphatic  blackness  of  his  trousers.  There 
seemed  a  sort  of  indecency  in  that  blackness  and  in  the 
colour  of  their  gloves — a  sort  of  exaggeration  of  the  feelings  ; 
and  many  cast  shocked  looks  of  secret  envy  at  '  the  Buc- 
caneer,' who  had  no  gloves,  and  was  wearing  gray  trousers. 
A  subdued  hum  of  conversation  rose,  no  one  speaking  of  the 
departed,  but  each  asking  after  the  other,  as  though  thereby 
casting  an  indirect  libation  to  this  event,  which  they  had 
come  to  honour. 

And  presently  James  said  : 

'  Well,  I  think  we  ought  to  be  starting.' 

They  went  downstairs,  and,  two  and  two,  as  they  had 
been  told  off  in  strict  precedence,  mounted  the  carriages. 


ii8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

The  hearse  started  at  a  foot's  pace ;  the  carriages  moved 
slowly  after.  In  the  first  went  old  Jolyon  with  Nicholas; 
in  the  second,  the  twins,  Swithin  and  James ;  in  the  third, 
Roger  and  young  Roger ;  Soames,  young  Nicholas,  George, 
and  Bosinney  followed  in  the  fourth.  Each  of  the  other 
carriages,  eight  in  all,  held  three  or  four  of  the  family; 
behind  them  came  the  doctor's  brougham ;  then,  at  a  decent 
interval,  cabs  containing  family  clerks  and  servants ;  and  at 
the  very  end,  one  containing  nobody  at  all,  but  bringing  the 
total  cortege  up  to  the  number  of  thirteen. 

So  long  as  the  procession  kept  to  the  highway  of  the 
Bayswater  Road,  it  retained  the  foot's  pace,  but,  turning 
into  less  important  thoroughfares,  it  soon  broke  into  a  trot, 
and  so  proceeded,  with  intervals  of  walking  in  the  more 
fashionable  streets,  until  it  arrived.  In  the  first  carriage  old 
Jolyon  and  Nicholas  were  talking  of  their  wills.  In  the 
second  the  twins,  after  a  single  attempt,  had  lapsed  into 
complete  silence ;  both  were  rather  deaf,  and  the  exertion  of 
making  themselves  heard  was  too  great.  Only  once  James 
broke  this  silence  : 

*  I  shall  have  to  be  looking  about  for  some  ground  some- 
where.    What  arrangements  have  you  made,  Swithin  ?' 

And  Swithin,  fixing  him  with  a  dreadful  stare,  answered  : 

*  Don't  talk  to  me  about  such  things  !' 

In  the  third  carriage  a  disjointed  conversation  was  carried 
on  in  the  intervals  of  looking  out  to  see  how  far  they  had 
got,  George  remarking,  *  Well,  it  was  really  time  that  the 
poor  old  lady  "  went."  '  He  didn't  believe  in  people  living 
beyond  seventy.  Young  Nicholas  replied  mildly  that  the 
rule  didn't  seem  to  apply  to  the  Forsytes.  George  said  he 
himself  intended  to  commit  suicide  at  sixty.  Young 
Nicholas,  smiling  and  stroking  a  long  chin,  didn't  think 
his  father  would  like  that  theory  ;  he  had  made  a  lot 
of  money  since  he  was  sixty.     Well,  seventy  was  the  out- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  119 

side  limit;  it  was  then  time,  George  said,  for  them  to  go 
and  leave  their  money  to  their  children.  Soames,  hitherto 
silent,  here  joined  in  ;  he  had  not  forgotten  the  remark  about 
the  *  undertaking,'  and,  lifting  his  eyelids  almost  imperceptibly, 
said  it  was  all  very  well  for  people  who  never  made  money 
to  talk.  He  himself  intended  to  live  as  long  as  he  could. 
This  was  a  hit  at  George,  who  was  notoriously  hard  up. 
Bosinney  muttered  abstractedly  *  Hear,  hear  !'  and,  George 
yawning,  the  conversation  dropped. 

Upon  arriving,  the  cofEn  was  borne  into  the  chapel,  and, 
two  by  two,  the  mourners  filed  in  behind  it.  This  guard  of 
men,  all  attached  to  the  dead  by  the  bond  of  kinship,  was  an 
impressive  and  singular  sight  in  the  great  city  of  London, 
with  its  overwhelming  diversity  of  life,  its  innumerable 
vocations,  pleasures,  duties,  its  terrible  hardness,  its  terrible 
call  to  individualism. 

The  family  had  gathered  to  triumph  over  all  this,  to  give 
a  show  of  tenacious  unity,  to  illustrate  gloriously  that  law 
of  property  underlying  the  growth  of  their  tree,  by  which 
it  had  thriven  and  spread,  trunk  and  branches,  the  sap 
flowing  through  all,  the  full  growth  reached  at  the  appointed 
time.  The  spirit  of  the  old  woman  lying  in  her  last  sleep 
had  called  them  to  this  demonstration.  It  was  her  final  appeal 
to  that  unity  which  had  been  their  strength — it  was  her  final 
triumph  that  she  had  died  while  the  tree  was  yet  whole. 

She  was  spared  the  watching  of  the  branches  jut  out 
beyond  the  point  of  balance.  She  could  not  look  into  the 
hearts  of  her  followers.  The  same  law  that  had  worked  in 
her,  bringing  her  up  from  a  tall,  straight-backed  slip  or  a  girl 
to  a  woman  strong  and  grown,  from  a  woman  grown  to  a 
woman  old,  angular,  feeble,  almost  witch-like,  with  individu- 
ality all  sharpened  and  sharpened,  as  all  rounding  from  the 
world's  contact  fell  off  from  her — that  same  law  would  work, 
was  working,  in  the  family  she  had  watched  like  a  mother. 


120  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

She  had  seen  it  young,  and  growing,  she  had  seen  it  strong 
and  grown,  and  before  her  old  eyes  had  time  or  strength  to 
see  any  more,  she  died.  She  would  have  tried,  and  who 
knows  but  she  might  have  kept  it  young  and  strong,  with 
her  old  fingers,  her  trembling  kisses — a  little  longer  ;  alas ! 
not  even  Aunt  Ann  could  fight  with  Nature. 

'  Pride  comes  before  a  fall  !'  In  accordance  with  this,  the 
greatest  of  Nature's  ironies,  the  Forsyte  family  had  gathered 
for  a  last  proud  pageant  before  they  fell.  Their  faces  to  right 
and  left,  in  single  lines,  were  turned  for  the  most  part 
impassively  toward  the  ground,  guardians  of  their  thoughts  ; 
but  here  and  there,  one  looking  upward,  with  a  line  between 
his  brows,  seemed  to  see  some  sight  on  the  chapel  walls  too 
much  for  him,  to  be  listening  to  something  that  appalled. 
And  the  responses,  low-muttered,  in  voices  through  which 
rose  the  same  tone,  the  same  unseizable  family  ring,  sounded 
weird,  as  though  murmured  in  hurried  duplication  by  a 
single  person. 

The  service  in  the  chapel  over,  the  mourners  filed  up 
again  to  guard  the  body  to  the  tomb.  The  vault  stood  open, 
and,  round  it,  men  in  black  were  waiting. 

From  that  high  and  sacred  field,  where  thousands  of  the 
upper-middle  class  lay  in  their  last  sleep,  the  eyes  of  the 
Forsytes  travelled  down  across  the  flocks  of  graves.  There — 
spreading  to  the  distance,  lay  London,  with  no  sun  over  it, 
mourning  the  loss  of  its  daughter,  mourning  with  this  family, 
so  dear,  the  loss  of  her  who  was  mother  and  guardian.  A 
hundred  thousand  spires  and  houses,  blurred  in  the  great 
gray  web  of  property,  lay  there  like  prostrate  worshippers 
before  the  grave  of  this,  the  oldest  Forsyte  of  them  all. 

A  few  words,  a  sprinkle  of  earth,  the  thrusting  of  the 
coffin  home,  and  Aunt  Ann  had  passed  to  her  last  rest. 

Round  the  vault,  trustees  of  that  passing,  the  five  brothers 
stood,  with  white  heads  bowed  ;  they  would  see  that  Ann 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  121 

was  comfortable  where  she  was  going.  Her  little  property 
must  stay  behind,  but  otherwise,  all  that  could  be  should 
be  done. 

Then  severally,  each  stood  aside,  and  putting  on  his  hat, 
turned  back  to  inspect  the  new  inscription  on  the  marble  of 
the  family  vault  : 

SACRED    TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

ANN  FORSYTE, 

THE      DAUGHTER      OF     THE     ABOVE 

JoLYON     AND    AnN     FoRSYTE, 

WHO      DEPARTED     THIS     LIFE     THE      ZjTH      DAY     OF 

SEPTEMBER,     I  886, 

AGED     EIGHTY-SEVEN    YEARS    AND     FOUR     DAYS. 

Soon  perhaps,  someone  else  would  be  wanting  an  inscription. 
It  was  strange  and  intolerable,  for  they  had  not  thought 
somehow,  that  Forsytes  could  die.  And  one  and  all  they 
had  a  longing  to  get  away  from  this  painfulness,  this 
ceremony  which  had  reminded  them  of  things  they  could 
not  bear  to  think  about — to  get  away  quickly  and  go  about 
their  business  and  forget. 

It  was  cold,  too  ;  the  wind,  like  some  slow,  disintegrating 
force,  blowing  up  the  hill  over  the  graves,  struck  them  with 
its  chilly  breath  ;  they  began  to  split  into  groups,  and  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  fill  the  waiting  carriages. 

Swithin  said  he  should  go  back  to  lunch  at  Timothy's, 
and  he  offered  to  take  anybody  with  him  in  his  brougham. 
It  was  considered  a  doubtful  privilege  to  drive  with  Swithin 
in  his  brougham,  which  was  not  a  large  one ;  nobody 
accepted,  and  he  went  off  alone.     James  and  Roger  followed 

6* 


122  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

immediately  after  ;  they  also  would  drop  into  lunch.  The 
others  gradually  melted  away,  old  Jolyon  taking  three 
nephews  to  fill  up  his  carriage  ;  he  had  a  want  of  those 
young  faces. 

Soames,  who  had  to  arrange  some  details  in  the  cemetery 
office,  walked  away  with  Bosinney.  He  had  much  to  talk 
over  with  him,  and,  having  finished  his  business,  they  strolled 
to  Hampstead,  lunched  together  at  the  Spaniard's  Inn,  and 
spent  a  long  time  in  going  into  practical  details  connected 
with  the  building  of  the  house  ;  they  then  proceeded  to  the 
tram-line,  and  came  as  far  as  the  Marble  Arch,  where 
Bosinney  went  off  to  Stanhope  Gate  to  see  June. 

Soames  felt  in  excellent  spirits  when  he  arrived  home,  and 
confided  to  Irene  at  dinner  that  he  had  had  a  good  talk  with 
Bosinney,  who  really  seemed  a  sensible  fellow  ;  they  had 
had  a  capital  walk  too,  which  had  done  his  liver  good — he 
had  been  short  of  exercise  for  a  long  time — and  altogether  a 
very  satisfactory  day.  If  only  it  hadn't  been  for  poor  Aunt 
Ann,  he  would  have  taken  her  to  the  theatre  ;  as  it  was, 
they  must  make  the  best  of  an  evening  at  home. 

<  The  Buccaneer  asked  after  you  more  than  once,'  he  said 
suddenly.  And  moved  by  some  inexplicable  desire  to  assert 
his  proprietorship,  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  planted  a  kiss 
on  his  wife's  shoulder. 


PART   II 


CHAPTER    I 

PROGRESS     OF     THE     HOUSE 

The  winter  had  been  an  open  one.  Things  in  the  trade 
were  slack  ;  and  as  Soames  had  reflected  before  making  up 
his  mind,  it  had  been  a  good  time  for  building.  The  shell 
of  the  house  at  Robin  Hill  was  thus  completed  by  the  end 
of  April. 

Now  that  there  was  something  to  be  seen  for  his  money, 
he  had  been  coming  down  once,  twice,  even  three  times  a 
week,  and  would  mouse  about  among  the  debris  for  hours, 
careful  never  to  soil  his  clothes,  moving  silently  through  the 
unfinished  brickwork  of  doorways,  or  circling  round  the 
columns  in  the  central  court. 

And  he  would  stand  before  them  for  minutes  together,  as 
though  peering  into  the  real  quality  of  their  substance. 

On  April  30  he  had  an  appointment  with  Bosinney  to  go 
over  the  accounts,  and  five  minutes  before  the  proper  time  he 
entered  the  tent  which  the  architect  had  pitched  for  himself 
close  to  the  old  oak  tree. 

The  accounts  were  already  prepared  on  a  folding  table, 
and  with  a  nod  Soames  sat  down  to  study  them.  It  was 
some  time  before  he  raised  his  head. 

*I  can't  make  them  out,'  he  said  at  last ;  *  they  come  to 
nearly  seven  hundred  more  than  they  ought  !' 

After  a  glance  at  Bosinney's  face,  he  went  on  quickly  : 

*  If  you  only  make  a  firm  stand  against  these  builder  chaps 

125 


126  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

you'll  get  them  down.  They  stick  you  with  everything  if 
vou  don't  look  sharp.  Take  ten  per  cent,  off  all  round.  I 
si:an't  mind  it's  coming  out  a  hundred  or  so  over  the  mark  !' 

Bosinney  shook  his  head  : 

'I've  taken  off  every  farthing  I  can  !' 

Soames  pushed  back  the  table  with  a  movement  of 
anger,  w^hich  sent  the  account  sheets  fluttering  to  the 
ground. 

'  Then  all  I  can  say  is,'  he  flustered  out,  '  you've  made  a 
pretty  mess  of  it  !' 

*  I've  told  you  a  dozen  times,'  Bosinney  answered  sharply, 
*that  there'd  be  extras.  I've  pointed  them  out  to  you  over 
and  over  again  !' 

*  I  know  that,'  growled  Soames  ;  '  I  shouldn't  have  ob- 
jected to  a  ten  pound  note  here  and  there.  How  was  I  to 
know  that  by  "  extras  "  you  meant  seven  hundred  pounds  :' 

The  qualities  of  both  men  had  contributed  to  this  not 
inconsiderable  discrepancy.  On  the  one  hand,  the  archi- 
tect's devotion  to  his  idea,  to  the  image  of  a  house  which  he 
had  created  and  believed  in — had  made  him  nenous  of  being 
stopped,  or  forced  to  the  use  of  make-shifts  ;  on  the  other, 
Soames's  not  less  true  and  whole-hearted  devotion  to  the 
very  best  article  that  could  be  obtained  for  the  money,  had 
rendered  him  averse  to  believing  that  things  worth  thirteen 
shillings  could  not  be  bought  with  twelve. 

*I  wish  rd  never  undertaken  your  house,'  said  Bosinney 
suddenly.  '  You  come  down  here  worrying  me  out  of  my 
life.  You  want  double  the  value  for  your  money  anybody 
else  w^ould,  and  now  that  you've  got  a  house  that  for  its  size 
is  not  to  be  beaten  in  the  county,  you  don't  want  to  pay  for  it. 
If  you're  anxious  to  be  off  your  bargain,  I  daresay  I  can  find 

the  balance  above  the  estimates  myself,  but  I'm  d d  if  I 

do  another  stroke  of  work  for  you  I' 

Soames  regained  his  composure.     Knowing  that  Bosinney 


TxHE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  127 

had  no  capital,  he  regarded  this  as  a  wild  suggestion.  He 
saw,  too,  that  he  would  be  kept  indefinitely  out  of  this  house 
on  which  he  had  set  his  heart,  and  just  at  the  crucial  point 
when  the  architect's  personal  care  made  all  the  difference. 
In  the  meantime  there  was  Irene  to  be  thought  of!  She  had 
been  vtrj  queer  lately.  He  really  believed  it  was  only 
because  she  had  taken  to  Bosinney  that  she  tolerated  the  idea 
of  the  house  at  all.  It  would  not  do  to  make  an  open  breach 
with  her. 

'You  needn't  get  into  a  rage,'  he  said.  *If  I'm  willing 
to  put  up  with  it,  I  suppose  you  needn't  cry  out.  AH  I 
meant  was  that  when  you  tell  me  a  thing  is  going  to  cost  so 
much,  I  like  to — well,  in  fact,  I — like  to  know  where 
".am.' 

'  Look  here  I'  said  Bosinney,  and  Soames  was  both  annoyed 
and  surprised  by  the  shrewdness  of  his  glance.  *  You've  got 
my  services  dirt  cheap.  For  the  kind  of  work  I've  put  into 
this  house,  and  the  amount  of  time  I've  given  to  it,  vou'd 
have  had  to  pay  Littlemaster  or  some  other  fool  four  times  as 
much.  What  you  want,  in  fact,  is  a  first-rate  man  for  a 
fourth-rate  fee,  and  that's  exactly  what  you've  got  V 

Soames  saw  that  he  really  meant  what  he  said,  and,  angry 
though  he  was,  the  consequences  of  a  row  rose  before  him 
too  vividly.  Hq  saw  his  house  unfinished,  his  wife  rebellious, 
himself  a  laughing-stock. 

'  Let's  go  over  it,'  he  said  sulkily,  '  and  see  how  the  money's 
gone.' 

'  Very  well,'  assented  Bosinney.  '  But  we'll  hurry  up,  if 
you  don't  mind.  I  have  to  get  back  in  time  to  rake  June  to 
the  theatre.' 

Soames  cast  a  stealthy  look  at  him,  and  said  :  '  Coming  to 
our  place,  I  suppose  to  meet  her :'  He  was  always  coming 
to  their  place  ! 

There  had  been  rain  the  night  before — a  spring  rain,  and 


128  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  earth  smelt  of  sap  and  wild  grasses.  The  warm,  soft 
breeze  swung  the  leaves  and  the  golden  buds  of  the  old  oak 
tree,'  and  in  the  sunshine  the  blackbirds  were  whistling  their 
hearts  out. 

It  was  such  a  spring  day  as  breathes  into  a  man  an  in- 
effable yearning,  a  painful  sweetness,  a  longing  that  makes 
him  stand  motionless,  looking  at  the  leaves  or  grass,  and  fling 
out  his  arms  to  embrace  he  knows  not  what.  The  earth 
gave  forth  a  fainting  warmth,  stealing  up  through  the  chilly 
garment  in  which  winter  had  wrapped  her.  It  was  her  long 
caress  of  invitation,  to  draw  men  down  to  lie  within  her 
arms,  to  roll  their  bodies  on  her,  and  put  their  lips  to  her 
breast. 

On  just  such  a  day  as  this  Soames  had  got  from  Irene  the 
promise  he  had  asked  her  for  so  often.  Seated  on  the  fallen 
trunk  of  a  tree,  he  had  promised  for  the  twentieth  time  that 
if  their  marriage  were  not  a  success,  she  should  be  as  free  as 
if  she  had  never  married  him  ! 

*  Do  you  swear  it  ?*  she  had  said,  A  few  days  back  she 
had  reminded  him  of  that  oath.  He  had  answered  :  '  Non- 
sense !  I  couldn't  have  sworn  any  such  thing !'  By  some 
awkward  fatality  he  remembered  it  now.  What  queer  things 
men  would  swear  for  the  sake  of  women  !  He  would  have 
sworn  it  at  any  time  to  gain  her !  He  would  swear  it  now, 
if  thereby  he  could  touch  her — but  nobody  could  touch  her, 
she  was  cold-hearted  ! 

And  memories  crowded  on  him  with  the  fresh,  sweet 
savour  of  the  spring  wind — memories  of  his  courtship. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1881  he  was  visiting  his  old 
schoolfellow  and  client,  George  Liversedge,  of  Branksome, 
who,  with  the  view  of  developing  his  pine-woods  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bournemouth,  had  placed  the  formation  of 
the  company  necessary  to  the  scheme  in  Soames's  hands. 
Mrs.  Liversedge,  with  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  had 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  129 

given  a  musical  tea  in  his  honour.  Late  in  the  course  of  this 
function,  which  Soames,  no  musician,  had  regarded  as  an 
unmitigated  bore,  his  eye  had  been  caught  by  the  face  of 
a  girl  dressed  in  mourning,  standing  by  herself.  The  lines 
of  her  tall,  as  yet  rather  thin  figure,  showed  through  the 
wispy,  clinging  stuff  of  her  black  dress,  her  black-gloved 
hands  were  crossed  in  front  of  her,  her  lips  slightly  parted, 
and  her  large,  dark  eyes  wandered  from  face  to  face.  Her 
hair,  done  low  on  her  neck,  seemed  to  gleam  above  her  black 
collar  like  coils  of  shining  metal.  And  as  Soames  stood 
looking  at  her,  the  sensation  that  most  men  have  felt  at  one 
time  or  another  went  stealing  through  him — a  peculiar  satis- 
faction of  the  senses,  a  peculiar  certainty,  which  novelists 
and  old  ladies  call  love  at  first  sight.  Still  stealthily  watching 
her,  he  at  once  made  his  way  to  his  hostess,  and  stood 
doggedly  waiting  for  the  music  to  cease. 

*  Who  is  that  girl  with  yellow  hair  and  dark  eyes?'  he 
asked. 

'  That — oh  !  Irene  Heron.  Her  father.  Professor  Heron, 
died  this  year.  She  lives  with  her  stepmother.  She's  a  nice 
girl,  a  pretty  girl,  but  no  money  !' 

*  Introduce  me,  please,'  said  Soames. 

It  was  very  little  that  he  found  to  say,  nor  did  he  find 
her  responsive  to  that  little.  But  he  went  away  with  the 
resolution  to  see  her  again.  He  effected  his  object  by 
chance,  meeting  her  on  the  pier  with  her  stepmother,  who 
had  the  habit  ot  walking  there  from  twelve  to  one  of  a 
forenoon.  Soames  made  this  lady's  acquaintance  with 
alacrity,  nor  was  it  long  before  he  perceived  in  her  the 
ally  he  was  looking  for.  His  keen  scent  for  the  commercial 
side  of  family  life  soon  told  him  that  Irene  cost  her  step- 
mother more  than  the  fifty  pounds  a  year  she  brought  her  j 
it  also  told  him  that  Mrs.  Heron,  a  woman  yet  in  the  prime 
of  life,  desired  to  be  married  again.     The  strange  ripening 


I30  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

beauty  of  her  stepdaughter  stood  in  the  way  of  this  desirable 
consummation.  And  Soames,  in  his  stealthy  tenacity,  laid 
his  plans. 

He  left  Bournemouth  without  having  given  himself  away, 
but  in  a  month's  time  came  back,  and  this  time  he  spoke, 
not  to  the  girl,  but  to  her  stepmother.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind,  he  said  ;  he  would  wait  any  time.  And  he  had  long 
to  wait,  watching  Irene  bloom,  the  lines  of  her  young  figure 
softening,  the  stronger  blood  deepening  the  gleam  of  her 
eyes,  and  warming  her  face  to  a  creamy  glow  ;  and  at  each 
visit  he  proposed  to  her,  and  when  that  visit  was  at  an  end, 
took  her  refusal  away  with  him,  back  to  London,  sore  at 
heart,  but  steadfast  and  silent  as  the  grave.  He  tried  to 
come  at  the  secret  springs  of  her  resistance  ;  only  once  had 
he  a  gleam  of  light.  It  was  at  one  of  those  assembly  dances, 
which  afford  the  only  outlet  to  the  passions  of  the  population 
of  seaside  watering-places.  He  was  sitting  with  her  in  an 
embrasure,  his  senses  tingling  with  the  contact  of  the  waltz. 
She  had  looked  at  him  over  her  slowly  waving  fan  ;  and  he 
had  lost  his  head.  Seizing  that  moving  wrist,  he  pressed  his 
lips  to  the  flesh  of  her  arm.  And  she  had  shuddered — to 
this  day  he  had  not  forgotten  that  shudder — nor  the  look  so 
passionately  averse  she  had  given  him. 

A  year  after  that  she  had  yielded.  What  had  made  her 
yield  he  could  never  make  out  ;  and  from  Mrs.  Heron,  a 
woman  of  some  diplomatic  talent,  he  learnt  nothing.  Once 
after  they  were  married  he  asked  her,  '  "What  made  you 
refuse  me  so  often  r'  She  had  answered  by  a  strange  silence. 
An  enigma  to  him  from  the  day  that  he  first  saw  her,  she 
was  an  enigma  to  him  still.   .   .   . 

Bosinney  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door  ;  and  on  his 
rugged,  good-looking  face  was  a  queer,  yearning,  yet  happy 
look,  as  though  he  too  saw  a  promise  of  bliss  in  the  spring 
sky,  sniffed  a  coming  happiness  in  the  spring  air.     Soames 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  131 

looked  at  him  waiting  there.  What  was  the  matter  with  the 
fellow  that  he  looked  so  happy  r  What  was  he  waiting  for 
with  that  smile  on  his  lips  and  in  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  gray  tint  in  the  stuflF,  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. 

*ril  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  sav- 
ing :  *  If  you  want  to  discuss  her  you  can  do  it  with  some 
one  else  !' 

And  the  slow,  sulky  anger  Soames  had  felt  all  the  after- 
noon 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.' 


132  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Soamcs  nodded.  '  But  you  quite  understand,*  he  said^ 
'  that  the  house  is  costing  me  a  lot  beyond  what  I  contem- 
plated. I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  should  have  thrown  it 
up,  only  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  up  what  IVe  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  his  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.  Bos- 
inney 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  Bosin- 
ney'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 ' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  133 

June'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. 

*  IVe  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  June's  face  j  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  ?  /  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. 


134  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

'  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  black- 
bird?' 

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. 

135 


1^0 


TK£  FOKSYTZ  SAGA 


Bosinncy,  glass  of  sr.errT  with  tout  s.vee:  :  June,  you  rc 
drinking  nothing !' 

Tunc  iaid  :  '  Ycu  kir.rw  I  r.ever  do.  Wine's  such  horrid 
sm5" !' 

.\n  arr'f  :~2:'.:r:c  c^~e  ur:.-  2  si'ver  disli.  And 
smilinrlr   Irer.e   f^  i  :    '  T~e   2z^.?:ls    z:e   >c    w underfill  this 

TCSJ  !' 

To  this  3:s:- - :t  -.irmurcd  :  '  ^Tondcmil !  Tlic  scent's 
extraordinary  V 

Tune  said  :  *  Hc^-  :sh  jou  like  the  s:er.:  :  Sugar,  r.e^ise, 
Bion.' 

Suirar  was  iianie::  ~er,  ar.z  ^:.2rr.es  :t7r.i:£.cz:  '  Xhis 
char:-:r"^  ::::   ' 

Tr.e  :-i:.:::e  .v^  reinoved.  Long  silence  followed, 
Irene,  becoming,  said  :  *  Take  out  the  37;=. lea,  Bilson.  Miss 
June  can't  bear  the  scent.' 

*  No ;  let  it  stay,'  said  Tnne. 

Olives  frcm  France,  with  Russian  caviare,  were  placed 
on  little  plates.  And  Soames  remarked :  *  Why  can't  we 
have  the  St^nish  ?'     But  no  one  answerei. 

Tne  ciives  -sere  removed.  Lifting  her  nimbler  June 
deman cei  :  '  Give  me  some  water,  pleas-e.'  Water  was 
2Tven  her.  A  silver  traj  was  brought,  with  German  plums. 
There  '-^2^  2.  iengthy  pause.  Li  ptn^cz  harmony  all  were 
eating  tr.t~ 

BDsinnt     ::_-:r:  _:   -.r.t  stines  :   '  Tn.s  year — next  y«^r 


l-rr  nnished  scftlv  :  '  Never.     There  was  such  a  glorious 
r.rt:       The  skv's  all  rjhv  srii 
He  ar^s-prered!   'Underne 


tne  'i^rjt. 
Tune    zr^td    scornfully  ;   '  A 


Egrptian  cigarettes  were  handed  in  a  silver  box.     Soames, 
taking  cne,  rennarkef  :   '  ^Tis.:  time's  your  "lay  b^n  :' 


THE  MAN  OF  ?RO?E?xTY  137 

No  one  replied,  and  Turkish  coffee  followed  in  er.Em-ii^i 
cups. 

Irene,  smiling  quietly,  said  :  '  If  onlr ' 

'  Only  what  r'  said  June. 

'  If  only  it  could  always  be  the  spring  I* 

Brandy  was  handed ;  it  was  pale  and  old. 

Soames  said  :  '  Bosinney,  better  take  some  brandy.' 

Bosinney  took  a  glass ;  they  all  arose. 

*  You  w^int  a  cab  :'  asked  Soames. 

June  answered:  'No.  My  cloak,  please,  Bilscn.'  H^- 
cloak  was  brought. 

Irene,  from  the  window,  murmured  :  *  Such  a  lonely 
night !     The  stars  are  coming  out !' 

Soames  added  :  'Well,  I  hope  youll  both  enjoy  yourselves.* 

From  the  door  June  answered  :  *  Thanks.     Come,  PhiL' 

'  Bosinney  cried  :  '  Tm  coming.* 

Soames  smiled  a  sneering  smile,  and  said  :  '  I  wish  you 
luck ': 

And  at  the  door  Irene  watched  tnem  go. 

Bosinney  called  :  '  Good  night  !* 

'  Good  night :'  she  answered  softly.  .  .  , 

June  made  her  lover  take  her  on  the  top  of  a  *bus,  saying  5i:e 
wanted  air,  and  there  sat  silent,  with  her  fiaxre  to  the  breeze. 

The  driver  turned  once  or  twice,  with  the  intentirr.  ::' 
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  leuing  steam  escape,  and  clucked  his 
tongue,  flourishing  his  whip,  wheeling  his  horses,  and  even 
they,  poor  things,  had  smelled  the  spring,  and  for  a  brirf 
half-hour  spurned  the  pavement  with  happy  hoofs. 

The  whole  town  was  aiive;  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  hices  of  the  crowd  showed  pale  under  thai 


138  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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,  re- 
vealed 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  grand- 
father 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  with  a  serene  white  head,  a  little  figure, 
strenuous  and  eager,  with  a  red-gold  head — they  would  sit 
through  every  kind  of  play,  and  on  the  way  home  old  Jolyon 
would  say  of  the  principal  actor  :  ^  Oh,  he's  a  poor  stick  ! 
You  should  have  seen  little  Bobson  !' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  139 

She  had  looked  forward  to  this  evening  with  keen  delight ; 
it  was  stolen,  chaperone-less,  undreamed  of  at  Stanhope 
Gate,  where  she  was  supposed  to  be  at  Soames's.  She  had 
expected  reward  for  her  subterfuge,  planned  for  her  lover's 
sake  ;  she  had  expected  it  to  break  up  the  thick,  chilly  cloud, 
and  make  the  relations  between  them — which  of  late  had 
been  so  puzzling,  so  tormenting — sunny  and  simple  again  as 
they  had  been  before  the  winter.  She  had  come  with  the 
intention  of  saying  something  definite  ;  and  she  looked  at 
the  stage  with  a  furrow  between  her  brows,  seeing  nothing, 
her  hands  squeezed  together  in  her  lap.  A  swarm  of  jealous 
suspicions  stung  and  stung  her. 

If  Bosinney  was  conscious  of  her  trouble  he  made  no  sign. 

The  curtain  dropped.     The  first  act  had  come  to  an  end. 

*  It's  awfully  hot  here  !'  said  the  girl  ;  *  I  should  like  to 
go  out.' 

She  was  very  white,  and  she  knew — for  with  her  nerves 
thus  sharpened  she  saw  everything — that  he  was  both  uneasy 
and  compunctious. 

At  the  back  of  the  theatre  an  open  balcony  hung  over  the 
street ;  she  took  possession  of  this,  and  stood  leaning  there 
without  a  word,  waiting  for  him  to  begin. 

At  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

*  I  want  to  say  something  to  you,  Phil,'  she  said. 
'  Yes  r' 

The  defensive  tone  of  his  voice  brought  the  colour  flying 
to  her  cheek,  the  words  flying  to  her  lips  :  *  You  don't  give 
me  a  chance  to  be  nice  to  you ;  you  haven't  for  ages  now !' 

Bosinney  stared  down  at  the  street.     He  made  no  answer. 

June  cried  passionately :  *  You  know  I  want  to  do  every- 
thing for  you — that  I  want  to  be  everything  to  you ' 

A  hum  rose  from  the  street,  and,  piercing  it  with  a  sharp 
*  ping,'  the  bell  sounded  for  the  raising  of  the  curtain.  June 
did  not  stir.     A  desperate  struggle  was  going  on  within  her. 


140  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Should  she  put  everything  to  the  proof?  Should  she  chal- 
lenge directly  that  influence,  that  attraction  which  was 
drawing  him  away  from  her  ?  It  was  her  nature  to  chal- 
lenge, and  she  said  :  *  Phil,  take  me  to  see  the  house  on 
Sunday  !' 

With  a  smile  quivering  and  breaking  on  her  lips,  and 
trying,  how  hard !  not  to  show  that  she  was  watching,  she 
searched  his  face,  saw  it  waver  and  hesitate,  saw  a  troubled 
line  come  between  his  brows,  the  blood  rush  into  his  face. 
He  answered  :  *  Not  Sunday,  dear ;  some  other  day  !' 

*  Why  not  Sunday  ?  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  way  on 
Sunday.* 

He  made  an  evident  effort,  and  said  :  'I  have  an  engage- 
ment.' 

'  You  are  going  to  take ' 

His  eyes  grew  angry ;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
answered :  '  An  engagement  that  will  prevent  my  taking 
you  to  see  the  house  !' 

June  bit  her  lip  till  the  blood  came,  and  walked  back  to 
her  seat  without  another  word,  but  she  could  not  help  the 
tears  of  rage  rolling  down  her  face.  The  house  had  been 
mercifully  darkened  for  a  crisis,  and  no  one  could  see  her 
trouble. 

Yet  in  this  world  of  Forsytes  let  no  man  think  himself 
immune  from  observation. 

In  the  third  row  behind,  Euphemia,  Nicholas's  youngest 
daughter,  with  her  married  sister,  Mrs.  Tweetyman,  were 
watching. 

They  reported  at  Timothy's,  how  they  had  seen  June  and 
her  fiance  at  the  theatre. 

*  In  the  stalls  ?'     '  No,  not  in  the '     <  Oh  !  in  the  dress 

circle,  of  course.     That  seemed  to  be  quite  fashionable  now- 
adays with  young  people  !' 

Well — not  exactly.   In  the Anyway,  that  engagement 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  141 

wouldn't  last  long.  They  had  never  seen  anyone  look  so 
thunder  and  Hghtningy  as  that  little  June  !  With  tears  or 
enjoyment  in  their  eyes,  they  related  how  she  had  kicked  a 
man's  hat  as  she  returned  to  her  seat  in  the  middle  of  an  act, 
and  how  the  man  had  looked.  Euphemia  had  a  noted,  silent 
laugh,  terminating  most  disappointingly  in  squeaks ;  and  when 
Mrs.  Small,  holding  up  her  hands,  said :  *  My  dear !  Kicked 
a  ha-at  ?'  she  let  out  such  a  number  of  these  that  she  had  to 
be  recovered  with  smelling-salts.  As  she  went  away,  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Tweetyman  :  ' "  Kicked  a  ha-at !"  Oh  !  I  shall 
die.' 

For  *  that  little  June  '  this  evening,  that  was  to  have  been 
*  her  treat,'  was  the  most  miserable  she  had  ever  spent.  God 
knows  she  tried  to  stifle  her  pride,  her  suspicion,  her  jealousy! 

She  parted  from  Bosinney  at  old  Jolyon's  door  without 
breaking  down  ;  the  feeling  that  her  lover  must  be  conquered 
was  strong  enough  to  sustain  her  till  his  retiring  footsteps 
brought  home  the  true  extent  of  her  wretchedness. 

The  noiseless  *  Sankey '  let  her  in.  She  would  have 
slipped  up  to  her  own  room,  but  old  Jolyon,  who  had  heard 
her  entrance,  was  in  the  dining-room  doorway. 

*Come  in  and  have  your  milk,'  he  said.  'It's  been  kept 
hot  for  you.     You're  very  late.     Where  have  you  been  ?' 

June  stood  at  the  fireplace,  with  a  foot  on  the  fender  and 
an  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  as  her  grandfather  had  done 
when  he  came  in  that  night  of  the  opera.  She  was  too  near 
a  breakdown  to  care  what  she  told  him. 

'  We  dined  at  Soames's.' 

'  H'm  !  the  man  of  property !  His  wife  there — and 
Bosinney  r' 

'  Yes.' 

Old  Jolyon's  glance  was  fixed  on  her  with  the  penetrating 
gaze  from  which  it  was  so  difficult  to  hide ;  but  she  was  not 
looking  at  him,  and  when  she  turned  her  face,  he  dropped 


142  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

his  scrutiny  at  once.  He  had  seen  enough,  and  too  much. 
He  bent  down  to  lift  the  cup  of  milk  for  her  from  the  hearth, 
and,  turning  away,  grumbled  :  *  You  oughtn't  to  stay  out  so 
late ;  it  makes  you  fit  for  nothing.' 

He  was  invisible  now  behind  his  paper,  which  he  turned 
with  a  vicious  crackle ;  but  when  June  came  up  to  kiss  him, 
he  said:  *  Good-night,  my  darling,'  in  a  tone  so  tremulous 
and  unexpected,  that  it  was  all  the  girl  could  do  to  get  out  of 
the  room  without  breaking  into  the  fit  of  sobbing  that  lasted 
her  well  on  into  the  night. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  old  Jolyon  dropped  his  paper, 
and  stared  long  and  anxiously  in  front  of  him. 

*  The  beggar  !'  he  thought.  *  I  always  knew  she'd  have 
trouble  with  him !' 

Uneasy  doubts  and  suspicions,  the  more  poignant  that  he 
felt  himself  powerless  to  check  or  control  the  march  of 
events,  came  crowding  upon  him. 

Was  the  fellow  going  to  jilt  her  ?  He  longed  to  go  and 
say  to  him  :  *  Look  here,  you  sir  !  Are  you  going  to  jilt  my 
grand-daughter  ?'  But  how  could  he  ?  Knowing  little  or 
nothing,  he  was  yet  certain,  with  his  unerring  astuteness,  that 
there  was  something  going  on.  He  suspected  Bosinney  of 
being  too  much  at  Montpellier  Square. 

*  This  fellow,'  he  thought,  '  may  not  be  a  scamp  ;  his  face 
is  not  a  bad  one,  but  he's  a  queer  fish.  I  don't  know  what 
to  make  of  him.  I  shall  never  know  what  to  make  of  him ! 
They  tell  me  he  works  like  a  nigger,  but  I  see  no  good  coming 
of  it.  He's  unpractical,  he  has  no  method.  When  he  comes 
here,  he  sits  as  glum  as  a  monkey.  If  I  ask  him  what  wine 
he'll  have,  he  says :  "  Thanks,  any  wine."  If  I  offer  him  a 
cigar,  he  smokes  it  as  if  it  were  a  twopenny  German  thing. 
I  never  see  him  looking  at  June  as  he  ought  to  look  at  her ; 
and  yet,  he's  not  after  her  money.  If  she  were  to  make  a 
sign,  he'd  be  off  his  bargain  to-morrow.     But  she  won't — 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  143 

not  she  !  She'll  stick  to  him  !  She's  as  obstinate  as  fate— 
she'll  never  let  go  !' 

Sighing  deeply,  he  turned  the  paper  ;  in  its  columns  per- 
chance he  might  find  consolation. 

And  upstairs  in  her  room  June  sat  at  her  open  window, 
where  the  spring  wind  came,  after  its  revel  across  the  Park, 
to  cool  her  hot  cheeks  and  burn  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  HI 

DRIVE    WITH    SWITHIN 

Two  lines  of  a  certain  song  in  a  certain  famous  old  school's 
song-book  run  as  follows  : 

'  How  the  buttons  on  his  blue  frock  shone,  tra-la-la  ! 
How  he  carolled  and  he  sang,  like  a  bird  !   .  .   .' 

Swithin  did  not  exactly  carol  and  sing  like  a  bird,  but  he 
felt  almost  like  endeavouring  to  hum  a  tune,  as  he  stepped 
out  of  Hyde  Park  Mansions,  and  contemplated  his  horses 
drawn  up  before  the  door. 

The  afternoon  was  as  balmy  as  a  day  in  June,  and  to 
complete  the  simile  of  the  old  song,  he  had  put  on  a  blue 
frock-coat,  dispensing  with  an  overcoat,  after  sending  Adolf 
down  three  times  to  make  sure  that  there  was  not  the  least 
suspicion  of  east  :n  the  wind ;  and  the  frock-coat  was 
buttoned  so  tightly  around  his  personable  form,  that,  if  the 
buttons  did  not  shine,  they  might  pardonably  have  done  so. 
Majestic  on  the  pavement  he  fitted  on  a  pair  of  dog-skin 
gloves  ;  with  his  large  bell-shaped  top  hat,  and  his  great 
stature  and  bulk  he  looked  too  primeval  for  a  Forsyte. 
His  thick  white  hair,  on  which  Adolf  had  bestowed  a  touch 
of  pomatum,  exhaled  the  fragrance  of  opoponax  and  cigars — 
the  celebrated  Swithin  brand,  for  which  he  paid  one  hundred 
and  forty  shillings  the  hundred,  and  of  which  old  Jolyon  had 
unkindly  said,  he  wouldn't  smoke  them  at  a  gift  j  they 
wanted  the  stomach  of  a  horse  !  .  . 

144 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  145 


<  Adolf!' 
'  Sare !' 


*  The  new  plaid  rug  !' 

He  would  never  teach  that  fellow  to  look  smart  ;  and 
Mrs.  Soames  he  felt  sure,  had  an  eye ! 

'  The  phaeton  hood  down  ;  I  am  going — to — drive — a — 
lady  !' 

A  pretty  woman  would  want  to  show  off  her  frock  ;  and 
well — he  was  going  to  drive  a  lady  !  It  was  like  a  new 
beginning  to  the  good  old  days. 

Ages  since  he  had  driven  a  woman  !  The  last  time,  if  he 
remembered,  it  had  been  Juley  ;  the  poor  old  soul  had  been 
as  nervous  as  a  cat  the  whole  time,  and  so  put  him  out  of 
patience  that,  as  he  dropped  her  in  the  Bayswater  Road,  he 

had  said  :    *  Well  I'm    d d  if  I  ever  drive  you  again  !' 

And  he  never  had,  not  he  ! 

Going  up  to  his  horses'  heads,  he  examined  their  bits  ;  not 
that  he  knew  anything  about  bits — he  didn't  pay  his  coach- 
man sixty  pounds  a  year  to  do  his  work  for  him,  that  had 
never  been  his  principle.  Indeed,  his  reputation  as  a  horsey 
man  rested  mainly  on  the  fact  that  once,  on  Derby  Day,  he 
had  been  welshed  by  some  thimble-riggers.  But  someone  at 
the  Club,  after  seeing  him  drive  his  grays  up  to  the  door — he 
always  drove  gray  horses,  you  got  more  style  for  the  money, 
some  thought — had  called  him  '  Four-in-hand  Forsyte.'  The 
name  having  reached  his  ears  through  that  fellow  Nicholas 
Treffry,  old  Jolyon's  dead  partner,  the  great  driving  man — 
notorious  for  more  carriage  accidents  than  any  man  in  the 
kingdom — Swithin  had  ever  after  conceived  it  right  to  act 
up  to  it.  The  name  had  taken  his  fancy,  not  because  he  had 
ever  driven  four-in-hand,  or  was  ever  likely  to,  but  because 
of  something  distinguished  in  the  sound.  Four-in-hand 
Forsyte !  Not  bad  !  Born  too  soon,  Swithin  had  missed 
his  vocation.        Coming  upon  London    twenty  years  later, 

6 


146  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

he  could  not  have  failed  to  have  become  a  stockbroker,  but  at 
the  time  when  he  was  obliged  to  select,  this  great  profession 
had  not  as  yet  become  the  chief  glory  of  the  upper-middle 
class.     He  had  literally  been  forced  into  auctioneering. 

Once  in  the  driving  seat,  with  the  reins  handed  to  him, 
and  blinking  over  his  pale  old  cheeks  in  the  full  sunlight,  he 
took  a  slow  look  round.  Adolf  was  already  up  behind; 
the  cockaded  groom  at  the  horses'  heads  stood  ready  to  let 
go;  everything  was  prepared  for  the  signal,  and  Swithin 
gave  it.  The  equipage  dashed  forward,  and  before  you 
could  say  Jack  Robinson,  with  a  rattle  and  flourish  drew  up 
at  Soames's  door. 

Irene  came  out  at  once,  and  stepped  in — he  afterward 
described  it  at  Timothy's — ^as  light  as — er — Taglioni,  no 
fuss  about  it,  no  wanting  this  or  wanting  that ;'  and  above 
all,  Swithin  dwelt  on  this,  staring  at  Mrs.  Septimus  in  a  way 
that  disconcerted  her  a  good  deal,  '  no  silly  nervousness  !' 
To  Aunt  Hester  he  portrayed  Irene's  hat.  '  Not  one  of  your 
great  flopping  things,  sprawling  about,  and  catching  the  dust, 

that  women  are  so  fond  of  nowadays,  but  a  neat  little ' 

he  made  a  circular  motion  of  his  hand,  '  white  veil — capital 
taste.' 

'What  was  it  made  of?'  inquired  Aunt  Hester,  who 
manifested  a  languid  but  permanent  excitement  at  any 
mention  of  dress. 

'  Made  of  ?'  returned  Swithin  ;  *  now  hov/  should  /  know  ?' 

He  sank  into  silence  so  profound  that  Aunt  Hester  began  to 
be  afraid  he  had  fallen  into  a  trance.  She  did  not  try  to 
rouse  him  herself,  it  not  being  her  custom. 

'  I  wish  somebody  would  come,'  she  thought ;  *  I  don't 
like  the  look  of  him  !' 

But  suddenly  Swithin  returned  to  life.  '  Made  of  ?'  he 
wheezed  out  slowly,  '  what  should  it  be  made  of?' 

They  had  not  gone  four  miles  before  Sv/ithin  received  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  147 

impression  that  Irene  liked  driving  with  him.  Her  face  was 
so  soft  behind  that  white  veil,  and  her  dark  eyes  shone  so  in 
the  Spring  light,  that  whenever  he  spoke  she  raised  them  to 
him  and  smiled. 

On  Saturday  morning  Soames  had  found  her  at  her 
writing-table  with  a  note  written  to  Swithin,  putting  him  oft. 
Why  did  she  want  to  put  him  off?  he  asked.  She  might 
put  her  own  people  off  when  she  liked,  he  would  not  have 
her  putting  off  his  people  ! 

She  had  looked  at  him  intently,  had  torn  up  the  note,  and 
said  :   '  Very  well !' 

And  then  she  began  writing  another.  He  took  a  casual 
glance  presently,  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  Bosinney. 

'  What  are  you  writing  to  him  about  ?'  he  asked. 

Irene,  looking  at  him  again  with  that  intent  look,  said 
quietly  :   '  Something  he  wanted  me  to  do  for  him  !' 

*  Humph  !'  said  Soames.  '  Commissions  !  You'll  have 
your  work  cut  out  if  you  begin  that  sort  of  thing !'  He 
said  no  more. 

Swithin  opened  his  eyes  at  the  mention  of  Robin  Hill ;  it 
was  a  long  way  for  his  horses,  and  he  always  dined  at  half- 
past  seven,  before  the  rush  at  the  Club  began ;  the  new  chef 
took  more  trouble  with  an  early  dinner — a  lazy  rascal ! 

He  would  like  to  have  a  look  at  the  house,  however.  A 
house  appealed  to  any  Forsyte,  and  especially  to  one  who 
had  been  an  auctioneer.  After  all  he  said  the  distance  was 
nothing.  When  he  was  a  younger  m.an  he  had  had  riDoms 
at  Richmond  for  many  years,  kept  his  carriage  and  pair 
there,  and  drove  them  up  and  down  to  business  every  day 
of  his  life.  Four-in-hand  Forsyte  they  called  him  !  His 
T-cart,  his  horses  had  been  known  from  Hyde  Park  Corner 

to  the  Star  and  Garter.     The  Duke  of  Z wanted  to 

get  hold  of  them,  would  have  given  him  double  the  money, 
but  he  had  kept  them  ;  know  a  good  thing  when  you  have 


148  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

it,  eh  ?  A  look  of  solemn  pride  came  portentously  on  his 
shaven  square  old  face,  he  rolled  his  head  in  his  stand-up 
collar,  like  a  turkey-cock  preening  himself. 

She  was  really  a  charming  woman  !  He  enlarged  upon 
her  frock  afterwards  to  Aunt  Juley,  who  held  up  her  hands 
at  his  way  of  putting  it. 

Fitted  her  like  a  skin — tight  as  a  drum ;  that  was  how  he 
liked  'em,  all  of  a  piece,  none  of  your  daverdy,  scarecrow 
women !  He  gazed  at  Mrs.  Septimus  Small,  who  took 
after  James — long  and  thin. 

'  There's  style  about  her,'  he  went  on,  '  fit  for  a  king ! 
And  she's  so  quiet  with  it  too  !' 

'  She  seems  to  have  made  quite  a  conquest  of  you,  any 
way,'  drawled  Aunt  Hester  from  her  corner. 

Swithin  heard  extremely  well  when  anybody  attacked  him. 

'  What's  that  ?'  he  said.  '  I  know  a — pretty — woman 
when  I  see  one,  and  all  I  can  say  is,  I  don't  see  the  young 
man  about  that's  fit  for  her  ;  but  perhaps — you — do,  come, 
perhaps — you — do  !' 

*  Oh  ?'  murmured  Aunt  Hester,  *ask  Juley  !* 

Long  before  they  reached  Robin  Hill,  however,  the  un- 
accustomed airing  had  made  him  terribly  sleepy  ;  he  drove 
with  his  eyes  closed,  a  life-time  of  deportment  alone  keeping 
his  tall  and  bulky  form  from  falling  askew. 

Bosinney,  who  was  watching,  came  out  to  meet  them, 
and  all  three  entered  the  house  together  ;  Swithin  in  front 
making  play  with  a  stout  gold-mounted  Malacca  cane,  put 
into  his  hand  by  Adolf,  for  his  knees  were  feeling  the  effects 
of  their  long  stay  in  the  same  position.  He  had  assumed  his 
fur  coat,  to  guard  against  the  draughts  of  the  unfinished  house. 

The  staircase — he  said — was  handsome  !  the  baronial 
style  1  They  would  want  some  statuary  about  !  He  came 
to  a  standstill  between  the  columns  of  the  doorway  into  the 
inner  court,  and  held  out  his  cane  inquiringly. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  149 

What  was  this  to  be — this  vestibule,  or  whatever  they 
called  it  ?  But  gazing  at  the  skylight,  inspiration  came 
to  him. 

<  Ah  !  the  billiard-room  !' 

When  told  it  was  to  be  a  tiled  court  with  plants  in  the 
centre,  he  turned  to  Irene  : 

*  Waste  this  on  plants  ?  You  take  my  advice  and  have  a 
billiard  table  here  !' 

Irene  smiled.  She  had  lifted  her  veil,  banding  it  like  a 
nun's  coif  across  her  forehead,  and  the  smile  of  her  dark  eyes 
below  this  seemed  to  Swithin  more  charming  than  ever.  He 
nodded.     She  would  take  his  advice  he  saw. 

He  had  little  to  say  of  the  drawing  or  dining-rooms,  which 
he  described  as  *  spacious';  but  fell  into  such  raptures  as  he 
permitted  to  a  man  of  his  dignity,  in  the  wine-cellar,  to 
which  he  descended  by  stone  steps,  Bosinney  going  first 
with  a  light. 

*  You'll  have  room  here,'  he  said, '  for  six  or  seven  hundred 
dozen  — a  very  pooty  little  cellar  !' 

Bosinney  having  expressed  the  wish  to  show  them  the 
house  from  the  copse  below,  Swithin  came  to  a  stop. 

'  There's  a  fine  view  from  here,'  he  remarked  ;  '  you 
haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  chair  ?' 

A  chair  was  brought  him  from  Bosinney's  tent. 

'  You  go  down,'  he  said  blandly  ;  *  you  two  !  I'll  sit  here 
and  look  at  the  view.' 

He  sat  down  by  the  oak  tree,  in  the  sun  ;  square  and 
upright,  with  one  hand  stretched  out,  resting  on  the  nob  ot 
his  cane,  the  other  planted  on  his  knee  ;  his  fur  coat  thrown 
open,  his  hat,  roofing  with  its  flat  top  the  pale  square  of  his 
face  ;  his  stare,  very  blank,  fixed  on  the  landscape. 

He  nodded  to  them  as  they  went  off  down  through  the 
fields.  He  was,  indeed,  not  sorry  to  be  left  thus  for  a  quiet 
moment  of  reflection.     The  air  was  balmy,  not  too  much 


150  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

heat  in  the  sun  ;  the  prospect  a  fine  one,  a  remarka — .  His 
head  fell  a  little  to  one  side ;  he  jerked  it  up  and  thought  : 
Odd  !  He — ah  !  They  were  waving  to  him  from  the 
bottom  !  He  put  up  his  hand,  and  moved  it  more  than 
once.  They  were  active — the  prospect  was  remar — .  His 
head  fell  to  the  left,  he  jerked  it  up  at  once  ;  it  fell  to  the 
right.     It  remained  there  ;  he  was  asleep. 

And  asleep,  a  sentinel  on  the  top  of  the  rise,  he  appeared 
to  rule  over  this  prospect — remarkable — like  some  image 
blocked  out  by  the  special  artist  of  primeval  Forsytes  in 
Pagan  days,  to  record  the  domination  of  mind  over  matter  ! 

And  all  the  unnumbered  generations  of  his  yeoman  ances- 
tors, wont  of  a  Sunday  to  stand  akimbo  surveying  their  little 
plots  of  land,  their  gray  unmoving  eyes  hiding  their  instinct 
with  its  hidden  roots  of  violence,  their  instinct  for  possession 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  world — all  these  unnumbered 
generations  seemed  to  sit  there  with  him  on  the  top  of 
the  rise. 

But  from  him,  thus  slumbering,  his  jealous  Forsyte  spirit 
travelled  far,  into  God-knows-what  jungle  of  fancies  ;  with 
those  two  young  people,  to  see  v/hat  they  were  doing  down 
there  in  the  copse — in  the  copse  where  the  Spring  was  run- 
ning riot  with  the  scent  of  sap  and  bursting  buds,  the  song  of 
birds  innumerable,  a  carpet  of  bluebells  and  sweet  growing 
things,  and  the  sun  caught  like  gold  in  the  tops  of  the  trees  ; 
to  see  what  they  were  doing,  walking  along  there  so  close 
together  on  the  path  that  was  too  narrow  ;  walking  along 
there  so  close  that  they  were  always  touching  ;  to  watch 
Irene's  eyes,  like  dark  thieves,  stealing  the  heart  out  of  the 
Spring.  And  a  great  unseen  chaperon,  his  spirit  was  there, 
stopping  with  them  to  look  at  the  little  furry  corpse  of  a 
mole,  not  dead  an  hour,  with  his  mushroom  and  silver  coat 
untouched  by  the  rain  or  dew  ;  watching  over  Irene's  bent 
head,  and  the  soft  look  of  her  pitying  eyes ;  and  over  that 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  151 

young  man's  head,  gazing  at  her  so  hard,  so  strangely. 
Walking  on  with  them,  too,  across  the  open  space  where  a 
wood-cutter  had  been  at  work,  where  the  bluebells  v/ere 
trampled  down,  and  a  trunk  had  swayed  and  staggered  down 
from  its  gashed  stump.  Climbing  it  with  them,  over,  and 
on  to  the  very  edge  of  the  copse,  whence  there  stretched  an 
undiscovered  country,  from  far  away  in  which  came  the 
sounds,  '  Cuckoo — cuckoo  !' 

Silent,  standing  with  them  there,  and  uneasy  at  their 
silence  !     Very  queer,  very  strange  ! 

Then  back  again,  as  though  guilty,  through  the  wood — 
back  to  the  cutting,  still  silent,  amongst  the  songs  of  birds 
that  never  ceased,  and  the  wild  scent — hum  !  what  was  it 
— like  that  herb  they  put  in — back  to  the  log  across  the  path. 

And  then  unseen,  uneasy,  flapping  above  them,  trying  to 
make  noises,  his  Forsyte  spirit  watched  her  balanced  on  the 
log,  her  pretty  figure  swaying,  smiling  down  at  that  young 
man  gazing  up  with  such  strange,  shining  eyes;  slipping 
now — a-ah  !  falling,  o-oh  !  sliding — down  his  breast ;  her 
soft,  warm  body  clutched,  her  head  bent  back  from  his 
lips ;  his  kiss ;  her  recoil ;  his  cry  :  *  You  must  know — I 
love  you  !'    Must  know — indeed,  a  pretty ?   Love  !  Hah  ! 

Swithin  awoke ;  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him.  He  had  a 
taste  in  his  mouth.     Where  was  he  ? 

Damme  !     He  had  been  asleep  ! 

He  had  dreamed  something  about  a  new  soup,  with  a 
taste  of  mint  in  it. 

Those  young  people — where  had  they  got  to  ?  His  left 
leg  had  pins  and  needles. 

'  Adolf !'  The  rascal  v/as  not  there ;  the  rascal  was 
asleep  somewhere. 

He  stood  up,  tall,  square,  bulky  in  his  fur,  looking 
anxiously  dov/n  over  the  fields,  and  presently  he  saw  them 
coming. 


152  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Irene  was  in  front ;  that  young  fellow — what  had  they 
nicknamed  him — ^The  Buccaneer'? — looked  precious  hang- 
dog there  behind  her  ;  had  got  a  flea  in  his  ear,  he  shouldn't 
wonder.  Serve  him  right,  taking  her  down  all  that  way  to 
look  at  the  house !  The  proper  place  to  look  at  a  house 
from  was  the  lawn. 

They  saw  him.  He  extended  his  arm,  and  moved  it 
spasmodically  to  encourage  them.  But  they  had  stopped. 
What  were  they  standing  there  for,  talking — talking? 
They  came  on  again.  She  had  been  giving  him  a  rub,  he 
had  not  the  least  doubt  of  it,  and  no  wonder,  over  a  house 
like  that — a  great  ugly  thing,  not  the  sort  of  house  he  was 
accustomed  to. 

He  looked  intently  at  their  faces,  with  his  pale,  immovable 
stare.     That  young  man  looked  very  queer ! 

'  You'll  never  make  anything  of  this  !'  he  said  tartly, 
pointing  at  the  mansion  ;  '  too  new-fangled  !' 

Bosinney  gazed  at  him  as  though  he  had  not  heard ;  and 
Swithin  afterwards  described  him  to  Aunt  Hester  as  '  an 
extravagant  sort  of  fellow — very  odd  way  of  looking  at  you 
— a  bumpy  beggar  !' 

What  gave  rise  to  this  sudden  piece  of  psychology  he  did 
not  state  ;  possibly  Bosinney's  prominent  forehead  and  cheek- 
bones and  chin,  or  something  hungry  in  his  face,  which 
quarrelled  with  Swithin's  conception  of  the  calm  satiety  that 
should  characterize  the  perfect  gentleman. 

He  brightened  up  at  the  mention  of  tea.  He  had  a  con- 
tempt for  tea — his  brother  Jolyon  had  been  in  tea ;  made  a 
lot  of  money  by  it — but  he  was  so  thirsty,  and  had  such  a 
taste  in  his  mouth,  that  he  was  prepared  to  drink  anything. 
He  longed  to  inform  Irene  of  the  taste  in  his  mouth — she 
was  so  sympathetic — but  it  would  not  be  a  distinguished 
thing  to  do ;  he  rolled  his  tongue  round,  and  faintly  smacked 
it  against  his  palate. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  153 

In  a  far  corner  of  the  tent  Adolf  was  bending  his  cat-like 
moustaches  over  a  kettle.  He  left  it  at  once  to  draw  the 
cork  of  a  pint-bottle  of  champagne.  Swithin  smiled,  and, 
nodding  at  Bossiney,  said  :  *  Why,  you're  quite  a  Monte 
Cristo  1'  This  celebrated  novel — one  of  the  half-dozen  he 
had  read — had  produced  an  extraordinary  impression  on  his 
mind. 

Taking  his  glass  from  the  table,  he  held  it  away  from  him 
to  scrutinize  the  colour  ;  thirsty  as  he  was,  it  was  not  likely 
that  he  was  going  to  drink  trash  !  Then,  placing  it  to  his 
lips,  he  took  a  sip. 

'A  very  nice  wine,'  he  said  at  last,  passing  it  before  his 
nose  ;  *  not  the  equal  of  my  Heidsieck  !' 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  idea  came  to  him  which  he 
afterwards  imparted  at  Timothy's  in  this  nutshell :  'I  shouldn't 
wonder  a  bit  if  that  architect  chap  were  sweet  upon  Mrs. 
Soames  !' 

And  from  this  moment  his  pale,  round  eyes  never  ceased 
to  bulge  with  the  interest  of  his  discovery. 

*  The  fellow,'  he  said  to  Mrs.  Septimus,  *  follows  her  about 
with  his  eyes  like  a  dog — the  bumpy  beggar  !  I  don't 
wonder  at  it — she's  a  very  charming  woman,  and,  I  should 
say,  the  pink  of  discretion  !'  A  vague  consciousness  of  per- 
fume clinging  about  Irene,  like  that  from  a  flower  with  half- 
closed  petals  and  a  passionate  heart,  moved  him  to  the  creation 
of  this  image.  '  But  I  wasn't  sure  of  it,'  he  said,  *  till  I  saw 
him  pick  up  her  handkerchief.' 

Mrs.  Small's  eyes  boiled  with  excitement. 

*  And  did  he  give  it  her  back  ?'  she  asked. 

*  Give  it  back?'  said  Swithin:  *I  saw  him  slobber  on  it 
when  he  thought  I  wasn't  looking  !' 

Mrs.  Small  gasped — too  interested  to  speak. 

*  But  she  gave  him  no  encouragement,'  went  on  Swithin  ; 
he  stopped,  and  stared  for  a  minute  or  two  in  the  way  that 

6* 


154  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

alarmed  Aunt  Hester  so — he  had  suddenly  recollected  that, 
as  they  were  starting  back  in  the  phaeton,  she  had  given 
Bosinney  her  hand  a  second  time,  and  let  it  stay  there  too.  .  .  . 
He  had  touched  his  horses  smartly  with  the  whip,  anxious  to 
get  her  all  to  himself.  But  she  had  looked  back,  and  she  had 
not  answered  his  first  question  ;  neither  had  he  been  able  to 
see  her  face — she  had  kept  it  hanging  down. 

There  is  somewhere  a  picture,  which  Swithin  has  not  seen, 
of  a  man  sitting  on  a  rock,  and  by  him,  immersed  in  the  still, 
green  water,  a  sea-nymph  lying  on  her  back,  with  her  hand 
on  her  naked  breast.  She  has  a  half-smile  on  her  face — a 
smile  of  hopeless  surrender  and  of  secret  joy.  Seated  by 
Swithin's  side,  Irene  may  have  been  smiling  like  that. 

When,  warmed  by  champagne,  he  had  her  all  to  him- 
self, he  unbosomed  himself  of  his  wrongs  ;  of  his  smothered 
resentment  against  the  new  chef  at  the  club  ;  his  worry 
over  the  house  in  Wigmore  Street,  where  the  rascally 
tenant  had  gone  bankrupt  through  helping  his  brother-in- 
law — as  if  charity  did  not  begin  at  home  ;  of  his  deafness, 
too,  and  that  pain  he  sometimes  got  in  his  right  side.  She 
listened,  her  eyes  swimming  under  their  lids.  He  thought 
she  was  thinking  deeply  of  his  troubles,  and  pitied  himself 
terribly.  Yet  in  his  fur  coat,  with  frogs  across  the  breast, 
his  top  hat  aslant,  driving  this  beautiful  woman,  he  had  never 
felt  more  distinguished. 

A  coster,  however,  taking  his  girl  for  a  Sunday  airing, 
seemed  to  have  the  same  impression  about  himself.  This 
person  had  flogged  his  donkey  into  a  gallop  alongside,  and  sat, 
upright  as  a  waxwork,  in  his  shallopy  chariot,  his  chin  settled 
pompously  on  a  red  handkerchief,  like  Swithin's  on  his  full 
cravat ;  while  his  girl,  with  the  ends  of  a  fly-blown  boa 
floating  out  behind,  aped  a  woman  of  fashion.  Her  swain 
moved  a  stick  with  a  ragged  bit  of  string  dangling  from  the 
end,  reproducing  with  strange  fidelity  the  circular  flourish 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  155 

of  Swithin's  whip,  and  rolled  his  head  at  his  lady  with  a  leer 
that  had  a  weird  likeness  to  Swithin's  primeval  stare. 

Though  for  a  time  unconscious  of  the  lowly  ruffian's 
presence,  Swithin  presently  took  it  into  his  head  that  he  was 
being  guyed.  He  laid  his  whip-lash  across  the  mare's  flank. 
The  two  chariots,  however,  by  some  unfortunate  fatality 
continued  abreast.  Swithin's  yellow,  puffy  face  grew  red  ; 
he  raised  his  whip  to  lash  the  costermonger,  but  was  saved 
from  so  far  forgetting  his  dignity  by  a  special  intervention  of 
Providence.  A  carriage  driving  out  through  a  gate  forced 
phaeton  and  donkey-cart  into  proximity  ;  the  wheels  grated, 
the  lighter  vehicle  skidded,  and  was  overturned. 

Swithin  did  not  look  round.  On  no  account  would  he 
have  pulled  up  to  help  the  ruffian.  Serve  him  right  if  he  had 
broken  his  neck ! 

But  he  could  not  if  he  would.  The  grays  had  taken 
alarm.  The  phaeton  swung  from  side  to  side,  and  people 
raised  frightened  faces  as  they  went  dashing  past.  Swithin's 
great  arms,  stretched  at  full  length,  tugged  at  the  reins.  His 
cheeks  were  puffed,  his  lips  compressed,  his  swollen  face  was 
of  a  dull,  angry  red. 

Irene  had  her  hand  on  the  rail,  and  at  every  lurch  she 
gripped  it  tightly.     Swithin  heard  her  ask : 

*  Are  we  going  to  have  an  accident.  Uncle  Swithin  ?' 

He  gasped  out  between  his  pants :  '  It's  nothing ;  a — little 
fresh  !' 

*  I've  never  been  in  an  accident.' 

'  Don't  you  move !'  He  took  a  look  at  her.  She  was 
smiling,  perfectly  calm.  '  Sit  still,'  he  repeated.  '  Never 
fear,  I'll  get  you  home !' 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  his  terrible  efforts,  he  was  surprised 
to  hear  her  answer  in  a  voice  not  like  her  own  : 

'/  dont  care  if  I  never  get  homeP 

The  carriage  giving  a  terrific  lurch,  Swithin's  exclamation 


156  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  jerked  back  into  his  throat.  The  horses,  winded  by  the 
rise  of  a  hill,  now  steadied  to  a  trot,  and  finally  stopped  of 
their  own  accord. 

*  When  ' — Swithin  described  it  at  Timothy's — '  I  pulled 
'em  up,  there  she  was  as  cool  as  myself.  God  bless  my  soul ! 
she  behaved  as  if  she  didn't  care  whether  she  broke  her  neck 
or  not  !  What  was  it  she  said  :  "  I  don't  care  if  I  never  get 
home  !"  '  Leaning  over  the  handle  of  his  cane,  he  wheezed 
out,  to  Mrs.  Small's  terror  :  '  And  I'm  not  altogether 
surprised,  with  a  finickin'  feller  like  young  Soames  for  a 
husband  !' 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  wonder  what  Bosinney  had 
done  after  they  had  left  him  there  alone ;  whether  he  had 
gone  wandering  about  like  the  dog  to  which  Swithin  had 
compared  him;  wandering  down  to  that  copse  where  the 
spring  was  still  in  riot,  the  cuckoo  still  calling  from  afar ; 
gone  down  there  with  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  his  lips, 
its  fragrance  mingling  with  the  scent  of  mint  and  thyme. 
Gone  down  there  with  such  a  wild,  exquisite  pain  in  his 
heart  that  he  could  have  cried  out  among  the  trees.  Or 
what,  indeed,  the  fellow  had  done.  In  fact,  till  he  came  to 
Timothy's,  Swithin  had  forgotten  all  about  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JAMES    GOES   TO    SEE    FOR    HIMSELF 

Those  ignorant  of  Forsyte  'Change  would  not,  perhaps, 
foresee  all  the  stir  made  by  Irene's  visit  to  the  house. 

After  Swithin  had  related  at  Timothy's  the  full  story 
of  his  memorable  drive,  the  same,  w^ith  the  least  suspicion  of 
curiosity,  the  merest  touch  of  malice,  and  a  real  desire  to  do 
good,  was  passed  on  to  June. 

'  And  what  a  dreadful  thing  to  say,  my  dear  !'  ended  Aunt 
Juley ;  *  that  about  not  going  home.     What  did  she  mean  r' 

It  was  a  strange  recital  for  the  girl.  She  heard  it  flushing 
painfully,  and,  suddenly,  with  a  curt  handshake,  took  her 
departure. 

'  Almost  rude !'  Mrs.  Small  said  to  Aunt  Hester,  when 
June  was  gone. 

The  proper  construction  was  put  on  her  reception  of  the 
news.  She  was  upset.  Something  was  therefore  very  wrong. 
Odd  !     She  and  Irene  had  been  such  friends  ! 

It  all  tallied  too  well  with  whispers  and  hints  that  had  been 
going  about  for  some  time  past.  Recollections  of  Euphemia's 
account  of  the  visit  to  the  theatre — Mr.  Bosinney  always  at 
Soames's?  Oh,  indeed  !  Yes,  of  course,  he  would  be — 
about  the  house !  Nothing  open.  Only  upon  the  greatest, 
the  most  important  provocation  was  it  necessary  to  say  any- 
thing open  on  Forsyte  'Change.  This  machine  was  too 
nicely  adjusted ;  a  hint,  the  merest  trifling  expression  of  regret 

157 


158  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

or  doubt,  sufficed  to  set  the  family  soul — so  sympathetic — 
vibrating.  No  one  desired  that  harm  should  come  of  these 
vibrations — far  from  it ;  they  were  set  in  motion  with  the 
best  intentions,  with  the  feeling  that  each  member  of  the 
family  had  a  stake  in  the  family  soul. 

And  much  kindness  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  gossip  ;  it 
would  frequently  result  in  visits  of  condolence  being  made, 
in  accordance  with  the  customs  of  Society,  thereby  con- 
ferring a  real  benefit  upon  the  sufferers,  and  affording 
consolation  to  the  sound,  who  felt  pleasantly  that  someone 
at  all  events  was  suffering  from  that  from  which  they  them- 
selves were  not  suffering.  In  fact,  it  was  simply  a  desire  to 
keep  things  well-aired,  the  desire  which  animates  the  Public 
Press,  that  brought  James,  for  instance,  into  communication 
with  Mrs.  Septimus,  Mrs.  Septimus  with  the  little  Nicholases, 
the  little  Nicholases  with  who-knows-whom,  and  so  on. 
That  great  class  to  which  they  had  risen,  and  now  belonged, 
demanded  a  certain  candour,  a  still  more  certain  reticence. 
This  combination  guaranteed  their  membership. 

Many  of  the  younger  Forsytes  felt,  very  naturally,  and 
would  openly  declare,  that  they  did  not  want  their  affairs 
pried  into ;  but  so  powerful  was  the  invisible,  magnetic 
current  of  family  gossip,  that  for  the  life  of  them  they  could  not 
help  knowing  all  about  everything.  It  was  felt  to  be  hopeless. 

One  of  them  (young  Roger)  had  made  an  heroic  attempt 
to  free  the  rising  generation,  by  speaking  of  Timothy  as  an 
'  old  cat.'  The  effort  had  justly  recoiled  upon  himself ;  the 
words,  coming  round  in  the  most  delicate  way  to  Aunt 
Juley's  ears,  were  repeated  by  her  in  a  shocked  voice  to  Mrs. 
Roger,  whence  they  returned  again  to  young  Roger. 

And,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  wrong-doers  who  suffered  ; 
as,  for  instance,  George,  when  he  lost  all  that  money  play- 
ing billiards  ;  or  young  Roger  himself,  when  he  was  so  dread- 
fully near  to  marrying  the  girl  to  whom,  it  was  whispered, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  159 

he  was  already  married  by  the  laws  of  Nature  ;  or  again 
Irene,  who  was  thought,  rather  than  said,  to  be  in  danger. 

All  this  was  not  only  pleasant  but  salutary.  And  it  made 
so  many  hours  go  lightly  at  Timothy's  in  the  Bayswater 
Road  ;  so  many  hours  that  must  otherwise  have  been  sterile 
and  heavy  to  those  three  who  lived  there  ;  and  Timothy's 
was  but  one  of  hundreds  of  such  homes  in  this  City  of 
London — the  homes  of  neutral  persons  of  the  secure  classes, 
who  are  out  of  the  battle  them.selves,  and  must  find  their 
reason  for  existing,  in  the  battles  of  others. 

But  for  the  sweetness  of  family  gossip,  it  must  indeed  have 
been  lonely  there.  Rumours  and  tales,  reports,  surmises — 
were  they  not  the  children  of  the  house,  as  dear  and  precious 
as  the  prattling  babes  the  brother  and  sisters  had  missed  in 
their  own  journey  ?  To  talk  about  them,  was  as  near  as 
they  could  get  to  the  possession  of  all  those  children  and 
grandchildren  after  whom  their  soft  hearts  yearned.  For 
though  it  is  doubtful  whether  Timothy's  heart  yearned,  it  is 
indubitable  that  at  the  arrival  of  each  fresh  Forsyte  child  he 
was  quite  upset. 

Useless  for  young  Roger  to  say,  'Old  cat  !' — for  Euphe- 
mia  to  hold  up  her  hands  and  cry  :  '  Oh  !  those  three  !'  and 
break  into  her  silent  laugh  with  the  squeak  at  the  end. 
Useless,  and  not  too  kind. 

The  situation  which  at  this  stage  might  seem,  and 
especially  tO|  Forsyte  eyes,  strange — not  to  say  '  impossible ' 
— was,  in  view  of  certain  facts,  not  so  strange  after  all. 

Some  things  had  been  lost  sight  of. 

And  first,  in  the  security  bred  of  many  harmless  marriages, 
it  had  been  forgotten  that  Love  is  no  hot-house  flower,  but  a 
wild  plant,  born  of  a  wet  night,  born  of  an  hour  of  sunshine^ 
sprung  from  wild  seed,  blown  along  the  road  by  a  wild  wind 
A  wild  plant  that,  when  it  blooms  by  chance  within  the 
hedge  of  our  gardens,  we  call  a  flower  ;  and  when  it  blooms 


i6o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

outside  we  call  a  weed  ;  but,  flower  or  weed,  whose  scent 
and  colour  are  always  wild  ! 

And  further — the  facts  and  figures  of  their  own  lives  being 
against  the  perception  of  this  truth — it  was  not  generally 
recognised  by  Forsytes  that,  where  this  wild  plant  sprii  gs, 
men  and  women  are  but  moths  around  the  pale,  flame-like 
blossom. 

It  was  long  since  young  Jolyon's  escapade — there  was 
danger  of  a  tradition  again  arising  that  people  in  their  posi- 
tion never  cross  the  hedge  to  pluck  that  flower ;  that  one 
could  reckon  on  having  love,  like  measles,  once  in  due  season, 
and  getting  over  it  comfortably  for  all  time — as  with  measles, 
on  a  soothing  mixture  of  butter  and  honey — in  the  arms  of 
wedlock. 

Of  all  those  whom  this  strange  rumour  about  Bosinney 
and  Mrs.  Soames  reached,  James  was  the  most  affected.  He 
had  long  forgotten  how  he  had  hovered,  lanky  and  pale,  in 
side  whiskers  of  chestnut  hue,  round  Emily,  in  the  days 
of  his  own  courtship.  He  had  long  forgotten  the  small 
house  in  the  purlieus  of  Mayfair,  where  he  had  spent  the 
early  days  of  his  married  life,  or  rather,  he  had  long  forgotten 
the  early  days,  not  the  small  house,  a  Forsyte  never  forgot  a 
house — he  had  afterwards  sold  it  at  a  clear  profit  of  four 
hundred  pounds. 

He  had  long  forgotten  those  days,  with  their  hopes  and 
fears  and  doubts  about  the  prudence  of  the  match  (for  Emily, 
though  pretty,  had  nothing,  and  he  himself  at  that  time 
was  making  a  bare  thousand  a  year),  and  that  strange,  irre- 
sistible attraction  that  had  drawn  him  on,  till  he  felt  he 
must  die  if  he  could  not  marry  the  girl  with  the  fair  hair, 
looped  so  neatly  back,  the  fair  arms  emerging  from  a  skin- 
tight bodice,  the  fair  form  decorously  shielded  by  a  cage  of 
really  stupendous  circumference. 

James  had  passed  through  the  fire,  but  he  had  passed  also 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  i6i 

through  the  river  of  years  that  washes  out  the  fire  ;  he  had 
experienced  the  saddest  experience  of  all — forgetfulness  of 
what  it  was  like  to  be  in  love. 

Forgotten  !  Forgotten  so  long,  that  he  had  forgotten 
even  that  he  had  forgotten. 

And  now  this  rumour  had  come  upon  him,  this  rumour 
about  his  son's  wife  ;  very  vague,  a  shadow  dodging  among 
the  palpable,  straightforward  appearances  of  things,  unreal, 
unintelligible  as  a  ghost,  but  carrying  with  it,  like  a  ghost, 
inexplicable  terror. 

He  tried  to  bring  it  home  to  his  mind,  but  it  was  no  more 
use  than  trying  to  apply  to  himself  one  of  those  tragedies  he 
read  of  daily  in  his  evening  paper.  He  simply  could  not. 
There  could  be  nothing  in  it.  It  was  all  their  nonsense. 
She  didn't  get  on  with  Soames  as  well  as  she  might,  but  she 
was  a  good  little  thing — a  good  little  thing ! 

Like  the  not  inconsiderable  majority  of  men,  James 
relished  a  nice  little  bit  of  scandal,  and  would  say,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone,  licking  his  lips,  *Yes,  yes — she  and 
young  Dyson ;  they  tell  me  they're  living  at  Monte  Carlo !' 

But  the  significance  of  an  affair  of  this  sort — of  its  past, 
its  present,  or  its  future — had  never  struck  him.  What  it 
meant,  what  torture  and  raptures  had  gone  to  its  construc- 
tion, what  slow,  overmastering  fate  had  lurked  within  the 
facts,  very  naked,  sometimes  sordid,  but  generally  spicy, 
presented  to  his  gaze.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  blaming, 
praising,  drawing  deductions,  or  generalizing  at  all  about  such 
things ;  he  simply  listened  rather  greedily,  and  repeated  what 
he  was  told,  finding  considerable  benefit  from  the  practice,  as 
from  the  consumption  of  a  sherry  and  bitters  before  a  meal. 

Now,  however,  that  such  a  thing — or  rather  the  rumour, 
the  breath  of  it — had  come  near  him  personally,  he  felt  as  in 
a  fog,  which  filled  his  mouth  full  of  a  bad,  thick  flavour, 
and  made  it  difficult  to  draw  breath. 


i62  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

A  scandal !     A  possible  scandal ! 

To  repeat  this  word  to  himself  thus  was  the  only  way  in 
which  he  could  focus  or  make  it  thinkable.  He  had  for- 
gotten the  sensations  necessary  for  understanding  the  pro- 
gress, fate,  or  meaning  of  any  such  business;  he  simply 
could  no  longer  grasp  the  possibilities  of  people  running  any 
risk  for  the  sake  of  passion. 

Amongst  all  those  persons  of  his  acquaintance,  who  went 
into  the  City  day  after  day  and  did  their  business  there, 
whatever  it  was,  and  in  their  leisure  moments  bought  shares, 
and  houses,  and  ate  dinners,  and  played  games,  as  he  was 
told,  it  would  have  seemed  to  him  ridiculous  to  suppose  that 
there  were  any  who  would  run  risks  for  the  sake  of  anything 
so  recondite,  so  figurative,  as  passion. 

Passion  !  He  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  heard  of  it,  and 
rules  such  as  '  A  young  man  and  a  young  woman  ought 
never  to  be  trusted  together  '  were  fixed  in  his  mind  as  the 
parallels  of  latitude  are  fixed  on  a  map  (for  all  Forsytes, 
when  it  comes  to  *  bed-rock  '  matters  of  fact,  have  quite  a 
fine  taste  in  realism) ;  but  as  to  anything  else — well,  he  could 
only  appreciate  it  at  all  through  the  catch-word  *  scandal.' 

Ah  !  but  there  was  no  truth  in  it — could  not  be.  He 
was  not  afraid ;  she  was  really  a  good  little  thing.  But 
there  it  was  when  you  got  a  thing  like  that  into  your  mind. 
And  James  was  of  a  nervous  temperament — one  of  those 
men  whom  things  will  not  leave  alone,  who  suffer  tortures 
from  anticipation  and  indecision.  For  fear  of  letting  some- 
thing slip  that  he  might  otherwise  secure,  he  was  physically 
unable  to  make  up  his  mind  until  absolutely  certain  that,  by 
not  making  it  up,  he  would  suffer  loss. 

In  life,  however,  there  were  many  occasions  when  the 
business  of  making  up  his  mind  did  not  even  rest  with  him- 
self, and  this  was  one  of  them. 

What  could  he  do  ?     Talk  it  over  with  Soames  ?     That 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  163 

would  only  make  matters  worse.  And,  after  all,  there  was 
nothing  in  it,  he  felt  sure. 

It  was  all  that  house.  He  had  mistrusted  the  idea  from 
the  first.  What  did  Soames  want  to  go  into  the  country 
for  ?  And,  if  he  must  go  spending  a  lot  of  money  building 
himself  a  house,  why  not  have  a  first-rate  man,  instead  of 
this  young  Bosinney,  whom  nobody  knew  anything  about  ? 
He  had  told  them  how  it  would  be.  And  he  had  heard  that 
the  house  was  costing  Soames  a  pretty  penny  beyond  what 
he  had  reckoned  on  spending. 

This  fact,  more  than  any  other,  brought  home  to  James 
the  real  danger  of  the  situation.  It  was  always  like  this  with 
these  '  artistic '  chaps ;  a  sensible  man  should  have  nothing 
to  say  to  them.  He  had  warned  Irene,  too.  And  see  what 
had  come  of  it ! 

And  it  suddenly  sprang  into  James's  mind  that  he  ought 
to  go  and  see  for  himself.  In  the  midst  of  that  fog  of 
uneasiness  in  which  his  mind  was  enveloped  the  notion 
that  he  could  go  and  look  at  the  house  afforded  him  inex- 
plicable satisfaction.  It  may  have  been  simply  the  decision 
to  do  something — more  possibly  the  fact  that  he  was  going 
to  look  at  a  house — that  gave  him  relief. 

He  felt  that  in  staring  at  an  edifice  of  bricks  and  mortar, 
of  wood  and  stone,  built  by  the  suspected  man  himself,  he 
would  be  looking  into  the  heart  of  that  rumour  about  Irene. 

Without  saying  a  word,  therefore,  to  anyone,  he  took  a 
hansom  to  the  station  and  proceeded  by  train  to  Robin  Hill ; 
thence — there  being  no  '  flies,'  in  accordance  with  the  custom 
of  the  neighbourhood — he  found  himself  obliged  to  walk. 

He  started  slowly  up  the  hill,  his  angular  knees  and  high 
shoulders  bent  complainingly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  feet,  yet 
neat  for  all  that,  in  his  high  hat  and  his  frock-coat,  on  which 
was  the  speckless  gloss  imparted  by  perfect  superintendence. 
Emily  saw  to  that ;  that  is,  she  did  not,  of  course,  see  to  it — 


i64  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

people  of  good  position  not  seeing  to  each  other's  buttons, 
and  Emily  was  of  good  position — but  she  saw  that  the 
butler  saw  to  it. 

He  had  to  ask  his  way  three  times ;  on  each  occasion  he 
repeated  the  directions  given  him,  got  the  man  to  repeat 
them,  then  repeated  them  a  second  time,  for  he  was  naturally 
of  a  talkative  disposition,  and  one  could  not  be  too  careful  in 
a  new  neighbourhood. 

He  kept  assuring  them  that  it  was  a  new  house  he  was 
looking  for  ;  it  was  only,  however,  when  he  was  shown  the 
roof  through  the  trees  that  he  could  feel  really  satisfied  that 
he  had  not  been  directed  entirely  wrong. 

A  heavy  sky  seemed  to  cover  the  world  with  the  gray 
whiteness  of  a  whitewashed  ceiling.  There  was  no  fresh- 
ness or  fragrance  in  the  air.  On  such  a  day  even  British 
workmen  scarcely  cared  to  do  more  than  they  were  obliged, 
and  moved  about  their  business  without  the  drone  of  talk 
that  whiles  away  the  pangs  of  labour. 

Through  spaces  of  the  unfinished  house,  shirt-sleeved 
figures  worked  slowly,  and  sounds  arose — spasmodic  knock- 
ings,  the  scraping  of  metal,  the  sawing  of  wood,  with  the 
rumble  of  wheelbarrows  along  boards ;  now  and  again  the 
foreman's  dog,  tethered  by  a  string  to  an  oaken  beam, 
whimpered  feebly,  with  a  sound  like  the  singing  of  a  kettle. 

The  fresh-fitted  window-panes,  daubed  each  with  a  white 
patch  in  the  centre,  stared  out  at  James  like  the  eyes  of  a 
blind  dog. 

And  the  building  chorus  went  on,  strident  and  mirth- 
less under  the  gray-white  sky.  But  the  thrushes,  hunting 
amongst  the  fresh-turned  earth  for  worms,  were  silent  quite. 

James  picked  his  way  among  the  heaps  of  gravel — the 
drive  was  being  laid — till  he  came  opposite  the  porch.  Here 
he  stopped  and  raised  his  eyes.  There  was  but  little  to  see 
from  this  point  of  view,  and  that  little  he  took  in  at  once; 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  165 

but  he  stayed  in  this  position  many  minutes,  and  who  shall 
know  of  what  he  thought. 

His  china-blue  eyes  under  white  eyebrows  that  jutted  out 
in  little  horns,  never  stirred ;  the  long  upper  lip  of  his 
wide  mouth,  between  the  fine  white  whiskers,  twitched  once 
or  twice ;  it  was  easy  to  see  from  that  anxious,  rapt  expres- 
sion, whence  Soames  derived  the  handicapped  look  which 
sometimes  came  upon  his  face.  James  might  have  been 
saying  to  himself  :   '  I  don*t  know — life's  a  tough  job.' 

In  this  position  Bosinney  surprised  him. 

James  brought  his  eyes  down  from  whatever  bird's-nest 
they  had  been  looking  for  in  the  sky  to  Bosinney's  face,  on 
which  was  a  kind  of  humorous  scorn. 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Forsyte  ?  Come  down  to  see  for 
yourself  ?' 

It  was  exactly  what  James,  as  we  know,  had  come  for, 
and  he  was  made  correspondingly  uneasy.  He  held  out  his 
hand,  however,  saying  : 

*  How  are  you  ?'  without  looking  at  Bosinney. 

The  latter  made  way  for  him  with  an  ironical  smile. 

James  scented  something  suspicious  in  this  courtesy.  *  I 
should  like  to  walk  round  the  outside  first,'  he  said,  '  and  see 
what  you've  been  doing  1' 

A  flagged  terrace  of  rounded  stones  with  a  list  of  two  or 
three  inches  to  port  had  been  laid  round  the  south-east  and 
south-west  sides  of  the  house,  and  ran  with  a  bevelled  edge 
into  mould,  which  was  in  preparation  for  being  turfed ;  along 
this  terrace  James  led  the  way. 

*  Now  what  did  this  cost  ?'  he  asked,  when  he  saw  the 
terrace  extending  round  the  corner. 

*  What  should  you  think  ?'  inquired  Bosinney. 

*  How  should  I  know  V  replied  James  somewhat  non- 
plussed ;  *  two  or  three  hundred,  I  dare  say  !' 

*  The  exact  sum  1' 


i66  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

James  gave  him  a  sharp  look,  but  the  architect  appeared 
unconscious,  and  he  put  the  answer  down  to  mishearing. 

On  arriving  at  the  garden  entrance,  he  stopped  to  look  at 
the  view. 

'  That  ought  to  come  down,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  oak-tree. 

'  You  think  so  ?  You  think  that  with  the  tree  there  you 
don't  get  enough  view  for  your  money  ?' 

Again  James  eyed  him  suspiciously — this  young  man  had 
a  peculiar  way  of  putting  things :  '  Well,'  he  said,  with  a 
perplexed,  nervous  emphasis,  *I  don't  see  what  you  want 
with  a  tree.' 

*  It  shall  come  down  to-morrow,'  said  Bosinney. 

James  was  alarmed.  *  Oh,'  he  said,  '  don't  go  saying  I 
said  it  was  to  come  down  !     /  know  nothing  about  it  !' 

'  No  ?' 

James  went  on  in  a  fluster  :  '  Why,  what  should  I  know 
about  it  ?  It's  nothing  to  do  with  me  !  You  do  it  on  your 
own  responsibility.' 

*  You'll  allow  me  to  mention  your  name  ?' 

James  grew  more  and  more  alarmed :  '  I  don't  know  what 
you  want  mentioning  my  name  for,'  he  muttered  ;  *  you'd 
better  leave  the  tree  alone.     It's  not  your  tree !' 

He  took  out  a  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  brow. 
They  entered  the  house.  Like  Swithin,  James  was  im- 
pressed by  the  inner  court-yard. 

'  You  must  have  spent  a  dooce  of  a  lot  of  money  here,'  he 
said,  after  staring  at  the  columns  and  gallery  for  some  time. 

*  Now,  what  did  it  cost  to  put  up  those  columns  ?' 

'  I  can't  tell  you  off-hand,'  thoughtfully  answered  Bosinney, 

*  but  I  know  it  was  a  deuce  of  a  lot  !' 

'  I    should    think    so,'  said  James.     '  I  should '     He 

caught  the  architect's  eye,  and  broke  off.  And  now,  when- 
ever he  came  to  anything  of  which  he  desired  to  know  the 
cost,  he  stifled  that  curiosity. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  167 

Bosinney  appeared  determined  that  he  should  see  every- 
thing, and  had  not  James  been  of  too  ^  noticing  *  a  nature, 
he  would  certainly  have  found  himself  going  round  the 
house  a  second  time.  He  seemed  so  anxious  to  be  asked 
questions,  too,  that  James  felt  he  must  be  on  his  guard.  He 
began  to  suffer  from  his  exertions,  for,  though  wiry  enough 
for  a  man  of  his  long  build,  he  was  seventy-five  years  old. 

He  grew  discouraged  ;  he  seemed  no  nearer  to  anything, 
had  not  obtained  from  his  inspection  any  of  the  knowledge 
he  had  vaguely  hoped  for.  He  had  merely  increased  his 
dislike  and  mistrust  of  this  young  man,  who  had  tired  him 
out  with  his  politeness,  and  in  whose  manner  he  now 
certainly  detected  mockery. 

The  fellow  was  sharper  than  he  had  thought,  and  better- 
looking  than  he  had  hoped.  He  had  a  '  don't  care '  appear- 
ance that  James,  to  whom  risk  was  the  most  intolerable 
thing  in  life,  did  not  appreciate  ;  a  peculiar  smile,  too,  coming 
when  least  expected ;  and  very  queer  eyes.  He  reminded 
James,  as  he  said  afterwards,  of  a  hungry  cat.  This  was  as 
near  as  he  could  get,  in  conversation  with  Emily,  to  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  peculiar  exasperation,  velvetiness,  and  mockery, 
of  which  Bosinney 's  manner  had  been  composed. 

At  last,  having  seen  all  that  was  to  be  seen,  he  came  out 
again  at  the  door  where  he  had  gone  in  j  and  now,  feeling 
that  he  was  wasting  time  and  strength  and  money,  all  for 
nothing,  he  took  the  courage  of  a  Forsyte  in  both  hands, 
and,  looking  sharply  at  Bosinney,  said  : 

'  I  dare  say  you  see  a  good  deal  of  my  daughter-in-law  ; 
now,  what  does  she  think  of  the  house  ?  But  she  hasn't 
seen  it,  I  suppose  r' 

This  he  said,  knowing  all  about  Irene's  visit — not,  of 
course,  that  there  was  anything  in  the  visit,  except  that 
extraordinary  remark  she  had  made  about  ^  not  caring  to  get 
home ' — and  the  story  of  how  June  had  taken  the  news  ! 


1 68  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  had  determined,  by  this  way  of  putting  the  question, 
to  give  Bosinney  a  chance,  as  he  said  to  himself. 

The  latter  was  long  in  answering,  but  kept  his  eyes  with 
uncomfortable  steadiness  on  James. 

*  She  has  seen  the  house,  but  I  can't  tell  you  what  she 
thinks  of  it.' 

Nervous  and  baffled,  James  was  constitutionally  prevented 
from  letting  the  matter  drop. 

*■  Oh  !'  he  said,  *  she  has  seen  it  ?  Soames  brought  her 
down,  I  suppose  ?' 

Bosinney  smilingly  replied  :  *  Oh,  no  T 

*  What,  did  she  come  down  alone  ?' 
'Oh,  no!' 

*  Then — who  brought  her  ?' 

*I  really  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you  who 
brought  her.' 

To  James,  who  knew  that  it  was  Swithin,  this  answer 
appeared  incomprehensible. 

'  Why !'    he  stammered,    '  you    know  that '    but    he 

stopped,  suddenly  perceiving  his  danger. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  '  if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me,  I  suppose 
you  won't !     Nobody  tells  me  anything.' 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise  Bosinney  asked  him  a  ques- 
tion. 

*  By  the  by,'  he  said,  '  could  you  tell  me  if  there  are  likely 
to  be  any  more  of  you  coming  down  ?  I  should  like  to  be 
on  the  spot !' 

'Any  more?'  said  James  bewildered,  'who  should  there  be 
more  ?     I  don't  know  of  any  more.     Good-bye.' 

Looking  at  the  ground  he  held  out  his  hand,  crossed  the 
palm  of  it  with  Bosinney's,  and  taking  his  umbrella  just 
above  the  silk,  walked  away  along  the  terrace. 

Before  he  turned  the  corner  he  glanced  back,  and  saw 
Bosinney  following  him  slowly — '  slinking  along  the  wall '  as 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  169 

he  put  ft  to  himself,  *  like  a  great  cat.'  He  paid  no  attention 
when  the  young  fellow  raised  his  hat. 

Outside  the  drive,  and  out  of  sight,  he  slackened  his  pace 
still  more.  Very  slowly,  more  bent  than  when  he  came, 
lean,  hungry,  and  disheartened,  he  made  his  way  back  to  the 
station. 

The  Buccaneer,  watching  him  go  so  sadly  home,  felt  sorry 
perhaps  for  his  behaviour  to  the  old  man. 


CHAPTER  V 

SOAMES    AND    BOSINNEY    CORRESPOND 

James  said  nothing  to  his  son  of  this  visit  to  the  houst ;  out. 
having  occasion  to  go  to  Timothy's  one  morning  on  a  matter 
connected  vi^ith  a  drainage  scheme  which  was  being  forced 
by  the  sanitary  authorities  on  his  brother,  he  mentioned  it 
there. 

It  was  not,  he  said,  a  bad  house.  He  could  see  that  a  good 
deal  could  be  miade  of  it.  The  fellow  was  clever  in  his  way, 
though  what  it  was  going  to  cost  Soames  before  it  was  done 
with  he  didn't  know. 

Euphemia  Forsyte,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  room — she 
had  come  round  to  borrow  the  Rev.  Mr.  Scoles'  last  novel, 
'  Passion  and  Paregoric,'  which  was  having  such  a  vogue — 
chimed  in. 

'  I  saw  Irene  yesterday  at  the  Stores ;  she  and  Mr.  Bosinncy 
were  having  a  nice  little  chat  in  the  Groceries.' 

It  was  thus,  simply,  that  she  recorded  a  scene  which  had 
really  made  a  deep  and  complicated  impression  on  her.  She 
had  been  hurrying  to  the  silk  department  of  the  Church  and 
Commercial  Stores — that  Institution  than  which,  with  its 
admirable  system,  admitting  only  guaranteed  persons  on  a 
basis  of  payment  before  delivery,  no  emporium  can  be 
more  highly  recommended  to  Forsytes — to  match  a  piece  of 
prunella  silk  for  her  mother,  who  was  waiting  in  the  carriage 
outside. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  171 

Passing  through  the  Groceries  her  eye  was  unpleasantly 
attracted  by  the  back  view  of  a  very  beautiful  figure.  It 
was  so  charmingly  proportioned,  so  balanced,  and  so  well 
clothed,  that  Euphemia's  instinctive  propriety  was  at  once 
alarmed;  such  figures,  she  knew,  by  intuition  rather  than 
experience,  were  rarely  connected  with  virtue — certainly 
never  in  her  mind,  for  her  own  back  was  somewhat  difficult 
to  fit. 

Her  suspicions  were  fortunately  confirmed.  A  young 
man  coming  from  the  Drugs  had  snatched  off"  his  hat,  and 
was  accosting  the  lady  with  the  unknown  back. 

It  was  then  that  she  saw  with  whom  she  had  to  deal ;  the 
lady  was  undoubtedly  Mrs.  Soames,  the  young  man  Mr. 
Bosinney.  Concealing  herself  rapidly  over  the  purchase  of  a 
box  of  Tunisian  dates,  for  she  was  impatient  of  awkwardly 
meeting  people  with  parcels  in  her  hands,  and  at  the  busy 
time  of  the  morning,  she  was  thus  quite  unintentionally  an 
interested  observer  of  their  little  interview. 

Mrs.  Soames,  usually  somewhat  pale,  had  a  delightful 
colour  in  her  cheeks;  and  Mr.  Bosinney's  manner  was 
strange,  though  attractive  (she  thought  him  rather  a  dis- 
tinguished-looking man,  and  George's  name  for  him,  '  The 
Buccaneer  ' — about  which  there  was  something  romantic — 
quite  charming).  He  seemed  to  be  pleading.  Indeed,  they 
talked  so  earnestly — or,  rather,  he  talked  so  earnestly,  for  Mrs. 
Soames  did  not  say  much — that  they  caused,  inconsiderately, 
an  eddy  in  the  traffic.  One  nice  old  General,  going  towards 
Cigars,  was  obliged  to  step  quite  out  of  the  way,  and  chancing 
to  look  up  and  see  Mrs.  Soames's  face,  he  actually  took  off 
his  hat,  the  old  fool !     So  like  a  man  ! 

But  it  was  Mrs.  Soames'  eyes  that  worried  Euphemia. 
She  never  once  looked  at  Mr.  Bosinney  until  he  moved  on, 
and  then  she  looked  after  him.     And,  oh,  that  look  ! 

On  that  look  Euphemia  had  spent  much  anxious  thought. 


172  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  had  hurt  her  with  its  dark, 
lingering  softness,  for  all  the  world  as  though  the  woman 
wanted  to  drag  him  back,  and  unsay  something  she  had  been 
saying. 

Ah,  well,  she  had  had  no  time  to  go  deeply  into  the 
matter  just  then,  with  that  prunella  silk  on  her  hands ;  but 
she  was  '  very  intriguee — very !'  She  had  just  nodded  to 
Mrs.  Soames,  to  show  her  that  she  had  seen ;  and,  as  she 
confided,  in  talking  it  over  afterwards,  to  her  chum  Francie 
(Roger's  daughter),  *  Didn't  she  look  caught  out  just  ?  .  .  .' 

James,  most  averse  at  the  first  blush  to  accepting  any  news 
confirmatory  of  his  own  poignant  suspicions,  took  her  up  at 
once. 

*■  Oh,'  he  said,  *  they'd  be  after  wall-papers  no  doubt.' 

Euphemia  smiled.  *  In  the  Groceries  ?'  she  said  softly ; 
and,  taking  *  Passion  and  Paregoric  '  from  the  table,  added  : 
'  And  so  you'll  lend  me  this,  dear  Auntie  ?  Good-bye !' 
and  went  away. 

James  left  almost  immediately  after ;  he  was  late  as 
it  was. 

When  he  reached  the  office  of  Forsyte,  Bustard  and 
Forsyte,  he  found  Soames  sitting  in  his  revolving  chair, 
drawing  up  a  defence.  The  latter  greeted  his  father  with  a 
curt  good-morning,  and,  taking  an  envelope  from  his  pocket, 
said  : 

*  It  may  interest  you  to  look  through  this.' 
James  read  as  follows  : 

*  309D,  Sloane  Street, 
*  May  I  5. 

*  Dear  Forsyte, 

*  The  construction  of  your  house  being  now  com- 
pleted, my  duties  as  architect  have  come  to  an  end.  If  I  am 
to  go   on   with  the  business  of  decoration,  which   at  youi 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  173 

request  I  undertook,  I  should  like  you  to  clearly  understand 
that  I  must  have  a  free  hand. 

*  You  never  come  down  without  suggesting  something 
that  goes  counter  to  my  scheme.  I  have  here  three  letters 
from  you,  each  of  which  recommends  an  article  I  should 
never  dream  of  putting  in.  I  had  your  father  here  yesterday 
afternoon,  who  made  further  valuable  suggestions. 

'  Please  make  up  your  mind,  therefore,  whether  you  want 
me  to  decorate  for  you,  or  to  retire,  which  on  the  whole  I 
should  prefer  to  do. 

'  But  understand  that,  if  I  decorate,  I  decorate  alone, 
without  interference  of  any  sort. 

*  If  I  do  the  thing,  I  will  do  it  thoroughly,  but  I  must 
have  a  free  hand. 

'  Yours  truly, 

*  Philip  Bosinney.' 

The  exact  and  immediate  cause  of  this  letter  cannot,  of 
course,  be  told,  though  it  is  not  improbable  that  Bosinney 
may  have  been  moved  by  some  sudden  revolt  against  his 
position  towards  Soames — that  eternal  position  of  Art 
towards  Property — which  is  so  admirably  summed  up,  ca 
the  back  of  the  most  indispensable  of  modern  appliances,  in 
a  sentence  comparable  to  the  very  finest  in  Tacitus  : 

Thos.  T.   Sorrow, 

Inventor. 

Bert.   M.   Padland, 

Proprietor. 

*  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  him  ?'  James  asked. 
Soames  did  not  even  turn  his  head.     *  I  haven't  made  up 

my  mind,'  he  said,  and  went  on  with  his  defence. 

A  client  of  his,  having  put  some  buildings  on  a  piece  of 
ground  that  did  not  belong  to  him,  had  been  suddenly  and 


174  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

most  irritatingly  warned  to  take  them  off  again.  After  care- 
fully going  into  the  facts,  however,  Soames  had  seen  his  way 
to  advise  that  his  client  had  what  was  known  as  a  title  by 
possession,  and  that,  though  undoubtedly  the  ground  did  not 
belong  to  him,  he  was  entitled  to  keep  it,  and  had  better  do 
so ;  and  he  was  now  following  up  this  advice  by  taking  steps 
io — as  the  sailors  say — *  make  it  so.' 

He  had  a  distinct  reputation  for  sound  advice  ;  people 
saying  of  him  :  '  Go  to  young  Forsyte — a  long-headed 
fellow  !'  and  he  prized  this  reputation  highly. 

His  natural  taciturnity  was  in  his  favour  ;  nothing  could 
be  more  calculated  to  give  people,  especially  people  with 
property  (Soames  had  no  other  clients),  the  impression  that 
he  was  a  safe  man.  And  he  was  safe.  Tradition,  habit, 
education,  inherited  aptitude,  native  caution,  all  joined  to 
form  a  solid  professional  honesty,  superior  to  temptation  from 
the  very  fact  that  it  was  built  on  an  innate  avoidance  of 
risk.  How  could  he  fall,  when  his  soul  abhorred  circum- 
stances which  render  a  fall  possible — a  man  cannot  fall  off 
the  floor  ! 

And  those  countless  Forsytes,  who,  in  the  course  of 
innumerable  transactions  concerned  with  property  of  all 
sorts  (from  wives  to  water  rights),  had  occasion  for  the 
services  of  a  safe  man,  found  it  both  reposeful  and  profitable 
to  confide  in  Soames.  That  slight  superciliousness  of  his, 
com^bined  with  an  air  of  mousing  amongst  precedents,  v/as 
ill  his  favour  too — a  man  would  not  be  supercilious  unless  he 
knew  ! 

He  vv^as  really  at  the  head  of  the  business,  for  though 
James  still  came  nearly  every  day  to  see  for  himself,  he  did 
little  now  but  sit  in  his  chair,  twist  his  legs,  slightly  confuse 
things  already  decided,  and  presently  go  away  again,  and  the 
other  partner.  Bustard,  was  a  poor  thing,  who  did  a  great 
deal  of  work,  but  whose  opinion  was  never  taken. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  175 

So  Soames  went  steadily  on  with  his  defence.  Yet  it 
would  be  idle  to  say  that  his  mind  was  at  ease.  He  was 
suffering  from  a  sense  of  impending  trouble,  that  had  haunted 
him  for  som.e  time  past.  He  tried  to  think  it  physical — a 
condition  of  his  liver — but  knev/  that  it  was  not. 

He  looked  at  his  v/atch.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was 
due  at  the  General  Meeting  of  the  Nev/  Colliery  Company 
— one  of  Uncle  Jolyon's  concerns  ;  he  should  see  Uncle 
Jolyon  there,  and  say  somiething  to  him  about  Bosinney — he 
iiad  not  made  up  his  mind  what,  but  something — in  any 
case  he  should  not  answer  this  letter  until  he  had  seen  Uncle 
Jolyon.  He  got  up  and  methodically  put  away  the  draft  of 
his  defence.  Going  into  a  dark  little  cupboard,  he  turned  up 
the  light,  washed  his  hands  with  a  piece  of  brown  Windsor 
soap,  and  dried  them  on  a  roller  towel.  Then  he  brushed 
his  hair,  paying  strict  attention  to  the  parting,  turned  down 
the  light,  took  his  hat,  and  saying  he  would  be  back  at  half- 
past  two,  stepped  into  the  Poultr)-. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  Offices  of  the  New  Collier}'  Com- 
pany in  Ironmonger  Lane,  where,  and  not  at  the  Cannon 
Street  Hotel,  in  accordance  with  the  m.ore  ambitious  practice 
of  other  companies,  the  General  Meeting  was  always  held. 
Old  Jolyon  had  from  the  first  set  his  face  against  the  Press. 
What  business — he  said — had  the  Public  with  his  concerns  ! 

Soames  arrived  on  the  stroke  of  time,  and  took  his  seat 
alongside  the  Board,  who,  in  a  row,  each  Director  behind  his 
own  inkpot,  faced  their  Shareholders. 

In  the  centre  of  this  row  old  Jolyon,  conspicuous  in  his 
black,  tightly-buttoned  frock-coat  and  his  white  moustaches, 
was  leaning  back  with  finger  tips  crossed  on  a  copy  of  the 
Directors'  report  and  accounts. 

On  his  right  hand,  always  a  little  larger  than  life,  sat  the 
Secretary,  *  Down-by-the-starn  '  Hemmings  ;  an  all-too-sad 
sadness  beaming   in   his   fine  eyes  ;  his  iron-gray   beard,  in 


176  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

mourning  like  the  rest  of  him,  giving  the  feeling  of  an  all- 
too-black  tie  behind  it. 

The  occasion  indeed  was  a  melancholy  one,  only  six  weeks 
having  elapsed  since  that  telegram  had  come  from  Scorrier, 
the  mining  expert,  on  a  private  mission  to  the  Mines, 
informing  them  that  Pippin,  their  Superintendent,  had 
committed  suicide  in  endeavouring,  after  his  extraordinary 
two  years'  silence,  to  write  a  letter  to  his  Board.  That 
letter  was  on  the  table  now  ;  it  would  be  read  to  the  Share- 
holders, who  would  of  course  be  put  into  possession  of  ail 
the  facts. 

Hemmings  had  often  said  to  Soames,  standing  with  his 
coat-tails  divided  before  the  fireplace  : 

'What  our  Shareholders  don't  know  about  our  affairs 
isn't  worth  knowing.  You  may  take  that  from  me,  Mr. 
Soames.' 

On  one  occasion,  old  Jolyon  being  present,  Soames  recol- 
lected a  little  unpleasantness.  His  uncle  had  looked  up 
sharply  and  said  :  '  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Hemmings  !  You 
mean  that  what  they  do  know  isn't  worth  knowing !'  O-ld 
Jolyon  detested  humbug. 

Hemmings,  angry-eyed,  and  wearing  a  smile  like  that  of  a 
trained  poodle,  had  replied  in  an  outburst  of  artificial  applause: 
'  Come,  now,  that's  good,  sir — that's  very  good.  Your  uncle 
if///  have  his  joke  1' 

The  next  time  he  had  seen  Soames  he  had  taken  the 
opportunity  of  saying  to  him :  '  The  chairman's  getting 
very  old — I  can't  get  him  to  understand  things ;  and  he's  so 
wilful — but  what  can  you  expect,  with  a  chin  like  his  ?' 

Soames  had  nodded. 

Everyone  knew  that  Uncle  Jolyon's  chin  was  a  caution. 
He  was  looking  worried  to-day,  in  spite  of  his  General  Meet- 
ing look;  he  (Soames)  should  certainly  speak  to  him  about 
Bosinney. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  177 

Beyond  old  Jolyon  on  the  left  was  little  Mr.  Booker,  and 
he,  too,  wore  his  General  Meeting  look,  as  though  searching 
for  some  particularly  tender  shareholder.  And  next  him  was 
the  deaf  director,  with  a  frown  ;  and  beyond  the  deaf  director, 
again,  was  old  Mr.  Bleedham,  very  bland,  and  having  an  air 
of  conscious  virtue — as  well  he  might,  knowing  that  the 
brown-paper  parcel  he  always  brought  to  the  Board-room 
was  concealed  behind  his  hat  (one  of  that  old-fashioned  class 
of  flat-brimmed  top-hats  which  go  with  very  large  bow  ties, 
clean-shaven  lips,  fresh  cheeks,  and  neat  little  white  whiskers). 

Soames  always  attended  the  general  meeting ;  it  was  con- 
sidered better  that  he  should  do  so,  in  case  ^  anything  should 
arise !'  He  glanced  round  with  his  close,  supercilious  air  at 
the  v/alls  of  the  room,  where  hung  plans  of  the  mine  and 
harbour,  together  with  a  large  photograph  of  a  shaft  leading 
to  a  working  that  had  proved  quite  remarkably  unprofitable. 
This  photograph — a  witness  to  the  eternal  irony  underlying 
commercial  enterprise — still  retained  its  position  on  the  wall, 
an  etiigy  of  the  directors'  pet,  but  dead,  lamb. 

And  now  old  Jolyon  rose,  to  present  the  report  and 
accounts. 

Veiling  under  a  Jove-like  serenity  that  perpetual  anta- 
gonism deep-seated  in  the  bosom  of  a  director  towards  his 
shareholders,  he  faced  them  calmly.  Soames  faced  them  too. 
He  knew  most  of  them  by  sight.  There  was  old  Scrubsole, 
a  tar  man,  v/ho  always  came,  as  Hemmings  would  say,  'to 
make  himself  nasty,'  a  cantankerous-looking  old  fellow  with 
a  red  face,  a  jowl,  and  an  enormous  low-crowned  hat  reposing 
on  his  knee.  And  the  Rev.  Mr.  Boms,  who  always  proposed 
a  ^'ote  of  thanks  to  the  chairman,  in  which  he  invariably 
expressed  the  hope  that  the  Board  would  not  forget  to  elevate 
their  employees,  using  the  word  with  a  double  e,  as  being 
more  vigorous  and  Anglo-Saxon  (he  had  the  strong  Impe- 
rialistic tendencies  of  his  cloth).     It  was  his  salutary  custom 

7 


178  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  buttonhole  a  director  afterwards,  and  ask  him  whether  he 
thought  the  coming  year  would  be  good  or  bad  ;  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  trend  of  the  answer,  to  buy  or  sell  three  shares 
within  the  ensuing  fortnight. 

And  there  was  that  military  man.  Major  O'Bally,  who 
could  not  help  speaking,  if  only  to  second  the  re-election  of 
the  auditor,  and  who  sometimes  caused  serious  consternation 
by  taking  toasts — proposals  rather — out  of  the  hands  of  per- 
sons who  had  been  flattered  with  little  slips  of  paper,  entrust- 
ing the  said  proposals  to  their  care. 

These  made  up  the  lot,  together  with  four  or  five  strong, 
silent  shareholders,  with  whom  Soames  could  sympathize — 
men  of  business,  who  liked  to  keep  an  eye  on  their  affairs 
for  themselves,  without  being  fussy — good,  solid  men,  who 
came  to  the  City  every  day  and  went  back  in  the  evening  to 
good,  solid  wives. 

Good,  solid  wives  !  There  was  something  in  that  thought 
which  roused  the  nameless  uneasiness  in  Soames  again. 

What  should  he  say  to  his  uncle  ?  What  answer  should 
he  make  to  this  letter  ? 

...  *  If  any  shareholder  has  any  question  to  put,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  answer  it.'  A  soft  thump.  Old  Jolyon  had  let 
the  report  and  accounts  fall,  and  stood  twisting  tortoise-shell 
glasses  between  thumb  and  forefinger. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  appeared  on  Soames's  face.  They 
had  better  hurry  up  with  their  questions !  He  well  knew 
his  uncle's  method  (the  ideal  one)  of  at  once  saying :  *  I 
propose,  then,  that  the  report  and  accounts  be  adopted !' 
Never  let  them  get  their  wind — shareholders  were  notoriously 
wasteful  of  time  ! 

A  tall,  white-bearded  man,  with  a  gaunt,  dissatisfied  face, 
arose  : 

^  I  believe  I  am  in  order,  Mr.  Chairman,  in  raising  a 
question  on  this  figure  of  j/^5,000  in  the  accounts.     "To  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  179 

widow  and  family " '  (he  looked  sourly  round),  *  "  of  our 
late  superintendent,"  who  so — er — ill-advisedly  (I  say — ill- 
advisedly)  committed  suicide,  at  a  time  when  his  services 
were  of  the  utmost  value  to  this  Company.  You  have 
stated  that  the  agreement  which  he  has  so  unfortunately  cut 
short  with  his  own  hand  was  for  a  period  of  five  years,  of 

which  one  only  had  expired — I ' 

Old  Jolyon  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

*  I  believe  I  am  in  order,  Mr.  Chairman — I  ask  whether 
this  amount  paid,  or  proposed  to  be  paid,  by  the  Board  to 
the — er — deceased — is  for  services  which  might  have  been 
rendered  to  the  Company  had  he  not  committed  suicide  ?' 

*  It  is  in  recognition  of  past  serv^ices,  which  we  all  know — 
you  as  well  as  any  of  us — to  have  been  of  vital  value.' 

'  Then,  sir,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  the  services  being 
past,  the  amount  is  too  much.' 

The  shareholder  sat  down. 

Old  Jolyon  waited  a  second  and  said  :  *I  now  propose 
that  the  report  and ' 

The  shareholder  rose  again  :  *  May  I  ask  if  the  Board 
realizes  that  it  is  not  their  money  which — I  don't  hesitate  to 
say  that  if  it  were  their  money ' 

A  second  shareholder,  with  a  round,  dogged  face,  whom 
Soames  recognised  as  the  late  Superintendent's  brother-in- 
law,  got  up  and  said  warmly  :  ^  In  my  opinion,  sir,  the  sum 
is  not  enough  !' 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Boms  now  rose  to  his  feet.  *  If  I  may 
venture  to  express  myself,'  he  said,  *  I  should  say  that  the  fact 
of  the — er — deceased  having  committed  suicide  should  weigh 
very  heavily — very  heavily  with  our  worthy  chairman.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  has  weighed  with  him,  for — I  say  this  for 
myself  and  I  think  for  everyone  present  (hear,  hear) — he 
enjoys  our  confidence  in  a  high  degree.  We  all  desire,  I 
shoiild  hope,  to  be  charitable.     But  I  feel  sure'  (he  looked 


I  So  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

severely  at  the  late  Superintendent's  brother-in-law)  *■  that  he 
will  in  some  way,  by  some  written  expression,  or  better  perhaps 
by  reducing  the  amount,  record  our  grave  disapproval  that  so 
promising  and  valuable  a  life  should  have  been  thus  impiously 
removed  from  a  sphere  where  both  its  own  interests  and — if 
I  may  so — our  interests  so  imperatively  demanded  its  con- 
tinuance. We  should  not — nay,  we  may  not — countenance 
so  grave  a  dereliction  of  all  duty,  both  human  and  divine.' 

The  reverend  gentleman  resumed  his  seat.  The  late 
Superintendent's  brother-in-law  again  rose  :  ^  What  I  have 
said  I  stick  to,'  he  said ;  *  the  amount  is  not  enough  !' 

The  first  shareholder  struck  in  :  '  I  challenge  the  legality 
of  the  payment.  In  my  opinion  this  payment  is  not  legal. 
The  Company's  solicitor  is  present ;  I  believe  I  am  in  order 
in  asking  him  the  question.' 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  upon  Soames,  Something  had 
arisen ! 

He  stood  up,  close-lipped  and  cold ;  his  nerves  inwardly 
fluttered,  his  attention  tweaked  away  at  last  from  contempla- 
tion of  that  cloud  looming  on  the  horizon  of  his  mind. 

'  The  point,'  he  said  in  a  low,  thin  voice,  '  is  by  no 
means  clear.  As  there  is  no  possibility  of  future  considera- 
tion being  received,  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  payment  is 
strictly  legal.  If  it  is  desired,  the  opinion  of  the  court  could 
be  taken.' 

The  superintendent's  brother-in-law  frowned,  and  said  in 
a  meaning  tone  :  *  We  have  no  doubt  the  opinion  of  the 
court  could  be  taken.  Aday  I  ask  the  name  of  the  gentleman 
who  has  given  us  that  striking  piece  of  information  r  Mr. 
Soames  Forsyte  ?  Indeed  !'  He  looked  from  Soames  to  old 
Jolyon  in  a  pointed  manner. 

A  flush  coloured  Soames's  pale  cheeks,  but  his  supercilious- 
ness did  not  waver.  Old  Jolyon  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
speaker. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 


ibi 


*  If,'  he  said,  '  the  late  Superintendent's  brother-in-law 
has  nothing  more  to  say,  I  propose  that  the  report  and 
accounts ' 


At  this  moment,  however,  there  rose  one  of  those  five 
silent,  stolid  shareholders,  who  had  excited  Soames's  sympathy. 
He  said  : 

^  I  deprecate  the  proposal  altogether.  We  are  expected  to 
give  charity  to  this  man's  wife  and  children,  who,  you  tell 
us,  were  dependent  on  him.  They  may  have  been ;  I  do 
not  care  whether  they  were  or  not.  I  object  to  the  whole 
thing  on  principle.  It  is  high  time  a  stand  was  made  against 
this  sentimental  humanitarianism.  The  countrj^  is  eaten  up 
with  it.  I  object  to  my  money  being  paid  to  these  people  of 
whom  I  know  nothing,  who  have  done  nothing  to  earn  it. 
I  object  in  toto;  it  is  not  business.  I  now  move  that  the 
report  and  accounts  be  put  back,  and  amended  by  striking 
out  the  grant  altogether/ 

Old  Jolyon  had  remained  standing  while  the  strong,  silent 
man  v/as  speaking.  The  speech  awoke  an  echo  in  all 
hearts,  voicing,  as  it  did,  the  worship  of  strong  men,  the 
m.o'.ement  against  generosity,  which  had  at  that  time  already 
commenced  among  the  saner  members  of  the  community. 

The  words  '  it  is  not  business '  had  moved  even  the 
Board ;  privately  everyone  felt  that  indeed  it  was  not.  But 
they  knew  also  the  chairman's  domineering  temxper  and 
tenacity.  He,  too,  at  heart  must  feel  that  it  was  not 
business;  but  he  was  committed  to  his  own  proposition. 
Would  he  go  back  upon  it  ?  It  was  thought  to  be 
unlikely. 

All  waited  with  interest.  Old  Jolyon  held  up  his  hand ; 
dark-rimmed  glasses  depending  between  his  fin2;er  and 
thumb  quivered  slightly  with  a  suggestion  of  menace. 

He  addressed  the  strong,  silent  shareholder. 

'  Knowing,  as  you  do,  the   efforts  of   our   late  Superin- 


1 82  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tendent  upon  the  occasion  of  the  explosion  at  the  mines,  do 
you  seriously  wish  me  to  put  that  amendment,  sir  ?' 

ado/ 

Old  Jolyon  put  the  amendment. 

*  Does  anyone  second  this  r'  he  asked,  looking  calmly 
round. 

And  it  was  then  that  Soames,  looking  at  his  uncle,  felt 
the  power  of  will  that  was  in  that  old  man.  No  one 
stirred.  Looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  strong,  silent 
shareholder,  Old  Jolyon  said  : 

*  I  now  move,  "  That  the  report  and  accounts  for  the  year 
1886  be  received  and  adopted."  You  second  that  ?  Those 
in  favour  signify  the  same  in  the  usual  way.  Contrary — no. 
Carried.     The  next  business,  gentlemen ' 

Soames  smiled.  Certainly  Uncle  Jolyon  had  a  way  with 
him ! 

But  now  his  attention  relapsed  upon  Bosinney.  Odd  how 
that  fellow  haunted  his  thoughts,  even  in  business  hours. 

Irene's  visit  to  the  house — but  there  was  nothing  in  that, 
except  that  she  might  have  told  him ;  but  then,  again,  she 
never  did  tell  him  anything.  She  was  more  silent,  more 
touchy,  every  day.  He  wished  to  God  the  house  were 
finished,  and  they  were  in  it,  away  from  London.  Town 
did  not  suit  her ;  her  nen^es  were  not  strong  enough.  That 
nonsense  of  the  separate  room  had  cropped  up  again  ! 

The  meeting  was  breaking  up  now.  Underneath  the 
photograph  of  the  lost  shaft  Hemmings  was  button-holed  by 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Boms.  Little  Mr.  Booker,  his  bristling  eye- 
brows wreathed  in  angry  smiles,  was  having  a  parting  turn- 
up with  old  Scrubsole.  The  two  hated  each  other  like 
poison.  There  was  some  matter  of  a  tar-contract  between 
them,  little  Mr.  Booker  having  secured  it  from  the  Board 
for  a  nephew  of  his,  over  old  Scrubsole's  head.  Soames  had 
heard  that  from  Hemmings,  who  liked  a  gossip,  more  especi- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  183 

ally  about  his  Directors,  except,  indeed,  old  Jolyon,  of  whom 
he  was  afraid. 

Soames  awaited  his  opportunity.  The  last  shareholder 
was  vanishing  through  the  door,  when  he  approached  his 
uncle,  who  was  putting  on  his  hat. 

'  Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  minute.  Uncle  Jolyon  r' 

It  is  uncertain  what  Soames  expected  to  get  out  of  this 
interview. 

Apart  from  that  somewhat  mysterious  awe  in  which 
Forsytes  in  general  held  old  Jolyon,  due  to  his  philosophic 
twist,  or  perhaps — as  Hemmings  would  doubtless  have  said — 
to  his  chin,  there  was,  and  always  had  been,  a  subtle 
antagonism  between  the  younger  man  and  the  old.  It  had 
lurked  under  their  dry  manner  of  greeting,  under  their  non- 
committal allusions  to  each  other,  and  arose  perhaps  from 
old  Jolyon's  perception  of  the  quiet  tenacity  (^  obstinacy,'  he 
rather  naturally  called  it)  of  the  young  man,  of  a  secret 
doubt  whether  he  could  get  his  own  way  with  him. 

Both  these  Forsytes,  wide  asunder  as  the  poles  in  many 
respects,  possessed  in  their  different  ways — to  a  greater  degree 
than  the  rest  of  the  family — that  essential  quality  of 
tenacious  and  prudent  insight  into  *  affairs,'  which  is  the 
high-water  mark  of  their  great  class.  Either  of  them,  with 
a  little  luck  and  opportunity,  was  equal  to  a  lofty  career; 
either  of  them  would  have  made  a  good  financier,  a  great 
contractor,  a  statesman,  though  old  Jolyon,  in  certain  of 
his  moods — when  under  the  influence  of  a  cigar  or  of 
Nature — would  have  been  capable  of,  not  perhaps  despising, 
but  certainly  of  questioning,  his  own  high  position,  while 
Soames,  who  never  smoked  cigars,  would  not. 

Then,  too,  in  old  Jolyon's  mind  there  was  always  the 
secret  ache,  that  the  son  of  James — of  James,  whom  he  had 
always  thought  such  a  poor  thing,  should  be  pursuing  the 
paths  of  success,  while  his  own  son i 


i84  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

And  last,  not  least — for  he  was  no  more  outside  the 
radiation  of  family  gossip  than  any  other  Forsyte — he  had 
now  heard  the  sinister,  indefinite,  but  none  the  less  dis- 
turbing rumour  about  Bosinney,  and  his  pride  was  v/ounded 
to  the  quick. 

Characteristically,  his  irritation  turned  not  against  Irene 
but  against  Soames.  The  idea  that  his  nephew's  wife  (why 
couldn't  the  fellow  take  better  care  of  her — oh !  quaint 
injustice  !  as  though  Soames  could  possibly  take  more  care  !) 
— should  be  drawing  to  herself  June's  lover,  was  intolerably 
humiliating.  And  seeing  the  danger,  he  did  not,  like 
James,  hide  it  away  in  sheer  nervousness,  but  owned  with 
the  dispassion  of  his  broader  outlook,  that  it  was  not  un- 
likely ;  there  was  something  very  attractive  about  Irene  ! 

He  had  a  presentiment  on  the  subject  of  Soames's  com- 
munication as  they  left  the  Board  Room  together,  and  went 
out  into  the  noise  and  hurry  of  Cheapside.  They  walked 
together  a  good  minute  without  speaking,  Soames  with  his 
mousing,  mincing  step,  and  old  Jolyon  upright  and  using  his 
umbrella  languidly  as  a  walking-stick. 

They  turned  presently  into  comparative  quiet,  for  old 
Jolyon's  way  to  a  second  Board  led  him  in  the  direction  of 
Moorgate  Street. 

Then  Soames,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  began  :  *  I've  had 
this  letter  from  Bosinney.  You  see  what  he  says ;  I  thought 
I'd  let  you  know.  I've  spent  a  lot  more  than  I  intended  on 
this  house,  and  I  want  the  position  to  be  clear.' 

Old  Jolyon  ran  his  eyes  unwillingly  over  the  letter  : 
*  What  he  says  is  clear  enough,'  he  said. 

*  He  talks  about  "  a  free  hand,"  '  replied  Soames. 

Old  Jolyon  looked  at  him.  The  long-suppressed  irritation 
and  antagonism  towards  this  young  fellow,  whose  affairs 
were  beginning  to  intrude  upon  his  own,  burst  from  him. 

'  Well,  if  you  don't  trust  him,  why  do  you  employ  him  ?' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  185 

Soames  stole  a  sideway  look  :  '  It's  much  too  late  to  go 
into  that,'  he  said,  '  I  only  want  it  to  be  quite  understood 
that  if  I  give  him  a  free  hand,  he  doesn't  let  me  in.  I 
thought  if  you  were  to  speak  to  him,  it  would  carry  more 
weight !' 

*  No,'  said  old  Jolyon  abruptly  ;  '  I'll  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it !' 

The  words  of  both  uncle  and  nephew  gave  the  impression 
of  unspoken  meanings,  far  more  important,  behind.  And 
the  look  they  interchanged  was  like  a  revelation  of  this  con- 
sciousness. 

^  Well,'  said  Soames ;  *  I  thought,  for  June's  sake,  I'd  tell 
you,  that's  all ;  I  thought  you'd  better  know  I  shan't  stand 
any  nonsense !' 

'  What  is  that  to  me  ?'  old  Jolyon  took  him  up. 

*  Oh  !  I  don't  know,'  said  Soames,  and  flurried  by  that 
sharp  look  he  was  unable  to  say  more.  '  Don't  say  I  didn't 
tell  you,'  he  added  sulkily,  recovering  his  composure. 

'  Tell  me  1'  said  old  Jolyon.  *  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean.  You  come  worrying  me  about  a  thing  like  this.  / 
don't  want  to  hear  about  your  affairs;  you  must  manage 
them  yourself  !' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Soames  immovably,  *  I  will  1' 

*  Good-morning,  then,'  said  old  Jolyon,  and  they  parted. 
Soames   retraced   his  steps,   and   going   into   a   celebrated 

eating-house,  asked  for  a  plate  of  smoked  salmon  and  a  glass 
of  Chablis ;  he  seldom  ate  much  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
and  generally  ate  standing,  finding  the  position  beneficial  to 
his  liver,  which  was  very  sound,  but  to  which  he  desired  to 
put  down  all  his  troubles. 

When  he  had  finished  he  went  slowly  back  to  his  office, 
with  bent  head,  taking  no  notice  of  the  swarming  thousands 
on  the  pavements,  who  in  their  turn  took  no  notice  of 
him. 


1 86  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

The  evening  post  carried  the  following  reply  to  Bosinney : 

'Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte, 
*  Commissioners  for  Oaths, 

'  200 1,  Branch  Lane,  Poultry,   E.G., 
'May  17,  1887. 
<  Dear  Bosinney, 

*  I  have  received  your  letter,  the  terms  of  w^hich  not 
a  little  surprise  me.  I  was  under  the  impression  that  you 
had,  and  have  had  all  along,  a  "free  hand";  for  I  do  not 
recollect  that  any  suggestions  I  have  been  so  unfortunate  as 
to  make  have  met  with  your  approval.  In  giving  you,  in 
accordance  with  your  request,  this  "  free  hand,"  I  wish  you 
to  clearly  understand  that  the  total  cost  of  the  house  as 
handed  over  to  me  completely  decorated,  inclusive  of  your 
fee  (as  arranged  between  us),  must  not  exceed  twelve  thou- 
sand pounds — ^12,000.  This  gives  you  an  ample  margin, 
and,  as  you  know,  is  far  more  than  I  originally  contemplated. 
*I  am, 

'  Yours  truly, 

'  SoAMEs  Forsyte.' 

On  the  following  day  he  received  a  note  from  Bosinney  : 

*  Philip  Baynes  Bosinney, 
*  Architect, 
*  309D,  Sloane  Street,  S.W., 
'  May  1 8. 
*Dear  Forsyte, 

'  If  you  think  that  in  such  a  delicate  matter  as  decora- 
tion I  can  bind  myself  to  the  exact  pound,  I  am  afraid  you 
are  mistaken.     I  can  see  that  you  are  tired  of  the  arrange- 
ment, and  of  me,  and  I  had  better,  therefore,  resign. 
*  Yours  faithfully, 

'  Philip  Baynes  Bossiney.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  187 

Soames  pondered  long  and  painfully  over  his  answer,  and 
late  at  night  in  the  dining-room,  when  Irene  had  gone  to 
bed,  he  composed  the  following  : 

*62,    MONTPELLIER    SqUARE,    S.W., 

'May  19,  1887. 
*Dear  Bosinney, 

*  I  think  that  in  both  our  interests  it  would  be 
extremely  undesirable  that  matters  should  be  so  left  at  this 
stage.  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that  if  you  should  exceed  the 
sum  named  in  my  letter  to  you  by  ten  or  twenty  or  even 
fifty  pounds,  there  would  be  any  difficulty  between  us.  This 
being  so,  I  should  like  you  to  reconsider  your  answer.  You 
have  a  "  free  hand  "  in  the  terms  of  this  correspondence,  and 
I  hope  you  will  see  your  way  to  completing  the  decorations, 
in  the  matter  of  which  I  know  it  is  difficult  to  be  absolutely 
exact. 

^  Yours  truly, 

^  SoAMEs  Forsyte.' 

Bosinney's  answer,  which  came  in  the  course  of  the  next 
day,  was : 

*  May  20. 
'Dear  Forsyte, 
'  Very  well. 

*Ph.  Bosinney.' 


CHAPTER   VI 

OLD    JOLYON    AT    THE    ZOO 

Old  Jolyon  disposed  of  his  second  Meeting — an  ordinary 
Board — summarily.  He  was  so  dictatorial  that  his  fellow 
Directors  were  left  in  cabal  over  the  increasing  domineering- 
ness  of  old  Forsyte,  which  they  were  far  from  intending  to 
stand  much  longer,  they  said. 

He  went  out  by  Underground  to  Portland  Road  Station, 
whence  he  took  a  cab  and  drove  to  the  Zoo. 

He  had  an  assignation  there,  one  of  those  assignations  that 
had  lately  been  growing  more  frequent,  to  which  his  increas- 
ing uneasiness  about  June  and  the  *  change  in  her,'  as  he 
expressed  it,  was  driving  him. 

She  buried  herself  away,  and  was  growing  thin  ;  if  he 
spoke  to  her  he  got  no  answer,  or  had  his  head  snapped  off, 
or  she  looked  as  if  she  would  burst  into  tears.  She  was  as 
changed  as  she  could  be,  all  through  this  Bosinney.  As  for 
telling  him  about  anything,  not  a  bit  of  it  ! 

And  he  would  sit  for  long  spells  brooding,  his  paper  unread 
before  him,  a  cigar  exrinct  between  his  lips.  She  had  been 
such  a  companion  to  him  ever  since  she  was  three  years  old  ! 
And  he  loved  her  so  ! 

Forces  regardless  of  family  or  class  or  custom  were  beating 
down  his  guard;  impending  events  over  which  he  had  no 
control  threw  their  shadows  on  his  head.  The  irritation  of 
one  accustomed  to  have  his  way  was  roused  against  he  knew 
not  what. 

i8g 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  189 

Chafing  at  the  slowness  of  his  cab,  he  reached  the  Zoo 
door;  but,  with  his  sunny  instinct  for  seizing  the  good  of 
each  moment,  he  forgot  his  vexation  as  he  walked  towards 
the  tryst. 

From  the  stone  terrace  above  the  bear-pit  his  son  and  his 
two  grandchildren  came  hastening  down  when  they  saw  old 
Jolyon  coming,  and  led  him  away  towards  the  lion-house. 
They  supported  him  on  either  side,  holding  one  to  each  of 
his  hands,  whilst  Jolly,  perverse  like  his  father,  carried  his 
grandfather's  umbrella  in  such  a  way  as  to  catch  people's 
legs  with  the  crutch  of  the  handle. 

Young  Jolyon  followed. 

It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  his  father  with  the  children, 
but  such  a  play  as  brings  smiles  with  tears  behind.  An  old 
man  and  two  small  children  walking  together  can  be  seen  at 
any  hour  of  the  day ;  but  the  sight  of  old  Jolyon,  with  Jolly 
and  Holly,  seemed  to  young  Jolyon  a  special  peep-show  of 
the  things  that  lie  at  the  bottom  of  our  hearts.  The  com- 
plete surrender  of  that  erect  old  figure  to  those  little  figures 
on  either  hand  was  too  poignantly  tender,  and,  being  a  man 
of  an  habitual  reflex  action,  young  Jolyon  swore  softly  under 
his  breath.  The  show  affected  him  in  a  way  unbecoming 
to  a  Forsyte,  who  is  nothing  if  not  undemonstrative. 

Thus  they  reached  the  lion-house. 

There  had  been  a  morning  fete  at  the  Botanical  Gardens, 
and  a  large  number  of  Forsy — that  is,  of  well-dressed  people 
who  kept  carriages — had  brought  them  on  to  the  Zoo,  so  as 
to  have  more,  if  possible,  for  their  money,  before  going  back 
to  Rutland  Gate  or  Bryanston  Square. 

'  Let's  go  to  the  Zoo,'  they  had  said  to  each  other ;  *  it'll 
be  great  fun  !'  It  was  a  shilling  day ;  and  there  would  not 
be  all  those  horrid  common  people. 

In  front  of  the  long  line  of  cages  they  were  collected  in 
rows,  watching  the  tawny,  ravenous  beasts  behind  the  bars 


190  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

await  their  only  pleasure  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours. 
The  hungrier  the  beast,  the  greater  the  fascination.  But 
whether  because  the  spectators  envied  his  appetite,  or,  more 
humanely,  because  it  was  so  soon  to  be  satisfied,  young 
Jolyon  could  not  tell.     Remarks  kept  falling  on  his  ears  : 

*  That's  a  nasty-looking  brute,  that  tiger  1'  *  Oh,  what  a 
love !  Look  at  his  little  mouth  T  '  Yes,  he's  rather  nice  ! 
Don't  go  too  near,  mother.' 

And  frequently,  with  little  pats,  one  or  another  would 
clap  their  hands  to  their  pockets  behind  and  look  round,  as 
though  expecting  young  Jolyon  or  some  disinterested-looking 
person  to  relieve  them  of  the  contents. 

A  well-fed  man  in  a  white  waistcoat  said  slowly  through 
his  teeth  :  '  It's  all  greed ;  they  can't  be  hungry.  Why, 
they  take  no  exercise.'  At  these  words  a  tiger  snatched  a 
piece  of  bleeding  liver,  and  the  fat  man  laughed.  His  wife, 
in  a  Paris-model  frock  and  gold  nose-nippers,  reproved  him  : 

*  How  can  you  laugh,  Harry  ?     Such  a  horrid  sight  l' 

Young  Jolyon  frowned. 

The  circumstances  of  his  life,  though  he  had  ceased  to 
take  a  too  personal  view  of  them,  had  left  him  subject  to  an 
intermittent  contempt ;  and  the  class  to  which  he  had 
belonged — the  carriage  class — especially  excited  his  sarcasm. 

To  shut  up  a  lion  or  tiger  in  confinement  was  surely  a 
horrible  barbarity.    But  no  cultivated  person  would  admit  this. 

The  idea  of  its  being  barbarous  to  confine  wild  aninals 
had  probably  never  even  occurred  to  his  father  for  instance  ; 
he  belonged  to  the  old  school,  who  considered  it  at  once 
humanizing  and  educational  to  confine  baboons  and  panthers, 
holding  the  view,  no  doubt,  that  in  course  of  time  they  might 
induce  these  creatures  not  so  unreasonably  to  die  of  misery 
and  heart-sickness  against  the  bars  of  their  cages,  and  put  the 
society  to  the  expense  of  getting  others !  In  his  eyes,  as  in 
the  eyes  of  all  Forsytes,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  these  beautiful 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  191 

creatures  in  a  state  of  captivity  far  outweighed  the  incon- 
venience of  imprisonment  to  beasts  vi^hom  God  had  so 
improvidently  placed  in  a  state  of  freedom  !  It  was  for  the 
animals'  good,  removing  them  at  once  from  the  countless 
dangers  of  open  air  and  exercise,  and  enabling  them  to 
exercise  their  functions  in  the  guaranteed  seclusion  of  a 
private  compartment !  Indeed,  it  was  doubtful  what  wild 
animals  were  made  for  but  to  be  shut  up  in  cages  ! 

But  as  young  Jolyon  had  in  his  constitution  the  elements 
of  impartiality,  he  reflected  that  to  stigmatize  as  barbarity 
that  which  was  merely  lack  of  imagination  must  be  wrong  ; 
for  none  who  held  these  views  had  been  placed  in  a  similar 
position  to  the  animals  they  caged,  and  could  not,  therefore, 
be  expected  to  enter  into  their  sensations. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  leaving  the  gardens — Jolly 
and  Holly  in  a  state  of  blissful  delirium — that  old  Jolyon 
found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  his  son  on  the  matter 
next  his  heart.  '  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,'  he  said  ; 
'  if  she's  to  go  on  as  she's  going  on  now,  I  can't  tell  what's 
to  come.  I  wanted  her  to  see  the  doctor,  but  she  won't. 
She's  not  a  bit  like  me.  She's  your  mother  all  over.  Obstinate 
as  a  mule !  If  she  doesn't  want  to  do  a  thing,  she  won't, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it !' 

Young  Jolyon  smiled ;  his  eyes  had  wandered  to  his 
father's  chin.  *A  pair  of  you,'  he  thought,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

*  And  then,'  went  on  old  Jolyon,  '  there's  this  Bosinney. 
I  should  like  to  punch  the  fellow's  head,  but  I  can't,  I  sup- 
pose, though — I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't,'  he  added 
doubtfully. 

'  What  has  he  done  ?  Far  better  that  it  should  come  to 
an  end,  if  they  don't  hit  it  off !' 

Old  Jolyon  looked  at  his  son.  Now  they  had  actually 
come   to    discuss   a   subject    connected    with    the   relations 


192  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

between  the  sexes  he  felt  distrustful.     Jo  would  be  sure  to 
hold  some  loose  view  or  other. 

*  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  think,'  he  said  ;  *  I  dare  say 
your  sympathy's  with  him — shouldn't  be  surprised ;  but  1 
think  he's  behaving  precious  badly,  and  if  he  comes  my  way 
I  shall  tell  him  so.'     He  dropped  the  subject. 

It  was  impossible  to  discuss  with  his  son  the  true  nature 
and  meaning  of  Bosinney's  defection.  Had  not  his  son  done 
the  very  same  thing  (worse,  if  possible)  fifteen  years  ago  ? 
There  seemed  no  end  to  the  consequences  of  that  piece  of 
folly  1 

Young  Jolyon  was  also  silent ;  he  had  quickly  penetrated 
his  father's  thought,  for,  dethroned  from  the  high  seat  of  an 
obvious  and  uncomplicated  view  of  things,  he  had  become 
both  perceptive  and  subtle. 

The  attitude  he  had  adopted  towards  sexual  matters  fifteen 
years  before,  however,  was  too  different  from  his  father's. 
There  was  no  bridging  the  gulf. 

He  said  coolly:  'I  suppose  he's  fallen  in  love  with  some 
other  woman  ?' 

Old  Jolyon  gave  him  a  dubious  look  :  '  I  can't  tell,'  he 
said ;  '  they  say  so  !' 

'  Then,  it's  probably  true,'  remarked  young  Jolyon  unex- 
pectedly ;  *  and  I  suppose  they've  told  you  who  she  is  ?' 

*  Yes,'  said  old  Jolyon — *  Soames's  wife  !' 

Young  Jolyon  did  not  whistle.  The  circumstances  of  his 
own  life  had  rendered  him  incapable  of  whistling  on  such  a 
subject,  but  he  looked  at  his  father,  while  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
hovered  over  his  face. 

If  old  Jolyon  saw,  he  took  no  notice. 

*  She  and  June  were  bosom  friends !'  he  muttered. 

'  Poor  little  June  !'  said  young  Jolyon  softly.     He  thought 
of  his  daughter  still  as  a  babe  of  three. 
Old  Jolyon  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  193 

*I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,'  he  said,  *  it's  some  old 
woman's  tale.     Get  me  a  cab,  Jo,  I'm  tired  to  death  !' 

They  stood  at  a  corner  to  see  if  an  empty  cab  would 
come  along,  while  carriage  after  carriage  drove  past,  bearing 
Forsytes  of  all  descriptions  from  the  Zoo.  The  harness,  the 
liveries,  the  gloss  on  the  horses'  coats,  shone  and  glittered  in 
the  May  sunlight,  and  each  equipage,  landau,  sociable, 
barouche,  Victoria,  or  brougham,  seemed  to  roll  out  proudly 
from  its  wheels  : 

*  I  and  my  horses  and  my  men  you  know, 
Indeed  the  whole  turn-out  have  cost  a  pot. 
But  we  were  worth  it  every  penny.      Look 
At  Master  and  at  Missis  now,  the  dawgs ! 
Ease  with  security — ah!  that's  the  ticket!' 

And  such,  as  everyone  knows,  is  fit  accompaniment  for  a 
perambulating  Forsyte. 

Amongst  these  carriages  was  a  barouche  coming  at  a 
greater  pace  than  the  others,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  bright  bay 
horses.  It  swung  on  its  high  springs,  and  the  four  people 
who  filled  it  seemed  rocked  as  in  a  cradle. 

This  chariot  attracted  young  Jolyon's  attention  ;  and 
suddenly,  on  the  back  seat,  he  recognised  his  Uncle  James, 
unmistakable  in  spite  of  the  increased  whiteness  of  his 
whiskers  ;  opposite,  their  backs  defended  by  sunshades, 
Rachel  Forsyte  and  her  elder  but  married  sister,  Winifred 
Dartie,  in  irreproachable  toilettes,  had  posed  their  heads 
haughtily,  like  two  of  the  birds  they  had  been  seeing  at  the 
Zoo  ;  while  by  James's  side  reclined  Dartie,  in  a  brand-new 
frock  coat  buttoned  tight  and  square,  with  a  large  expanse  of 
carefully  shot  linen  protruding  below  each  wristband. 

An  extra,  if  subdued,  sparkle,  an  added  touch  of  the  best 
gloss  or  varnish  characterized  this  vehicle,  and  seemed  to 
distinguish  it  from  all  the  others,  as  though  by  some  happy 
extravagance — like  that  which  marks  out  the  real  '  work  of 


194  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

art '  fron  the  ordinary  *  picture ' — it  were  designated  as  the 
typical  car,  the  very  throne  of  Forsytedom. 

Old  Jolyon  did  not  see  them  pass  ;  he  was  petting  poor 
Holly  who  was  tired,  but  those  in  the  carriage  had  taken  in 
the  little  group  ;  the  ladies'  heads  tilted  suddenly,  there  was 
a  spasmodic  screening  movement  of  parasols  ;  James's  face 
protruded  naively,  like  the  head  of  a  long  bird,  his  mouth 
slowly  opening.  The  shield-like  rounds  of  the  parasols  grew 
smaller  and  smaller,  and  vanished. 

Young  Jolyon  saw  that  he  had  been  recognised,  even  by 
Winifred,  who  could  not  have  been  more  than  fifteen  when 
he  had  forfeited  the  right  to  be  considered  a  Forsyte. 

There  was  not  much  change  in  them!  He  remembered 
the  exact  look  of  their  turn-out  all  that  time  ago  :  Horses, 
men,  carriage — all  different  now,  no  doubt — but  of  the 
precise  stamp  of  fifteen  years  before ;  the  same  neat  display, 
the  same  nicely  calculated  arrogance — ease  with  security ! 
The  swing  exact,  the  pose  of  the  sunshades  exact,  exact  the 
spirit  of  the  whole  thing. 

And  in  the  sunlight,  defended  by  the  haughty  shields  of 
parasols,  carriage  after  carriage  went  by. 

'  Uncle  James  has  just  passed,  with  his  female  folk,'  said 
young  Jolyon. 

His  father  looked  black.  *  Did  your  uncle  see  us  ?  Yes  ? 
Hmph  !     What's  he  want,  coming  down  into  these  parts  ?' 

An  empty  cab  drove  up  at  this  moment,  and  old  Jolyon 
stopped  it. 

'  I  shall  see  you  again  before  long,  my  boy  !'  he  said. 
*  Don't  you  go  paying  any  attention  to  what  I've  been 
saying  about  young  Bosinney — I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !' 

Kissing  the  children,  who  tried  to  detain  him,  he  stepped 
in  and  was  borne  away. 

Young  Jolyon,  who  had  taken  Holly  up  in  his  arms,  stood 
motionless  at  the  corner,  looking  after  the  cab. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTERNOON    AT    TIMOTHY's 

If  old  Jolyon,  as  he  got  into  his  cab,  had  said  :  *  I  wonU 
believe  a  word  of  it  !'  he  would  more  truthfully  have 
expressed  his  sentiments. 

The  notion  that  James  and  his  womankind  had  seen  him 
in  the  company  of  his  son  had  awakened  in  him  not  only  the 
impatience  he  always  felt  when  crossed,  but  that  secret 
hostility  natural  between  brothers,  the  roots  of  which — little 
nursery  rivalries — sometimes  toughen  and  deepen  as  life  goes 
on,  and,  all  hidden,  support  a  plant  capable  of  producing  in 
season  the  bitterest  fruits. 

Hitherto  there  had  been  between  these  six  brothers  no 
more  unfriendly  feeling  than  that  caused  by  the  secret  and 
natural  doubt  that  the  others  might  be  richer  than  them- 
selves ;  a  feeling  increased  to  the  pitch  of  curiosity  by  the 
approach  of  death — that  end  of  all  handicaps — and  the  great 
'  closeness '  of  their  man  of  business,  who,  with  some  saga- 
city, would  profess  to  Nicholas  ignorance  of  James's  income, 
to  James  ignorance  of  old  Jolyon's,  to  Jolyon  ignorance  of 
Roger's,  to  Roger  ignorance  of  Swithin's,  while  to  Swithin 
he  would  say  most  irritatingly  that  Nicholas  must  be  a  rich 
man.  Timothy  alone  was  exempt,  being  in  gilt-edged 
securities. 

But  now,  between  two  of  them  at  least,  had  arisen  a  very 
different  sense  of  injury.     From  the  moment  when  James 

195 


196  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  the  impertinence  to  pry  into  his  affairs — as  he  put  it — 
old  Jolyon  no  longer  chose  to  credit  this  story  about  Bosin- 
ney.  His  grand-daughter  slighted  through  a  member  of 
'  that  fellow's '  family  !  He  made  up  his  mind  that  Bosin- 
ney  was  maligned.  There  must  be  some  other  reason  for 
his  defection. 

June  had  flown  out  at  him,  or  something  ;  she  was  as 
touchy  as  she  could  be  1 

He  would,  however,  let  Timothy  have  a  bit  of  his  mind, 
and  see  if  he  would  go  on  dropping  hints  !  And  he  would 
not  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet  either,  he  would  go 
there  at  once,  and  take  very  good  care  that  he  didn't  have  to 
go  again  on  the  same  errand. 

He  saw  James's  carriage  blocking  the  pavement  in  front 
of  *  The  Bower.'  So  they  had  got  there  before  him — cack- 
ling about  having  seen  him,  he  dared  say  !  And  further  on, 
Swithin's  grays  were  turning  their  noses  towards  the  noses 
of  James's  bays,  as  though  in  conclave  over  the  family,  while 
their  coachmen  were  in  conclave  above. 

Old  Jolyon,  depositing  his  hat  on  the  chair  in  the  narrow 
hall,  where  that  hat  of  Bosinney's  had  so  long  ago  been  mis- 
taken for  a  cat,  passed  his  thin  hand  grimly  over  his  face 
with  its  great  drooping  white  moustaches,  as  though  to 
remove  all  traces  of  expression,  and  made  his  way  upstairs. 

He  found  the  front  drawing-room  full.  It  was  full 
enough  at  the  best  of  times — without  visitors — without  any 
one  in  it — for  Timothy  and  his  sisters,  following  the  tradi- 
tion of  their  generation,  considered  that  a  room  was  not 
quite  *  nice '  unless  it  was  '  properly '  furnished.  It  held, 
therefore,  eleven  chairs,  a  sofa,  three  tables,  two  cabinets, 
innumerable  knicknacks,  and  part  of  a  large  grand  piano. 
And  now,  occupied  by  Mrs.  Small,  Aunt  Hester,  by  Swithin, 
James,  Rachel,  Winifred,  Euphemia,  who  had  come  in  again 
to  return  '  Passion  and  Paregoric '  which  she  had  read   at 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  197 

lunch,  and  her  chum  Frances,  Roger's  daughter  (the  musical 
Forsyte,  the  one  who  composed  songs),  there  was  only  one 
chair  left  unoccupied,  except,  of  course,  the  two  that  nobody 
ever  sat  on — and  the  only  standing  room  was  occupied  by 
the  cat,  on  whom  old  Jolyon  promptly  stepped. 

In  these  days  it  was  by  no  means  unusual  for  Timothy  to 
have  so  many  visitors.  The  family  had  always,  one  and  all, 
had  a  real  respect  for  Aunt  Ann,  and  now  that  she  was 
gone,  they  were  coming  far  more  frequently  to  The  Bower, 
and  staying  longer. 

Swithin  had  been  the  first  to  arrive,  and  seated  torpid  in  a 
red  satin  chair  with  a  gilt  back,  he  gave  every  appearance  of 
lasting  the  others  out.  And  symbolizing  Bosinney's  name 
*the  big  one,'  with  his  great  stature  and  bulk,  his  thick 
white  hair,  his  puffy  immovable  shaven  face,  he  looked 
more  primeval  than  ever  in  the  highly  upholstered  room. 

His  conversation,  as  usual  of  late,  had  turned  at  once  upon 
Irene,  and  he  had  lost  no  time  in  giving  Aunts  Juley  and 
Hester  his  opinion  with  regard  to  this  rumour  he  heard  was 
going  about.  No — as  he  said — she  might  want  a  bit  of 
flirtation — a  pretty  woman  must  have  her  fling  ;  but  more 
than  that  he  did  not  believe.  Nothing  open  ;  she  had  too 
much  good  sense,  too  much  proper  appreciation  of  what  was 

due  to  her  position,  and  to  the  family  !     No  sc he  was 

going  to  say  *  scandal '  but  the  very  idea  was  so  preposterous 
that  he  waved  his  hand  as  though  to  say — *  but  let  that 
pass  !' 

Granted  that  Swithin  took  a  bachelor's  view  of  the  situa- 
tion— still  what  indeed  was  not  due  to  that  family  in  which 
so  many  had  done  so  well  for  themselves,  had  attained 
a  certain  position  ?  If  he  had  heard  in  dark,  pessimistic 
moments  the  words  *  yeomen '  and  'very  small  beer '  used  in 
connection  with  his  origin,  did  he  believe  them  ? 

No  !  he  cherished,  hugging  it  pathetically  to  his  bosom, 


198  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  secret  theory  that  there  was  something  distinguished 
somewhere  in  his  ancestry. 

*Must  be,'  he  once  said  to  young  Jolyon,  before  the  latter 
went  to  the  bad.  'Look  at  us,  we've  got  on  !  There 
must  be  good  blood  in  us  somewhere.' 

He  had  been  fond  of  young  Jolyon  :  the  boy  had  been  in 
a  good  set  at  College,  had  known  that  old  ruffian  Sir  Charles 
Fiste's  sons — a  pretty  rascal  one  of  them  had  turned  out, 
too  ;  and  there  was  style  about  him — it  was  a  thousand 
pities  he  had  run  off  with  that  foreign  girl — a  governess  too  ! 
If  he  must  go  off  like  that  why  couldn't  he  have  chosen 
someone  who  would  have  done  them  credit  !  And  what 
was  he  now  ? — an  underwriter  at  Lloyd's  ;  they  said  he 
even  painted  pictures — pictures  !  Damme  !  he  might  have 
ended  as  Sir  Jolyon  Forsyte,  Bart.,  with  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  a  place  in  the  country  ! 

It  was  Swithin  who,  following  the  impulse  which  sooner 
or  later  urges  thereto  some  member  of  every  great  family, 
went  to  the  Heralds'  Office,  where  they  assured  him  that  he 
was  undoubtedly  of  the  same  family  as  the  well-known 
Forsites  with  an  '  i,'  whose  arms  were  '  three  dexter  buckles 
on  a  sable  ground  gules,'  hoping  no  doubt  to  get  him  to  take 
them  up. 

Swithin,  however,  did  not  do  this,  but  having  ascertained 
that  the  crest  was  a  '  pheasant  proper,'  and  the  motto  *  For 
Forsite,'  he  had  the  pheasant  proper  placed  upon  his  carriage 
and  the  buttons  of  his  coachman,  and  both  crest  and  motto 
on  his  writing-paper.  The  arms  he  hugged  to  himself, 
partly  because,  not  having  paid  for  them,  he  thought  it  would 
look  ostentatious  to  put  them  on  his  carriage,  and  he  hated 
ostentation,  and  partly  because  he,  like  any  practical  man  all 
over  the  country,  had  a  secret  dislike  and  contempt  for  things 
he  could  not  understand — he  found  it  hard,  as  anyone  might, 
to  swallow  *  three  dexter  buckles  on  a  sable  ground  gules.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  199 

He  never  forgot,  however,  their  having  told  him  that  if  he 
paid  for  them  he  would  be  entitled  to  use  them,  and  it 
strengthened  his  conviction  that  he  was  a  gentleman. 
Imperceptibly  the  rest  of  the  family  absorbed  the  *  pheasant 
proper,'  and  some,  more  serious  than  others,  adopted  the  motto; 
old  Jolyon,  however,  refused  to  use  the  latter,  saying  that  it 
was  humbug — meaning  nothing,  so  far  as  he  could  see. 

Among  the  older  generation  it  was  perhaps  known  at 
bottom  from  what  great  historical  event  they  derived  their 
crest;  and  if  pressed  on  the  subject,  sooner  than  tell  a  lie — 
they  did  not  like  telling  lies,  having  an  impression  that  only 
Frenchmen  and  Russians  told  them — they  would  confess 
hurriedly  that  Swithin  had  got  hold  of  it  somehow. 

Among  the  younger  generation  the  matter  was  wrapped 
in  a  discretion  proper.  They  did  not  want  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  their  elders,  nor  to  feel  ridiculous  themselves; 
they  simply  used  the  crest.   .   . 

*  No,'  said  Swithin,  *  he  had  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
for  himself,  and  what  he  should  say  was,  that  there  was 
nothing  in  her  manner  to  that  young  Buccaneer  or  Bosinney 
or  whatever  his  name  was,  different  from  her  manner  to 
himself;  in  fact,  he  should  rather  say.  .  .  .'  But  here  the 
entrance  of  Frances  and  Euphemia  put  an  unfortunate  stop 
to  the  conversation,  for  this  was  not  a  subject  which  could 
be  discussed  before  young  people. 

And  though  Swithin  was  somewhat  upset  at  being  stopped 
like  this  on  the  point  of  saying  something  important,  he  soon 
recovered  his  affability.  He  was  rather  fond  of  Frances — 
Francie,  as  she  was  called  in  the  family.  She  was  so  smart, 
and  they  told  him  she  made  a  pretty  little  pot  of  pin-money 
by  her  songs ;  he  called  it  very  clever  of  her. 

He  rather  prided  himself  indeed  on  a  liberal  attitude 
towards  women,  not  seeing  any  reason  why  they  shouldn't 
paint  pictures,  or  write  tunes,  or  books  even,  for  the  matter 


200  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  that,  especially  if  they  could  turn  a  useful  penny  by  it; 
not  at  all — kept  them  out  of  mischief.     It  was  not  as  if  they 


were  men 


*  Little  Francie,'  as  she  was  usually  called  with  good- 
natured  contempt,  was  an  important  personage,  if  only  as  a 
standing  illustration  of  the  attitude  of  Forsytes  towards  the 
Arts.  She  was  not  really  *  little,'  but  rather  tall,  with  dark 
hair  for  a  Forsyte,  which,  together  with  a  gray  eye,  gave  her 
what  was  called  *  a  Celtic  appearance.'  She  wrote  songs 
with  titles  like  *  Breathing  Sighs,'  or  ^  Kiss  me,  Mother,  ere 
I  die,'  with  a  refrain  like  an  anthem  : 

*  Kiss  me,  Mother,  ere  I  die  ; 
Kiss  me — kiss  me,  Mother,  ah! 
Kiss,  ah  !  kiss  me  e — ere  I — 
Kiss  me,  Mother,  ere  I  d — d — die  !* 

She  wrote  the  words  to  them  herself,  and  other  poems. 
In  lighter  moments  she  wrote  waltzes,  one  of  which,  the 
'  Kensington  Coil,'  was  almost  national  to  Kensington, 
having  a  sweet  dip  in  it.     Thus : 


E^^H^f 


It  was  very  original.  Then  there  were  her  'Songs  for 
Little  People,'  at  once  educational  and  witty,  especially 
'  Gran'ma's  Porgie,'  and  that  ditty,  almost  prophetically 
imbued  with  the  coming  Imperial  spirit,  entitled  '  Black  him 
in  his  little  eye.' 

Any  publisher  would  take  these,  and  reviews  like  '  High 
Living,'  and  the  '  Ladies  Genteel  Guide  '  went  into  raptures 
over  :  '  Another  of  Miss  Francie  Forsyte's  spirited  ditties, 
sparkling  and  pathetic.  We  ourselves  were  moved  to  tears 
and  laughter.     Miss  Forsyte  should  go  far.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  201 

With  the  true  instinct  of  her  breed,  Francie  had  made  a 
point  of  knowing  the  right  people — people  who  would  write 
about  her,  and  talk  about  her,  and  people  in  Society,  too — 
keeping  a  mental  register  of  just  where  to  exert  her  fascina- 
tions, and  an  eye  on  that  steady  scale  of  rising  prices,  which 
in  her  mind's  eye  represented  the  future.  In  this  way  she 
caused  herself  to  be  universally  respected. 

Once,  at  a  time  when  her  emotions  were  whipped  by  an 
attachment — for  the  tenor  of  Roger's  life,  with  its  whole- 
hearted collection  of  house  property,  had  induced  in  his 
only  daughter  a  tendency  towards  passion — she  turned  to 
great  and  sincere  work,  choosing  the  sonata  form,  for  the 
violin.  This  was  the  only  one  of  her  productions  that 
troubled  the  Forsytes.  They  felt  at  once  that  it  would  not  sell. 
Roger,  who  liked  having  a  clever  daughter  well  enough, 
and  often  alluded  to  the  amount  of  pocket-money  she  made 
for  herself,  was  upset  by  this  violin  sonata. 

'  Rubbish  like  that !'  he  called  it.  Francie  had  borrowed 
young  Flageoletti  from  Euphemia,  to  play  it  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  Prince's  Gardens. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Roger  was  right.  It  was  rubbish, 
but — annoying  !  the  sort  of  rubbish  that  wouldn't  sell.  As 
every  Forsyte  knows,  rubbish  that  sells  is  not  rubbish  at  all — 
far  from  it. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  sound  com.mon  sense  that  fixed  the 
worth  of  art  at  what  it  would  fetch,  some  of  the  Forsytes — 
Aunt  Hester,  for  instance,  who  had  always  been  musical — ■ 
could  not  help  regretting  that  Francie's  music  was  not 
*  classical';  the  same  with  her  poems.  But  then,  as  Aunt 
Hester  said,  they  didn't  see  any  poetry  nowadays,  all  the 
poems  were  *  little  light  things.'  There  was  nobody  who 
could  write  a  poem  like  *  Paradise  Lost,'  or  *Childe  Harold'; 
either  of  which  made  you  feel  that  you  really  had  read  some- 
thing.    Still,  it  was  nice  for  Francie  to  have  something  to 


202  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

occupy  her  ;  while  other  girls  were  spending  money  shopping 
she  was  making  it !  And  both  Aunt  Hester  and  Aunt 
Juley  were  always  ready  to  listen  to  the  latest  story  of  how 
Francie  had  got  her  price  increased. 

They  listened  now,  together  with  Swithin,  who  sat  pre- 
tending not  to,  for  these  young  people  talked  so  fast  and 
mumbled  so,  he  never  could  catch  what  they  said  ! 

*  And  I  can't  think,'  said  Mrs.  Septimus,  *  how  you  do  it. 
I  should  never  have  the  audacity !' 

Francie  smiled  lightly.  *  I'd  much  rather  deal  with  a  man 
than  a  woman.     Women  are  so  sharp  !' 

*  My  dear,'  cried  Mrs.  Small,  '  I'm  sure  we're  not.' 
Euphemia  went  off  into  her  silent  laugh,  and,  ending  with 

the  squeak,  said,  as  though  being  strangled  :  '  Oh,  you'll 
kill  me  some  day,  auntie.' 

Swithin  saw  no  necessity  to  laugh ;  he  detested  people 
laughing  when  he  himself  perceived  no  joke.  Indeed,  he 
detested  Euphemia  altogether,  to  whom  he  always  alluded 
as  *  Nick's  daughter,  what's  she  called — the  pale  one  ?'  He 
had  just  missed  being  her  godfather — indeed,  would  have 
been,  had  he  not  taken  a  firm  stand  against  her  outlandish 
name.  He  hated  becoming  a  godfather.  Swithin  then  said 
to  Francie  with  dignity  :  '  It's  a  fine  day — er — for  the  time 
of  year.'  But  Euphemia,  who  knew  perfectly  well  that  he 
had  refused  to  be  her  godfather,  turned  to  Aunt  Hester,  and 
began  telling  her  how  she  had  seen  Irene — Mrs.  Soames — 
at  the  Church  and  Commercial  Stores. 

'  And  Soames  was  with  her  ?'  said  Aunt  Hester,  to  whom 
Mrs.  Small  had  as  yet  had  no  opportunity  of  relating  the 
incident. 

'  Soames  with  her  ?     Of  course  not  !' 

*  But  was  she  all  alone  in  London  ?' 

*  Oh,  no ;  there  was  Mr.  Bosinney  with  her.  She  was 
perfectly  dressed.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  203 

But  Swithin,  hearing  the  name  Irene,  looked  severely  at 
Euphemia,  who,  it  is  true,  never  did  look  well  in  a  dress, 
whatever  she  may  have  done  on  other  occasions,  and  said  : 

*  Dressed  like  a  lady,  I've  no  doubt.  It's  a  pleasure  to  see  her.' 

At  this  moment  James  and  his  daughters  were  announced. 
Dartie,  feeling  badly  in  want  of  a  drink,  had  pleaded  an 
appointment  with  his  dentist,  and,  being  put  down  at  the 
Marble  Arch,  had  got  into  a  hansom,  and  was  already  seated 
in  the  window  of  his  club  in  Piccadilly. 

His  wife,  he  told  his  cronies,  had  wanted  to  take  him  to 
pay  some  calls.    It  was  not  in  his  line — not  exactly.     Haw  ! 

Hailing  the  waiter,  he  sent  him  out  to  the  hall  to  see 
what  had  won  the  4.30  race.  He  was  dog-tired,  he  said, 
and  that  was  a  fact ;  had  been  drivin'  about  with  his  wife 
to  *•  shows '  all  the  afternoon.  Had  put  his  foot  down  at 
last.     A  fellow  must  live  his  own  life. 

At  this  moment,  glancing  out  of  the  bay  window — for 
he  loved  this  seat  whence  he  could  see  everybody  pass — his 
eye  unfortunately,  or  perhaps  fortunately,  chanced  to  light 
on  the  figure  of  Soames,  who  was  mousing  across  the  road 
from  the  Green  Park  side,  with  the  evident  intention  of 
coming  in,  for  he,  too,  belonged  to  *  The  Iseeum.' 

Dartie  sprang  to  his  feet ;  grasping  his  glass,  he  muttered 
something  about  *  that  4.30  race,'  and  swiftly  withdrew 
to  the  card-room,  where  Soames  never  came.  Here,  in 
complete  isolation  and  a  dim  light,  he  lived  his  own  life  till 
half  past  seven,  by  which  hour  he  knew  Soames  must 
certainly  have  left  the  club. 

It  would  not  do,  as  he  kept  repeating  to  himself  whenever 
he  felt  the  impulse  to  join  the  gossips  in  the  bay-window 
getting  too  strong  for  him — it  absolutely  would  not  do,  with 
finances  as  low  as  his,  and  the  *  old  man '  (James)  rusty  ever 
since  that  business  over  the  oil  shares,  which  was  no  fault  of 
his,  to  risk  a  row  with  Winifred. 


204  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

If  Soames  were  to  see  him  in  the  club  it  would  be  sure  to 
come  round  to  her  that  he  wasn't  at  the  dentist's  at  all.  He 
never  knew  a  family  where  things  *  came  round '  so. 
Uneasily,  amongst  the  green  baize  card-tables,  a  frown  on 
his  olive-coloured  face,  his  check  trousers  crossed,  and  patent- 
leather  boots  shining  through  the  gloom,  he  sat  biting  his 
forefinger,  and  wondering  where  the  deuce  he  was  to  get 
the  money  if  Erotic  failed  to  win  the  Lancashire  Cup. 

His  thoughts  turned  gloomily  to  the  Forsytes.  What  a 
set  they  were  !  There  was  no  getting  anything  out  of 
them — at  least,  it  was  a  matter  of  extreme  difficulty.     They 

were   so   d d   particular    about    money    matters;  not    a 

sportsman  amongst  the  lot,  unless  it  were  George.  That 
fellow  Soames,  for  instance,  would  have  a  fit  if  you  tried  to 
borrow  a  tenner  from  him,  or,  if  he  didn't  have  a  fit,  he 
looked  at  you  with  his  cursed  supercilious  smile,  as  if  you 
were  a  lost  soul  because  you  were  in  want  of  money. 

And  that  wife  of  his  (Dartie's  mouth  watered  involun- 
tarily), he  had  tried  to  be  on  good  terms  with  her,  as  one 
naturally  would  with  any  pretty  sister-in-law,  but  he  would 
be  cursed  if  the — (he  mentally  used  a  coarse  word) — would 
have  anything  to  say  to  him — she  looked  at  him,  indeed,  as  if 
he  were  dirt — and  yet  she  could  go  far  enough,  he  wouldn't 
mind  betting.  He  knew  women  ;  they  weren't  made  with 
soft  eyes  and  figures  like  that  for  nothing,  as  that  fellow 
Soames  would  jolly  soon  find  out,  if  there  were  anything  in 
what  he  had  heard  about  this  Buccaneer  Johnny. 

Rising  from  his  chair,  Dartie  took  a  turn  across  the  room, 
ending  in  front  of  the  looking-glass  over  the  marble  chimney- 
piece  ;  and  there  he  stood  for  a  long  time  contemplating  in 
the  glass  the  reflection  of  his  face.  It  had  that  look,  peculiar 
to  some  men,  of  having  been  steeped  in  linseed  oil,  with  its 
waxed  dark  moustaches  and  the  little  distinguished  com- 
mencements of  side  whiskers  ;  and  concernedly  he  felt  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  205 

promise  of  a  pimple  on  the  side  of  his  slightly  curved  and 
fattish  nose. 

In  the  meantime  old  Jolyon  had  found  the  remaining 
chair  in  Timothy's  commodious  drawing-room.  His  advent 
had  obviously  put  a  stop  to  the  conversation,  decided 
avv^kv^^ardness  having  set  in.  Aunt  Juley,  with  her  well- 
known  kind-heartedness,  hastened  to  set  people  at  their  ease 
again. 

*  Yes,  Jolyon,'  she  said,  '  we  were  just  saying  that  you 
haven't  been  here  for  a  long  time ;  but  we  mustn't  be  sur- 
prised. You're  busy,  of  course  ?  James  was  just  saying 
what  a  busy  time  of  year ' 

*  Was  he  r'  said  old  Jolyon,  looking  hard  at  James.  *  It 
wouldn't  be  half  so  busy  if  everybody  minded  their  own 
business.' 

James,  brooding  in  a  small  chair  from  which  his  knees  ran 
uphill,  shifted  his  feet  uneasily,  and  put  one  of  them  down 
on  the  cat,  which  had  unwisely  taken  refuge  from  old 
Jolyon  beside  him. 

'  Here,  you've  got  a  cat  here,'  he  said  in  an  injured  voice, 
withdrawing  his  foot  nervously  as  he  felt  it  squeezing  into 
the  soft,  furry  body. 

*  Several,'  said  old  Jolyon,  looking  at  one  face  and  another ; 
*  I  trod  on  one  just  now.' 

A  silence  followed. 

Then  Mrs.  Small,  twisting  her  fingers  and  gazing  round 
with  pathetic  calm,  asked  :   '  And  how  is  dear  June  ?' 

A  twinkle  of  humour  shot  through  the  sternness  of  old 
Jolyon's  eyes.  Extraordinary  old  woman,  Juley  !  No  one 
quite  like  her  for  saying  the  wrong  thing  ! 

'  Bad  !'  he  said ;  '  London  don't  agree  with  her — too  many 
people  about,  too  much  clatter  and  chatter  by  half.'  He  laid 
emphasis  on  the  words,  and  again  looked  James  in  the  face. 

Nobody  spoke. 


2o6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

A  feeling  of  its  being  too  dangerous  to  take  a  step  in  any 
direction,  or  hazard  any  remark,  had  fallen  on  them  all. 
Something  of  the  sense  of  the  impending,  that  comes  over  the 
spectator  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  had  entered  that  upholstered 
room,  filled  with  those  white-haired,  frock-coated  old  men, 
and  fashionably  attired  women,  who  were  all  of  the  same  blood, 
between  all  of  whom  existed  an  unseizable  resemblance. 

Not  that  they  were  conscious  of  it — the  visits  of  such 
fateful,  bitter  spirits  are  only  felt. 

Then  Swithin  rose.  He  would  not  sit  there,  feeling  like 
that — he  was  not  to  be  put  down  by  anyone  !  And, 
manoeuvring  round  the  room  with  added  pomp,  he  shook 
hands  with  each  separately. 

*  You  tell  Timothy  from  me,'  he  said,  *  that  he  coddles 
himself  too  much  1'  Then,  turning  to  Francie,  whom  he 
considered  '  smart,'  he  added :  *  You  come  with  me  for  a 
drive  one  of  these  days.'  But  this  conjured  up  the  vision 
of  that  other  eventful  drive  which  had  been  so  much  talked 
about,  and  he  stood  quite  still  for  a  second,  with  glassy  eyes, 
as  though  waiting  to  catch  up  with  the  significance  of  what 
he  himself  had  said  ;  then,  suddenly  recollecting  that  he 
didn't  care  a  damn,  he  turned  to  old  Jolyon :  '  Well, 
good-bye,  Jolyon  !  You  shouldn't  go  about  without  an 
overcoat ;  you'll  be  getting  sciatica  or  something  !'  And, 
kicking  the  cat  slightly  with  the  pointed  tip  of  his  patent 
leather  boot,  he  took  his  huge  form  away. 

When  he  had  gone  everyone  looked  secretly  at  the  others, 
to  see  how  they  had  taken  the  mention  of  the  word  *  drive ' 
— the  word  which  had  become  famous,  and  acquired  an  over- 
whelming importance,  as  the  only  official — so  to  speak — news 
in  connection  with  the  vague  and  sinister  rumour  clinging  to 
the  family  tongue. 

Euphemia,  yielding  to  an  impulse,  said  with  a  short  laugh: 
^I'm  glad  Uncle  Swithin  doesn't  ask  me  to  go  for  drives.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  207 

Mrs.  Small,  to  reassure  her  and  smooth  over  any  little 
awkwardness  the  subject  might  have,  replied :  *  My  dear,  he 
likes  to  take  somebody  well  dressed,  who  will  do  him  a  little 
credit.  I  shall  never  forget  the  drive  he  took  me.  It  was  an 
experience  1'  And  her  chubby  round  old  face  was  spread 
for  a  moment  with  a  strange  contentment  ;  then  broke  into 
pouts,  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking  of 
that  long  ago  driving  tour  she  had  once  taken  with  Septimus 
Small. 

James,  who  had  relapsed  into  his  nervous  brooding  in  the 
little  chair,  suddenly  roused  himself:  *  He's  a  funny  fellow, 
Swithin,'  he  said,  but  in  a  half-hearted  way. 

Old  Jolyon's  silence,  his  stern  eyes,  held  them  all  in  a 
kind  of  paralysis.  He  was  disconcerted  himself  by  the  effect 
of  his  own  words — an  effect  which  seemed  to  deepen  the 
importance  of  the  very  rumour  he  had  come  to  scotch ;  but 
he  was  still  angry. 

He  had  not  done  with  them  yet — No,  no — he  would  give 
them  another  rub  or  two  ! 

He  did  not  wish  to  rub  his  nieces,  he  had  no  quarrel  with 
them — a  young  and  presentable  female  always  appealed  to 
old  Jolyon's  clemency — but  that  fellow  James,  and,  in  a  less 
degree  perhaps,  those  others,  deserved  all  they  would  get. 
And  lie,  too,  asked  for  Timothy. 

As  though  feeling  that  some  danger  threatened  her  younger 
brother.  Aunt  Juley  suddenly  offered  him  tea :  '  There  it  is,' 
she  said,  '  all  cold  and  nasty,  waiting  for  you  in  the  back 
drawing-room,  but  Smither  shall  make  you  some  fresh.' 

Old  Jolyon  rose :  '  Thank  you,'  he  said,  looking  straight 
at  James,  '  but  I've  no  time  for  tea,  and — scandal,  and  the 
rest  of  it !  It's  time  I  was  at  home.  Good-bye,  Julia  ; 
good-bye,  Hester  ;  good-bye,  Winifred.' 

Without  more  ceremonious  adieux,  he  marched  out. 

Once  again  in  his  cab,  his  anger  evaporated,  for  so  it  ever 


2o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  with  his  wrath — when  he  had  rapped  out,  it  was  gone. 
Sadness  came  over  his  spirit.  He  had  stopped  their  mouths, 
maybe,  but  at  what  a  cost  !  At  the  cost  of  certain  know- 
ledge that  the  rumour  he  had  been  resolved  not  to  believe 
was  true.  June  was  abandoned,  and  for  the  wife  of  that 
fellow's  son  1  He  felt  it  was  true,  and  hardened  himiself  to 
treat  it  as  if  it  were  not ;  but  the  pain  he  hid  beneath  this 
resolution  began  slowly,  surely,  to  vent  itself  in  a  blind 
resentment  against  James  and  his  son. 

The  six  women  and  one  man  left  behind  in  the  little 
drawing-room  began  talking  as  easily  as  might  be  after  such 
an  occurrence,  for  though  each  one  of  them  knew  for  a  fact 
that  he  or  she  never  talked  scandal,  each  one  of  them  also 
knew  that  the  other  six  did  ;  all  were  therefore  angry  and  at  a 
loss.    James  only  was  silent,  disturbed  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul. 

Presently  Francie  said:  *  Do  you  know,  I  think  Uncle 
Jolyon  is  terribly  changed  this  last  year.  What  do  you 
think.  Aunt  Hester?' 

Aunt  Hester  made  a  little  movement  of  recoil:  'Oh,  ask 
your  Aunt  Julia !'  she  said ;  '  I  know  nothing  about  it.' 

No  one  else  was  afraid  of  assenting,  and  James  muttered 
gloomily  at  the  floor:   '  He's  not  half  the  man  he  was.' 

'•  I've  noticed  it  a  long  time,'  went  on  Francie ;  '  he's  aged 
tremendously.' 

Aunt  Juley  shook  her  head  ;  her  face  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  become  one  immense  pout. 

'  Poor  dear  Jolyon,'  she  said,  '  somebody  ought  to  see  to  it 
for  him  !' 

There  was  again  silence;  then,  as  though  in  terror  of 
being  left  solitarily  behind,  all  five  visitors  rose  simultaneously, 
and  took  their  departure. 

Mrs.  Small,  Aunt  Hester  and  their  cat  v/ere  left  once 
more  alone,  the  sound  of  a  door  closing  in  che  distance 
announced  the  approach  of  Timothy. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  209 

That  evening,  when  Aunt  Hester  had  just  got  off  to  sleep 
in  the  back  bedroom  that  used  to  be  Aunt  Juley's  before 
Aunt  Juley  took  Aunt  Ann's,  her  door  was  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Small,  in  a  pink  night-cap,  a  candle  in  her  hand, 
entered  :  *  Hester  !'  she  said.    *  Hester  !' 

Aunt  Hester  faintly  rustled  the  sheet. 

'  Hester,'  repeated  Aunt  Juley,  to  make  quite  sure  that 
she  had  awakened  her,  '  I  am  quite  troubled  about  poor  dear 
Jolyon.  What^  Aunt  Juley  dwelt  on  the  word,  '  do  you 
think  ought  to  be  done  ?' 

Aunt  Hester  again  rustled  the  sheet,  her  voice  was  heard 
faintly  pleading  :  *  Done  ?     How  should  I  know  ?' 

Aunt  Juley  turned  away  satisfied,  and  closing  the  door 
with  extra  gentleness  so  as  not  to  disturb  dear  Hester,  let  it 
slip  through  her  fingers  and  fall  to  with  a  '  crack.' 

Back  in  her  own  room,  she  stood  at  the  window  gazing  at 
the  moon  over  the  trees  in  the  Park,  through  a  chink  in  the 
muslin  curtains,  close  drawn  lest  anyone  should  see.  And 
there,  with  her  face  all  round  and  pouting  in  its  pink  cap, 
and  her  eyes  wet,  she  thought  of  *  dear  Jolyon,'  so  old  and 
so  lonely,  and  how  she  could  be  of  some  use  to  him  ;  and 
how  he  would  come  to  love  her,  as  she  had  never  been 
loved  since — since  poor  Septimus  went  away. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

DANCE  AT  Roger's 

Roger's  house  in  Prince's  Gardens  was  brilliantly  alight. 
Large  numbers  of  wax  candles  had  been  collected  and  placed 
in  cut-glass  chandeliers,  and  the  parquet  floor  of  the  long, 
double  drawing-room  reflected  these  constellations.  An 
appearance  of  real  spaciousness  had  been  secured  by  moving 
out  all  the  furniture  on  to  the  upper  landings,  and  enclosing 
the  room  with  those  strange  appendages  of  civilization 
known  as  ^  rout '  seats. 

In  a  remote  corner,  embowered  in  palms,  was  a  cottage 
piano,  with  a  copy  of  the  '  Kensington  Coil '  open  on  the 
music-stand. 

Roger  had  objected  to  a  band.  He  didn't  see  in  the  least 
what  they  wanted  with  a  band  ;  he  wouldn't  go  to  the 
expense,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  Francie  (her  mother, 
whom  Roger  had  long  since  reduced  to  chronic  dyspepsia, 
went  to  bed  on  such  occasions),  had  been  obliged  to  content 
herself  with  supplementing  the  piano  by  a  young  man  who 
played  the  cornet,  and  she  so  arranged  with  palms  that  any- 
one who  did  not  look  into  the  heart  of  things  might  imagine 
there  were  several  musicians  secreted  there.  She  made  up 
her  mind  to  tell  them  to  play  loud — there  was  a  lot  of  music 
in  a  cornet,  if  the  m^an  would  only  put  his  soul  into  it. 

In  the  more  cultivated  American  tongue,  she  was 
*  through  '    at    last  —  through     that    tortuous    labyrinth    of 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  21  r 

make-shifts,  which  must  be  traversed  before  fashionable 
display  can  be  combined  with  the  sound  economy  of  a 
Forsyte.  Thin  but  brilliant,  in  her  maize-coloured  frock 
with  much  tulle  about  the  shoulders,  she  went  from  place 
to  place,  fitting  on  her  gloves,  and  casting  her  eye  over 
it  all. 

To  the  hired  butler  (for  Roger  only  kept  maids)  she  spoke 
about  the  wine.  Did  he  quite  understand  that  Mr.  Forsyte 
wished  a  dozen  bottles  of  the  champagne  from  Whiteley's  to 
be  put  out  ?  But  if  that  were  finished  (she  did  not  suppose 
it  would  be,  most  of  the  ladies  would  drink  water,  no  doubt), 
but  if  it  were,  there  was  the  champagne  cup,  and  he  must 
do  the  best  he  could  with  that. 

She  hated  having  to  say  this  sort  of  thing  to  a  butler,  it 
was  so  infra  dig. ;  but  what  could  you  do  with  father  ? 
Roger,  indeed,  after  making  himself  consistently  disagreeable 
about  the  dance,  would  come  down  presently,  with  his 
fresh  colour  and  bumpy  forehead,  as  though  he  had  been  its 
promoter  ;  and  he  would  smile,  and  probably  take  the 
prettiest  woman  in  to  supper  ;  and  at  two  o'clock,  just  as 
they  were  getting  into  the  swing,  he  would  go  up  secretly  to 
he  musicians  and  tell  them  to  play  'God  save  the  Queen,* 
and  go  away. 

Francie  devoutly  hoped  he  might  soon  get  tired,  and  slip 
off  to  bed. 

The  three  or  four  devoted  girl  friends  who  were  staying 
in  the  house  for  this  dance,  had  partaken  with  her,  in  a 
small,  abandoned  room  upstairs,  of  tea  and  cold  chicken-legs, 
hurriedly  served  ;  the  men  had  been  sent  out  to  dine  at 
Eustace's  Club,  it  being  felt  that  they  must  be  fed  up. 

Punctually  on  the  stroke  of  nine  arrived  Mrs.  Small 
alone.  She  made  elaborate  apologies  for  the  absence  of 
Timothy,  omitting  all  mention  of  Aunt  Hester,  who,  at  the 
last  minute,  had  said  she  could  not  be   bothered.     Francie 


212  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

received  her  effusively,  and  placed  her  on  a  rout  seat,  where 
she  left  her,  pouting  and  solitary  in  lavender-coloured  satin — 
the  first  time  she  had  worn  colour  since  Aunt  Ann's  death. 

The  devoted  maiden  friends  came  now  from  their  rooms, 
each  by  magic  arrangement  in  a  differently  coloured  frock,  but 
all  with  the  same  liberal  allowance  of  tulle  on  the  shoulders 
and  at  the  bosom — for  they  were,  by  some  fatality,  lean  to  a 
girl.  They  were  all  taken  up  to  Mrs.  Small.  None  stayed 
with  her  more  than  a  few  seconds,  but  clustering  together, 
talked  and  twisted  their  programmes,  looking  secretly  at  the 
door  for  the  first  appearance  of  a  man. 

Then  arrived  in  a  group  a  number  of  Nicholases,  always 
punctual — the  fashion  up  Ladbroke  Grove  way  ;  and  close 
behind  them  Eustace  and  his  men,  gloomy  and  smelling 
rather  of  smoke. 

Three  or  four  of  Francie's  lovers  now  appeared,  one  after 
the  other  ;  she  had  made  each  promise  to  come  early.  They 
were  all  clean-shaven  and  sprightly,  with  that  peculiar  kind 
of  young-man  sprightliness  which  had  recently  invaded 
Kensington ;  they  did  not  seem  to  mind  each  other's 
presence  in  the  least,  and  wore  their  ties  bunching  out 
at  the  ends,  white  waistcoats,  and  socks  with  clocks.  All 
had  handkerchiefs  concealed  in  their  cuffs.  They  moved 
buoyantly,  each  armoured  in  professional  gaiety,  as  though 
he  had  come  to  do  great  deeds.  Their  faces  when  they 
danced,  far  from  wearing  the  traditional  solemn  look  of  the 
dancing  Englishman,  were  irresponsible,  charming,  sauve; 
they  bounded,  twirling  their  partners  at  great  pace,  without 
pedantic  attention  to  the  rhythm  of  the  music. 

At  other  dancers  they  looked  with  a  kind  of  airy  scorn — 
they,  the  light  brigade,  the  heroes  of  a  hundred  Kensington 
*  hops' — from  whom  alone  could  the  right  manner  and  smile 
and  step  be  hoped. 

After   this  the  stream  came  fast  ;    chaperones  silting  up 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 


213 


along   the  wall   facing   the  entrance,   the   volatile    element 
swelling  the  eddy  in  the  larger  room. 

Men  were  scarce,  and  wallflowers  wore  their  peculiar, 
pathetic  expression,  a  patient,  sourish  smile  which  seemed  to 
say  :  'Oh,  no  !  don't  mistake  me,  /  know  you  are  not 
coming  up  to  me.  I  can  hardly  expect  that  !'  And  Francie 
would  plead  with  one  of  her  lovers,  or  with  some  callow 
youth  :  '  Now,  to  please  me,  do  let  me  introduce  you  to 
Miss  Pink  ;  such  a  nice  girl,  really  T  and  she  would  bring 
him  up,  and  say  :  '  Miss  Pink — Mr.  Gathercole.  Can  you 
spare  him  a  dance  V  Then  Miss  Pink,  smiling  her  forced 
smile,  colouring  a  little,  answered  :  *  Oh  !  I  think  so  !'  and 
screening  her  empty  card,  wrote  on  it  the  name  of  Gather- 
cole,  spelling  it  passionately  in  the  district  that  he  proposed, 
about  the  second  extra. 

But  when  the  youth  had  murmured  that  it  was  hot,  and 
passed,  she  relapsed  into  her  attitude  of  hopeless  expectation, 
into  her  patient,  sourish  smile. 

Mothers,  slowly  fanning  their  faces,  watched  their 
daughters,  and  in  their  eyes  could  be  read  all  the  story  of 
those  daughters'  fortunes.  As  for  themselves,  to  sit  hour 
after  hour,  dead  tired,  silent,  or  talking  spasmodically — what 
did  it  matter,  so  long  as  the  girls  were  having  a  good  time  ! 
But  to  see  them  neglected  and  passed  by  !  Ah  !  they 
smiled,  but  their  eyes  stabbed  like  the  eyes  of  an  offended 
swan  ;  they  longed  to  pluck  young  Gathercole  by  the  slack 
of  his  dandified  breeches,  and  drag  him  to  their  daughters — 
the  jackanapes ! 

And  all  the  cruelties  and  hardness  of  life,  its  pathos  and  un- 
equal chances,  its  conceit,  self-forgetfulness,  and  patience,  were 
presented  on  the  battle-field  of  this  Kensington  ball-room. 

Here  and  there,  too,  lov-ers — not  lovers  like  Francie's,  a 
peculiar  breed,  but  simply  lovers — trembling,  blushing,  silent, 
sought  each   other   by   flying  glances,  sought   to   meet  and 


214  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

touch  in  the  mazes  of  the  dance,  and  now  and  again  dancing 
together,  struck  some  beholder  by  the  light  in  their  eyes. 

Not  a  second  before  ten  o'clock  came  the  James's — Emily, 
Rachel,  Winifred  (Dartie  had  been  left  behind,  having  on  a 
former  occasion  drunk  too  much  champagne  at  Roger's), 
and  Cicely  the  youngest,  making  her  debut ;  behind  them, 
following  in  a  hansom  from  the  paternal  mansion  where  they 
had  dined,  Soames  and  Irene. 

All  these  ladies  had  shoulder-straps  and  no  tulle — thus 
showing  at  once,  by  a  bolder  exposure  of  flesh,  that  they 
came  from  the  more  fashionable  side  of  the  Park. 

Soames,  sidling  back  from  the  contact  of  the  dancers,  took 
up  a  position  against  the  wall.  Guarding  himself  with  his 
pale  smile,  he  stood  watching.  Waltz  after  waltz  began 
and  ended,  couple  after  couple  brushed  by  with  smiling  lips, 
laughter,  and  snatches  of  talk  ;  or  with  set  lips,  and  eyes 
searching  the  throng  ;  or  again,  with  silent  parted  lips,  and 
eyes  on  each  other.  And  the  scent  of  festivity,  the  odour  of 
flowers,  and  hair,  of  essences  that  women  love,  rose  suffocat- 
ingly in  the  heat  of  the  summer  night. 

Silent,  with  something  of  scorn  in  his  smile,  Soames 
seemed  to  notice  nothing ;  but  now  and  again  his  eyes,  find- 
ing that  which  they  sought,  would  fix  themselves  on  a  point 
in  the  shifting  throng,  and  the  smile  die  off  his  lips. 

He  danced  with  no  one.  Some  fellows  danced  with  their 
wives  ;  his  sense  of  '  form  '  had  never  permitted  him  to  dance 
with  Irene  since  their  marriage,  and  the  God  of  the  Forsytes 
alone  can  tell  whether  this  was  a  relief  to  him  or  not. 

She  passed,  dancing  with  other  men,  her  dress,  iris-coloured, 
floating  away  from  her  feet.  She  danced  well ;  he  was  tired 
of  hearing  women  say  with  an  acid  smile  :  *  How  beauti- 
fully your  wife  dances,  Mr.  Forsyte — it's  quite  a  pleasure  to 
watch  her  !'  Tired  of  answering  them  with  his  sidelong 
glance  :  *  You  think  so  ?' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  215 

A  young  couple  close  by  flirted  a  fan  by  turns,  making  an 
unpleasant  draught.  Francie  and  one  of  her  lovers  stood 
near.     They  were  talking  of  love. 

He  heard  Roger's  voice  behind,  giving  an  order  about 
supper  to  a  servant.  Everything  was  very  second-class  !  He 
wished  that  he  had  not  come  !  He  had  asked  Irene  whether 
she  wanted  him  ;  she  had  answered  with  that  maddening 
smile  of  hers:   '  Oh,  no  !' 

Why  had  he  come  ?  For  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
had  not  even  seen  her.  Here  was  George  advancing  with 
his  Quilpish  face  ;  it  was  too  late  to  get  out  of  his  way. 

*  Have  you  seen  "  The  Buccaneer  ?"  said  this  licensed 
wag  ;  *  he's  on  the  warpath — hair  cut  and  everything  !' 

Soames  said  he  had  not,  and  crossing  the  room,  half-empty 
in  an  interval  of  the  dance,  he  went  out  on  the  balcony,  and 
looked  down  into  the  street. 

A  carriage  had  driven  up  with  late  arrivals,  and  round  the 
door  hung  some  of  those  patient  watchers  of  the  London 
streets  who  spring  up  to  the  call  of  light  or  music  ;  their 
faces,  pale  and  upturned  above  their  black  and  rusty  figures, 
had  an  air  of  stolid  watching  that  annoyed  Soames  :  Why 
were  they  allowed  to  hang  about;  why  didn't  the  bobby 
move  them  on  ? 

But  the  policeman  took  no  notice  of  them  ;  his  feet  were 
planted  apart  on  the  strip  of  crimson  carpet  stretched  across 
the  pavement  ;  his  face,  under  the  helmet,  wore  the  same 
stolid,  watching  look  as  theirs. 

Across  the  road,  through  the  railings,  Soames  could  see 
the  branches  of  trees  shining,  faintly  stirring  in  the  breeze, 
by  the  gleam  of  the  street  lamps ;  beyond,  again,  the  upper 
lights  of  the  houses  on  the  other  side,  so  many  eyes  looking 
down  on  the  quiet  blackness  of  the  garden  ;  and  over  all,  the 
sky,  that  wonderful  London  sky,  dusted  with  the  innumer- 
able   reflection    of  countless    lamps;    a    dome    woven    over 


2i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

between  its  stars  with  the  refraction  of  human  needs  and 
human  fancies — immense  mirror  of  pomp  and  misery  that 
night  after  night  stretches  its  kindly  mocking  over  miles  of 
houses  and  gardens,  mansions  and  squalor,  over  Forsytes, 
policemen,  and  patient  watchers  in  the  streets. 

Soames  turned  away,  and,  hidden  in  the  recess,  gazed  into 
the  lighted  room.  It  was  cooler  out  there.  He  saw  the 
new  arrivals,  June  and  her  grandfather,  enter.  What  had 
made  them  so  late  ?  They  stood  by  the  doorway.  They 
looked  fagged.  Fancy  Uncle  Jolyon  turning  out  at  this 
time  of  night !  Why  hadn't  June  come  to  Irene,  as  she 
usually  did,  and  it  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that  he  had  seen 
nothing  of  June  for  a  long  time  now. 

Watching  her  face  with  idle  malice,  he  saw  it  change, 
grow  so  pale  that  he  thought  she  would  drop,  then  flame  out 
crimson.  Turning  to  see  at  what  she  was  looking,  he  saw 
his  wife  on  Bosinney's  arm,  coming  from  the  conservatory  at 
the  end  of  the  room.  Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his,  as  though 
answering  some  question  he  had  asked,  and  he  was  gazing  at 
her  intently. 

Soam.es  looked  again  at  June.  Her  hand  rested  on  old 
Jolyon's  arm  ;  she  seemed  to  be  making  a  request.  He  saw 
a  surprised  look  on  his  uncle's  face ;  they  turned  and  passed 
through  the  door  out  of  his  sight. 

The  music  began  again — a  waltz — and,  still  as  a  statue  in 
the  recess  of  the  window,  his  face  unmoved,  but  no  smile  on 
his  lips,  Soames  waited.  Presently,  within  a  yard  of  the 
dark  balcony,  his  wife  and  Bosinney  passed.  He  caught  the 
perfume  of  the  gardenias  that  she  wore,  saw  the  rise  and 
fall  of  her  bosom,  the  languor  in  her  eyes,  her  parted  lips, 
and  a  look  on  her  face  that  he  did  not  know.  To  the  slow, 
swinging  measure  they  danced  by,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
they  clung  to  each  other  ;  he  saw  her  raise  her  eyes,  soft  and 
dark,  to  Bosinney's,  and  drop  them  again. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  217 

Very  white,  he  turned  back  to  the  balcony,  and  leaning  on 
it,  gazed  down  on  the  Square ;  the  figures  were  still  there 
looking  up  at  the  light  with  dull  persistency,  the  policeman's 
face,  too,  upturned,  and  staring,  but  he  saw  nothing  of  them. 
Below,  a  carriage  drew  up,  two  figures  got  in,  and  drove 
away.   ... 

That  evening  June  and  old  Jolyon  sat  down  to  dinner  at 
the  usual  hour.  The  girl  was  in  her  customary  high-necked 
frock,  old  Jolyon  had  not  dressed. 

At  breakfast  she  had  spoken  of  the  dance  at  Uncle 
Roger's,  she  wanted  to  go ;  she  had  been  stupid  enough,  she 
said,  not  to  think  of  asking  anyone  to  take  her.  It  was  too 
late  now. 

Old  Jolyon  lifted  his  keen  eyes.  June  was  used  to  go  to 
dances  with  Irene  as  a  matter  of  course  !  And  deliberately 
fixing  his  gaze  on  her,  he  asked  :  '  Why  didn't  she  get 
Irene  ?' 

No !  June  did  not  want  to  ask  Irene ;  she  would  only 
go  if — if  her  grandfather  wouldn't  mind  just  for  once — for 
a  little  time  ! 

At  her  look,  so  eager  and  so  worn,  old  Jolyon  had 
grumblingly  consented.  He  did  not  know  what  she  wanted, 
he  said,  with  going  to  a  dance  like  this,  a  poor  affair,  he 
would  wager ;  and  she  no  more  fit  for  it  than  a  cat !  What 
she  wanted  was  sea  air,  and  after  his  general  meeting  of  the 
Globular  Gold  Concessions  he  was  ready  to  take  her.  She 
didn't  want  to  go  away  ?  Ah  !  she  would  knock  herself  up  ! 
Stealing  a  mournful  look  at  her,  he  went  on  with  his  break- 
fast. 

June  went  out  early,  and  wandered  restlessly  about  in  the 
heat.  Her  little  light  figure  that  lately  had  moved  so 
languidly  about  its  business,  was  all  on  fire.  She  bought 
herself  some  flowers.  She  wanted — she  meant  to  look  her 
best.     He  would  be  there  !     She  knew  well  enough  that  he 


2i8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  a  card.  She  would  show  him  that  she  did  not  care. 
But  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  resolved  that  evening  to  win 
him  back.  She  came  in  flushed,  and  talked  brightly  all 
lunch  ;  old  Jolyon  was  there,  and  he  was  deceived. 

In  the  afternoon  she  was  overtaken  by  a  desperate  fit  of 
sobbing.  She  strangled  the  noise  against  the  pillows  of  her 
bed,  but  when  at  last  it  ceased  she  saw  in  the  glass  a  swollen 
face  with  reddened  eyes,  and  violet  circles  round  them.  She 
stayed  in  the  darkened  room  till  dinner  time. 

All  through  that  silent  meal  the  struggle  went  on  within 
her.  She  looked  so  shadowy  and  exhausted  that  old  Jolyon 
told  *  Sankey  '  to  countermand  the  carriage,  he  would  not 
have  her  going  out.  She  was  to  go  to  bed  !  She  made  no 
resistance.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  and  sat  in  the  dark. 
At  ten  o'clock  she  rang  for  her  maid. 

*  Bring  some  hot  water,  and  go  down  and  tell  Mr. 
Forsyte  that  I  feel  perfectly  rested.  Say  that  if  he's  too 
tired  I  can  go  to  the  dance  by  myself.' 

The  maid  looked  askance,  and  June  turned  on  her 
imperiously.     *  Go,'  she  said,  '  bring  the  hot  water  at  once  !' 

Her  ball-dress  still  lay  on  the  sofa,  and  with  a  sort  of 
fierce  care  she  arrayed  herself,  took  the  flowers  in  her  hand, 
and  went  down,  her  small  face  carried  high  under  its  burden 
of  hair.  She  could  hear  old  Jolyon  in  his  room  as  she 
passed. 

Bewildered  and  vexed,  he  was  dressing.  It  was  past  ten, 
they  would  not  get  there  till  eleven  ;  the  girl  was  mad.  But 
he  dared  not  cross  her — the  expression  of  her  face  at  dinner 
haunted  him. 

With  great  ebony  brushes  he  smoothed  his  hair  till  it 
shone  like  silver  under  the  light  ;  then  he,  too,  came  out  on 
the  gloomy  staircase. 

June  met  him  below,  and,  without  a  word,  they  went  to 
the  carriage. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  219 

When,  after  that  drive  which  seemed  to  last  for  ever,  she 
entered  Roger's  drawing-room,  she  disguised  under  a  mask 
of  resolution  a  very  torment  of  nervousness  and  emotion. 
The  feeling  of  shame  at  what  might  be  called  *  running 
after  him '  was  smothered  by  the  dread  that  he  might  not  be 
there,  that  she  might  not  see  him  after  all,  and  by  that 
dogged  resolve — somehow,  she  did  not  know  how — to  win 
him  back. 

The  sight  of  the  ballroom,  with  its  gleaming  floor,  gave 
her  a  feeling  of  joy,  of  triumph,  for  she  loved  dancing,  and 
when  dancing  she  floated,  so  light  was  she,  like  a  strenuous, 
eager  little  spirit.  He  would  surely  ask  her  to  dance,  and 
if  he  danced  with  her  it  would  all  be  as  it  was  before.  She 
looked  about  her  eagerly. 

The  sight  of  Bosinney  coming  with  Irene  from  the  con- 
servatory, with  that  strange  look  of  utter  absorption  on  his 
face,  struck  her  too  suddenly.  They  had  not  seen — no  one 
should  see — her  distress,  not  even  her  grandfather. 

She  put  her  hand  on  Jolyon's  arm,  and  said  very  low  : 

*  I  must  go  home,  Gran  ;  I  feel  ill.* 

He  hurried  her  away,  grumbling  to  himself  that  he  had 
known  how  it  would  be. 

To  her  he  said  nothing  ;  only  when  they  were  once  more 
in  the  carriage,  which  by  some  fortunate  chance  had  lingered 
near  the  door,  he  asked  her  :  '  What  is  it,  my  darling  ?' 

Feeling  her  whole  slender  body  shaken  by  sobs,  he  was 
terribly  alarmed.  She  must  have  Blank  to-morrow.  He 
would  insist  upon  it.  He  could  not  have  her  like  this.  .  .  . 
There,  there  ! 

June  mastered  her  sobs,  and,  squeezing  his  hand  fever- 
ishly, she  lay  back  in  her  corner,  her  face  muflled  in  a  shawl. 

He  could  only  see  her  eyes,  fixed  and  staring  in  the  dark, 
but  he  did  not  cease  to  stroke  her  hand  with  his  thin  fingers. 


CHAPTER  IX 

EVENING    AT    RICHMOND 

Other  eves  besides  the  eyes  ot"  June  and  ot  Soames  had 
seen  '  those  two  '  (as  Euphemia  had  already  begun  to  call 
them)  coming  from  the  conser\-atory ;  other  eyes  had  noticed 
the  look  on  Bosinney's  face. 

There  are  moments  when  Nature  reveals  the  passion 
hidden  beneath  the  careless  calm  of  her  ordinar}^  moods — 
violent  spring  flashing  white  on  almond-blossom  through  the 
purple  clouds  ;  a  snowv,  moonlit  peak,  with  its  single  star, 
soaring  up  to  the  passionate  blue  ;  or  against  the  flames 
of  sunset,  an  old  yew-stree  standing  dark  guardian  of  some 
iierv  secret. 

There  are  moments,  too,  when,  in  a  picture-galler}^,  a 
w^ork,  noted  by  the  casual  spectator  as  '  *  *  *  Titian — re- 
markably fine,'  breaks  through  the  defences  of  some  Forsyte 
better  lunched  perhaps  than  his  fellows,  and  holds  him  spell- 
bound in  a  kind  of  ecstacy.  There  are  things,  he  feels — 
there  are  things  here  which — well,  which  are  things. 
Something  unreasoning,  unreasonable,  is  upon  him  ;  when 
he  tries  to  define  it  with  the  precision  of  a  practical  man,  it 
eludes  him,  slips  away,  as  the  glow  of  the  wine  he  has 
drunk  is  slipping  away,  leaving  him  cross,  and  conscious  of 
his  liver.  He  feels  that  he  has  been  extravagant,  prodigal  of 
something  ;  virtue  has  gone  out  of  him.  He  did  not  desire 
this  glimpse  of  what  lay  under  the  three  stars  of  his   cata- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  221 

logue.  God  forbid  that  he  should  know  anything  about  the 
forces  of  Nature  !  God  forbid  that  he  should  admit  for  a 
moment  that  there  are  such  things  !  Once  admit  that,  and 
where  was  he  ?  One  paid  a  shilling  for  entrance,  and 
another  for  the  programme. 

The  look  which  June  had  seen,  which  other  Forsytes  had 
seen,  was  like  the  sudden  flashing  of  a  candle  through  a  hole 
in  some  imaginary'  canvas,  behind  which  it  was  being  moved 
— the  sudden  flaming-out  of  a  vague,  erratic  glow,  shadow)- 
and  enticing.  It  brought  home  to  onlookers  the  conscious- 
ness that  dangerous  forces  were  at  work.  For  a  moment 
they  noticed  it  with  pleasure,  with  interest,  then  felt  they 
must  not  notice  it  all. 

It  supplied,  however,  the  reason  of  June's  coming  so  late 
and  disappearing  again  without  dancing,  without  even 
shaking  hands  with  her  lover.  She  was  ill,  it  was  said,  and 
no  wonder. 

But  here  they  looked  at  each  other  guiltily.  Thev  had 
no  desire  to  spread  scandal,  no  desire  to  be  ill-natured. 
Who  would  have  ?  And  to  outsiders  no  word  was  breathed, 
unwritten  law  keeping  them  silent. 

Then  came  the  news  that  June  had  gone  to  the  seaside 
with  old  Jolyon. 

He  had  carried  her  ofF  to  Broadstairs,  for  which  place 
there  was  just  then  a  feeling,  Yarmouth  having  lost  caste,  in 
spite  of  Nicholas,  and  no  Forsyte  going  to  the  sea  without 
intending  to  have  an  air  for  his  money  such  as  would  render 
him  bilious  in  a  week.  That  fatally  aristocratic  tendency  of 
the  first  Forsyte  to  drink  Madeira  had  left  his  descendants 
undoubtedly  accessible. 

So  June  went  to  the  sea.  The  family  awaited  develop- 
ments ;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

But  how  far — how  far  had  *  those  two  '  gone  r  How  far 
)  were  they  going  to  go  r     Could  they  really  be  going  at  ail  ? 


222  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Nothing  could  surely  come  of  it,  for  neither  of  them  had 
any  money.  At  the  most  a  flirtation,  ending,  as  all  such 
attachments  should,  at  the  proper  time. 

Soames's  sister,  Winifred  Dartie,  who  had  imbibed  with 
the  breezes  of  Mayfair — she  lived  in  Green  Street — more 
fashionable  principles  in  regard  to  matrimonial  behaviour 
than  were  current,  for  instance,  in  Ladbroke  Grove,  laughed 
at  the  idea  of  there  being  anything  in  it.  The  '  little  thing  * 
— Irene  was  taller  than  herself,  and  it  was  real  testimony  to 
the  solid  worth  of  a  Forsyte  that  she  should  always  thus  be 
a  '  little  thing' — the  little  thing  was  bored.  Why  shouldn't 
she  amuse  herself  ?  Soames  was  rather  tiring  ;  and  as  to 
Mr.  Bosinney — only  that  buffoon  George  would  have  called 
him  the  Buccaneer — she  maintained  that  he  was  very  chic. 

This  dictum — that  Bosinney  was  chic — caused  quite  a 
sensation.  It  failed  to  convince.  That  he  was  *  good- 
looking  in  a  way '  they  were  prepared  to  admit,  but  that 
anyone  could  call  a  man  with  his  pronounced  cheekbones, 
curious  eyes,  and  soft  felt  hats  chk  was  only  another  instance 
of  Winifred's  extravagant  way  of  running  after  something 
new. 

It  was  that  famous  summer  when  extravagance  was 
fashionable,  when  the  very  earth  was  extravagant,  chestnut- 
trees  spread  with  blossom,  and  flowers  drenched  in  perfume, 
as  they  had  never  been  before  ;  when  roses  blew  in  every 
garden  ;  and  for  the  swarmfng  stars  the  nights  had  hardly 
space  ;  when  every  day  and  all  day  long  the  sun,  in  full 
armour,  swung  his  brazen  shield  above  the  Park,  and  people 
did  strange  things,  lunching  and  dining  in  the  open  air. 
Unprecedented  was  the  tale  of  cabs  and  carriages  that 
streamed  across  the  bridges  of  the  shining  river,  bearing  the 
upper-middle  class  in  thousands  to  the  green  glories  of 
Bushey,  Richmond,  Kew,  and  Hampton  Court.  Almost 
every  family  with  any  pretensions  to  be  of  the  carriage-class 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  223 

paid  one  visit  that  year  to  the  horse-chestnuts  at  Bushey,  or 
took  one  drive  amongst  the  Spanish  chestnuts  of  Richmond 
Park.  Bov^ling  smoothly,  if  dustily,  along,  in  a  cloud  of 
their  ov^n  creation,  they  would  stare  fashionably  at  the 
antlered  heads  which  the  great  slow  deer  raised  out  of  a 
forest  of  bracken  that  promised  to  autumn  lovers  such  cover 
as  was  never  seen  before.  And  now  and  again,  as  the 
amorous  perfume  of  chestnut  flowers  and  fern  was  drifted 
too  near,  one  would  say  to  the  other  :  *  My  dear  !  What  a 
peculiar  scent  !' 

And  the  lime-flowers  that  year  were  of  rare  prime,  near 
honey-coloured.  At  the  corners  of  London  squares  they 
gave  out,  as  the  sun  went  down,  a  perfume  sweeter  than  the 
honey  bees  had  taken — a  perfume  that  stirred  a  yearning 
unnamable  in  the  hearts  of  Forsytes  and  their  peers,  taking 
the  cool  after  dinner  in  the  precincts  of  those  gardens  to 
which  they  alone  had  keys. 

And  that  yearning  made  them  linger  amidst  the  dim  shapes 
of  flower-beds  in  the  failing  daylight,  made  them  turn,  and 
turn,  and  turn  again,  as  though  lovers  were  waiting  for  them 
— waiting  for  the  last  light  to  die  away  under  the  shadow  ot 
the  branches. 

Some  vague  sympathy  evoked  by  the  scent  of  the  limes, 
some  sisterly  desire  to  see  for  herself,  some  idea  of  demon- 
strating the  soundness  of  her  dictum  that  there  was  *  nothing 
in  it ' ;  or  merely  the  craving  to  drive  down  to  Richmond, 
irresistible  that  summer,  moved  the  mother  of  the  little 
Darties  (of  little  Publius,  of  Imogen,  Maud,  and  Benedict) 
to  write  the  following  note  to  her  sister-in-law  : 

'  J  une  30. 
*  Dear  Irene, 

'  I  hear  that  Soames  is  going  to  Henley  to-morrow  for 
the  night.     I  thought  it  would  be  great  fun  if  we  made  up 


224  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

a  little  party  and  drove  down  to  Richmond.     Will  you  ask 
Mr.  Bosinney,  and  I  will  get  young  Flippard. 

*  Emily  (they  called  their  mother  Emily — it  was  so  chic) 
will  lend  us  the  carriage.  I  will  call  for  you  and  your  young 
man  at  seven  o'clock. 

*  Your  affectionate  sister, 

'  Winifred  Dartie. 

*  Montague  believes  the  dinner  at  the  Crown  and  Sceptre 
to  be  quite  eatable.' 

Montague  was  Dartie's  second  and  better-known  name — 
his  first  being  Moses ;  for  he  was  nothing  if  not  a  man  of 
the  world. 

Her  plan  met  with  more  opposition  from  Providence  than 
so  benevolent  a  scheme  deserved.  In  the  first  place  young 
Flippard  wrote  : 

'Dear  Mrs.  Dartie, 

'  Awfully  sorry.     Engaged  two  deep. 
*  Yours, 

*  Augustus  Flippard.' 

It  was  late  to  send  into  the  byeways  and  hedges  to  remedy 
this  misfortune.  With  the  promptitude  and  conduct  of  a 
mother,  Winifred  fell  back  on  her  husband.  She  had,  indeed, 
the  decided  but  tolerant  temperament  that  goes  with  a  good 
deal  of  profile,  fair  hair,  and  greenish  eyes.  She  was  seldom 
or  never  at  a  loss  ;  or  if  at  a  loss,  was  always  able  to  convert 
it  into  a  gain. 

Dartie,  too,  was  in  good  feather.  Erotic  had  failed  to  win 
the  Lancashire  Cup.  Indeed,  that  celebrated  animal,  owned 
as  he  was  by  a  pillar  of  the  turf,  who  had  secretly  laid  many 
thousands  against  him,  had  not  even  started.  The  forty- 
eight  hours  that  followed  his  scratching  were  among  the 
darkest  in  Dartie's  life. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  225 

Visions  of  James  haunted  him  day  and  night.  Black 
thoughts  about  Soames  mingled  with  the  faintest  hopes.  On 
the  Friday  night  he  got  drunk,  so  greatly  was  he  affected. 
But  on  Saturday  morning  the  true  Stock  Exchange  instinct 
triumphed  within  him.  Owing  some  hundreds,  which  by 
no  possibility  could  he  pay,  he  went  into  town  and  put  them 
all  on  Concertina  for  the  Saltown  Borough  Handicap. 

As  he  said  to  Major  Scrotton,  with  whom  he  lunched  at 
the  Iseeum  :  *  That  little  Jew  boy,  Nathans,  had  given  him 
the  tip.  He  didn't  care  a  cursh.  He  wash  in — a  mucker. 
If  it  didn't  come  up — well  then,  damme,  the  old  man  would 
have  to  pay  !' 

A  bottle  of  Pol  Roger  to  his  own  cheek  had  given  him  a 
new  contempt  for  James. 

It  came  up.  Concertina  was  squeezed  home  by  her  neck 
— a  terrible  squeak  !  But,  as  Dartie  said  :  There  was  nothing 
like  pluck  ! 

He  was  by  no  means  averse  to  the  expedition  to  Richmond. 
He  would  '  stand  '  it  himself  !  He  cherished  an  admiration 
for  Irene,  and  wished  to  be  on  more  playful  terms  with  her. 

At  half-past  five  the  Park  Lane  footman  came  round  to 
say  :  Mrs.  Forsyte  was  very  sorry,  but  one  of  the  horses 
was  coughing  ! 

Undaunted  by  this  further  blow,  Winifred  at  once 
despatched  little  Publius  (now  aged  seven)  with  the  nursery 
governess  to  Montpellier  Square. 

They  would  go  down  in  hansoms  and  meet  at  the  Crown 
and  Sceptre  at  7.45. 

Dartie,  on  being  told,  was  pleased  enough.  It  was  better 
than  going  down  with  your  back  to  the  horses  !  He  had  no 
objection  to  driving  down  with  Irene.  He  supposed  they 
would  pick  up  the  others  at  Montpellier  Square,  and  swop 
hansoms  there  ? 

Informed  that  the  meet  was  at  the  Crown  and  Sceptre, 


226  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  that  he  would  have  to  drive  w^ith  his  wife,  he  turned 
sulky,  and  said  it  was  d d  slow  ! 

At  seven  o'clock  they  started,  Dartie  offering  to  bet  the 
driver  half-a-crown  he  didn't  do  it  in  the  three-quarters  of 
an  hour. 

Twice  only  did  husband  and  wife  exchange  remarks  on 
the  way. 

Dartie  said:  *  It'll  put  Master  Soames's  nose  out  of  joint 
to  hear  his  wife's  been  drivin'  in  a  hansom  with  Master 
Bosinney  !' 

Winifred  replied  :   '  Don't  talk  such  nonsense,  Monty  !' 

'  Nonsense  !'  repeated  Dartie.  '  You  don't  know  women, 
my  fine  lady  !' 

On  the  other  occasion  he  merely  asked  :  *  How  am  I 
looking  ?  A  bit  puffy  about  the  gills  ?  That  fizz  old 
George  is  so  fond  of  is  a  windy  wine  !' 

He  had  been  lunching  with  George  Forsyte  at  the  Haver- 
snake. 

Bosinney  and  Irene  had  arrived  before  them.  They  were 
standing  in  one  of  the  long  French  windows  overlooking  the 
river. 

Windows  that  summer  were  open  all  day  long,  and  all 
night  too,  and  day  and  night  the  scents  of  flowers  and  trees 
came  in,  the  hot  scent  of  parching  grass,  and  the  cool  scent 
of  the  heavy  dews. 

To  the  eye  of  the  observant  Dartie  his  two  guests  did  not 
appear  to  be  making  much  running,  standing  there  close 
together,  without  a  word.  Bosinney  was  a  hungry-looking 
creature — not  much  go  about  him  I 

He  left  them  to  Winifred,  however,  and  busied  himself  to 
order  the  dinner. 

A  Forsyte  will  require  good,  if  not  delicate  feeding,  but  a 
Dartie  will  tax  the  resources  of  a  Crown  and  Sceptre. 
Living,  as  he  does,  from  hand  to  mouth,  nothing  is  too  good 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  227 

for  him  to  eat ;  and  he  will  eat  it.  His  drink,  too,  will  need 
to  be  carefully  provided  ;  there  is  much  drink  in  this  country 
*  not  good  enough '  for  a  Dartie  ;  he  will  have  the  best. 
Paying  for  things  vicariously,  there  is  no  reason  why  he 
should  stint  himself.  To  stint  yourself  is  the  mark  of  a 
fool,  not  of  a  Dartie. 

The  best  of  everything  !  No  sounder  principle  on  which 
a  man  can  base  his  life,  whose  father-in-law  has  a  very 
considerable  income,  and  a  partiality  for  his  grandchildren. 

With  his  not  unable  eye  Dartie  had  spotted  this  weakness 
in  James  the  very  first  year  after  little  Publius's  arrival  (an 
error)  ;  he  had  profited  by  his  perspicacity.  Four  little 
Darties  were  now  a  sort  of  perpetual  insurance. 

The  feature  of  the  feast  was  unquestionably  the  red 
mullet.  This  delectable  fish,  brought  from  a  considerable 
distance  in  a  state  of  almost  perfect  preservation,  was  first 
fried,  then  boned,  then  served  in  ice,  with  Madeira  punch  in 
place  of  sauce,  according  to  a  recipe  known  to  a  few  men  of 
the  world. 

Nothing  else  calls  for  remark  except  the  payment  of  the 
bill  by  Dartie. 

He  had  made  himself  extremely  agreeable  throughout  the 
meal ;  his  bold,  admiring  stare  seldom  abandoning  Irene's 
face  and  figure.  As  he  was  obliged  to  confess  to  himself,  he 
got  no  change  out  of  her — she  was  cool  enough,  as  cool  as 
her  shoulders  looked  under  their  veil  of  creamy  lace.  He 
expected  to  have  caught  her  out  in  some  little  game  with 
Bosinney  ;  but  not  a  bit  of  it,  she  kept  up  her  end  remark- 
ably well.  As  for  that  architect  chap,  he  was  as  glum  as  a 
bear  with  a  sore  head — Winifred  could  barely  get  a  word 
out  of  him  ;  he  ate  nothing,  but  he  certainly  took  his  liquor, 
and  his  face  kept  getting  whiter,  and  his  eyes  looked  queer. 

It  was  all  very  amusing. 

For  Dartie  himself  was  in  capital  form,  and  talked  freely, 


228  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

with  a  certain  poignancy,  being  no  fool.  He  told  two  or 
three  stories  verging  on  the  improper,  a  concession  to  the 
company,  for  his  stories  were  not  used  to  verging.  He  pro- 
posed Irene's  health  in  a  mock  speech.  Nobody  drank  it, 
and  Winifred  said  :   '  Don't  be  such  a  clown,  Monty  !' 

At  her  suggestion  they  went  after  dinner  to  the  public 
terrace  overlooking  the  river. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  the  common  people  making  love,'  she 
said,  *  it's  such  fun  !' 

There  were  numbers  of  them  walking  in  the  cool,  after 
the  day's  heat,  and  the  air  was  alive  with  the  sound  of  voices, 
coarse  and  loud,  or  soft  as  though  murmuring  secrets. 

It  was  not  long  before  Winifred's  better  sense — she  was 
the  only  Forsyte  present — secured  them  an  empty  bench. 
They  sat  down  in  a  row.  A  heavy  tree  spread  a  thick 
canopy  above  their  heads,  and  the  haze  darkened  slowly  over 
the  river. 

Dartie  sat  at  the  end,  next  to  him  Irene,  then  Bosinney, 
then  Winifred.  There  was  hardly  room  for  four,  and  the 
man  of  the  world  could  feel  Irene's  arm  crushed  against  his 
own  ;  he  knew  that  she  could  not  withdraw  it  without 
seeming  rude,  and  this  amused  him  ;  he  devised  every  now 
and  again  a  movement  that  would  bring  her  closer  still.  He 
thought :  '  That  Buccaneer  Johnny  shan't  have  it  all  to 
himself !     It's  a  pretty  tight  fit,  certainly  !' 

From  far  down  below  on  the  dark  river  came  drifting  the 
tinkle  of  a  mandoline,  and  voices  singing  the  old  round  : 

*A  boat,  a  boat,  unto  the  ferry, 
For  we'll  go  over  and  be  merry, 
And  laugh,  and  quaft,  and  drink  brown  sherry!* 

And  suddenly  the  moon  appeared,  young  and  tender, 
floating  up  on  her  back  from  behind  a  tree  ;  and  as  though 
she  had  breathed,  the  air  was  cooler,  but  down  that  cooler 
air  came  always  the  warm  odour  of  the  limes. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  229 

Over  his  cigar  Dartie  peered  round  at  Bosinney,  who  was 
sitting  with  his  arms  crossed,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him, 
and  on  his  face  the  look  of  a  man  being  tortured. 

And  Dartie  shot  a  glance  at  the  face  between,  so  veiled  by 
the  overhanging  shadow  that  it  was  but  like  a  darker  piece 
of  the  darkness  shaped  and  breathed  on  ;  soft,  mysterious, 
enticing. 

A  hush  had  fallen  on  the  noisy  terrace,  as  if  all  the  strollers 
were  thinking  secrets  too  precious  to  be  spoken 

And  Dartie  thought  :  *  Women  !' 

The  glow  died  above  the  river,  the  singing  ceased  ;  the 
young  moon  hid  behind  a  tree,  and  all  was  dark.  He  pressed 
himself  against  Irene. 

He  was  not  alarmed  at  the  shuddering  that  ran  through 
the  limbs  he  touched,  or  at  the  troubled,  scornful  look  of  her 
eyes.      He  felt  her  trying  to  draw  herself  away,  and  smiled. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  man  of  the  world  had  drunk 
quite  as  much  as  was  good  for  him. 

With  thick  lips  parted  under  his  well-curled  moustaches, 
and  his  bold  eyes  aslant  upon  her,  he  had  the  malicious  look 
of  a  satyr. 

Along  the  pathway  of  sky  between  the  hedges  of  the  tree 
tops  the  stars  clustered  forth  ;  like  mortals  beneath,  they 
seemed  to  shift  and  swarm  and  whisper.  Then  on  the 
terrace  the  buzz  broke  out  once  more,  and  Dartie  thought  : 
*Ah  !  he's  a  poor,  hungr^Mooking  devil,  that  Bosinney  !' 
and  again  he  pressed  himself  against  Irene. 

The  movement  deserved  a  better  success.  She  rose,  and 
they  all  followed  her. 

The  man  of  the  world  was  more  than  ever  determined  to 
see  what  she  was  made  of.  Along  the  terrace  he  kept  close 
at  her  elbow.  He  had  within  him  much  good  wine.  There 
was  the  long  drive  home,  the  long  drive  and  the  warm  dark 
and  the  pleasant  closeness  of  the  hansom  cab — with  its  insula- 


230  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tion  from  the  world  devised  by  some  great  and  good  man. 
That  hungry  architect  chap  might  drive  with  his  wife — he 
wished  him  joy  of  her  !  And  conscious  that  his  voice  was 
not  too  steady,  he  was  careful  not  to  speak ;  but  a  smile  had 
become  fixed  on  hrs  thick  lips. 

They -strolled  along  toward  the  cabs  awaiting  them  at  the 
farther  end.  His  plan  had  the  merit  of  all  great  plans,  an 
almost  brutal  simplicity — he  would  merely  keep  at  her  elbow 
till  she  got  in,  and  get  in  quickly  after  her. 

But  when  Irene  reached  the  cab  she  did  not  get  in ;  she 
slipped,  instead,  to  the  horse's  head.  Dartie  was  not  at  the 
moment  sufficiently  master  of  his  legs  to  follow.  She  stood 
stroking  the  horse's  nose,  and,  to  his  annoyance,  Bosinney 
was  at  her  side  first.  She  turned  and  spoke  to  him  rapidly, 
in  a  low  voice ;  the  words  '  That  man  '  reached  Dartie.  He 
stood  stubbornly  by  the  cab  step,  waiting  for  her  to  come 
back.     He  knew  a  trick  worth  two  of  that ! 

Here,  in  the  lamp-light,  his  figure  (no  more  than  medium 
height),  well  squared  in  its  white  evening  waistcoat,  his  light 
overcoat  flung  over  his  arm,  a  pink  flower  in  his  button-hole, 
and  on  his  dark  face  that  look  of  confident,  good-humoured 
insolence,  he  was  at  his  best — a  thorough  man  of  the  world. 

Winifred  was  already  in  her  cab.  Dartie  reflected  that 
Bosinney  would  have  a  poorish  time  in  that  cab  if  he  didn't 
look  sharp  1  Suddenly  he  received  a  push  which  nearly 
overturned  him  in  the  road.  Bosinney's  voice  hissed  in  his 
ear :  *  I  am  taking  Irene  back ;  do  you  understand  ?'  He 
saw  a  face  white  with  passion,  and  eyes  that  glared  at  him 
like  a  wild  cat's. 

'  Eh  ?'  he  stammered.  *  What  ?  Not  a  bit  1  You  take 
my  wife!' 

*  Get  away  !'  hissed  Bosinney — *  or  I'll  throw  you  into  the 
road  !' 

Dartie   recoiled ;  he  saw   as   plainly  as   possible  that  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  231 

fellow  meant  it.  In  the  space  he  made  Irene  had  slipped  by, 
her  dress  brushed  his  legs.     Bosinney  stepped  in  after  her. 

^  Go  on  !'  he  heard  the  Buccaneer  cry.  The  cabman 
flicked  his  horse.     It  sprang  forward. 

Dartie  stood  for  a  moment  dumbfounded ;  then,  dashing 
at  the  cab  where  his  wife  sat,  he  scrambled  in. 

*  Drive  on  !'  he  shouted  to  the  driver,  'and  don't  you  lose 
sight  of  that  fellow  in  front !' 

Seated  by  his  wife's  side,  he  burst  into  imprecations. 
Calming  himself  at  last  with  a  supreme  effort,  he  added :  '  A 
pretty  mess  you've  made  of  it,  to  let  the  Buccaneer  drive 
home  with  her;  why  on  earth  couldn't  you  keep  hold  of 
him?     He's  mad  with  love;  any  fool  can  see  that!' 

He  drowned  Winifred's  rejoinder  with  fresh  calls  to  the 
AlmJghty ;  nor  was  it  until  they  reached  Barnes  that  he 
ceased  a  Jeremiad,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  abused 
her,  her  father,  her  brother,  Irene,  Bosinney,  the  name  of 
Forsyte,  his  own  children,  and  cursed  the  day  when  he  had 
ever  married. 

Winifred,  a  woman  of  strong  character,  let  him  have  his 
say,  at  the  end  of  which  he  lapsed  into  sulky  silence.  His 
angry  eyes  never  deserted  the  back  of  that  cab,  which,  like  a 
lost  chance,  haunted  the  darkness  in  front  of  him. 

Fortunately  he  could  not  hear  Bosinney's  passionate  plead- 
ing— that  pleading  which  the  man  of  the  world's  conduct 
had  let  loose  like  a  flood ;  he  could  not  see  Irene  shivering, 
as  though  some  garment  had  been  torn  from  her,  nor  her 
eyes,  black  and  mournful,  like  the  eyes  of  a  beaten  child. 
He  could  not  hear  Bosinney  entreating,  entreating,  always 
entreating;  could  not  hear  her  sudden,  soft  weeping,  nor  see 
that  poor,  hungry-looking  devil,  awed  and  trembling,  humbly 
touching  her  hand. 

In  Montpellier  Square  their  cabman,  following  his  instruc- 
tions to  the  letter,  faithfully  drew  up  behind  the  cab  in  front. 


232  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

The  Darties  saw  Bosinney  spring  out,  and  Irene  follow,  and 
hasten  up  the  steps  with  bent  head.  She  evidently  had  her 
key  in  her  hand,  for  she  disappeared  at  once.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  tell  whether  she  had  turned  to  speak  to  Bosinney. 

The  latter  came  walking  past  their  cab;  both  husband 
and  wife  had  an  admirable  view  of  his  face  in  the  light  of  a 
street  lamp.     It  was  working  with  violent  emotion. 

*  Good-night,  Mr.  Bosinney!*  called  Winifred. 
Bosinney  started,  clawed  off  his  hat,  and  hurried  on.     He 

had  obviously  forgotten  their  existence. 

'  There  !'  said  Dartie,  '  did  you  see  the  beast's  face  ?  What 
did  I  say  ?     Fine  games  !'      He  improved  the  occasion. 

There  had  so  clearly  been  a  crisis  in  the  cab  that  Winifred 
was  unable  to  defend  her  theory. 

She  said :  '  I  shall  say  nothing  about  it.  I  don't  see  any 
use  in  making  a  fuss !' 

With  that  view  Dartie  at  once  concurred ;  looking  upon 
James  as  a  private  preserve,  he  disapproved  of  his  being 
disturbed  by  the  troubles  of  others. 

*  Quite  right,'  he  said ;  '  let  Soames  look  after  himself. 
He's  jolly  well  able  to  !' 

Thus  speaking,  the  Darties  entered  their  habitat  in  Green 
Street,  the  rent  of  which  was  paid  by  James,  and  sought  a 
well-earned  rest.  The  hour  was  midnight,  and  no  Forsytes 
remained  abroad  in  the  streets  to  spy  out  Bosinney's  wander- 
ings ;  to  see  him  return  and  stand  against  the  rails  of  the 
Square  garden,  back  from  the  glow  of  the  street  lamp  ;  to  see 
him  stand  there  in  the  shadow  of  trees,  watching  the  house 
where  in  the  dark  was  hidden  she  whom  he  would  have  given 
the  world  to  see  for  a  single  minute — she  who  was  now  to 
him  the  breath  of  the  lime-trees,  the  meaning  of  the  light  and 
the  darkness,  the  very  beating  of  his  own  heart. 


CHAPTER  X 

DIAGNOSIS    OF    A    FORSYTE 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  a  Forsyte  to  be  ignorant  that  he  is 
a  Forsyte  ;  but  young  Jolyon  was  well  aware  of  being  one. 
He  had  not  known  it  till  after  the  decisive  step  which  had 
made  him  an  outcast ;  since  then  the  knowledge  had  been 
with  him  continually.  He  felt  it  throughout  his  alliance, 
throughout  all  his  dealings,  with  his  second  wife,  who 
was  emphatically  not  a  Forsyte. 

He  knew  that  if  he  had  not  possessed  in  great  measure  the 
eye  for  what  he  wanted,  the  tenacity  to  hold  on  to  it,  the  sense 
of  the  folly  of  wasting  that  for  which  he  had  given  so  big  a 
price — in  other  words,  the  'sense  of  property' — he  could 
never  have  retained  her  (perhaps  never  would  have  desired  to 
retain  her)  with  him  through  all  the  financial  troubles, 
slights,  and  misconstructions  of  those  fifteen  years;  never 
have  induced  her  to  marry  him  on  the  death  of  his  first  wife ; 
never  have  lived  it  all  through,  and  come  up,  as  it  were, 
thin,  but  smiling. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  who,  seated  cross-legged  like 
miniature  Chinese  idols  in  the  cages  of  their  own  hearts,  are 
ever  smiling  at  themselves  a  doubting  smile.  Not  that  this 
smile,  so  intimate  and  eternal,  interfered  with  his  actions, 
which,  like  his  chin  and  his  temperament,  were  quite  a 
peculiar  blend  of  softness  and  determination, 

233 


234  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  was  conscious,  too,  of  being  a  Forsyte  in  his  work, 
that  painting  of  water-colours  to  which  he  devoted  so  much 
energy,  always  with  an  eye  on  himself,  as  though  he  could 
not  take  so  unpractical  a  pursuit  quite  seriously,  and  always 
with  a  certain  queer  uneasiness  that  he  did  not  make  more 
money  at  it. 

It  was,  then,  this  consciousness  of  what  it  meant  to  be  a 
Forsyte,  that  made  him  receive  the  following  letter  from  old 
Jolyon,  with  a  mixture  of  sympathy  and  disgust  : 

•Sheldrake  House, 

'  Broadstairs, 

'  July  1 . 

*  My  Dear  Jo,' 

(The  Dad's  handwriting  had  altered  very  little  in  the 
thirty  odd  years  that  he  remembered  it.) 

^  We  have  been  here  now  a  fortnight,  and  have  had 
good  weather  on  the  whole.  The  air  is  bracing,  but  my 
liver  is  out  of  order,  and  I  shall  be  glad  enough  to  get  back 
to  town.  I  cannot  say  much  for  June,  her  health  and  spirits 
are  very  indifferent,  and  I  don't  see  what  is  to  come  of  it. 
She  says  nothing,  but  it  is  clear  that  she  is  harping  on  this 
engagement,  which  is  an  engagement  and  no  engagement, 
and — goodness  knows  what.  I  have  grave  doubts  whether 
she  ought  to  be  allowed  to  return  to  London  in  the  present 
state  of  affairs,  but  she  is  so  self-willed  that  she  might  take 
it  into  her  head  to  come  up  at  any  moment.  The  fact  is 
someone  ought  to  speak  to  Bosinney  and  ascertain  what  he 
means.  I'm  afraid  of  this  myself,  for  I  should  certainly  rap 
him  over  the  knuckles,  but  I  thought  that  you,  knowing  him 
at  the  Club,-  might  put  in  a  word,  and  get  to  ascertain  what 
the  fellow  is  about.  You  will  of  course  in  no  way  commit 
June.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days  whether  you  have  succeeded  in  gaining  any  information. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  235 

The  situation  is  very  distressing  to  me,  I  worry  about  it  at 
night.     With  my  love  to  Jolly  and  Holly. 
'  I  am, 

'  Your  affect,  father, 

*  JoLYON  Forsyte.' 

Young  Jolyon  pondered  this  letter  so  long  and  seriously 
that  his  wife  noticed  his  preoccupation,  and  asked  him  what 
was  the  matter.     He  replied  :   ^  Nothing.' 

It  was  a  fixed  principle  with  him  never  to  allude  to  June. 
She  might  take  alarm,  he  did  not  know  what  she  might 
think  ;  he  hastened,  therefore,  to  banish  from  his  manner  all 
traces  of  absorption,  but  in  this  he  was  about  as  successful  as 
his  father  would  have  been,  for  he  had  inherited  all  old 
Jolyon's  transparency  in  matters  of  domestic  finesse ;  and 
young  Mrs.  Jolyon,  busying  herself  over  the  affairs  of  the 
house,  went  about  with  tightened  lips,  stealing  at  him  un- 
fathomable looks. 

He  started  for  the  Club  in  the  afternoon  with  the  letter  in 
his  pocket,  and  without  having  made  up  his  mind. 

To  sound  a  man  as  to  *  his  intentions '  was  peculiarly 
unpleasant  to  him  ;  nor  did  his  own  anomalous  position 
diminish  this  unpleasantness.  It  was  so  like  his  family,  so  like 
all  the  people  they  knew  and  mixed  with,  to  enforce  what 
they  called  their  rights  over  a  man,  to  bring  him  up  to  the 
mark;  so  like  them  to  carry  their  business  principles  into 
their  private  relations ! 

And  how  that  phrase  in  the  letter — '  You  will,  of  course, 
in  no  way  commit  June  ' — gave  the  whole  thing  away. 

Yet  the  letter,  with  the  personal  grievance,  the  concern 
for  June,  the  '  rap  over  the  knuckles,'  was  all  so  natural.  No 
W(  nder  his  father  wanted  to  know  what  Bosinney  meant,  no 
wonder  he  was  angry. 

It  was  difficult  to  refuse  !     But  why  give  the  thing  to  him 


236  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  do  ?  That  was  surely  quite  unbecoming  ;  but  so  long  as 
a  Forsyte  got  what  he  was  after,  he  was  not  too  particular 
about  the  means,  provided  appearances  were  saved. 

How  should  he  set  about  it,  or  how  refuse  ?  Both 
seemed  impossible.     So,  young  Jolyon  ! 

He  arrived  at  the  Club  at  three  o'clock,  and  the  first 
person  he  saw  was  Bosinney  himself,  seated  in  a  corner, 
staring  out  of  the  window. 

Young  Jolyon  sat  down  not  far  off,  and  began  nervously 
to  reconsider  his  position.  He  looked  covertly  at  Bosinney 
sitting  there  unconscious.  He  did  not  know  him  very  well, 
and  studied  him  attentively  for  perhaps  the  first  time;  an 
unusual-looking  man,  unlike  in  dress,  face,  and  manner  to 
most  of  the  other  members  of  the  Club — young  Jolyon  him- 
self, however  different  he  had  become  in  mood  and  temper, 
had  always  retained  the  neat  reticence  of  Forsyte  appearance. 
He  alone  among  Forsytes  was  ignorant  of  Bosinney's  nick- 
name. The  man  was  unusual,  not  eccentric,  but  unusual ; 
he  looked  worn,  too,  haggard,  hollow  in  the  cheeks  beneath 
those  broad,  high  cheekbones,  though  without  any  appear- 
ance of  ill-health,  for  he  was  strongly  built,  with  curly 
hair  that  seemed  to  show  all  the  vitality  of  a  fine  constitu- 
tion. 

Something  in  his  face  and  attitude  touched  young  Jolyon. 
He  knew  what  suffering  was  like,  and  this  man  looked  as  if 
he  were  suffering. 

He  got  up  and  touched  his  arm. 

Bosinney  started,  but  exhibited  no  sign  of  embarrassment 
on  seeing  who  it  was. 

Young  Jolyon  sat  down. 

*  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time,'  he  said.  '  How  are 
you  getting  on  with  my  cousin's  house  ?' 

'  It'll  be  finished  in  about  a  v/eek.' 

*  I  congratulate  you  !' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  237 

*  Thanks — I  don't  know  that  it's  much  of  a  subject  for 
congratulation.' 

*  No  r'  queried  young  Jolyon ;  '  I  should  have  thought 
you'd  be  glad  to  get  a  long  job  like  that  off  your  hands ;  but 
I  suppose  you  feel  it  much  as  I  do  when  I  part  with  a 
picture — a  sort  of  child  ?' 

He  looked  kindly  at  Bosinney. 

'  Yes,'  said  the  latter  more  cordially,  *  it  goes  out  from 
you  and  there's  an  end  of  it.     I  didn't  know  you  painted.' 
'  Only  water-colours  ;  I  can't  say  I  believe  in  m.y  work.' 

*  Don't  believe  in  it  ?  Then  how  can  you  do  it  ?  Work's 
no  use  unless  you  believe  in  it !' 

*  Good,'  said  young  Jolyon  ;  '  it's  exactly  what  I've  always 
said.  By-the-bye,  have  you  noticed  that  whenever  one  says 
*'  Good,"  one  always  adds  "  it's  exactly  what  I've  always 
said"!  But  if  you  ask  me  how  I  do  it,  I  answer,  because 
I'm  a  Forsyte.' 

'  A  Forsyte  !     I  never  thought  of  you  as  one  !' 

*  A  Forsyte,'  replied  young  Jolyon,  ^  is  not  an  uncommon 
animal.  There  are  hundreds  among  the  members  of  this 
Club.  Hundreds  out  there  in  the  streets ;  you  meet  them 
wherever  you  go !' 

'  And  how  do  you  tell  them,  may  I  ask  ?'  said  Bosinney. 

'  By  their  sense  of  property.  A  Forsyte  takes  a  practical — 
one  might  say  a  commonsense — view  of  things,  and  a  practical 
view  of  things  is  based  fundamentally  on  a  sense  of  property, 
A  Forsyte,  you  will  notice,  never  gives  himself  away.' 

'  Joking  r' 

Young  Jolyon's  eye  twinkled. 

*  Not  much.  As  a  Forsyte  myself,  I  have  no  business  to 
talk.  But  I'm  a  kind  of  thoroughbred  mongrel  ;  now, 
there's  no  mistaking  you.  You're  as  different  from  me  as  I 
am  from  my  Uncle  James,  who  is  the  perfect  specimen  of  a 
Forsyte.     His  sense  of  property  is  extreme,  while  you  have 


238  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

practically  none.  Without  me  in  between,  you  would  seem 
like  a  different  species.  Fm  the  missing  link.  We  are,  of 
course,  all  of  us  the  slaves  of  property,  and  I  admit  that  it's  a 
question  of  degree,  but  what  I  call  a  "  Forsyte  "  is  a  man 
who  is  decidedly  more  than  less  a  slave  of  property.  He 
knows  a  good  thing,  he  knows  a  safe  thing,  and  his  grip  on 
property — it  doesn't  matter  whether  it  be  wives,  houses, 
money,  or  reputation — is  his  hall-mark.' 

'  Ah  !'  murmured  Bosinney.    *  You  should  patent  the  word.' 

*  I  should  like,'  said  young  Jolyon,  *  to  lecture  on  it : 
"  Properties  and  quality  of  a  Forsyte.  This  little  animal, 
disturbed  by  the  ridicule  of  his  own  sort,  is  unaffected  in  his 
motions  by  the  laughter  of  strange  creatures  (you  or  I). 
Hereditarily  disposed  to  myopia,  he  recognises  only  the 
persons  and  habitats  of  his  own  species,  amongst  which  he 
passes  an  existence  of  competitive  tranquillity.'" 

'  You  talk  of  them,'  said  Bosinney,  *  as  if  they  were  half 
England.' 

*They  are,'  repeated  young  Jolyon,  *half  England,  and 
the  better  half,  too,  the  safe  half,  the  three  per  cent,  half,  the 
half  that  counts.  It's  their  wealth  and  security  that  makes 
everything  possible  ;  makes  your  art  possible,  makes  literature, 
science,  even  religion,  possible.  Without  Forsytes,  who 
believe  in  none  of  these  things,  but  turn  them  all  to  use, 
where  should  we  be  ?  My  dear  sir,  the  Forsytes  are  the 
middlemen,  the  commercials,  the  pillars  of  society,  the 
corner-stones  of  convention ;  everything  that  is  admirable  1' 

'  I  don't  know  whether  I  catch  your  drift,'  said  Bosinney, 
*  but  I  fancy  there  are  plenty  of  Forsytes,  as  you  call  them, 
in  my  profession.' 

*  Certainly,'  replied  young  Jolyon.  *  The  great  majority 
of  architects,  painters,  or  writers  have  no  principles,  like  any 
other  Forsytes.  Art,  literature,  religion,  survive  by  virtue  of 
the  few  cranks  who  really  believe  in  such  things,  and  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  239 

many  Forsytes  who  make  a  commercial  use  of  them.  At  a 
low  estimate,  three-fourths  of  our  Royal  Academicians  are 
Forsytes,  seven-eighths  of  our  novelists,  a  large  proportion  of 
the  press.  Of  science  I  can't  speak ;  they  are  magnificently 
represented  in  religion ;  in  the  House  of  Commons  perhaps 
more  numerous  than  anywhere;  the  aristocracy  speaks  for 
itself.  But  I'm  not  laughing.  It  is  dangerous  to  go  against 
the  majority — and  what  a  majority  !'  He  fixed  his  eyes  on 
Bosinney  :  '  It's  dangerous  to  let  anything  carry  you  away — 
a  house,  a  picture,  a — woman  !' 

They  looked  at  each  other.  And,  as  though  he  had  done 
that  which  no  Forsyte  did — given  himself  away,  young 
Jolyon  drew  into  his  shell.     Bosinney  broke  the  silence. 

^  Why  do  you  take  your  own  people  as  the  type  ?'  said  he. 

*  My  people,'  replied  young  Jolyon,  *are  not  very  extreme, 
and  they  have  their  own  private  peculiarities,  like  every  other 
family,  but  they  possess  in  a  remarkable  degree  those  two 
qualities  which  are  the  real  tests  of  a  Forsyte — the  power  of 
never  being  able  to  give  yourself  up  to  anything  soul  and 
body,  and  the  "  sense  of  property."  ' 

Bosinney  smiled  :  *  How  about  the  big  one,  for  instance  ?' 

*  Do  you  mean  Swithin  ?'  asked  young  Jolyon.  *  Ah  !  in 
Swithin  there's  something  primeval  still.  The  town  and 
middle-class  life  haven't  digested  him  yet.  All  the  old 
centuries  of  farmwork  and  brute  force  have  settled  in  him,  and 
there  they've  stuck,  for  all  he's  so  distinguished.' 

Bosinney  seemed  to  ponder.  '  Well,  you've  hit  your 
cousin  Soames  off  to  the  life,'  he  said  suddenly.  *  He  II 
never  blow  his  brains  out.' 

Young  Jolyon  shot  at  him  a  penetrating  glance. 

*  No,'  he  said  ;  '  he  won't.  That's  why  he's  to  be  reckoned 
with.  Look  out  for  their  grip  !  It's  easy  to  laugh,  but  don't 
mistake  me.  It  doesn't  do  to  despise  a  Forsyte  ;  it  doesn't 
do  to  disregard  them  !' 


240  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  Yet  you've  done  it  yourself  !' 

Young  Jolyon  acknowledged  the  hit  by  losing  his  smile. 

*  You  forget,'  he  said  with  a  queer  pride,  *  I  can  hold  on, 
too — I'm  a  Forsyte  myself.  We're  all  in  the  path  of  great 
forces.  The  man  who  leaves  the  shelter  of  the  wall — well 
— you  know  what  I  mean.  I  don't,'  he  ended  very  low,  as 
though  uttering  a  threat,  '  recommend  every  man  to — go — 
my — way.     It  depends.' 

The  colour  rushed  into  Bosinney's  face,  but  soon  receded, 
leaving  it  sallow-brown  as  before.  He  gave  a  short  laugh, 
that  left  his  lips  fixed  in  a  queer,  fierce  smile  ;  his  eyes 
mocked  young  Jolyon. 

'  Thanks,'  he  said.  *  It's  deuced  kind  of  you.  But 
you're  not  the  only  chaps  that  can  hold  on.'     He  rose. 

Young  Jolyon  looked  after  him  as  he  walked  away,  and, 
resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  sighed. 

In  the  drowsy,  almost  empty  room  the  only  sounds  were 
the  rustle  of  newspapers,  the  scraping  of  matches  being 
struck.  He  stayed  a  long  time  without  moving,  living  over 
again  those  days  when  he,  too,  had  sat  long  hours  watching 
the  clock,  waiting  for  the  minutes  to  pass — long  hours  full  of 
the  torments  of  uncertainty,  and  of  a  fierce,  sweet  aching ; 
and  the  slow,  delicious  agony  of  that  season  came  back  to 
him  with  its  old  poignancy.  The  sight  of  Bosinney,  with 
his  haggard  face,  and  his  restless  eyes  always  wandering  to 
the  clock,  had  roused  in  him  a  pity,  with  which  was  mingled 
strange,  irresistible  envy. 

He  knew  the  signs  so  well.  Whither  was  he  going — to 
what  sort  of  fate  ?  What  kind  of  woman  was  it  who  was 
drawing  him  to  her  by  that  magnetic  force  which  no  con- 
sideration of  honour,  no  principle,  no  interest  could  with- 
stand ;   from  which  the  only  escape  was  flight. 

Flight  !  But  why  should  Bosinney  fly  ?  A  man  fled 
when  he  was  in  danger  of  destroying  hearth  and  home,  when 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  241 

there  were  children,  when  he  felt  himself  trampling  down 
ideals,  breaking  something.  But  here,  so  he  had  heard,  it 
was  all  broken  to  his  hand. 

He  himself  had  not  fled,  nor  would  he  fly  if  it  were  all  to 
come  over  again.  Yet  he  had  gone  further  than  Bosinney, 
had  broken  up  his  own  unhappy  home,  not  someone  else's. 
And  the  old  saying  came  back  to  him  :  '  A  man's  fate  lies 
in  his  own  heart.' 

In  his  own  heart  !  The  proof  of  the  pudding  was  in  the 
eating — Bosinney  had  still  to  eat  his  pudding. 

His  thoughts  passed  to  the  woman,  the  woman  whom  he 
did  not  know,  but  the  outline  of  whose  story  he  had  heard. 

An  unhappy  marriage  !  No  ill-treatment — only  that  inde- 
finable malaise,  that  terrible  blight  which  killed  all  sweetnes* 
under  Heaven  ;  and  so  from  day  to  day,  from  night  to  night, 
from  week  to  week,  from  year  to  year,  till  death  should 
end  it  ! 

But  young  Jolyon,  the  bitterness  of  whose  own  feelings 
time  had  assuaged,  saw  Soames's  side  of  the  question  too. 
Whence  should  a  man  like  his  cousin,  saturated  with  all  the 
prejudices  and  beliefs  of  his  class,  draw  the  insight  or  inspira- 
tion necessary  to  break  up  this  life  ?  It  was  a  question  of 
imagination,  of  projecting  himself  into  the  future  beyond 
the  unpleasant  gossip,  sneers,  and  tattle  that  followed  on 
such  separations,  beyond  the  passing  pangs  that  the  lack  of 
the  sight  of  her  would  cause,  beyond  the  grave  disapproval  of 
the  worthy.  But  few  men,  and  especially  few  men  of 
Soames's  class,  had  imagination  enough  for  that.  A  deal 
of  mortals  in  this  world,  and  not  enough  imagination  to  2,0 
round  !  And  sweet  Heaven,  what  a  difference  between 
theory  and  practice  ;  many  a  man,  perhaps  even  Soames, 
held  chivalrous  views  on  such  m.atters,  who  when  the  shoe 
pinched  found  a  distinguishing  factor  that  made  or  himself 
an  exception. 

9 


242  TxHE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Then,  too,  he  distrusted  his  iudgment.  He  had  been 
through  the  experience  himself,  had  tasted  to  the  dregs  the 
bitterness  of  an  unhappy  marriage,  and  how  could  he  take 
the  wide  and  dispassionate  view  of  those  who  had  never 
been  within  sound  of  the  battle  ?  His  evidence  was  too 
first-hand — like  the  evidence  on  military  matters  of  a  soldier 
who  has  been  through  much  active  service,  against  that  of 
civilians  who  have  not  sufxered  the  disadvantage  of  seeing 
things  too  close.  Most  people  would  consider  such  a 
marriage  as  that  of  Soames  and  Irene  quite  fairly  successful  ; 
he  had  money,  she  had  beauty  ;  it  v/as  a  case  for  compro- 
mise. There  was  no  reason  why  they  should  not  jog 
along,  even  if  they  hated  each  other.  It  would  not  matter  if 
they  went  their  own  ways  a  little  so  long  as  the  decencies  were 
observed — the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie,  of  the  common 
hom.e,  respected.  Half  the  m.arriages  of  the  upper  classes 
were  conducted  on  these  lines  :  Do  not  offend  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  Society  ;  do  not  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  the 
Church.  To  avoid  offending  these  is  worth  the  sacrifice 
of  any  private  feelings.  The  advantages  of  the  stable  home 
are  visible,  tangible,  so  many  pieces  of  property  ;  there  is  no 
risk  in  the  statu  quo.  To  break  up  a  home  is  at  the  best 
a  dangerous  experiment,  and  seliish  into  the  bargain. 

This  v/as  the  case  for  the  defence,  and  young  Jolyon 
sighed. 

*  The  core  of  it  all,'  he  thought,  *  is  property,  but  there 
are  many  people  who  would  not  like  it  put  that  v/ay.  To 
them  it  is  "  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie " ;  but  the 
sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie  is  dependent  on  the  sanctity  of 
the  family^  and  the  sanctity  of  the  family  is  dependent  on  the 
sanctity  of  property.  And  yet  I  imagine  all  these  people  are 
followers  of  One  who  never  owned  anything.     It  is  curious  !' 

And  again  young  Jolyon  sighed. 

'Ami   I  going  on   my  way  home   to  ask   any  poor  devils 


THE  Pv4AN  OF  PROPERTY 


■4i 


I  meet  to  share  my  dinner,  which  will  then  be  too  little  for 
myself,  or,  at  all  events,  for  m.y  v/ife,  who  is  necessary  to 
tny  health  and  happiness  ?  It  may  be  that  after  all  Soamics 
does  well  to  exercise  his  rights  and  support  by  his  practice 
the  sacred  principle  of  property  v/hich  benefits  us  all,  v/ith 
the  exception  of  those  who — suffer  by  the  process.' 

And  so  he  left  his  chair,  threaded  his  way  through  the 
maze  of  seats,  took  his  hat,  and  languidly  up  the  hot  streets 
crowded  with  carriages,  reeking  with  dusty  odours,  wended 
his  way  home. 

Before  reaching  Wistaria  Avenue  he  removed  old  Jolyon's 
letter  from  his  pocket,  and  tearing  it  carefully  into  tiny 
pieces,  scattered  them  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

He  let  himxSelf  in  with  his  key,  and  called  his  wife's 
name.  But  slie  had  gone  out,  taking  Jolly  and  Holly,  and 
the  house  was  empty  ;  alone  in  the  garden  the  dog  Balthasar 
lay  in  the  shade  snapping  at  flies. 

Young  Jolyon  took  his  seat  there,  too,  under  the  pear- 
tree  that  bore  no  fruit. 


CHAPTER  Xi 

BOSINNEY    ON    PAROLE 

The  day  after  the  evening  at  Richmond  Soames  returned 
from  Henley  by  a  morning  train.  Not  constitutionally 
interested  in  amphibious  sports,  his  visit  had  been  one  of 
business  rather  than  pleasure,  a  client  of  some  importance 
having  asked  him  down. 

He  went  straight  to  the  City,  but  finding  things  slack,  he 
left  at  three  o'clock,  glad  of  this  chance  to  get  home  quietly. 
Irene  did  not  expect  him.  Not  that  he  had  any  desire  to 
to  spy  on  her  actions,  but  there  was  no  harm  in  thus  un- 
expectedly surveying  the  scene. 

After  changing  to  Park  clothes  he  went  into  the  drawing- 
room.  She  was  sitting  idly  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  her 
favourite  seat ;  and  there  were  circles  under  her  eyes,  as 
though  she  had  not  slept. 

He  asked  :  '  How  is  it  you're  in  ?  Are  you  expecting 
somebody  ?' 

<  Yes — that  is,  not  particularly.' 

'  Who  ?' 

'  Mr.  Bosinney  said  he  might  come.' 

'  Bosinney.     He  ought  to  be  at  work.' 

To  this  she  made  no  answer. 

'  Well,'  said  Soames,  '  I  want  you  to  come  out  to  the 
Stores  with  me,  and  after  that  we'll  go  to  the  Park,' 

'  I  don't  want  to  go  out ;  I  have  a  headache.' 

244. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  245 

Soames  replied:  'If  ever  I  want  you  to  do  anything, 
you've  always  got  a  headache.  It'll  do  you  good  to  come 
and  sit  under  the  trees.' 

She  did  not  answer. 

Soames  was  silent  for  some  minutes;  at  last  he  said:  'I 
don't  know  what  your  idea  of  a  wife's  duty  is.  I  never 
have  known  !' 

He  had  not  expected  her  to  reply,  but  she  did. 

*  I  have  tried  to  do  what  you  want ;  it's  not  my  fault  that 
I  haven't  been  able  to  put  my  heart  into  it.' 

'  Whose  fault  is  it,  then  r'     He  watched  her  askance. 
'  Before  we  were  married  you  promised   to    let  me  go  if 
our  marriage  was  not  a  success.     Is  it  a  success  r' 
Soames  frowned. 

*  Success,'  he  stammered — *  it  would  be  a  success  if  you 
behaved  yourself  properly!' 

'  I  have  tried,'  said  Irene.     *  Will  you  let  me  go  ?' 

Soames  turned  away.  Secretly  alarmed,  he  took  refuge  in 
bluster. 

*■  Let  you  go  ?  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about.  Let  you  go?  How  can  I  let  you  go?  We're 
married,  aren't  we  ?  Then,  what  are  you  talking  about  ? 
For  God's  sake,  don't  let's  have  any  of  this  sort  of  nonsense  ! 
Get  your  hat  on,  and  come  and  sit  in  the  Park.' 

'  Then,  you  won't  let  me  go  r' 

He  felt  her  eyes  resting  on  him  with  a  strange,  touching 
look. 

*  Let  you  go!'  he  said;  'and  what  on  earth  would  you  do 
with  yourself  if  I  did  ?     You've  got  no  money  !' 

'  I  could  manage  somehow.' 

He  took  a  swift  turn  up  and  down  the  room ;  then  came 
and  stood  before  her. 

'  Understand,'  he  said,  '  once  and  for  all,  I  won't  have  you 
say  this  sort  of  thing.     Go  and  get  your  hat  on  !' 


246  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

She  did  not  move. 

^  I  suppose,'  said  Soames,  ^  you  don't  want  to  miss  Bosinney 
if  he  comes  !' 

Irene  got  up  slowly  and  left  the  room.  She  came  down 
with  her  hat  on. 

They  went  out. 

In  the  Park,  the  motley  hour  of  miid-afternoon,  when 
foreigners  and  other  pathetic  folli  drive,  thinking  themselves 
to  be  in  fashion,  had  passed ;  the  right,  the  proper,  hour  had 
come,  was  nearly  gone,  before  Soames  and  Irene  seated 
themselves  under  the  Achilles  statue. 

It  was  some  time  since  he  had  enjoyed  her  company  in  the 
Park.  That  was  one  of  the  past  delights  of  the  first  tv^o 
seasons  of  his  married  life,  when  to  feel  him.self  the  possessor 
of  this  gracious  creature  before  all  London  had  been  his 
greatest,  though  secret,  pride.  How  many  afternoons  had 
he  not  sat  beside  her,  extremely  neat,  with  light  gray  gloves 
and  faint,  supercilious  smile,  nodding  to  acquaintances,  and 
now  and  again  removing  his  hat ! 

His  light  gray  gloves  were  still  on  his  hands,  and  on  his  lips 
his  smile  sardonic,  but  where  the  feeling  in  his  heart  ? 

The  seats  were  emptying  fast,  but  still  he  kept  her  there, 
silent  and  pale,  as  though  to  work  out  a  secret  punishment. 
Once  or  twice  he  made  some  comment,  and  she  bent  her 
head,  or  answered  '  Yes '  with  a  tired  smile. 

Along  the  rails  a  man  was  walking  so  fast  that  people 
stared  after  him  when  he  passed. 

'Look  at  that  ass!'  said  Soames;  *  he  must  be  mad  to 
walk  like  that  in  this  heat !' 

He  turned  ;  Irene  had  made  a  rapid  miovement. 

'  Hallo !'  he  said  :   *  it's  our  friend  the  Buccaneer  !' 

And  he  sat  still,  with  his  sneering  smile,  conscious  that 
Irene  was  sitting  still,  and  smiling  too. 

*  Will  she  bow  to  him  ?'  he  thought. 


THE  :\IAN  OF  PROPERTY 


247 


Bosinney  reached  the  end  of  the  rails,  and  came  v/alking 
back  amongst  the  chairs,  quartering  his  ground  like  a  pointer. 
When  he  saw  them  he  stopped  dead,  and  raised  his  hat. 

The  smile  never  left  Soames's  face  ;  he  also  took  ofi  his  hat. 

Bosinney  came  up,  looking  exhausted,  like  a  man  after 
hard  physical  exercise;  the  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  his 
brov/,  and  Soames'  smile  seemed  to  say :  '  You've  had  a 
trying  tim^e,  m^y  friend!'.  .  .  *  What  are  you  doing  in  the 
Park?'  he  asked.     '  ¥/e  thought  you  despised  such  frivolity  !' 

Bosinney  did  not  seem  to  hear  ;  he  made  his  answer  to 
Irene :  '  I've  been  round  to  your  place  ;  I  hoped  I  should 
find  you  in.' 

3cmeix>dy  tapped  Soames  on  the  back,  and  spoke  to  him  : 
and  in  the  exchange  of  those  platitudes  over  his  shoulder,  he 
missed  her  answer,  and  took  a  resolution. 

'  We're  just  going  in,'  he  said  to  Bosinney ;  '  you'd  better 
come  back  to  dinner  with  us.'  Into  that  invitation  he  put  a 
strange  bravado,  a  stranger  pathos :  '  You  can't  deceive  me,' 
his  look  and  voice  seemed  saying,  '  but  see — I  trust  you — I'm 
not  afraid  of  you  !' 

They  started  back  to  Montpellier  Square  together,  Irene 
betv/een  them.  In  the  crowded  streets  Soames  went  on  in 
front.  He  did  not  listen  to  their  conversation ;  the  strange 
resolution  of  trustfulness  he  had  taken  seemed  to  animate 
even  his  secret  conduct.  Like  a  gambler,  he  said  to  himself: 
'  It's  a  card  I  dare  not  throw  away — I  must  play  it  for  what 
It's  worth.     I  have  not  too  many  chances.' 

He  dressed  slowly,  heard  her  leave  her  room  and  go  down- 
stairs, and,  for  full  five  minutes  after,  dawdled  about  in  his 
dressing-room..  Then  be  went  down,  purposely  shutting 
the  door  loudly  to  show  that  he  was  com.ing.  He  found 
them  standing  by  the  hearth,  perhaps  talking,  perhaps  not  j 
he  could  not  say. 


248  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  played  his  part  out  in  the  farce,  the  long  evening 
through — his  manner  to  his  guest  more  friendly  than  it  had 
ever  been  before  ;  and  when  at  last  Bosinney  went,  he  said  : 
*  You  must  come  again  soon  ;  Irene  likes  to  have  you  to  talk 
about  the  house  !'  Again  his  voice  had  the  strange  bravado 
and  the  stranger  pathos  ;  but  his  hand  was  as  cold  as  ice. 

Loyal  to  his  resolution,  he  turned  away  from  their  part- 
ing, turned  away  from  his  wife  as  she  stood  under  the 
hanging  lamp  to  say  good-night — away  from  the  sight  of 
her  golden  head  shining  so  under  the  light,  of  her  smiling 
mournful  lips ;  away  from  the  sight  of  Bosinney's  eyes 
looking  at  her,  so  like  a  dog's  looking  at  its  master. 

And  he  went  to  bed  with  the  certainty  that  Bosinney  was 
in  love  with  his  wife. 

The  summer  night  was  hot,  so  hot  and  still  that  through 
ever}^  opened  window  came  in  but  hotter  air.  For  long 
hours  he  lay  listening  to  her  breathing. 

She  could  sleep,  but  he  must  lie  awake.  And,  lying 
awake,  he  hardened  himself  to  play  the  part  of  the  serene 
and  trusting  husband. 

In  the  small  hours  he  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  passing  intc 
his  dressing-room,  leaned  by  the  open  window. 

He  could  hardly  breathe. 

A  night  four  years  ago  came  back  to  him — the  night  but 
one  before  his  marriage  ;  as  hot  and  stifling  as  this. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  lain  in  a  long  cane  chair  in 
the  window  of  his  sitting-room  off  Victoria  Street.  Down 
below  in  a  side  street  a  man  had  banged  at  a  door,  a  woman 
had  cried  out  ;  he  remembered,  as  though  it  were  now,  the 
sound  of  the  scuffle,  the  slam  of  the  door,  the  dead  silence  that 
followed.  And  then  the  early  water-cart,  cleansing  the  reek 
of  the  streets,  had  approached  through  the  strange-seeming, 
useless  lamp-light ;  he  seemed  to  hear  again  its  rumble, 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  it  passed  and  slowly  died  away. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  249 

He  leaned  far  out  of  the  dressing-room  window,  over  the 
little  court  below,  and  saw  the  first  light  spread.  The  cut- 
lines  of  dark  walls  and  roofs  were  blurred  for  a  moment,  then 
came  out  sharper  than  before. 

He  remembered  how  that  other  night  he  had  watched  the 
lamps  paling  all  the  length  of  Victoria  Street  ;  how  he  had 
hurried  on  his  clothes  and  gone  down  into  the  street,  down 
past  houses  and  squares,  to  the  street  where  she  was  staying, 
and  there  had  stood  and  looked  at  the  front  of  the  little  house, 
as  still  and  gray  as  the  face  of  a  dead  man. 

And  suddenly  it  shot  through  his  m.ind,  like  a  sick  man's 
fancy  :  What's  he  doing  : — that  fellow  who  haunts  me,  who 
was  here  this  evening,  who's  in  love  with  my  wife — prowl- 
ing out  there,  perhaps,  looking  for  her  as  I  know  he  was 
looking  for  her  this  afternoon  ;  watching  my  house  now,  for 
all  I  can  tell  ! 

He  stole  across  the  landing  to  the  front  of  the  house,  steal- 
thily drew  aside  a  blind,  and  raised  a  window. 

The  gray  light  clung  about  the  trees  of  the  square,  as 
though  Night,  like  a  great  downy  moth,  had  brushed  them 
with  her  wings.  The  lamps  were  still  alight,  all  pale,  but 
not  a  soul  stirred — no  living  thing  in  sight  ! 

Yet  suddenly,  very  faint,  far  off  in  the  deathly  stillness,  he 
heard  a  cry  writhing,  like  the  voice  of  some  wandering  soul 
barred  out  of  heaven,  and  crying  for  its  happiness.  There  it 
was  again — again  !     Soam^es  shut  the  window  shuddering. 

Then  he  thought :  *  Ah  !  it's  only  the  peacocks,  across  the 
water.' 


9' 


CHAPTER  XII 

JUNE    PAYS    SOME    CALLS 

Old  Jolyon  stood  in  the  narrow  hall  at  Broadstairs,  inhaling 
that  odour  of  oilcloth  and  herrings  which  permeates  all 
respectable  seaside  lodging-houses.  On  a  chair — a  shiny- 
leather  chair,  displaying  its  horsehair  through  a  hole  in  the 
top  left-hand  corner — stood  a  black  despatch  case.  This  he 
was  filling  with  papers,  with  the  Times,  and  a  bottle  of  Eau- 
de-Cologne.  He  had  meetings  that  day  of  the  *  Globular 
Gold  Concessions '  and  the  *  New  Colliery  Company, 
Limited,'  to  which  he  was  going  up,  for  he  never  missed  a 
Board  ;  to  *  miss  a  Board '  would  be  one  more  piece  of 
evidence  that  he  was  growing  old,  and  this  his  jealous 
Forsyte  spirit  could  not  bear. 

His  eyes,  as  he  filled  that  black  despatch  case,  looked  as  if 
at  any  moment  they  might  blaze  up  with  anger.  So  gleams 
the  eye  of  a  schoolboy,  baited  by  a  ring  of  his  companions  ; 
but  he  controls  himself,  deterred  by  the  fearful  odds  against 
him.  And  old  Jolyon  controlled  himself,  keeping  down, 
with  his  masterful  restraint  now  slowly  wearing  out,  the 
irritation  fostered  in  him  by  the  conditions  of  his  life. 

He  had  received  from  his  son  an  unpractical  letter,  in 
which  by  rambling  generalities  the  boy  seemed  trying  to  get 
out  of  answering  a  plain  question.  *  I've  seen  Bosinney,'  he 
said  ;  *  he  is  not  a  criminal.  The  more  I  see  of  people  the 
more  I  am  convinced  that  they  are  never   good    or    bad — 

250 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  251 

merely  comic,  or  pathetic.     You  probably  don't  agree  with 
me!' 

Old  Jolyon  did  not ;  he  considered  it  cynical  to  so  express 
oneself;  he  had  not  yet  reached  that  point  of  old  age  when 
even  Forsytes,  bereft  of  those  illusions  and  principles  which 
they  have  cherished  carefully  for  practical  purposes  but  never 
believed  in,  bereft  of  all  corporeal  enjoyment,  stricken  to  the 
very  heart  by  having  nothing  left  to  hope  for — break  through 
the  barriers  of  reserve  and  say  things  they  would  never  have 
believed  themselves  capable  of  saying. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  believe  in  *  Goodness  '  and  '  Badness ' 
any  more  than  his  son  ;  but  as  he  would  have  said  :  He 
didn't  know — couldn't  tell ;  there  might  be  something  in  it ; 
and  why,  by  an  unnecessary  expression  of  disbelief,  deprive 
yourself  of  possible  advantage  ? 

Accustomed  to  spend  his  holidays  among  the  mountains, 
though  (like  a  true  Forsyte)  he  had  never  attempted  any- 
thing too  adventurous  or  too  foolhardy,  he  had  been  pas- 
sionately fond  of  them.  And  when  the  wonderful  view 
(mentioned  in  Baedeker — *  fatiguing  but  repaying')  was 
disclosed  to  him  after  the  effort  of  the  climb,  he  had  doubt- 
less felt  the  existence  of  some  great,  dignified  principle 
crowning  the  chaotic  strivings,  the  petty  precipices,  and 
ironic  little  dark  chasms  of  life.  This  was  as  near  to 
religion,  perhaps,  as  his  practical  spirit  had  ever  gone. 

But  it  was  many  years  since  he  had  been  to  the  mountains. 
He  had  taken  June  there  two  seasons  running,  after  his  wife 
died,  and  had  realized  bitterly  that  his  walking  days  were 
over. 

To  that  old  mountain-given  confidence  in  a  supreme 
order  of  things  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

He  knew  himself  to  be  old,  yet  he  felt  young  ;  and  this 
troubled  him.  It  troubled  and  puzzled  him,  too,  to  think 
that  he,  who. had  always  been  so  careful,  should  be  father 


252  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  grandfather  to  such  as  seemed  born  to  disaster.  He  had 
nothing  to  say  against  Jo — who  could  say  anything  against 
the  boy,  an  amiable  chap  ? — but  his  position  was  deplorable, 
and  this  business  of  June's  nearly  as  bad.  It  seemed  like  a 
fatality,  and  a  fatality  was  one  of  those  things  no  man  of  his 
character  could  either  understand  or  put  up  with. 

In  writing  to  his  son  he  did  not  really  hope  that  anything 
would  come  of  it.  Since  the  ball  at  Roger's  he  had  seen  too 
clearly  how  the  land  lay — he  could  put  two  and  two 
together  quicker  than  most  men — and,  with  the  example  of 
his  own  son  before  his  eyes,  knew  better  than  any  Forsyte 
of  them  all  that  the  pale  flame  singes  men's  wings  whether 
they  will  or  no. 

In  the  days  before  June's  engagement,  when  she  and  Mrs. 
Soames  were  always  together,  he  had  seen  enough  of  Irene  to 
feel  the  spell  she  cast  over  men.  She  was  not  a  flirt,  not 
even  a  coquette — words  dear  to  the  heart  of  his  generation, 
which  loved  to  define  things  by  a  good,  broad,  inadequate 
word — but  she  was  dangerous.  He  could  not  say  why. 
Tell  him  of  a  quality  innate  in  some  women — a  seductive 
power  beyond  their  own  control  !  He  would  but  answer  : 
*  Humbug  !'  She  was  dangerous,  and  there  was  an  end  of 
it.  He  wanted  to  close  his  eyes  to  that  affair.  If  it  was,  it 
was  ;  he  did  not  want  to  hear  any  more  about  it — he  only 
wanted  to  save  June's  position  and  her  peace  of  mind.  He 
still  hoped  she  might  once  more  become  a  comfort  to 
himself. 

And  so  he  had  written.  He  got  little  enough  out  of  the 
answer.  As  to  what  young  Jolyon  had  made  of  the  inter- 
view, there  was  practically  only  the  queer  sentence :  '  I 
gather  that  he's  in  the  stream.'  The  stream  !  What 
stream  ?     What  was  this  new-fangled  way  of  talking  ? 

He  sighed,  and  folded  the  last  of  the  papers  under  the  flap 
of  the  bag  ;  he  knew  well  enough  what  was  meant. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  253 

June  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  helped  him  on 
with  his  summer  coat.  From  her  costume,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  little  resolute  face,  he  saw  at  once  what  was 
coming. 

'  Fm  going  with  you,'  she  said. 

^  Nonsense,  my  dear  ;  I  go  straight  into  the  City.  I  can't 
have  you  racketing  about  !' 

*  I  must  see  old  Mrs.  Smeech.' 

*  Oh,  your  precious  "  lame  ducks  " !'  grumbled  out  old 
Jolyon.  He  did  not  believe  her  excuse,  but  ceased  his 
opposition.  There  was  no  doing  anything  with  that  per- 
tinacity of  hers. 

At  Victoria  he  put  her  into  the  carriage  which  had  been 
ordered  for  himself — a  characteristic  action,  for  he  had  no 
petty  selfishnesses. 

'  Now,  don't  you  go  tiring  yourself,  my  darling,'  he  said, 
and  took  a  cab  on  into  the  City. 

June  went  first  to  a  back-street  in  Paddington,  where 
Mrs.  Smeech,  her  Mame  duck,'  lived — an  aged  person,  con- 
nected with  the  charring  interest ;  but  after  half  an  hour 
spent  in  hearing  her  habitually  lamentable  recital,  and 
dragooning  her  into  temporary  comfort,  she  went  on  to 
Stanhope  Gate.     The  great  house  was  closed  and  dark. 

She  had  decided  to  learn  something  at  all  costs.  It  was 
better  to  face  the  worst,  and  have  it  over.  And  this  was 
her  plan  :  To  go  first  to  Phil's  aunt,  Mrs.  Baynes,  and,  fail- 
ing information  there,  to  Irene  herself.  She  had  no  clear 
notion  of  what  she  would  gain  by  these  visits. 

At  three  o'clock  she  was  in  Lowndes  Square.  With  a 
woman's  instinct  when  trouble  is  to  be  faced,  she  had  put 
on  her  best  frock,  and  went  to  the  battle  with  a  glance  as 
courageous  as  old  Jolyon's  itself.  Her  tremors  had  passed 
into  eagerness. 

Mrs.  Baynes,  Bosinney's   aunt   (Louisa  was   her  name), 


254  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  in  her  kitchen  when  June  was  announced,  organizing 
the  cook,  for  she  was  an  excellent  housewife,  and,  as  Baynes 
always  said,  there  was  *  a  lot  in  a  good  dinner.'  He  did  his 
best  work  after  dinner.  It  was  Baynes  who  built  that 
remarkably  fine  row  of  tall  crimson  houses  in  Kensington 
which  compete  with  so  many  others  for  the  title  of  '  the 
ugliest  in  London.' 

On  hearing  June's  name,  she  went  hurriedly  to  her 
bedroom,  and,  taking  two  large  bracelets  from  a  red  morocco 
case  in  a  locked  drawer,  put  them  on  her  white  wrists — for 
she  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  that  *  sense  of  property,' 
which,  as  we  know,  is  the  touchstone  of  Forsyteism,  and  the 
foundation  of  good  morality. 

Her  figure,  of  medium  height  and  broad  build,  with  a 
tendency  to  embonpoint,  was  reflected  by  the  mirror  of  her 
white-wood  wardrobe,  in  a  gown  made  under  her  own 
organization,  of  one  of  those  half-tints,  reminiscent  of  the 
distempered  walls  of  corridors  in  large  hotels.  She  raised 
her  hands  to  her  hair,  which  she  wore  a  la  Princesse  de 
Galles,  and  touched  it  here  and  there,  settling  it  more  firmly 
on  her  head,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  an  unconscious 
realism,  as  though  she  were  looking  in  the  face  one  of  life's 
sordid  facts,  and  making  the  best  of  it.  In  youth  her  cheeks 
had  been  of  cream  and  roses,  but  they  were  mottled  now  by 
middle-age,  and  again  that  hard,  ugly  directness  came  into 
her  eyes  as  she  dabbed  a  powder-pufF  across  her  forehead. 
Putting  the  pufF  down,  she  stood  quite  still  before  the  glass, 
arranging  a  smile  over  her  high,  important,  nose,  her  chin, 
(never  large,  and  now  growing  smaller  with  the  increase  of 
her  neck),  her  thin-lipped,  down-drooping  mouth.  Quickly, 
not  to  lose  the  effect,  she  grasped  her  skirts  strongly  in  both 
hands,  and  went  downstairs. 

.  She  had  been   hoping  for   this  visit  for  some  time  past. 
Whispers   had  reached    her  that  things   were  not  all  right 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  255 

between  her  nephew  and  his  fiancee.  Neither  of  them  had 
been  near  her  for  weeks.  She  had  asked  Phil  to  dinner 
many  times ;  his  invariable  answer  had  been  *  Too  busy.' 

Her  instinct  was  alarmed,  and  the  instinct  in  such  matters 
of  this  excellent  woman  was  keen.  She  ought  to  have  been 
a  Forsyte ;  in  young  Jolyon's  sense  of  the  word,  she  certainly 
had  that  privilege,  and  merits  description  as  such. 

She  had  married  off  her  three  daughters  in  a  way  that 
people  said  was  beyond  their  deserts,  for  they  had  the  profes- 
sional plainness  only  to  be  found,  as  a  rule,  among  the  female 
kind  of  the  more  legal  callings.  Her  name  was  upon  the 
committees  of  numberless  charities  connected  with  the 
Church — dances,  theatricals,  or  bazaars — and  she  never  lent 
her  name  unless  sure  beforehand  that  everything  had  been 
thoroughly  organized. 

She  believed,  as  she  often  said,  in  putting  things  on  a 
commercial  basis;  the  proper  function  of  the  Church,  of 
charity,  indeed,  of  everything,  was  to  strengthen  the  fabric 
of  '  Society.'  Individual  action,  therefore,  she  considered 
immoral.  Organization  was  the  only  thing,  for  by  organiza- 
tion alone  could  you  feel  sure  that  you  were  getting  a  return 
for  your  money.  Organization — and  again,  organization  ! 
And  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  was  what  old  Jolyon  called 
her — ^a  "dab"  at  that ' — he  went  further,  he  called  her  'a 
humbug.' 

The  enterprises  to  which  she  lent  her  name  were  organized 
so  admirably  that  by  the  time  the  takings  were  handed  over, 
they  were  indeed  skim  milk  divested  of  all  cream  of  human 
kindness.  But  as  she  often  justly  remarked,  sentiment  was 
to  be  deprecated.     She  was,  in  fact,  a  little  academic. 

This  great  and  good  woman,  so  highly  thought  of  in 
ecclesiastical  circles,  was  one  of  the  principal  priestesses  in 
the  temple  of  Forsyteism,  keeping  alive  day  and  night  a 
sacred  flame  to  the  God  of  Property,  whose  altar  is  inscribed 


256  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

with    those    inspiring    words :   *  Nothing    for    nothing,    and 
really  remarkably  little  for  sixpence.' 

When  she  entered  a  room  it  was  felt  that  something  sub- 
stantial had  come  in,  which  was  probably  the  reason  of  her 
popularity  as  a  patroness.  People  liked  something  substantial 
when  they  had  paid  money  for  it ;  and  they  would  look  at 
her — surrounded  by  her  staff  in  charity  ball-rooms,  with  her 
high  nose  and  her  broad,  square  figure,  attired  in  an  uniform 
covered  with  sequins-  —as  though  she  were  a  general. 

The  only  thing  against  her  was  that  she  had  not  a  double 
name.  She  was  a  power  in  upper-middle  class  society,  with 
its  hundred  sets  and  circles,  all  intersecting  on  the  common 
battlefield  of  charity  functions,  and  on  that  battlefield  brush- 
ing skirts  so  pleasantly  with  the  skirts  of  Society  with  the 
capital  *  S.'  She  was  a  power  in  society  with  the  smaller  's,' 
that  larger,  more  significant,  and  more  powerful  body, 
where  the  commercially  Christian  institutions,  maxims,  and 
*  principle '  'which  Mrs.  Baynes  embodied,  were  real  life- 
blood,  circulating  freely,  real  business  currency,  not  merely 
the  sterilized  imitation  that  flowed  in  the  veins  of  smaller 
Society  with  the  larger  *  S.'  People  who  knew  her  felt  her 
to  be  sound — a  sound  woman,  who  never  gave  herself  away, 
nor  anything  else,  if  she  could  possibly  help  it. 

She  had  been  on  the  worst  sort  of  terms  with  Bosinney's 
father,  who  had  not  infrequently  made  her  the  object  of  an 
unpardonable  ridicule.  She  alluded  to  him  now  that  he  was 
gone  as  her  *  poor,  dear,  irreverend  brother.' 

She  greeted  June  with  the  careful  effusion  of  which  she 
was  a  mistress,  a  little  afraid  of  her  as  far  as  a  woman  of  her 
eminence  in  the  commercial  and  Christian  world  could  be 
afraid — for  so  slight  a  girl  June  had  a  great  dignity,  the 
fearlessness  of  her  eyes  gave  her  that.  And  Mrs.  Baynes, 
too,  shrewdly  recognised  that  behind  the  uncompromising 
frankness  of  June's  manner  there  was  much  of  the  Forsyte. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  257 

If  the  girl  had  been  merely  frank  and  courageous,  Mrs. 
Baynes  would  have  thought  her  '  cranky,'  and  despised  her  ; 
if  she  had  been  merely  a  Forsyte,  like  Francie — let  us  say — 
she  would  have  patronized  her  from  sheer  weight  of  metal ; 
but  June,  small  though  she  was — Mrs.  Baynes  habitually 
admired  quantity — gave  her  an  uneasy  feeling  ;  and  she 
placed  her  in  a  chair  opposite  the  light. 

There  was  another  reason  for  her  respect — which  Mrs. 
Baynes,  too  good  a  churchwoman  to  be  worldly,  would 
have  been  the  last  to  admit — she  often  heard  her  husband 
describe  old  Jolyon  as  extremely  well  off,  and  was  biassed 
towards  his  granddaughter  for  the  soundest  of  all  reasons. 
To-day  she  felt  the  emotion  with  which  we  read  a  novel 
describing  a  hero  and  an  inheritance,  nervously  anxious  lest, 
by  some  frightful  lapse  of  the  novelist,  the  young  man  should 
be  left  without  it  at  the  end. 

Her  manner  was  warm ;  she  had  never  seen  so  clearly 
before  how  distinguished  and  desirable  a  girl  this  was.  She 
asked  after  old  Jolyon's  health.  A  wonderful  man  for  his 
age ;  so  upright,  and  young  looking,  and  how  old  was  he  ? 
Eighty-one  !  She  would  never  have  thought  it  !  They 
were  at  the  sea  !  Very  nice  for  them ;  she  supposed  June 
heard  from  Phil  every  day  ?  Her  light  gray  eyes  became 
more  prominent  as  she  asked  this  question  ;  but  the  girl  met 
the  glance  without  flinching. 

*  No,'  she  said,  '  he  never  writes  !' 

Mrs.  Baynes's  eyes  dropped ;  they  had  no  intention  of 
doing  so,  but  they  did.     They  recovered  immediately. 

^  Of  course  not.  That's  Phil  all  over — he  was  always  like 
that !' 

^  Was  he  ?'  said  June. 

The  brevity  of  the  answer  caused  Mrs.  Baynes's  bright 
sm.ile  a  moment's  hesitation  ;  she  disguised  it  by  a  quick 
movement,  and  spreading  her  skirts  afresh,  said  :   '  Why,  my 


258  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

dear — he's  quite  the  most  harum-scarum  person;  one  never 
pays  the  slightest  attention  to  what  he  does !' 

The  conviction  came  suddenly  to  June  that  she  vi^as 
wasting  her  time  ;  even  were  she  to  put  a  question  point- 
blank,  she  would  never  get  anything  out  of  this  woman. 

'  Do  you  see  him  ?*  she  asked,  her  face  crimsoning. 

The  perspiration  broke  out  on  Mrs.  Baynes's  forehead 
beneath  the  powder. 

'  Oh,  yes  !  I  don't  remember  when  he  was  here  last — 
indeed,  we  haven't  seen  much  of  him  lately.  He's  so  busy 
with  your  cousin's  house  ;  I'm  told  it'll  be  finished  directly. 
We  must  organize  a  little  dinner  to  celebrate  the  event ;  do 
come  and  stay  the  night  with  us  !' 

*  Thank  you,'  said  June.  Again  she  thought  :  *  I'm  only 
wasting  my  time.     This  woman  will  tell  me  nothing.' 

She  got  up  to  go.  A  change  came  over  Mrs.  Baynes. 
She  rose  too  ;  her  lips  twitched,  she  fidgeted  her  hands. 
Something  was  evidently  very  wrong,  and  she  did  not  dare 
to  ask  this  girl,  who  stood  there,  a  slim,  straight  little  figure, 
with  her  decided  face,  her  set  jaw,  and  resentful  eyes.  She 
was  not  accustomed  to  be  afraid  of  asking  questions — all 
organization  was  based  on  the  asking  of  questions  ! 

But  the  issue  was  so  grave  that  her  nerve,  normally 
strong,  was  fairly  shaken  ;  only  that  morning  her  husband 
had  said  :  'Old  Mr.  Forsyte  must  be  worth  well  over  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds  !' 

And  this  girl  stood  there,  holding  out  her  hand — holding 
out  her  hand  1 

The  chance  might  be  slipping  away — she  couldn't  tell — 
the  chance  of  keeping  her  in  the  family,  and  yet  she  dared 
not  speak. 

Her  eyes  followed  June  to  the  door. 

It  closed. 

Then   with   an   exclamation   Mrs.    Baynes  ran   forward, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  259 

wobbling  her  bulky  frame  from  side  to  side,  and  opened  it 
again. 

Too  late  !  She  heard  the  front  door  click,  and  stood  still, 
an  expression  of  real  anger  and  mortification  on  her  face. 

June  went  along  the  Square  with  her  bird-like  quickness. 
She  detested  that  woman  now — whom  in  happier  days  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  think  so  kind.  Was  she  always  to 
be  put  off  thus,  and  forced  to  undergo  this  torturing  sus- 
pense ? 

She  would  go  to  Phil  himself,  and  ask  him  what  he  meant. 
She  had  the  right  to  know.  She  hurried  on  down  Sloane 
Street  till  she  came  to  Bosinney's  number.  Passing  the 
swing-door  at  the  bottom,  she  ran  up  the  stairs,  her  heart 
thumping  painfully. 

At  the  top  of  the  third  flight  she  paused  for  breath,  and 
holding  on  to  the  banisters,  stood  listening.  No  sound 
came  from  above. 

With  a  very  white  face  she  mounted  the  last  flight.  She 
saw  the  door,  with  his  name  on  the  plate.  And  the  resolu- 
tion that  had  brought  her  so  far  evaporated. 

The  full  meaning  of  her  conduct  came  to  her.  She  felt 
hot  all  over  ;  the  palms  of  her  hands  were  moist  beneath 
the  thin  silk  covering  of  her  gloves. 

She  drew  back  to  the  stairs,  but  did  not  descend.  Lean- 
ing against  the  rail  she  tried  to  get  rid  of  a  feeling  of  being 
choked  ;  and  she  gazed  at  the  door  with  a  sort  of  dreadful 
courage.  No  !  she  refused  to  go  down.  Did  it  matter  what 
people  thought  of  her  ?  They  would  never  know  !  No 
one  would  help  her  if  she  did  not  help  herself !  She  would 
go  through  with  it. 

Forcing  herself,  therefore,  to  leave  the  support  of  the  wall, 
she  rang  the  bell.  The  door  did  not  open,  and  all  her  shame 
and  fear  suddenly  abandoned  her  ;  she  rang  again  and  again, 
as  though  in  spite  of  its   emptiness   she    could  drag  some 


a6o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  quick  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  Mont- 
pellier  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,  ob- 
scuring 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  j  there 
was  something  unpretentious,  well-flavoured,  and  filling 
about  it,  and  though  he  had  been  to  a  certain  extent  cor- 
rupted 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 

261 


262  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  263 

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,  splutter- 


264  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

ing  out  his  words  very  quick ;  '  the  horses  want  exercise,  ana 
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  every- 
thing 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 — Mf  you'd 
only  be  more  of  a  wife  to  him.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  265 

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  r' 

Irene's  face  changed.  *  I  don't  know,'  she  said  ;  '  you 
should  ask  her^ 

*  Does  she  write  to  you  ?' 
^No.' 

*  How's  that  r'  said  James.  *  I  thought  you  and  she  were 
such  great  friends.' 

Irene  turned  on  him.  *-  Again,'  she  said,  ^  you  should  ask 
her  r 

'  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  gray, 
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    drooped 


266  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  un- 
bending, exchanged  stealthy  murmurs  on  the  box,  without 
ever  turning  their  heads. 

To  James's  great  relief  they  reached  the  house  at  last ; 
the  silence  and  impenetrability  of  this  woman  by  his  side, 
whom  he  had  alv/ays  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  betv/een  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  sky- 
light 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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  2,67 

peeping  in.  Everything  was  in  apple-pie  order,  ready  for 
immediate  occupation. 

He  turned  round  at  last  to  speak  to  Irene,  and  saw  her 
standing  over  in  the  garden  entrance,  with  her  husband  and 
Bosinney. 

Though  not  remarkable  for  sensibility,  James  felt  at  once 
that  something  v/as  v/rong.  He  went  up  to  them,  and, 
vaguely  alarmed,  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  trouble,  made 
an  attempt  to  smooth  things  over. 

'  How  are  you,  Mr.  Bosinney  ?'  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand.  '  You've  been  spending  money  pretty  freely  down 
here,  I  should  say  !' 

Soames  turned  his  back,  and  walked  away.  James  looked 
from  Bosinney's  frowning  face  to  Irene,  and,  in  his  agitation, 
spoke  his  thoughts  aloud  :  '  Well,  I  can't  tell  what's  the 
matter.  Nobody  tells  me  anything  1'  And,  making  off" 
after  his  son,  he  heard  Bosinney's  short  laugh,  and  his  '  Well, 

thank   God  !     You   look   so '     Most  unfortunately   he 

lost  the  rest. 

What  had  happened  r  He  glanced  back.  Irene  was  very 
close  to  the  architect,  and  her  face  not  like  the  face  he 
knew  of  her.     He  hastened  up  to  his  son. 

Soames  v/as  pacing  the  picture-gallery. 

^  What's  the  matter  ?'  said  James.     '  What's  all  this  ?' 

Soames  looked  at  him  with  his  supercilious  calm  unbroken, 
but  James  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  violently  angry. 

'  Our  friend,'  he  said, '  has  exceeded  his  instructions  again, 
that's  all.     So  much  the  worse  for  him  this  tim^e.' 

He  turned  round  and  walked  back  towards  the  door. 
James  followed  hurriedly,  edging  himself  in  front.  He  saw 
Irene  take  her  finger  from  before  her  lips,  heard  her  say 
somxCthing  in  her  ordinary  voice,  and  began  to  speak  before 
he  reached  them  : 

'  There's  a  storm   coming  on.      We'd   better  get  home. 


268  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

We  can't  take  you,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Bosinney  ?  No,  I  sup^ 
pose  not.  Then,  good-bye  !'  He  held  out  his  hand. 
Bosinney  did  not  take  it,  but,  turning  with  a  laugh,  said  : 

<  Good-bye,  Mr.  Forsyte.  Don't  get  caught  in  the 
storm  I'  and  walked  away. 

*  Well,'  began  James,  *  I  don't  know ' 

But  the  sight  of  Irene's  face  stopped  him.  Taking  hold 
of  his  daughter-in-law  by  the  elbow,  he  escorted  her  towards 
the  carriage.  He  felt  certain,  quite  certain,  they  had  been 
making  some  appointment  or  other.   .   .   . 

Nothing  in  this  world  is  more  sure  to  upset  a  Forsyte  than 
the  discovery  that  something  on  which  he  has  stipulated  to 
spend  a  certain  sum  has  cost  more.  And  this  is  reasonable, 
for  upon  the  accuracy  of  his  estimates  the  whole  policy  ot 
his  life  is  ordered.  If  he  cannot  rely  on  definite  values  of 
property,  his  compass  is  amiss  ;  he  is  adrift  upon  bitter  waters 
without  a  helm. 

After  writing  to  Bosinney  in  the  terms  that  have  already 
been  chronicled,  Soames  had  dismissed  the  cost  of  the  house 
from  his  mind.  He  believed  that  he  had  made  the  matter 
of  the  final  cost  so  very  plain  that  the  possibility  of  its  being 
again  exceeded  had  really  never  entered  his  head.  On  hear- 
ing from  Bosinney  that  his  limit  of  twelve  thousand  pounds 
would  be  exceeded  by  something  like  four  hundred,  he  had 
grown  white  with  anger.  His  original  estimate  of  the  cost 
of  the  house  completed  had  been  ten  thousand  pounds,  and 
he  had  often  blamed  himself  severely  for  allowing  himself  to 
be  led  into  repeated  excesses.  Over  this  last  expenditure, 
however,  Bosinney  had  put  himself  completely  in  the  wrong. 
How  on  earth  a  fellow  could  make  such  an  ass  of  himself 
Soames  could  not  conceive  ;  but  he  had  done  so,  and  all 
the  rancour  and  hidden  jealousy  that  had  been  burning 
against  him  for  so  long  was  now  focussed  in  rage  at  this 
crowning  piece  of  extravagance.      The  attitude  of  the  con- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  269 

fident  and  friendly  husband  was  gone.  To  preserve  property 
— his  wife — he  had  assumed  it,  to  preserve  property  of 
another  kind  he  lost  it  now. 

^  Ah  !'  he  had  said  to  Bosinney  when  he  could  speak,  ^  and 
I  suppose  you're  perfectly  contented  with  yourself.  But  I 
iTiay  as  well  tell  you  that  you've  altogether  mistaken  your 
man  1' 

What  he  meant  by  those  words  he  did  not  quite  know  at 
the  time,  but  after  dinner  he  looked  up  the  correspondence 
between  himself  and  Bosinney  to  make  quite  sure.  There 
could  be  no  two  opinions  about  it — the  fellow  had  made 
himself  liable  for  that  extra  four  hundred,  or,  at  all  events, 
for  three  hundred  and  fifty  of  it,  and  he  would  have  to  make 
it  good. 

He  was  looking  at  his  wife's  face  when  he  came  to  this 
conclusion.  Seated  in  her  usual  seat  on  the  sofa,  she  was 
altering  the  lace  on  a  collar.  She  had  not  once  spoken  to 
him  all  the  evening. 

He  went  up  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  contemplating  his 
face  in  the  mirror  said  :  '  Your  friejid  the  Buccaneer  has 
made  a  fool  of  himself;  he  will  have  to  pay  for  it  !' 

She  looked  at  him  scornfully,  and  answered  :  *  I  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about  !' 

*  You  soon  will.  A  mere  trifle,  quite  beneath  your  con- 
tempt— four  hundred  pounds.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  make  him  pay  that 
tovv^ards  this  hateful  house  ?' 
'  I  do.' 

*  And  you  know  he's  got  nothing  ?' 
'  Yes.' 

'  Then  you  are  meaner  than  I  thought  you.' 
Soames  turned  from  the  mirror,  and  unconsciously  taking 
a  china  cup  from  the  mantelpiece,  clasped  his  hands  around 
it,  as  though  praying.      He  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall,  her 


270  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

eyes  darkening  with  anger,  and  raking  no  notice  of  the 
taunt,  he  asked  quietly  : 

'  Are  you  carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  Bosinney  ?' 

'  No,  I  am  not !' 

rier  eyes  met  his,  and  he  looked  avvav.  He  neither 
belie\'ed  nor  disbelieved  her,  but  lie  knew  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake  in  asking ;  he  never  ha.i  known,  never  would 
know,  what  she  was  thinkina;.  The  sisrht  of  her  inscrutable 
face,  the  thought  of  all  the  hundreds  of  evenings  he  had  seen 
her  sitting  there  like  that  soft  and  passive,  but  so  unreadable, 
unknown,  enraged  him  beyond  measure. 

'I  believe  you  are  made  of  stone,'  he  said,  clenching  his 
fingers  so  hard  that  he  broke  the  fragile  cup.  The  pieces 
fell  into  the  grate.     And  Irene  smiled. 

*  You  seem  to  forget,'  she  said,  *  that  cup  is  not !' 

Soames  gripped  her  arm.  *  A  good  beating,'  he  said, 
*  is  the  only  thing  that  would  bring  you  to  your  senses,'  but 
turning  on  his  heel,  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTEP.  XIV 

SOAMES    SITS    ON    THE    STAIRS 

SoAMEs  went  upstairs  that  night  with  the  feehng  that  he  had 
gone  too  far.      He  was  prepared  to  offer  excuses  for  his  words. 

He  turned  out  the  gas  still  burning  in  the  passage  outside 
their  room.  Pausing,  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
door,  he  tried  to  shape  his  apology,  for  he  had  no  intention 
of  letting  her  see  that  he  was  nervous. 

But  the  door  did  not  open,  nor  when  he  pulled  it  and 
turned  the  handle  firmly.  She  must  have  locked  it  for  some 
reason,  and  forgotten. 

Entering  his  dressing-room,  where  the  gas  was  also  alight 
and  burning  low,  he  went  quickly  to  the  other  doer.  That 
too  was  locked.  Then  he  noticed  that  the  camp  bed  which 
he  occasionally  used  was  prepared,  and  his  sleeping-suit  laid 
out  upon  it.  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  forehead,  and 
brought  it  away  wet.  It  dawned  on  him  that  he  was  barred 
out. 

He  went  back  to  the  door,  and  rattling  the  handle 
stealthily,  called  :  *  Unlock  the  door  j  do  you  hear?  Unlock 
the  door !' 

There  was  a  faint  rustling,  but  no  answer. 

'  Do  you  hear  ?  Let  me  in  at  once — I  insist  on  being 
let  in  !' 

He  could  catch  the  sound  of  her  breathing  close  to  the 
door,  like  the  breathing  of  a  creature  threatened  by  danger. 


272  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

There  was  something  terrifying  in  this  inexorable  silence, 
in  the  impossibility  of  getting  at  her.  He  went  back  to  the 
other  door,  and  putting  his  whole  weight  against  it,  tried  to 
burst  it  open.  The  door  was  a  new  one — he  had  had  them 
renewed  himself,  in  readiness  for  their  coming  in  after  the 
honeymoon.  In  a  rage  he  lifted  his  foot  to  kick  in  the 
panel  ;  the  thought  of  the  servants  restrained  him,  and  he 
felt  suddenly  that  he  was  beaten. 

Flinging  himself  down  in  the  dressing-room,  he  took  up  a 
book. 

But  instead  of  the  print  he  seemed  to  see  his  wife — with 
her  yellow  hair  flowing  over  her  bare  shoulders,  and  her 
great  dark  eyes — standing  like  an  animal  at  bay.  And  the 
whole  meaning  of  her  act  of  revolt  came  to  him.  She 
meant  it  to  be  for  good. 

He  could  not  sit  still,  and  went  to  the  door  again.  He 
could  still  hear  her,  and  he  called  :    '  Irene  !  Irene  !' 

He  did  not  mean  to  make  his  voice  pathetic.  In  ominous 
answer,  the  faint  sounds  ceased.  He  stood  with  clenched 
hands,  thinking. 

Presently  he  stole  round  on  tiptoe,  and  running  suddenly 
at  the  other  door,  made  a  supreme  effort  to  break  it  open. 
It  creaked,  but  did  not  yield.  'He  sat  down  on  the  stairs  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there  in  the  dark,  the  moon  through 
the  skylight  above  laying  a  pale  smear  that  lengthened  slowly 
towards  him  down  the  stairway.  He  tried  to  be  philoso- 
phical. 

Since  she  had  locked  her  doors  she  had  no  further  claim 
as  a  wife,  and  he  would  console  himself  with  other 
women  ! 

It  was  but  a  spectral  journey  he  made  among  such  delights 
— he  had  no  appetite  for  these  exploits.  He  had  never  had 
much,  and  he  had  lost  the   habit.     He  felt  that  he   could 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  273 

never  recover  it.  His  hunger  could  only  be  appeased  by  his 
wife,  inexorable  and  frightened,  behind  these  shut  doors. 
No  other  woman  could  help  him. 

This  conviction  came  to  him  with  terrible  force  out  there 
in  the  dark. 

His  philosophy  left  him  ;  and  surly  anger  took  its  place. 
Her  conduct  was  immoral,  inexcusable,  worthy  of  any 
punishment  within  his  power.  He  desired  no  one  but  her, 
and  she  refused  him  ! 

She  must  really  hate  him,  then  !  He  had  never  believed 
it  yet.  He  did  not  believe  it  now.  It  seemed  to  him  in- 
credible. He  felt  as  though  he  had  lost  for  ever  his  power 
of  judgment.  If  she,  so  soft  and  yielding  as  he  had  always 
judged  her,  could  take  this  decided  step — what  could  not 
happen  ? 

Then  he  asked  himself  again  if  she  were  carrying  on  an 
intrigue  with  Bosinney.  He  did  not  believe  that  she  was  j 
he  could  not  afford  to  believe  such  a  reason  for  her  conduct 
— the  thought  was  not  to  be  faced. 

It  would  be  unbearable  to  contemplate  the  necessity  of 
making  his  marital  relations  public  property.  Short  of  the 
most  convincing  proofs  he  must  still  refuse  to  believe,  for  he 
did  not  wish  to  punish  himself.  And  all  the  time  at  heart 
— he  did  believe. 

The  moonlight  cast  a  grayish  tinge  over  his  figure,  hunched 
against  the  staircase  wall. 

Bosinney  was  in  love  with  her  !  He  hated  the  fellow, 
and  would  not  spare  him  now.  He  could  and  would  refuse 
to  pay  a  penny  piece  over  twelve  thousand  and  fifty  pounds 
— the  extreme  limit  fixed  in  the  correspondence  ;  or  rather  he 
would  pay,  he  would  pay  and  sue  him  for  damages.  He  would 
go  to  Jobling  and  Boulter  and  put  the  matter  in  their  hands. 

He  would  ruin  the  impecunious  beggar  !     And  suddenly 

though  what  connection  between  the  thoughts  ? — he  reflected 

10 


274  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

that  Irene  had  no  money  either.  They  were  both  beggars. 
This  gave  him  a  strange  satisfaction. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  faint  creaking  through  the 
wall.  She  was  going  to  bed  at  last.  Ah  !  Joy  and  pleasant 
dreams  !  If  she  threw  the  door  open  wide  he  would  not  go 
in  now  ! 

But  his  lips,  that  were  twisted  in  a  bitter  smile,  twitched ; 
he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  .  .  . 

It  was  late  the  following  afternoon  when  Soames  stood  in 
the  dining-room  window  gazing  gloomily  into  the  Square. 

The  sunlight  still  showered  on  the  plane-trees,  and  in  the 
breeze  their  gay  broad  leaves  shone  and  swung  in  rhyme  to  a 
barrel  organ  at  the  corner.  It  was  playing  a  waltz,  an  old 
waltz  that  was  out  of  fashion,  with  a  fateful  rhythm  in  the 
notes  ;  and  it  went  on  and  on,  though  nothing  indeed  but 
leaves  danced  to  the  tune. 

The  woman  did  not  look  too  gay,  for  she  was  tired  ;  and 
from  the  tall  houses  no  one  threw  her  down  coppers.  She 
moved  the  organ  on,  and  three  doors  off  began  again. 

It  was  the  waltz  they  had  played  at  Roger's  when  Irene 
had  danced  with  Bosinney  ;  and  the  perfume  of  the  garde- 
nias she  had  worn  came  back  to  Soames,  drifted  by  the 
malicious  music,  as  it  had  been  drifted  to  him  then,  when 
she  passed,  her  hair  glistening,  her  eyes  so  soft,  drawing 
Bosinney  on  and  on  down  an  endless  ballroom. 

The  organ  woman  plied  her  handle  slowly  ;  she  had 
been  grinding  her  tune  all  day — grinding  it  in  Sloane  Street 
hard  by,  grinding  it  perhaps  to  Bosinney  himself. 

Soames  turned,  took  a  cigarette  from  the  carven  box,  and 
walked  back  to  the  window.  The  tune  had  mesmerized  him, 
and  there  came  into  his  view  Irene,  her  sunshade  furled, 
hastening  homewards  down  the  Square,  in  a  soft,  rose- 
coloured  blouse  with  drooping  sleeves,  that  he  did  not  know. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  275 

She  stopped  before  the  organ,  took  out  her  purse,  and  gave 
the  woman  money. 

Soames  shrank  back  and  stood  where  he  could  see  into  the 
hall. 

She  came  in  with  her  latch-key,  put  down  her  sunshade, 
and  stood  looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed  as  if  the  sun  had  burned  them  ;  her  lips  were  parted 
in  a  smile.  She  stretched  her  arms  out  as  though  to  embrace 
herself,  with  a  laugh  that  for  all  the  world  was  like  a  sob. 

Soames  stepped  forward. 

^  Very — pretty  !'  he  said. 

But  as  though  shot  she  spun  round,  and  would  have  passed 
him  up  the  stairs.      He  barred  the  way. 

*  Why  such  a  hurry  r'  he  said,  and  his  eyes  fastened  on  a 
curl  of  hair  fallen  loose  across  her  ear. 

He  hardly  recognised  her.  She  seemed  on  fire,  so  deep 
and  rich  the  colour  of  her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  and  oi 
the  unusual  blouse  she  wore. 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  smoothed  back  the  curl.  She 
was  breathing  fast  and  deep,  as  though  she  had  been  running, 
and  with  every  breath  perfume  seemed  to  come  from  her 
hair,  and  from  her  body,  like  perfume  from  an  opening 
flower. 

'  I  don't  like  that  blouse,'  he  said  slowly,  *  it's  a  soft,  shape- 
less thing  !' 

He  lifted  his  finger  towards  her  breast,  but  she  dashed  his 
hand  aside. 

'  Don't  touch  me  !'  she  cried. 

He  caught  her  wrist ;  she  wrenched  it  away. 

*  And  where  may  you  have  been  ?'  he  asked. 

*  In  heaven — out  of  this  house  !'  With  those  words  she 
fled  upstairs. 

Outside — in  thanksgiving — at  the  very  door,  the  organ- 
grinder  was  playing  the  waltz. 


276  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

And  Soames  stood  motionless.  What  prevented  him  from 
following  her  ? 

Was  it  that,  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  he  saw  Bosinney  look- 
ing down  from  that  high  window  in  Sloane  Street,  straining 
his  eyes  for  yet  another  glimpse  of  Irene's  vanished  figure, 
cooling  his  flushed  face,  dreaming  of  the  moment  when  she 
flung  herself  on  his  breast — the  scent  of  her  still  in  the  air 
around,  and  the  sound  of  her  laugh  that  was  like  a  sob. 


PART   III 


i  /.v-i; 


CHAPTER  I 

MRS.    MACANDER's    EVIDENCE 

Many  people,  no  doubt,  including  the  editor  of  the  *  Ultra 
V^ivisectionist,'  then  in  the  bloom  of  its  first  youth,  would 
say  that  Soames  was  less  than  a  man  not  to  have  removed 
the  locks  from  his  wife's  doors,  and  after  beating  her  soundly 
resumed  wedded  happiness. 

Brutality  is  not  so  deplorably  diluted  by  humaneness  as 
it  used  to  be,  yet  a  sentimental  segment  of  the  population 
may  still  be  relieved  to  learn  that  he  did  none  of  these  things. 
For  active  brutality  is  not  popular  with  Forsytes  ;  they  are 
too  circumspect,  and,  on  the  whole,  too  soft-hearted.  And 
in  Soames  there  was  some  common  pride,  not  sufficient  to 
make  him  do  a  really  generous  action,  but  enough  to  prevent 
his  indulging  in  an  extremely  mean  one,  except,  perhaps,  in 
very  hot  blood.  Above  all  this  true  Forsyte  refused  to  feel 
himself  ridiculous.  Short  of  actually  beating  his  wife,  he 
perceived  nothing  to  be  done  ;  he  therefore  accepted  the 
situation  without  another  word. 

Throughout  the  summer  and  autumn  he  continued  to 
go  to  the  office,  to  sort  his  pictures,  and  ask  his  friends  to 
dinner. 

He  did  not  leave  town ;  Irene  refused  to  go  away.  The 
house  at  Robin  Hill,  finished  though  it  was,  remained  emptv 
and    ownerless.      Soames    had    brought   a    suit    against   the 

279 


28o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Buccaneer,  in  which  he  claimed  from  him  the  sum  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

A  firm  of  solicitors,  Messrs.  Freak  and  Able,  had  put  in 
a  defence  on  Bosinney's  behalf.  Admitting  the  facts,  they 
raised  a  point  on  the  correspondence  which,  divested  of 
legal  phraseology,  amounted  to  this:  To  speak  of  'a  free 
hand  in  the  terms  of  this  correspondence'  is  an  Irish 
bull. 

By  a  chance,  fortuitous  but  not  improbable  in  the  close 
borough  of  legal  circles,  a  good  deal  of  information  came 
to  Soames's  ear  anent  this  line  of  policy,  the  working  partner 
in  his  firm.  Bustard,  happening  to  sit  next  at  dinner  at 
Walmisley's,  the  Taxing  Master,  to  young  Chankery,  of 
the  Common  Law  Bar. 

The  necessity  for  talking  what  is  known  as  *  shop,'  which 
comes  on  all  lawyers  with  the  removal  of  the  ladies,  caused 
Chankery,  a  young  and  promising  advocate,  to  propound  an 
impersonal  conundrum  to  his  neighbour,  whose  name  he 
did  not  know,  for,  seated  as  he  permanently  was  in  the 
background.  Bustard  had  practically  no  name. 

He  had,  said  Chankery,  a  case  coming  on  with  a  'very 
nice  point.'  He  then  explained,  preserving  every  professional 
discretion,  the  riddle  in  Soames's  case.  Everyone,  he  said, 
to  whom   he  had  spoken,   thought  it  a   nice   point.      The 

issue  was  small  unfortunately,  '  though  d d  serious  for 

his  client  he  believed ' — Walmisley's  champagne  was  bad 
but  plentiful — A  judge  would  make  short  work  of  it,  he  was 
afraid.  He  intended  to  make  a  big  effort — the  point  was 
a  nice  one.     What  did  his  neighbour  say  ? 

Bustard,  a  model  of  secrecy,  said  nothing.  He  related 
the  incident  to  Soames,  however, with  some  malice,  for  this 
quiet  man  was  capable  of  human  feeling,  ending  with  his 
own  opinion  that  the  point  wm  *  a  very  nice  one.' 

In  accordance  with  his  resolve,  our  Forsyte  had  put  his 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  281 

interests  into  the  hands  of  Jobling  and  Boulter.  From  the 
moment  of  doing  so  he  regretted  that  he  had  not  acted  for 
himself.  On  receiving  a  copy  of  Bosinney's  defence  he 
went  over  to  their  offices. 

Boulter,  who  had  the  matter  in  hand,  Jobling  having  died 
some  years  before,  told  him  that  in  his  opinion  it  was  rather 
a  nice  point  ;  he  would  like  counsel's  opinion  on  it. 

Soames  told  him  to  go  to  a  good  man,  and  they  went  to 
Waterbuck,  Q.C-,  marking  him  ten  and  one,  who  kept  the 
papers  six  weeks  and  then  wrote  as  follows  : 

*In  my  opinion  the  true  interpretation  of  this  correspon- 
dence depends  very  much  on  the  intention  of  the  parties, 
and  will  turn  upon  the  evidence  given  at  the  trial.  I  am 
of  opinion  that  an  attempt  should  be  made  to  secure  from 
the  architect  an  admission  that  he  understood  he  was  not 
to  spend  at  the  outside  more  than  twelve  thousand  and  fifty 
pounds.  With  regard  to  the  expression,  "  a  free  hand  in  the 
terms  of  this  correspondence,"  to  which  my  attention  is 
directed,  the  point  is  a  nice  one  ;  but  I  am  of  opinion  that 
upon  the  whole  the  ruling  in  "  Boileau  v.  The  Blasted 
Cement  Co.,  Ltd.,"  will  apply.' 

Upon  this  opinion  they  acted,  administering  interroga- 
tories, but  to  their  annoyance  Messrs.  Freak  and  Able 
answered  these  in  so  masterly  a  fashion  that  nothing  whatever 
was  admitted  and  that  without  prejudice. 

It  was  on  October  i  that  Soames  read  Waterbuck's 
opinion,  in  the  dining-room  before  dinner.  It  made  him 
nervous  ;  not  so  much  because  of  the  case  of  *  Boileau  v.  The 
Blasted  Cement  Co.,  Ltd.,'  as  that  the  point  had  lately 
begun  to  seem  to  him,  too,  a  nice  one  ;  there  was  about  it 
just  that  pleasant  flavour  of  subtlety  so  attractive  to  the  best 
legal  appetites.  To  have  his  own  impression  confirmed  by 
Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  would  have  disturbed  any  man. 

He  sat  thinking  it  over,  and  staring  at  the  empty  grate, 

10* 


282  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

for  though  autumn  had  come,  the  weather  kept  as  gloriously 
fine  that  year  as  though  it  were  still  high  August.  It  was 
not  pleasant  to  be  disturbed  ;  he  desired  too  passionately  to 
set  his  foot  on  Bosinney's  neck. 

Though  he  had  not  seen  the  architect  since  the  last 
afternoon  at  Robin  Hill,  he  was  never  free  from  the  sense 
of  his  presence — never  free  from  the  memory  of  his  worn 
face  with  its  high  cheek  bones  and  enthusiastic  eyes.  It 
would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  had  never  got  rid  of 
the  feeling  of  that  night  when  he  heard  the  peacock's  cry 
at  dawn — the  feeling  that  Bosinney  haunted  the  house.  And 
every  man's  shape  that  he  saw  in  the  dark  evenings  walking 
past,  seemed  that  of  him  whom  George  had  so  appropriately 
named  the  Buccaneer. 

Irene  still  met  him,  he  was  certain  ;  where,  or  how,  he 
neither  knew,  nor  asked,  deterred  by  a  vague  and  secret 
dread  of  too  much  knowledge.  It  all  seemed  subterranean 
nowadays. 

Sometimes  when  he  questioned  his  wife  as  to  where  she 
had  been,  which  he  still  made  a  point  of  doing,  as  every 
For'syte  should,  she  looked  very  strange.  Her  self-possession 
was  wonderful,  but  there  were  moments  when,  behind  the 
mask  of  her  face,  inscrutable  as  it  had  always  been  to  him, 
lurked  an  expression  he  had  never  been  used  to  see  there. 

She  had  taken  to  lunching  out  too  ;  when  he  asked  Bilson 
if  her  mistress  had  been  in  to  lunch,  as  often  as  not  she 
would  answer  :  *  No,  sir.' 

He  strongly  disapproved  of  her  gadding  about  by  herself, 
and  told  her  so.  But  she  took  no  notice.  There  was  some- 
thing that  angered,  amazed,  yet  almost  amused,  him  about 
the  calm  way  in  which  she  disregarded  his  wishes.  It  was 
really  as  if  she  were  hugging  to  herself  the  thought  of  a 
triumph  over  him. 

He  rose  from  the  perusal  of  Waterbuck,  Q.C.'s  opinion, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  283 

and,  going  upstairs,  entered  her  room,  for  she  did  not  lock 
her  doors  till  bed-time — she  had  the  decency,  he  found,  to 
save  the  feelings  of  the  servants.  She  was  brushing  her 
hair,  and  turned  to  him  with  strange  fierceness. 

^  What  do  you  want  ?'  she  said.     *  Please  leave  my  room  !' 
He  answered :  *  I  want  to  know  how  long  this  state  of 
things  between  us  is  to  last  ?     I  have  put  up  with  it  long 
enough.' 

*  Will  you  please  leave  my  room  ?' 

*  Will  you  treat  me  as  your  husband  ?' 
*No.' 

*  Then,  I  shall  take  steps  to  make  you.' 
*DoP 

He  stared,  amazed  at  the  calmness  of  her  answer.  Her 
lips  were  compressed  in  a  thin  line ;  her  hair  lay  in  fluffy 
masses  on  her  bare  shoulders,  in  all  its  strange  golden  con- 
trast to  her  dark  eyes — those  eyes  alive  with  the  emotions  of 
fear,  hate,  contempt,  and  odd,  haunting  triumph. 

*  Now,  please,  will  you  leave  my  room  ?' 
He  turned  round,  and  went  sulkily  out. 

He  knew  very  well  that  he  had  no  intention  of  taking 
steps,  and  he  saw  that  she  knew  too — knew  that  he  was 
afraid  to. 

It  was  a  habit  with  him  to  tell  her  the  doings  of  his  day : 
how  such  and  such  clients  had  called  ;  how  he  had  arranged 
a  mortgage  for  Parkes ;  how  that  long-standing  suit  of 
Fryer  v.  Forsyte  was  getting  on,  which,  arising  in  the  pre- 
ternaturally  careful  disposition  of  his  property  by  his  great- 
uncle  Nicholas,  who  had  tied  it  up  so  that  no  one  could  get 
at  it  at  all,  seemed  likely  to  remain  a  source  of  income  for 
several  solicitors  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

And  how  he  had  called  in  at  Jobson's,  and  seen  a  Boucher 
sold,  which  he  had  just  missed  buying  of  Talleyrand  and 
Sons  in  Pall  Mall. 


284  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  had  an  admiration  for  Boucher,  Watteau,  and  all  that 
school.  It  was  a  habit  with  him  to  tell  her  all  these  matters, 
and  he  continued  to  do  it  even  now,  talking  for  long  spells 
at  dinner,  as  though  by  the  volubility  of  words  he  could 
conceal  from  himself  the  ache  in  his  heart. 

Often,  if  they  were  alone,  he  made  an  attempt  to  kiss 
her  when  she  said  good-night.  He  may  have  had  some 
vague  notion  that  some  night  she  would  let  him  ;  or  perhaps 
only  the  feeling  that  a  husband  ought  to  kiss  his  wife.  Even 
if  she  hated  him,  he  at  all  events  ought  not  to  put  himself 
in  the  wrong  by  neglecting  this  ancient  rite. 

And  why  did  she  hate  him?  Even  now  he  could  not 
altogether  believe  it.  It  was  strange  to  be  hated! — the 
emotion  was  too  extreme ;  yet  he  hated  Bosinney,  that 
Buccaneer,  that  prowling  vagabond,  that  night- wanderer. 
For  in  his  thoughts  Soames  always  saw  him  lying  in  wait — 
wandering.  Ah,  but  he  must  be  in  very  low  water!  Young 
Burkitt,  the  architect,  had  seen  him  coming  out  of  a  third- 
rate  restaurant,  looking  terribly  down  in  the  mouth ! 

During  all  the  hours  he  lay  awake,  thinking  over  the 
situation,  which  seemed  to  have  no  end — unless  she  should 
suddenly  come  to  her  senses — never  once  did  the  thought  of 
separating  from  his  wife  seriously  enter  his  head.  .  .  . 

And  the  Forsytes !  What  part  did  they  play  in  this  stage 
of  Soames's  subterranean  tragedy  ? 

Truth  to  say,  little  or  none,  for  they  were  at  the  sea. 

From  hotels,  hydropathics,  or  lodging-houses,  they  were 
bathing  daily  ;  laying  in  a  stock  of  ozone  to  last  them  through 
the  winter. 

Each  section,  in  the  vineyard  of  its  own  choosing,  grew 
and  culled  and  pressed  and  bottled  the  grapes  of  a  pet  sea-air. 

The  end  of  September  began  to  witness  their  several  returns. 

In  rude  health  and  small  omnibuses,  with  considerable 
colour  in  their  cheeks,  they  arrived  daily  from  the  various 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  285 

termini.  The  following  morning  saw  them  back  at  their 
vocations. 

On  the  next  Sunday  Timothy's  was  thronged  from  lunch 
till  dinner. 

Amongst  other  gossip,  too  numerous  and  interesting  to 
relate,  Mrs.  Septimus  Small  mentioned  that  Soames  and  Irene 
had  not  been  away. 

It  remained  for  a  comparative  outsider  to  supply  the  next 
evidence  of  interest. 

It  chanced  that  one  afternoon  late  in  September,  Mrs. 
MacAnder,  Winifred  Dartie's  greatest  friend,  taking  a  con- 
stitutional, with  young  Augustus  Flippard,  on  her  bicycle  in 
Richmond  Park,  passed  Irene  and  Bosinney  walking  from 
the  bracken  towards  the  Sheen  Gate. 

Perhaps  the  poor  little  woman  was  thirsty,  for  she  had 
ridden  long  on  a  hard,  dry  road,  and,  as  all  London  knows, 
to  ride  a  bicycle  and  talk  to  young  Flippard  will  try  the 
toughest  constitution ;  or  perhaps  the  sight  of  the  cool 
bracken  grove,  whence  *  those  two '  were  coming  down, 
excited  her  envy.  The  cool  bracken  grove  on  the  top  of 
the  hill,  with  the  oak  boughs  for  roof,  where  the  pigeons 
were  raising  an  endless  wedding  hymn,  and  the  autumn, 
humming,  whispered  to  the  ears  of  lovers  in  the  fern,  while 
the  deer  stole  by.  The  bracken  grove  of  irretrievable  de- 
lights, of  golden  minutes  in  the  long  marriage  of  heaven  and 
earth !  The  bracken  grove,  sacred  to  stags,  to  strange  tree- 
stump  fauns  leaping  around  the  silver  whiteness  of  a  birch-tree 
nymph  at  summer  dusk  ! 

This  lady  knew  all  the  Forsytes,  and  having  been  at 
June's  *  at  home,'  was  not  at  a  loss  to  see  with  whom  she 
had  to  deal.  Her  own  marriage,  poor  thing,  had  not  been 
successful,  but  having  had  the  good  sense  and  ability  to  force  her 
husband  into  pronounced  error,  she  herself  had  passed  through 
the  necessary  divorce  proceedings  without  incurring  censure. 


286  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

She  was  therefore  a  judge  of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
lived  in  one  of  those  large  buildings,  where  in  small  sets  of 
apartments,  are  gathered  incredible  quantities  of  Forsytes, 
whose  chief  recreation  out  of  business  hours  is  the  discussion 
of  each  others'  affairs. 

Poor  little  woman,  perhaps  she  was  thirsty,  certainly  she 
was  bored,  for  Flippard  was  a  wit.  To  see  '  those  two '  in 
so  unlikely  a  spot  was  quite  a  merciful  '  pick-me-up.' 

At  the  MacAnder,  like  all  London,  Time  pauses. 

This  small  but  remarkable  woman  merits  attention ; 
her  all-seeing  eye  and  shrewd  tongue  were  inscrutably  the 
means  of  furthering  the  ends  of  Providence. 

With  an  air  of  being  in  at  the  death,  she  had  an  almost 
distressing  power  of  taking  care  of  herself.  She  had  done 
more,  perhaps,  in  her  way  than  any  woman  about  town  to 
destroy  the  sense  of  chivalry  which  still  clogs  the  wheel  of 
civilization.  So  smart  she  was,  and  spoken  of  endearingly  as 
<  the  little  MacAnder  !' 

Dressing  tightly  and  well,  she  belonged  to  a  Woman's 
Club,  but  was  by  no  means  the  neurotic  and  dismal  type  of 
member  who  was  always  thinking  of  her  rights.  She  took 
her  rights  unconsciously,  they  came  natural  to  her,  and  she 
knew  exactly  how  to  make  the  most  of  them  without 
exciting  anything  but  admiration  amongst  that  great  class  to 
whom  she  was  affiliated,  not  precisely  perhaps  by  manner, 
but  by  birth,  breeding,  and  the  true,  the  secret  gauge,  a  sense 
of  property. 

The  daughter  of  a  Bedfordshire  solicitor,  by  the  daughter 
of  a  clergyman,  she  had  never,  through  all  the  painful 
experience  of  being  married  to  a  very  mild  painter  with  a 
cranky  love  of  Nature,  who  had  deserted  her  for  an  actress, 
lost  touch  with  the  requirements,  beliefs,  and  inner  feeling 
of  Society ;  and,  on  attaining  her  liberty,  she  placed  herself 
without  effort  in  the  very  thick  of  Forsyteism. 

Always  in  good  spirits,  and  *  full  of  information,'  she  was 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  287 

universally  welcomed.  She  excited  neither  surprise  nor  dis- 
approbation when  encountered  on  the  Rhine  or  at  Zermatt, 
either  alone,  or  travelling  with  a  lady  and  two  gentlemen ; 
it  was  felt  that  she  was  perfectly  capable  of  taking  care  of 
herself;  and  the  hearts  of  all  Forsytes  warmed  to  that 
wonderful  instinct,  which  enabled  her  to  enjoy  everj^thing 
without  giving  anything  away.  It  was  generally  felt  that 
to  such  women  as  Mrs.  MacAnder  should  we  look  for  the 
perpetuation  and  increase  of  our  best  type  of  woman.  She 
had  never  had  any  children. 

If  there  was  one  thing  more  than  another  that  she  could 
not  stand  it  was  one  of  those  soft  v/omen  with  what  men 
called  *  charm  '  about  them,  and  for  Mrs.  Soames  she  always 
had  an  especial  dislike. 

Obscurely,  no  doubt,  she  felt  that  if  charm  were  once 
admitted  as  the  criterion,  smartness  and  capability  must  go 
to  the  wall ;  and  she  hated — with  a  hatred  the  deeper  that  at 
times  this  so-called  charm  seemed  to  disturb  all  calculations — 
the  subtle  seductiveness  which  she  could  not  altogether  over- 
look in  Irene. 

She  said,  however,  that  she  could  see  nothing  in  the 
woman — there  was  no  *  go '  about  her — she  would  never  be 
able  to  stand  up  for  herself — anyone  could  take  advantage 
of  her,  that  was  plain — she  could  not  see  in  fact  what  men 
found  to  admire  ! 

She  was  not  really  ill-natured,  but,  in  maintaining  her 
position  after  the  trying  circumstances  of  her  married  life, 
she  had  found  it  so  necessary  to  be  *  full  of  information,*  that 
the  idea  of  holding  her  tongue  about  *  those  two '  in  the 
Park  never  occurred  to  her. 

And  it  so  happened  that  she  was  dining  that  very  evening 
at  Timothy's,  where  she  went  sometimes  to  *  cheer  the  old 
things  up,'  as  she  was  wont  to  put  it.  The  same  people 
were  always  asked  to  meet  her:  Winifred  Dartie  and  her 
husband  ;  Francie,  because  she  belonged  to  the  artistic  circles, 


288  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

for  Mrs.  MacAnder  was  known  to  contribute  articles  on 
dress  to  *The  Ladies' Kingdom  Come';  and  for  her  to  flirt 
with,  provided  they  could  be  obtained,  two  of  the  Hayman 
boys,  who,  though  they  never  said  anything,  were  believed 
to  be  fast  and  thoroughly  intimate  with  all  that  was  latest  in 
smart  Society. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  past  seven  she  turned  out  the 
electric  light  in  her  little  hall,  and  wrapped  in  her  opera 
cloak  with  the  chinchilla  collar,  came  out  into  the  corridor, 
pausing  a  moment  to  make  sure  she  had  her  latch-key. 
These  little  self-contained  flats  were  convenient ;  to  be  sure, 
she  had  no  light  and  no  air,  but  she  could  shut  it  up  when- 
ever she  liked  and  go  away.  There  was  no  bother  with 
servants,  and  she  never  felt  tied  as  she  used  to  when  poor, 
dear  Fred  was  always  about,  in  his  mooney  way.  She 
retained  no  rancour  against  poor  dear  Fred,  he  was  such  a 
fool ;  but  the  thought  of  that  actress  drew  from  her,  even 
now,  a  little,  bitter,  derisive  smile. 

Firmly  snapping  the  door  to,  she  crossed  the  corridor, 
with  its  gloomy,  yellow-ochre  walls,  and  its  infinite  vista  ot 
brown,  numbered  doors.  The  lift  was  going  down;  and 
wrapped  to  the  ears  in  the  high  cloak,  with  every  one  of  her 
auburn  hairs  in  its  place,  she  waited  motionless  for  it  to  stop 
at  her  floor.  The  iron  gates  clanked  open  ;  she  entered. 
There  were  already  three  occupants,  a  man  in  a  great  white 
waistcoat,  with  a  large,  smooth  face  like  a  baby's,  and  two 
old  ladies  in  black,  with  mittened  hands. 

Mrs.  MacAnder  smiled  at  them ;  she  knew  everybody ; 
and  all  these  three,  who  had  been  admirably  silent  before, 
began  to  talk  at  once.  This  was  Mrs.  MacAnder's  successful 
secret.     She  provoked  conversation. 

Throughout  a  descent  of  five  stories  the  conversation 
continued,  the  lift  boy  standing  with  his  back  turned,  his 
cynical  face  protruding  through  the  bars. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  289 

At  the  bottom  they  separated,  the  man  in  the  white 
waistcoat  sentimentally  to  the  billiard-room,  the  old  ladies  to 
dine  and  say  to  each  other  :  *  A  dear  little  woman  !*  '  Such 
a  rattle  !'  and  Mrs.  MacAnder  to  her  cab. 

When  Mrs.  MacAnder  dined  at  Timothy's,  the  conversa- 
tion (although  Timothy  himself  could  never  be  induced  to 
be  present)  took  that  wider,  man-of-the-world  tone  current 
among  Forsytes  at  large,  and  this,  no  doubt,  was  what  put 
her  at  a  premium  there. 

Mrs.  Small  and  Aunt  Hester  found  it  an  exhilarating  change. 
'  If  only,'  they  said,  '  Timothy  would  meet  her  !'  It  was 
felt  that  she  would  do  him  good.  She  could  tell  you,  for 
instance,  the  latest  story  of  Sir  Charles  Fiste's  son  at  Monte 
Carlo ;  who  was  the  real  heroine  of  Tynemouth  Eddy's 
fashionable  novel  that  everyone  was  holding  up  their  hands 
over,  and  what  they  were  doing  in  Paris  about  wearing 
bloomers.  She  was  so  sensible,  too,  knowing  all  about  that 
vexed  question,  whether  to  send  young  Nicholas's  eldest  into 
the  navy  as  his  mother  wished,  or  make  him  an  accountant 
as  his  father  thought  would  be  safer.  She  strongly  depre- 
cated the  navy.  If  you  were  not  exceptionally  brilliant  or 
exceptionally  well  connected,  they  passed  you  over  so  dis- 
gracefully, and  what  was  it  after  all  to  look  forward  to,  even 
if  you  became  an  admiral — a  pittance  !  An  accountant  had 
many  more  chances,  but  let  him  be  put  with  a  good  firm, 
where  there  was  no  risk  at  starting  ! 

Sometimes  she  would  give  them  a  tip  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  ;  not  that  Mrs.  Small  or  Aunt  Hester  ever  took  it. 
They  had  indeed  no  money  to  invest ;  but  it  seemed  to 
bring  them  into  such  exciting  touch  with  the  realities  of 
life.  It  was  an  event.  They  would  ask  Timothy,  they 
said.  But  they  never  did,  knowing  in  advance  that  it  would 
upset  him.  Surreptitiously,  however,  for  weeks  after  they 
^ould   look  in   that   paper,   which  they  took   with  respect 


290  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

on  account  of  its  really  fashionable  proclivities,  to  see 
whether  'Bright's  Rubies'  or  *The  Woollen  Mackin- 
tosh Company  '  were  up  or  down.  Sometimes  they  could 
not  find  the  name  of  the  company  at  all  ;  and  they  would 
wait  until  James  or  Roger  or  even  Swithin  came  in,  and 
ask  them  in  voices  trembling  with  curiosity  how  that  '  Bolivia 
Lime  and  Speltrate'  was  doing — they  could  not  find  it  in 
the  paper. 

And  Roger  would  answer  :  *  What  do  you  want  to  know 
for  ?  Some  trash  1  You'll  go  burning  your  fingers — in- 
vesting your  money  in  lime,  and  things  you  know  nothing 
about  !  Who  told  you  ?'  and  ascertaining  what  they  had 
been  told,  he  would  go  away,  and,  making  inquiries  in  the 
City,  would  perhaps  invest  some  of  his  own  money  in  the 
concern. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  dinner,  just  in  fact  as  the  saddle 
of  mutton  had  been  brought  in  by  Smither,  that  Mrs. 
MacAnder,  looking  airily  round,  said  :  '  Oh  !  and  whom 
do  you  think  I  passed  to-day  in  Richmond  Park  ?  You'll 
never  guess — Mrs.  Soames  and — Mr.  Bosinney.  They 
must  have  been  down  to  look  at  the  house  !' 

Winifred  Dartie  coughed,  and  no  one  said  a  word.  It 
was  the  piece  of  evidence  they  had  all  unconsciously  been 
waiting  for. 

To  do  Mrs.  McAnder  justice,  she  had  been  to  Switzer- 
land and  the  Italian  lakes  with  a  party  of  three,  and  had  not 
heard  of  Soames's  rupture  with  his  architect.  She  could 
not  tell,  therefore,  the  profound  impression  her  words  would 
make. 

Upright  and  a  little  flushed,  she  moved  her  small,  shrewd 
eyes  from  face  to  face,  trying  to  gauge  the  eflPect  of  her 
words.  On  either  side  of  her  a  Hayman  bo}^,  his  lean, 
taciturn,  hungry  face  turned  towards  his  plate,  ate  his 
mutton  steadily. 

These  two,  Giles  and  Jesse,  were  so  alike  and  so  inseparable 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  291 

that  they  were  known  as  the  Dromios.  They  never  talked, 
and  seemed  always  completely  occupied  in  doing  nothing. 
It  was  popularly  supposed  that  they  were  cramming  for  an 
important  examination.  They  walked  without  hats  for  long 
hours  in  the  Gardens  attached  to  their  house,  books  in  their 
hands,  a  fox-terrier  at  their  heels,  never  saying  a  word,  and 
smoking  all  the  time.  Every  morning,  about  fifty  yards 
apart,  they  trotted  down  Campden  Hill  on  two  lean  hacks, 
with  legs  as  long  as  their  own,  and  every  morning  about  an 
hour  later,  still  fifty  yards  apart,  they  cantered  up  again. 
Every  evening,  wherever  they  had  dined,  they  might  be 
observed  about  half-past  ten,  leaning  over  the  balustrade  of 
the  Alhambra  promenade. 

They  were  never  seen  otherwise  than  together  ;  in  this 
way  passing  their  lives,  apparently  perfectly  content. 

Inspired  by  some  dumb  stirring  within  them  of  the  feel- 
ings of  gentlemen,  they  turned  at  this  painful  moment  to 
Mrs.  MacAnder,  and  said  in  precisely  the  same  voice  : 
'  Have  you  seen  the ?' 

Such  was  her  surprise  at  being  thus  addressed  that  she  put 
down  her  fork  ;  and  Smither,  who  was  passing,  promptly 
removed  her  plate.  Mrs.  MacAnder,  howe\'er,  with  pre- 
sence of  mind,  said  instantly  :  '  I  must  have  a  little  more  of 
that  nice  mutton.* 

But  afterwards  in  the  drawing-room  she  sat  down  by 
Mrs.  Small,  determined  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  matter. 
And  she  began : 

'  What  a  charming  woman,  Mrs.  Soames  ;  such  a  sympa- 
thetic temperament  1     Soames  is  a  really  lucky  man  !' 

Her  anxiety  for  information  had  not  made  sufficient  allow- 
ance for  that  inner  Forsyte  skin  which  refuses  to  share  its 
troubles  with  outsiders  ;  Mrs.  Septimus  Small,  drawing  her- 
self up  with  a  creak  and  rustle  of  her  whole  person,  said, 
shivering  in  her  dignity  : 

*  My  dear,  it  is  a  subject  we  do  not  talk  about  !' 


CHAPTER  II 

NIGHT    IN    THE    PARK 

Although  with  her  infallible  instinct  Mrs.  Small  had  said 
the  very  thing  to  make  her  guest  *  more  intriguee  than  ever,' 
it  is  difficult  to  see  how  else  she  could  truthfully  have  spoken. 

It  was  not  a  subject  which  the  Forsytes  could  talk  about 
even  among  themselves — to  use  the  word  Soames  had  in- 
vented to  characterize  to  himself  the  situation,  it  was 
'  subterranean.' 

Yet,  within  a  week  of  Mrs.  McAnder's  encounter  in 
Richmond  Park,  to  all  of  them — save  Timothy,  from  whom 
it  was  carefully  kept — to  James  on  his  domestic  beat  from 
the  Poultry  to  Park  Lane,  to  George  the  wild  one,  on  his 
daily  adventure  from  the  bow  window  at  the  Haversnake  to 
the  billiard  room  at  the  *  Red  Pottle,'  was  it  known  that 
*  those  two '  had  gone  to  extremes. 

George  (it  was  he  who  invented  many  of  those  striking 
expressions  still  current  in  fashionable  circles)  voiced  the 
sentiment  more  accurately  than  any  one  when  he  said  to 
his  brother  Eustace  that  *the  Buccaneer'  was  *  going  it'; 
he  expected  Soames  was  about  '  fed  up.' 

It  was  felt  that  he  must  be,  and  yet,  what  could  be  done  ? 
He  ought  perhaps  to  take  steps  ;  but  to  take  steps  would  be 
deplorable. 

Without  an  open  scandal  which  they  could  not  see  their 
way  to  recommending,  it  was  difficult  to  see  what  steps 

29* 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  293 

could  be  taken.  In  this  impasse,  the  only  thing  was  to  say- 
nothing  to  Soames,  and  nothing  to  each  other  ;  in  fact,  to 
pass  it  over. 

By  displaying  towards  Irene  a  dignified  coldness,  some 
impression  might  be  made  upon  her  ;  but  she  was  seldom 
now  to  be  seen,  and  there  seemed  a  slight  difficulty  in  seeking 
her  out  on  purpose  to  show  her  coldness.  Sometimes  in  the 
privacy  of  his  bedroom  James  would  reveal  to  Emily  the 
real  suffering  that  his  son's  misfortune  caused  him. 

'  /  can't  tell,'  he  would  say  ;  '  it  worries  me  out  of  my 
life.  There'll  be  a  scandal,  and  that'll  do  him  no  good.  I 
shan't  say  anything  to  him.  There  might  be  nothing  in  it. 
What  do  you  think  ?  She's  very  artistic,  they  tell  me. 
What?  Oh,  you're  a  "regular  Juley"!  Well,  I  don't 
know  ;  I  expect  the  worst.  This  is  what  comes  of  having 
no  children.  I  knew  how  it  would  be  from  the  first.  They 
never  told  me  they  didn't  mean  to  have  any  children — 
nobody  tells  me  anything  !' 

On  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  his  eyes  open  and 
fixed  with  worry,  he  would  breathe  into  the  counterpane. 
Clad  in  his  nightshirt,  his  neck  poked  forward,  his  back 
rounded,  he  resembled  some  long  white  bird. 

*  Our    Father '   he    repeated,   turning  over   and   over 

again  the  thought  of  this  possible  scandal. 

Like  old  Jolyon,  he,  too,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  set  the 
blame  of  the  tragedy  down  to  family  interference.  What 
business  had  that  lot — he  began  to  think  of  the  Stanhope 
Gate  branch,  including  young  Jolyon  and  his  daughter,  as 
'that  lot ' — to  introduce  a  person  like  this  Bosinney  into  the 
family  ?  (He  had  heard  George's  soubriquet,  *  The  Buc- 
caneer,' but  he  could  make  nothing  of  that — the  young  man 
was  an  architect.) 

He  began  to  feel  that  his  brother  Jolyon,  to  whom  he 
had  always  looked  up  and  on  whose  opinion  he  had  relied, 
was  not  quite  what  he  had  expected. 


294  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Not  having  his  eldest  brother's  force  of  character,  he  was 
more  sad  than  angry.  His  great  comfort  was  to  go  to 
Winifred's,  and  take  the  little  Darties  in  his  carriage  over  to 
Kensington  Gardens,  and  there,  by  the  Round  Pond,  he 
could  often  be  seen  walking  with  his  eyes  fixed  anxiously  on 
little  Publius  Dartie's  sailing-boat,  which  he  had  himself 
freighted  with  a  penny,  as  though  convinced  that  it  would 
never  again  come  to  shore  ;  while  little  Publius — who  James 
delighted  to  say  was  not  a  bit  like  his  father — skipping  along 
under  his  lee,  would  try  to  get  him  to  bet  another  that  it 
never  would,  having  found  that  it  always  did.  And  James 
would  make  the  bet ;  he  always  paid — sometimes  as  many 
as  three  or  four  pennies  in  the  afternoon,  for  the  game 
seemed  never  to  pall  on  little  Publius — and  always  in  pay- 
ing he  said  :  *  Now,  that's  for  your  money-box.  Why, 
you're  getting  quite  a  rich  man !'  The  thought  of  his  little 
grandson's  growing  wealth  was  a  real  pleasure  to  him.  But 
little  Publius  knew  a  sweet-shop,  and  a  trick  worth  two  of 
that. 

And  they  would  walk  home  across  the  Park,  James's  figure, 
with  high  shoulders  and  absorbed  and  worried  face,  exercising 
its  tall,  lean  protectorship,  pathetically  unregarded,  over  the 
robust  child-figures  of  Imogen  and  little  Publius. 

But  those  Gardens  and  that  Park  were  not  sacred  to 
James.  Forsytes  and  tramps,  children  and  lovers,  rested 
and  wandered  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  seeking  one 
and  all  some  freedom  from  labour,  from  the  reek  and  turmoil 
of  the  streets. 

The  leaves  browned  slowly,  lingering  with  the  sun  and 
summer-like  warmth  of  the  nights. 

On  Saturday,  October  5,  the  sky  that  had  been  blue  all 
day  deepened  after  sunset  to  the  bloom  of  purple  grapes. 
There  was  no  moon,  and  a  clear  dark,  like  some  velvety 
garment,  was    wrapped    around    the    trees,   whose    thinned 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  295 

branches,  resembling  plumes,  stirred  not  in  the  still,  warm 
air.  All  London  had  poured  into  the  Park,  draining  the 
cup  of  summer  to  its  dregs. 

Couple  after  couple,  from  every  gate,  they  streamed  along 
the  paths  and  over  the  burnt  grass,  and  one  after  another, 
silently  out  of  the  lighted  spaces,  stole  into  the  shelter  of  the 
feathery  trees,  where,  blotted  against  some  trunk,  or  under 
the  shadow  of  shrubs,  they  were  lost  to  all  but  themselves  in 
the  heart  of  the  soft  darkness. 

To  fresh-comers  along  the  paths,  these  forerunners  formed 
but  part  of  that  passionate  dusk,  whence  only  a  strange 
murmur,  like  the  confused  beating  of  hearts,  came  forth. 
But  when  that  murmur  reached  each  couple  in  the  lamp- 
light, their  voices  wavered,  and  ceased  ;  their  arms  enlaced, 
their  eyes  began  seeking,  searching,  probing  the  blackness. 
Suddenly,  as  though  drawn  by  invisible  hands,  they,  too, 
stepped  over  the  railing,  and,  silent  as  shadows,  were  gone 
from  the  light. 

The  stillness,  enclosed  in  the  far,  inexorable  roar  of  the 
town,  was  alive  with  the  myriad  passions,  hopes,  and  loves 
of  multitudes  of  struggling  human  atoms  ;  for  in  spite  of 
the  disapproval  of  that  great  body  of  Forsytes,  the  Municipal 
Council — to  whom  Love  had  long  been  considered,  next  to 
the  Sewage  Question,  the  gravest  danger  to  the  community 
— a  process  was  going  on  that  night  in  the  Park,  and  in  a 
hundred  other  parks,  without  which  the  thousand  factories, 
churches,  shops,  taxes,  and  drains,  of  which  they  were 
custodians,  were  as  arteries  without  blood,  a  man  without  a 
heart. 

The  instincts  of  self-forgetfulness,  of  passion,  and  of  lov^e, 
hiding  under  the  trees,  away  from  the  trustees  of  their 
remorseless  enemy,  the  *  sense  of  property,'  were  holding  a 
stealthy  revel,  and  Soames,  returning  from  Bayswater — for 
he  had   been  alone  to  dine  at  Timothy's — walking  home 


296  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

along  the  water,  with  his  mind  upon  that  coming  lawsuit, 
had  the  blood  driven  from  his  heart  by  a  low  laugh  and  the 
sound  of  kisses.  He  thought  of  writing  to  The  Times  the 
next  morning,  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  Editor  to  the 
condition  of  our  parks.  He  did  not,  however,  for  he  had  a 
horror  of  seeing  his  name  in  print. 

But  starved  as  he  was,  the  whispered  sounds  in  the  still- 
ness, the  half-seen  forms  in  the  dark,  acted  on  him  like  some 
morbid  stimulant.  He  left  the  path  along  the  water  and 
stole  under  the  trees,  along  the  deep  shadow  of  little  planta- 
tions, where  the  boughs  of  chestnut  trees  hung  their  great 
leaves  low,  and  there  was  blacker  refuge,  shaping  his  course 
in  circles  that  had  for  their  object  a  stealthy  inspection  of 
chairs  side  by  side  against  tree-trunks,  of  enlaced  lovers,  who 
stirred  at  his  approach. 

Now  he  stood  still  on  the  rise  overlooking  the  Serpentine, 
where,  in  full  lamp-light,  black  against  the  silver  water,  sat 
a  couple  who  never  moved,  the  woman's  face  buried  on  the 
man's  neck — a  single  form,  like  a  carved  emblem  of  passion, 
silent  and  unashamed. 

And,  stung  by  the  sight,  Soames  hurried  on  deeper  into 
the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

In  this  search,  who  knows  what  he  thought  and  what  he 
sought  ?  Bread  for  hunger — light  in  darkness  ?  Who  knows 
what  he  expected  to  find — impersonal  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart — the  end  of  his  private  subterranean  tragedy — 
for,  again,  who  knew,  but  that  each  dark  couple,  unnamed, 
unnameable,  might  not  be  he  and  she  ? 

But  it  could  not  be  such  knowledge  as  this  that  he  was 
seeking — the  wife  of  Soames  Forsyte  sitting  in  the  Park  like 
a  common  wench  1  Such  thoughts  were  inconceivable  ; 
and  from  tree  to  tree,  with  his  noiseless  step,  he  passed. 

Once  he  was  sworn  at  ;  once  the  whisper,  '  If  only  it 
could  always  be  like  this  !'  sent  the  blood  flying  again  from 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  297 

his  heart,  and  he  waited  there,  patient  and  dogged,  for  the 
two  to  move.  But  it  was  only  a  poor  thin  slip  of  a  shop- 
girl in  her  draggled  blouse  that  passed  him,  clinging  to  her 
lover's  arm. 

A  hundred  other  lovers  too  whispered  that  hope  in  the 
stillness  of  the  trees,  a  hundred  other  lovers  clung  to  each 
other. 

But  shaking  himself  with  sudden  disgust,  Soames  returned 
to  the  path,  and  left  that  seeking  for  he  knew  not  what. 


v*t  -  v~  AT  t:-:i  zcta>tC-*-1 


rarFTS,   r; 


t  s:r. 


HI   MAV   - 


I  to  be  C2^-t-_ 
die  sJGt,  r  --  :  t 


Tzr  :::  :  t-     -    ^:    :t.  "    :- :     1  :   - :; 


1  How  liic  iuea  i:^  ans  t  ;    .  : 

^-.1    :  -   -  t31  the  fofloviog  tsl:, 

r.e^ri  Jiem  at  a  tctt  iazi  pdoc  : 

•iutt'-""        ~.  ::;n.    zjc  focmi 

An   i:.:.!,  1    :    :     :  sccyrer  1:1       .  .  *.__  .    -z,-:  :   __ 

proof  t^at~f  :  J-rs— t. 

He  ir:  izi    ::    :-      ^  e    7  3i 

where  2:c  zj^z  2^:tzL'~  zii " :    ; ;    ~  ^      ;  ■  _ .   .      :    _    zZiOje  izie 
licde  aitiScad  pood,  spr_-  :  : .  _  th  shawra 

of  red  and  ireOow  Icaref  ^^S^ 

to  sweep  tbem  oiE  tfcev     :  _  Act 

^ffoooks,     T-s  res:  ::  :::;  ^i     :    ^  ::  :  :      _,  i. 


300  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

removing  every  morning  Nature's  rain  of  leaves ;  piling 
them  in  heaps,  w^hence  from  slow  fires  rose  the  sweet,  acrid 
smoke  that,  like  the  cuckoo's  note  for  spring,  the  scent  of 
lime  trees  for  the  summer,  is  the  true  emblem  of  the  fall. 
The  gardeners'  tidy  souls  could  not  abide  the  gold  and  green 
and  russet  pattern  on  the  grass.  The  gravel  paths  must  lie 
unstained,  ordered,  methodical,  without  knowledge  of  the 
realities  of  life,  nor  of  that  slow  and  beautiful  decay  that 
flings  crowns  underfoot  to  star  the  earth  with  fallen  glories, 
whence,  as  the  cycle  rolls,  will  leap  again  wild  spring. 

Thus  each  leaf  that  fell  was  marked  from  the  moment 
when  it  fluttered  a  good-bye  and  dropped,  slow  turning, 
from  its  twig. 

But  on  that  little  pond  the  leaves  floated  in  peace,  and 
praised  heaven  with  their  hues,  the  sunlight  haunting  over 
them. 

And  so  young  Jolyon  found  them. 

Coming  there  one  morning  in  the  middle  of  October,  he 
was  disconcerted  to  find  a  bench  about  twenty  paces  from 
his  stand  occupied,  for  he  had  a  proper  horror  of  anyone 
seeing  him  at  work. 

A  lady  in  a  velvet  jacket  was  sitting  there,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground.  A  flowering  laurel,  however,  stood 
between,  and,  taking  shelter  behind  this,  young  Jolyon 
prepared  his  easel. 

His  preparations  were  leisurely  ;  he  caught,  as  every  true 
artist  should,  at  anything  that  might  delay  for  a  moment  the 
effort  of  his  work,  and  he  found  himself  looking  furtively  at 
this  unknown  dame. 

Like  his  father  before  him,  he  had  an  eye  for  a  face.  This 
face  was  charming ! 

He  saw  a  rounded  chin  nestling  in  a  cream  ruflRe,  a  delicate 
face  with  large  dark  eyes  and  soft  lips.  A  black  '  picture ' 
hat  concealed  the  hair ;  her  figure  was  lightly  poised  against 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  301 

the  back  of  the  bench,  her  knees  were  crossed  ;  the  tip  of  a 
patent  leather  shoe  emerged  beneath  her  skirt.  There  was 
something,  indeed,  inexpressibly  dainty  about  the  person  of 
this  lady,  but  young  Jolyon's  attention  was  chiefly  riveted 
by  the  look  on  her  face,  which  reminded  him  of  his  wife. 
It  was  as  though  its  owner  had  come  into  contact  with 
forces  too  strong  for  her.  It  troubled  him,  arousing  vague 
feelings  of  attraction  and  chivalry.  Who  was  she  ?  And 
what  doing  there,  alone  ? 

Two  young  gentlemen  of  that  peculiar  breed,  at  once 
forward  and  shy,  found  in  the  Regent's  Park,  came  by  on 
their  way  to  lawn  tennis,  and  he  noted  with  disapproval 
their  furtive  stares  of  admiration.  A  loitering  gardener 
halted  to  do  something  unnecessary  to  a  clump  of  pampas 
grass;  he,  too,  wanted  an  excuse  for  peeping.  A  gentle- 
man, old,  and,  by  his  hat,  a  professor  of  horticulture,  passed 
three  times  to  scrutinize  her  long  and  stealthily,  a  queer 
expression  about  his  lips. 

With  all  these  men  young  Jolyon  felt  the  same  vague 
irritation.  She  looked  at  none  of  them,  yet  was  he  certain 
that  every  man  who  passed  would  look  at  her  like  that. 

Her  face  was  not  the  face  of  a  sorceress,  who  in  every  look 
holds  out  to  men  the  offer  of  pleasure ;  it  had  none  of  the 
*■  devil's  beauty  '  so  highly  prized  among  the  first  Forsytes  of 
the  land ;  neither  was  it  of  that  type,  no  less  adorable,  asso- 
ciated with  the  box  of  chocolate ;  it  was  not  of  the  spiritually 
passionate,  or  passionately  spiritual  order,  peculiar  to  house- 
decoration  and  modern  poetry  ;  nor  did  it  seem  to  promise  to 
the  playwright  material  for  the  production  of  the  interesting 
and  neurasthenic  figure,  who  commits  suicide  in  the  last  act. 

In  shape  and  colouring,  in  its  soft  persuasive  passivity,  its 
sensuous  purity,  this  woman's  face  reminded  him  of  Titian's 
*  Heavenly  Love,'  a  reproduction  of  which  hung  over  the 
sideboard  in  his  dining-room.     And  her  attraction  seemed  to 


302  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

be  in  this  soft  passivity,  in  the  feeling  she  gave  that  to  pressure 
she  must  yield. 

For  what  or  w^hom  was  she  waiting,  in  the  silence,  with 
the  trees  dropping  here  and  there  a  leaf,  and  the  thrushes 
strutting  close  on  grass  touched  with  the  sparkle  of  the 
autumn  rime? 

Then  her  charming  face  grew  eager,  and,  glancing  round, 
with  almost  a  lover's  jealousy,  young  Jolyon  saw  Bosinney 
striding  across  the  grass. 

Curiously  he  watched  the  meeting,  the  look  in  their  eyes, 
the  long  clasp  of  their  hands.  They  sat  down  close  together, 
linked  for  all  their  outward  discretion.  He  heard  the  rapid 
murmur  of  their  talk ;  but  what  they  said  he  could  not  catch. 

He  had  rowed  in  the  galley  himself !  He  knew  the  long 
hours  of  waiting  and  the  lean  minutes  of  a  half-public  meet- 
ing ;  the  tortures  of  suspense  that  haunt  the  unhallowed  lover. 

It  required,  however,  but  a  glance  at  their  two  faces  to  see 
that  this  was  none  of  those  affairs  of  a  season  that  distract 
men  and  women  about  town ;  none  of  those  sudden  appe- 
tites that  wake  up  ravening,  and  are  surfeited  and  asleep 
again  in  six  weeks.  This  was  the  real  thing !  This  was 
what  had  happened  to  himself!  Out  of  this  anything 
might  come ! 

Bosinney  was  pleading,  and  she  so  quiet,  so  soft,  yet  im- 
movable in  her  passivity,  sat  looking  over  the  grass. 

Was  he  the  man  to  carry  her  off,  that  tender,  passive 
being,  who  would  never  stir  a  step  for  herself?  Who  had 
given  him  all  herself,  and  would  die  for  him,  but  perhaps 
would  never  run  away  with  him  1 

It  seemed  to  young  Jolyon  that  he  could  hear  her  saying : 
*  But,  darling,  it  would  ruin  you  V  For  he  himself  had  ex- 
perienced to  the  full  the  gnawing  fear  at  the  bottom  of  each 
woman's  heart  that  she  is  a  drag  on  the  man  she  loves. 

And  he  peeped  at  them  no  more ;  but  their  soft,  rapid  talk 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  303 

came  to  his  ears,  with  the  stuttering  song  of  some  bird  that 
seemed  trying  to  remember  the  notes  of  spring :  Joy — 
tragedy?     Which — which? 

And  gradually  their  talk  ceased ;  long  silence  followed. 

*  And  where  does  Soames  come  in  ?'  young  Jolyon  thought. 
^  People  think  she  is  concerned  about  the  sin  of  deceiving  her 
husband !  Little  they  know  of  women !  She's  eating,  after 
starvation — taking  her  revenge !  And  Heaven  help  her — for 
he'll  take  his.' 

He  heard  the  swish  of  silk,  and,  spying  round  the  laurel, 
saw  them  walking  away,  their  hands  stealthily  joined.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  July  old  Jolyon  had  taken  his  grand-daughter 
to  the  mountains ;  and  on  that  visit  (the  last  they  ever  paid) 
June  recovered  to  a  great  extent  her  health  and  spirits.  In 
the  hotels,  filled  with  British  Forsytes — for  old  Jolyon  could 
not  bear  a  *  set  of  Germans,'  as  he  called  all  foreigners — she 
was  looked  upon  with  respect — the  only  grand-daughter  of 
that  fine-looking,  and  evidently  wealthy,  old  Mr.  Forsyte. 
She  did  not  mix  freely  with  people — to  mix  freely  with 
people  was  not  June's  habit — but  she  formed  some  friendships, 
and  notably  one  in  the  Rhone  Valley,  with  a  PVench  girl 
who  was  dying  of  consumption. 

Determining  at  once  that  her  friend  should  not  die,  she 
forgot,  in  the  institution  of  a  campaign  against  Death,  much 
of  her  own  trouble. 

Old  Jolyon  watched  the  new  intimacy  with  relief  and 
disapproval ;  for  this  additional  proof  that  her  life  was  to  be 
passed  amongst  *  lame  ducks '  worried  him.  Would  she 
never  make  a  friendship  or  take  an  interest  in  something 
that  would  be  of  real  benefit  to  her  ? 

'  Taking  up  with  a  parcel  of  foreigners,'  he  called  it.  He 
often,  however,  brought  home  grapes  or  roses,  and  presented 
ihem  to  this  *  Mam'zelle '  with  an  ingratiating  twinkle. 

Towards  the  end  of  September,  in  spite  of  June's  disap- 


304  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

proval,  Mademoiselle  Vigor  breathed  her  last  in  the  little 
hotel  at  St.  Luc,  to  which  they  had  moved  her  ;  and  June 
took  her  defeat  so  deeply  to  heart  that  old  Jolyon  carried  her 
away  to  Paris.  Here,  in  contemplation  of  the  '  Venus  de 
Milo '  and  the  '  Madeleine,'  she  shook  off  her  depression, 
and  when,  towards  the  middle  of  October,  they  returned  to 
town,  her  grandfather  believed  that  he  had  effected  a  cure. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  they  established  themselves  in 
Stanhope  Gate  than  he  perceived  to  his  dismay  a  return  of 
her  old  absorbed  and  brooding  manner.  She  would  sit, 
staring  in  front  of  her,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  like  a  little 
Norse  spirit,  grim  and  intent,  while  all  around  in  the  electric 
light,  then  just  installed,  shone  the  great  drawing-room 
brocaded  up  to  the  frieze,  full  of  furniture  from  Baple  and 
Pullbred's.  And  in  the  huge  gilt  mirror  were  reflected  those 
Dresden  china  groups  of  young  men  in  tight  knee  breeches, 
at  the  feet  of  full- bosomed  ladies  nursing  on  their  laps  pet 
lambs,  which  old  Jolyon  had  bought  when  he  was  a  bachelor 
and  thought  so  highly  of  in  these  days  of  degenerate  taste. 
He  was  a  man  of  most  open  mind,  who,  more  than  any 
Forsyte  of  them  all  had  moved  with  the  times,  but  he 
could  never  forget  that  he  had  bought  these  groups  at  Job- 
son's,  and  given  a  lot  of  money  for  them.  He  often  said  to 
June,  with  a  sort  of  disillusioned  contempt  : 

*  You  don't  care  about  them  !  They're  not  the  gimcrack 
things  you  and  your  friends  like,  but  they  cost  me  seventy 
pounds !'  He  was  not  a  man  who  allowed  his  taste  to  be 
warped  when  he  knew  for  solid  reasons  that  it  was  sound. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  June  did  on  getting  home  was 
to  go  round  to  Timothy's.  She  persuaded  herself  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  call  there,  and  cheer  him  with  an  account 
of  all  her  travels  ;  but  in  reality  she  went  because  she  knew 
of  no  other  place  where,  by  some  random  speech,  or  round- 
about question,  she  could  glean  news  of  Bosinney. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  305 

They  received  her  most  cordially  :  And  how  was  her 
dear  grandfather  ?  He  had  not  been  to  see  them  since  May. 
Her  Uncle  Timothy  was  very  poorly,  he  had  had  a  lot  of 
trouble  with  the  chimney-sweep  in  his  bedroom  ;  the  stupid 
man  had  let  the  soot  down  the  chimney  !  It  had  quite 
upset  her  uncle. 

June  sat  there  a  long  time,  dreading,  yet  passionately 
hoping,  that  they  would  speak  of  Bosinney. 

But  paralyzed  by  unaccountable  discretion,  Mrs.  Septimus 
Small  let  fall  no  word,  neither  did  she  question  June  about 
him.  In  desperation  the  girl  asked  at  last  whether  Soames 
and  Irene  were  in  town — she  had  not  yet  been  to  see 
anyone. 

It  was  Aunt  Hester  who  replied  :  Oh,  yes,  they  were  in 
town,  they  had  not  been  away  at  all.  There  was  some 
little  difficulty  about  the  house,  she  believed.  June  had 
heard,  no  doubt  !     She  had  better  ask  her  Aunt  Juley  1 

June  turned  to  Mrs.  Small,  who  sat  upright  in  her  chair, 
her  hands  clasped,  her  face  covered  with  innumerable  pouts. 
In  answer  to  the  girl's  look  she  maintained  a  strange  silence, 
and  when  she  spoke  it  was  to  ask  June  whether  she  had 
worn  night-socks  up  in  those  high  hotels  where  it  must  be 
so  cold  of  a  night. 

June  answered  that  she  had  not,  she  hated  the  stuffy 
things  ;  and  rose  to  leave. 

Mrs.  Small's  infallibly  chosen  silence  was  far  more  omi- 
nous to  her  than  anything  that  could  have  been  said. 

Before  half  an  hour  was  over  she  had  dragged  the  truth 
from  Mrs.  Baynes  in  Lowndes  Square,  that  Soames  was 
bringing  an  action  against  Bosinney  over  the  decoration  of 
the  house. 

Instead  of  disturbing  her,  the  news  had  a  strangely  calm- 
ing effect ;  as  though  she  saw  in  the  prospect  of  this  struggle 
new  hope  for  herself.     She  learnt  that  the  case  was  expected 

II 


3o6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  come  on  in  about  a  month,  and  there  seemed  little  or  no 
prospect  of  Bosinney's  success. 

'  And  whatever  he'll  do  I  can't  think,'  said  Mrs.  Baynes  ; 
■*  it's  very  dreadful  for  him,  you  know — he's  got  no  money 
— he's  very  hard  up.  And  we  can't  help  him,  I'm  sure. 
I'm  told  the  money-lenders  won't  lend  if  you  have  no 
security,  and  he  has  none — none  at  all.' 

Her  embonpoint  had  increased  of  late  ;  she  was  in  the  full 
swing  of  autumn  organization,  her  writing-table  literally 
strewn  with  the  menus  of  charity  functions.  She  looked 
meaningly  at  June,  with  her  round  eyes  of  parrot-gray. 

The  sudden  flush  that  rose  on  the  girl's  intent  young  face 
— she  must  have  seen  spring  up  before  her  a  great  hope — the 
sudden  sweetness  of  her  smile,  often  came  back  to  Lady 
Baynes  in  after  years  (Baynes  was  knighted  when  he  built 
that  public  Museum  of  Art  which  has  given  so  much 
employment  to  officials,  and  so  little  pleasure  to  those 
working  classes  for  whom  it  was  designed). 

The  memory  of  that  change,  vivid  and  touching,  like  the 
breaking  open  of  a  flower,  or  the  first  sun  after  long  winter, 
the  memory,  too,  of  all  that  came  after,  often  intruded  itself, 
unaccountably,  inopportunely  on  Lady  Baynes,  when  her 
mind  was  set  upon  the  most  important  things. 

This  was  the  very  afternoon  of  the  day  that  young  Jolyon 
witnessed  the  meeting  in  the  Botanical  Gardens,  and  on  this 
day,  too,  old  Jolyon  paid  a  visit  to  his  solicitors,  Forsyte, 
Bustard,  and  Forsyte,  in  the  Poultry.  Soames  was  not  in, 
he  had  gone  down  to  Somerset  House  ;  Bustard  was  buried 
up  to  the  hilt  in  papers  and  that  inaccessible  apartment, 
where  he  was  judiciously  placed,  in  order  that  he  might  do 
as  much  work  as  possible  ;  but  James  was  in  the  front  office, 
biting  a  finger,  and  lugubriously  turning  over  the  pleadings 
in  Forsyte  v.  Bosinney. 

This  sound  lawyer  had  only  a  sort  of  luxurious  dread  of 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  307 

the  '  nice  point,'  enough  to  set  up  a  pleasurable  feeling  of 
fuss  ;  for  his  good  practical  sense  told  him  that  if  he  himself 
were  on  the  Bench  he  would  not  pay  much  attention  to  it. 
But  he  was  afraid  that  this  Bosinney  would  go  bankrupt 
and  Soames  would  have  to  find  the  money  after  all,  and 
costs  into  the  bargain.  And  behind  this  tangible  dread 
there  was  always  that  intangible  trouble,  lurking  in  the  back- 
ground, intricate,  dim,  scandalous,  like  a  bad  dream,  and  of 
which  this  action  was  but  an  outward  and  visible  sign. 

He  raised  his  head  as  old  Jolyon  came  in,  and  muttered  : 
*  How  are  you,  Jolyon  ?  Haven't  seen  you  for  an  age. 
You've  been  to  Switzerland,  they  tell  me.  This  young 
Bosinney,  he's  got  himself  into  a  mess.  I  knew  how  it 
would  be  !'  He  held  out  the  papers,  regarding  his  elder 
brother  with  nervous  gloom. 

Old  Jolyon  read  them  in  silence,  and  while  he  read  them 
James  looked  at  the  floor,  biting  his  fingers  the  while. 

Old  Jolyon  pitched  them  down  at  last,  and  they  fell  with 
a  thump  amongst  a  mass  of  aflRdavits  in  '  re  Buncom.be, 
deceased,'  one  of  the  many  branches  of  that  parent  and 
profitable  tree,  '  Fryer  v.  Forsyte.' 

*  I  don't  know  what  Soames  is  about,'  he  said,  '  to  make 
a  fuss  over  a  few  hundred  pounds.  I  thought  he  was  a  man 
of  property.' 

James's  long  upper  lip  twitched  angrily ;  he  could  not 
bear  his  son  to  be  attacked  in  such  a  spot. 

'  It's   not   the   money '    he    began,    but    meeting    his 

brother's  glance,  direct,  shrewd,  judicial,  he  stopped. 

There  was  a  silence. 

*  I've  come  in  for  my  Will,'  said  old  Jolyon  at  last,  tugging 
at  his  moustache. 

James's  curiosity  was  roused  at  once.  Perhaps  nothing  in 
this  life  was  more  stimulating  to  him  than  a  Will ;  it  was 
the  supreme  deal  with  property,  the  final  inventory  of  a  man's 


3o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

belongings,  the  last  word  on  what  he  was  worth.     He  sounded 
the  bell.^ 

*  Bring  in  Mr.  Jolyon's  Will,'  he  said  to  an  anxious,  dark- 
haired  clerk. 

*  You  going  to  make  some  alterations  r'  And  through 
his  mind  there  flashed  the  thought  :  *  Now,  am  I  worth  as 
much  as  he  ?' 

Old  Jolyon  put  the  Will  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  James 
twisted  his  long  legs  regretfully. 

*  You've  made  some  nice  purchases  lately,  they  tell  me,' 
he  said. 

*  I  don't  know  where  vou  get  your  information  from,' 
answered  old  Jolyon  sharply.  '  When's  this  action  coming 
on  ?  Next  month  ?  I  can't  tell  what  you've  got  in  your 
minds.  You  must  manage  your  own  affairs ;  but  if  you 
take  my  advice,  you'll  settle  it  out  of  Court.  Good-bye  !* 
With  a  cold  handshake  he  was  gone. 

James,  his  fixed  gray-blue  eye  corkscrewing  round  some 
secret  anxious  image,  began  again  to  bite  his  finger. 

Old  Jolyon  took  his  Will  to  the  offices  of  the  New 
Colliery  Company,  and  sat  down  in  the  empty  Board  Room 
to  »-ead  it  through.  He  answered  *  Down-by-the-starn  ' 
Hemmings  so  tartly  when  the  latter,  seeing  his  Chairman 
seated  there,  entered  with  the  new  Superintendent's  first 
report,  that  the  Secretar}'-  withdrew  with  regretful  dignity  ; 
and  sending  for  the  transfer  clerk,  blew  him  up  till  the  poor 
youth  knew  not  where  to  look. 

It  was  not — bv  George — as  he  (Down-by-the-starn)  would 
have  him  know,  for  a  whipper-snapper  of  a  young  fellow 
like  him,  to  come  down  to  that  office,  and  think  that  he  was 
God  Almighty.  He  (Down-by-the-starn)  had  been  head  of 
that  office  for  more  years  than  a  boy  like  him  could  count, 
and  if  he  thought  that  when  he  had  finished  all  his  work,  he 
could  sit  there  doing  nothing,  he  did  not  know  him, 
Hemmings  (Down-by-the-starn),  and  so  forth. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  309 

On  the  other  side  of  the  green  baize  door  old  Jolyon  sat 
at  the  long,  mahogany-and-leather  board  table,  his  thick, 
loose-jointed,  tortoise-shell  eye-glasses  perched  on  the  bridge 
of  his  nose,  his  gold  pencil  moving  down  the  clauses  of  his 
Will. 

It  was  a  simple  aflfair,  for  there  were  none  of  those 
vexatious  little  legacies  and  donations  to  charities,  which 
fritter  away  a  man's  possessions,  and  damage  the  majestic 
effect  of  that  little  paragraph  in  the  morning  papers  accorded 
to  Forsytes  who  die  with  a  hundred  thousand  pounds. 

A  simple  affair.  Just  a  bequest  to  his  son  of  twenty 
thousand,  and  *  as  to  the  residue  of  my  property  of  whatso- 
ever kind  whether  realty  or  personalty  or  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  either — upon  trust  to  pay  the  proceeds  rents  annual 
produce  dividends  or  interest  thereof  and  thereon  to  my  said 
grand-daughter  June  Forsyte  or  her  assigns  during  her  life 
to  be  for  her  sole  use  and  benefit  and  without,  etc.  .  .  .  and 
from  and  after  her  death  or  decease  upon  trust  to  convey 
assign  transfer  or  make  over  the  said  last-mentioned  lands 
hereditaments  premises  trust  moneys  stocks  funds  investments 
and  securities  or  such  as  shall  then  stand  for  and  represent 
the  same  unto  such  person  or  persons  whether  one  or  more 
for  such  intents  purposes  and  uses  and  generally  in  such 
manner  way  and  form  in  all  respects  as  the  said  June 
Forsyte  notwithstanding  coverture  shall  by  her  last  Will  and 
Testament  or  any  writing  or  writings  in  the  nature  of  a 
Will  testament  or  testamentar)^  disposition  to  be  by  her  duly 
made  signed  and  published  direct  appoint  or  make  over  give 
and  dispose  of  the  same  And  in  default  etc.  .  .  .  Pro- 
vided always  .  .  .'  and  so  on,  in  seven  folios  of  brief  and 
simple  phraseology^ 

The  will  had  been  drawn  by  James  in  his  palmy  days. 
He  had  foreseen  almost  every  contingency. 

Old  Jolyon  sat  a  long  time  reading  this  Will  j  at  last  he 


310  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

took  half  a  sheer  of  paper  rrom  the  rack,  and  made  a 
prolonged  pencil  note ;  then  buttoning  up  the  Will,  he 
caused  a  cab  to  be  called  and  drove  to  the  offices  of  Paramor 
and  Herring,  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Jack  Herring  was 
cezdy  but  his  nephew  was  still  in  the  firm,  and  old  Jolyon 
was  closeted  with  him  for  half  an  hour. 

He  had  kept  the  hansom,  and  on  coming  out,  gave  the 
driver  the  address — 3,  Wistaria  Avenue. 

He  fe.:  a  strange,  slow  satisfacrion,  as  though  he  had 
scored  a  victorv  over  James  and  the  man  of  property.  They 
should  not  poke  their  noses  into  his  affairs  any  more  ;  he  had 
iust  cancelled  their  trusteeships  of  his  Will ;  he  would  take 
the  whole  of  his  business  out  of  their  hands,  and  put  it  into 
the  hands  of  votmg  Herring,  and  he  would  move  the  busi- 
ness of  his  Companies  too.  If  that  young  Soames  were  such  a 
man  of  propertv,  he  would  never  miss  a  thousand  a  year  or 
so  ;  and  under  his  great  white  moustache  old  Jolyon  grimly 
smiled.  He  felt  that  what  he  was  doing  was  in  the  nature 
of  retriburive  iusrice,  richly  deser\-ed. 

Slowlv,  surelv,  with  the  secret  inner  process  that  works 
the  destruction  of  an  old  tree,  the  poison  of  the  wounds  to 
his  happiness,  his  will,  his  pride,  had  corroded  the  comely 
edifice  of  his  philosophy.  Life  had  worn  him  down  on  one 
side,  rill,  like  that  familv  of  which  he  was  the  head,  he  had 
est  balance. 

To  him,  borne  northwards  towards  his  son's  house,  the 
thought  of  the  new  disposition  of  property,  which  he  had 
iust  set  in  motion,  appeared  vaguely  in  the  light  of  a  stroke 
of  punishment,  levelled  at  that  family  and  that  Society,  of 
which  Tames  and  his  son  seemed  to  him  the  representatives. 
He  had  mace  a  restitution  to  young  Jolyon,  and  restitution  to 
young  Jolyon  satisfied  his  secret  craving  for  revenge — revenge 
against  Time,  sorrow,  and  interference,  against  all  that  in- 
calculable sum  of  disapproval  rhar  had  been  bestowed  by  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  311 

world  for  fifteen  vears  on  his  only  son.  It  presented 
itself  as  the  one  possible  way  of  asserting  once  more  the 
domination  of  his  will  ;  of  forcing  James,  and  Soames,  and 
the  family,  and  all  those  hidden  masses  of  Forsytes — a  great 
stream  rolling  against  the  single  dam  of  his  obstinacy — ^to 
recognize  once  and  for  all  that  he  wruli  he  master.  It  was 
sweet  to  think  that  at  last  he  was  going  to  make  the  boy  a 
richer  man  by  far  than  that  son  of  James,  that  *  man  of 
property.'  And  it  was  sweet  to  give  to  Jo,  for  he  loved 
his  son. 

Neither  young  Jolyon  nor  his  wife  were  in  (young  Jolyoa 
indeed  was  not  back  from  the  Botanical},  but  the  little  maid 
told  him  that  she  expected  the  master  at  any  moment : 

*  He's  always  at  'ome  to  tea,  sir,  to  play  with  the  children,' 

Old  Jolyon  said  he  would  wait ;  and  sax  down  patiently 
enough  in  the  faded,  shabby  drawing-room,  where,  now  that 
the  summer  chintzes  were  removed,  the  old  chairs  and  sofas 
revealed  all  their  threadbare  deficiencies.  He  longed  to  send 
for  the  children  ;  to  have  them  there  beside  him,  their  supple 
bodies  against  his  knees ;  to  hear  Jolly's  :  '  Hallo,  Gran  I' 
and  see  his  rush  ;  and  feel  Holly's  soft  little  hand  stealing  up 
against  his  cheek.  But  he  would  not.  There  was  solem- 
nity in  what  he  had  come  to  do,  and  imtil  it  was  over  he 
would  not  play.  He  amused  himself  bv  thinking  how  w^'th 
two  strokes  of  his  pen  he  was  going  to  restore  the  look  of 
caste  so  conspicuously  absent  from  everything  in  that  little 
house  ;  how  he  could  fill  these  rooms,  or  others  in  some 
larger  mansion,  with  triumphs  of  art  from  Baple  and  Pull- 
bred's ;  how  he  could  send  little  Jolly  to  Harrow  and 
Oxford  (he  no  longer  had  faith  in  Eton  and  Cambridge,  for 
his  son  had  been  there)  ;  how  he  could  procure  little  Holly 
the  best  musical  instmcrion,  the  child  had  a  remarkable 
aptitude. 

As  these  visions  crowded  before  him,  causing  emotion  to 


312  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

swell  his  heart,  he  rose,  and  stood  at  the  window,  looking 
down  into  the  little  walled  strip  of  garden,  where  the  pear- 
tree,  bare  of  leaves  before  its  time,  stood  with  gaunt  branches 
in  the  slow  gathering  mist  of  the  autumn  afternoon.  The 
dog  Balthasar,  his  tail  curled  tightly  over  a  piebald,  furry 
back,  was  walking  at  the  further  end,  sniffing  at  the  plants, 
and  at  intervals  placing  his  leg  for  support  against  the  wall. 

And  old  Jolyon  mused. 

What  pleasure  was  there  left  but  to  give  ?  It  was  pleasant 
to  give,  when  you  could  find  one  who  would  be  thankful  for 
what  you  gave — one  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood  !  There 
was  no  such  satisfaction  to  be  had  out  of  giving  to  those  who 
did  not  belong  to  you,  to  those  who  had  no  claim  on  you  1 
Such  giving  as  that  was  a  betrayal  of  the  individualistic  con- 
victions and  actions  of  his  life,  of  all  his  enterprise,  his 
labour,  and  his  moderation,  of  the  great  and  proud  fact  that, 
like  tens  of  thousands  of  Forsytes  before  him,  tens  of  thou- 
sands in  the  present,  tens  of  thousands  in  the  future,  he  had 
always  made  his  own,  and  held  his  own,  in  the  world. 

And,  while  he  stood  there  looking  down  on  the  smut- 
covered  foliage  of  the  laurels,  the  black-stained  grass-plot,  the 
progress  of  the  dog  Balthasar,  all  the  suffering  of  the  fifteen 
years  that  he  had  been  baulked  of  legitimate  enjoyment 
mingled  its  gall  with  the  sweetness  of  the  approaching 
moment. 

Young  Jolyon  came  at  last,  pleased  with  his  work,  and 
fresh  from  long  hours  in  the  open  air.  On  hearing  that  his 
father  was  in  the  drawing-room,  he  inquired  hurriedly 
whether  Mrs.  Forsyte  was  at  home,  and  being  informed 
that  she  was  not,  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Then  putting  his 
painting  materials  carefully  in  the  little  coat-closet  out  of 
sight,  he  went  in. 

With  characteristic  decision  old  Jolyon  came  at  once  to 
the  point.  'I've  been  altering  my  arrangements,  Jo,'  he 
said.     *  You  can  cut  your  coat  a  bit  longer  in  the  future — 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  313 

Fm  settling  a  thousand  a  year  on  you  at  once.  June 
will  have  fifty  thousand  at  my  death,  and  you  the  rest. 
That  dog  of  yours  is  spoiling  the  garden.  I  shouldn't  keep 
a  dog,  if  I  were  you  !' 

The  dog  Balthasar,  seated  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  was 
examining  his  tail. 

Young  Jolyon  looked  at  the  animal,  but  saw  him  dimly, 
for  his  eyes  were  misty. 

'  Yours  won't  come  short  of  a  hundred  thousand,  my  boy,' 
said  old  Jolyon  ;  *  I  thought  you'd  better  know.  I  haven't 
much  longer  to  live  at  my  age.  I  shan't  allude  to  it  again. 
How's  your  wife  ?  and — give  her  my  love.' 

Young  Jolyon  put  his  hand  on  his  father's  shoulder,  and, 
as  neither  spoke,  the  episode  closed. 

Having  seen  his  father  into  a  hansom,  young  Jolyon  came 
back  to  the  drawing-room  and  stood,  where  old  Jolyon  had 
stood,  looking  down  on  the  little  garden.  He  tried  to 
realize  all  that  this  meant  to  him,  and,  Forsyte  that  he  was, 
vistas  of  property  were  opened  out  in  his  brain  ;  the  years 
of  half  rations  through  which  he  had  passed  had  not  sapped 
his  natural  instincts.  In  extremely  practical  form,  he  thought 
of  travel,  of  his  wife's  costume,  the  children's  education,  a 
pony  for  Jolly,  a  thousand  things  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  all  he 
thought,  too,  of  Bosinney  and  his  mistress,  and  the  broken 
song  of  the  thrush.     Joy — tragedy  !     Which  ?     Which  ? 

The  old  past — the  poignant,  suffering,  passionate,  wonder- 
ful past,  that  no  money  could  buy,  that  nothing  could 
restore  in  all  its  burning  sweetness — had  come  back  before 
him. 

When  his  wife  came  in  he  went  straight  up  to  her  and 
took  her  in  his  arms  ;  and  for  a  long  time  he  stood  without 
speaking,  his  eyes  closed,  pressing  her  to  him,  while  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  wondering,  adoring,  doubting  look  in 
her  eyes. 

II* 


CHAPTER  IV 

VOYAGE    INTO    THE    INFERNO 

The  morning  after  a  certain  night  on  which  Soames  at 
last  asserted  his  rights  and  acted  like  a  man,  he  breakfasted 
alone. 

He  breakfasted  by  gaslight,  the  fog  of  late  November 
wrapping  the  town  as  in  some  monstrous  blanket  till  the 
trees  of  the  Square  even  were  barely  visible  from  the 
dining-room  window.    ~ 

He  ate  steadily,  but  at  times  a  sensation  as  though  he 
could  not  swallow  attacked  him.  Had  he  been  right  to 
yield  to  his  overmastering  hunger  of  the  night  before,  and 
break  down  the  resistance  which  he  had  suffered  now  too 
long  from  this  woman  who  was  his  lawful  and  solemnly 
constituted  helpmate  ? 

He  was  strangely  haunted  by  the  recollection  of  her  face, 
from  before  which,  to  soothe  her,  he  had  tried  to  pull  her 
hands — of  her  terrible  smothered  sobbing,  the  like  of  which 
he  had  never  heard,  and  still  seemed  to  hear  ;  and  he  was 
still  haunted  by  the  odd,  intolerable  feeling  of  remorse  and 
shame  he  had  felt,  as  he  stood  looking  at  her  by  the  flame 
of  the  single  candle,  before  silently  slinking  away. 

And  somehow,  now  that  he  had  acted  like  this,  he  was 
surprised  at  himself. 

Two  nights  before,  at  Winifred  Dartie's,  he  had  taken 
Mrs.  MacAnder  into  dinner.     She  had  said  to  him,  looking 

314 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  315 

in  his  face  with  her  sharp,  greenish  eyes:  *And  so  your 
wife  is  a  great  friend  of  that  Mr.  Bosinney's  ?' 

Not  deigning  to  ask  what  she  meant,  he  had  brooded  over 
her  words. 

They  had  roused  in  him  a  fierce  jealousy,  which,  with 
the  peculiar  perversion  of  this  instinct,  had  turned  to  fiercer 
desire. 

Without  the  incentive  of  Mrs.  MacAnder's  words  he 
might  never  have  done  what  he  had  done.  Without  their 
incentive  and  the  accident  of  finding  his  wife's  door  for  once 
unlocked,  which  had  enabled  him  to  steal  upon  her  asleep. 

Slumber  had  removed  his  doubts,  but  the  morning  brought 
them  again.  One  thought  comforted  him  :  No  one  would 
know — it  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  she  would  speak  about. 

And,  indeed,  when  the  vehicle  of  his  daily  business 
life,  that  needed  so  imperatively  the  grease  of  clear  and 
practical  thought,  started  rolling  once  more  with  the  read- 
ing of  his  letters,  those  nightmare-like  doubts  began  to 
assume  less  extravagant  importance  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 
The  incident  was  really  not  of  great  moment ;  women 
made  a  fuss  about  it  in  books  ;  but  in  the  cool  judgment  of 
right-thinking  men,  of  men  of  the  world,  of  such  as  he 
recollected  often  received  praise  in  the  Divorce  Court,  he 
had  but  done  his  best  to  sustain  the  sanctity  of  marriage,  to 
prevent  her  from  abandoning  her  duty,  possibly,  if  she  were 
still  seeing  Bosinney,  from .     No,  he  did  not  regret  it. 

Now  that  the  first  step  towards  reconciliation  had  been 
taken,  the  rest  would  be  comparatively — comparatively 

He  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  His  nerve  had  been 
shaken.  The  sound  of  smothered  sobbing  was  in  his  ears 
again.     He  could  not  get  rid  of  it. 

He  put  on  his  fur  coat,  and  went  out  into  the  fog  ; 
having  to  go  into  the  City,  he  took  the  underground  railway 
from  Sloane  Square  station. 


3i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

In  his  corner  of  the  first-class  compartment  filled  with 
City  men  the  smothered  sobbing  still  haunted  him,  so  he 
opened  The  Times  with  the  rich  crackle  that  drowns  all 
lesser  sounds,  and,  barricaded  behind  it,  set  himself  steadily 
to  con  the  news. 

He  read  that  a  Recorder  had  charged  a  grand  jury  on 
the  previous  day  with  a  more  than  usually  long  list  or 
offences.  He  read  of  three  murders,  five  manslaughters, 
seven  arsons,  and  as  many  as  eleven — a  surprisingly  high 
number — rapes,  in  addition  to  many  less  conspicuous  crimes, 
to  be  tried  during  a  coming  Sessions  ;  and  from  one  piece  of 
news  he  went  on  to  another,  keeping  the  paper  well  before 
his  face. 

And  still,  inseparable  from  his  reading,  was  the  memory  of 
Irene's  tear-stained  face,  and  the  sounds  from  her  broken  heart. 

The  day  was  a  busy  one,  including,  in  addition  to  the 
ordinary  affairs  of  his  practice,  a  visit  to  his  brokers,  Messrs. 
Grin  and  Grinning,  to  give  them  instructions  to  sell  his 
shares  in  the  New  Colliery  Co.,  Ltd.,  whose  business  he 
suspected,  rather  than  knew,  was  stagnating  (this  enterprise 
afterwards  slowly  declined,  and  was  ultimately  sold  for  a 
song  to  an  American  syndicate)  ;  and  a  long  conference  at 
Waterbuck,  Q.C.'s  chambers,  attended  by  Boulter,  by  Fiske, 
the  junior  counsel,  and  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  himself. 

The  case  of  Forsyte  v.  Bosinney  was  expected  to  be 
reached  on  the  morrow,  before  Mr.  Justice  Bentham. 

Mr.  Justice  Bentham,  a  man  of  common-sense  rather 
than  too  great  legal  knowledge,  was  considered  to  be  about 
the  best  man  they  could  have  to  try  the  action.  He  was 
a  '  strong  '  judge. 

Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  in  pleasing  conjunction  with  an  almost 
rude  neglect  of  Boulter  and  Fiske,  paid  to  Soames  a  good 
deal  of  attention,  by  instinct  or  the  sounder  evidence  of 
rumour,  feeling  him  to  be  a  man  of  property. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  317 

He  held  with  remarkable  consistency  to  the  opinion  he 
had  already  expressed  in  writing,  that  the  issue  would  depend 
to  a  great  extent  on  the  evidence  given  at  the  trial,  and  in 
a  few  well-directed  remarks  he  advised  Soames  not  to  be 
too  careful  in  giving  that  evidence.  *  A  little  bluffness, 
Mr.  Forsyte,'  he  said,  ^  a  little  bluffness,'  and  after  he  had 
spoken  he  laughed  firmly,  closed  his  lips  tight,  and  scratched 
his  head  just  below  where  he  had  pushed  his  wig  back,  for 
all  the  world  like  the  gentleman-farmer  for  whom  he  loved 
to  be  taken.  He  was  considered  perhaps  the  leading  man 
in  breach  of  promise  cases. 

Soames  used  the  underground  again  in  going  home. 

The  fog  was  worse  than  ever  at  Sloane  Square  station. 
Through  the  still,  thick  blurr,  men  groped  in  and  out ; 
women,  very  few,  grasped  their  reticules  to  their  bosoms 
and  handkerchiefs  to  their  mouths  ;  crowned  with  the  weird 
excrescence  of  the  driver,  haloed  by  a  vague  glow  of  lamp- 
light that  seemed  to  drown  in  vapour  before  it  reached  the 
pavement,  cabs  loomed  dim-shaped  ever  and  again,  and 
discharged  citizens  bolting  like  rabbits  to  their  burrows. 

And  these  shadowy  figures,  wrapped  each  in  his  own  little 
shroud  of  fog,  took  no  notice  of  each  other.  In  the  great 
warren,  each  rabbit  for  himself,  especially  those  clothed  in 
the  more  expensive  fur,  who,  afraid  of  carriages  on  foggy 
days,  are  driven  underground. 

One  figure,  however,  not  far  from  Soames,  waited  at  the 
station  door. 

Some  buccaneer  or  lover,  of  whom  each  Forsyte  thought : 
'  Poor  devil !  looks  as  if  he  were  having  a  bad  time  !'  Their 
kind  hearts  beat  a  stroke  faster  for  that  poor,  waiting,  anxious 
lover  in  the  fog;  but  they  hurried  by,  well  knowing  that 
they  had  neither  time  nor  money  to  spare  for  any  suffering 
but  their  own. 

Only  a  policeman,  patrolling  slowly  and  at  intervals,  took 


3i8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

an  interest  in  that  waiting  figure,  the  brim  of  whose  slouch 
hat  half  hid  a  face  reddened  by  the  cold,  all  thin,  and 
haggard,  over  which  a  hand  stole  now  and  again  to  smooth 
away  anxiety,  or  renew  the  resolution  that  kept  him  waiting 
there.  But  the  waiting  lover  (if  lover  he  were)  was  used  to 
policemen's  scrutiny,  or  too  absorbed  in  his  anxiety,  for  he 
never  flinched.  A  hardened  case,  accustomed  to  long  trysts, 
to  anxiety,  and  fog,  and  cold,  if  only  his  mistress  came  at  last. 
Foolish  lover  !  Fogs  last  until  the  spring ;  there  is  also  snow 
and  rain,  no  comfort  anywhere ;  gnawing  fear  if  you  bring 
her  out,  gnawing  fear  if  you  bid  her  stay  at  home ! 

*  Serve  him  right;  he  should  arrange  his  affairs  better!' 

So  any  respectable  Forsyte.  Yet,  if  that  sounder  citizen 
could  have  listened  at  the  waiting  lover's  heart,  out  there  in 
the  fog  and  the  cold,  he  would  have  said  again :  '  Yes,  poor 
devil !   he's  having  a  bad  time  !' 

Soames  got  into  his  cab,  and,  with  the  glass  down,  crept 
along  Sloane  Street,  and  so  along  the  Brompton  Road,  and 
home.     He  reached  his  house  at  five. 

His  wife  was  not  in.  She  had  gone  out  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before.  Out  at  such  a  time  of  night,  into  this  terrible 
fog !     What  was  the  meaning  of  that  ? 

He  sat  by  the  dining-room  fire,  with  the  door  open,  dis- 
turbed to  the  soul,  trying  to  read  the  evening  paper.  A 
book  was  no  good — in  daily  papers  alone  was  any  narcotic 
to  such  worry  as  his.  From  the  customary  events  recorded 
in  the  journal  he  drew  some  comfort.  '  Suicide  of  an  actress ' 
— *  Grave  indisposition  of  a  Statesman  '  (that  chronic  sufferer) 
— *  Divorce  of  an  army  officer' — 'Fire  in  a  colliery' — he 
read  them  all.  They  helped  him  a  little — prescribed  by  the 
greatest  of  all  doctors,  our  natural  taste. 

It  was  nearly  seven  when  he  heard  her  come  in. 

The  incident  of  the  night  before  had  long  lost  its  import- 
ance under  stress  of  anxiety  at  her  strange  sortie  into  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  319 

fog.  But  now  that  Irene  was  home,  the  memory  of  her 
broken-hearted  sobbing  came  back  to  him,  and  he  felt 
nervous  at  the  thought  of  facing  her. 

She  was  already  on  the  stairs ;  her  gray  fur  coat  hung  to 
her  knees,  its  high  collar  almost  hid  her  face,  she  wore  a 
thick  veil. 

She  neither  turned  to  look  at  him  nor  spoke.  No  ghost 
or  stranger  could  have  passed  more  silently. 

Bilson  came  to  lay  dinner,  and  told  him  that  Mrs.  Forsyte 
was  not  coming  down  ;  she  was  having  the  soup  in  her  room. 

For  once  Soames  did  not  '  change ' ;  it  was,  perhaps,  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  sat  down  to  dinner  with 
soiled  cufFs,  and,  not  even  noticing  them,  he  brooded  long 
over  his  wine.  He  sent  Bilson  to  light  a  fire  in  his  picture- 
room,  and  presently  went  up  there  himself. 

Turning  on  the  gas,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  as  though 
amongst  these  treasures,  the  backs  of  which  confronted  him 
in  stacks,  around  the  little  room,  he  had  found  at  length  his 
peace  of  mind.  He  went  straight  up  to  the  greatest  treasure 
of  them  all,  an  undoubted  Turner,  and,  carrying  it  to  the 
easel,  turned  its  face  to  the  light.  There  had  been  a  move- 
ment in  Turners,  but  he  had  not  been  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  part  with  it.  He  stood  for  a  long  time,  his  pale, 
clean-shaven  face  poked  forward  above  his  stand-up  collar, 
looking  at  the  picture  as  though  he  were  adding  it  up ;  a 
wistful  expression  came  into  his  eyes ;  he  found,  perhaps, 
that  it  came  to  too  little.  He  took  it  down  from  the  easel  to 
put  it  back  against  the  wall  ;  but,  in  crossing  the  room, 
stopped,  for  he  seemed  to  hear  sobbing. 

It  was  nothing — only  the  sort  of  thing  that  had  been 
bothering  him  in  the  morning.  And  soon  after,  putting  the 
high  guard  before  the  blazing  fire,  he  stole  downstairs. 

Fresh  for  the  morrow !  was  his  thought.  It  was  long 
before  he  went  to  sleep.  ... 


320  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

It  is  now  to  George  Forsyte  that  the  mind  must  turn  for 
light  on  the  events  of  that  fog-engulfed  afternoon. 

The  wittiest  and  most  sportsmanlike  of  the  Forsytes  had 
passed  the  day  reading  a  novel  in  the  paternal  m.ansion  at 
Princes'  Gardens.  Since  a  recent  crisis  in  his  financial 
affairs  he  had  been  kept  on  parole  by  Roger,  and  compelled 
to  reside  *  at  home.' 

Towards  five  o'clock  he  went  out,  and  took  train  at  South 
Kensington  Station  (for  everyone  to-day  went  Underground). 
His  intention  was  to  dine,  and  pass  the  evening  playing 
billiards  at  the  Red  Pottle — that  unique  hostel,  neither  club, 
hotel,  nor  good  gilt  restaurant. 

He  got  out  at  Charing  Cross,  choosing  it  in  preference  to 
his  more  usual  St.  James's  Park,  that  he  might  reach  Jermyn 
Street  by  better  lighted  ways. 

On  the  platform  his  eyes — for  in  combination  with  a  com- 
posed and  fashionable  appearance,  George  had  sharp  eyes, 
and  was  always  on  the  look-out  for  fillips  to  his  sardonic 
humour — his  eyes  were  attracted  by  a  man,  who,  leaping  from 
a  first-class  compartment,  staggered  rather  than  walked 
towards  the  exit. 

*  So  ho,  my  bird !'  said  George  to  himself ;  *  why,  it's 
"  the  Buccaneer !" '  and  he  put  his  big  figure  on  the  trail. 
Nothing  afforded  him  greater  amusement  than  a  drunken  man. 

Bosinney,  who  wore  a  slouch  hat,  stopped  in  front  of  him, 
spun  round,  and  rushed  back  towards  the  carriage  he  had  just 
left.  He  was  too  late.  A  porter  caught  him  by  the  coat ; 
the  train  was  already  moving  on. 

George's  practised  glance  caught  sight  of  the  face  of  a 
lady  clad  in  a  gray  fur  coat  at  the  carriage  window.  It  was 
Mrs.  Soames — and  George  felt  that  this  was  interesting ! 

And  now  he  followed  Bosinney  more  closely  than  ever — 
up  the  stairs,  past  the  ticket  collector  into  the  street.  In 
that  progress,  however,  his  feelings  underwent  a  change  ;  no 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  321 

longer  merely  curious  and  amused,  he  felt  sorry  for  the 
poor  fellow  he  was  shadowing.  '  The  Buccaneer '  was 
not  drunk,  but  seemed  to  be  acting  under  the  stress  of 
violent  emotion  ;  he  was  talking  to  himself,  and  all  that 
George  could  catch  were  the  words  *  Oh,  God  !'  Nor  did 
he  appear  to  know  what  he  was  doing,  or  w^here  going  ;  but 
stared,  hesitated,  moved  like  a  man  out  of  his  mind  ;  and 
from  being  merely  a  joker  in  search  of  amusement,  George 
felt  that  he  must  see  the  poor  chap  through. 

He  had  '  taken  the  knock  ' — '  taken  the  knock  !'  And  he 
wondered  what  on  earth  Mrs.  Soames  had  been  saying,  what 
on  earth  she  had  been  telling  him  in  the  railway  carriage. 
She  had  looked  bad  enough  herself !  It  made  George  sorry 
to  think  of  her  travelling  on  with  her  trouble  all  alone. 

He  followed  close  behind  Bosinney's  elbow  —  a  tall, 
burly  figure,  saying  nothing,  dodging  warily — and  shadowed 
him  out  into  the  fog.  There  was  something  here  beyond  a 
jest !  He  kept  his  head  admirably,  in  spite  of  some  excite- 
ment, for  in  addition  to  compassion,  the  instincts  of  the 
chase  were  roused  within  him. 

Bosinney  walked  right  out  into  the  thoroughfare — a  vast 
muffled  blackness,  where  a  man  could  not  see  six  paces 
before  him  ;  where,  all  around,  voices  or  whistles  mocked 
the  sense  of  direction  ;  and  sudden  shapes  came  rolling  slow 
upon  them  ;  and  now  and  then  a  light  showed  like  a  dim 
island  in  an  infinite  dark  sea. 

And  fast  into  this  perilous  gulf  of  night  walked  Bosinney, 
and  fast  after  him  walked  George.  If  the  fellow  meant  to 
put  his  '  twopenny '  under  a  bus,  he  would  stop  it  if  he 
could !  Across  the  street  and  back  the  hunted  creature 
strode,  not  groping  as  other  men  were  groping  in  that  gloom^ 
but  driven  forward  as  though  the  faithful  George  behind 
wielded  a  knout ;  and  this  chase  after  a  haunted  man  began  to 
have  for  George  the  strangest  fascination. 


322  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

But  it  was  now  that  the  affair  developed  in  a  way  which  ever 
afterwards  caused  it  to  remain  green  in  his  mind.  Brought 
to  a  stand-still  in  the  fog,  he  heard  words  which  threw  a 
sudden  light  on  these  proceedings.  What  Mrs.  Soames  had 
said  to  Bosinney  in  the  train  was  now  no  longer  dark. 
George  understood  from  those  mutterings  that  Soames  had 
exercised  his  rights  over  an  estranged  and  unwilling  wife  in 
the  greatest — the  supreme  act  of  property. 

His  fancy  wandered  in  the  fields  of  this  situation  ;  it  im- 
pressed him  ;  he  guessed  something  of  the  anguish,  the  sexual 
confusion  and  horror  in  Bosinney's  heart.  And  he  thought. 
'Yes,  it's  a  bit  thick  !  I  don't  wonder  the  poor  fellow  is 
half-cracked  !' 

He  had  run  his  quarry  to  earth  on  a  bench  under  one  of 
the  lions  in  Trafalgar  Square,  a  monster  sphynx  astray  like 
themselves  in  that  gulf  of  darkness.  Here,  rigid  and  silent, 
sat  Bosinney,  and  George,  in  whose  patience  was  a  touch  of 
strange  brotherliness,  took  his  stand  behind.  He  was  not 
lacking  in  a  certain  delicacy — a  sense  of  form — that  did  not 
permit  him  to  intrude  upon  this  tragedy,  and  he  waited, 
quiet  as  the  lion  above,  his  fur  collar  hitched  above  his  ears 
concealing  the  fleshy  redness  of  his  cheeks,  concealing  all  but 
his  eyes  with  their  sardonic,  compassionate  stare.  And  men 
kept  passing  back  from  business  on  the  way  to  their  clubs — 
men  whose  figures  shrouded  in  cocoons  of  fog  came  into 
view  like  spectres,  and  like  spectres  vanished.  Then  even  in 
his  compassion  George's  Quilpish  humour  broke  forth  in  a 
sudden  longing  to  pluck  these  spectres  by  the  sleeve,  and  say : 

*  Hi,  you  Johnnies  !  You  don't  often  see  a  show  like 
this  !  Here's  a  poor  devil  whose  mistress  has  just  been 
telling  him  a  pretty  little  story  of  her  husband  ;  walk  up, 
walk  up !      He's  taken  the  knock,  you  see.' 

In  fancy  he  saw  them  gaping  round  the  tortured  lover  ; 
and   grinned    as   he    thought    of  some   respectable,   newly- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  323 

married  spectre  enabled  by  the  state  of  his  own  affections  to 
catch  an  inkling  of  what  was  going  on  within  Bosinney ;  he 
fancied  he  could  see  his  mouth  getting  wider  and  wider,  and 
the  fog  going  down  and  down.  For  in  George  was  all  that 
contempt  of  the  middle-class — especially  of  the  married 
middle-class — peculiar  to  the  wild  and  sportsmanlike  spirits 
in  its  ranks. 

But  he  began  to  be  bored.  Waiting  was  not  what  he  had 
bargained  for. 

*  After  all,'  he  thought,  'the  poor  chap  will  get  over  it  ; 
not  the  first  time  such  a  thing  has  happened  in  this  little 
city  !'  But  now  his  quarry  again  began  muttering  words  of 
violent  hate  and  anger.  And  following  a  sudden  impulse 
George  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Bosinney  spun  round. 

*  Who  are  you  ?     What  do  you  want  ?* 

George  could  have  stood  it  well  enough  in  the  light  of 
the  gas  lamps,  in  the  light  of  that  every-day  world  of  which 
he  was  so  hardy  a  connoisseur  ;  but  in  this  fog,  where  all 
was  gloomy  and  unreal,  where  nothing  had  that  matter-of- 
fact  value  associated"  by  Forsytes  with  earth,  he  was  a 
victim  to  strange  qualms,  and  as  he  tried  to  stare  back  into 
the  eyes  of  this  maniac,  he  thought  : 

*  If  I  see  a  bobby,  I'll  hand  him  over ;  he's  not  fit  to  be  at 
large.' 

But  waiting  for  no  answer,  Bosinney  strode  off  into  the 
fog,  and  George  followed,  keeping  perhaps  a  little  further  off, 
yet  more  than  ever  set  on  tracking  him  down. 

*  He  can't  go  on  long  like  this,'  he  thought.  '  It's  God's  own 
miracle  he's  not  been  run  over  already.'  He  brooded  no  more 
on  policemen,  a  sportsman's  sacred  fire  alive  again  within  him. 

Into  a  denser  gloom  than  ever  Bosinney  held  on  at  a  furious 
pace;  but  his  pursuer  perceived  more  method  in  his  madness 
— he  was  clearly  making  his  way  westwards. 


324  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  He's  really  going  for  Soames  !'  thought  George.  The 
idea  was  attractive.  It  would  be  a  sporting  end  to  such  a 
chase.     He  had  always  disliked  his  cousin. 

The  shaft  of  a  passing  cab  brushed  against  his  shoulder 
and  made  him  leap  aside.  He  did  not  intend  to  be  killed  for 
the  Buccaneer,  or  anyone.  Yet,  with  hereditary  tenacity, 
he  stuck  to  the  trail  through  vapour  that  blotted  out  every- 
thing but  the  shadow  of  the  hunted  man  and  the  dim  moon 
of  the  nearest  lamp. 

Then  suddenly,  with  the  instinct  of  a  town-stroller,  George 
knew  himself  to  be  in  Piccadilly.  Here  he  could  find  his 
way  blindfold ;  and  freed  from  the  strain  of  geographical 
uncertainty,  his  mind  returned  to  Bosinney's  trouble. 

Down  the  long  avenue  of  his  man-about-town  experience, 
bursting,  as  it  were,  through  a  smirch  of  doubtful  amours, 
there  stalked  to  him  a  memory  of  his  youth.  A  memory, 
poignant  still,  that  brought  the  scent  of  hay,  the  gleam  of 
moonlight,  a  summer  magic,  into  the  reek  and  blackness  of 
this  London  fog — the  memory  of  a  night  when  in  the 
darkest  shadow  of  a  lawn  he  had  overheard  from  a  woman's 
lips  that  he  was  not  her  sole  possessor.  And  for  a  moment 
George  walked  no  longer  in  black  Piccadilly,  but  lay  again, 
with  hell  in  his  heart,  and  his  face  to  the  sweet-smelling, 
dewy  grass,  in  the  long  shadow  of  poplars  that  hid  the  moon. 

A  longing  seized  him  to  throw  his  arm  round  the  Buc- 
caneer, and  say,  '  Come,  old  boy.  Time  cures  all.  Let's 
go  and  drink  it  ofFl' 

But  a  voice  yelled  at  him,  and  he  started  back.  A  cab 
rolled  out  of  blackness,  and  into  blackness  disappeared.  And 
suddenly  George  perceived  that  he  had  lost  Bosinney.  He 
ran  forward  and  back,  felt  his  heart  clutched  by  a  sickening 
fear,  the  dark  fear  that  lives  in  the  wings  of  the  fog.  Per- 
spiration started  out  on  his  brow.  He  stood  quite  still, 
listening  with  all  his  might. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  325 

'  And  then,'  as  he  confided  to  Dartie  the  same  evening  in 
the  course  of  a  game  of  bilb'ards  at  the  Red  Pottle,  *  I  lost 
him/ 

Dartie  twirled  complacently  at  his  dark  moustache.  He 
had  just  put  together  a  neat  break  of  twenty-three,  failing  at 
a  *  jenny.'     *  And  who  was  she  T  he  asked. 

George  looked  slowly  at  the  *  man  of  the  world's '  fattish, 
sallow  face,  and  a  little  grim  smile  lurked  about  the  curves  of 
his  cheeks  and  his  heavy-lidded  eyes. 

*  No,  no,  my  fine  fellow,'  he  thought.  *  I'm  not  going  to 
tell  you.'  For  though  he  mixed  with  Dartie  a  good  deal,  he 
thought  him  a  bit  of  a  cad. 

*  Oh,  some  little  love-lady  or  other,'  he  said,  and  chalked 
his  cue. 

*  A  love-lady  1'  exclaimed  Dartie — he  used  a  more  figura- 
tive expression.     '  I  made  sure  it  was  our  friend  Soa ' 

*  Did  you  ?'  said  George,  curtly.  *Then,  damme,  you've 
made  an  error  !' 

He  missed  his  shot.  He  was  careful  not  to  allude  to  the 
subject  again  till,  towards  eleven  o'clock,  having,  in  his  poetic 
phraseology,  *  looked  upon  the  drink  when  it  was  yellow,'  he 
drew  aside  the  blind,  and  gazed  out  into  the  street.  The 
murky  blackness  of  the  fog  was  but  faintly  broken  by  the 
lamps  of  the  Red  Pottle,'  and  no  shape  of  mortal  man  or 
thing  was  in  sight. 

*  I  can't  help  thinking  of  that  poor  Buccaneer,'  he  said. 
*  He  may  be  wandering  out  there  now  in  that  fog.  If 
he's  not  a  corpse,'  he  added  with  strange  dejection. 

'  Corpse  !'  said  Dartie,  in  whom  the  recollection  of  his 
defeat  at  Richmond  flared  up.  *  He's  all  right.  Ten  to  one 
if  he  wasn't  tight  !' 

George  turned  on  him,  looking  really  formidable,  with  a 
sort  of  savage  gloom  on  his  big  face. 

*  Dry  up  !'  he  said.  *  Don't  I  tell  you  he's  "  taken  the 
knock !" ' 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    TRIAL 

On  the  morning  of  his  case,  which  was  second  in  the  list, 
Soames  was  again  obliged  to  start  without  seeing  Irene,  and 
it  was  just  as  well,  for  he  had  not  as  yet  made  up  his  mind 
what  attitude  to  adopt  towards  her. 

He  had  been  requested  to  be  in  court  by  half-past  ten, 
to  provide  against  the  event  of  the  first  action  (a  breach  of 
promise)  collapsing,  which  however  it  did  not,  both  sides 
showing  a  courage  that  afforded  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  an 
opportunity  for  improving  his  already  great  reputation  in 
this  class  of  case.  He  was  opposed  by  Ram,  the  other 
celebrated  breach  of  promise  man.     It  was  a  battle  of  giants. 

The  Court  delivered  judgment  just  before  the  luncheon 
interval.  The  jury  left  the  box  for  good,  and  Soames  went 
out  to  get  something  to  eat.  He  met  James  standing  at  the 
little  luncheon-bar,  like  a  pelican  in  the  wilderness  of  the 
galleries,  bent  over  a  sandwich  with  a  glass  of  sherry  before 
him.  The  spacious  emptiness  of  the  great  central  hall,  over 
which  father  and  son  brooded  as  they  stood  together,  was 
marred  now  and  then  for  a  fleeting  moment  by  barristers 
in  wig  and  gown  hurriedly  bolting  across,  by  an  occasional 
old  lady  or  rusty-coated  man^  looking  up  in  a  frightened 
way,  and  by  two  persons,  bolder  than  their  generation, 
seated  in  an  embrasure  arguing.  The  sound  of  their  voices 
arose,  together  with  a  scent  as  of  neglected  v/ells,  which, 

526 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  327 

mingling  with  the  odour  of  the  galleries,  combined  to  form  the 
savour,  like  nothing  butthe  emanation  of  a  refined  cheese,  so  in- 
dissoluble connected  with  the  administration  of  British  justice. 

It  was  not  long  before  James  addressed  his  son. 

'  When's  your  case  coming  on  ?  I  suppose  it'll  be  on 
directly.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this  Bosinney'd  say  any- 
thing ;  I  should  think  he'd  have  to.  He'll  go  bankrupt  if 
it  goes  against  him.'  He  took  a  large  bite  at  his  sandv/ich 
and  a  mouthful  of  sherry.  '  Your  mother,'  he  said,  '  wants 
you  and  Irene  to  come  and  dine  to-night.' 

A  chill  smile  played  round  Soames's  lips  ;  he  looked  back 
at  his  father.  Anyone  who  had  seen  the  look,  cold  and 
furtive,  thus  interchanged,  might  have  been  pardoned  for 
not  appreciating  the  real  understanding  between  them. 
James  finished  his  sherry  at  a  draught. 

^  How  much  r'  he  asked. 

On  returning  to  the  court  Soames  took  at  once  his  rightful 
seat  on  the  front  bench  beside  his  solicitor.  He  ascertained 
where  his  father  was  seated  with  a  glance  so  sidelong  as  to 
commit  nobody. 

James,  sitting  back  with  his  hands  clasped  over  the  handle 
of  his  umbrella,  was  brooding  on  the  end  of  the  bench 
immediately  behind  counsel,  whence  he  could  get  away  at 
once  when  the  case  was  over.  He  considered  Bosinney's 
conduct  in  every  way  outrageous,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  run 
up  against  him,  feeling  that  the  meeting  would  be  awkward. 

Next  to  the  Divorce  Court,  this  court  was,  perhaps,  the 
favourite  emporium  of  justice,  libel,  breach  of  promise,  and 
other  commercial  actions  being  frequently  decided  there. 
Quite  a  sprinkling  or  persons  unconnected  with  the  law 
occupied  the  back  benches,  and  the  hat  of  a  woman  or  two 
could  be  seen  in  the  gallery. 

The  two  rows  of  seats  immediately  in  front  of  James  were 
gradually  filled  by  barristers  in  wigs,  who  sat  down  to  make 


328  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

pencil  notes,  chat,  and  attend  to  their  teeth ;  but  his  interest 
was  soon  diverted  from  these  lesser  lights  of  justice  by  the 
entrance  of  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  with  the  wings  of  his  silk 
gown  rustling,  and  his  red,  capable  face  supported  by  two 
short,  brown  whiskers.  The  famous  Q.C.  looked,  as  James 
freely  admitted,  the  very  picture  of  a  man  who  could  heckle 
a  witness. 

For  all  his  experience,  it  so  happened  that  he  had  never 
seen  Waterbuck,  Q.C,  before,  and,  like  many  Forsytes  in  the 
lower  branch  of  the  profession,  he  had  an  extreme  admiration 
for  a  good  cross-examiner.  The  long,  lugubrious  folds  in 
his  cheeks  relaxed  somewhat  after  seeing  him,  especially  as  he 
now  perceived  that  Soames  alone  was  represented  by  silk. 

Waterbuck,  Q.C,  had  barely  screwed  round  on  his  elbow 
to  chat  with  his  Junior  before  Mr.  Justice  Bentham  himself 
appeared — a  thin,  rather  hen-like  man,  with  a  little  stoop, 
clean-shaven  under  his  snowy  wig.  Like  all  the  rest  of  the 
court,  Waterbuck  rose,  and  remained  on  his  feet  until  the 
judge  was  seated.  James  rose  but  slightly ;  he  was  already 
comfortable,  and  had  no  opinion  of  Bentham,  having  sat 
next  but  one  to  him  at  dinner  twice  at  the  Bumley  Tomms'. 
Burnley  Tomm  was  rather  a  poor  thing,  though  he  had 
been  so  successful.  James  himself  had  given  him  his  first 
brief.  He  was  excited,  too,  for  he  had  just  found  out  that 
Bosinney  was  not  in  court. 

^  Now,  what's  he  mean  by  that  ?'  he  kept  on  thinking. 

The  case  having  been  called  on,  Waterbuck,  Q.C,  push- 
ing back  his  papers,  hitched  his  gown  on  his  shoulder,  and, 
with  a  semi-circular  look  around  him,  like  a  man  who  is 
going  to  bat,  arose  and  addressed  the  court. 

The  facts,  he  said,  were  not  in  dispute,  and  all  that  his 
lordship  would  be  asked  was  to  interpret  the  correspondence 
which  had  taken  place  between  his  client  and  the  defendant, 
an  architect,  with  reference  to  the  decoration   of  a  house. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  329 

He  would,  however,  submit  that  this  correspondence  could 
only  mean  one  very  plain  thing.  After  briefly  reciting  the 
history  of  the  house  at  Robin  Hill,  which  he  described  as  a 
mansion,  and  the  actual  facts  of  expenditure,  he  went  on  as 
follows : 

'  My  client,  Mr.  Soames  Forsyte,  is  a  gentleman,  a  man  of 
property,  who  would  be  the  last  to  dispute  any  legitimate 
claim  that  might  be  made  against  him,  but  he  has  met  with 
such  treatment  from  his  architect  in  the  matter  of  this  house, 
over  which  he  has,  as  your  lordship  has  heard,  already  spent 
some  twelve — some  twelve  thousand  pounds,  a  sum  consider- 
ably in  advance  of  the  amount  he  had  originally  contem- 
plated, that  as  a  matter  of  principle — and  this  I  cannot  too 
strongly  emphasize — as  a  matter  of  principle,  and  in  the 
interests  of  others,  he  has  felt  himself  compelled  to  bring  this 
action.  The  point  put  forward  in  defence  by  the  architect 
I  will  suggest  to  your  lordship  is  not  worthy  of  a  moment's 
serious  consideration.'     He  then  read  the  correspondence. 

His  client,  ^  a  man  of  recognised  position,'  was  prepared  to 
go  into  the  box,  and  to  swear  that  he  never  did  authorize, 
that  it  was  never  in  his  mind  to  authorize,  the  expenditure  of 
any  money  beyond  the  extreme  limit  of  twelve  thousand  and 
fifty  pounds,  which  he  had  clearly  fixed ;  and  not  further  to 
waste  the  time  of  the  court,  he  would  at  once  call 
Mr.  Forsyte. 

Soames  then  went  into  the  box.  His  whole  appearance 
was  striking  in  its  composure.  His  face,  just  supercilious 
enough,  pale  and  clean-shaven,  with  a  little  line  between  the 
eyes,  and  compressed  lips ;  his  dress  in  unostentatious  order, 
one  hand  neatly  gloved,  the  other  bare.  He  answered  the 
questions  put  to  him  in  a  somewhat  low,  but  distinct  voice. 
His  evidence  under  cross-examination  savoured  of  taciturnity. 

*  Had  he  not  used  the  expression,  "  a  free  hand  "  ?' 

*No.' 


330  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  Come,  come !' 

The  expression  he  had  used  was  '  a  free  hand  in  the  terms 
of  this  correspondence.' 

'  Would  he  tell  the  court  that  that  was  English  ?' 

'  Yes  !' 

'  What  did  he  say  it  meant  ?' 

*  What  it  said  !' 

*  Was  he  prepared  to  deny  that  it  was  a  contradiction  in 
terms  ?' 

'Yes.' 

*  He  was  not  an  Irishman  ?' 
*No.' 

*  Was  he  a  well-educated  man  ?' 
*Yes!' 

*  And  yet  he  persisted  in  that  statement  ?' 
'Yes.' 

Throughout  this  and  much  more  cross-examination,  which 
turned  again  and  again  around  the  '  nice  point,'  James  sat 
with  his  hand  behind  his  ear,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  son. 

He  was  proud  of  him  !  He  could  not  but  feel  that  in 
similar  circumstances  he  himself  would  have  been  tempted 
to  enlarge  his  replies,  but  his  instinct  told  him  that  this 
taciturnity  was  the  very  thing.  He  sighed  with  relief,  how- 
ever, when  Soames,  slowly  turning,  and  without  any  change 
of  expression,  descended  from  the  box. 

When  it  came  to  the  turn  of  Bosinney's  Counsel  to 
address  the  Judge,  James  redoubled  his  attention,  and  he 
searched  the  Court  again  and  again  to  see  if  Bosinney  were 
not  somewhere  concealed. 

Young  Chankery  began  nervously  ;  he  was  placed  by 
Bosinney's  absence  in  an  awkward  position.  He  therefore 
did  his  best  to  turn  that  absence  to  account. 

He  could  not  but  fear — he  said — that  his  client  had  met 
with  an  accident.     He  had  fully  expected  him  there  to  give 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  331 

evidence  ;  they  had  sent  round  that  morning  both  to  Mr. 
Bosinney's  office  and  to  his  rooms  (though  he  knew  they 
were  one  and  the  same,  he  thought  it  was  as  well  not  to  say 
so),  but  it  was  not  known  where  he  was,  and  this  he  con- 
sidered to  be  ominous,  knowing  how  anxious  Mr.  Bosinney 
had  been  to  give  his  evidence.  He  had  not,  however,  been 
instructed  to  apply  for  an  adjournment,  and  in  default  of 
such  instruction  he  conceived  it  his  duty  to  go  on.  The 
plea  on  which  he  somewhat  confidently  relied,  and*  which 
his  client,  had  he  not  unfortunately  been  prevented  in  some 
way  from  attending,  would  have  supported  by  his  evidence, 
was  that  such  an  expression  as  a  ^  free  hand '  could  not  be 
limited,  fettered,  and  rendered  unmeaning,  by  any  verbiage 
which  might  follow  it.  He  would  go  further  and  say  that 
the  correspondence  showed  that  whatever  he  might  have 
said  in  his  evidence,  Mr.  Forsyte  had  in  fact  never  contem- 
plated repudiating  liability  on  any  of  the  work  ordered  or 
executed  by  his  architect.  The  defendant  had  certainly 
never  contemplated  such  a  contingency,  or,  as  was  demon- 
strated by  his  letters,  he  would  never  have  proceeded  with 
the  work — a  work  of  extreme  delicacy,  carried  out  with 
great  care  and  efficiency,  to  meet  and  satisfy  the  fastidious 
taste  of  a  connoisseur,  a  rich  man,  a  man  of  property.  He 
felt  strongly  on  this  point,  and  feeling  strongly  he  used,  per- 
haps, rather  strong  words  when  he  said  that  this  action  was 
of  a  most  unjustifiable,  unexpected,  indeed  unprecedented 
character.  If  his  Lordship  had  had  the  opportunity  that 
he  himself  had  made  it  his  duty  to  take,  to  go  over  this  very 
fine  house  and  see  the  great  delicacy  and  beauty  of  the 
decorations  executed  by  his  client — an  artist  in  his  most 
honourable  profession — he  felt  convinced  that  not  for  one 
moment  would  his  Lordship  tolerate  this,  he  would  use  no 
stronger  word  than,  daring  attempt  to  evade  legitimate 
responsibility. 


332  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Taking  the  text  of  Soames's  letters,  he  lightly  touched  on 
*  Boileau  v.  The  Blasted  Cement  Company,  Limited.'  ^  It 
is  doubtful,'  he  said,  '  what  that  authority  has  decided  ;  in 
any  case  I  would  submit  that  it  is  just  as  much  in  my  favour 
as  in  my  friend's.'  He  then  argued  the  '  nice  point '  closely. 
With  all  due  deference  he  submitted  that  Mr.  Forsyte's 
expression  nullified  itself.  His  client  not  being  a  rich  man, 
the  matter  was  a  serious  one  for  him  ;  he  was  a  ver)-  talented 
architect,  whose  professional  reputation  was  undoubtedly 
somewhat  at  stake.  He  concluded  with  a  perhaps  too  per- 
sonal appeal  to  the  Judge,  as  a  lover  of  the  arts,  to  show 
himself  the  protector  of  artists,  from  what  was  occasionally 
— he  said  occasionally — the  too  iron  hand  of  capital. 
'What,'  he  said,  'will  be  the  position  of  the  artistic 
professions,  if  men  of  property  like  this  Mr.  Forsyte  refuse, 
and  are  allowed  to  refuse,  to  earn;'  out  the  obligations  of 
the  commissions  which  they  have  given:'  .  .  .  He  would 
now  call  his  client,  in  case  he  should  at  the  last  moment 
have  found  himself  able  to  be  present. 

The  name  Philip  Baynes  Bosinnev  was  called  three  times 
by  the  Ushers,  and  the  sound  of  the  calling  echoed  with 
strange  melancholy  throughout  the  Court  and  Galleries. 

The  crying  of  this  name,  to  which  no  answer  was 
returned,  had  upon  James  a  curious  effect :  it  was  like 
calling  for  your  lost  dog  about  the  streets.  And  the  creepy 
feeling  that  it  gave  him,  of  a  man  missing,  grated  on  his 
sense  of  comfort  and  security — on  his  cosiness.  Though  he 
could  not  have  said  why,  it  made  him  feel  uneasy. 

He  looked  now  at  the  clock — a  quarter  to  three  !  It 
would  be  all  over  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Where  could 
the  young  fellow  be  r 

It  was  only  when  Mr.  Justice  Bentham  delivered 
judgment  that  he  got  over  the  turn  he  had  received. 

Behind  the  wooden  plateau  by  which  he  was  fenced  from 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  333 

more  ordinary  mortals  the  learned  Judge  leaned  forward. 
The  electric  light,  just  turned  on  above  his  head,  fell  on  his 
face,  and  mellowed  it  to  an  orange  hue  beneath  the  snowy 
crown  of  his  wig  ;  the  amplitude  of  his  robes  grew  before 
the  eye  ;  his  whole  figure,  facing  the  comparative  dusk  of 
the  court,  radiated  like  some  majestic  and  sacred  body.  He 
cleared  his  throat,  took  a  sip  of  water,  broke  the  nib  of  a 
quill  against  the  desk,  and,  folding  his  bony  hands  before 
him,  began. 

To  James  he  suddenly  loomed  much  larger  than  he  had 
ever  thought  Bentham  would  loom.  It  was  the  maiesty  of 
the  law  ;  and  a  person  endowed  with  a  nature  far  less 
matter-of-fact  than  that  of  James  might  have  been  excused 
for  failing  to  pierce  this  halo,  and  disinter  therefrom  the 
somewhat  ordinary  Forsyte,  who  walked  and  talked  in  every- 
day life  under  the  name  of  Sir  Walter  Bentham. 
He  delivered  judgment  in  the  following  words  : 
'The  facts  in  this  case  are  not  in  dispute.  On  May  15 
last  the  defendant  wrote  to  the  plaintiff,  requesting  to  be 
allowed  to  withdraw  from  his  professional  position  in  regard 
to  the  decoration  of  the  plaintifiPs  house,  unless  he  were 
given  "a  free  hand."  The  plaintiff,  on  May  17,  wrote 
back  as  follows  :  "  In  giving  you,  in  accordance  with  your 
request,  this  free  hand,  I  wish  you  to  clearly  understand  that 
the  totaJ  cost  of  the  house  as  handed  over  to  me  completely 
decorated,  inclusive  of  your  fee  (as  arranged  between  us) 
must  not  exceed  twelve  thousand  pounds."  To  this  letter 
the  defendant  replied  on  May  18:  "If  you  think  that  in 
such  a  delicate  matter  as  decoration  I  can  bind  myself  to  the 
exact  pound,  I  am  afraid  you  are  mistaken."  On  May  19 
the  plaintiff  wrote  as  follows  :  "  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that 
if  you  should  exceed  the  sum  named  in  my  letter  to  you  by 
ten  or  twenty  or  even  fifty  pounds  there  would  be  anv  diffi- 
culty between  us.     You  have  a  free  hand  in  the  terms  ot 


334  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

this  correspondence,  and  I  hope  you  will  see  your  way  to 
completing  the  decorations."  On  May  20  the  defendant 
replied  thus  shortly  :  "  Very  well." 

'  In  completing  these  decorations,  the  defendant  incurred 
liabilities  and  expenses  which  brought  the  total  cost  of  this 
house  up  to  the  sum  of  twelve  thousand  four  hundred 
pounds,  all  of  which  expenditure  has  been  defrayed  by  the 
plaintiff.  This  action  has  been  brought  by  the  plaintiff  to 
recover  from  the  defendant  the  sum  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  expended  by  him  in  excess  of  a  sum  of  twelve 
thousand  and  fifty  pounds,  alleged  by  the  plaintiff  to  have 
been  fixed  by  this  correspondence  as  the  maximum  sum  that 
the  defendant  had  authority  to  expend. 

'The  question  for  me  to  decide  is  whether  or  no  the 
defendant  is  liable  to  refund  to  the  plaintiff  this  sum.  In 
my  judgment  he  is  so  liable. 

*  What  in  effect  the  plaintiff  has  said  is  this  :  "  I  give  you 
a  free  hand  to  complete  these  decorations,  provided  that  you 
keep  within  a  total  cost  to  me  of  twelve  thousand  pounds. 
If  you  exceed  that  sum  by  as  much  as  fifty  pounds,  I  will 
not  hold  you  responsible  ;  beyond  that  point  you  are  no 
agent  of  mine,  and  I  shall  repudiate  liability."  It  is  not 
quite  clear  to  me  whether,  had  the  plaintiff  in  fact  repu- 
diated liability  under  his  agent's  contracts,  he  would,  under 
all  the  circumstances,  have  been  successful  in  so  doing ;  but 
he  has  not  adopted  this  course.  He  has  accepted  liability, 
and  fallen  back  upon  his  rights  against  the  defendant  under 
the  terms  of  the  latter's  engagement. 

'  In  my  judgment  the  plaintiff  is  entitled  to  recover  this 
sum  from  the  defendant. 

*  It  has  been  sought,  on  behalf  of  the  defendant,  to  show 
that  no  limit  of  expenditure  was  fixed  or  intended  to  be 
fixed  by  this  correspondence.  If  this  were  so,  I  can  find  no 
reason  for  the  plaintiff's  importation  into  the  correspondence 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  335 

of  the  figures  of  twelve  thousand  pounds  and  subsequently 
of  fifty  pounds.  The  defendant's  contention  would  render 
these  figures  meaningless.  It  is  manifest  to  me  that  by  his 
letter  of  May  20  he  assented  to  a  very  clear  proposition,  by 
the  terms  of  which  he  must  be  held  to  be  bound. 

'  For  these  reasons  there  will  be  judgment  for  the  plaintiff 
for  the  amount  claimed  with  costs.' 

James  sighed,  and  stooping,  picked  up  his  umbrella  which 
had  fallen  with  a  rattle  at  the  words  '  importation  into  this 
correspondence.' 

Untangling  his  legs,  he  rapidly  left  the  Court  ;  without 
waiting  for  his  son,  he  snapped  up  a  hansom  cab  (it  was  a 
clear,  gray  afternoon)  and  drove  straight  to  Timothy's  where 
he  found  Swithin  ;  and  to  him,  Mrs.  Septimus  Small,  and 
Aunt  Hester,  he  recounted  the  whole  proceedings,  eating 
two  muffins  not  altogether  in  the  intervals  of  speech. 

*  Soames  did  very  well,'  he  ended  ;  *  he's  got  his  head 
screwed  on  the  right  way.  This  won't  please  Jolyon.  It's 
a  bad  business  for  that  young  Bosinney  ;  he'll  go  bankrupt, 
I  shouldn't  wonder,'  and  then  after  a  long  pause,  during 
which  he  had  stared  disquietly  into  the  fire,  he  added  : 

*  He  wasn't  there — now  why  ?' 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps.  The  figure  of  a  thick- 
set man,  with  the  ruddy  brown  face  of  robust  health,  was 
seen  in  the  back  drawing-room.  The  forefinger  of  his  up- 
raised hand  was  outlined  against  the  black  of  his  frock  coat. 
He  spoke  in  a  grudging  voice. 

'  Well,  James,'  he  said  ;  '  I  can't — I  can't  stop.'  And 
turning  round,  he  walked  out. 

It  was  Timothy. 

James  rose  from  his  chair.     *  There  !'  he  said  ;  *  there  ! 

I  knew  there  was  something  wro '    He  checked  himself, 

and  was  silent,  staring  before  him,  as  though  he  had  seen  s 
portent. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SOAMES    BREAKS    THE    NEWS 

On  leaving  the  Courts  Soames  did  not  go  straight  home. 
He  felt  disinclined  for  the  City,  and  drawn  by  need  for 
sympathy  in  his  triumph,  he,  too,  made  his  way,  but  slowly 
and  on  foot,  to  Timothy's  in  the  Bayswater  Road. 

His  father  had  just  left  ;  Mrs.  Small  and  Aunt  Hester,  in 
possession  of  the  whole  story,  greeted  him  warmly.  They 
were  sure  he  was  hungry  after  all  that  evidence.  Smither 
should  toast  him  some  more  muffins,  his  dear  father  had 
eaten  them  all.  He  must  put  his  legs  up  on  the  sofa  ;  and 
he  must  have  a  glass  of  prune  brandy  too.  It  was  so 
strengthening. 

Swithin  was  still  present,  having  lingered  later  than  his 
wont,  for  he  felt  in  want  of  exercise.  On  hearing  this  sug- 
gestion, he  ^  pished.'  A  pretty  pass  young  men  were  coming 
to  !  His  own  liver  was  out  of  order,  and  he  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  anyone  else  drinking  prune  brandy. 

He  went  away  almost  immediately,  saying  to  Soames  : 
*  And  how's  your  wife  r  You  tell  her  from  me  that  if  she's 
dull,  and  likes  to  come  and  dine  with  me  quietly,  I'll  give 
her  such  a  bottle  of  champagne  as  she  doesn't  get  every 
day.'  Staring  down  from  his  height  on  Soames  he  con- 
tracted his  thick,  puffy,  yellow  hand  as  though  squeezing 
within  it  all  this  small  fry,  and  throwing  out  his  chest  he 
waddled  slowly  away. 

336 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  337 

Mrs.  Small  and  Aunt  Hester  were  left  horrified.  Swithin 
was  so  droll  ! 

They  themselves  were  longing  to  ask  Soames  how  Irene 
would  take  the  result,  yet  knew  that  they  must  not  ;  he 
would  perhaps  say  something  of  his  own  accord,  to  throw 
some  light  on  this,  the  present  burning  question  in  their 
lives,  the  question  that  from  necessity  of  silence  tortured 
them  almost  beyond  bearing  ;  for  even  Timothy  had  now 
been  told,  and  the  effect  on  his  health  was  little  short  of 
alarming.  And  what,  too,  would  June  do  ?  This,  also, 
was  a  most  exciting,  if  dangerous  speculation  ! 

They  had  never  forgotten  old  Jolyon's  visit,  since  when 
he  had  not  once  been  to  see  them  ;  they  had  never  forgotten 
the  feeling  it  gave  all  who  were  present,  that  the  family  was  no 
longer  what  it  had  been — that  the  family  was  breaking  up. 

But  Soames  gave  them  no  help,  sitting  with  his  knees 
crossed,  talking  of  the  Barbizon  school  of  painters,  whom  he 
had  just  discovered.  These  were  the  coming  men,  he  said  ; 
he  should  not  wonder  if  a  lot  of  m^oney  were  made  over 
them  ;  he  had  his  eye  on  two  pictures  by  a  man  called 
Corot,  charming  things  ;  if  he  could  get  them  at  a  reasonable 
price  he  was  going  to  buy  them — they  would,  he  thought, 
fetch  a  big  price  some  day. 

Interested  as  they  could  not  but  be,  neither  Mrs.  Septimus 
Small  nor  Aunt  Hester  could  entirely  acquiesce  in  being  thus 
put  off. 

It  was  interesting — most  interesting — and  then  Soames 
was  so  clever  that  they  were  sure  he  would  do  somethins; 
with  those  pictures  if  anybody  could  ;  but  what  was  his  plan 
now  that  he  had  won  his  case  ;  was  he  going  to  leave 
London  at  once,  and  live  in  the  countr}',  or  what  was  he 
going  to  do  ? 

Soames  answered  that  he  did  not  know,  he  thought  they 
should  be  moving  soon.      He  rose  and  kissed  his  aunts. 

12 


338  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

No  sooner  had  Aunt  Juley  received  this  emblem  of  depar- 
ture than  a  change  came  over  her,  as  though  she  were  being 
visited  by  dreadful  courage  ;  every  little  roll  of  flesh  on  her 
face  seemed  trying  to  escape  from  an  invisible,  confining  mask. 

She  rose  to  the  full  extent  of  her  more  than  medium 
height,  and  said  :  *  It  has  been  on  my  mind  a  long  time, 
dear,  and  if  nobody  else  will  tell  you,  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that ' 

Aunt  Hester  interrupted  her  :  '  Mind,  Julia,  you  do  it — ' 
she  gasped — *  on  your  own  responsibility  1' 

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  T 

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  v/ant  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  1      Let's 

shake  hands — and '    Perhaps  she  would  let  him  kiss  her, 

and  forget  ! 


THE  xVIAN  OF  PROPERTY  339 

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  any  one  else  !  He  would  tax  her  v/ith  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  brin2;  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  or 
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  r  The  result  of  this 
case  would  ruin  Bosinney  ;  a  ruined  man  was  desperate,  but 
— what  could  he   do  r     He  might   go  abroad,  ruined  men 


340  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

always  went  abroad.  What  could  they  do — if  indeed  it  was 
'  they ' — without  money  r  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  l>e  got  home.  When  the  cab  drew  up  at  the  door,  he 
had  decided  nothing. 

He  entered,  pale,  his  hands  moist  with  perspiration,  dread- 
ing 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  r'  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  V  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.  Lady  Bellis. 

Mrs.  Septimus  Small.  Miss  Hermione  Bellis. 

Mrs.  Baynes.  Miss  Winifred  Bellis. 

Mr.  Solomon  Thornworthy.  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  hide-and-seek  in  his  brain.     It  was 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  341 

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. 

Everj^thing  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  j 


342  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  woman  who  opened  it  could  not  say  whether  Mr.  Bos- 
inney  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  him- 
self.    He  went  up  with  a  dogged,  white  face. 

The  top  floor  was  unlighted,  the  door  closed,  no  one 
answered  his  rin2;in2;,  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  :  *  Any- 
body 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  with- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  343 

out  a  look,  he  went  straight  up  to  his  mother's  and  father's 
bedroom. 

James,  standing  sideways,  the  concave  h'nes  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  poutins, 
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,  Felice,  come  and  hook 
this  ;  your  master'll  never  get  done.' 

He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  throat,  and  said  hoarsely  : 

at's  I— Soames!' 

He  noticed  gratefully  the  affectionate  surprise  in  Emily's  : 
*  Well,  my  dear  boy  ?'  and  James's,  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'U  give  you ' 

But  Emily  broke  in  quietly  :  '  Have  you  brought  Irene  r* 

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. 


344  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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 
/  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  know  where  she's  gone  ?  Where  d'you 
suppose  she's  gone  ?  She's  gone  after  that  young  Bosinney, 
that's  where  she's  gone.     I  knew  how  it  would  be.' 

Soames,  in  the  long  silence  that  followed,  felt  his  mother 
pressing  his  hand.  And  all  that  passed  seemed  to  pass  as 
though  his  own  power  of  thinking  or  doing  had  gone  to 
sleep. 

His  father's  face,  dusky  red,  twitching  as  if  he  were  going 
to  cry,  and  words  breaking  out  that  seemed  rent  from  him 
by  some  spasm  in  his  soul. 

*  There'll  be  a  scandal  ;  I  always  said  so.'  Then,  no  one 
saying  anything :  '  And  there  you  stand,  you  and  your 
mother  !' 

And  Emily's  voice,  calm,  rather  contemptuous  :  '  Come, 
now,  James  !     Soames  will  do  all  that  he  can.' 

And  James,  staling  at  the  floor,  a  little  brokenly  :  '  Weil, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  345 

I  can't  help  you  ;  I'm  getting  old.     Don't  you  be  in  too 
great  a  hurry,  my  boy.' 

And  his  mother's  voice  again  :  *  Soames  will  do  all  he  can 
to  get  her  back.  We  won't  talk  of  it.  It'll  all  come  right, 
I  dare  say.' 

And  James :  '  Well,  I  can't  see  how  it  can  come  right.  And 
if  she  hasn't  gone  off  with  that  young  Bosinney,  my  advice 
to  you  is  not  to  listen  to  her,  but  to  follow  her  and  get  her 
back.* 

Once  more  Soames  felt  his  mother  stroking  his  hand,  in 
token  of  her  approval,  and  as  though  repeating  some  form  of 
sacred  oath,  he  muttered  between  his  teeth  :  *  I  will  !' 

All  three  went  down  to  the  drawing  -  room  together. 
There,  were  gathered  the  three  girls  and  Dartie ;  had 
Irene  been  present,  the  family  circle  would  have  been 
complete. 

James  sank  into  his  armchair,  and  except  for  a  word  of 
cold  greeting  to  Dartie,  whom  he  both  despised  and  dreaded, 
as  a  man  likely  to  be  always  in  want  of  money,  he  said 
nothing  till  dinner  was  announced.  Soames,  too,  was  silent  ; 
Emily  alone,  a  woman  of  cool  courage,  maintained  a  con- 
versation with  Winifred  on  trivial  subjects.  She  was  never 
more  composed  in  her  manner  and  conversation  than  that 
evening. 

A  decision  having  been  come  to  not  to  speak  of  Irene's 
flight,  no  view  was  expressed  by  any  other  member  of  the 
family  as  to  the  right  course  to  be  pursued  ;  there  can  be 
little  doubt,  from  the  general  tone  adopted  in  relation  to 
events  as  they  afterwards  turned  out,  that  James's  advice  : 
*  Don't  you  listen  to  her,  follow  her  and  get  her  back  1' 
would,  with  here  and  there  an  exception,  have  been  regarded 
as  sound,  not  only  in  Park  Lane,  but  amongst  the  Nicholases, 
the  Rogers,  and  at  Timothy's.  Just  as  it  would  surely  have 
been  endorsed    by   that   wider  body    of   Forsytes   all    over 

12* 


346  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

London,  who  were  merely  excluded  from  judgment  by 
ignorance  of  the  story. 

In  spite  then  of  Emily's  efforts,  the  dinner  was  served  by 
Warmson  and  the  footman  almost  in  silence.  Dartie  was 
sulky,  and  drank  all  he  could  get  ;  the  girls  seldom  talked  to 
each  other  at  any  time.  James  asked  once  where  June  was, 
and  what  she  was  doing  with  herself  in  these  days.  No  one 
could  tell  him.  He  sank  back  into  gloom.  Only  when 
Winifred  recounted  how  little  Publius  had  given  his  bad 
penny  to  a  beggar,  did  he  brighten  up. 

'  Ah  !'  he  said,  '  that's  a  clever  little  chap.  I  don't  know 
what'll  become  of  him,  if  he  goes  on  like  this.  An  intelli- 
gent little  chap,  I  call  him  !'     But  it  was  only  a  flash. 

The  courses  succeeded  one  another  solemnly,  under  the 
electric  light,  which  glared  down  on  the  table,  but  barely 
reached  the  principal  ornament  on  the  walls,  a  so-called  *  Sea 
Piece  by  Turner,'  almost  entirely  composed  of  cordage  and 
drowning  men.  Champagne  was  handed,  and  then  a  bottle 
of  James's  prehistoric  port,  but  as  by  the  chill  hand  of  some 
skeleton. 

At  ten  o'clock  Soames  left ;  twice  in  reply  to  questions, 
he  had  said  that  Irene  was  not  well ;  he  felt  he  could  no 
longer  trust  himself.  His  mother  kissed  him  with  her  large 
soft  kiss,  and  he  pressed  her  hand,  a  flush  of  warmth  in  his 
cheeks.  He  walked  away  in  the  cold  wind,  which  whistled 
desolately  round  the  corners  of  the  ^treets,  under  a  sky  of 
clear  steel-blue,  alive  with  stars  ;  he  noticed  neither  their 
frosty  greeting,  nor  the  crackle  of  the  curled-up  plane-leaves, 
nor  the  night-women  hurrying  in  their  shabby  furs,  nor  the 
pinched  faces  of  vagabonds  at  street  corners.  Winter  was 
come  !  But  Soames  hastened  home,  oblivious  ;  his  hands 
trembled  as  he  took  the  late  letters  from  the  gilt  wire  cage 
into  which  they  had  been  thrust  through  the  slit  in  the  door. 

None  from  Irene. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  347 

He  went  into  the  dining-room  ;  the  fire  was  bright  there, 
his  chair  drawn  up  to  it,  slippers  ready,  spirit  case,  and  carven 
cigarette  box  on  the  table  ;  but  after  staring  at  it  all  for  a 
minute  or  two,  he  turned  out  the  light  and  went  upstairs. 
There  was  a  fire  too  in  his  dressing-room,  but  her  room  was 
dark  and  cold.     It  was  into  this  room  that  Soames  went. 

He  made  a  great  illumination  with  candles,  and  for  a  long 
time  continued  pacing  up  and  down  between  the  bed  and 
the  door.  He  could  not  get  used  to  the  thought  that  she 
had  really  left  him,  and  as  though  still  searching  for  some 
message,  some  reason,  some  reading  of  all  the  mystery  of  his 
married  life,  he  began  opening  every  recess  and  drawer. 

There  were  her  dresses  ;  he  had  always  liked,  indeed  in- 
sisted, that  she  should  be  well-dressed — she  had  taken  very 
few  ;  two  or  three  at  most,  and  drawer  after  drawer,  full  of 
linen  and  silk  things,  was  untouched. 

Perhaps  after  all  it  was  only  a  freak,  and  she  had  gone  to 
the  seaside  for  a  few  days'  change.  If  only  that  were  so, 
and  she  were  really  coming  back,  he  would  never  again  do 
as  he  had  done  that  fatal  night  before  last,  never  again  run 
that  risk — though  it  was  her  duty,  her  duty  as  a  wife  ; 
though  she  did  belong  to  him — he  would  never  again  run 
that  risk  ;  she  was  evidently  not  quite  right  in  her  head  ! 

He  stooped  over  the  drawer  where  she  kept  her  jewels; 
it  was  not  locked,  and  came  open  as  he  pulled  ;  the  jewel 
box  had  the  key  in  it.  This  surprised  him  until  he  remem- 
bered that  it  was  sure  to  be  empty.      He  opened  it. 

It  was  far  from  empty.  Divided,  in  little  green  velvet 
compartments,  were  all  the  things  he  had  given  her,  even  her 
watch,  and  stuck  into  the  recess  that  contained  the  watch 
was  a  three-cornered  note  addressed  *  Soames  Forsyte,'  in 
Irene's  handwriting. 

*I  think  I  have  taken  nothing  that  you  or  your  people  have 
given  me.'     And  that  was  all. 


348  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  looked  at  the  clasps  and  bracelets  of  diamonds  and 
pearls,  at  the  little  flat  gold  watch  with  a  great  diamond  set 
in  sapphires,  at  the  chains  and  rings,  each  in  its  nest,  and  the 
tears  rushed  up  in  his  eyes  and  dropped  upon  them. 

Nothing  that  she  could  have  done,  nothing  that  she  had 
done,  brought  home  to  him  like  this  the  inner  significance  of 
her  act.  •  For  the  moment,  perhaps,  he  understood  nearly  all 
there  was  to  understand — understood  that  she  loathed  him, 
that  she  had  loathed  him  for  years,  that  for  all  intents  and 
purposes  they  were  like  people  living  in  different  worlds, 
that  there  was  no  hope  for  him,  never  had  been  ;  even,  that 
she  had  suffered — that  she  was  to  be  pitied. 

In  that  moment  of  emotion  he  betrayed  the  Forsyte  in 
him — forgot  himself,  his  interests,  his  property — was  capable 
of  almost  anything  ;  was  lifted  into  the  pure  ether  of  the 
selfless  and  unpractical. 

Such  moments  pass  quickly. 

And  as  though  with  the  tears  he  had  purged  himself  of 
weakness,  he  got  up,  locked  the  box,  and  slowly,  almost 
trembling,  carried  it  with  him  into  the  other  room. 


CHAPTER  VII 

June's  victory 

June  had  waited  for  her  chance,  scanning  the  duller  columns 
of  the  Journals,  morning  and  evening  with  an  assiduity 
which  at  first  puzzled  old  Jolyon  ;  and  when  her  chance 
came,  she  took  it  with  all  the  promptitude  and  resolute 
tenacity  of  her  character. 

She  will  always  remember  best  in  her  life  that  morning 
when  at  last  she  saw  amongst  the  reliable  Cause  List  of  the 
Times  newspaper,  under  the  heading  of  Court  XIIL,  Mr. 
Justice  Bentham,  the  case  of  Forsyte  v.  Bosinney. 

Like  a  gambler  who  stakes  his  last  piece  of  money,  she 
had  prepared  to  hazard  her  all  upon  this  throw ;  it  was  not 
her  nature  to  contemplate  defeat.  How,  unless  with  the 
instinct  of  a  woman  in  love,  she  knew  that  Bosinney's  dis- 
comfiture in  this  action  was  assured,  cannot  be  told — on  this 
assumption,  however,  she  laid  her  plans^as  upon  a  certainty. 

Half  past  eleven  found  her  at  watch  in  the  gallery  of 
Court  XIIL,  and  there  she  remained  till  the  case  of  Forsyte 
V.  Bosinney  was  over.  Bosinney's  absence  did  not  disquiet 
her  ;  she  had  felt  instinctively  that  he  would  not  defend 
himself.  At  the  end  of  the  judgment  she  hastened  down, 
and  took  a  cab  to  his  rooms. 

She  passed  the  open  street-door  and  the  offices  on  the 
three  lower  floors  without  attracting  notice  ;  not  till  she 
reached  the  top  did  her  difficulties  begin. 

349 


350  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Her  ring  was  not  answered  ;  she  had  now  to  make  up  her 
mind  whether  she  would  go  down  and  ask  the  caretaker  in 
the  basement  to  let  her  in  to  await  Mr.  Bosinney's  return, 
or  remain  patiently  outside  the  door,  trusting  that  no  one 
would  come  up.     She  decided  on  the  latter  course. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed  in  freezing  vigil  on  the 
landing,  before  it  occurred  to  her  that  Bosinney  had  been 
used  to  leave  the  key  of  his  rooms  under  the  door-mat.  She 
looked  and  found  it  there.  For  some  minutes  she  could  not 
decide  to  make  use  of  it  ;  at  last  she  let  herself  in  and  left 
the  door  open  that  anyone  who  came  might  see  she  was  there 
on  business. 

This  was  not  the  same  June  who  had  paid  the  trembling 
visit  five  months  ago  ;  those  months  of  suffering  and  restraint 
had  made  her  less  sensitive  ;  she  had  dwelt  on  this  visit  so 
long,  with  such  minuteness,  that  its  terrors  were  discounted 
beforehand.  She  was  not  there  to  fail  this  time,  for  if  she 
failed  no  one  could  help  her. 

Like  some  mother  beast  on  the  watch  over  her  young,  her 
little  quick  figure  never  stood  still  in  that  room,  but  wandered 
from  wall  to  wall,  from  window  to  door,  fingering  now  one 
thing,  now  another.  There  was  dust  everywhere,  the  room 
could  not  have  been  cleaned  for  weeks,  and  June,  quick  to 
catch  at  anything  that  should  buoy  up  her  hope,  saw  in  it  a 
sign  that  he  had  been  obliged,  for  economy's  sake,  to  give  up 
his  servant. 

She  looked  into  the  bedroom  ;  the  bed  was  roughly  made, 
as  though  by  the  hand  of  man.  Listening  intently,  she  darted 
in,  and  peered  into  his  cupboards.  A  few  shirts  and  collars, 
a  pair  of  muddy  boots — the  room  was  bare  even  of  garments. 

She  stole  back  to  the  sitting-room,  and  now  she  noticed 
the  absence  of  all  the  little  things  he  had  set  store  by.  The 
clock  that  had  been  his  mother's,  the  field-glasses  that  had 
hung  over  the  sofa  ;  two  really  valuable  old  prints  of  Harrow, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  351 

where  his  father  had  been  at  school,  and  last,  not  least,  the 
piece  of  Japanese  pottery  she  herself  had  given  him.  All 
were  gone  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  rage  roused  within  her  cham- 
pioning soul  at  the  thought  that  the  world  should  treat  him 
thus,  their  disappearance  augured  happily  for  the  success  of 
her  plan. 

It  was  while  looking  at  the  spot  where  the  piece  of  Japa- 
nese pottery  had  stood  that  she  felt  a  strange  certainty  of 
being  watched,  and,  turning,  saw  Irene  in  the  open  doorway. 

The  two  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for  a  minute  in 
silence  ;  then  June  walked  forward  and  held  out  her  hand. 
Irene  did  not  take  it. 

When  her  hand  was  refused,  June  put  it  behind  her.  Her 
eyes  grew  steady  with  anger  ;  she  waited  for  Irene  to  speak  ; 
and  thus  waiting,  took  in,  with  who-knows-what  rage  of 
jealousy,  suspicion,  and  curiosity,  every  detail  of  her  friend's 
face  and  dress  and  figure. 

Irene  was  clothed  in  her  long  gray  fur  ;  the  travelling  cap 
on  her  head  left  a  wave  of  gold  hair  visible  above  her  fore- 
head. The  soft  fullness  of  the  coat  made  her  face  as  small 
as  a  child's. 

Unlike  June's  cheeks,  her  cheeks  had  no  colour  in  them, 
but  were  ivory  white  and  pinched  as  if  with  cold.  Dark  circles 
lay  round  her  eyes.    In  one  hand  she  held  a  bunch  of  violets. 

She  looked  back  at  June,  no  smile  on  her  lips  ;  and  with 
those  great  dark  eyes  fastened  on  her,  the  girl,  for  all  her 
startled  anger,  felt  something  of  the  old  spell. 

She  spoke  first,  after  all. 

*  What  have  you  come  for  r'  But  the  feeling  that  she 
herself  was  being  asked  the  same  question,  made  her  add 

*  This  horrible  case.     I  came  to  tell  him — he  has  lost  it.' 

Irene  did  not  speak,  her  eyes  never  moved  from  June's 
face,  and  the  girl  cried  : 

*  Don't  stand  there  as  if  you  were  made  of  stone  !' 


352  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Irene  laughed  :   *  I  wish  to  God  I  were  !' 

But  June  turned  away  :  *  Stop  !'  she  cried,  ^  don't  tell  me  ! 
I  don't  want  to  hear  !  I  don't  want  to  hear  what  you've 
come  for.  I  don't  want  to  hear  !'  And  like  some  uneasy 
spirit,  she  began  swiftly  walking  to  and  fro.  Suddenly  she 
broke  out  : 

^  I  was  here  first.     We  can't  both  stay  here  together  !' 

On  Irene's  face  a  smile  wandered  up,  and  died  out  like  a 
flicker  of  firelight.  She  did  not  move.  And  then  it  was 
that  June  perceived  under  the  softness  and  immobility  of  this 
figure  something  desperate  and  resolved  ;  something  not  to 
be  turned  away,  something  dangerous.  She  tore  off  her  hat, 
and,  putting  both  hands  to  her  brow,  pressed  back  the  bronze 
mass  of  her  hair. 

^You  have  no  right  here  !'  she  cried  defiantly. 

Irene  answered  :   *  I  have  no  right  anywhere * 

*  What  do  you  mean  ?' 

*  I  have  left  Soames.     You  always  wanted  me  to  !' 
June  put  her  hands  over  her  ears. 

'  Don't  !  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything — I  don't  want 
to  know  anything.  It's  impossible  to  fight  with  you  !  What 
makes  you  stand  like  that  ?     Why  don't  you  go  r' 

Irene's  lips  moved  ;  she  seemed  to  be  saying  :  *  Where 
should  I  go  r' 

June  turned  to  the  window.  She  could  see  the  face  of  a 
clock  down  in  the  street.  It  was  nearly  four.  At  any 
moment  he  might  come  !  She  looked  back  across  her 
shoulder,  and  her  face  was  distorted  with  anger. 

But  Irene  had  not  moved  ;  in  her  gloved  hands  she  cease- 
lessly turned  and  twisted  the  little  bunch  of  violets. 

The  tears  of  rage  and  disappointment  rolled  down  June's 
cheeks. 

^  How  could  you  come  ?'  she  said.  *  You  have  been  a 
false  friend  to  me  !' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  353 

Again  Irene  laughed.  June  saw  that  she  had  played  a 
wrong  card,  and  broke  down. 

^  Why  have  you  come  r'  she  sobbed.  *  You've  ruined  my 
life,  and  now  you  want  to  ruin  his  !' 

Irene's  mouth  quivered  ;  her  eyes  met  June's  with  a  look 
so  mournful  that  the  girl  cried  out  in  the  midst  of  her 
sobbing,  '  No,  no  !' 

But  Irene's  head  bent  till  it  touched  her  breast.  She 
turned,  and  went  quickly  out,  hiding  her  lips  with  the  little 
bunch  of  violets. 

June  ran  to  the  door.  She  heard  the  footsteps  going 
down  and  down.  She  called  out  :  *  Come  back,  Irene  ! 
Come  back  !' 

The  footsteps  died  away.  .  .  . 

Bewildered  and  torn,  the  girl  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
Why  had  Irene  gone,  leaving  her  mistress  of  the  field  ? 
What  did  it  mean  ?     Had  she  really  given  him  up  to  her  ? 

Or  had  she ?     And  she  was  the   prey   of  a   gnawins; 

uncertainty.   .   .   .   Bosinney  did  not  come.  .   .   . 

About  six  o'clock  that  afternoon  old  Jolyon  returned  from 
Wistaria  Avenue,  where  now  almost  every  day  he  spent 
some  hours,  and  asked  if  his  grand-daughter  were  upstairs. 
On  being  told  that  she  had  just  come  in,  he  sent  up  to  her 
room  to  request  her  to  come  down  and  speak  to  him. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  her  that  he  was  recon- 
ciled with  her  father.  In  future  bygones  must  be  bygones. 
He  would  no  longer  live  alone,  or  practically  alone,  in  this 
great  house  ;  he  was  going  to  give  it  up,  and  take  one  in  the 
country  for  his  son,  where  they  could  all  go  and  live 
together.  If  June  did  not  like  this,  she  could  have  an 
allowance  and  live  by  herself.  It  wouldn't  make  much 
difference  to  her,  for  it  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  shown 
him  any  affection. 

But  when  June  came  down,  her   face  was  pinched  and 


354  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

piteous  ;  there  was  a  strained,  pathetic  look  in  her  eyes. 
She  snuggled  up  in  her  old  attitude  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  what  he  said  compared  but  poorly  with  the  clear, 
authoritative,  injured  statement  he  had  thought  out  with 
much  care.  His  heart  felt  sore,  as  the  great  heart  of  a 
mother-bird  feels  sore  when  its  youngling  flies  and  bruises  its 
wing.  His  words  halted,  as  though  he  were  apologizing  for 
having  at  last  deviated  from  the  path  of  virtue,  and  suc- 
cumbed, in  defiance  of  sounder  principles,  to  his  more 
natural  instincts. 

He  seemed  nervous  lest,  in  thus  announcing  his  intentions, 
he  should  be  setting  his  grand-daughter  a  bad  example  ;  and 
now  that  he  came  to  the  point,  his  way  of  putting  the 
suggestion  that,  if  she  didn't  like  it,  she  could  live  by  herself 
and  lump  it,  was  delicate  in  the  extreme. 

*  And  if,  by  any  chance,  my  darling,'  he  said,  '  you  found 
you  didn't  get  on  with  them,  why,  I  could  make  that  all 
right.  You  could  have  what  you  liked.  We  could  find  a 
little  flat  in  London  where  you  could  set  up,  and  I  could  be 
running  to  continually.  But  the  children,'  he  added,  *  are 
dear  little  things  !' 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  this  grave,  rather  transparent, 
explanation  of  changed  policy,  his  eyes  twinkled.  *This'll 
astonish  Timothy's  weak  nerves.  That  precious  young 
thing  will  have  something  to  say  about  this,  or  I'm  a 
Dutchman  !' 

June  had  not  yet  spoken.  Perched  thus  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair,  with  her  head  above  him,  her  face  was  invisible. 
But  presently  he  felt  her  warm  cheek  against  his  own,  and 
knew  that,  at  all  events,  there  was  nothing  very  alarming  in 
her  attitude  towards  his  news.     He  began  to  take  courage. 

*  You'll  like  your  father,'  he  said — 'an  amiable  chap. 
Never  was  much  push  about  him,  but  easy  to  get  on  with. 
You'll  find  him  artistic  and  all  that.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  355 

And  old  Jolyon  bethought  him  of  the  dozen  or  so  water- 
colour  drawings  all  carefully  locked  up  in  his  bedroom  ;  for 
now  that  his  son  was  going  to  become  a  man  of  property  he 
did  not  think  them  quite  such  poor  things  as  heretofore. 

*As  to  your — your  stepmother,'  he  said,  using  the  word 
with  some  little  difficulty,  *  I  call  her  a  refined  woman — a 
bit  of  a  Mrs.  Gummidge,  I  shouldn't  wonder — but  very 
fond  of  Jo.  And  the  children,'  he  repeated — indeed,  this 
sentence  ran  like  music  through  all  his  solemn  self-justifica- 
tion— *  are  sweet  little  things  !' 

If  June  had  known,  those  words  but  reincarnated  that 
tender  love  for  little  children,  for  the  young  and  weak, 
which  in  the  past  had  made  him  desert  his  son  for  her  tiny 
self,  and  now,  as  the  cycle  rolled,  was  taking  him  from  her. 

But  he  began  to  get  alarmed  at  her  silence,  and  asked 
impatiently  :  *Well,  what  do  you  say  ?',, 

June  slid  down  to  his  knee,  and  she  in  her  turn  began  her 
tale.  She  thought  it  would  all  go  splendidly  ;  she  did  not  see 
any  difficulty,  and  she  did  not  care  a  bit  what  people  thought. 

Old  Jolyon  wriggled.  H'm  !  then  people  would  think  ! 
He  had  thought  that  after  all  these  years  perhaps  they 
wouldn't !  Well,  he  couldn't  help  it  1  Nevertheless,  he 
could  not  approve  of  his  grand- daughter's  way  of  puttino-  it 
— she  ought  to  mind  what  people  thought  ! 

Yet  he  said  nothing.  His  feelings  were  too  mixed,  too 
inconsistent  for  expression. 

No — went  on  June — she  did  not  care  ;  what  business  wab 
it  of  theirs  ?  There  was  only  one  thing — and  with  her  cheek 
pressing  against  his  knee,  old  Jolyon  knew  at  once  that  this 
something  was  no  trifle  :  As  he  was  gomg  to  buy  a  house  in 
the  country,  would  he  not — to  please  her — buy  that  splendid 
house  of  Soames'  at  Robin  Hill  ?  It  was  finished,  it  was 
perfectly  beautiful,  and  no  one  would  live  in  it  now.  They 
would  all  be  so  happy  there  ! 


356  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Old  Jolyon  was  on  the  alert  at  once.  Wasn't  the  *  man 
of  property '  going  to  live  in  his  new  house,  then  ?  He 
never  alluded  to  Soames  now  but  under  this  title. 

*  No ' — June  said — '  he  was  not  ;  she  knew  that  he  was 
not !' 

How  did  she  know  ? 

She  could  not  tell  him,  but  she  knew.  She  knew  nearly 
for  certain  !  It  was  most  unlikely  ;  circumstances  had 
changed  !  Irene's  words  still  rang  in  her  head  :  *  I  have 
left  Soames  !     Where  should  I  go  ?' 

But  she  kept  silence  about  that. 

If  her  grandfather  would  only  buy  it  and  settle  that 
wretched  claim  that  ought  never  to  have  been  made  on 
Phil  !  It  would  be  the  very  best  thing  for  everybody,  and 
everything — everything  might  come  straight  ! 

And  June  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  and  pressed  them 
close. 

But  old  Jolyon  freed  himself  from  her  caress,  his  face  wore 
the  judicial  look  which  came  upon  it  when  he  dealt  with 
affairs.  He  asked  :  What  did  she  mean  ?  There  was 
something  behind  all  this — had  she  been  seeing  Bosinney  ? 

June  answered  :   '  No  ;  but  I  have  been  to  his  rooms.' 

*  Been  to  his  rooms  ?     Who  took  you  there  ?' 

June  faced  him  steadily.  *  I  went  alone.  He  has  lost  that 
case.  I  don't  care  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong.  I  want 
to  help  him  ;  and  /  will P 

Old  Jolyon  asked  again  :  *  Have  you  seen  him  ?'  His 
glance  seemed  to  pierce  right  through  the  girl's  eyes  into  her 
soul. 

Again  June  answered  :  *  No  ;  he  was  not  there.  I  waited, 
but  he  did  not  come.' 

Old  Jolyon  made  a  movement  of  relief.  She  had  risen 
and  looked  down  at  him  ;  so  slight,  and  light,  and  young, 
but  so  fixed,  and  so  determined  ;  and  disturbed,  vexed,  as  he 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  357 

was,  he  could  not  frown  away  that  fixed  look.  The  feeling 
of  being  beaten,  of  the  reins  having  slipped,  of  being  old  and 
tired,  mastered  him. 

^  Ah  r  he  said  at  last,  *  you'll  get  yourself  into  a  mess  one 
of  these  days,  I  can  see.  You  want  your  own  way  in 
everything.' 

Visited  by  one  of  his  strange  bursts  of  philosophy,  he 
added  :  *  Like  that  you  were  born  ;  and  like  that  you'll  stay 
until  you  die  !' 

And  he,  who  in  his  dealings  with  men  of  business,  with 
Boards,  with  Forsytes  of  all  descriptions,  with  such  as  were 
not  Forsytes,  had  always  had  his  own  way,  looked  at  his 
indomitable  grandchild  sadly — for  he  felt  in  her  that  quality 
which  above  all  others  he  unconsciously  admired. 

*  Do  you  know  what  they  say  is  going  on  r'  he  said  slowly. 
June  crimsoned. 

*  Yes — no.  I  know — and  I  don't  know — I  don't  care  !' 
and  she  stamped  her  foot. 

'  I  believe,'  said  old  Jolyon,  dropping  his  eyes,  '  that  you'd 
have  him  if  he  were  dead  1' 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  he  spoke  again. 

*  But  as  to  buying  this  house — you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about  1' 

June  said  that  she  did.  She  knew  that  he  could  get  it  if 
he  wanted.     He  would  only  have  to  give  what  it  cost. 

'  What  it  cost  !  You  know  nothing  about  it.  I  won't  go 
to  Soames — I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  that  young  man.' 

'  But  you  needn't ;  you  can  go  to  Uncle  James.  If  you 
can't  buy  the  house,  will  you  pay  this  law-suit  claim  ?  I 
know  he  is  terribly  hard  up — I've  seen  it.  You  can  stop 
it  out  of  my  money  !' 

A  twinkle  came  into  old  Jolyon's  eyes. 

'  Stop  it  out  of  your  money  !  A  pretty  way  !  And 
what  will  you  do,  pray,  without  your  money  V 


358  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

But  secretly,  the  idea  of  wresting  the  house  from  James 
and  his  son  had  begun  to  take  hold  of  him.  He  had  heard 
on  Forsyte  'Change  much  comment,  much  rather  doubtful 
praise  of  this  house.  It  was  *  too  artistic,'  but  a  fine  place. 
To  take  from  the  '  man  of  property '  *hat  on  which  he  had 
set  his  heart,  would  be  a  crowning  triumph  over  James, 
practical  proof  that  he  was  going  to  make  a  man  of  property 
of  Jo,  to  put  him  back  in  his  proper  position,  and  there  to 
keep  him  secure.  Justice  once  for  all  on  those  who  had 
chosen  to  regard  his  son  as  a  poor,  penniless  outcast  ! 

He  would  see,  he  would  see  !  It  might  be  out  of  the 
question  ;  he  was  not  going  to  pay  a  fancy  price,  but  if  it 
could  be  done,  why,  perhaps  he  would  do  it  ! 

And  still  more  secretly  he  knew  that  he  could  not  refuse 
her. 

But  he  did  not  commit  himself.  He  would  think  it  over 
- — he  said  to  June. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

bosinney's  departure 

Old  Jolyon  was  not  given  to  hasty  decisions  ;  it  is  probable 
that  he  would  have  continued  to  think  over  the  purchase  of 
the  house  at  Robin  Hill,  had  not  June's  face  told  him  that 
he  would  have  no  peace  until  he  acted. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  she  asked  him  what  time  she 
should  order  the  carriage. 

*  Carriage  !'  he  said,  with  some  appearance  of  innocence  ; 
*  what  for  ?     rm  not  going  out  !' 

She  answered  :  '  If  you  don't  go  early,  you  won't  catch 
Uncle  James  before  he  goes  into  the  City.' 

*  James  !  what  about  your  Uncle  James  ?' 

'  The  house,'  she  replied,  in  such  a  voice  that  he  no 
longer  pretended  ignorance. 

'  I've  not  made  up  my  mind,'  he  said. 

*•  You  must  !     You  must  !     Oh  !  Gran — think  of  me  !' 

Old  Jolyon  grumbled  out  :  '  Think  of  you — I'm  always 
thinking  of  you,  but  you  don't  think  of  yourself;  you  don't 
think  what  you're  letting  yourself  in  for.  Well,  order  the 
carriage  at  ten  !* 

At  a  quarter  past  he  was  placing  his  umbrella  in  the 
stand  at  Park  Lane — he  did  not  choose  to  relinquish  his  hat 
and  coat ;  telling  Warmson  that  he  wanted  to  see  his 
master,  he  went,  without  being  announced,  into  the  study, 
and  sat  down. 

35P 


36o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

James  was  still  in  the  dining-room  talking  to  Soames,  who 
had  come  round  again  before  breakfast.  On  hearing  who 
his  visitor  was,  he  muttered  nervously  :  '  Now,  what's  he 
want,  I  wonder  ?' 

He  then  got  up. 

'  Well,'  he  said  to  Soames,  *  don't  you  go  doing  anything 
m  a  hurry.  The  first  thing  is  to  find  out  where  she  is — I 
should  go  to  Stainer's  about  it  ;  they're  the  best  men,  if 
they  can't  find  her,  nobody  can.'  And  suddenly  moved  to 
strange  softness,  he  muttered  to  himself:  'Poor  little  thing  ! 
/  can't  tell  what  she  was  thinking  about  !'  and  went  out 
blowing  his  nose. 

Old  Jolyon  did  not  rise  on  seeing  his  brother,  but  held 
out  his  hand,  and  exchanged  with  him  the  clasp  of  a 
Forsyte. 

James  took  another  chair  by  the  table,  and  leaned  his 
head  on  his  hand. 

*  Well,'  he  said,  *  how  are  you  ?  We  don't  see  much  of 
you  nowadays  1' 

Old  Jolyon  paid  no  attention  to  the  remark. 

*  How's  Emily  ?'  he  asked  ;  and  waiting  for  no  reply, 
went  on  :  *  I've  come  to  see  you  about  this  affair  of  young 
Bosinney's.  I'm  told  that  new  house  of  his  is  a  white 
elephant.' 

*  I  don't  know  anything  about  a  white  elephant,'  said 
James,  'I  know  he's  lost  his  case,  and  I  should  say  he'll  go 
bankrupt.' 

Old  Jolyon  was  not  slow  to  seize  the  opportunity  this 
gave  him. 

'  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  !'  he  agreed ;  '  and  if  he  goes 
bankrupt,  the  "  man  of  property  " — that  is,  Soames'U  be  out 
of  pocket.  Now,  what  I  was  thinking  was  this  :  If  he's  not 
going  to  live  there ' 

Seeing  both   surprise  and   suspicion    in    James's    eye,   he 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  361 

quickly  went  on  :  ^  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  ;  I 
suppose  Irene's  put  her  foot  down — it's  not  material  to  me. 
But  I'm  thinking  of  a  house  in  the  country  myself,  not  too 
far  from  London,  and  if  it  suited  me  I  don't  say  that  I 
mightn't  look  at  it,  at  a  price.' 

James  listened  to  this  statement  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
doubt,  suspicion,  and  relief,  merging  into  a  dread  of  some- 
thing behind,  and  tinged  with  the  remains  of  his  old 
undoubted  reliance  upon  his  elder  brother's  good  faith  and 
judgment.  There  was  anxiety,  too,  as  to  what  old  Jolyon 
could  have  heard  and  how  he  had  heard  it ;  and  a  sort  of 
hopefulness  arising  from  the  thought  that  if  June's  connec- 
tion with  Bosinney  were  completely  at  an  end,  her  grand- 
father would  hardly  seem  anxious  to  help  the  young 
fellow.  Altogether  he  was  puzzled ;  as  he  did  not  like 
either  to  show  this,  or  to  commit  himself  in  any  way,  he 
said  : 

*  They  tell  me  you're  altering  your  Will  in  favour  of  your 
son.' 

He  had  not  been  told  this ;  he  had  merely  added  the  fact 
of  having  seen  old  Jolyon  with  his  son  and  grandchildren  to 
the  fact  that  he  had  taken  his  Will  away  from  Forsyte, 
Bustard  and  Forsyte.     The  shot  went  home. 

*  Who  told  you  that  ?'  asked  old  Jolyon. 

'  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,'  said  James  ;  *  I  can't  remember 
names — I  know  somebody  told  me.  Soames  spent  a  lot  of 
money  on  this  house  ;  he's  not  likely  to  part  with  it  except 
at  a  good  price.' 

'  Well,'  said  old  Jolyon,  *  if  he  thinks  I'm  going  to  pay  a 
fancy  price,  he's  mistaken.  I've  not  got  the  money  to 
throw  away  that  he  seems  to  have.  Let  him  try  and  sell  it 
at  a  forced  sale,  and  see  what  he'll  get.  It's  not  every  man's 
house,  I  hear !' 

James,  who  was  secretly  also  of  this  opinion,  answered  : 


362  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  It's  a  gentleman's  house.     Soames  is  here  now  if  you'd  like 
to  see  him.' 

'  No,'  said  old  Jolyon,  *  I  haven't  got  as  far  as  that  ;  and 
I'm  not  likely  to,  I  can  see  that  very  well  if  I'm  met  in  this 
manner !' 

James  was  a  little  cowed ;  when  it  came  to  the  actual 
figures  of  a  commercial  transaction  he  was  sure  of  himself, 
for  then  he  was  dealing  with  facts,  not  with  men ;  but  pre- 
liminary negotiations  such  as  these  made  him  nervous — he 
never  knew  quite  how  far  he  could  go. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  ^  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Soames,  he 
tells  me  nothing  ;  I  should  think  he'd  entertain  it — it's  a 
question  of  price.' 

'  Oh  !'  said  old  Jolyon,  *  don't  let  him  make  a  favour  of 
rt  1'      He  placed  his  hat  on  his  head  in  dudgeon. 

The  door  was  opened  and  Soames  came  in. 

'  There's  a  policeman  out  here,'  he  said  with  his  half 
smile,  *  for  Uncle  Jolyon.' 

Old  Jolyon  looked  at  him  angrily,  and  James  said  :  'A 
policeman?  I  don't  know  anything  about  a  policeman. 
But  I  suppose  you  know  something  about  him,'  he  added  to 
old  Jolyon  with  a  look  of  suspicion  :  '  I  suppose  you'd  better 
see  him !' 

In  the  hall  an  Inspector  of  Police  stood  stolidly  regarding 
with  heavy-lidded  pale-blue  eyes  the  fine  old  English 
furniture  picked  up  by  James  at  the  famous  Mavrojano 
sale  in  Portman  Square.  '  You'll  find  my  brother  in  there,' 
said  James. 

The  Inspector,  raised  his  fingers  respectfully  to  his  peaked 
cap,  and  entered  the  study. 

James  saw  him  go  in  with  a  strange  sensation. 

^  Well,'  he  said  to  Soames,  *  I  suppose  we  must  wait  and 
see  what  he  wants.  Your  uncle's  been  here  about  the 
house  1' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  ^3 

He  returned  with  Soames  into  the  dining-room,  but  could 
not  rest. 

*  Now  what  does  he  want  P  he  murmured  again. 

*  Who  ?'  replied  Soames  :  *  the  Inspector  ?  They  sent 
him  round  from  Stanhope  Gate,  that's  all  I  know.  That 
"  nonconformist  "  of  Uncle  Jolyon's  has  been  pilfering,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  !' 

But  in  spite  of  his  calmness,  he  too  was  ill  at  ease. 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  old  Jolyon  came  in. 

He  walked  up  to  the  table,  and  stood  there  perfectly  silent 
pulling  at  his  long  white  moustaches.  James  gazed  up  at 
him  with  opening  mouth  ;  he  had  never  seen  his  brother 
look  like  this. 

Old  Jolyon  raised  his  hand,  and  said  slowly  : 

*  Young  Bosinney  has  been  run  over  in  the  fog  and 
killed.' 

Then  standing  above  his  brother  and  his  nephew,  and 
looking  down  at  them  with  his  deep  eyes:  'There's — 
some — talk — of — suicide,'  he  said. 

James's  jaw  dropped.  *  Suicide !  What  should  he  do 
that  for  ?' 

Old  Jolyon  answered  sternly  :  *  God  knows,  if  you  and 
your  son  don't  !* 

But  James  did  not  reply. 

For  all  men  of  great  age,  even  for  all  Forsytes,  life  has 
had  bitter  experiences.  The  passer-by,  who  sees  them 
wrapped  in  cloaks  of  custom,  wealth,  and  comfort,  would 
never  suspect  that  such  black  shadows  had  fallen  on  their 
roads.  To  every  man  of  great  age — to  Sir  Walter  Bentham 
himself — the  idea  of  suicide  has  once  at  least  been  present  in 
the  ante-room  of  his  soul ;  on  the  threshold,  waiting  to 
enter,  held  out  from  the  inmost  chamber  by  some  chance 
reality,  some  vague  fear,  some  painful  hope.  To  Forsytes 
that  final  renunciation  of  property  is  hard.     Oh  !  it  is  hard  ! 


364  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Seldom — perhaps  never — can  they  achieve  it  ;  and  yet,  how 
near  have  they  not  sometimes  been  ! 

So  even  with  James  !  Then  in  the  medley  of  his  thoughts, 
he  broke  out  :  *  Why  I  saw  it  in  the  paper  yesterday  :  "  Run 
over  in  the  fog  !"  They  didn't  know  his  name  !'  He  turned 
from  one  face  to  the  other  in  his  confusion  of  soul  ;  but 
instinctively  all  the  time  he  was  rejecting  that  rumour  of 
suicide.  He  dared  not  entertain  this  thought,  so  against  his 
interest,  against  the  interest  of  his  son,  of  every  Forsyte.  He 
strove  against  it ;  and  as  his  nature  ever  unconsciously 
rejected  that  which  it  could  not  with  safety  accept,  so 
gradually  he  overcame  this  fear.  It  was  an  accident  1  It 
must  have  been  ! 

Old  Jolyon  broke  in  on  his  reverie. 

*  Death  was  instantaneous.  He  lay  all  yesterday  at  the 
hospital.  There  was  nothing  to  tell  them  who  he  was.  I  am 
going  there  now ;  you  and  your  son  had  better  come  too.' 

No  one  opposing  this  command  he  led  the  way  from  the 
room. 

The  day  was  still  and  clear  and  bright,  and  driving  over 
to  Park  Lane  from  Stanhope  Gate,  old  Jolyon  had  had  the 
carriage  open.  Sitting  back  on  the  padded  cushions,  finish- 
ing his  cigar,  he  had  noticed  with  pleasure  the  keen  crispness 
of  the  air,  the  bustle  of  the  cabs  and  people  ;  the  strange, 
almost  Parisian,  alacrity  that  the  first  fine  day  will  bring  into 
London  streets  after  a  spell  of  fog  or  rain.  And  he  had  felt 
so  happy  ;  he  had  not  felt  like  it  for  months.  His  confession 
to  June  was  off  his  mind  ;  he  had  the  prospect  of  his  son's, 
above  all,  of  his  grandchildren's  company  in  the  future — (he 
had  appointed  to  meet  young  Jolyon  at  the  Hotch  Potch 
that  very  morning  to  discuss  it  again)  ;  and  there  was  the 
pleasurable  excitement  of  a  coming  encounter,  a  coming 
victory,  over  James  and  the  *  man  of  property  '  in  the  matter 
of  the  house. 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  365 

He  had  the  carriage  closed  now  ;  he  had  no  heart  to  look 
on  gaiety  ;  nor  was  it  right  that  Forsytes  should  be  seen 
driving  with  an  Inspector  of  Police. 

In  that  carriage  the  Inspector  spoke  again  of  the  death  : 

*  It  was  not  so  very  thick  just  there.  The  driver  says  the 
gentleman  must  have  had  time  to  see  what  he  was  about,  he 
seemed  to  walk  right  into  it.  It  appears  that  he  was  very 
hard  up,  we  found  several  pawn  tickets  at  his  rooms,  his 
account  at  the  bank  is  overdrawn,  and  there's  this  case  in 
to-day's  papers  ; '  his  cold  blue  eyes  travelled  from  one  to 
another  of  the  three  Forsytes  in  the  carriage. 

Old  Jolyon  watching  from  his  corner  saw  his  brother's 
face  change,  and  the  brooding,  worried,  look  deepen  on  it. 
At  the  Inspector's  words,  indeed,  all  James's  doubts  and 
fears  revived.  Hard — up — pawn — tickets — an  overdrawn 
account  !  These  words  that  had  all  his  life  been  a  far-off 
nightmare  to  him,  seemed  to  make  uncannily  real  that 
suspicion  of  suicide  which  must  on  no  account  be  enter- 
tained. He  sought  his  son's  eye  ;  but  lynx-eyed,  taciturn, 
immovable,  Soames  gave  no  answering  look.  And  to  old 
Jolyon  watching,  divining  the  league  of  mutual  defence 
between  them,  there  came  an  overmastering  desire  to  have 
his  own  son  at  his  side,  as  though  this  visit  to  the  dead  man's 
body  was  a  battle  in  which  otherwise  he  must  single-handed 
meet  those  two.  And  the  thought  of  how  to  keep  June's 
name  out  of  the  business  kept  whirring  in  his  brain.  James 
had  his  son  to  support  him  !  Why  should  he  not  send 
for  Jo  ? 

Taking  out  his  card-case,  he  pencilled  the  following 
message  : 

*  Come  round  at  once.     I've  sent  the  carriage  for  you.* 
On  getting  out  he  gave  this  card  to  his  coachman,  telling 

him  to  drive  as  fast  as  possible  to  the  Hotch  Potch  Club,  and 
if  Mr.   Jolyon   Forsyte   were  there   to   give   him   the    card 


366  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  bring  him  at  once.     If  not  there  yet,  he  was  to  wait 
till  he  came. 

He  followed  the  others  slowly  up  the  steps,  leaning  on 
his  umbrella,  and  stood  a  moment  to  get  his  breath.  The 
Inspector  said  :  *  This  is  the  mortuary,  sir.  But  take  your 
time.' 

In  the  bare,  white-walled  room,  empty  of  all  but  a  streak 
of  sunshine  smeared  along  the  dustless  floor,  lay  a  form 
covered  by  a  sheet.  With  a  huge  steady  hand  the  Inspector 
took  the  hem  and  turned  it  back.  A  sightless  face  gazed  up 
at  them,  and  on  either  side  of  that  sightless  defiant  face  the 
three  Forsytes  gazed  down  ;  in  each  one  of  them  the  secret 
emotions,  fears,  and  pity  of  his  own  nature  rose  and  fell  like 
the  rising,  falling  waves  of  life,  whose  wash  those  white  walls 
barred  out  now  for  ever  from  Bosinney.  And  in  each  one 
of  them  the  trend  of  his  nature,  the  odd  essential  spring,  that 
moved  him  in  fashions  minutely,  unalterably  different  from 
those  of  every  other  human  being,  forced  him  to  a  different 
attitude  of  thought.  Far  from  the  others,  yet  inscrutably 
close,  each  stood  thus,  alone  with  death,  silent,  his  eyes 
lowered. 

The  Inspector  asked  softly  : 

*  You  identify  the  gentleman,  sir  ?' 

Old  Jolyon  raised  his  head  and  nodded.  He  looked  at  his 
brother  opposite,  at  that  long  lean  figure  brooding  over  the 
dead  man,  with  face  dusky  red,  and  strained  gray  eyes  ;  and  at 
the  figure  of  Soames  white  and  still  by  his  father's  side.  And 
all  that  he  had  felt  against  those  two  was  gone  like  smoke  in 
the  long  white  presence  of  Death.  Whence  comes  it,  how 
comes  it — Death  ?  Sudden  reverse  of  all  that  goes  before  ; 
blind  setting  forth  on  a  path  that  leads  to — where  ?  Dark 
quenching  of  the  fire  !  The  heavy,  brutal  crushing-out  that 
all  men  must  go  through,  keeping  their  eyes  clear  and  brave 
unto  the  end  !     Small  and  of  no  import,  insects  though  they 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  367 

are  !  And  across  old  Jolyon's  face  there  flitted  a  gleam,  for 
Soames,  murmuring  to  the  Inspector,  crept  noiselessly 
away. 

Then  suddenly  James  raised- his  eyes.  There  was  a  queer 
appeal  in  that  suspicious  troubled  look  :  '  I  know  I'm  no 
match  for  you,'  it  seemed  to  say.  And,  hunting  for  a  hand- 
kerchief he  wiped  his  brow  ;  then,  bending  sorrowful  and 
lank  over  the  dead  man,  he  too  turned  and  hurried  out. 

Old  Jolyon  stood,  still  as  death,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  body. 
Who  shall  tell  of  what  he  was  thinking  ?  Of  himself,  when 
his  hair  was  brown  like  the  hair  of  that  young  fellow  dead 
before  him  ?  Of  himself,  with  his  battle  just  beginning, 
the  long,  long  battle  he  had  loved  ;  the  battle  that  was  over 
for  this  young  man  almost  before  it  had  begun  r  Of  his 
grand-daughter,  with  her  broken  hopes  r  Of  that  other 
woman  ?  Of  the  strangeness,  and  the  pity  of  it  ?  And 
the  irony,  inscrutable,  and  bitter  of  that  end  r  Justice  1 
There  was  no  justice  for  men,  for  they  were  ever  in  the 
dark! 

Or  perhaps  in  his  philosophy  he  thought  :  Better  to 
be  out  of  it  all  !  Better  to  have  done  with  it,  like  this 
poor  youth.   .   .   . 

Some  one  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

A  tear  started  up  and  wetted  his  eyelash.  'Well,'  he 
said,  '  I'm  no  good  here.  I'd  better  be  going.  You'll  come 
to  me  as  soon  as  you  can,  Jo,'  and  with  his  head  bowed  he 
went  away. 

It  was  young  Jolyon's  turn  to  take  his  stand  beside  the 
dead  man,  round  whose  fallen  body  he  seemxcd  to  see  all 
the  Forsytes  breathless,  and  prostrated.  The  stroke  had 
fallen  too  swiftly. 

The  forces  underlying  every  tragedy — forces  that  take 
no  denial,  working  through  cross  currents  to  their  ironical 
end,  had  met  and  fused  with  a  thunder-clap,  flung  out  the 


368  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

victim,  and  flattened  to  the  ground  all  those  that  stood 
around. 

Or  so  at  all  events  young  Jolyon  seemed  to  see  them, 
lying  around  Bosinney's  body. 

He  asked  the  Inspector  to  tell  him  what  had  happened, 
and  the  latter,  like  a  man  who  does  not  every  day  get  such  a 
chance,  again  detailed  such  facts  as  were  known. 

*  There's  more  here,  sir,  however,'  he  said,  'than  meets 
the  eye.  I  don't  believe  in  suicide,  nor  in  pure  accident, 
myself.  It's  more  likely  I  think  that  he  was  suffering  under 
great  stress  of  mind,  and  took  no  notice  of  things  about  him. 
Perhaps  you  can  throw  some  light  on  these.' 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  packet  and  laid  it  on  the 
table.  Carefully  undoing  it,  he  revealed  a  lady's  handker- 
chief, pinned  through  the  folds  with  a  pin  of  discoloured 
Venetian  gold,  the  stone  of  which  had  fallen  from  the 
socket.  A  scent  of  dried  violets  rose  to  young  Jolyon's 
nostrils. 

*  Found  in  his  breast  pocket,*  said  the  Inspector  ;  '  the 
name  has  been  cut  away  !' 

Young  Jolyon  with  difficulty  answered  :  *  I'm  afraid  I 
cannot  help  you  !'  But  vividly  there  rose  before  him  the  face 
he  had  seen  light  up,  so  tremulous  and  glad,  at  Bosinney's 
coming  !  Of  her  he  thought  more  than  of  his  own 
daughter,  more  than  of  them  all — of  her  with  the  dark,  soft 
glance,  the  delicate  passive  face,  waiting  for  the  dead  man, 
waiting  even  at  that  moment,  perhaps,  still  and  patient  in 
the  sunlight. 

He  walked  sorrowfully  away  from  the  hospital  towards 
his  father's  house,  reflecting  that  this  death  would  break  up 
the  Forsyte  family.  The  stroke  had  indeed  slipped  past 
their  defences  into  the  very  wood  of  their  tree.  They 
might  flourish  to  all  appearance  as  before,  preserving  a  brave 
show  before  the  eyes  of  London,  but  the  trunk  was  dead, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  369 

withered  by  the  same  flash  that  had  stricken  down  Bosinney. 
And  now  the  saplings  would  take  its  place,  each  one  a  new 
custodian  of  the  sense  of  property. 

Good  forest  of  Forsytes  !  thought  young  Jolyon — 
soundest  timber  of  our  land  ! 

Concerning  the  cause  of  this  death  —  his  family  would 
doubtless  reject  with  vigour  the  suspicion  of  suicide,  which 
was  so  compromising  !  They  would  take  it  as  an  accident,  a 
stroke  of  fate.  In  their  hearts  they  would  even  feel  it  an 
intervention  of  Providence,  a  retribution — had  not  Bosinney 
endangered  their  two  most  priceless  possessions,  the  pocket 
and  the  hearth  ?  And  they  would  talk  of  *  that  unfortunate 
accident  of  young  Bosinney's,'  but  perhaps  they  would  not 
talk — silence  might  be  better  ! 

As  for  himself,  he  regarded  the  bus-driver's  account  of  the 
accident  as  of  very  little  value.  For  no  one  so  madly  in  love 
committed  suicide  for  want  of  money  ;  nor  was  Bosinney 
the  sort  of  fellow  to  set  much  store  by  a  financial  crisis. 
And  so  he  too  rejected  this  theory  of  suicide,  the  dead  man's 
face  rose  too  clearly  before  him.  Gone  in  the  heyday  of 
his  summer — and  to  believe  thus  that  an  accident  had  cut 
Bosinney  off  in  the  full  sweep  of  his  passion  was  more 
than  ever  pitiful  to  young  Jolyon. 

Then  came  a  vision  of  Soames'  home  as  it  now  was,  and 
must  be  hereafter.  The  streak  of  lightning  had  flashed  its 
clear  uncanny  gleam  on  bare  bones  with  grinning  spaces 
between,  the  disguising  flesh  was  gone.   .  .  . 

In  the  dining-room  at  Stanhope  Gate  old  Jolyon  was 
sitting  alone  when  his  son  came  in.  He  looked  very  wan 
in  his  great  armchair.  And  his  eyes  travelling  round  the 
walls  with  their  pictures  of  still  life,  and  the  masterpiece 
'  Dutch  fishing-boats  at  Sunset '  seemed  as  though  passing 
their  gaze  over  his  life  with  its  hopes,  its  gains,  its  achieve- 
ments. 

13 


370  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  Ah  !  Jo  !'  he  said,  *  is  that  you  r  I've  told  poor  little 
June,  But  that's  not  all  of  it.  Are  you  going  to  Soames'  ? 
She's  brought  it  on  herself,  I  suppose  ;  but  somehow  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  her,  shut  up  there — and  all  alone.'  And 
holding  up  his  thin,  veined  hand,  he  clenched  it. 


CHAPIER  IX 

Irene's  return 

After  leaving  James  and  old  Jolyon  in  the  mortuary  of  the 
hospital,  Soames  hurried  aimlessly  along  the  streets. 

The  tragic  event  of  Bosinney's  death  altered  the  com- 
plexion of  everything.  There  was  no  longer  the  same 
feeling  that  to  lose  a  minute  would  be  fatal,  nor  would  he 
now  risk  communicating  the  fact  of  his  wife's  flight  to  any- 
one till  the  inquest  was  over. 

That  morning  he  had  risen  early,  before  the  postman 
came,  had  taken  the  first-post  letters  from  the  box  himself, 
and,  though  there  had  been  none  from  Irene,  he  had  made 
an  opportunity  of  telling  Bilson  that  her  mistress  was  at  the 
sea  ;  he  would  probably,  he  said,  be  going  down  himself 
from  Saturday  to  Monday.  This  had  given  him  time  to 
breathe,  time  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find  her. 

But  now,  cut  off  from  taking  steps  by  Bosinney's  death — 
that  strange  death,  to  think  of  which  was  like  putting  a  hot 
iron  to  his  heart,  like  lifting  a  great  weight  from  it — he  did 
not  know  how  to  pass  his  day  ;  and  he  wandered  here  and 
there  through  the  streets,  looking  at  every  face  he  met, 
devoured  by  a  hundred  anxieties. 

And  as  he  wandered,  he  thought  of  him  who  had  finished 
his  wandering,  his  prowling,  and  would  never  haunt  his 
house  again. 

Already  in  the  afternoon  he  passed  posters  announcing  the 

371 


372  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

identity  of  the  dead  man,  and  bought  the  papers  to  see  what 
they  said.  He  would  stop  their  mouths  if  he  could,  and  he 
went  into  the  City,  and  was  closeted  with  Boulter  for  a  long 
time. 

On  his  way  home,  passing  the  steps  of  Jobson's  about 
half  past  four,  he  met  George  Forsyte,  who  held  out  an 
evening  paper  to  Soames,  saying  : 

'  Here  1     Have  you  seen  this  about  the  poor  Buccaneer  ?* 

Soames  answered  stonily  :   *  Yes.' 

George  stared  at  him.  He  had  never  liked  Soames  ;  he 
now  held  him  responsible  for  Bosinney's  death.  Soames  had 
done  for  him — done  for  him  by  that  act  of  property  that  had 
sent  the  Buccaneer  to  run  amok  that  fatal  afternoon. 

*  The  poor  fellow,'  he  was  thinking,  *  was  so  cracked  with 
jealousy,  so  cracked  for  his  vengeance,  that  he  heard  nothing 
of  the  omnibus  in  that  infernal  fog.' 

Soames  had  done  for  him  1  And  this  judgment  was  in 
George's  eyes. 

*  They  talk  of  suicide  here,'  he  said  at  last.  *  That  cat 
won't  jump.' 

Soames  shook  his  head.     *  An  accident,'  he  muttered, 

Clenching  his  fist  on  the  paper,  George  crammed  it  into 
his  pocket.     He  could  not  resist  a  parting  shot. 

'  H'mm  !  All  flourishing  at  home  ?  Any  little 
Soameses  yet  ?' 

With  a  face  as  white  as  the  steps  of  Jobson's,  and  a  lip 
raised  as  if  snarling,  Soames  brushed  past  him  and  was  gone. 

On  reaching  home,  and  entering  the  little  lighted  hall 
with  his  latchkey,  the  first  thing  that  caught  his  eye  was 
his  wife's  gold-mounted  umbrella  lying  on  the  rug  chest. 
Flinging  off  his  fur  coat,  he  hurried  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  for  the  night,  a  bright  fire  of 
cedar-logs  burned  in  the  grate,  and  by  its  light  he  saw  Irene 
sitting  in  her  usual  corner  on  the  sofa.     He  shut  the  door 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 


373 


softly,  and  went  towards  her.  She  did  not  move,  and  did 
not  seem  to  see  him. 

'  So  you've  come  back  ?'  he  said.  *  Why  are  you  sitting 
here  in  the  dark  ?* 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  her  face,  so  white  and  motionless 
that  it  seemed  as  though  the  blood  must  have  stopped  flowing 
in  her  veins  ;  and  her  eyes,  that  looked  enormous,  like  the 
great,  wide,  startled  brown  eyes  of  an  owl. 

Huddled  in  her  gray  fur  against  the  sofa  cushions,  she  had 
a  strange  resemblance  to  a  captive  owl,  bunched  in  its  soft 
feathers  against  the  wires  of  a  cage.  The  supple  erectness 
of  her  figure  was  gone,  as  though  she  had  been  broken  by 
cruel  exercise  ;  as  though  there  were  no  longer  any  reason 
for  being  beautiful,  and  supple,  and  erect. 

*  So  you've  come  back,'  he  repeated. 

She  never  looked  up,  and  never  spoke,  the  firelight  playing 
over  her  motionless  figure. 

Suddenly  she  tried  to  rise,  but  he  prevented  her  ;  it  was 
then  that  he  understood. 

She  had  come  back  like  an  animal  wounded  to  death, 
not  knowing  where  to  turn,  not  knowing  what  she  was 
doing.  The  sight  of  her  figure,  huddled  in  the  fur,  was 
enough. 

He  knew  then  for  certain  that  Bosinney  had  been  her 
lover  ;  knew  that  she  had  seen  the  report  of  his  death — 
perhaps,  like  himself,  had  bought  a  paper  at  the  draughty 
corner  of  a  street,  and  read  it. 

She  had  come  back  then  of  her  own  accord,  to  the  cage 
she  had  pined  to  be  free  of — and  taking  in  all  the  tremendous 
significance  of  this,  he  longed  to  cry  :  '  Take  your  hated 
body,  that  I  love,  out  of  my  house  !  Take  away  that  pitiful 
white  face,  so  cruel  and  soft — before  I  crush  it.  Get  out  of 
my  sight ;  never  let  me  see  you  again  !' 

And,  at  those  unspoken  words,  he  seemed  to  see  her  rise 


374  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  move  away,  like  a  woman  in  a  terrible  dream,  from 
which  she  was  fighting  to  awake — rise  and  go  out  into  the 
dark  and  cold,  without  a  thought  of  him,  without  so  much 
as  the  knowledge  of  his  presence. 

Then  he  cried,  contradicting  what  he  had  not  yet  spoken, 
*  No  ;  stay  there  !'  And  turning  away  from  her,  he  sat 
down  in  his  accustomed  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth. 

They  sat  in  silence. 

And  Soames  thought :  *  Why  is  all  this  ?  Why  should  I 
suffer  so  ?     What  have  I  done  ?     It  is  not  my  fault  !' 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  huddled  like  a  bird  that  is  shot 
and  dying,  whose  poor  breast  you  see  panting  as  the  air  is 
taken  from  it,  whose  poor  eyes  look  at  you  who  have  shot 
it,  with  a  slow,  soft,  unseeing  look,  taking  farewell  of  all  that 
is  good — of  the  sun,  and  the  air,  and  its  mate. 

So  they  sat,  by  the  firelight,  in  the  silence,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  hearth. 

And  the  fume  of  the  burning  cedar  logs,  that  he  loved  so 
well,  seemed  to  grip  Soames  by  the  throat  till  he  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  And  going  out  into  the  hall  he  flung  the  door 
wide,  to  gulp  down  the  cold  air  that  came  in  ;  then  with- 
out hat  or  overcoat  went  out  into  the  Square. 

Along  the  garden  rails  a  half-starved  cat  came  rubbing 
her  way  towards  him,  and  Soames  thought  :  *  Suffering  ! 
when  will  it  cease,  my  suffering  ?' 

At  a  front  door  across  the  way  v/as  a  man  of  his 
acquaintance  named  Rutter,  scraping  his  boots,  with  an  air 
of '  I  am  master  here.'     And  Soames  walked  on. 

From  far  in  the  clear  air  the  bells  of  the  church  where 
he  and  Irene  had  been  married  were  pealing  in  *  practice' 
for  the  advent  of  Christ,  the  chimes  ringing  out  above  the 
sound  of  traffic.  He  felt  a  craving  for  strong  drink,  to  lull 
him  to  indifference,  or  rouse  him  to  fury.     If  only  he  could 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  375 

burst  out  of  himself,  out  of  this  web  that  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  felt  around  him.  If  only  he  could  surrender  te 
the  thought  :  *  Divorce  her — turn  her  out  !  She  has  for- 
gotten you.     Forget  her  ! ' 

If  only  he  could  surrender  to  the  thought  :  *  Let  her  go — 
she  has  suffered  enough  !' 

If  only  he  could  surrender  to  the  desire  :  *  Make  a  slave 
of  her — she  is  in  your  power  !' 

If  only  even  he  could  surrender  to  the  sudden  vision  : 
*  What  does  it  all  matter  ?'  Forget  himself  for  a  minute, 
forget  that  it  mattered  what  he  did,  forget  that  whatever 
he  did  he  must  sacrifice  something. 

If  only  he  could  act  on  an  impulse  ! 

He  could  forget  nothing  ;  surrender  to  no  thought,  vision, 
or  desire  ;  it  was  all  too  serious  ;  too  close  around  him,  an 
unbreakable  cage. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  Square  newspaper  boys  were  calling 
their  evening  wares,  and  the  ghoulish  cries  mingled  and 
jangled  with  the  sound  of  those  church  bells. 

Soames  covered  his  ears.  The  thought  flashed  across  him 
that  but  for  a  chance,  he  himself,  and  not  Bosinney,  might 
be  lying  dead,  and  she,  instead  of  crouching  there  like  a  shot 
bird  with  those  dying  eyes 

Something  soft  touched  his  legs,  the  cat  was  rubbing 
herself  against  them.  And  a  sob  that  shook  him  from  head 
to  foot  burst  from  Soames'  chest.  Then  all  was  still  again 
in  the  dark,  where  the  houses  seemed  to  stare  at  him,  each 
with  a  master  and  mistress  of  its  own,  and  a  secret  story  of 
happiness  or  sorrow. 

And  suddenly  he  saw  that  his  own  door  was  open,  and 
black  against  the  light  from  the  hall  a  man  standing  with  his 
back  turned.  Something  slid  too  in  his  breast,  and  he  stole 
up  close  behind. 

He  could  see  his  own  fur  coat  flung  across  the  carved  oak 


376  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

chair  ;  the  Persian  rugs,  the  silver  bowls,  the  rows  of  porce- 
lain plates  arranged  along  the  walls,  and  this  unknown  man 
who  was  standing  there. 

And  sharply  he  asked  :  *  What  is  it  vou  want,  sir  ?* 

The  visitor  turned.     It  was  young  Jolyon. 

*  The  door  was  open,'  he  said.  '  Might  I  see  your  wife 
for  a  minute,  I  have  a  message  for  her  ?' 

Soames  gave  him  a  strange,  sidelong  stare. 

*  My  wife  can  see  no  one,'  he  muttered  doggedly. 
Young  Jolyon  answered  gently  :  '  I  shouldn't  keep  her  a 

minute.' 

Soames  brushed  by  him  and  barred  the  way. 

'  She  can  see  no  one,'  he  said  again. 

Young  Jolyon's  glance  shot  past  him  into  the  hall,  and 
Soames  turned.  There  in  the  drawing-room  doorway  stood 
Irene,  her  eyes  were  wild  and  eager,  her  lips  were  parted,  her 
hands  outstretched.  In  the  sight  of  both  men  that  light 
vanished  from  her  face  ;  her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides  ; 
she  stood  like  stone. 

Soames  spun  round,  and  met  his  visitor's  eyes,  and  at  the 
look  he  saw  in  them,  a  sound  like  a  snarl  escaped  him.  He 
drew  his  lips  back  in  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

*  This  is  my  house,'  he  said  ;  *  I  manage  my  own  affairs. 
I've  told  you  once — I  tell  you  again ;  we  are  not  at 
home.' 

And  in  young  Jolyon's  face  he  slammed  the  door. 


INTERLUDE 
INDIAN   SUMMER   OF   A   FORSYTE 


•*  And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date." 

Shakespeare. 


13^ 


TO 

ANDRfi   CHEVRILLON 


I 

On  the  last  day  of  May  in  the  early  'nineties,  about  six 
o'clock  of  the  evening,  old  Jolyon  Forsyte  sat  under  the  oak 
tree  before  the  terrace  of  his  house  at  Robin  Hill.  He  was 
waiting  for  the  midges  to  bite  him,  before  abandoning  the 
glory  of  the  afternoon.  His  thin  brown  hand,  where  blue 
veins  stood  out,  held  the  end  of  a  cigar  in  its  tapering,  long- 
nailed  fingers — a  pointed  polished  nail  had  survived  with  him 
from  those  earlier  Victorian  days  when  to  touch  nothing, 
even  with  the  tips  of  the  fingers,  had  been  so  distinguished. 
His  domed  forehead,  great  white  moustache,  lean  cheeks,  and 
long  lean  jaw  were  covered  from  the  westering  sunshine  by 
an  old  brown  Panama  hat.  His  legs  were  crossed  ;  in  all 
his  attitude  was  serenity  and  a  kind  of  elegance,  as  of  an  old 
man  who  every  morning  put  eau  de  Cologne  upon  his  silk 
handkerchief.  At  his  feet  lay  a  woolly  brown  and  white  dog 
trying  to  be  a  Pomeranian — the  dog  Balthasar,  between 
whom  and  old  Jolyon  primal  aversion  had  changed  into 
attachment  with  the  years.  Close  to  his  chair  was  a  swing, 
and  on  the  swing  was  seated  one  of  Holly's  dolls — called 
'  DufFer  Alice  ' — with  her  body  fallen  over  her  legs  and  her 
doleful  nose  buried  in  a  black  petticoat.  She  was  never  out 
of  disgrace,  so  it  did  not  matter  to  her  how  she  sat.  Below 
the  oak  tree  the  lawn  dipped  down  a  bank,  stretched  to  the 
fernery,  and,  beyond  that  refinement,  became  fields,  dropping 
to  the  pond,  the  coppice,  and  that  prospect — '  Fine,  remark- 
able ' — at  which  Swithin  Forsyte,  from  under  this  very  tree, 
had  stared  five  years  ago  when  he  drove  down  with  Irene 
to  look  at  the  house.  Old  Jolyon  had  heard  of  his  brother's 
exploit — that  drive  which  had  become  quite  celebrated  on 

379 


380  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Forsyte  *  Change.'  Swithin  !  And  the  fellow  had  gone 
and  died,  last  November,  at  the  age  of  only  seventy-nine, 
renew^ing  the  doubt  whether  Forsytes  could  live  for  ever, 
which  had  first  arisen  when  Aunt  Ann  passed  away.  Died  ! 
and  left  only  Jolyon  and  James,  Roger  and  Nicholas  and 
Timothy,  Julia,  Hester,  Susan  !  And  old  Jolyon  thought : 
*  Eighty-five  !  I  don't  feel  it — except  when  I  get  that 
pain.' 

His  memory  went  searching.  He  had  not  felt  his  age 
since  he  had  bought  his  nephew  Soames's  ill-starred  house 
and  settled  into  it  here  at  Robin  Hill  over  three  years  ago. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  been  getting  younger  every  spring,  living 
in  the  country  with  his  son  and  his  grandchildren — June, 
and  the  little  ones  of  the  second  marriage.  Jolly  and  Holly  ; 
living  down  here  out  of  the  racket  of  London  and  the 
cackle  of  Forsyte  '  Change,'  free  of  his  Boards,  in  a  delicious 
atmosphere  of  no  work  and  all  play,  with  plenty  of  occupa- 
tion in  the  perfecting  and  mellowing  of  the  house  and  its 
twenty  acres,  and  in  ministering  to  the  whims  of  Holly  and 
Jolly.  All  the  knots  and  crankiness,  which  had  gathered  in 
his  heart  during  that  long  and  tragic  business  of  June, 
Soames,  Irene  his  wife,  and  poor  young  Bosinney,  had  been 
smoothed  out.  Even  June  had  thrown  off  her  melancholy 
at  last — witness  this  travel  in  Spain  she  was  taking  now  with 
her  father  and  her  step-mother.  Curiously  perfect  peace 
was  left  by  their  departure;  blissful,  yet  blank,  because  his 
son  was  not  there.  Jo  was  never  anything  but  a  comfort 
and  a  pleasure  to  him  nowadays — an  amiable  chap  ;  but 
women,  somehow — even  the  best — got  a  little  on  one's 
nerves,  unless  of  course  one  admired  them. 

Far-off  a  cuckoo  called  ;  a  wood  pigeon  was  cooing  from 
the  first  elm  tree  in  the  field,  and  how  the  daisies  and  butter- 
cups had  sprung  up  after  the  last  mowing  !  The  wind  had 
got  into  the  sou'-west,  too — a   delicious  air,  sappy  !       He 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       381 

pushed  his  hat  back  and  let  the  sun  fall  on  his  chin  and 
cheek.  Somehow,  to-day,  he  wanted  company — wanted  a 
pretty  face  to  look  at.  People  treated  the  old  as  if  they 
wanted  nothing.  And  with  the  un-Forsytean  philosophy 
which  ever  intruded  on  his  soul,  he  thought :  *  One's  never 
had  enough  !  With  a  foot  in  the  grave  one'll  want  some- 
thing, I  shouldn't  be  surprised  !'  Down  here — away  from 
the  exigencies  of  affairs — his  grandchildren,  and  the  flowers, 
trees,  birds  of  his  little  domain,  to  say  nothing  of  sun  and 
moon  and  stars  above  them,  said,  '  Open,  sesame,'  to  him 
day  and  night.  And  sesame  had  opened — how  much,  per- 
haps, he  did  not  know.  He  had  always  been  responsive  to 
what  they  had  begun  to  call  *  Nature,'  genuinely,  almost 
religiously  responsive,  though  he  had  never  lost  his  habit  of 
calling  a  sunset  a  sunset  and  a  view  a  view,  however  deeply 
they  might  move  him.  But  nowadays  Nature  actually  made 
him  ache,  he  appreciated  it  so.  Every  one  ot  these  calm, 
bright,  lengthening  days,  with  Holly's  hand  in  his,  and  the 
dog  Balthasar  in  front  looking  studiously  for  what  he  never 
found,  he  would  stroll,  watching  the  roses  open,  fruit 
budding  on  the  walls,  sunlight  brightening  the  oak  leaves 
and  saplings  in  the  coppice,  watching  the  water-lily  leaves 
unfold  and  glisten,  and  the  silvery  young  corn  of  the  one 
wheatfield  ;  listening  to  the  starlings  and  skylarks,  and  the 
Alderney  cows  chewing  the  cud,  flicking  slow  their  tufted 
tails  ;  and  every  one  of  these  fine  days  he  ached  a  little  from 
sheer  love  of  it  all,  feeling  perhaps,  deep  down,  that  he  had 
not  very  much  longer  to  enjoy  it.  The  thought  that  some 
day — perhaps  not  ten  years  hence,  perhaps  not  five — all  this 
world  would  be  taken  away  from  him,  before  he  had  ex- 
hausted his  powers  of  loving  it,  seemed  to  him  in  the  nature 
of  an  injustice,  brooding  over  his  horizon.  If  anything  came 
after  this  life,  it  wouldn't  be  what  he  wanted  ;  not  Robin 
Hill,  and  flowers  and  birds  and  pretty  faces — too  few,  even 


382  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

now,  of  those  about  him  !  With  the  years  his  dislike  of 
humbug  had  increased  ;  the  orthodoxy  he  had  worn  in  the 
'sixties,  as  he  had  worn  side-whiskers  out  of  sheer  exuberance,, 
had  long  dropped  off,  leaving  him  reverent  before  three 
things  alone — beauty,  upright  conduct,  and  the  sense  of 
property  ;  and  the  greatest  of  these  now  was  beauty.  He 
had  always  had  wide  interests,  and,  indeed,  could  still  read 
The  Times,  but  he  was  liable  at  any  moment  to  put  it  down 
if  he  heard  a  blackbird  sing.  Upright  conduct — property — 
somehow,  they  were  tiring  ;  the  blackbirds  and  the  sunsets 
never  tired  him,  only  gave  him  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he 
could  not  get  enough  of  them.  Staring  into  the  stilly 
radiance  of  the  early  evening  and  at  the  little  gold  and  white 
flowers  on  the  lawn,  a  thought  came  to  him  :  This  weather 
was  like  the  music  of  *  Orfeo,'  which  he  had  recently  heard 
at  Covent  Garden.  A  beautiful  opera,  not  like  Meyerbeer, 
nor  even  quite  Mozart,  but,  in  its  way,  perhaps  even  more 
lovely  ;  something  classical  and  of  the  Golden  Age  about  it, 
chaste  and  mellow,  and  the  Ravogli  *  almost  worthy  of  the 
old  days  ' — highest  praise  he  could  bestow.  The  yearning 
of  Orpheus  for  the  beauty  he  was  losing,  for  his  love  going 
down  to  Hades,  as  in  life  love  and  beauty  did  go — the 
yearning  which  sang  and  throbbed  through  the  golden  music, 
stirred  also  in  the  lingering  beauty  of  the  world  that  evening. 
And  with  the  tip  of  his  cork-soled,  elastic-sided  boot  he  in- 
voluntarily stirred  the  ribs  of  the  dog  Balthasar,  causing  the 
animal  to  wake  and  attack  his  fleas  ;  for  though  he  was  sup- 
posed to  have  none,  nothing  could  persuade  him  of  the  fact. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  rubbed  the  place  he  had  been 
scratching  against  his  master's  calf,  and  settled  down  again 
with  his  chin  over  the  instep  of  the  disturbing  boot.  And 
into  old  Jolyon's  mind  came  a  sudden  recollection — a  face 
he  had  seen  at  that  opera  three  weeks  ago — Irene,  the  wife 
of  his   precious    nephew   Soames,  that    man    of  property  I 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       383 

Though  he  had  not  met  her  since  the  day  of  the  "  At 
Home  "  in  his  old  house  at  Stanhope  Gate,  which  celebrated 
his  granddaughter  June's  ill-starred  engagement  to  young 
Bosinney,  he  had  remembered  her  at  once,  for  he  had  always 
admired  her — a  very  pretty  creature.  -After  the  death  of 
young  Bosinney,  whose  mistress  she  had  so  reprehensibly 
become,  he  had  heard  that  she  had  left  Soames  at  once. 
Goodness  only  knew  what  she  had  been  doing  since.  That 
sight  of  her  face — a  side-view — in  the  row  in  front,  had  been 
literally  the  only  reminder  these  three  years  that  she  was  still 
alive.  No  one  ever  spoke  of  her.  And  yet  Jo  had  told  him 
something  once — something  which  had  upset  him  com- 
pletely. The  boy  had  got  it  from  George  Forsyte,  he 
believed,  who  had  seen  Bosinney  in  the  fog  the  day  he  was 
run  over — something  which  explained  the  young  fellow's 
distress — an  act  of  Soames  towards  his  wife — a  shocking  act. 
Jo  had  seen  her,  too,  that  afternoon,  after  the  news  was  out, 
seen  her  for  a  moment,  and  his  description  had  always 
lingered  in  old  Jolyon's  mind — *  wild  and  lost  *  he  had  called 
her.  And  next  day  June  had  gone  there — bottled  up  her 
feelings  and  gone  there,  and  the  maid  had  cried  and  told  her 
how  her  mistress  had  slipped  out  in  the  night  and  vanished. 
A  tragic  business  altogether  !  One  thing  was  certain — 
Soames  had  never  been  able  to  lay  hands  on  her  again.  And 
he  was  living  at  Brighton,  and  journeying  up  and  down — a 
fitting  fate,  the  man  of  property  !  For  when  he  once 
took  a  dislike  to  anyone — as  he  had  to  his  nephew — old 
Jolyon  never  got  over  it.  He  remembered  still  the  sense  of 
relief  with  which  he  had  heard  the  news  of  Irene's  dis- 
appearance— it  had  been  shocking  to  think  of  her  a  prisoner 
in  that  house  to  which  she  must  have  wandered  back,  when 
Jo  saw  her,  wandered  back  for  a  moment — like  a  wounded 
animal  to  its  hole  after  seeing  that  news,  *  Tragic  Death  of 
an  Architect,'  in  the  street.     Her  face  had  struck  him  very 


384  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

much  the  other  night — more  beautiful  than  he  had  remem- 
bered, but  like  a  mask,  with  something  going  on  beneath  it. 
A  young  woman  still — twenty-eight  perhaps.  Ah,  well  ! 
Very  likely  she  had  another  lover  by  now.  But  at  this  sub- 
versive thought — for  married  women  should  never  love, 
once,  even,  had  been  too  much — his  instep  rose,  and  with  it 
the  dog  Balthasar's  head.  The  sagacious  animal  stood  up 
and  looked  into  old  Jolyon's  face.  "  Walk  :"  he  seemed  to 
sav  ;  and  old  Jolvon  answered  :   "  Come  on,  old  chap  !" 

Slowly,  as  was  their  wont,  they  crossed  among  the  con- 
stellations of  buttercups  and  daisies,  and  entered  the  fernery. 
This  feature,  where  very  little  grew  as  yet,  had  been  iudi- 
ciouslv  dropped  below  the  level  of  the  lawn  so  that  it  might 
come  up  again  on  the  level  of  the  other  lawn  and  give  the 
impression  of  irregularity,  so  important  in  horticulture.  Its 
rocks  and  earth  were  beloved  of  the  dog  Balthasar,  who 
sometimes  found  a  mole  there.  Old  Jolyon  made  a  point  of 
passing  through  it  because,  though  it  was  not  beautiful,  he 
intended  that  it  should  be,  some  dav,  and  he  would  think  : 
*  I  must  get  Varr  to  come  down  and  look  at  it  ;  he's  better 
than  Beech.'  For  plants,  like  houses  and  human  complaints, 
required  the  best  expert  consideration.  It  was  inhabited  by 
snails,  and  if  accompanied  by  his  grandchildren,  he  would 
point  to  one  and  tell  them  the  story  of  the  little  boy  who 
said  :  '  Have  plummers  got  leggers,  Mother  r'  *  No,  sonny.' 
'  Then  darned  if  I  haven't  been  and  swallowed  a  snileybob.' 
And  when  they  skipped  and  clutched  his  hand,  thinking  of 
the  snileybob  going  down  the  little  boy's  '  red  lane,'  his  eyes 
would  twijikle.  Emerging  from  the  ferner}^,  he  opened  the 
wicket  gate,  which  just  there  led  into  the  first  field,  a  large 
and  park-like  area,  out  of  which,  within  brick  walls,  the 
vegetable  garden  had  been  carved.  Old  Jolyon  avoided  this, 
which  did  not  suit  his  mood,  and  made  down  the  hill  towards 
the  pond.     Balthasar,  who  knew  a  water-rat  or  two,  gam- 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       385 

boiled  in  front,  at  the  gait  which  marks  an  oldish  dog  who 
takes  the  same  walk  every  day.  Arrived  at  the  cdzQ,  old 
Jolyon  stood,  noting  another  water-lily  opened  since  yester- 
day ;  he  would  show  it  to  Holly  to-morrow,  when  *  his  little 
sweet '  had  got  over  the  upset  which  had  followed  on  her 
eating  a  tomato  at  lunch — her  little  arrangements  were  very 
delicate.  Now  that  Jolly  had  gone  to  school — his  first  term 
— Holly  was  with  him  nearly  all  daylong,  and  he  missed  her 
badly.  He  felt  that  pain  too,  which  often  bothered  him 
now,  a  little  dragging  at  his  left  side.  He  looked  back  up 
the  hill.  Really,  poor  young  Bosinney  had  made  an  uncom- 
monly good  job  of  the  house  ;  he  would  have  done  very  well 
for  himself  if  he  had  lived  !  And  where  was  he  now  r 
Perhaps,  still  haunting  this,  the  site  of  his  last  work,  of  his 
tragic  love  aflfair.  Or  was  Philip  Bosinney's  spirit  diffused 
in  the  general  ?  Who  could  say  r  That  dog  was  getting  his 
legs  muddy  !  And  he  moved  towards  the  coppice.  There 
had  been  the  most  delightful  lot  of  bluebells,  and  he  knew 
where  some  still  lingered  like  little  patches  of  sky  fallen  in 
between  the  trees,  away  out  of  the  sun.  He  passed  the  cow- 
and  hen-houses  there  installed,  and  pursued  a  thin  path  into 
the  thick  of  the  saplings,  making  for  one  of  those  bluebell 
plots.  Balthasar,  preceding  him  once  more,  uttered  a  low 
growl.  Old  Jolyon  stirred  him  with  his  foot,  but  the  dog 
remained  motionless,  just  where  there  was  no  room  to  pass, 
and  the  hair  rose  slowly  along  the  centre  of  his  woolly  back. 
Whether  from  the  growl  and  the  look  of  the  dog's  stivered 
hair,  or  from  the  sensation  which  a  man  feels  in  a  wood,  old 
Jolyon  also  felt  something  move  along  his  spine.  And  then 
the  path  turned,  and  there  was  an  old  mossy  log,  and  on  it  a 
woman  sitting.  Her  face  was  turned  away,  and  he  had  just 
time  to  think  :  *  She's  trespassing — I  must  have  a  board  put 
up  !'  before  she  turned.  Powers  above  !  The  face  he  had 
seen  at  the  opera — the  ver}-  woman  he  had  just  been  thinking 


386  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of !  In  that  confused  moment  he  saw  things  blurred,  as  if  a 
spirit — queer  effect — the  slant  of  sunlight  perhaps  on  her 
violet-grey  frock  !  And  then  she  rose  and  stood  smiling, 
her  head  a  little  to  one  side.  Old  Jolyon  thought  :  *  How 
pretty  she  is  !'  She  did  not  speak,  neither  did  he ;  and  he 
realised  why  with  a  certain  admiration.  She  was  here  no 
doubt  because  of  some  memory,  and  did  not  mean  to  try  and 
get  out  of  it  by  vulgar  explanation. 

**  Don't  let  that  dog  touch  your  frock,"  he  said ;  "  he's 
got  wet  feet.      Come  here,  you  !" 

But  the  dog  Balthasar  went  on  towards  the  visitor,  who 
put  her  hand  down  and  stroked  his  head.  Old  Jolyon  said 
quickly  : 

"  I  saw  you  at  the  opera  the  other  night ;  you  didn't 
notice  me." 

"  Oh,  yes  1  I  did." 

He  felt  a  subtle  flattery  in  that,  as  though  she  had  added  r 
"  Do  you  think  one  could  miss  seeing  you  ?" 

"  They're  all  in  Spain,"  he  remarked  abruptly.  "  I'm 
alone  ;  I  drove  up  for  the  opera.  The  Ravogli's  good. 
Have  you  seen  the  cow-house  ?" 

In  a  situation  so  charged  with  mystery  and  something 
very  like  emotion  he  moved  instinctively  towards  that  bit  of 
property,  and  she  moved  beside  him.  Her  figure  swayed 
faintly,  like  the  best  kind  of  French  figures ;  her  dress,  too, 
was  a  sort  of  French  grey.  He  noticed  two  or  three  silver 
threads  in  her  amber-coloured  hair,  strange  hair  with  those 
dark  eyes  of  hers,  and  that  creamy-pale  face.  A  suddert 
sidelong  look  from  the  velvety  brown  eyes  disturbed  him. 
It  seemed  to  come  from  deep  and  afar,  from  another  world 
almost,  or  at  all  events  from  someone  not  living  very  much 
in  this.     And  he  said  mechanically  : 

"  Where  are  you  living  now  ?" 

"  I  have  a  little  flat  in  Chelsea." 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       387 

He  did  not  want  to  hear  what  she  was  doing,  did  not 
want  to  hear  anything  ;  but  the  perverse  word  came  out : 

"  Alone  ?" 

She  nodded.  It  was  a  relief  to  know  that.  And  it  came 
into  his  mind  that,  but  for  a  twist  of  fate,  she  would  have 
been  mistress  of  this  coppice,  showing  this  cow-house  to 
him,  a  visitor. 

"  All  Alderneys,"  he  muttered  ;  "  they  give  the  best  milk. 
This  one's  a  pretty  creature.     Woa,  Myrtle  !" 

The  fawn-coloured  cow,  with  eyes  as  soft  and  brown  as 
Irene's  own,  was  standing  absolutely  still,  not  having  long 
been  milked.  She  looked  round  at  them  out  of  the  corner 
of  those  lustrous,  mild,  cynical  eyes,  and  from  her  grey  lips 
a  little  dribble  of  saliva  threaded  its  way  towards  the  straw. 
The  scent  of  hay  and  vanilla  and  ammonia  rose  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  cool  cow-house ;  and  old  Jolyon  said  : 

"  You  must  come  up  and  have  some  dinner  with  me. 
I'll  send  you  home  in  the  carriage." 

He  perceived  a  struggle  going  on  within  her  ;  natural,  no 
doubt,  with  her  memories.  But  he  wanted  her  company  ; 
a  pretty  face,  a  charming  figure,  beauty  !  He  had  been 
alone  all  the  afternoon.  Perhaps  his  eyes  were  wistful,  for 
she  answered  :  "  Thank  you,  Uncle  Jolyon.  I  should 
like  to." 

He  rubbed  his  hands,  and  said  : 

"  Capital  !  Let's  go  up,  then  1"  And,  preceded  by  the 
dog  Balthasar,  they  ascended  through  the  field.  The  sun 
was  almost  level  in  their  faces  now,  and  he  could  see,  not 
only  those  silver  threads,  but  little  lines,  just  deep  enough  to 
stamp  her  beauty  with  a  coin-like  fineness — the  special 
look  of  life  unshared  with  others.  '  I'll  take  her  in  by  the 
terrace,'  he  thought  :  *I  won't  make  a  common  visitor  of 
her.' 

"  What  do  you  do  all  day  ?"  he  said. 


388  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Teach  music  ;  I  have  another  interest,  too." 

"  Work  !"  said  old  Jolyon,  picking  up  the  doll  from  off  the 
swing,  and  smoothing  its  black  petticoat.  "  Nothing  like  it, 
is  there  ?  I  don't  do  any  now.  I'm  getting  on.  What 
interest  is  that  ?" 

"Trying  to  help  women  who've  come  to  grief."  Old 
Jolyon  did  not  quite  understand.  "  To  grief  ?"  he  repeated  ; 
then  realised  with  a  shock  that  she  meant  exactly  what  he 
would  have  meant  himself  if  he  had  used  that  expression. 
Assisting  the  Magdalenes  of  London  !  What  a  weird  and 
terrifying  interest  !  And,  curiosity  overcoming  his  natural 
shrinking,  he  asked  : 

"  Why  ?     What  do  you  do  for  them  ?" 

"  Not  much.  I've  no  money  to  spare.  I  can  only  give 
sympathy  and  food  sometimes." 

Involuntarily  old  Jolyon's  hand  sought  his  purse.  He  said 
hastily  :  "  How  d'you  get  hold  of  them  ?" 

"  I  go  to  a  hospital." 

«  A  hospital  !     Phew  !" 

"  What  hurts  me  most  is  that  once  they  nearly  all  had 
some  sort  of  beauty." 

Old  Jolyon  straightened  the  doll.  "  Beauty  !"  he  ejacu- 
lated :  "  Ha  !  Yes  !  A  sad  business  !"  and  he  moved 
towards  the  house.  Through  a  French  window,  under  sun- 
blinds  not  yet  drawn  up,  he  preceded  her  into  the  room 
where  he  was  wont  to  study  The  Times  and  the  sheets  of  an 
agricultural  magazine,  with  huge  illustrations  of  mangold- 
wurzels,  and  the  like,  which  provided  Holly  with  material 
for  her  paint  brush. 

"  Dinner's  in  half  an  hour.  You'd  like  to  wash  your 
hands  !     I'll  take  you  to  June's  room." 

He  saw  her  looking  round  eagerly  ;  what  changes  since 
she  had  last  visited  this  house  with  her  husband,  or  her  lover, 
or  both  perhaps — he  did  not  know,  could  not  say  !    All  that 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       389 

was  dark,  and  he  wished  to  leave  it  so.     But  what  changes  ! 
And  in  the  hall  he  said  : 

"  My  boy  Jo*s  a  painter,  you  know.  He's  got  a  lot  of 
taste.  It  isn't  mine,  of  course,  but  I've  let  him  have 
his  way." 

She  was  standing  very  still,  her  eyes  roaming  through  the 
hall  and  music  room,  as  it  now  was — all  thrown  into  one, 
under  the  great  skylight.  Old  Jolyon  had  an  odd  impres- 
sion of  her.  Was  she  trying  to  conjure  somebody  from  the 
shades  of  that  space  where  the  colouring  was  all  pearl-grey 
and  silver  ?  He  would  have  had  gold  himself ;  more  lively 
and  solid.  But  Jo  had  French  tastes,  and  it  had  come  out 
shadowy  like  that,  with  an  effect  as  of  the  fume  of  cigarettes 
the  chap  was  always  smoking,  broken  here  and  there  by  a 
little  blaze  of  blue  or  crimson  colour.  It  was  not  his  dream  ! 
Mentally  he  had  hung  this  space  with  those  gold-framed 
masterpieces  of  still  and  stiller  life  which  he  had  bought  in 
days  when  quantity  was  precious.  And  now  where  were 
they  ?  Sold  for  a  song  !  For  that  something  which  made 
him,  alone  among  Forsytes,  move  with  the  times  had  warned 
him  against  the  struggle  to  retain  them.  But  in  his  study  he 
still  had  *  Dutch  Fishing  Boats  at  Sunset.' 

He  began  to  mount  the  stairs  with  her,  slowly,  for  he  felt 
his  side. 

"  These  are  the  bathrooms,"  he  said,  "  and  other  arrange- 
ments. I've  had  them  tiled.  The  nurseries  are  along  there. 
And  this  is  Jo's  and  his  wife's.  They  all  communicate.  But 
you  remember,  I  expect." 

Irene  nodded.  They  passed  on,  up  the  gallery,  and 
entered  a  large  room  with  a  small  bed,  and  several  win- 
dows. 

"This  is  mine,"  he  said.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
the  photographs  of  children,  and  water-colour  sketches,  and 
he  added  doubtfully  : 


390  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  These  are  Jo's.  The  view's  first-rate.  You  can  see  the 
Grand  Stand  at  Epsom  in  clear  weather." 

The  sun  was  down  now,  behind  the  house,  and  over  the 
*  prospect '  a  luminous  haze  had  settled,  emanation  of  the 
long  and  prosperous  day.  Few  houses  showed,  but  fields  and 
trees  faintly  glistened,  away  to  a  loom  of  downs. 

"  The  country's  changing,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  but  there 
it'll  be  when  we're  all  gone.  Look  at  those  thrushes — the 
birds  are  sweet  here  in  the  mornings.  I'm  glad  to  have 
washed  my  hands  of  London." 

Her  face  was  close  to  the  window  pane,  and  he  was  struck 
by  its  mournful  look.  *  Wish  I  could  make  her  look  happy  !' 
he  thought.  *  A  pretty  face,  but  sad  1'  And  taking  up  his 
can  of  hot  water  he  went  out  into  the  gallery. 

"  This  is  June's  room,"  he  said,  opening  the  next  door 
and  putting  the  can  down  ;  "  I  think  you'll  find  everything." 
And  closing  the  door  behind  her  he  went  back  to  his  own 
room.  Brushing  his  hair  with  his  great  ebony  brushes,  and 
dabbing  his  forehead  with  eau  de  Cologne,  he  mused.  She 
had  come  so  strangely — a  sort  of  visitation,  mysterious,  even 
romantic,  as  if  his  desire  for  company,  for  beauty,  had  been 
fulfilled  by — whatever  it  was  which  fulfilled  that  sort  of 
thing.  And  before  the  mirror  he  straightened  his  still  up- 
right figure,  passed  the  brushes  over  his  great  white  mous- 
tache, touched  up  his  eyebrows  with  eau  de  Cologne,  and 
rang  the  bell. 

"  I  forgot  to  let  them  know  that  I  have  a  lady  to  dinner 
with  me.  Let  cook  do  something  extra,  and  tell  Beacon  to 
have  the  landau  and  pair  at  half-past  ten  to  drive  her  back 
to  Town  to-night.     Is  Miss  Holly  asleep  r" 

The  maid  thought  not.  And  old  Jolyon,  passing  down 
the  gallery,  stole  on  tiptoe  towards  the  nursery,  and  opened 
the  door  whose  hinges  he  kept  specially  oiled  that  he  might 
slip  in  and  out  in  the  evenings  without  being  heard. 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       391 

But  Holly  was  asleep,  and  lay  like  a  miniature  Madonna, 
of  that  type  which  the  old  painters  could  not  tell  from 
Venus,  when  they  had  completed  her.  Her  long  dark  lashes 
clung  to  her  cheeks  ;  on  her  face  was  perfect  peace — her 
little  arrangements  were  evidently  all  right  again.  And  old 
Jolyon,  in  the  twilight  of  the  room,  stood  adoring  her  !  It 
was  so  charming,  solemn,  and  loving — that  little  face.  He 
had  more  than  his  share  of  the  blessed  capacity  of  living 
again  in  the  young.  They  were  to  him  his  future  life — all 
of  a  future  life  that  his  fundamental  pagan  sanity  perhaps 
admitted.  There  she  was  with  everything  before  her,  and 
his  blood — some  of  it — in  her  tiny  veins.  There  she  was, 
his  little  companion,  to  be  made  as  happy  as  ever  he  could 
make  her,  so  that  she  knew  nothing  but  love.  His  heart 
swelled,  and  he  went  out,  stifling  the  sound  of  his  patent 
leather  boots.  In  the  corridor  an  eccentric  notion  attacked 
him  :  To  think  that  children  should  come  to  that  which 
Irene  had  told  him  she  was  helping  !  Women  who  were  all, 
once,  little  things  like  this  one  sleeping  there  !  '  I  must  give 
her  a  cheque  1'  he  mused  ;  *  can't  bear  to  think  of  them  T 
They  had  never  borne  reflecting  on,  those  poor  outcasts  ; 
wounding  too  deeply  the  core  of  true  refinement  hidden 
under  layers  of  conformity  to  the  sense  of  property — wound 
ing  too  grievously  the  deepest  thing  in  him — a  love  o^ 
beauty  which  could  give  him,  even  now,  a  flutter  of  the 
heart,  thinking  of  his  evening  in  the  society  of  a  pretty 
woman.  And  he  went  downstairs,  through  the  swing- 
doors,  to  the  back  regions.  There,  in  the  wine-cellar,  was 
a  hock  worth  at  least  two  pounds  a  bottle,  a  Steinberg 
Cabinet,  better  than  any  Johannisberg  that  ever  went  down 
throat  ;  a  wine  of  perfect  bouquet,  sweet  as  a  nectarine — 
nectar  indeed  !  He  got  a  bottle  out,  handling  it  like  a  baby, 
and  holding  it  level  to  the  light,  to  look.  Enshrined  in  its 
coat   of  dust,   that    mellow-coloured,  slender-necked    bottle 


392  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

gave  him  deep  pleasure.  Three  years  to  settle  down  again 
since  the  move  from  Town — ought  to  be  in  prime  con- 
dition !  Thirty-five  years  ago  he  had  bought  it — thank  God 
he  had  kept  his  palate,  and  earned  the  right  to  drink  it.  She 
would  appreciate  this  ;  not  a  spice  of  acidity  in  a  dozen. 
He  wiped  the  bottle,  drew  the  cork  with  his  own  hands,  put 
his  nose  down,  inhaled  its  perfume,  and  went  back  to  the 
music  room. 

Irene  was  standing  by  the  piano  ;  she  had  taken  off  her 
hat  and  a  lace  scarf  she  had  been  wearing,  so  that  her  gold- 
coloured  hair  was  visible,  and  the  pallor  of  her  neck.  In  her 
grey  frock  she  made  a  pretty  picture  for  old  Jolyon,  against 
the  rosewood  of  the  piano. 

He  gave  her  his  arm,  and  solemnly  they  went.  The 
room,  which  had  been  designed  to  enable  twenty-four  people 
to  dine  in  comfort,  held  now  but  a  little  round  table.  In  his 
present  solitude  the  big  dining-table  oppressed  old  Jolyon  ; 
he  had  caused  it  to  be  removed  till  his  son  came  back.  Here 
in  the  company  of  two  really  good  copies  of  Raphael 
Madonnas  he  was  wont  to  dine  alone.  It  was  the  only  dis- 
consolate hour  of  his  day,  this  summer  weather.  He  had 
never  been  a  large  eater,  like  that  great  chap  S  with  in,  or 
Sylvanus  Heythorp,  or  Anthony  Thornworthy,  those 
cronies  of  past  times  ;  and  to  dine  alone,  overlooked  by  the 
Madonnas,  was  to  him  but  a  sorrowful  occupation,  which 
he  got  through  quickly,  that  he  might  come  to  the  more 
spiritual  enjoyment  of  his  coffee  and  cigar.  But  this  evening 
was  a  different  matter  !  His  eyes  twinkled  at  her  across  the 
little  table,  and  he  spoke  of  Italy  and  Switzerland,  telling  her 
stories  of  his  travels  there,  and  other  experiences  which  he 
could  no  longer  recount  to  his  son  and  grand-daughter 
because  they  knew  them.  This  fresh  audience  was  precious 
to  him  ;  he  had  never  become  one  of  those  old  men  who 
ramble  round  and  round  the  fields  of  reminiscence.     Him- 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       393 

self  quickly  fatigued  by  the  insensitive,  he  instinctively 
avoided  fatiguing  others,  and  his  natural  flirtatiousness  to- 
wards beaut)'  guarded  him  specially  in  his  relations  v^ith  a 
woman.  He  would  have  liked  to  draw  her  out,  but  though 
she  murmured  and  smiled  and  seemed  to  be  enjoying  what 
he  told  her,  he  remained  conscious  of  that  mysterious  re- 
moteness which  constituted  half  her  fascination.  He  could 
not  bear  women  who  threw  their  shoulders  and  eyes  at  you, 
and  chattered  away ;  or  hard-mouthed  women  who  laid 
down  the  law  and  knew  more  than  you  did.  There  was 
only  one  quality  in  a  woman  that  appealed  to  him — charm  ; 
and  the  quieter  it  was,  the  more  he  liked  it.  And  this  one 
had  charm,  shadowy  as  afternoon  sunlight  on  those  Italian 
hills  and  valleys  he  had  loved.  The  feeling,  too,  that  she 
was,  as  it  were,  apart,  cloistered,  made  her  seem  nearer  to 
himself,  a  strangely  desirable  companion.  When  a  man  is 
very  old  and  quite  out  of  the  running,  he  loves  to  feel  secure 
from  the  rivalries  of  youth,  for  he  would  still  be  first  in  the 
heart  of  beauty.  And  he  drank  his  hock,  and  watched  her 
lips,  and  felt  nearly  young.  But  the  dog  Balthasar  lay 
watching  her  lips  too,  and  despising  in  his  heart  the  inter- 
ruptions of  their  talk,  and  the  tilting  of  those  greenish  glasses 
full  of  a  golden  fluid  which  was  distasteful  to  him. 

The  light  was  just  failing  when  they  went  back  into  the 
music  room.     And,  cigar  in  mouth,  old  Jolyon  said  : 

"  Play  me  some  Chopin." 

By  the  cigars  they  smoke,  and  the  composers  they  love,  ye 
shall  know  the  texture  of  men's  souls.  Old  Jolyon  could  not 
bear  a  strong  cigar  or  Wagner's  music.  He  loved  Beethoven 
and  Mozart,  Handel  and  Gluck,  and  Schumann,  and,  for 
some  occult  reason,  the  operas  of  Meyerbeer  ;  but  of  late 
years  he  had  been  seduced  by  Chopin,  just  as  in  painting  he 
had  succumbed  to  Botticelli.  In  yielding  to  these  tastes  he 
had  been  conscious  of  divergence  from  the  standard  of  the 


394  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Golden  Age.  Their  poetiy  was  not  that  of  Milton  and 
Byron  and  Tennyson  ;  of  Raphael  and  Titian  ;  Mozart  and 
Beethoven.  It  was,  as  it  were,  behind  a  veil  ;  their  poetry 
hit  no  one  in  the  face,  but  slipped  its  fingers  under  the  ribs 
and  turned  and  twisted,  and  melted  up  the  heart.  And, 
never  certain  that  this  was  healthy,  he  did  not  care  a  rap  so 
long  as  he  could  see  the  pictures  of  the  one  or  hear  the  music 
of  the  other. 

Irene  sat  down  at  the  piano  under  the  electric  lamp 
festooned  with  pearl-grey,  and  old  Jolyon,  in  an  arm-chair, 
whence  he  could  see  her,  crossed  his  legs  and  drew  slowly 
at  his  cigar.  She  sat  a  few  moments  with  her  hands  on  the 
keys,  evidently  searching  her  mind  for  what  to  give  him. 
Then  she  began,  and  within  old  Jolyon  there  arose  a 
sorrowful  pleasure,  not  quite  like  anything  else  in  the  world. 
He  fell  slowly  into  a  trance,  interrupted  only  by  the  move- 
ment of  his  hand  taking  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  at  long 
intervals,  and  replacing  it.  She  was  there,  and  the  hock 
within  him,  and  the  scent  of  tobacco  ;  but  there,  too,  was  a 
world  of  sunshine  lingering  into  moonlight,  and  pools  with 
storks  upon  them,  and  bluish  trees  above,  glowing  with  blurs 
of  wine-red  roses,  and  fields  of  lavender  where  milk-white 
cows  were  grazing,  and  a  woman  all  shadowy,  with  dark 
eyes  and  a  white  neck,  smiled,  holding  out  her  arms  ;  and 
through  air  which  was  like  music  a  star  dropped,  and  was 
caught  on  a  cow's  horn.  He  opened  his  eyes.  Beautiful 
piece  ;  she  played  well — the  touch  of  an  angel  !  And  he 
closed  them  again.  He  felt  miraculously  sad  and  happy,  as 
one  does,  standing  under  a  lime  tree  in  full  honey  flower. 
Not  live  one's  own  life  again,  but  just  stand  there  and  bask 
in  the  smile  of  a  woman's  eyes,  and  enjoy  the  bouquet  ! 
And  he  jerked  his  hand  ;  the  dog  Balthasar  had  reached  up 
and  licked  it. 

"  Beautiful  !"  he  said  •   "  Go  on — more  Chopin  !" 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       395 

She  began  to  play  again.  This  time  the  resemblance 
between  her  and  *  Chopin  '  struck  him.  The  swaying  he 
had  noticed  in  her  walk  was  in  her  playing  too,  and  the 
Nocturne  she  had  chosen,  and  the  soft  darkness  of  her  eyes, 
the  light  on  her  hair,  as  of  moonlight  from  a  golden  moon. 
Seductive,  yes  ;  but  nothing  of  Delilah  in  her  or  in  that 
music.  A  long  blue  spiral  from  his  cigar  ascended  and  dis- 
persed. *  So  we  go  out  1'  he  thought.  '  No  more  beauty  ! 
Nothing  ?' 

Again  Irene  stopped. 

"  Would  you  like  some  Gluck  ?  He  used  to  write  his 
music  in  a  sunlit  garden,  with  a  bottle  of  Rhine  wine  beside 
him." 

"  Ah  !  yes.  Let's  have  *  Orfeo.'  '*  Round  about  him 
now  were  fields  of  gold  and  silver  flowers,  white  forms 
swaying  in  the  sunlight,  bright  birds  flying  to  and  fro.  All 
was  summer.  Lingering  waves  of  sweetness  and  regret 
flooded  his  soul.  Some  cigar  ash  dropped,  and  taking  out  a 
silk  handkerchief  to  brush  it  off,  he  inhaled  a  mingled  scent 
as  of  snuff  and  eau  de  Cologne.  '  Ah  !'  bethought,  *  Indian 
summer — that's  all!'  And  he  said:  "You  haven't  played 
me  '  Che  faro.'  " 

She  did  not  answer  ;  did  not  move.  He  was  conscious  of 
something — some  strange  upset.  Suddenly  he  saw  her  rise 
and  turn  away,  and  a  pang  of  remorse  shot  through  him. 
What  a  clumsy  chap  !  Like  Orpheus,  she  of  course — she  too 
was  looking  for  her  lost  one  m  this  hall  of  memory  !  And, 
disturbed  to  the  heart,  he  got  up  from  his  chair.  She  had 
gone  to  the  great  window  at  the  far  end.  Gingerly  he 
followed.  Her  hands  were  folded  over  her  breast  ;  he  could 
just  see  her  cheek,  very  white.  And,  quite  emotionalised,^ 
he  said :  "  There,  there,  my  love  !"  The  words  had 
escaped  him  mechanically,  for  they  were  those  he  used  to 
Holly  when  she   had  a  pain,  but    their  effect  was  instan- 


396  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

taneously  distressing.  She  raised  her  arms,  covered  her  face 
with  them,  and  wept. 

Old  Jolyon  stood  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  very  deep  from, 
age.  The  passionate  shame  she  seemed  feeling  at  her 
abandonment,  so  unlike  the  control  and  quietude  of  her 
whole  presence,  was  as  if  she  had  never  before  broken  down 
in  the  presence  of  another  being. 

"There,  there — there,  there  !"  he  murmured  ;  and  putting 
his  hand  out  reverently,  touched  her.  She  turned,  and 
leaned  the  arms  which  covered  her  face  against  him.  Old 
Jolyon  stood  very  still,  keeping  one  thin  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  Let  her  cry  her  heart  out — it  would  do  her  good  ! 
And  the  dog  Balthasar,  puzzled,  sat  down  on  his  stern  to 
examine  them. 

The  window  was  still  open,  the  curtains  had  not  been 
drawn,  the  last  of  daylight  from  without  mingled  with  faint 
intrusion  from  the  lamp  within ;  there  was  a  scent  of  new- 
mown  grass.  With  the  wisdom  of  a  long  life,  old  Jolyon  did 
not  speak.  Even  grief  sobbed  itself  out  in  time  ;  only  Time 
was  good  for  sorrow — Time  who  saw  the  passing  of  each 
mood,  each  emotion  in  turn  ;  Time  the  layer-to-rest. 
There  cam.e  into  his  mind  the  words  :  *  As  panteth  the  hart 
after  cooling  streams' — but  they  were  of  no  use  to  him. 
Then,  conscious  of  a  scent  of  violets,  he  knew  she  was  drying 
her  eyes.  He  put  his  chin  forward,  pressed  his  moustache 
against  her  forehead,  and  felt  her  shake  with  a  quivering  of 
her  whole  body,  as  of  a  tree  which  shakes  itself  free  of  rain- 
drops. She  put  his  hand  to  her  lips,  as  if  saying  :  *  All  over 
now  !     Forgive  me  !' 

The  kiss  filled  him  with  a  strange  comfort ;  he  led  her 
back  to  where  she  had  been  so  upset.  And  the  dog  Balthasar, 
following,  laid  the  bone  of  one  of  the  cutlets  they  had  eaten 
at  their  feet. 

Anxious  to  obliterate  the  memory  of  that  emotion,   he 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       397 

could  think  of  nothing  better  than  china  ;  and  moving  with 
her  slowly  from  cabinet  to  cabinet,  he  kept  taking  up  bits  of 
Dresden  and  Lowestoft  and  Chelsea,  turning  them  round 
and  round  with  his  thin,  veined  hands,  whose  skin,  faintly 
freckled,  had  such  an  aged  look. 

"  I  bought  this  at  Jobson's,"  he  would  say  ;  "  cost  me 
thirty  pounds.  It's  very  old.  That  dog  leaves  his  bones 
all  over  the  place.  This  old  *  ship-bowl  *  I  picked  up  at  the 
sale  when  that  precious  rip,  the  Marquis,  came  to  grief. 
But  you  don't  remember.  Here's  a  nice  piece  of  Chelsea. 
Now,  what  would  you  say  this  was  r"  And  he  was 
comforted,  feeling  that,  with  her  taste,  she  was  taking  a 
real  interest  in  these  things  ;  for,  after  all,  nothing  better 
composes  the  nerves  than  a  doubtful  piece  of  china. 

When  the  crunch  of  the  carriage  wheels  was  heard  at  last, 
he  said  : 

"  You  must  come  again  ;  you  must  come  to  lunch,  then 
I  can  show  you  these  by  daylight,  and  my  little  sweet — she's 
a  dear  little  thing.  This  dog  seems  to  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  you." 

For  Balthasar,  feeling  that  she  was  about  to  leave,  was 
rubbing  his  side  against  her  leg.  Going  out  under  the 
porch  with  her,  he  said  : 

"He'll  get  you  up  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  Take  this 
for  your  protegees^'*  and  he  slipped  a  cheque  for  fifty  pounds 
into  her  hand.  He  saw  her  brightened  eyes,  and  heard  her 
murmur  :  "  Oh  1  Uncle  Jolyon  !"  and  a  real  throb  of  pleasure 
went  through  him.  That  meant  one  or  two  poor  creatures 
helped  a  little,  and  it  meant  that  she  would  come  again.  He 
put  his  hand  in  at  the  window  and  grasped  hers  once  more. 
The  carriage  rolled  away.  He  stood  looking  at  the  moon 
and  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  thought :  *  A  sweet  night  ! 
She !' 


II 

Two  days  of  rain,  and  summer  set  in  bland  and  sunny. 
Old  Jolyon  walked  and  talked  with  Holly.  At  first  he  felt 
taller  and  full  of  a  new  vigour;  then  he  felt  restless.  Almost 
every  afternoon  they  would  enter  the  coppice,  and  walk  as 
far  as  the  log.  *  Well,  she's  not  there  1'  he  would  think,  *  of 
course  not  !'  And  he  would  feel  a  little  shorter,  and  drag  his 
feet  walking  up  the  hill  home,  with  his  hand  clapped  to  his 
left  side.  Now  and  then  the  thought  would  move  in  him  : 
*  Did  she  come — or  did  I  dream  it  ?'  and  he  would  stare  at 
space,  while  the  dog  Balthasar  stared  at  him.  Of  course  she 
would  not  come  again  !  He  opened  the  letters  from  Spain 
with  less  excitement.  They  were  not  returning  till  July  ; 
he  felt,  oddly,  that  he  could  bear  it.  Every  day  at  dinner 
he  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  looked  at  where  she  had  sat. 
She  was  not  there,  so  he  unscrewed  his  eyes  again. 

On  the  seventh  afternoon  he  thought  :  *  I  must  go  up  and 
get  some  boots.'  He  ordered  Beacon,  and  set  out.  Passing 
from  Putney  towards  Hyde  Park  he  reflected  :  *  I  might  as 
well  go  to  Chelsea  and  see  her.'  And  he  called  out :  "  Just 
drive  me  to  where  you  took  that  lady  the  other  night." 
The  coachman  turned  his  broad  red  face,  and  his  juicy  lips 
answered  :  "The  lady  in  grey,  sir?" 

"Yes,  the  lady  in  grey."  What  other  ladies  were  there  ! 
Stodgy  chap  ! 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  small  three-storied  block  of 
flats,  standing  a  little  back  from  the  river.  With  a  practised 
eye  old  Jolyon  saw  that  they  were  cheap.  *  I  should  think 
about  sixty  pound  a  year,'  he  mused  ;  and,  entering,  he 
looked  at  the  name-board.     The  name  *  Forsyte  '  was  not  on 

398 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       399 

it,  but  against  '  First  Floor,  Flat  C  '  were  the  words  :  *  Mrs. 
Irene  Heron.'  Ah  !  She  had  taken  her  maiden  name  again  ! 
And  somehow  this  pleased  him.  He  went  upstairs  slowly, 
feeling  his  side  a  little.  He  stood  a  moment,  before  ringing, 
to  lose  the  sensation  of  drag  and  fluttering  there.  She  would 
not  be  in  !  And  then — boots  !  The  thought  was  black. 
What  did  he  want  with  boots  at  his  age  ?  He  could  not 
wear  out  all  those  he  had. 

"  Your  mistress  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Say  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte." 

*'  Yes,  sir,  will  you  come  this  way  ?" 

Old  Jolyon  followed  a  very  little  maid — not  more  than 
sixteen  one  would  say — into  a  very  small  drawing-room 
where  thesunblinds  were  drawn.  It  held  a  cottage  piano  and 
little  else  save  a  vague  fragrance  and  good  taste.  He  stood 
in  the  middle,  with  his  top  hat  in  his  hand,  and  thought : 
*  I  expect  she's  very  badly  off !'  There  was  a  mirror  above 
the  fireplace,  and  he  saw  himself  reflected.  An  old-looking 
chap  !  He  heard  a  rustle,  and  turned  round.  She  was  so 
close  that  his  moustache  almost  brushed  her  forehead,  just 
under  the  threads  of  silver  in  her  hair. 

"I  was  driving  up,"  he  said.  "Thought  I'd  look  in  on  you, 
and  ask  you  how  you  got  up  the  other  night." 

And,  seeing  her  smile,  he  felt  suddenly  relieved.  She 
was  really  glad  to  see  him,  perhaps. 

"  Would  you  like  to  put  on  your  hat  and  come  for  a  drive 
in  the  Park  ?" 

But  while  she  was  gone  to  put  her  hat  on,  he  frowned. 
The  Park  !  James  and  Emily  !  Mrs.  Nicholas,  or  some 
other  member  of  his  precious  family  would  be  there  very 
likely,  prancing  up  and  down.  And  they  would  go  and 
wag  their  tongues  about  having  seen  him  with  her,  after- 
wards.    Better  not  !     He  did  not  wish  to  revive  the  echoes 


400  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  the  past  on  Forsyte  'Change.  He  removed  a  white  hair 
from  the  lapel  of  his  closely  buttoned-up  frock  coat,  and 
passed  his  hand  over  his  cheeks,  moustaches,  and  square  chin. 
It  felt  very  hollow  there  under  the  cheekbones.  He  had 
not  been  eating  much  lately — he  had  better  get  that  little 
whippersnapper  who  attended  Holly  to  give  him  a  tonic. 
But  she  had  come  back,  and  when  they  were  in  the  carriage, 
he  said  : 

"  Suppose  we  go  and  sit  in  Kensington  Gardens  instead  ?" 
and  added  with  a  twinkle  :  "  No  prancing  up  and  down 
there,"  as  if  she  had  been  in  the  secret  of  his  thoughts. 

Leaving  the  carriage,  they  entered  those  select  precincts, 
and  strolled  towards  the  water. 

"  You've  gone  back  to  your  maiden  name,  I  see,"  he  said  : 
"  I'm  not  sorry." 

She  slipped  her  hand  under  his  arm :  "  Has  June  forgiven 
me.  Uncle  Jolyon  ?" 

He  answered  gently  :  "  Yes — yes  ;  of  course,  why  not  ?" 
"  And  have  you  ?" 

"  I  ?  I  forgave  you  as  soon  as  I  saw  how  the  land  really 
lay."  And  perhaps  he  had  ;  his  instinct  had  always  been  to 
forgive  the  beautiful. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  I  never  regretted — I  couldn't. 
Did  you  ever  love  very  deeply.  Uncle  Jolyon  ?" 

At  that  strange  question  old  Jolyon  stared  before  him. 
Had  he  ?  He  did  not  seem  to  remember  that  he  ever  had. 
But  he  did  not  like  to  say  this  to  the  young  woman  whose 
hand  was  touching  his  arm,  whose  life  was  suspended,  as  it 
were,  by  memory  of  a  tragic  love.  And  he  thought  :  *  If  I 
had  met  you  when  I  was  young,  I — I  might  have  made  a  fool 
of  myself,  perhaps.'  And  a  longing  to  escape  in  generalities 
beset  him. 

**  Love's  a  queer  thing,"  he  said,  "  fatal  thing  often.  It 
was  the  Greeks — wasn't  it  ? — made  love  into  a  goddess ;  they 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       401 

were  right,  I  dare  say,  but  then  they  lived  in  the  Golden 
Age." 

"Phil  adored  them." 

Phil  !  The  word  jarred  him,  for  suddenly — with  his 
power  to  see  all  round  a  thing,  he  perceived  why  she  was 
putting  up  with  him  like  this.  She  wanted  to  talk  about 
her  lover  !  Well  !  If  it  was  any  pleasure  to  her  !  And  he 
said  :  "  Ah  !  There  was  a  bit  of  the  sculptor  in  him,  I 
fancy." 

"  Yes.  He  loved  balance  and  symmetry ;  he  loved  the 
whole-hearted  way  the  Greeks  gave  themselves  to  art." 

Balance  !  The  chap  had  no  balance  at  all,  if  he  remem- 
bered ;  as  for  symmetry — clean-built  enough  he  was,  no 
doubt  ;  but  those  queer  eyes  of  his,  and  high  cheek-bones — 
Symmetry  ? 

"  You're  of  the  Golden  Age,  too.  Uncle  Jolyon." 

Old  Jolyon  looked  round  at  her.  Was  she  chaffing  him  ? 
No,  her  eyes  were  soft  as  velvet.  Was  she  flattering  him  ? 
But  if  so,  why  ?  There  was  nothing  to  be  had  out  of  an 
old  chap  like  him. 

"  Phil  thought  so.  He  used  to  say  :  *  But  I  can  never 
tell  him  that  I  admire  him.' " 

Ah  !  There  it  was  again.  Her  dead  lover  ;  her  desire 
to  talk  of  him  !  And  he  pressed  her  arm,  half  resentful  of 
those  memories,  half  grateful,  as  if  he  recognised  what  a  link 
they  were  between  herself  and  him. 

"  He  was  a  very  talented  young  fellow,"  he  murmured. 
"  It's  hot  ;  I  feel  the  heat  nowadays.     Let's  sit  down." 

They  took  two  chairs  beneath  a  chestnut  tree  whose 
broad  leaves  covered  them  from  the  peaceful  glory  of  the 
afternoon.  A  pleasure  to  sit  there  and  watch  her,  and  feel 
that  she  liked  to  be  with  him.  And  the  wish  to  increase 
that  liking,  if  he  could,  made  him  go  on  : 

"  I  expect   he  showed  you  a  side  of   him  I  never  saw. 

14 


402  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He'd  be  at  his  best  with  you.  His  ideas  of  art  were  a  little 
new — to  me  " — he  had  stifled  the  word  ^  fangled.' 

"  Yes  :  but  he  used  to  say  you  had  a  real  sense  of  beauty." 
Old  Jolyon  thought  :  *  The  devil  he  did  !'  but  answered 
with  a  twinkle  :  "  Well,  I  have,  or  I  shouldn't  be  sitting 
here  with  you,"  She  was  fascinating  when  she  smiled  w^ith 
her  eyes,  like  that  1 

"  He  thought  you  had  one  of  those  hearts  that  never  grow 
old.      Phil  had  real  insight." 

He  was  not  taken  in  by  this  flatter}^  spoken  out  of  the 
past,  out  of  a  longing  to  talk  of  her  dead  lover — not  a  bit ; 
and  yet  it  was  precious  to  hear,  because  she  pleased  his  eyes 
and  a  heart  which — quite  true  ! — had  never  grown  old. 
Was  that  because — unlike  her  and  her  dead  lover — he  had 
never  loved  to  desperation,  had  always  kept  his  balance,  his 
sense  of  symmetry  :  Well  !  It  had  left  him  the  power,  at 
eighty-five,  to  admire  beauty.  And  he  thought,  '  If  I  were 
a  painter  or  a  sculptor  !  But  I'm  an  old  chap.  Make  hay 
while  the  sun  shines.' 

A  couple  with  arms  entwined  crossed  on  the  grass  before 
them,  at  the  edge  of  the  shadow  from  their  tree.  The  sun- 
light fell  cruelly  on  their  pale,  squashed,  unkempt  young 
faces.  "  We're  an  ugly  lot  i"  said  old  Jolyon  suddenly : 
"  It  amazes  me  to  see  how — love  triumphs  over  that." 

"  Love  triumphs  over  everything  !" 

"  The  young  think  so,"  he  muttered. 

"  Love  has  no  age,  no  limit,  and  no  death." 

With  that  glow  in  her  pale  face,  her  breast  heaving,  her 
eyes  so  large  and  dark  and  soft,  she  looked  like  Venus  come 
to  life  !  But  this  extravagance  brought  instant  reaction,  and, 
twinkling,  he  said  :  "  Well,  if  it  had  limits,  we  shouldn't  be 
born  ;   for,  by  George  !   it's  aot  a  lot  to  put  up  with." 

Then,  removing  his  top-hat,  he  brushed  it  round  with  a 
cuff      The  great  clumsy  thing  heated  his  forehead  ;   in  these 


INDIAN  SUxMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       403 

days  he  often  got  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head — his  circulation 
was  not  what  it  had  been. 

She  still  sat  gazing  straight  before  her,  and  suddenly  she 
murmured : 

"  It's  strange  enough  that  Pm  alive." 

Those  words  of  Jo's  *  Wild  and  lost '  came  back  to  him. 

"  Ah  !"  he  said  :  "  my  son  saw  you  for  a  moment — that 
day." 

"  Was  it  your  son  ?  I  heard  a  voice  in  the  hall ;  I  thought 
for  a  second  it  was — Phil." 

Old  Jolyon  saw  her  lips  tremble.  She  put  her  hand  over 
them,  took  it  away  again,  and  went  on  calmly  :  "  That 
night  I  went  to  the  Embankment  ;  a  woman  caught  me  by 
the  dress.  She  told  me  about  herself.  When  one  knows 
what  others  suffer,  one's  ashamed." 

«  One  of  those  F' 

She  nodded,  and  horror  stirred  within  old  Jolyon,  the 
horror  of  one  who  has  never  known  a  struggle  with  despera- 
tion. Almost  against  his  will  he  muttered  :  "  Tell  me, 
won't  you  r" 

"  I  didn't  care  whether  I  lived  or  died.  When  you're 
like  that.  Fate  ceases  to  want  to  kill  you.  She  took  care  of 
me  three  days — she  never  left  me.  I  had  no  money.  That's 
why  I  do  what  I  can  for  them,  now." 

But  old  Jolyon  was  thinking :  *  No  money  !'  What  fate 
could  compare  with  that  r     Every  other  was  involved  in  it. 

"  I  wish  you  had  come  to  me,'*  he  said.  "  Why  didn't 
you  r"     Irene  did  not  answer. 

'*  Because  my  name  was  Forsyte,  I  suppose  ?  Or  was  it 
June  who  kept  you  away  r  How  are  you  getting  on  now  r" 
His  eyes  involuntarily  swept  her  body.  Perhaps  even  now 
she  was !     And  yet  she  wasn't  thin — not  really  ! 

"  Oh  !  with  my  fifty  pounds  a  year,  I  make  just  enough." 
The  answer  did  not  reassure  him  ;  he  had  lost  confidence. 


404  THE  FORSYTE   SAGA 

And  that  fel'ow  Soames  !  But  his  sense  or"  justice  srined  con- 
demnation. No,  she  would  certainly  have  died  rather  than 
take  another  penny  from  him.  Soft  as  she  looked,  there 
must  be  strength  in  her  somewhere — strength  and  fidelity. 
But  what  business  had  young  Bosinnev  to  have  got  run  over 
and  left  her  stranded  like  this  I 

"  Well,  you  must  come  to  me  now,"  he  5a"d,  "  for  any- 
thing you  want,  or  I  shall  be  quite  cut  up."  And  puttmg 
on  his  hat,  he  rose.  "  Let's  go  and  get  some  tea.  I  told  that 
lazy  chap  to  put  the  horses  up  for  an  hour,  and  come  for  me 
at  your  place.  We'll  take  a  cab  presently  ;  I  can't  walk  as 
I  used  to." 

He  enioyed  that  stroll  to  the  Kensington  end  of  the 
eardens — the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  glancing  of  her  eyes, 
the  subtle  beauty  of  a  charming  form  moving  beside  him. 
He  enjoyed  their  tea  at  Ruuei's  in  the  High  Street,  and 
came  out  thence  with  a  grea:  box  of  chocolates  swung  on  his 
little  finger.  He  enioyed  the  drive  back  to  Chelsea  in  a 
hansom,  smoking  his  cigar.  She  had  promised  ro  come 
down  next  Sunday  and  play  to  him  again,  and  already  in 
thought  he  was  plucking  carnations  and  early  roses  for  her 
to  carry  back  to  town.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  give  her  a  little 
pleasure,  if  it  Ucre  pleasure  from  an  old  chap  like  him  ! 
The  carriage  was  already  there  when  they  arrived.  Just 
like  that  fellow,  who  was  always  late  when  he  was  wanted  I 
Old  Jolvon  went  in  for  a  minute  to  say  good-bye.  The 
little  dark  hall  of  the  flat  was  impregnated  with  a  disagreeable 
odour  of  patchouli,  and  on  a  bench  against  the  wall — its  only 
furniture — he  saw  a  ligure  sitting.  He  heard  Irene  say 
softly :  "  Just  one  minute."  In  the  little  drawing-room 
when  the  door  was  shut,  he  asked  gravely  :  "One  of  your 
protighi  r* 

"  Yes.  Now,  thanks  to  you,  I  can  do  something  for 
her." 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       4S5 

He  stood,  staring  and  stroking  that  chin  whose  strength 
had  frightened  so  many  in  its  time.  The  idea  of  her  thus 
actually  in  contact  with  this  outcast  grieved  and  frightened 
him.  What  could  she  do  for  them  ?  Nothing.  Only  soil 
and  make  trouble  for  herself,  perhaps.  And  he  said  :  *'  Take 
care,  my  dear  !  The  world  puts  the  worst  construction  on 
everything." 

"  I  knoV  that." 

He  was  abashed  by  her  quiet  smile.  "  Well  then — 
Sunday,"  he  murmured  :   **  Good-bye." 

She  put  her  cheek  forward  for  him  to  kiss. 

"  Good-  bye,"  he  said  again  ;  "  take  care  of  yourself." 
And  he  went  out,  not  looking  towards  the  figure  on  the 
bench.  He  drove  home  by  way  of  Hammersmith,  that  he 
might  stop  at  a  place  he  knew  of  and  tell  them  to  send  her 
in  two  dozen  of  their  best  Burgundy.  She  must  want 
picking-up  sometimes  !  Only  in  Richmond  Park  did  he 
remember  that  he  had  gone  up  to  order  himself  some  boots, 
and  was  surprised  that  he  could  have  had  so  paltry  an  idea. 


Ill 

The  little  spirits  of  the  past  which  throng  an  old  man's 
days  had  never  pushed  their  faces  up  to  his  so  seldom  as  in 
the  seventy  hours  elapsing  before  Sunday  came.  The  spirit 
of  the  future,  with  the  charm  of  the  unknown,  put  up  her 
lips  instead.  Old  Jolyon  was  not  restless  now,  and  paid  no 
visits  to  the  log,  because  she  was  coming  to  lunch.  There  is 
wonderful  finality  about  a  meal ;  it  removes  a  world  of 
doubts,  for  no  one  misses  meals  except  for  reasons  beyond 
control.  He  played  many  games  with  Holly  on  the  lawn, 
pitching  them  up  to  her  who  was  batting  now  so  as  to  be  ready 
to  bowl  to  Jolly  in  the  holidays.  For  she  was  not  a  Forsyte, 
but  Jolly  was — and  Forsytes  always  bat,  until  they  have 
resigned  and  reached  the  age  of  eighty-five.  The  dog 
Balthasar,  in  attendance,  lay  on  the  ball  as  often  as  he  could, 
and  the  page-boy  fielded,  till  his  face  was  like  the  harvest 
moon.  And  because  the  time  was  getting  shorter,  each  day 
was  longer  and  more  golden  than  the  last.  On  Friday  night 
he  took  a  liver  pill,  his  side  hurt  him  rather,  and  though  it 
was  not  the  liver  side,  there  is  no  remedy  like  that.  Anyone 
telling  him  that  he  had  found  a  new  excitement  in  life  and 
that  excitement  was  not  good  for  him,  would  have  been  met 
by  one  of  those  steady  and  rather  defiant  looks  of  his  deep- 
set  iron-grey  eyes,  which  seemed  to  say  :  'I  know  my  own 
business  best.'     He  always  had  and  always  would. 

On  Sunday  morning,  when  Holly  had  gone  with  her 
governess  to  church,  he  visited  the  strawberry  beds.  There, 
accompanied  by  the  dog  Balthasar,  he  examined  the  plants 
narrowly  and  succeeded  in  finding  at  least  two  dozen  berries 

406 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       407 

which  were  really  ripe.  Stooping  was  not  good  for  him,  and 
he  became  very  dizzy  and  red  in  the  forehead.  Having 
placed  the  strawberries  in  a  dish  on  the  dining-table,  he 
washed  his  hands  and  bathed  his  forehead  with  eau  de 
Cologne.  There,  before  the  mirror,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  was  thinner.  What  a  *  threadpaper'  he  had  been  when 
he  was  young  !  It  was  nice  to  be  slim — he  could  not  bear 
a  fat  chap  ;  and  yet  perhaps  his  cheeks  were  too  thin  !  She 
was  to  arrive  by  train  at  half-past  twelve  and  walk  up, 
entering  from  the  road  past  Gage's  farm  at  the  far  end  of 
the  coppice.  And,  having  looked  into  June's  room  to  see 
that  there  was  hot  water  ready,  he  set  forth  to  meet  her, 
leisurely,  for  his  heart  was  beating.  The  air  smelled  sweet, 
larks  sang,  and  the  Grand  Stand  at  Epsom  was  visible.  A 
perfect  day  !  On  just  such  a  one,  no  doubt,  six  years  ago, 
Soames  had  brought  young  Bosinney  down  with  him  to  look 
at  the  site  before  they  began  to  build.  It  was  Bosinney  who 
had  pitched  .on  the  exact  spot  for  the  house — as  June  had 
often  told  him.  In  these  days  he  Vv^as  thinking  much  about 
that  young  fellow,  as  if  his  spirit  were  really  haunting  the 
field  of  his  last  work,  on  the  chance  of  seeing — her. 
Bosinney — the  one  man  who  had  possessed  her  heart,  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  whole  self  with  rapture  !  At  his 
age  one  could  not,  of  course,  imagine  such  things,  but  there 
stirred  in  him  a  queer  vague  aching — as  it  were  the  ghost  or 
an  impersonal  jealousy ;  and  a  feeling  too,  more  generous, 
of  pity  for  that  love  so  early  lost.  All  over  in  a  few  poor 
months  !  Well,  well  !  He  looked  at  his  watch  before 
entering  the  coppice — only  a  quarter  past,  twenty-iive 
minutes  to  wait  !  And  then,  turning  the  corner  of  the  path, 
he  saw  her  exactly  w^here  he  had  seen  her  the  first  time,  on 
the  log,  and  realised  that  she  must  have  come  by  the  earlier 
train  to  sit  there  alone  for  a  couple  of  hours  at  least.  Two 
hours  of  her  society — missed  !     What  memory  could  make 


4o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

that  log  so  dear  to  her  ?  His  face  showed  what  he  was 
thinking,  for  she  said  at  once  : 

"  Forgive  me,  Uncle  Jolyon  ;  it  was  here  that  I  first 
knew." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  there  it  is  for  you  whenever  you  like. 
You're  looking  a  little  Londony  ;  you're  giving  too  many 
lessons." 

That  she  should  have  to  give  lessons  worried  him.  Lessons 
to  a  parcel  of  young  girls  thumping  out  scales  with  their 
thick  fingers  ! 

"  Where  do  you  go  to  give  them  ?"  he  asked. 

"  They're  mostly  Jewish  families,  luckily." 

Old  Jolyon  stared  ;  to  all  Forsytes  Jews  seem  strange  and 
doubtful. 

"  They  love  music,  and  they're  very  kind." 

"  They  had  better  be,  by  George  !"  He  took  her  arm — 
his  side  always  hurt  him  a  little  going  uphill — and  said  : 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  those,  buttercups  ? 
They  came  like  that  in  a  night." 

Her  eyes  seemed  really  to  fty  over  the  field,  like  bees  after 
the  flowers  and  the  honey.  "  I  wanted  you  to  see  them — 
wouldn't  let  them  turn  the  cows  in  yet."  Then,  remem- 
bering that  she  had  come  to  talk  about  Bosinney,  he  pointed 
to  the  clock-tower  over  the  stables  : 

"  I  expect  he  wouldn't  have  let  me  put  that  there — had  no 
notion  of  time,  if  I  remember." 

But,  pressing  his  arm  to  her,  she  talked  of  flowers  instead, 
and  he  knew  it  was  done  that  he  might  not  feel  she  came 
because  of  her  dead  lover. 

"  The  best  flower  I  can  show  you,"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  triumph,  "  is  my  little  sweet.  She'll  be  back  from 
Church  directly.  There's  something  about  her  which 
reminds  me  a  little  of  you,"  and  it  did  not  seem  to  him 
peculiar  that  he  had  put  it  thus,  instead  of  saying  :  '  There's 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       409 

something  about  you  which  reminds  me  a  little  of  her.' 
Ah  !     And  here  she  was  ! 

Holly,  followed  closely  by  her  elderly  French  governess, 
whose  digestion  had  been  ruined  twenty-two  years  ago  in 
the  siege  of  Strasburg,  came  rushing  towards  them  from 
under  the  oak  tree.  She  stopped  about  a  dozen  yards  away, 
to  pat  Balthasar  and  pretend  that  this  was  all  she  had  in  her 
mind.     Old  Jolyon,  who  knew  better,  said  : 

"Well,  my  darling,  here's  the  lady  in  grey  I  promised 
you." 

Holly  raised  herself  and  looked  up.  He  watched  the  two 
of  them  with  a  twinkle,  Irene  smiling.  Holly  beginning 
with  grave  inquiry,  passing  to  a  shy  smile  too,  and  then  to 
something  deeper.  She  had  a  sense  of  beauty,  that  child — 
knew  what  was  what !  He  enjoyed  the  sight  of  the  kiss 
between  them. 

"Mrs.  Heron,  Mam'zelle  Beauce.  Well,  Mam'zelle — 
good  sermon  r" 

For,  now  that  he  had  not  much  more  time  before  him, 
the  only  part  of  the  service  connected  with  this  world 
absorbed  what  interest  in  church  remained  to  him. 
Mam'zelle  Beauce  stretched  out  a  spidery  hand  clad  in  a 
black  kid  glove — she  had  been  in  the  best  families — and  the 
rather  sad  eyes  of  her  lean  yellowish  face  seemed  to  ask : 
"  Are  you  well-brrred  ?"  Whenever  Holly  or  Jolly  did 
anything  unpleasing  to  her — a  not  uncommon  occurrence — 
she  would  say  to  them  :  "  The  little  Tayleurs  never  did 
that — they  were  such  well-brrred  little  children."  Jolly 
hated  the  little  Tayleurs  ;  Holly  wondered  dreadfully  how 
it  was  she  fell  so  short  of  them.  *  A  thin  rum  little  soul,' 
old  Jolyon  thought  her — Mam'zelle  Beauce. 

Luncheon  was  a  successful  meal,  the  mushrooms  which 
he  himself  had  picked  in  the  mushroom  house,  his  chosen 
strawberries,   and   another  bottle   of  the   Steinberg  cabinet 

14* 


.1.10  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

filled  him  with  a  certain  aromatic  spirituality,  3.nd  a  convic- 
tion that  he  would  have  a  touch  of  eczema  to-morrow. 
After  lunch  they  sat  under  the  oak  tree  drinking  Turkish 
coffee.  It  was  no  matter  of  grief  to  him  when  Mademoiselle 
Beauce  withdrew  to  write  her  Sunday  letter  to  her  sister, 
whose  future  had  been  endangered  in  the  past  by  swallowing 
a  pin — an  event  held  up  daily  in  warning  to  the  children  to 
eat  slowly  and  digest  what  they  had  eaten.  At  the  foot  of 
the  bank,  on  a  carriage  rug,  Holly  and  the  dog  Balthasar 
teased  and  loved  each  other,  and  in  the  shade  old  Jolyon 
with  his  legs  crossed  and  his  cigar  luxuriously  savoured, 
gazed  at  Irene  sitting  in  the  swing.  A  light,  vaguely 
swaying,  grey  figure  with  a  fleck  of  sunlight  here  and  there 
upon  it,  lips  just  opened,  eyes  dark  and  soft  under  lids  a  little 
drooped.  She  looked  content  ;  surely  it  did  her  good  to 
come  and  see  him  !  The  selfishness  of  age  had  not  set  its 
proper  grip  on  him,  for  he  could  still  feel  pleasure  in  the 
pleasure  of  others,  realising  that  what  he  wanted,  though 
much,  was  not  quite  all  that  mattered. 

"  It's  quiet  here,"  he  said  ;  "  you  mustn't  come  down  if 
you  find  it  dull.  But  it's  a  pleasure  to  see  you.  My  little 
sweet's  is  the  only  face  that  gives  me  any  pleasure,  except 
yours." 

p^rom  her  smile  he  knew  that  she  was  not  beyond  liking 
to  be  appreciated,  and  this  reassured  him.  "  That's  not 
humbug,"  he  said.  "I  never  told  a  woman  I  admired  her 
when  I  didn't.  In  fact  I  don't  know  when  I've  told  a 
woman  I  admired  her,  except  my  wife  in  the  old  days  ;  and 
wives  are  funny."     He  was  silent,  but  resumed  abruptly  : 

"  She  used  to  expect  me  to  say  it  more  often  than  I  felt 
it,  and  there  we  were."  Her  face  looked  mysteriously 
troubled,  and,  afraid  that  he  had  said  something  painful,  he 
hurried  on  : 

"  When  Tuy  little  sweet  marries,  I  hope  she'll  find  some- 


INDIAN  SUxMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       411 

one  who  knov/s  what  women  feel.  I  shan't  be  here  to  see 
it,  but  there's  too  much  topsy-turvy dom  in  marriage ;  I 
don't  want  her  to  pitch  up  against  that."  And,  aware  that 
he  had  made  bad  worse,  he  added  :  "  That  dog  will  scratch." 

A  silence  followed.  Of  what  was  she  thinking,  this 
pretty  creature  whose  life  was  spoiled  ;  who  had  done  with 
love,  and  yet  was  made  for  love  ?  Some  day  v^^hen  he  was 
gone,  perhaps,  she  would  find  another  mate — not  so 
disorderly  as  that  young  fellow  who  had  got  himself  run 
over.     Ah  !   but  her  husband  ? 

"  Does  Soames  never  trouble  you  ?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  face  had  closed  up  suddenly. 
For  all  her  softness  there  was  something  irreconcilable  about 
her.  And  a  glimpse  of  light  on  the  inexorable  nature  of  sex 
antipathies  strayed  into  a  brain  which,  belonging  to  early 
Victorian  civilisation — so  much  older  than  this  of  his  old 
age — had  never  thought  about  such  primitive  things. 

"  That's  a  comfort,"  he  said.  "  You  can  see  the  Grand 
Stand  to-day.     Shall  we  take  a  turn  round  r" 

Through  the  flower  and  fruit  garden,  against  whose  high 
outer  walls  peach  trees  and  nectarines  were  trained  to  the 
sun,  through  the  stables,  the  vinery,  the  mushroom  house, 
the  asparagus  beds,  the  rosery,  the  summer  house,  he 
conducted  her — even  into  the  kitchen  garden  to  see  the  tiny 
green  peas  which  Holly  loved  to  scoop  out  of  their  pods 
with  her  finger,  and  lick  up  from  the  palm  of  her  little 
brown  hand.  Many  delightful  things  he  showed  her,  while 
Holly  and  the  dog  Balthasar  danced  ahead,  or  came  to  them 
at  intervals  for  attention,  It  was  one  of  the  happiest 
afternoons  he  had  ever  spent,  but  it  tired  him  and  he  was 
glad  to  sit  down  in  the  music  room  and  let  her  give  him 
tea.  A  special  little  friend  of  Holly's  had  come  in — a  fair 
child  with  short  hair  like  a  boy's.  And  the  two  sported  in 
the  distance,  under  the  stairs,  on  the  stairs,  and  up  in  the 


412  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

gallery.  Old  Jolyon  begged  for  Chopin.  She  played 
studies,  mazurkas,  waltzes,  till  the  two  children,  creeping 
near,  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  piano — their  dark  and  golden 
heads  bent  forward,  listening.     Old  Jolyon  watched. 

"  Let's  see  you  dance,  you  two  !" 

Shyly,  with  a  false  start,  they  began.  Bobbing  and 
circling,  earnest,  not  vexy  adroit,  they  went  past  and  past 
his  chair  to  the  strains  of  that  waltz.  He  watched  them 
and  the  face  of  her  who  was  playing  turned  smiling  towards 
those  little  dancers,  thinking  :  '  Sweetest  picture  I've  seen 
for  ages.'     A  voice  said  : 

"  Hollee  !  Mais  enfin — qu'est-ce  que  tu  fats  la — danser^ 
le  dimanche  !      Fiens^  done  /" 

But  the  children  came  close  to  old  Jolyon,  knowing  that 
he  would  save  them,  and  gazed  into  a  face  which  was 
decidedly  *  caught  out.' 

"  Better  the  day,  better  the  deed,  Mam'zelle.  It's  all  my 
doing.     Trot  along,  chicks,  and  have  your  tea." 

And,  when  they  were  gone,  followed  by  the  dog 
Balthasar  who  took  every  meal,  he  looked  at  Irene  with  a 
twinkle  and  said  : 

"  Well,  there  we  are  !  Aren't  they  sweet  ?  Have  you 
any  little  ones  among  your  pupils  ?" 

"  Yes,  three — two  of  them  darlings." 

«  Pretty  .?" 

"  Lovely  1" 

Old  Jolyon  sighed  ;  he  had  an  insatiable  appetite  for  the 
very  young.  "My  little  sweet,*'  he  said,  "is  devoted  to 
music  ;  she'll  be  a  musician  some  day.  You  wouldn't  give 
me  your  opinion  of  her  playing,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

"  You  wouldn't  like "   but  he  stifled  the  words  *  to 

give  her  lessons.'  The  idea  that  she  gave  lessons  was 
unpleasant  to  him  ;   yet  it  would  mean  that  he  would  see 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       413 

her  regularly.     She  left  the  piano  and  came  over   to  his 
chair. 

"I  would  like,  very  much  ;  but  there  is — June.  When 
are  they  coming  back  ?" 

Old  Jolyon  frou^ned.  "  Not  till  the  middle  of  next 
month.     What  does  that  matter  ?" 

"  You  said  June  had  forgiven  me  ;  but  she  could  never 
forget,  Uncle  Jolyon." 

Forget  !     She  must  forget,  if  he  wanted  her  to. 

But  as  if  answering,  Irene  shook  her  head.  "  You  know 
she  couldn't ;  one  doesn't  forget." 

Always  that  wretched  past  !  And  he  said  with  a  sort  of 
vexed  finality  : 

"  Well,  we  shall  see." 

He  talked  to  her  an  hour  or  more,  of  the  children,  and  a 
hundred  little  things,  till  the  carriage  came  round  to  take 
her  home.  And  when  she  had  gone  he  went  back  to  his 
chair,  and  sat  there  smoothing  his  face  and  chin,  dreaming 
over  the  day. 

That  evening  after  dinner  he  went  to  his  study  and  took 
a  sheet  of  paper.  He  stayed  for  some  minutes  without 
writing,  then  rose  and  stood  under  the  masterpiece  *  Dutch 
Fishing  Boats  at  Sunset.'  He  was  not  thinking  of  that 
picture,  but  of  his  life.  He  was  going  to  leave  her  some- 
thing in  his  Will ;  nothing  could  so  have  stirred  the  stilly 
deeps  of  thought  and  memory.  He  was  going  to  leave  her 
a  portion  of  his  wealth,  of  his  aspirations,  deeds,  qualities, 
work — all  that  had  made  that  wealth  ;  going  to  leave  her, 
too,  a  part  of  all  he  had  missed  in  life,  by  his  sane  and  steady 
pursuit  of  it.  Ah  !  What  had  he  missed  ?  *  Dutch 
Fishing  Boats '  responded  blankly  j  he  crossed  to  the 
French  window,  and  drawing  the  curtain  aside,  opened  it 
A  wind  had  got  up,  and  one  of  last  year's  oak  leaves  which 
had  somehow  survived  the  gardeners'  brooms,  was  dragging 


414  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

itself  with  a  tiny  clicking  rustle  along  the  stone  terrace  in 
the  twilight.  Except  for  that  it  was  very  quiet  out  there, 
and  he  could  smell  the  heliotrope  watered  not  long  since. 
A  bat  went  by.  A  bird  uttered  its  last  *  cheep.'  And 
right  above  the  oak  tree  the  first  star  shone.  Faust,  in  the 
opera,  had  bartered  his  soul  for  some  fresh  years  of  youth. 
Morbid  notion  !  No  such  bargain  was  possible,  that  was 
the  real  tragedy.  No  making  oneself  new  again  for  love  or 
life  or  anything.  Nothing  left  to  do  but  enjoy  beauty  from 
afar  off  while  you  could,  and  leave  it  something  in  your 
Will.  But  how  much  r  And,  as  if  he  could  not  make 
that  calculation  looking  out  into  the  mild  freedom  of  the 
country  night,  he  turned  back  and  went  up  to  the  chimney- 
piece.  There  were  his  pet  bronzes — a  Cleopatra  with  the 
asp  at  her  breast  ;  a  Socrates  ;  a  greyhound  playing  with 
her  puppy  ;  a  strong  man  reining  in  some  horses.  'They 
last  !'  he  thought,  and  a  pang  went  through  his  heart. 
They  had  a  thousand  years  of  life  before  them  ! 

'  How  much  r'  Well  !  enough  at  all  events  to  save  her 
getting  old  before  her  time,  to  keep  the  lines  out  of  her  face 
as  long  as  possible,  and  grey  from  soiling  that  bright  hair. 
He  might  live  another  five  years.  She  would  be  well  over 
thirty  by  then.  *  How  much  r'  She  had  none  of  his  blood 
in  her  !  In  loyalty  to  the  tenor  of  his  life  for  forty  years  and 
more,  ever  since  he  married  and  founded  that  mysterious 
thing,  a  family,  came  this  warning  thought — None  of  his 
blood,  no  right  to  anything  !  It  was  a  luxury  then,  this 
notion.  An  extravagance,  a  petting  of  an  old  man's  whim, 
one  of  those  things  done  in  dotage.  His  real  future  was 
vested  in  those  who  had  his  blood,  in  whom  he  would  live 
on  when  he  was  gone.  He  turned  away  from  the  bronzes 
and  stood  looking  at  the  old  leather  arm-chair  in  which 
he  had  sat  and  smoked  so  many  hundreds  of  cigars.  And 
suddenly  he  seemed  to  see  her  sitting  there  in  her  grey  dress, 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       415 

fragrant,  soft,  dark-eyed,  graceful,  looking  up  at  him.  Why  ! 
She  cared  nothing  for  him,  really  ;  all  she  cared  for  was 
that  lost  lover  of  hers.  But  she  was  there,  whether  she 
would  or  no,  giving  him  pleasure  with  her  beauty  and  grace. 
One  had  no  right  to  inflict  an  old  man's  company,  no  right 
to  ask  her  down  to  play  to  him  and  let  him  look  at  her — for 
no  reward  !  Pleasure  must  be  paid  for  in  this  world. 
*  How  much  r'  After  all,  there  was  plenty  ;  his  son  and 
his  three  grandchildren  would  never  miss  that  little  lump. 
He  had  made  it  himself,  nearly  eveiy^  penny  ;  he  could  leave 
it  where  he  liked,  allow  himself  this  little  pleasure.  He 
went  back  to  the  bureau.  *  Weil,  I'm  going  to,'  he 
thought,  Met  them  think  what  they  like.  I'm  going  to  I' 
And  he  sat  down. 

'  How  much  r'  Ten  thousand,  twenty  thousand — how 
much  r  If  only  with  his  money  he  could  buy  one  year,  one 
month  of  youth.  And  startled  by  that  thought,  he  wrote 
quickly  : 

"  Dear  Herring, — Draw  me  a  codicil  to  this  effect :  'I 
leave  to  my  niece  Irene  Forsyte,  born  Irene  Heron,  by 
which  name  she  now  goes,  fifteen  thousand  pounds  free  of 
legacy  duty.' 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"JoLYON  Forsyte." 

When  he  had  sealed  and  stamped  the  envelope,  he  went 
back  to  the  window  and  drew  in  a  long  breath.  It  was 
dark,  but  many  stars*  shone  now. 


IV 

He  woke  at  half-past  two,  an  hour  which  long  experience 
had  taught  him  brings  panic  intensity  to  all  awkward 
thoughts.  Experience  had  also  taught  him  that  a  further 
waking  at  the  proper  hour  of  eight  showed  the  folly  of  such 
panic.  On  this  particular  morning  the  thought  which 
gathered  rapid  momentum  was  that  if  he  became  ill,  at  his 
age  not  improbable,  he  would  not  see  her.  From  this  it 
was  but  a  step  to  realisation  that  he  would  be  cut  off,  too, 
when  his  son  and  June  returned  from  Spain.  How  could 
he  iustify  desire  for  the  company  of  one  who  had  stolen — 
early  morning  does  not  mince  words — June's  lover  :  That 
lover  was  dead ;  but  June  was  a  stubborn  little  thing ; 
warm-hearted,  but  stubborn  as  wood,  and — quite  true — not 
one  who  forgot !  By  the  middle  of  next  month  they  would 
be  back.  He  had  barely  five  weeks  lef:  to  enjoy  the  new 
interest  which  had  come  into  what  remained  of  his  life. 
Darkness  showed  up  to  him  absurdly  clear  the  nature  of  his 
feeling.  Admiration  for  beauty — a  craving  to  see  that  which 
delighted  his  eyes.  Preposterous,  at  his  age  !  And  yet — 
what  other  reason  was  there  for  asking  June  to  undergo 
such  painful  reminder,  and  how  prevent  his  son  and  his 
son's  wife  from  thinking  him  very  queer  r  He  would  be 
reduced  to  sneaking  up  to  London,  which  tired  him  ;  and 
the  least  indisposition  would  cut  him  off  even  from  that. 
He  lay  with  eyes  open,  setting  his  jaw  against  the  prospect, 
and  calling  himself  an  old  fool,  while  his  heart  beat  loudly, 
and  then  seemed  to  stop  beating  altogether.  He  had  seen 
the  dawn  lighting  the  window  chinks,  heard  the  birds  chirp 
and  twitter,  and  the  cocks  crow,  before  he  fell  asleep  a2ain, 

416 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       417 

and  awoke  tired  but  sane.  Five  weeks  before  he  need 
bother,  at  his  age  an  eternity  !  But  that  early  morning 
panic  had  left  its  mark,  had  slightly  fevered  the  will  of  one 
who  had  always  had  his  own  way.  He  would  see  her  as 
often  as  he  wished  !  Why  not  go  up  to  town  and  make 
that  codicil  at  his  solicitor's,  instead  of  writing  about  it  ;  she 
might  like  to  go  to  the  opera  !  But,  by  train,  for  he  would 
not  have  that  fat  chap  Beacon  grinning  behind  his  back. 
Servants  w^ere  such  fools  ;  and,  as  likely  as  not,  they  had 
known  all  the  past  history  of  Irene  and  young  Bosinney — 
servants  knew  everj'thing,  and  suspected  the  rest.  He  wrote 
to  her  that  morning  : 

"  My  dear  Irene, — I  have  to  be  up  in  town  to-morrow. 
If  you  would  like  to  have  a  look  in  at  the  opera,  come  and 
dine  with  me  quietly  .  .   ." 

But  where  r  It  was  decades  since  he  had  dined  anywhere 
in  London  save  at  his  Club  or  at  a  private  house.  Ah  ! 
that  new-fangled  place  close  to  Covent  Garden.   .   .   . 

"  Let  me  have  a  line  to-morrow  morning  to  the  Piedmont 
Hotel  whether  to  expect  you  there  at  7  o'clock. 
"  Yours  aflfectionately, 

"JoLYON  Forsyte." 

She  would  understand  that  he  just  wanted  to  give  her  a 
little  pleasure ;  for  the  idea  that  she  should  guess  he  had  this 
itch  to  see  her  was  instinctively  unpleasant  to  him;  it  w^as 
not  seemly  that  one  so  old  should  go  out  of  his  way  to  see 
beauty,  especially  in  a  woman. 

The  journey  next  day,  short  though  it  was,  and  the  visit 
to  his  lawyer's,  tired  him.  It  w^as  hot  too,  and  after  dressing 
for  dinner  he  lay  dowm  on  the  sofa  in  his  bedroom  to  rest  a 
little.  He  must  have  had  a  sort  of  fainting  fit,  for  he  came 
to  himself  feeling  very  queer,  and  with  some  difficulty  rose 


41 8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  rang  the  bell.  Why  !  it  was  past  seven !  And  there 
he  was,  and  she  would  be  waiting.  But  suddenly  the 
dizziness  came  on  again,  and  he  was  obliged  to  relapse  on 
the  sofa.     He  heard  the  maid's  voice  say : 

"Did  you  ring,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  come  here  "  ;  he  could  not  see  her  clearly,  for  the 
cloud  in  front  of  his  eyes.  "Tm  not  well,  I  want  some  sal 
volatile." 

"  Yes,  sir."     Her  voice  sounded  frightened. 

Old  Jolyon  made  an  effort. 

"  Don't  go.  Take  this  message  to  my  niece — a  lady 
waiting  in  the  hall — a  lady  in  grey.  Say  Mr.  Forsyte  is 
not  well — the  heat.  He  is  very  sorry  ;  if  he  is  not  down 
directly,  she  is  not  to  wait  dinner." 

When  she  was  gone,  he  thought  feebly :  '  Why  did  I  say 
a  lady  in  grey  ? — she  may  be  in  anything.  Sal  volatile  !' 
He  did  not  go  off  again,  yet  was  not  conscious  of  how  Irene 
came  to  be  standing  beside  him,  holding  smelling  salts  to  his 
nose,  and  pushing  a  pillow  up  behind  his  head.  He  heard 
her  say  anxiously:  "Dear  Uncle  Jolyon,  what  is  it?"  was 
dimly  conscious  of  the  soft  pressure  of  her  lips  on  his  hand ; 
then  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  smelling  salts,  suddenly 
discovered  strength  in  them,  and  sneezed. 

"  Ha  1"  he  said  :  "  it's  nothing.  How  did  you  get  here  .? 
Go  down  and  dine — the  tickets  are  on  the  dressing-table. 
I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute." 

He  felt  her  cool  hand  on  his  forehead,  smelled  violets,  and 
sat  divided  between  a  sort  of  pleasure  and  a  determination 
to  be  all  right. 

"  Why  !  You  are  in  grey  !"  he  said  :  "  Help  me  up." 
Once  on  his  feet  he  gave  himself  a  shake. 

"  What  business  had  I  to  go  off  like  that  !"  And  he 
moved  very  slowly  to  the  glass.  What  a  cadaverous  chap  ! 
Her  voice,  behind  him,  murmured  : 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       419 

"  You  mustn't  come  down,  Uncle  ;  you  must  rest." 

"  Fiddlesticks  !  A  glass  of  champagne  '11  soon  set  me  to 
rights.     I  can't  have  you  missing  the  opera." 

But  the  journey  down  the  corridor  was  troublesome. 
What  carpets  they  had  in  these  new-fangled  places,  so  thick 
that  you  tripped  up  in  them  at  every  step  !  In  the  lift  he 
noticed  how  concerned  she  looked,  and  said  with  a  ghost  of 
a  twinkle  : 

"  I'm  a  pretty  host." 

When  the  lift  stopped  he  had  to  hold  firmly  to  the  seat 
to  prevent  it  slipping  under  him  ;  but  after  soup  and  a 
glass  of  champagne  he  felt  much  better,  and  began  to  enjoy 
an  infirmity  which  had  brought  such  solicitude  into  her 
manner  towards  him. 

"I  should  have  liked  you  for  a  daughter,"  he  said 
suddenly  ;  and  watching  the  smile  in  her  eyes,  went  on : 

"  You  mustn't  get  wrapped  up  in  the  past  at  your  time 
of  life  ;  plenty  of  that  when  you  get  to  my  age.  That's  a 
nice  dress — I  like  the  style." 

"  I  made  it  myself." 

Ah  !  A  woman  who  could  make  herself  a  pretty  frock 
had  not  lost  her  interest  in  life. 

"Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,"  he  said;  "and  drink 
that  up.  I  want  to  see  some  colour  in  your  cheeks.  We 
mustn't  waste  life ;  it  doesn't  do.  There's  a  new 
Marguerite  to-night ;  let's  hope  she  won't  be  fat.  And 
Mephisto — anything  more  dreadful  than  a  fat  chap  playing 
the  Devil  I  can't  imagine." 

But  they  did  not  go  to  the  opera  after  all,  for  in  getting 
up  from  dinner  the  dizziness  came  over  him  again,  and  she 
insisted  on  his  staying  quiet  and  going  to  bed  early.  When 
he  parted  from  her  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  having  paid  the 
cabman  to  drive  her  to  Chelsea,  he  sat  down  again  for  a 
moment  to  enjoy  the  memory  of  her  words  :  *  You  are  such 


420  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

a  darling  to  me,  Uncle  Jolyon.'  Why  !  Who  wouldn't 
be  1  He  would  have  liked  to  stay  up  another  day  and  take 
her  to  the  Zoo,  but  two  days  running  of  him  would  bore 
her  to  death !  No,  he  must  wait  till  next  Sunday  ;  she  had 
promised  to  come  then.  They  would  settle  those  lessons 
for  Holly,  if  only  for  a  month.  It  would  be  something. 
That  little  Mam'zelle  Beauce  wouldn't  like  it,  but  she 
would  have  to  lump  it.  And  crushing  his  old  opera  hat 
against  his  chest,  he  sought  the  lift. 

He  drove  to  Waterloo  next  morning,  struggling  with  a 
desire  to  say:  "Drive  me  to  Chelsea."  But  his  sense  of 
proportion  was  too  strong.  Besides,  he  still  felt  shaky,  and 
did  not  want  to  risk  another  aberration  like  that  of  last 
night,  away  from  home.  Holly,  too,  was  expecting  him, 
and  what  he  had  in  his  bag  for  her.  Not  that  there  was 
any  cupboard  love  in  his  little  sweet — she  was  a  bundle  of 
affection.  Then,  with  the  rather  bitter  cynicism  of  the  old, 
he  wondered  for  a  second  whether  it  was  not  cupboard  love 
which  made  Irene  put  up  with  him.  No,  she  was  not  that 
sort  either.  She  had,  if  anything,  too  little  notion  of  how 
to  butter  her  bread,  no  sense  of  property,  poor  thing ! 
Besides,  he  had  not  breathed  a  word  about  that  codicil,  nor 
should  he — sufficient  unto  the  day  was  the  good  thereof. 

In  the  victoria  which  met  him  at  the  station  Holly  was 
restraining  the  dog  Balthasar,  and  their  caresses  made 
'jubey'  his  drive  home.  All  the  rest  of  that  fine  hot  day 
and  most  of  the  next  he  was  content  and  peaceful,  reposing 
in  the  shade,  while  the  long  lingering  sunshine  showered 
gold  on  the  lawns  and  the  flowers.  But  on  Thursday 
evening  at  his  lonely  dinner  he  began  to  count  the  hours  ; 
sixty-five  till  he  would  go  down  to  meet  her  again  in  the 
little  coppice,  and  walk  up  through  the  fields  at  her  side. 
He  had  intended  to  consult  the  doctor  about  his  fainting  fit, 
but  the  fellow  would  be  sure  to  insist  on  quiet,  no  excite- 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       421 

ment  and  all  that  ;  and  he  did  not  mean  to  be  tied  by  the 
leg,  did  not  want  to  be  told  of  an  infirmity — if  there  were 
one,  could  not  afford  to  hear  it  at  his  time  of  life,  now  that 
this  new  interest  had  come.  And  he  carefully  avoided 
making  any  mention  of  it  in  a  letter  to  his  son.  It  would 
only  bring  them  back  with  a  run  !  How  far  this  silence 
was  due  to  consideration  for  their  pleasure,  how  far  to 
regard  for  his  own,  he  did  not  pause  to  consider. 

That  night  in  his  study  he  had  just  finished  his  cigar  and 
was  dozing  off,  when  he  heard  the  rustle  of  a  gown,  and 
was  conscious  of  a  scent  of  violets.  Opening  his  eyes  he 
saw  her,  dressed  in  grey,  standing  by  the  fireplace,  holding 
out  her  arms.  The  odd  thing  was  that,  though  those  arms 
seemed  to  hold  nothing,  they  were  curved  as  if  round 
someone's  neck,  and  her  own  neck  was  bent  back,  her  lips 
open,  her  eyes  closed.  She  vanished  at  once,  and  there 
were  the  mantelpiece  and  his  bronzes.  But  those  bronzes 
and  the  mantelpiece  had  not  been  there  when  she  was,  only 
the  fireplace  and  the  wall  !  Shaken  and  troubled,  he  got 
up.  *  I  must  take  medicine,'  he  thought ;  *  I  can't  be  well.' 
His  heart  beat  too  fast,  he  had  an  asthmatic  feeling  in  the 
chest ;  and  going  to  the  window,  he  opened  it  to  get  som.e  air. 
A  dog  was  barking  far  away,  one  of  the  dogs  at  Gage's  farm 
no  doubt,  beyond  the  coppice.  A  beautiful  still  night,  but 
dark.  *  I  dropped  oflF,'  he  mused,  '  that's  it  !  And  yet  I'll 
swear  my  eyes  were  open  !*  A  sound  like  a  sigh  seemed  to 
answer. 

"  What's  that  r"  he  said  sharply.     "  Who's  there  r" 

Putting  his  hand  to   his  side  to  still  the  beating  in  his 

heart,  he  stepped  out   on    to  the  terrace.      Something  soft 

scurried  by  in  the  dark.    "  Shoo  !"    It  was  that  great  grey  cat. 

*  Young  Bosinney  was  like  a  great  cat  1'   he  thought.     *It 

was  him  in  there,  that  she — that  she  was He's  got  her 

still  !'     He  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  and  looked 


422  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

down  into  the  darkness  ;  he  could  just  see  the  powdering  of 
the  daisies  on  the  unmown  lawn.  Here  to-day  and  gone 
to-morrow  !  And  there  came  the  moon,  who  saw  all, 
young  and  old,  alive  and  dead,  and  didn't  care  a  dump  ! 
His  own  turn  soon.  ^  For  a  single  day  of  youth  he  would 
give  what  was  left  !  And  he  turned  again  towards  the 
house.  He  could  see  the  windows  of  the  night  nursery  up 
there.  His  little  sweet  would  be  asleep.  *  Hope  that  dog 
won't  wake  her  !'  he  thought.  '  What  is  it  makes  us  love, 
and  makes  us  die  ?     I  must  go  to  bed.' 

And  across  the  terrace  stones,  growing  grey  in  the  moon- 
light, he  passed  back  within. 


How  should  an  old  man  live  his  days  if  not  in  dreaming 
of  his  well-spent  past  ?  In  that,  at  all  events,  there  is  no 
agitating  warmth,  only  pale  winter  sunshine.  The  shell 
can  withstand  the  gentle  beatmg  of  the  dynamos  of 
memory.  The  present  he  should  distrust ;  the  future  shun. 
From  beneath  thick  shade  he  should  watch  the  sunlight 
creeping  at  his  toes.  If  there  be  sun  of  summer,  let  him 
not  go  out  into  it,  mistaking  it  for  the  Indian-summer  sun  ! 
Thus  peradventure  he  shall  decline  softly,  slowly,  imper- 
ceptibly, until  impatient  Nature  clutches  his  wind-pipe  and 
he  gasps  away  to  death  some  early  morning  before  the  world 
is  aired,  and  they  put  on  his  tombstone  :  '  In  the  fulness  of 
years !'  Yea !  If  he  preserve  his  principles  in  perfect 
order,  a  Forsyte  may  live  on  long  after  he  is  dead. 

Old  Jolyon  was  conscious  of  all  this,  and  yet  there  was 
in  him  that  which  transcended  Forsytism.  For  it  is  written 
that  a  Forsyte  shall  not  love  beauty  more  than  reason  ;  nor 
his  own  way  more  than  his  own  health.  And  something 
beat  within  him  in  these  days  that  with  each  throb  fretted 
at  the  thinning  shell.  His  sagacity  knew  this,  but  it  knew 
too  that  he  could  not  stop  that  beating,  nor  would  if  he 
could.  And  yet,  if  you  had  told  him  he  was  living  on  his 
capital,  he  would  have  stared  you  down.  No,  no  ;  a  man 
did  not  live  on  his  capital ;  it  was  not  done  !  The  shib- 
boleths of  the  past  are  ever  more  real  than  the  actualities  of 
the  present.  And  he,  to  whom  living  on  one's  capital  had 
always  been  anathema,  could  not  have  borne  to  have  applied 
so  gross  a  phrase  to  his  own  case.     Pleasure  is  healthful  ; 

423 


424  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

beauty  good  to  see  ;  to  live  again  in  the  youth  of  the  young 
— and  what  else  on  earth  was  he  doing  ! 

Methodically,  as  had  been  the  way  of  his  whole  life,  he 
now  arranged  his  time.  On  Tuesdays  he  journeyed  up  to 
town  by  train  ;  Irene  came  and  dined  with  him.  and  they 
went  to  the  opera.  On  Thursdays  he  drove  to  town,  and, 
putting  that  fat  chap  and  his  horses  up,  met  her  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens,  picking  up  the  carriage  after  he  had  left  her, 
and  driving  home  again  in  time  for  dinner.  He  threw  out 
the  casual  formula  that  he  had  business  in  London  on  those 
two  days.  On  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays  she  came  down 
to  give  Holly  music  lessons.  The  greater  the  pleasure  he 
took  in  her  society,  the  more  scrupulously  fastidious  he 
became,  just  a  matter-of-fact  and  friendly  uncle.  Not  even 
in  feeling,  really,  was  he  more — for,  after  all,  there  was  his 
age.  And  yet,  if  she  were  late  he  fidgeted  himself  to  death. 
If  she  missed  coming,  which  happened  twice,  his  eyes  grew 
sad  as  an  old  dog's,  and  he  failed  to  sleep. 

And  so  a  month  went  by — a  month  of  summer  in  the 
fields,  and  in  his  heart,  with  summer's  heat  and  the  fatigue 
thereof.  Who  could  have  believed  a  few  weeks  back  that 
he  would  have  looked  forward  to  his  son's  and  his  grand- 
daughter's return  with  something  like  dread  1  There  was 
such  delicious  freedom,  such  recovery  of  that  independence 
a  man  enjoys  before  he  founds  a  family,  about  these  weeks 
of  lovely  weather,  and  this  new  companionship  with  one 
who  demanded  nothing,  and  remained  always  a  little 
unknown,  retaining  the  fascination  of  mystery.  It  was  like 
a  draught  of  wine  to  him  who  has  been  drinking  water  for 
so  long  that  he  has  almost  forgotten  the  stir  wine  brings  to 
his  blood,  the  narcotic  to  his  brain.  The  flowers  were 
coloured  brighter,  scents  and  music  and  the  sunlight  had  a 
living  value — were  no  longer  mere  reminders  of  past 
enjo^'ment.     There  was  something  now  to  live  for  which 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       425 

stirred  him  continually  to  anticipation.  He  lived  in  that, 
not  in  retrospection  ;  the  difference  is  considerable  to  any 
so  old  as  he.  The  pleasures  of  the  table,  never  of  much 
consequence  to  one  naturally  abstemious,  had  lost  all  value. 
He  ate  little,  without  knowing  what  he  ate  ;  and  e\'ery  day 
grew  thinner  and  more  worn  to  look  at.  He  was  again  a 
^threadpaper '  ;  and  to  this  thinned  form  his  massive  fore- 
head, with  hollows  at  the  temples,  gave  more  dignity  than 
ever.  He  was  very  well  aware  that  he  ought  to  see  the 
doctor,  but  liberty  was  too  sweet.  He  could  not  afford  to 
pet  his  frequent  shortness  of  breath  and  the  pain  in  his  side 
at  the  expense  of  liberty.  Return  to  the  vegetable  existence 
he  had  led  among  the  agricultural  journals  with  the  life-size 
mangold-wurzels,  before  this  new  attraction  came  into  his 
life — no  !  He  exceeded  his  allowance  of  cigars.  Two  a 
day  had  always  been  his  rule.  Now  he  smoked  three  and 
sometimes  four — a  man  will  when  he  is  filled  with  the 
creative  spirit.  But  very  often  he  thought  :  '  I  must  give 
up  smoking,  and  coffee  ;  I  must  give  up  rattling  up  to 
town.'  But  he  did  not  ;  there  was  no  one  in  any  sort  of 
authority  to  notice  him,  and  this  was  a  priceless  boon.  The 
servants  perhaps  wondered,  but  they  were,  naturally,  dumb. 
Mam'zelle  Beauce  was  too  concerned  with  her  own 
digestion,  and  too  '  weli-brrred '  to  make  personal  allusions. 
Holly  had  not  as  yet  an  eye  for  the  relative  appearance  of 
him  who  was  her  plaything  and  her  god.  It  was  left  for 
Irene  herself  to  beg  him  to  eat  more,  to  rest  in  the  hot  part 
of  the  day,  to  take  a  tonic,  and  so  forth.  But  she  did  not 
tell  him  that  she  was  the  cause  of  his  thinness — for  one 
cannot  see  the  havoc  oneself  is  working.  A  man  of  eighty- 
five  has  no  passions,  but  the  Beauty  which  produces  passion 
works  on  in  the  old  way,  till  death  closes  the  eyes  which 
crave  the  sight  of  Her. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  second  week  in  July  he  received  a 


42G  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

letter  from  his  son  in  Paris  to  say  that  they  would  all  be 
back  on  Friday.  This  had  always  been  more  sure  than 
Fate  ;  but,  with  the  pathetic  improvidence  given  to  the  old, 
that  they  may  endure  to  the  end,  he  had  never  quite  ad- 
mitted it.  Now  he  did,  and  something  would  have  to  be 
done.  He  had  ceased  to  be  able  to  imagine  life  without  this 
new  interest,  but  that  which  is  not  imagined  sometimes 
exists,  as  Forsytes  are  perpetually  finding  to  their  cost.  He 
sat  in  his  old  leather  chair,  doubling  up  the  letter,  and 
mumbling  with  his  lips  the  end  of  an  unlighted  cigar.  After 
to-morrow  his  Tuesday  expeditions  to  town  would  have  to 
be  abandoned.  He  could  still  drive  up,  perhaps,  once  a 
week,  on  the  pretext  of  seeing  his  man  of  business.  But 
even  that  would  be  dependent  on  his  health,  for  now  they 
would  begin  to  fuss  about  him.  The  lessons  1  The  lessons 
must  go  on  !  She  must  swallow  down  her  scruples,  and 
June  must  put  her  feelings  in  her  pocket.  She  had  done  so 
once,  on  the  day  after  the  news  of  Bosinney's  death  ;  what 
she  had  done  then,  she  could  surely  do  again  now.  Four 
years  since  that  injury  was  inflicted  on  her — not  Christian  to 
keep  the  memory  of  old  sores  alive.  June's  will  was  strong, 
but  his  was  stronger,  for  his  sands  were  running  out.  Irene 
was  soft,  surely  she  would  do  this  for  him,  subdue  her  natural 
shrinking,  sooner  than  give  him  pain  !  The  lessons  must 
continue  ;  for  if  they  did,  he  was  secure.  And  lighting  his 
cigar  at  last,  he  began  trying  to  shape  out  how  to  put  it  to 
them  all,  and  explain  this  strange  intimacy ;  how  to  veil  and 
wrap  it  away  from  the  naked  truth — that  he  could  not  bear 
to  be  deprived  of  the  sight  of  beauty.  Ah  !  Holly  !  Holly 
was  fond  of  her.  Holly  liked  her  lessons.  She  would  save 
him — his  little  sweet  !  And  with  that  happy  thought  he 
became  serene,  and  wondered  what  he  had  been  worrying 
about  so  fearfully.  He  must  not  worry,  it  left  him  always 
curiously  weak,  and  as  if  but  half  present  in  his  own  body. 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       427 

That  evening  after  dinner  he  had  a  return  of  the  dizzi- 
ness, though  he  did  not  faint.  He  would  not  ring  the  bell, 
because  he  knew  it  would  mean  a  fuss,  and  make  his  going 
up  on  the  morrow  more  conspicuous.  When  one  grew  old, 
the  whole  world  was  in  conspiracy  to  limit  freedom,  and  for 
what  reason  ? — ^just  to  keep  the  breath  in  him  a  little  longer. 
He  did  not  want  it  at  such  cost.  Only  the  dog  Balthasar 
saw  his  lonely  recovery  from  that  weakness  ;  anxiously 
watched  his  master  go  to  the  sideboard  and  drink  some 
brandy,  instead  of  giving  him  a  biscuit.  When  at  last  old 
Jolyon  felt  able  to  tackle  the  stairs  he  went  up  to  bed.  And, 
though  still  shaky  next  morning,  the  thought  of  the  evening 
sustained  and  strengthened  him.  It  was  always  such  a 
pleasure  to  give  her  a  good  dinner — he  suspected  her  of 
under-eating  when  she  was  alone  ;  and,  at  the  opera  to 
watch  her  eyes  glow  and  brighten,  the  unconscious  smiling 
of  her  lips.  She  hadn't  much  pleasure,  and  this  was  the 
last  time  he  would  be  able  to  give  her  that  treat.  But 
when  he  was  packing  his  bag  he  caught  himself  wishing 
that  he  had  not  the  fatigue  of  dressing  for  dinner  before 
him,  and  the  exertion,  too,  of  telling  her  about  June's 
return. 

The  opera  that  evening  was  *  Carmen,'  and  he  chose  the 
last  entracte  to  break  the  news,  instinctively  putting  it  off  till 
the  latest  moment.  She  took  it  quietly,  queerly  ;  in  fact,  he 
did  not  know  how  she  had  taken  it  before  the  wayward 
music  lifted  up  again  and  silence  became  necessary.  The 
mask  was  down  over  her  face,  that  mask  behind  which  so 
much  went  on  that  he  could  not  see.  She  wanted  time  to 
think  it  over,  no  doubt  !  He  would  not  press  her,  for  she 
would  be  coming  to  give  her  lesson  to-m.orrow  afternoon, 
and  he  should  see  her  then  when  she  had  got  used  to  the 
idea.  In  the  cab  he  talked  only  of  the  Carmen  ;  he  had 
seen  better  in  the  old  days,  but  this  one  was  not  bad  at  all. 


428  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

When  he  took  her  hand  to  say  good-night,  she  bent  quickly- 
forward  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Uncle  Jolyon,  you  have  been  so  sweet 
to  me." 

"  To-morrow  then,"  he  said.  "  Good-night.  Sleep 
well."  She  echoed  softly  :  "  Sleep  well  !"  and  in  the  cab 
window,  already  moving  away,  he  saw  her  face  screwed 
round  towards  him,  and  her  hand  put  out  in  a  gesture  which 
seemed  to  linger. 

He  sought  his  room  slowly.  They  never  gave  him  the 
same,  and  he  could  not  get  used  to  these  *  spick-and-spandy ' 
bedrooms  with  new  furniture  and  grey-green  carpets 
sprinkled  all  over  with  pink  roses.  He  was  wakeful  and 
that  wretched  Habanera  kept  throbbing  in  his  head.  His 
French  had  never  been  equal  to  its  words,  but  its  sense  he 
knew,  if  it  had  any  sense,  a  gipsy  thing — wild  and  unac- 
countable. Well,  there  wa^  in  life  something  which  upset 
all  your  care  and  plans — something  which  made  men  and 
women  dance  to  its  pipes.  And  he  lay  staring  from  deep- 
sunk  eyes  into  the  darkness  where  the  unaccountable  held 
sway.  You  thought  you  had  hold  of  life,  but  it  slipped 
away  behind  you,  took  you  by  the  scrufF  of  the  neck,  forced 
you  here  and  forced  you  there,  and  then,  likely  as  not, 
squeezed  life  out  of  you  !  It  took  the  very  stars  like  that, 
he  shouldn't  wonder,  rubbed  their  noses  together  and  flung 
them  apart  ;  it  had  never  done  playing  its  pranks.  Five 
million  people  in  this  great  blunderbuss  of  a  town,  and  all  of 
them  at  the  mercy  of  that  Life-Force,  like  a  lot  of  little 
dried  peas  hopping  about  on  a  board  when  you  struck  your 
fist  on  it.  Ah,  well !  Himself  would  not  hop  much  longer 
— a  good  long  sleep  would  do  him  good  ! 

How  hot  it  was  up  here  ! — how  noisy  !  His  forehead 
burned  ;  she  had  kissed  it  just  where  he  always  worried  ; 
just  there — as  if  she  had  known  the  very  place  and  wanted 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       429 

to  kiss  it  all  away  for  him.  But,  instead,  her  lips  left  a  patch 
of  grievous  uneasiness.  She  had  never  spoken  in  quite  that 
voice,  had  never  before  made  that  lingering  gesture,  or 
looked  back  at  him  as  she  drove  away.  He  got  out  of  bed 
and  pulled  the  curtains  aside ;  his  room  faced  down  over 
the  river.  There  was  little  air,  but  the  sight  of  that  breadth 
of  water  flowing  by,  calm,  eternal,  soothed  him.  *  The 
great  thing,'  he  thought,  *  is  not  to  make  myself  a  nuisance. 
I'll  think  of  my  little  sweet,  and  go  to  sleep.'  But  it  was 
long  before  the  heat  and  throbbing  of  the  London  night  died 
out  into  the  short  slumber  of  the  summer  morning.  And 
old  Jolyon  had  but  forty  winks. 

When  he  reached  home  next  day  he  went  out  to  the 
flower  garden,  and  with  the  help  of  Holly,  who  was  very 
delicate  with  flowers,  gathered  a  great  bunch  of  carnations. 
They  were,  he  told  her,  for  *  the  lady  in  grey  ' — a  name 
still  bandied  between  them  ;  and  he  put  them  in  a  bowl  in 
his  study  where  he  meant  to  tackle  Irene  the  moment  she 
came,  on  the  subject  of  June  and  future  lessons.  Their 
fragrance  and  colour  would  help.  After  lunch  he  lay  down, 
for  he  felt  very  tired,  and  the  carriage  would  not  bring  her 
from  the  station  till  four  o'clock.  But  as  the  hour  approached 
he  grew  restless,  and  sought  the  schoolroom,  which  over- 
looked the  drive.  The  sunblinds  were  down,  and  Holly 
was  there  with  Mademoiselle  Beauce,  sheltered  from  the 
heat  of  a  stifling  July  day,  attending  to  their  silkworms. 
Old  Jolyon  had  a  natural  antipathy  to  these  methodical 
creatures,  whose  heads  and  colour  reminded  him  of  elephants  ; 
who  nibbled  such  quantities  of  holes  in  nice  green  leaves  ; 
and  smelled,  as  he  thought,  horrid.  He  sat  down  on  a 
chintz-covered  window-seat  whence  he  could  see  the  drive, 
and  get  what  air  there  was  ;  and  the  dog  Balthasar,  who 
appreciated  chintz  on  hot  days,  jumped  up  beside  him.  Over 
the  cottage  piano  a  violet  dustsheet,  faded  almost  to  grey, 


430  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  spread,  and  on  ir  the  firs:  lavender,  whose  scent  filled 
the  room.  In  spite  ot  the  coolness  here,  perhaps  because  of 
that  coolness,  the  beat  of  lire  vehemently  impressed  his 
cbbed-down  senses.  Each  sunbeam  which  came  through 
the  chinks  had  annoving  brilliance  ;  that  dog  smelled  very 
strong  ;  the  lavender  perfume  was  overpowering  ;  those 
silkworms  heaving  up  their  grey-green  backs  seemed  horribly 
alive  ;  and  Holly's  dark  head  bent  over  them  had  a  wonder- 
fully silky  sheen.  A  mar\-ellous,  cruelly  strong  thing  w^as 
life  when  you  were  old  and  weak  ;  it  seemed  to  mock  you 
with  its  multitude  of  forms  and  its  beating  vitality.  He  had 
never,  till  those  last  few  weeks,  had  this  curious  feeling  of 
being  with  one  half  of  him  eagerly  borne  along  in  the  stream 
of  life,  and  with  the  other  half  left  on  the  bank,  watching 
that  helpless  progress.  Only  when  Irene  was  with  him  did 
he  lose  his  double  consciousness. 

Holly  turned  her  head,  pointed  with  her  little  brown  fist 
to  the  piano — for  to  point  with  a  finger  was  not '  well-brrred  ' 
— and  said  slyly  : 

"  Look  at  the  '  lady  in  grey,'  Gran  ;  isn't  she  pretty 
to-day  r" 

Old  Jolyon's  heart  gave  a  flutter,  and  for  a  second  the  room 
was  clouded  ;  then  it  cleared,  and  he  said  with  a  twinkle  : 

"  Who's  been  dressing  her  up  :" 

"  Mam'zelle." 

^'Hollee!     Don't  be  foolish  1'* 

That  prim  little  Frenchwoman  !  She  hadn't  yet  got  over 
the  music  lessons  being  taken  away  from  her.  That 
wouldn't  help.  His  little  sweet  was  the  only  friend  they 
had.  Well,  they  were  her  lessons.  And  he  shouldn't  budge 
— shouldn't  budge  for  anything.  He  stroked  the  warm  wool 
on  Balthasar's  head,  and  heard  Holly  say  : 

''  When  mother's  home,  there  won't  be  any  changes,  will 
there  :     She  doesn't  like  strangers,  you  know." 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FOPvSYTE       431 

The  child's  words  seemed  to  bring  the  chilly  atmosphere 
of  opposition  about  old  Jolyon,  and  disclose  all  the  menace 
to  his  new-found  freedom.  Ah  !  He  would  have  to  resign 
himself  to  being  an  old  man  at  the  mercy  of  care  and  love, 
or  fight  to  keep  this  new  and  prized  companionship  ;  and  to 
fight  tired  him  to  death.  But  his  thin,  worn  face  hardened 
into  resolution  till  it  appeared  all  jaw.  This  was  his  house, 
and  his  affair  ;  he  should  not  budge  !  He  looked  at  his 
watch,  old  and  thin  like  himself;  he  had  owned  it  fifty 
years.  Past  four  already  !  And  kissing  the  top  of  Holly's 
head  in  passing,  he  went  down  to  the  hall.  He  wanted  to 
get  hold  of  her  before  she  went  up  to  give  her  lesson.  At 
the  first  sound  of  wheels  he  stepped  out  into  the  porch,  and 
saw  at  once  that  the  victoria  was  empty. 

'*  The  train's  in,  sir  ;  but  the  lady  'asn't  come." 

Old  Jolyon  gave  him  a  sharp  upward  look,  his  eyes  seemed 
to  push  awav  that  fat  chap's  curiosity,  and  defH*  him  to  see 
the  bitter  disappointment  he  was  feeling. 

''  Very  well,"  he  said,  and  turned  back  into  the  house. 
He  went  to  his  study  and  sat  down,  quivering  like  a  leaf. 
What  did  this  mean  r  She  might  have  lost  her  train,  but  he 
knew  well  enough  she  hadn't.  '  Good-bve,  dear  Uncle 
Jolyon.'  W  hy  '  Good-bye  '  and  not  ^Good-night'?  And 
that  hand  of  hers  lingering  in  the  air.  And  her  kiss.  What 
did  it  mean  r  Vehement  alarm  and  irritation  took  posses- 
sion of  him.  He  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  Turkey 
carpet,  between  window  and  wall.  She  was  going  to  give 
him  up  !  He  felt  it  for  certain — and  he  defenceless.  An 
old  man  wanting  to  look  on  beauty  !  It  was  ridiculous  ! 
Age  closed  his  mouth,  paralysed  his  power  to  fight.  He  had 
no  right  to  what  was  warm  and  living,  no  right  to  anything 
but  memories  and  sorrow.  He  could  not  plead  with  her  ; 
even  an  old  man  has  his  dignity.  Defenceless  !  For  an 
hour,  lost  to  bodily  fatigue,  he  paced  up  and  down,  past  the 


432  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

bowl  of  carnations  he  had  plucked,  which  mocked  him  with 
their  scent.  Of  all  things  hard  to  bear,  the  prostration  of 
will-power  is  hardest,  for  one  who  has  always  had  his  way. 
Nature  had  got  him  in  its  net,  and  like  an  unhappy  fish  he 
turned  and  swam  at  the  meshes,  here  and  there,  found  no 
hole,  no  breaking  point.  They  brought  him  tea  at  live 
o'clock,  and  a  letter.  For  a  moment  hope  beat  up  in  him. 
He  cut  the  envelope  with  the  butter  knife,  and  read  : 

"  Dearest  Uncle  Jolyon, — I  can't  bear  to  write  any- 
thing that  may  disappoint  you,  but  I  was  too  cowardly  to 
tell  you  last  night.  I  feel  I  can't  come  down  and  give  Holly 
any  more  lessons,  now  that  June  is  coming  back.  Some 
things  go  too  deep  to  be  forgotten.  It  has  been  such  a  joy 
to  see  you  and  Holly.  Perhaps  I  shall  still  see  you  some- 
times when  you  come  up,  though  I'm  sure  it's  not  good  for 
you  ;  I  can  see  you  are  tiring  yourself  too  much.  I  believe 
you  ought  to  rest  quite  quietly  all  this  hot  weather,  and 
now  you  have  your  son  and  June  coming  back  you  will  be  so 
happy.  Thank  you  a  million  times  for  all  your  sweetness 
to  me. 

"  Lovingly  your 

"  Irene." 

So,  there  it  was  !  Not  good  for  him  to  have  pleasure  and 
what  he  chiefly  cared  about  ;  to  try  and  put  off  feeling  the 
inevitable  end  of  all  things,  the  approach  of  death  with  its 
stealthy,  rustling  footsteps.  Not  good  for  him  !  Not  even 
she  could  see  how  she  was  his  new  lease  of  interest  in  life, 
the  incarnation  of  all  the  beauty  he  felt  slipping  from  him  ! 
His  tea  grew  cold,  his  cigar  remained  unlit ;  and  up  and 
down  he  paced,  torn  between  his  dignity  and  his  hold  on 
life.  Intolerable  to  be  squeezed  out  slowly,  without  a  say  of 
your  own,  to  live  on  when  your  will  was  in  the  hands  of 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE      433 

others  bent  on  weighing  you  to  the  ground  with  care  and 
love.  Intolerable  !  He  would  see  what  telling  her  the  truth 
would  do — the  truth  that  he  wanted  the  sight  of  her  more 
than  just  a  lingering  on.  He  sat  down  at  his  old  bureau  and 
took  a  pen.  But  he  could  not  write.  There  was  something 
revolting  in  having  to  plead  like  this;  plead  that  she  should 
warm  his  eyes  with  her  beauty.  It  was  tantamount  to  con- 
fessing dotage.  He  simply  could  not.  And  instead,  he 
wrote  : 

"  I  had  hoped  that  the  memory  of  old  sores  would  not  be 
allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of  what  is  a  pleasure  and  a  profit 
to  me  and  my  little  grand-daughter.  But  old  men  learn  to 
forgo  their  whims  ;  they  are  obliged  to,  even  the  whim  to 
live  must  be  forgone  sooner  or  later ;  and  perhaps  the  sooner 
the  better. 

"  My  love  to  you, 

"JoLYON  Forsyte." 

*  Bitter,'  he  thought,  *  but  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  tired.'  He 
sealed  and  dropped  it  into  the  box  for  the  evening  post,  and 
hearing  it  fall  to  the  bottom,  thought  :  *  There  goes  all  I've 
looked  forward  to  1' 

That  evening  after  dinner  which  he  scarcely  touched, 
after  his  cigar  which  he  left  half-smoked  for  it  made  him 
feel  faint,  he  went  very  slowly  upstairs  and  stole  into  the 
night-nursery.  He  sat  down  on  the  window-seat.  A  night- 
light  was  burning,  and  he  could  just  see  Holly's  face,  with 
one  hand  underneath  the  cheek.  An  early  cockchafer 
buzzed  in  the  Japanese  paper  with  which  they  had  filled  the 
grate,  and  one  of  the  horses  in  the  stable  stamped  restlessly. 
To  sleep  like  that  child  1  He  pressed  apart  two  rungs  of  the 
Venetian  blind  and  looked  out.  The  moon  was  rising,  blood- 
red.     He  had  never  seen  so  red  a  moon.     The  woods  and 

15 


4^4  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

fields  out  there  were  dropping  to  sleep  too,  in  the  last  glimmer 
of  the  summer  light.  And  beauty,  like  a  spirit,  walked.  'I've 
had  a  long  life,'  he  thought,  '  the  best  of  nearly  everything. 
I'm  an  ungrateful  chap  ;  I've  seen  a  lot  of  beauty  in  my 
time.  Poor  young  Bosinney  said  I  had  a  sense  of  beauty. 
There's  a  man  in  the  moon  to-night  !'  A  moth  went  by, 
another,  another.  '  Ladies  in  grey  !'  He  closed  his  eyes. 
A  feeling  that  he  would  never  open  them  again  beset  him  ; 
he  let  it  grow,  let  himself  sink  ;  then,  with  a  shiver,  dragged 
the  lids  up.  There  was  something  wrong  with  him,  no 
doubt,  deeply  wrong  ;  he  would  have  to  have  the  doctor 
after  all.  It  didn't  much  matter  now  !  Into  that  coppice 
the  moonlight  would  have  crept ;  there  would  be  shadows, 
and  those  shadows  would  be  the  only  things  awake.  No 
birds,  beasts,  flowers,  insects  ;  just  the  shadows — moving  ; 
*  Ladies  in  grey  !'  Over  that  log  they  would  climb  ; 
would  whisper  together.  She  and  Bosinney  ?  Funny 
thought  1  And  the  frogs  and  little  things  would  whisper 
too  !  How  the  clock  ticked,  in  here  !  It  was  all  eerie — out 
there  in  the  light  of  that  red  moon ;  in  here,  too,  with  the 
little  steady  night-light  and  the  ticking  clock  and  the  nurse's 
dressing-gown  hanging  from  the  edge  of  the  screen,  tall,  like 
a  woman's  figure.  '  Lady  in  grey  !'  And  a  very  odd 
thought  beset  him  :  Did  she  exist  ?  Had  she  ever  come  at 
all  ?  Or  was  she  but  the  emanation  of  all  the  beauty  he  had 
loved  and  must  leave  so  soon  ?  The  violet-grey  spirit  with 
the  dark  eyes  and  the  crown  of  amber  hair,  who  walks  the 
dawn  and  the  moonlight,  and  at  bluebell  time  ?  What  was 
she,  who  was  she,  did  she  exist  ?  He  rose  and  stood  a 
moment  clutching  the  window-sill,  to  give  him  a  sense  of 
reality  again ;  then  began  tiptoeing  towards  the  door.  He 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ;  and  Holly,  as  if  conscious  of 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  stirred,  sighed,  and  curled  up  closer  in 
defence.      He  tiptoed  on  and  passed  out  into  the  dark  passage  ; 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       435 

reached  his  room,  undressed  at  once,  and  stood  before  a 
mirror  in  his  night -shirt.  What  a  scarecrow — with  temples 
fallen  in,  and  thin  legs  !  His  eyes  resisted  his  own  image, 
and  a  look  of  pride  came  on  his  face.  All  was  in  league  to 
pull  him  down,  even  his  reflection  in  the  glass,  but  he  was 
not  down — yet  !  He  got  into  bed,  and  lay  a  long  time  with- 
out sleeping,  trying  to  reach  resignation,  only  too  well  aware 
that  fretting  and  disappointment  were  very  bad  for  him. 

He  woke  in  the  morning  so  unrefreshed  and  strengthless 
that  he  sent  for  the  doctor.  After  sounding  him,  the  fellow 
pulled  a  face  as  long  as  your  arm,  and  ordered  him  to  stay  in 
bed  and  give  up  smoking.  That  was  no  hardship  ;  there 
was  nothing  to  get  up  for,  and  when  he  felt  ill,  tobacco 
always  lost  its  savour.  He  spent  the  morning  languidly  with 
the  sunblinds  down,  turning  and  re-turning  The  Times ^  not 
reading  much,  the  dog  Balthasar  lying  beside  his  bed.  With 
his  lunch  they  brought  him  a  telegram,  running  thus : 
*  Your  letter  received  coming  down  this  afternoon  will  be 
with  you  at  four-thirty,     Irene.' 

Coming  down  1  After  all  !  Then  she  did  exist — and 
he  was  not  deserted.  Coming  down  !  A  glow  ran  through 
his  limbs  ;  his  cheeks  and  forehead  felt  hot.  He  drank  his 
soup,  and  pushed  the  tray-table  away,  lying  very  quiet  until 
they  had  removed  lunch  and  left  him  alone  ;  but  every  now 
and  then  his  eyes  twinkled.  Coming  down  I  His  heart 
beat  fast,  and  then  did  not  seem  to  beat  at  all.  At  three 
o'clock  he  got  up  and  dressed  deliberately,  noiselessly.  Holly 
and  Mam'zelle  would  be  in  the  schoolroom,  and  the  servants 
asleep  after  their  dinner,  he  shouldn't  wonder.  He  opened 
his  door  cautiously,  and  went  downstairs.  In  the  hall  the 
dog  Balthasar  lay  solitary,  and,  followed  by  him,  old  Jolyon 
passed  into  his  study  and  out  into  the  burning  afternoon. 
He  meant  to  go  down  and  meet  her  in  the  coppice,  but  felt 
at  once  he  could  not  manage  that   in   this  heat.       He  sat 


436  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

down  instead  under  the  oak  tree  by  the  swing,  and  the  dog 
Balthasar,  who  also  felt  the  heat,  lay  down  beside  him.  He 
sat  there  smiling.  What  a  revel  of  bright  minutes  1  What 
a  hum  of  insects,  and  cooing  of  pigeons  !  It  was  the 
quintessence  of  a  summer  day.  Lovely  1  And  he  was 
happy — happy  as  a  sand-boy,  whatever  that  might  be.  She 
was  coming  ;  she  had  not  given  him  up  !  He  had  every- 
thing in  life  he  wanted — except  a  little  more  breath,  and  less 
weight — ^just  here  !  He  would  see  her,  when  she  emerged 
from  the  fernery,  come,  swaying  just  a  little,  a  violet-grey 
figure  passing  over  the  daisies  and  dandelions  and  '  soldiers  * 
on  the  lawn — the  soldiers  with  their  flowery  crowns.  He 
would  not  move,  but  she  would  come  up  to  him  and  say  ; 
*  Dear  Uncle  Jolyon,  I  am  sorry  V  and  sit  in  the  swing  and 
let  him  look  at  her  and  tell  her  that  he  had  not  been  very 
well  but  was  all  right  now  ;  and  that  dog  would  lick  her 
hand.  That  dog  knew  his  master  was  fond  of  her  ;  that 
dog  was  a  good  dog. 

It  was  quite  shady  under  the  tree  ;  the  sun  could  not  get 
at  him,  only  make  the  rest  of  the  world  bright  so  that  he 
could  see  the  Grand  Stand  at  Epsom  away  out  there,  very 
far,  and  the  cows  cropping  the  clover  in  the  field  and  swishing 
at  the  flies  with  their  tails.  He  smelled  the  scent  of  limes, 
and  lavender.  Ah  !  that  was  why  there  was  such  a  racket 
of  bees.  They  were  excited — busy,  as  his  heart  was  busy 
and  excited.  Drowsy,  too,  drowsy  and  drugged  on  honey 
and  happiness  ;  as  his  heart  was  drugged  and  drowsy. 
Summer — summer — they  seemed  saying  ;  great  bees  and 
little  bees,  and  the  flies  too  ! 

The  stable  clock  struck  four  ;  in  half  an  hour  she  would 
be  here.  He  would  have  just  one  tiny  nap,  because  he  had 
had  so  little  sleep  of  late  ;  and  then  he  would  be  fresh  for 
her,  fresh  for  youth  and  beauty,  coming  towards  him  across 
the  sunlit  lawn — lady  in  grey  !      And  settling  back  in  his 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FORSYTE       437 

chair  he  closed  his  eyes.  Some  thistledown  came  on  what 
little  air  there  was,  and  pitched  on  his  moustache  more  white 
than  itself.  He  did  not  know  ;  but  his  breathing  stirred  it, 
caught  there.  A  ray  of  sunlight  struck  through  and  lodged 
on  his  boot.  A  humble-bee  alighted  and  strolled  on  the 
crown  of  his  Panama  hat.  And  the  delicious  surge  of 
slumber  reached  the  brain  beneath  that  hat,  and  the  head 
swayed  forward  and  rested  on  his  breast.  Summer — 
summer  !     So  went  the  hum. 

The  stable  clock  struck  the  quarter  past.  The  dog 
Balthasar  stretched  and  looked  up  at  his  master.  The  thistle- 
down no  longer  moved.  The  dog  placed  his  chin  over  the 
sunlit  foot.  It  did  not  stir.  The  dog  withdrew  his  chin 
quickly,  rose,  and  leaped  on  old  Jolyon's  lap,  looked  in  his 
face,  whined  ;  then,  leaping  down,  sat  on  his  haunches, 
gazing  up.     And  suddenly  he  uttered  a  long,  long  howl. 

But  the  thistledown  was  still  as  death,  and  the  face  of  his 
old  master. 

Summer — summer — summer  !  The  soundless  footsteps 
on  the  grass  I 


BOOK  II 
IN    CHANCERY 

"  Two  households  both  alike  in  dignity. 

From  ancient  grudge  break  to  new  mutiny.** 

Romeo  and  Juliet, 


TO 

JESSIE  AND  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


PART  I 


The  possessive  instinct  never  stands  still.  Through  flores- 
cence and  feud,  frosts  and  fires,  it  followed  the  laws  of  pro- 
gression even  in  the  Forsyte  family  which  had  believed  it 
fixed  for  ever.  Nor  can  it  be  dissociated  from  environment 
any  more  than  the  quality  of  potato  from  the  soil. 

The  historian  of  the  English  eighties  and  nineties  will,  in 
his  good  time,  depict  the  somewhat  rapid  progression  from 
self-contented  and  contained  provincialism  to  still  more 
self-contented  if  less  contained  imperialism — in  other 
words,  the  *  possessive  '  instinct  of  the  nation  on  the  move. 
And  so,  as  if  in  conformity,  was  it  with  the  Forsyte  family. 
They  were  spreading  not  merely  on  the  surface,  but  within. 

When,  in  1895,  Susan  Hayman,  the  married  Forsyte 
sister,  followed  her  husband  at  the  ludicrously  low  age  of 
seventy-four,  and  was  cremated,  it  made  strangely  little 
stir  among  the  six  old  Forsytes  left.  For  this  apathy  there 
were  three  causes.  First:  the  almost  surreptitious  burial 
of  old  Jolyon  in  1892  down  at  Robin  Hill — first  of  the 
Forsytes  to  desert  the  family  grave  at  Highgate.  That 
burial,  coming  a  year  after  Swithin's  entirely  proper  funeral, 
had  occasioned  a  great  deal  of  talk  on  Forsyte  'Change,  the 
abode  of  Timothy  Forsyte  on  the  Bayswater  Road,  London, 
which  still  collected  and  radiated  family  gossip.  Opinions 
ranged  from  the  lamentation  of  Aunt  Juley  to  the  out- 
spoken assertion  of  Francie  that  it  was  *  a  jolly  good  thing 
to  stop  all  that  stuffy  Highgate  business.'  Uncle  Jolyon 
in  his  later  years — indeed,  ever  since  the  strange  and  lament- 

441  '5* 


442  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

able  atlair  between  his  granddaughter  June's  lover,  young 
Bosinney,  and  Irene,  his  nephew  Soames  Forsyte's  wife — 
had  noticeably  rapped  the  family's  knuckles;  and  that  way 
of  his  own  which  he  had  always  taken  had  begun  to  seem 
to  them  a  little  w^ayward.  The  philosophic  vein  in  him,  of 
course,  had  always  been  too  liable  to  crop  out  of  the  strata 
of  pure  Forsyteism,  so  they  were  in  a  way  prepared  for  his 
interment  in  a  strange  spot.  But  the  whole  thing  was  an 
odd  business,  and  when  the  contents  of  his  Will  became 
current  coin  on  Forsyte  'Change,  a  shiver  had  gone  round 
the  clan.  Out  of  his  estate  (^145,304  gross,  with  liabilities 
y^35  7s.  4d.)  he  had  actually  left  ^15,000  to  '  whomever 
do  you  think,  my  dear  .?  To  Irene  P  that  runaway  wife  of 
his  nephew  Soames;  Irene,  a  woman  who  had  almost  dis- 
graced the  family,  and — still  more  amazing — was  to  him 
no  blood  relation.  Not  out  and  out,  of  course;  only  a  life 
interest — only  the  income  from  it  !  Still,  there  it  was; 
and  old  Jolyon's  claim  to  be  the  perfect  Forsyte  w^as  ended 
once  for  all.  That,  then,  was  the  first  reason  why  the 
burial  of  Susan  Hayman — at  Woking — made  little  stir. 

The  second  reason  was  altogether  more  expansive  and 
imperial.  Besides  the  house  on  Campden  Hill,  Susan  had 
a  place  (left  her  by  Hayman  when  he  died)  just  over  the 
border  in  Hants,  where  the  Hayman  boys  had  learned  to  be 
such  good  shots  and  riders,  as  it  was  believed,  which  w^as 
of  course  nice  for  them  and  creditable  to  everybody;  and 
the  fact  of  o^vning  something  really  countrified  seemed 
somehow  to  excuse  the  dispersion  of  her  remains — though 
what  could  have  put  cremation  into  her  head  they  could 
not  think  !  The  usual  invitations,  however,  had  been 
issued,  and  Soames  had  gone  down  and  young  Nicholas, 
and  the  Will  had  been  quite  satisfactory  so  far  as  it  went, 
for  she  had  only  had  a  life  interest;  and  everything  had 
gone  quite  smoothly  to  the  children  in  equal  shares. 


IN  CHANCERY  443 

The  third  reason  why  Susan's  burial  made  little  stir  was 
the  most  expansive  of  all.  It  was  summed  up  daringly  by 
Euphemia,  the  pale,  the  thin:  "  Well,  /  think  people  have 
a  right  to  their  own  bodies,  even  when  they're  dead." 
Coming  from  a  daughter  of  Nicholas,  a  Liberal  of  the  old 
school  and  most  tyrannical,  it  was  a  startling  remark — show- 
ing in  a  flash  what  a  lot  of  water  had  run  under  bridges  since 
the  death  of  Aunt  Ann  in  'S6,  just  when  the  proprietorship 
of  So  imes  over  his  wife's  body  was  acquiring  the  uncertainty 
which  had  led  to  such  disaster.  Euphemia,  of  course, 
spoke  like  a  child,  and  had  no  experience;  for  though  well 
over  thirty  by  now,  her  name  was  still  Forsyte.  But,  making 
all  allowances,  her  remark  did  undoubtedly  show  expansion 
of  the  principle  of  liberty,  decentrahsation  and  shift  in  the 
central  point  of  possession  from  others  to  oneself.  When 
Nicholas  heard  his  daughter's  remark  from  Aunt  Hester  he 
had  rapped  out:  "  Wives  and  daughters  I  There's  no  end 
to  their  liberty  in  these  days.  I  knew  that  '  Jackson '  case 
would  lead  to  things — lugging  in  Habeas  Corpus  like  that  !  " 
He  had,  of  course,  never  really  forgiven  the  Married  Woman's 
Property  Act,  which  would  so  have  interfered  with  him  if 
he  had  not  mercifully  married  before  it  was  passed.  But, 
in  truth,  there  was  no  denying  the  revolt  among  the  younger 
Forsytes  against  being  owned  by  others;  that,  as  it  were. 
Colonial  disposition  to  own  oneself,  which  is  the  paradoxical 
forerunner  of  Imperialism,  was  making  progress  all  the  time. 
They  were  all  now  married,  except  George,  confirmed  to 
the  Turf  and  the  Iseeum  Club;  Francie,  pursuing  her  musical 
career  in  a  studio  ofF  the  King's  Road,  Chelsea,  and  still 
taking  'lovers'  to  dances;  Euphemia,  living  at  home  and 
complaining  of  Nicholas;  and  those  two  Dromios,  Giles 
and  Jesse  Hayman.  Of  the  third  generation  there  were  not 
very  many — young  Jolyon  had  three,  Winifred  Dartie  four, 
young  Nicholas  six  already,  young  Roger  bad  one,  Marian 


444  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Tweetyman  one;  St.  John  Hayman  two.  But  the  rest  of 
the  sixteen  married — Soames,  Rachel  and  Cicely  of  James* 
family;  Eust  ce  and  Thomas  of  Roger's;  Ernest,  Archibald 
and  Florence  of  Nicholas';  Augustus  and  Annabel  Spender 
of  the  Hayman's — were  going  down  the  years  unreproduced. 

Thus,  of  the  ten  old  Forsytes  twenty-one  young  Forsytes 
had  been  born;  but  of  the  twenty-one  young  Forsytes  there 
were  as  yet  only  seventeen  descendants;  and  it  already 
seemed  unlikely  that  there  would  be  more  than  a  further 
unconsidered  trifle  or  so.  A  student  of  statistics  must  have 
noticed  that  the  birth  rate  had  varied  in  accordance  with 
the  rate  of  interest  for  your  money.  Grandfather  '  Superior 
Dosset '  Forsyte  in  the  early  nineteenth  century  had  been 
getting  ten  per  cent,  for  his,  hence  ten  children.  Those 
ten,  leaving  out  the  four  who  had  not  married,  and  Juley, 
whose  husband  Septimus  Small  had,  of  course,  died  almost 
at  once,  had  averaged  from  four  to  five  per  cent,  for  theirs, 
and  produced  accordingly.  The  twenty-one  whom  they 
produced  were  now  getting  barely  three  per  cent,  in  the 
Consols  to  which  their  fathers  had  mostly  tied  the  Settle- 
ments they  made  to  avoid  death  duties,  and  the  six  of  them 
who  had  been  reproduced  had  seventeen  children,  or  just 
the  proper  two  and  five-sixths  per  stem. 

There  were  other  reasons,  too,  for  this  mild  reproduction. 
A  distrust  of  their  earning  powers,  natural  where  a  sufficiency 
is  guaranteed,  together  with  the  knowledge  that  their  fathers 
did  not  die,  kept  them  cautious.  If  one  had  children  and 
not  much  income,  the  standard  of  taste  and  comfort  must 
of  necessity  go  down;  what  was  enough  for  two  was  not 
enough  for  four,  and  so  on — it  would  be  better  to  wait  and 
see  what  Father  did.  Besides,  it  was  nice  to  be  able  to  take 
holidays  unhampered.  Sooner  in  fact  than  own  children, 
they  preferred  to  concentrate  on  the  ownership  of  themselves, 
conforming  to  the  growing  tendency — fi-n  de  siecle^  as  it 


IN  CHANCERY  445 

was  called.  In  this  way,  little  risk  was  run,  and  one  would  be 
able  to  have  a  motor-car.  Indeed,  Eustace  already  had  one, 
but  it  had  shaken  him  horribly,  and  broken  one  of  his  eye 
teeth;  so  that  it  would  be  better  to  wait  till  they  were  a  little 
safer.  In  the  meantime,  no  more  children  !  Even  young 
Nicholas  was  drawing  in  his  horns,  and  had  made  no  addition 
to  his  six  for  quite  three  years. 

The  corporate  decay,  however,  of  the  Forsytes,  their 
dispersion  rather,  of  which  all  this  was  symptomatic,  had 
not  advanced  so  far  as  to  prevent  a  rally  when  Roger  Forsyte 
died  in  1899.  It  had  been  a  glorious  summer,  and  after 
holidays  abroad  and  at  the  sea  they  were  practically  all 
back  in  London,  when  Roger  with  a  touch  of  his  old  origin- 
ality had  suddenly  breathed  his  last  at  his  own  house  in 
Princes  Gardens.  At  Timothy's  it  was  whispered  sadly 
that  poor  Roger  had  always  been  eccentric  about  his  diges- 
tion— had  he  not,  for  instance,  preferred  German  mutton 
to  all  the  other  brands? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  his  funeral  at  Highgate  had  been  perfect, 
and  coming  away  from  it  Soames  Forsyte  made  almost 
mechanically  for  his  Uncle  Timothy's  in  the  Bayswater 
Road.  The  *  Old  Things  ' — Aunt  Juley  and  Aunt  Hester — 
would  like  to  hear  about  it.  His  father — ^James — at  eighty- 
eight  had  not  felt  up  to  the  fatigue  of  the  funeral;  and 
Timothy  himself,  of  course,  had  not  gone;  so  that  Nicholas 
had  been  the  only  brother  present.  Still,  there  had  been 
a  fair  gathering;  and  it  would  cheer  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester 
up  to  know.  The  kindly  thought  was  not  unmixed  with  the 
inevitable  longing  to  get  something  out  of  everything  you 
do,  which  is  the  chief  characteristic  of  Forsytes,  and  indeed 
of  the  saner  elements  in  every  nation.  In  this  practice  of 
taking  family  matters  to  Timothy's  in  the  Bayswater  Road, 
Soames  was  but  following  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father,  who 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  going  at  least  once  a  week  to  see  his 


446  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

sisters  at  Timothy's,  and  had  only  given  it  up  when  he  lost 
his  nerve  at  eighty-six,  and  could  not  go  out  without  Emily. 
To  go  with  Emily  was  of  no  use,  for  who  could  really  talk 
to  anyone  in  the  presence  of  his  own  wife  f  Like  James  in 
the  old  days,  Soames  found  time  to  go  there  nearly  every 
Sunday,  and  sit  in  the  little  drawing-room  into  which,  with 
his  undoubted  taste,  he  had  introduced  a  good  deal  of  change 
and  china  not  quite  up  to  his  own  fastidious  mark,  and  at 
least  two  rather  doubtful  Barbizon  pictures,  at  Christmas- 
tides.  He  himself,  who  had  done  extremely  well  with  the 
Barbizons,had  for  some  years  past  moved  towards  theMarises, 
Israels,  and  Mauve,  and  was  hoping  to  do  better.  In  the 
riverside  house  which  he  now  inhabited  near  Mapledurham 
he  had  a  gallery,  beautifully  hung  and  lighted,  to  which 
few  London  dealers  were  strangers.  It  served,  too,  as  a 
Sunday  afternoon  attraction  in  those  week-end  parties  which 
his  sisters,  Winifred  or  Rachel,  occasionally  organised  for 
him.  For  though  he  was  but  a  taciturn  showman,  his  quiet 
collected  determinism  seldom  failed  to  influence  his  guests, 
who  knew  that  his  reputation  was  grounded  not  on  mere 
aesthetic  fancy,  but  on  his  power  of  gauging  the  future  of 
market  values.  When  he  went  to  Timothy's  he  almost 
always  had  some  little  tale  of  triumph  over  a  dealer  to  unfold, 
and  dearly  he  loved  that  coo  of  pride  with  which  his  aunts 
would  greet  it.  This  afternoon,  however,  he  was  differently 
animated,  coming  from  Roger's  funeral  in  his  neat  dark 
clothes — not  quite  black,  for  after  all  an  uncle  was  but  an 
uncle,  and  his  soul  abhorred  excessive  display  of  feeling. 
Leaning  back  in  a  marqueterie  chair  and  gazing  down  his 
uplifted  nose  at  the  sky-blue  walls  plastered  with  gold  frames, 
he  was  noticeably  silent.  Whether  because  he  had  been  to  a 
funeral  or  not,  the  peculiar  Forsyte  build  of  his  face  was  seen 
to  the  best  advantage  this  afternoon — a  face  concave  and 
long,  with  a  jaw  which  divested  of  flesh  would  have  seemed 


IN  CHANCERY  447 

extravagant :  altogether  a  chinny  face,  though  not  at  all  ill- 
looking.  He  was  feeling  more  strongly  than  ever  that 
Timothy's  was  hopelessly  *  rum-ti-too,'  and  the  souls  of 
his  aunts  dismally  mid -Victorian.  The  subject  on  v^^hich 
alone  he  w^anted  to  talk — his  own  undivorced  position — 
was  unspeakable  And  yet  it  occupied  his  mind  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else.  It  was  only  since  the  Spring  that  this 
had  been  so,  and  a  new  feeling  grown  up  which  was  egging 
him  on  towards  what  he  knew  might  well  be  folly  in  a  Forsyte 
of  forty-five.  More  and  more  of  late  he  had  been  conscious 
that  he  was  '  getting  on.'  The  fortune,  already  considerable 
when  he  conceived  the  house  at  Robin  Hill  which  had  finally 
wrecked  his  marriage  with  Irene,  had  mounted  with  sur- 
prising vigour  in  the  twelve  lonely  years  during  which  he 
had  devoted  himself  to  little  else.  He  was  worth  to-day 
well  over  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  had  no  one  to 
leave  it  to — no  real  object  for  going  on  with  what  was  his 
religion.  Even  if  he  were  to  relax  his  efforts,  money  made 
money,  and  he  felt  that  he  would  have  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  before  he  knew  where  he  was.  There  had  always 
been  a  strongly  domestic,  philoprogenitive  side  to  Soames ; 
baulked  and  frustrated,  it  had  hidden  itself  away,  but  now 
had  crept  out  again  in  this  his  '  prime  of  life.'  Concreted 
and  focussed  of  late  by  the  attraction  of  a  girl's  undoubted 
beauty,  it  had  become  a  veritable  prepossession. 

And  this  girl  was  French,  not  likely  to  lose  her  head,  or 
accept  any  unlegalised  position.  Moreover,  Soames  him- 
self disliked  the  thought  of  that.  He  had  tasted  of  the 
sordid  side  of  sex  during  those  long  years  of  forced  celibacy, 
secretively,  and  always  with  disgust,  for  he  was  fastidious, 
and  his  sense  of  law  and  order  innate.  He  wanted  no  hole 
and  corner  liaison.  A  marriage  at  the  Embassy  in  Paris, 
a  few  months'  travel,  and  he  could  bring  Annette  back 
quite  separated  from  a  past  which  in  truth  was   not   too 


448  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

distinguished,  for  she  only  kept  the  accounts  in  her 
mother's  Soho  Restaurant;  he  could  bring  her  back  as  some- 
thing very  new  and  chic  with  her  French  taste  and  self- 
possession,  to  reign  at  '  The  Shelter  '  near  Mapledurham. 
On  Forsyte  'Change  and  among  his  riverside  friends  it 
would  be  current  that  he  had  met  a  charming  French  girl 
on  his  travels  and  married  hei.  There  would  be  the  flavour 
of  romance,  and  a  certain  cachet  about  a  French  wife.  No  ! 
He  was  not  at  all  afraid  of  that;  it  was  only  this  cursed 
undivorced  condition  of  his,  and — and  the  question  whether 
Annette  would  take  him,  which  he  dared  not  put  to  the 
touch  until  he  had  a  clear  and  even  dazzling  future  to 
offer  her. 

In  his  aunts'  drawing-room  he  heard  with  but  muffled 
ears  those  usual  questions :  How  was  his  dear  father  ?  Not 
going  out,  of  course,  now  that  the  weather  was  turning 
chilly  ?  Would  Soames  be  sure  to  tell  him  that  Hester 
had  found  boiled  holly  leaves  most  comforting  for  that  pain 
in  her  side;  a  poultice  every  three  hours,  with  red  flannel 
afterwards.  And  could  he  relish  just  a- little  pot  of  their 
very  best  prune  preserve — ^it  was  so  delicious  this  year,  and 
had  such  a  wonderful  efl?ect.  Oh  !  and  about  the  Darties — 
had,  Soames  heard  that  dear  Winifred  was  having  a  most 
distressing  time  with  Montague  ?  Timothy  thought  she 
really  ought  to  have  protection.  It  was  said — but  Soames 
mustn't  take  this  for  certain — that  he  had  given  some  of 
Winifred's  jewellery  to  a  dreadful  dancer.  It  was  such  a 
bad  example  for  dear  Val  just  as  he  was  going  to  college. 
Soames  had  not  heard  t  Oh,  but  he  must  go  and  see  his 
sister  and  look  into  it  at  once  !  And  did  he  think  these 
Boers  were  really  going  to  resist  ?  Timothy  was  in  quite  a 
stew  about  it.  The  price  of  Consols  was  so  high,  and  he  had 
such  a  lot  of  money  in  them.  Did  Soames  think  they  must 
go  down  if  there  was  a  war  ?    Soames  nodded.     But  it  would 


IN  CHANCERY  449 

be  over  very  quickly.  It  would  be  so  bad  for  Timothy  if 
it  wasn't.  And  of  course  Soames'  dear  father  would  feel 
it  very  much  at  his  age.  Luckily  poor  dear  Roger  had  been 
spared  this  dreadful  anxiety.  And  Aunt  Juley  with  a  little 
handkerchief  wiped  away  the  large  tear  trying  to  climb 
the  permanent  pout  on  her  now  quite  withered  left  cheek; 
she  was  remembering  dear  Roger,  and  all  his  originality, 
and  how  he  used  to  stick  pins  into  her  when  they  were  little 
together.  Aunt  Hester,  with  her  instinct  for  avoiding  the 
unpleasant,  here  chimed  in:  Did  Soames  think  they  would 
make  Mr.  Chamberlain  Prime  Minister  at  once  ?  He  would 
settle  it  all  so  quickly.  She  would  like  to  see  that  old 
Kruger  sent  to  St.  Helena.  She  could  remember  so  well 
the  news  of  Napoleon's  death,  and  what  a  relief  it  had  been 
to  his  grandfather.  Of  course  she  and  Juley — "  We  were  in 
pantalettes  then,  my  dear  " — had  not  felt  it  much  at  the 
time. 

Soames  took  a  cup  of  tea  from  her,  drank  it  quickly,  and  ate 
three  of  those  macaroons  for  which  Timothy's  was  famous. 
His  faint,  pale,  supercilious  smile  had  deepened  just  a  little. 
Really,  his  family  remained  hopelessly  provincial,  however 
much  of  London  they  might  possess  between  them.  In 
these  go-ahead  days  their  provincialism  stared  out  even  more 
than  it  used  to.  Why,  old  Nicholas  was  still  a  Free  Trader, 
and  a  member  of  that  antediluvian  home  of  Liberalism, 
the  Remove  Club — though,  to  be  sure,  the  members  were 
pretty  well  all  Conservative  now,  or  he  himself  could  not 
have  joined;  and  Timothy,  they  said,  still  wore  a  nightcap. 
Aunt  Juley  spoke  again.  Dear  Soames  was  looking  so  well, 
hardly  a  day  older  than  he  did  when  dear  Ann  died,  and  they 
were  all  there  together,  dear  Jolyon,  and  dear  Swithin, 
and  dear  Roger.  She  paused  and  caught  the  tear  which  had 
climbed  the  pout  on  her  right  cheek.  Did  he — did  he  ever 
hear  anything  of   Irene   nowadays  ?     Aunt   Hester  visibly 


450  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

interposed  her  shoulder.  Really,  Juley  was  always  saying 
something  !  The  smile  left  Soames'  face,  and  he  put  his 
cup  down.  Here  was  his  subject  broached  for  him,  and  for 
all  hi<?  desire  to  expand,  he  could  not  take  advantage. 

Aunt  Juley  went  on  rather  hastily: 

"  They  say  dear  Jolyon  first  left  her  that  fifteen  thousand 
out  and  out;  then  of  course  he  saw  it  would  not  be  right, 
and  made  it  for  her  life  only." 

Had  Soames  heard  that  ? 

Soames  nodded. 

'*  Your  cousin  Jolyon  is  a  widower  now.  He  is  her  trustee; 
you  knew  that,  of  course  ?" 

Soames  shook  his  head.  He  did  know,  but  wished  to  show 
no  interest.  Young  Jolyon  and  he  had  not  met  since  the 
day  of  Bosinney's  death. 

"  He  must  be  quite  middle-aged  by  now,"  went  on  Aunt 
Juley  dreamily.  "  Let  me  see,  he  was  born  when  your  dear 
uncle  lived  in  Mount  Street;  long  before  they  went  to 
Stanhope  Gate — in  December'47j*ust  before  the  Commune. 
He's  over  fifty  !  Fancy  that  1  Such  a  pretty  baby,  and 
we  were  all  so  proud  of  him;  the  very  first  of  you  all." 
Aunt  Juley  sighed,  and  a  lock  of  not  quite  her  own  hair 
came  loose  and  straggled,  so  that  Aunt  Hester  gave  a  little 
shiver.  Soames  rose,  he  was  experiencing  a  curious  piece  of 
self-discovery.  That  old  wound  to  his  pride  and  self-esteem 
was  not  yet  closed.  He  had  come  thinking  he  could  talk 
of  it,  even  wanting  to  talk  of  his  fettered  condition,  and — 
behold  !  he  was  shrinking  away  from  this  reminder  by  Aunt 
Juley,  renowned  for  her  Malapropisms. 

Oh,  Soames  was  not  going  already  ! 

Soames  smiled  a  little  vindictively,  and  said: 

"  Yes.  Good-bye.  Remember  me  to  Uncle  Timothy  !  " 
And,  leaving  a  cold  kiss  on  each  forehead,  whose  wrinkles 
seemed  to  try  and  cling  to  his  lips  as  if  longing  to  be  kissed 


IN  CHANCERY  451 

away,  he  left  them  looking  brightly  after  him — dear  Soames> 
it  had  been  so  good  of  him  to  come  to-day,  when  they  were 

not  feeling  very ! 

With  compunction  tweaking  at  his  chest  Soames  descended 
the  stairs,  where  was  always  that  rather  pleasant  smell  of 
camphor  and  port  wine,  and  house  where  draughts  are  not 
permitted.  The  poor  old  things — he  had  not  meant  to  be 
unkind  !  And  in  the  street  he  instantly  forgot  them,  re- 
possessed by  the  image  of  Annette  and  the  thought  of  the 
cursed  coil  around  him.  Why  had  he  not  pushed  the 
thing  through  and  obtained  divorce  when  that  wretched 
Bosinney  was  run  over,  and  there  was  evidence  galore  for  the 
asking  !  And  he  turned  towards  his  sister  Winifred  Dartie's 
residence  in  Green  Street,  Mayfair. 


CHAPTER  II 

EXIT    A    MAN    OF    THE    WORLD 

That  a  man  of  the  world  so  subject  to  the  vicissitudes  of 
fortune  as  Montague  Dartie  should  still  be  living  in  a  house 
he  had  inhabited  twenty  years  at  least  would  have  been  more 
noticeable  if  the  rent,  rates,  taies,  and  repairs  of  that  house 
had  not  been  defrayed  by  his  father-in-law.  *  By  that  simple 
if  wholesale  device  James  Forsyte  had  secured  a  certain 
stability  in  the  lives  of  his  daughter  and  his  grandchildren. 
After  all,  there  is  something  invalaable  about  a  safe  roof 
over  the  head  of  a  sportsman  so  dashing  as  Dartie.  Until 
the  events  of  the  last  few  days  he  had  been  almost  super- 
naturally  steady  all  this  year.  The  fact  was  he  had  acquired 
a  half  share  in  a  filly  of  George  Forsyte's,  who  had  gone 
irreparably  on  the  turf,  to  the  horror  of  Roger,  now  stilled 
by  the  grave.  Sleeve-links,  by  Martyr,  out  of  Shirt -on-fire, 
by  Suspender,  was  a  bay  filly,  three  years  old,  who  for  a 
variety  of  reasons  had  never  shown  her  true  form.  With  half 
ownership  of  this  hopeful  animal,  all  the  idealism  latent 
somewhere  in  Dartie,  as  in  every  other  man,  had  put  up  its 
head,  and  kept  him  quietly  ardent  for  months  past.  When 
a  man  has  something  good  to  live  for  it  is  astonishing  how 
sober  he  becomes;  and  what  Dartie  had  was  really  good — a 
three  to  one  chance  for  an  autumn  handicap,  publicly 
assessed  at  twenty-five  to  one.  The  old-fashioned  heaven 
was  a  poor  thing  beside  it,  and  his  shirt  was  on  the  daughter 
of  Shirt-on-fire.  But  how  much  more  than  his  shirt  de- 
pended on  this  granddaughter  of  Suspender  !  At  that 
roving  age  of  forty-five,  trying  to  Forsytes — and,  though 

452 


IN  CHANCERY  453 

perhaps  less  distinguishable  from  any  other  age,  trying  even 
to  Darties — Montague  had  fixed  his  current  fancy  on  a 
dancer.  It  was  no  mean  passion,  but  without  money,  and  a 
good  deal  of  it,  likely  to  remain  a  love  as  airy  as  her  skirts; 
and  Dartie  never  had  any  money,  subsisting  miserably  on 
what  he  could  beg  or  borrow  from  Winifred — a  woman  of 
character,  who  kept  him  because  he  was  the  father  of  her 
children,  and  from  a  lingering  admiration  for  those  now- 
dying  Wardour  Street  good  looks  which  in  their  youth  had 
fascinated  her.  She,  together  with  anyone  else  who  would 
lend  him  anything,  and  his  losses  at  cards  and  on  the  turf, 
(extraordinary  how  some  men  make  a  good  thing  out  of 
losses),  were  his  whole  means  of  subsistence;  for  James  was 
now  too  old  and  nervous  to  approach,  and  Soames  too 
formidably  adamant.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Dartie 
had  been  living  on  hope  for  months.  He  had  never  been 
fond  of  money  for  itself,  had  always  despised  the  Forsytes 
with  their  investing  habits,  though  careful  to  make  such 
use  of  them  as  he  could.  What  he  liked  about  money  was 
what  it  bought — personal  sensation. 

"  No  real  sportsman  cares  for  money,"  he  would  say, 
borrowing  a  *  pony  '  if  it  was  no  use  trying  for  a  *  monkey.' 
There  was  something  delicious  about  Montague  Dartie.  He 
was,  as  George  Forsyte  said,  a  *  daisy.' 

The  morning  of  the  Handicap  dawned  clear  and  bright, 
the  last  day  of  September,  and  Dartie,  who  had  travelled 
to  Newmarket  the  night  before,  arrayed  himself  in  spotless 
checks  and  walked  to  an  eminence  to  see  his  half  of  the  fiUy 
take  her  final  canter.  If  she  won  he  would  be  a  cool  three 
thou,  in  pocket — a  poor  enough  recompense  for  the  sobriety 
and  patience  of  these  weeks  of  hope,  while  they  had  been 
nursing  her  for  this  race.  But  he  had  not  been  able  to  afford 
more.  Should  he  *  lay  it  off  '  at  the  eight  to  one  to  which 
she  had  advanced  ?     This  was  his  single  thought  while  the 


454 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


larks  sang  above  him,  and  the  grassy  downs  smelled  sweet, 
and  the  pretty  filly  passed,  tossing  her  head  and  glowing  like 
satin.  After  all,  if  he  lost  it  would  not  be  he  who  paid, 
and  to  '  lay  it  oil '  would  reduce  his  winnings  to  some  fifteen 
hundred — hardly  enough  to  purchase  a  dancer  out  and  out. 
Even  more  potent  was  the  itch  in  the  blood  of  all  the  Darties 
for  a  real  flutter.  And  turning  to  George  he  said:  "  She's 
a  clipper.  She'll  win  hands  down;  I  shall  go  the  whole 
hog."  George,  who  had  laid  off  every  penny,  and  a  few 
besides,  and  stood  to  win,  however  it  came  out,  grinned  down 
on  him  from  his  bulky  height,  with  the  words :  "  So  ho,  my 
wild  one  !  "  for  after  a  chequered  apprenticeship  weathered 
with  the  money  of  a  deeply  complaining  Roger,  his  Forsyte 
blood  was  beginning  to  stand  him  in  good  stead  in  the  pro- 
fession of  owner. 

There  are  moments  of  disillusionment  in  the  lives  of  m-en 
from  which  the  sensitive  recorder  shrinks.  Sufiice  it  to  say 
that  the  good  thing  fell  down.  Sleeve-links  finished  In  the 
ruck.     Dartie's  shirt  was  lost. 

Between  the  passing  of  these  things,  and  the  day  when 
Soames  turned  his  face  towards  Green  Street,  what  had  not 
happened  ! 

When  a  man  with  the  constitution  of  Montague  Dartie 
has  exercised  self-control  for  months  from  religious  motives, 
and  remains  unrewarded,  he  does  not  curse  God  and  die, 
he  curses  God  and  lives,  to  the  distress  of  his  family. 

Winifred — a  plucky  woman,  if  a  little  too  fashionable — 
who  had  borne  the  brunt  of  him  for  exactly  twenty-one 
years,  had  never  really  believed  that  he  would  do  what  he 
now  did.  Like  so  many  wives,  she  thought  she  knew  the 
worst,  but  she  had  not  yet  known  him  in  his  forty-fifth 
year,  when  he,  like  other  men,  felt  that  it  was  now  or  never. 
Paying  on  the  2nd  of  October  a  visit  of  inspection  to  her 
jewel  case,  she  was  horrified  to  observe  that  her  woman's 


IN  CHANCERY  455 

crown  and  glory  was  gone — the  pearls  which  Montagu 
had  given  her  in  '86,  when  Benedict  was  born,  and  which 
James  had  been  compelled  to  pay  for  in  the  spring  of  '87, 
to  save  scandal.  She  consulted  her  husband  at  once.  He 
*  pooh-poohed  '  the  matter.  They  would  turn  up  !  Nor 
till  she  said  sharply :  "  Very  well,  then,  Monty,  I  shall  go 
down  to  Scotland  Yard  wyj^//,"  did  he  consent  to  take  the 
matter  in  hand.  Alas  !  that  the  steady  and  resolved  con- 
tinuity of  design  necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of  sw^eep- 
ing  operations  should  be  liable  to  interruption  by  drink. 
That  night  Dartie  returned  home  without  a  care  in  the 
world  or  a  particle  of  reticence.  Under  normal  conditions 
Winifred  would  merely  have  locked  her  door  and  let  him 
sleep  it  off,  but  torturing  suspense  about  her  pearls  had 
caused  her  to  wait  up  for  him.  Taking  a  small  revolver 
from  his  pocket  and  holding  on  to  the  dining  table,  he  told 
her  at  once  that  he  did  not  care  a  cursh  whether  she  lived 
s'long  as  she  was  quiet;  but  he  himself  wash  tired  o'  life. 
Winifred,  holding  on  to  the  other  side  of  the  dining  table, 
answ^ered : 

"  Don't  be  a  clown,  Monty.  Have  you  been  to  Scotland 
Yard  r" 

Placing  the  revolver  against  his  chest,  Dartie  had  pulled 
the  trigger  several  times.  It  was  not  loaded.  Dropping  it 
with  an  imprecation,  he  had  muttered:  "  For  shake  o'  the 
children,"  and  sank  into  a  chair.  Winifred,  having  picked 
up  the  revolver,  gave  him  some  soda  water.  The  liquor  had 
a  magical  effect.  Life  had  ill-used  him;  Winifred  had  never 
'  unshtood'm.'  If  he  hadn't  the  right  to  take  the  pearls 
he  had  given  her  himself,  who  had  ?  "  That  Spanish  iilly 
had  got'm.  If  Winifred  had  any  'jection  he  w'd  cui — her — 
throat.  What  was  the  matter  with  that  ?  (Probably  the 
first  use  of  that  celebrated  phrase — so  obscure  are  the  origins 
of  even  the  most  classical  language  1) 


456  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Winifred,  who  had  learned  self-containment  in  a  hard 
school,  looked  up  at  him,  and  said:  "Spanish  filly!  Do 
you  mean  that  girl  we  saw  dancing  in  the  Pandemonium 
Ballet  ?  Well,  you  are  a  thief  and  a  blackguard."  It  had 
been  the  last  straw  on  a  sorely  loaded  consciousness;  reaching 
up  from  his  chair  Dartie  seized  his  wife's  arm,  and  recalling 
the  achievements  of  his  boyhood,  twisted  it.  Winifred 
endured  the  agony  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  no  murmur. 
Watching  for  a  moment  of  weakness,  she  wrenched  it  free; 
then  placing  the  dining  table  between  them,  said  between 
her  teeth:  "  You  are  the  limit,  Monty."  (Undoubtedly  the 
inception  of  that  phrase — so  is  English  formed  under  the 
stress  of  circumstance.)  Leaving  Dartie  with  foam  on  his 
dark  moustache  she  went  upstairs,  and,  after  locking  her  door 
and  bathing  her  arm  in  hot  water,  lay  awake  all  night, 
thinking  of  her  pearls  adorning  the  neck  of  another,  and  of  the 
consideration  her  husband  had  presumably  received  therefor. 

The  man  of  the  world  awoke  with  a  sense  of  being  lost  to 
that  world,  and  a  dim  recollection  of  having  been  called  a 
*  limit.'  He  sat  for  half  an  hour  in  the  dawn  and  the 
armchair  where  he  had  slept — perhaps  the  unhappiest 
half-hour  he  had  ever  spent,  for  even  to  a  Dartie  there  is 
something  tragic  about  an  end.  And  he  knew  that  he  had 
reached  it.  Never  again  would  he  sleep  in  his  dining-room 
and  wake  with  the  light  filtering  through  those  curtains 
bought  by  Winifred  at  Nickens  and  Jarveys  with  the  money 
of  James.  Never  again  eat  a  devilled  kidney  at  that  rose- 
wood table,  after  a  roll  in  the  sheets  and  a  hot  bath.  He 
took  his  note  case  from  his  dress  coat  pocket.  Four  hundred 
pounds,  in  fives  and  tens — the  remainder  of  the  proceeds 
of  his  half  of  Sleeve-links,  sold  last  night,  cash  down,  to 
George  Forsyte,  who,  having  won  over  the  race,  had  not 
conceived  the  sudden  dislike  to  the  animal  which  he  himself 
now  felt.     The  ballet  was  going  to  Buenos  Aires  the  day 


IN  CHANCERY  457 

after  to-morrow,  and  he  was  going  too.     Full  value  for  the 
pearls  had  not  yet  been  received;  he  was  only  at  the  soup. 

He  stole  upstairs.  Not  daring  to  have  a  bath,  or  shave 
(besides,  the  water  would  be  cold),  he  changed  his  clothes 
and  packed  stealthily  all  he  could.  It  was  hard  to  leave 
so  many  shining  boots,  but  one  must  sacrifice  something. 
Then,  carrying  a  valise  in  either  hand,  he  stepped  out  on 
to  the  landing.  The  house  was  very  quiet — that  house 
where  he  had  begotten  his  four  children.  It  was  a  curious 
moment,  this,  outside  the  room  of  his  wife,  once  admired, 
if  not  perhaps  loved,  who  had  called  him  '  the  limit.'  He 
steeled  himself  with  that  phrase,  and  tiptoed  on;  but  the 
next  door  was  harder  to  pass.  It  was  the  room  his  daughters 
slept  in.  Maud  was  at  school,  but  Imogen  would  be  lying 
there;  and  moisture  came  into  Dartie's  early  morning  eyes. 
She  was  the  most  like  him  of  the  four,  with  her  dark  hair, 
and  her  luscious  brown  glance.  Just  coming  out,  a  pretty 
thing  !  He  set  down  the  two  vaHses.  This  almost  formal 
abdication  of  fatherhood  hurt  him.  The  morning  light 
fell  on  a  face  which  worked  with  real  emotion.  Nothing 
so  false  as  penitence  moved  him;  but  genuine  paternal 
feeling,  and  that  melancholy  of  *  never  again.'  He  moist- 
ened his  lips;  and  complete  irresolution  for  a  moment 
paralysed  his  legs  in  their  check  trousers.  It  was  hard — hard 
to  be  thus  compelled  to  leave  his  home  !  "  D— n  it  !"  he 
muttered,  "  I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this."  Noises 
above  warned  him  that  the  maids  were  beginning  to  get  up. 
And  grasping  the  two  valises,  he  tiptoed  on  downstairs. 
His  cheeks  were  wet,  and  the  knowledge  of  that  was  com- 
forting, as  though  it  guaranteed  the  genuineness  of  his 
sacrifice.  He  lingered  a  little  in  the  rooms  below,  to  pack 
all  the  cigars  he  had,  some  papers,  a  crush  hat,  a  silver 
cigarette  box,  a  Ruff's  Guide.  Then,  mixing  himself  3 
stiff   whisky  and   soda,  and  lighting   a  cigarette,  he  stood 


458  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hesitating  before  2  photograph  of  his  two  girls,  in  a  silver 
frame.  It  belonged  to  Winifred.  '  Never  mind,'  he 
thought;  *  she  can  get  another  taken,  and  I  can't  !'  He 
slipped  it  into  the  valise.  Then,  putting  on  his  hat  and 
overcoat,  he  took  two  others,  his  best  malacca  cane,  an  um- 
brella, and  opened  the  front  door.  Closing  it  softly  behind 
him,  he  walked  out,  burdened  as  he  had  never  been  in  all  his 
life,  and  made  his  way  round  the  corner  to  wait  there  for 
an  early  cab  to  come  by.   .  .  . 

Thus  had  passed  Montague  Dartie  in  the  forty-fifth  year 
of  his  age  from  the  house  which  he  had  called  his  own.  .  .   . 

When  Winifred  came  down,  and  realised  that  he  was  not 
in  the  house,  her  first  feeling  was  one  of  dull  anger  that  he 
should  thus  elude  the  reproaches  she  had  carefully  prepared 
in  those  long  wakeful  hours.  He  had  gone  off  to  Newmarket 
or  Brighton,  with  that  woman  as  likely  as  not.  Disgusting  ! 
Forced  to  a  complete  reticence  before  Imogen  and  the 
servants,  and  aware  that  her  father's  nerves  would  never 
stand  the  disclosure,  she  had  been  unable  to  refrain  from 
going  to  Timothy's  that  afternoon,  and  pouring  out  the 
story  of  the  pearls  to  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  in  utter  confi- 
dence. It  was  only  on  the  following  morning  that  she 
noticed  the  disappearance  of  that  photograph.  What  did 
it  mean  ?  Careful  examination  of  her  husband's  relics 
prompted  the  thought  that  he  had  gone  for  good.  As  that 
conclusion  hardened  she  stood  quite  still  in  the  middle  of 
his  dressing-room,  with  all  the  drawers  pulled  out,  to  try 
and  realise  what  she  was  feeling.  By  no  means  easy ! 
Though  he  was  *  the  limit '  he  was  yet  her  property,  and 
for  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  but  feel  the  poorer.  To  be 
widowed  yet  not  widowed  at  forty-two;  with  four  children; 
made  conspicuous,  an  object  of  commiseration  !  Gone  to 
the  arms  of  a  Spanish  jade  !  Memories,  feelings,  which  she 
had  thought  quite  dead,  revived  within  her,  painful,  sullen. 


IN  CHANCERY  459 

tenacious.  Mechanically  she  closed  drawer  after  drawer, 
went  to  her  bed,  lay  on  it,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows. 
She  did  not  cry.  -What  was  the  use  of  that?  When  she 
^ot  off  her  bed  to  go  down  to  lunch  she  felt  as  if  only  one 
thing  could  do  her  good,  and  that  was  to  have  Val  home. 
He — her  eldest  boy — who  was  to  go  to  Oxford  next  month 
at  James'  expense,  was  at  Littlehampton  taking  his  final 
gallops  with  his  trainer  for  Smalls,  as  he  would  have  phrased 
it  following  his  father's  diction.  She  caused  a  telegram  to 
be  sent  to  him. 

"  I  must  see  about  his  clothes,"  she  said  to  Imogen;  "  I 
can't  have  him  going  up  to  Oxford  all  anyhow.  Those 
boys  are  so  particular." 

"  Val's  got  heaps  of  things,"  Imogen  answered. 

"  I  know;  but  they  want  overhauling.     I  hope  he'll  come.*' 

"  He'll  come  like  a  shot,  Mother.  But  he'll  probably 
skew  his  Exam." 

'*  I  can't  help  that,"  said  Winifred.     "  I  want  him." 

With  an  innocent  shrewd  look  at  her  mother's  face, 
Imogen  kept  silence.  It  was  father,  of  course  !  Val  did 
come  '  like  a  shot  '  at  six  o'clock. 

Imagine  a  cross  between  a  pickle  and  a  Forsyte  and  you 
have  young  Publius  Valerius  Dartie.  A  youth  so  named 
could  hardly  turn  out  otherwise.  W^hen  he  was  born, 
Winifred,  in  the  heyday  of  spirits,  and  the  craving  for  dis- 
tinction, had  determined  that  her  children  should  have 
names  such  as  no  others  had  ever  had.  (It  was  a  mercy — 
she  felt  now — that  she  had  just  not  named  Imogen  Thisbe.) 
But  it  was  to  George  Forsyte,  always  a  wag,  that  Val's  christ- 
ening was  due.  It  so  happened  that  Dartie  dining  with  him, 
a  week  after  the  birth  of  his  son  and  heir,  had  mentioned  this 
aspiration  of  Winifred's. 

"  Call  him  Cato,"  said  George,  "  it'll  be  damned  piquant !" 
He  had  just  won  a  tenner  on  a  horse  of  that  name. 


4^  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Cato  !"  Dartie  had  replied — they  were  a  little  *  on  ' 
as  the  phrase  was  even  in  those  days — "  it's  not  a  Christian 
name." 

"  Hallo  you  !"  George  called  to  a  waiter  in  knee  breeches. 
"  Bring  me  the  Encyc^fedia  Brit,  from  the  Library,  letter  C." 

The  waiter  brought  it. 

"  Here  you  are  !"  said  George,  pointing  with  his  cigar: 
"  Cato — Publius  Valerius  by  Virgil  out  of  Lydia.  That's 
what  you  want.     Publius  Valerius  is  Christian  enough." 

Dartie,  on  arriving  home,  had  informed  Winifred.  She 
had  been  charmed.  It  was  so  *  chic'  And  Publius 
Valerius  became  the  baby's  name,  though  it  afterwards 
transpired  that  they  had  got  hold  of  the  inferior  Cato. 
In  1890,  however,  when  little  Publius  was  nearly  ten,  the 
word  *  chic  '  went  out  of  fashion,  and  sobriety  came  in; 
Winifred  began  to  have  doubts.  They  were  confirmed  by 
little  Publius  himself  who  returned  from  his  first  term  at 
school  complaining  that  life  was  a  burden  to  him — they 
called  him  Pubby.  Winifred — a  woman  of  real  decision — 
promptly  changed  his  school  and  his  name  to  Val,  the 
Publius  being  dropped  even  as  an  initial. 

At  nineteen  he  was  a  limber,  freckled  youth  with  a  wide 
mouth,  light  eyes,  long  dark  lashes,  a  rather  charming  smile, 
considerable  knowledge  of  what  he  should  not  know,  and  no 
experience  of  what  he  ought  to  do.  Few  boys  had  more 
narrowly  escaped  being  expelled — the  engaging  rascal. 
After  kissing  his  mother  and  pinching  Imogen,  he  ran  upstairs 
three  at  a  time,  and  came  down  four,  dressed  for  dinner. 
He  was  awfully  sorry,  but  his  *  trainer,'  who  had  come  up 
too,  had  asked  him  to  dine  at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge; 
it  wouldn't  do  to  miss — the  old  chap  would  be  hurt.  Wini- 
fred let  him  go  with  an  unhappy  pride.  She  had  wanted 
him  at  home,  but  it  was  very  nice  to  know  that  his  tutor  was 
80  fond  of  him.     He  went  out  with  a  wink  at  Imogen,  saying: 


IN  CHANCERY  461 

"  I  say,  Mother,  could  I  have  two  plover's  eggs  when  I 
come  in  ? — cook's  got  some.  They  top  up  so  jolly  well. 
Oh  !  and  look  here — have  you  any  money  ? — I  had  to  borrow 
a  fiver  from  old  Snobby." 

Winifred,  looking  at  him  with  fond  shrewdness,  answered: 

"  My  dear,  you  are  naughty  about  money.  But  you 
shouldn't  pay  him  to-night,  anyway;  you're  his  guest." 
How  nice  and  slim  he  looked  in  his  white  waistcoat,  and 
his  dark  thick  lashes  ! 

"  Oh,  but  we  may  go  to  the  theatre,  you  see,  Mother; 
and  I  think  I  ought  to  stand  the  tickets;  he's  always  hard 
up,  you  know." 

Winifred  produced  a  five-pound  note,  saying: 

"  Well,  perhaps  you'd  better  pay  him,  but  you  mustn't 
stand  the  tickets  too." 

Val  pocketed  the  fiver. 

«  If  I  do,  I  can't,"  he  said.     "  Good-night,  Mum  !" 

He  went  out  with  his  head  up  and  his  hat  cocked  joyously, 
sniffing  the  air  of  Piccadilly  like  a  young  hound  loosed  into 
covert.  Jolly  good  biz  !  After  that  mouldy  old  slow  hole 
down  there  ! 

He  found  his  *  tutor,'  not  indeed  at  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, but  at  the  Goat's  Club.  This  *  tutor  '  was  a  year 
older  than  himself,  a  good-looking  youth,  with  fine  brown 
eyes,  and  smooth  dark  hair,  a  small  mouth,  an  oval  face, 
languid,  immaculate,  cool  to  a  degree,  one  of  those  young 
men  who  without  effort  establish  moral  ascendancy  over 
their  companions.  He  had  missed  being  expelled  from 
school  a  year  before  Val,  had  spent  that  year  at  Oxford, 
and  Val  could  almost  see  a  halo  round  his  head.  His  name 
was  Crum,  and  no  one  could  get  through  money  quicker. 
It  seemed  to  be  his  only  aim  in  life — dazzling  to  young  Val, 
in  whom,  however,  the  Forsyte  would  stand  apart,  now  and 
then,  wondering  where  the  value  for  that  money  was. 


462  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

They  dined  quietly,  in  style  and  taste;  left  the  Club  smok- 
ing cigars,  with  just  two  bottles  inside  them,  and  dropped 
into  stalls  at  the  Liberty.  For  Val  the  sound  of  comic 
songs,  the  sight  of  lovely  legs  were  fogged  and  interrupted 
by  haunting  fears  that  he  would  never  equal  Crum's  quiet 
dandyism.  His  idealism  was  roused;  and  when  that  is  so, 
one  is  never  quite  at  ease.  Surely  he  had  too  wide  a  mouth, 
not  the  best  cut  of  waistcoat,  no  braid  on  his  trousers,  and 
his  lavender  gloves  had  no  thin  black  stitchings  down  the 
back.  Besides,  he  laughed  too  much — Crum  never  laughed, 
he  only  smiled,  with  his  regular  dark  brows  raised  a  little  so 
that  they  formed  a  gable  over  his  just  drooped  lids.  No  !  he 
would  never  be  Crum's  equal.  All  the  same  it  was  a  jolly 
good  show,  and  Cynthia  Dark  simply  ripping.  Between 
the  acts  Crum  regaled  him  with  particulars  of  Cynthia's 
private  life,  and  the  awful  knowledge  became  Val's  that, 
if  he  liked,  Crum  could  go  behind.  He  simply  longed  to 
say:  "  I  say,  take  me  !"  but  dared  not,  because  of  his 
deficiencies;  and  this  made  the  last  act  or  two  almost 
miserable.  On  coming  out  Crum  said:  "  It's  half  an  hour 
before  they  close;  let's  go  on  to  the  Pandemonium."  They 
took  a  hansom  to  travel  the  hundred  yards,  and  seats  cost- 
ing seven-and-six  apiece  because  they  were  going  to  stand, 
and  walked  into  the  Promenade.  It  was  in  these  little  things, 
this  utter  negligence  of  money,  that  Crum  had  such  engaging 
polish.  The  ballet  was  on  its  last  legs  and  night,  and  the 
traffic  of  the  Promenade  was  suflFering  for  the  moment. 
Men  and  women  were  crowded  in  three  rows  against  the 
barrier.  The  whirl  and  dazzle  on  the  stage,  the  half  dark,  the 
mingled  tobacco  fumes  and  women's  scent,  all  that  curious 
lure  to  promiscuity  which  belongs  to  Promenades,  began 
to  free  young  Val  from  his  idealism.  He  looked  admiringly 
in  a  young  woman's  face,  saw  she  was  not  young,  and  quickly 
looked    away.     Shades    of    Cynthia    Dark !     The    young 


IN  CHANCERY  463 

woman's  arm  touched  his  unconsciously;  there  was  a  scent 
of  musk  and  mignonette.  Val  looked  round  the  corner  of 
his  lashes.  Perhaps  she  was  young,  after  all.  Her  foot  trod 
on  his;   she  begged  his  pardon.      He  said: 

"  Not  at  all;  jolly  good  ballet,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  tired  of  it;  aren't  you  ?" 

Young  Val  smiled — his  wide,  rather  charming  smile. 
Beyond  that  he  did  not  go — not  yet  convinced.  The 
Forsyte  in  him  stood  out  for  greater  certainty.  And  on 
the  stage  the  ballet  whirled  its  kaleidoscope  of  snow-white, 
salmon-pink,  and  emerald-green,  and  violet,  and  seemed 
suddenly  to  freeze  into  a  stilly  spangled  pyramid.  Applause 
broke  out,  and  it  was  over  !  Maroon  curtains  had  cut  it 
off.  The  semi-circle  of  men  and  women  round  the  barrier 
broke  up,  the  young  woman's  arm  pressed  his.  A  little 
way  off  disturbance  seemed  centring  round  a  man  with  a 
pink  carnation;  Val  stole  another  glance  at  the  young 
woman,  who  was  looking  towards  it.  Three  men,  unsteady, 
emerged,  walking  arm  in  arm.  The  one  in  the  centre  wore 
the  pink  carnation,  a  w^hite  waistcoat,  a  dark  moustache; 
he  reeled  a  little  as  he  walked.  Crum's  voice  said  slow  and 
level:  "  Look  at  that  bounder,  he's  screwed  !"  Val  turned 
to  look.  The  *  bounder  '  had  disengaged  his  arm,  and  was 
pointing  straight  at  them.     Crum's  voice,  level  as  ever,  said: 

"  He  seems  to  know  you  !"     The  '  bounder  '  spoke: 

"  H'llo  !"  he  said.  "  You  f'Uows,  look  !  There's  my 
young  rascal  of  a  son  !" 

Val  saw.  It  was  his  father  !  He  could  have  sunk  into 
the  crimson  carpet.  It  was  not  the  meeting  in  this  place, 
not  even  that  his  father  was  '  screwed  ';  it  was  Crum's  word 
*  bounder,'  which,  as  by  heavenly  revelation,  he  perceived 
at  that  moment  to  be  true.  Yes,  his  father  looked  a  bounder 
with  his  dark  good  looks,  and  his  pink  carnation,  and  his 
square,  self-assertive  walk.     And  without  a  word  he  ducked 


464  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

behind  the  young  woman  and  slipped  out  of  the  promenade. 
He  heard  the  word,  "  Val  !"  behind  him,  and  ran  down 
deep-carpeted  steps  past  the  *  chuckers-out,'  into  the  Square. 
To  be  ashamed  of  his  own  father  is  perhaps  the  bitterest 
experience  a  young  man  can  go  through  It  seemed  to 
Val,  hurrying  away,  that  his  career  had  ended  before  it  had 
begun.  How  could  he  go  up  to  Oxford  now  amongst  all 
those  chaps,  those  splendid  friends  of  Crum's,  who  would 
know  that  his  father  was  a  '  bounder '!  And  suddenly  he 
hated  Crum.  Who  the  devil  was  Crum,  to  say  that  ?  If  Crum 
had  been  beside  him  at  that  moment,  he  would  certainly 
have  been  jostled  off  the  pavement.  His  own  father — his 
own  !  A  choke  came  up  in  his  throat,  and  he  dashed  his 
hands  down  deep  into  his  overcoat  pockets.  Damn  Crum  ! 
He  conceived  the  wild  idea  of  running  back  and  finding  his 
father,  taking  him  by  the  arm  and  walking  about  with  him 
in  front  of  Crum;  but  gave  it  up  at  once  and  pursued  his 
way  down  Piccadilly.  A  young  woman  planted  herself 
before  him.  "  Not  so  angry,  darling  !"  He  shied,  dodged 
her,  and  suddenly  became  quite  cool.  If  Crum  ever  said  a 
word,  he  would  jolly  well  punch  his  head,  and  there  would 
be  an  end  of  it.  He  walked  a  hundred  yards  or  more, 
contented  with  that  thought,  then  lost  its  comfort  utterly. 
It  wasn't  simple  like  that  !  He  remembered  how,  at  school, 
when  some  parent  came  down  who  did  not  pass  the  standard, 
it  just  clung  to  the  fellow  afterwards.  It  was  one  of  those 
things  nothing  could  remove.  Why  had  his  mother  married 
his  father,  if  he  was  a  '  bounder  '  ?  It  was  bitterly  unfair 
— jolly  low-down  on  a  fellow  to  give  him  a  *  bounder  '  for 
father.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  now  Crum  had  spoken  the 
word,  he  realised  that  he  had  long  known  subconsciously 
that  his  father  was  not  *  the  clean  potato.'  It  was  the 
beastliest  thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  him — beastliest 
thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  any  fellow  !      And,  down- 


IN  CHANCERY  465 

hearted  as  he  had  never  yet  been,  he  came  to  Green  Street, 
and  let  himself  in  with  a  smuggled  latchkey.  In  the  dining- 
room  his  plover's  eggs  were  set  invitingly,  with  some  cut 
bread  and  butter,  and  a  little  whisky  at  the  bottom  of  a 
decanter— just  enough,  as  Winifred  had  thought,  for  him 
to  feel  himself  a  man.  It  made  him  sick  to  look  at  them, 
and  he  went  upstairs. 

Winifred  heard  him  pass,  and  thought:  "  The  dear  boy's 
in.  Thank  goodness  !  If  he  takes  after  his  father  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  !  But  he  won't — he's  like  me.  Dear 
Val !" 


16 


CHAPTER  III 

SOAMES    PREPARES    TO    TAKE    STEPS 

When  Soames  entered  his  sister's  little  Louis  Quinze  drawing- 
room,  with  its  small  balcony,  always  flowered  with  hanging 
geraniums  in  the  summer,  and  now  with  pots  of  Lilium 
Auratum,  he  was  struck  by  the  immutability  of  human 
affairs.  It  looked  just  the  same  as  on  his  first  visit  to  the 
newly  m.arried  Darties  twenty-one  years  ago.  He  had 
chosen  the  furniture  him.self,  and  so  completely  that  no 
subsequent  purchase  had  ever  been  able  to  change  the 
room's  atmosphere.  Yes,  he  had  founded  his  sister  well. 
and  she  had  wanted  it.  Indeed,  it  said  a  great  deal  for 
Winifred  that  after  all  this  time  with  Dartie  she  remained 
well-founded.  From  the  first  Soames  had  nosed  out 
Dartie's  nature  from  underneath  the  plausibility,  savoir 
faire^  and  good  looks  which  had  dazzled  Winifred,  her 
mother,  and  even  James,  to  the  extent  of  permitting  the 
fellow  to  marry  his  daughter  without  bringing  anything  Into 
settlement — a  fatal  thing  to  do. 

Winifred,  whom  he  noticed  next  to  the  furniture,  was 
sitting  at  her  Buhl  bureau  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She 
rose  and  came  towards  him.  Tall  as  himxself,  strong  in  the 
cheekbones,  well  tailored,  something  in  her  face  disturbed 
Soames.  She  crumpled  the  letter  in  her  hand,  but  seemed 
to  change  her  mind  and  held  it  out  to  him.  He  was  her 
lawyer  as  well  as  her  brother. 

Soames  read,  on  Iseeum  Club  paper,  these  words: 

"  You  will  not  get  chance  to  insult  in  my  own  again.  I 
am    leaving    country    to-morrow.     It's    played    out.     I'm 

466 


IN  CHANCERY  \6j 

tired  of  being  insulted  by  you.  You've  brought  on  yourself. 
No  self-respecting  man  can  stand  it.  I  shall  not  ask  you  for 
anything  again.  Good-bye.  I  took  the  photograph  of  the 
two  girls.  Give  them  my  love.  I  don't  care  what  your 
family  say.     It's  all  their  doing.     I'm  going  to  live  new  life. 

"  M.  D." 

This  after-dinner  note  had  a  splotch  on  it  not  yet  quite 
dry.  He  looked  at  Winifred — the  splotch  had  clearly  come 
from  her;  and  he  checked  the  words:  "  Good  riddance!" 
Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  with  this  letter  she  was  enter- 
ing that  very  state  which  he  himself  so  earnestly  desired  to 
quit — the  state  of  a  Forsyte  who  was  not  divorced. 

Winifred  had  turned  away,  and  was  taking  a  long  sniff 
from  a  little  gold-topped  bottle.  A  dull  commiseration, 
together  with  a  vague  sense  of  injury,  crept  about  Soames' 
heart.  He  had  come  to  her  to  talk  of  his  own  position,  and 
get  sympathy,  and  here  was  she  in  the  same  position,  wanting 
of  course  to  talk  of  it,  and  get  sympathy  from  him.  It 
was  always  like  that  !  Nobody  ever  seemed  to  think  that 
he  had  troubles  and  interests  of  his  own.  He  folded  up  the 
letter  with  the  splotch  inside,  and  said: 

"  What's  it  all  about,  now  ?" 

Winifred  recited  the  story  of  the  pearls  calmly. 

"  Do  you  think  he's  really  gone,  Soames  ?  You  see  the 
state  he  was  in  when  he  wrote  that." 

Soames  who,  when  he  desired  a  thing,  placated  Providence 
by  pretending  that  he  did  not  think  it  likely  to  happen, 
answered: 

**  I  shouldn't  think  so.     I  might  find  out  at  his  Club." 

"  If  George  is  there,"  said  Winifred,  "  he  would  know." 

"George?"  said  Soames;  "I  saw  him  at  his  father's 
funeral." 

*'  Then  he's  sure  to  be  there." 


468  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Soames,  whose  good  sense  applauded  his  sister's  acumen, 
said  grudgingly:  "Well,  I'll  go  round.  Have  you  said 
anything  in  Park  Lane  ?" 

"  I've  told  Emily,"  returned  Winifred,  who  retained  that 
'  chic  '  way  of  describing  her  mother.  "  Father  would 
have  a  fit." 

Indeed,  anything  untoward  was  now  sedulously  kept 
from  James.  With  another  look  round  at  the  furniture, 
as  if  to  gauge  his  sister's  exact  position,  Soames  went  out 
towards  Piccadilly.  The  evening  was  drawing  in — a  touch 
of  chill  in  the  October  haze.  He  walked  quickly,  with  his 
close  and  concentrated  air.  He  must  get  through,  for  he 
wished  to  dine  in  Soho.  On  hearing  from  the  hall  porter 
at  the  Iseeum  that  Mr.  Dartie  had  not  been  in  to-day, 
he  looked  at  the  trusty  fellow  and  decided  only  to  ask  if 
Mr.  George  Forsyte  was  in  the  Club  He  was.  Soames, 
who  always  looked  askance  at  his  cousin  George,  as  one 
inclined  to  jest  at  his  expense,  followed  the  page-boy  slightly 
reassured  by  the  thought  that  George  had  just  lost  his  father. 
He  must  have  come  in  for  about  thirty  thousand,  besides 
what  he  had  under  that  settlement  of  Roger's,  which  had 
avoided  death  duty.  He  found  George  in  a  bow- window, 
staring  out  across  a  half-eaten  plate  of  muffins.  His  tall, 
bulky,  black-clothed  figure  loomed  almost  threatening, 
though  preserving  still  the  supernatural  neatness  of  the 
racing  man.  With  a  faint  grin  on  his  fleshy  face,  he 
said: 

"  Hallo,  Soames  !     Have  a  muffin  ?" 

"  No,  thanks,"  murmured  Soames;  and,  nursing  his  hat, 
with  the  desire  to  say  something  suitable  and  sympathetic, 
added: 

'*  How's  your  mother  ?" 

"  Thanks,"  said  George;  "  so-so.  Haven't  seen  you  for 
ages.     You  never  go  racing.     How's  the  City  ?" 


IN  CHANCERY  469 

Soames,  scenting  the  approach  of  a  jest,  closed  up,  and 
answered: 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  Dartie.     I  hear  he's " 

"  Flitted,  made  a  bolt  to  Buenos  Aires  with  the  fair  Lola. 
Good  for  Winifred  and  the  little  Darties.     He's  a  treat." 

Soames  nodded.  Naturally  inimical  as  these  cousins 
were,  Dartie  made  them  kin. 

*'  Uncle  James'll  sleep  in  his  bed  now,"  resumed  George; 
*•'  I  suppose  he's  had  a  lot  off  you,  too." 

Soames  smiled. 

"  Ah  !  You  saw  him  further,"  said  George  amicably. 
*'  He's  a  real  rouser.  Young  Val  will  want  a  bit  of  looking 
after.  I  was  always  sorry  for  Winifred.  She's  a  plucky 
woman." 

Again  Soames  nodded.  "  1  must  be  getting  back  to  her," 
he  said ;  "  she  just  wanted  to  know  for  certain.  We  may  have 
to  take  steps.     I  suppose  there's  no  mistake  ?" 

"  It's  quite  O.K.,"  said  George — it  was  he  who  invented 
so  many  of  those  quaint  sayings  which  have  been  assigned 
to  other  sources.  "  He  was  drunk  as  a  lord  last  night;  but 
he  went  off  all  right  this  morning.  His  ship's  the  Tuscarora  ;" 
and,  fishing  out  a  card,  he  read  mockingly : 

"  '  Mr.  Montague  Dartie,  Poste  Restante,  Buenos  Aires.' 
I  should  hurry  up  with  the  steps,  if  I  were  you.  He  fairly 
fed  me  up  last  night." 

"  Yes,"  said  Soames;  "  but  it's  not  always  easy."  Then, 
conscious  from  George's  eyes  that  he  had  roused  reminis- 
cence of  his  own  affair,  he  got  up,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
George  rose  too. 

''  Remember  me  to  Winifred.  You'll  enter  her  for  the 
Divorce  Stakes  straight  off  if  you  ask  me." 

Soames  took  a  sidelong  look  back  at  him  from  the  doorway. 
George  had  seated  himself  again  and  was  staring  before  him ; 
he  looked  big  and  lonely  in  those  black  clothes.     Soames 


470  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  never  known  him  so  subdued.  *  I  suppose  he  feels  it  in 
a  way,'  he  thought.  *  They  must  have  about  fifty  thousand 
each,  all  told.  They  ought  to  keep  the  estate  together. 
If  there's  a  war,  house  property  will  go  down.  Uncle 
Roger  was  a  good  judge,  though.'  And  the  face  of  Annette 
rose  before  him  in  the  darkening  street;  her  brown  hair 
and  her  blue  eyes  with  their  dark  lashes,  her  fresh  lips  and 
cheeks,  dewy  and  blooming  in  spite  of  London,  her  perfect 
French  figure.  '  Take  steps  !'  he  thought.  Re-entering 
Winifred's  house  he  encountered  Val,  and  they  went  in 
together.  An  idea  had  occurred  to  Soames.  His  cousin 
Jolyon  was  Irene's  trustee,  the  first  step  would  be  to  go 
down  and  see  him  at  Robin  Hill.  Robin  Hill  !  The  odd — 
the  very  odd  feeling  those  words  brought  back  I  Robin  Hill 
— the  house  Bosinney  had  built  for  him  and  Irene — the 
house  they  had  never  lived  in — the  fatal  house  I  And 
Jolyon  lived  there  now  !  H'm  !  And  suddenly  he  thought: 
'  They  say  he's  got  a  boy  at  Oxford  !  Why  not  take  young 
Val  down  and  introduce  them  !  It's  an  excuse !  Less 
bald — very  much  less  bald  !'  So,  as  they  went  upstairs, 
he  said  to  Val : 

"  You've  got  a  cousin  at  Oxford;  you've  never  met  him. 
I  should  like  to  take  you  down  with  me  to-morrow  to  where 
he  lives  and  introduce  you.     You'll  find  it  useful." 

Val,  receiving  the  idea  with  but  moderate  transports, 
Soames  clinched  it. 

"  I'll  call  for  you  after  lunch.  It's  in  the  country — not 
far;  you'll  enjoy  it." 

On  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room  he  recalled  with 
an  effort  that  the  steps  he  contemplated  concerned  Winifred 
at  the  moment,  not  himself. 

Winifred  was  still  sitting  at  her  Buhl  bureau. 

"  It's  quite  true,"  he  said;  "he's  gone  to  Buenos  Aires, 
started  this  morning — we'd  better  have  him  shadowed  when 


IN  CHANCERY  471 

he  lands.  I'll  cable  at  once.  Otherwise  we  may  have  a 
lot  of  expense.     The  sooner  these  things  are  done  the  better. 

I'm  always  regretting  that  I  didn't "  he  stopped,  and 

looked  sidelong  at  the  silent  Winifred.  "  By  the  way,"  he 
went  on,  "  can  you  prove  cruelty  ?" 

Winifred  said  in  a  dull  voice: 

"  I  don't  know.     What  is  cruelty  ?" 

"  Well,  has  he  struck  you,  or  anything  ?" 

Winifred  shook  herself,  and  her  jaw  grew  square. 

"  He  twisted  my  arm.     Or  would  pointing  a  pistol  count  ? 

Or  being  too  drunk  to  undress  himself,  or No — I  can't 

bring  in  the  children." 

"  No,"  said  Soames;  "  no.  I  wonder  !  Of  course,  there's 
legal  separation — we  can  get  that.     But  separation  !    Um  !" 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  asked  Winifred  desolately. 

"  That  he  can't  touch  you,  or  you  him;  you're  both  of 
you  married  and  unmarried."  And  again  he  grunted. 
What  was  it,  in  fact,  but  his  own  accursed  position,  legalised  ! 
No,  he  would  not  put  her  into  that  ! 

"  It  must  be  divorce,"  he  said  decisively;  "  failing  cruelty, 
there's  desertion.  There's  a  way  of  shortening  the  two 
years,  now.  We  get  the  Court  to  give  us  restitution  of 
conjugal  rights.  Then  if  he  doesn't  obey,  we  can  bring  a 
suit  for  divorce  in  six  months'  time.  Of  course  you  don't 
want  him  back.  But  they  won't  know  that.  Still,  there's 
the  risk  that  he  might  come.     I'd  rather  try  cruelty." 

Winifred  shook  her  head.     "  It's  so  beastly." 

"  Well,"  Soames  murmured,  "  perhaps  there  isn't  much 
risk  so  long  as  he's  infatuated  and  got  money.  Don't  say 
anything  to  anybody,  and  don't  pay  any  of  his  debts." 

Winifred  sighed.  In  spite  of  all  she  had  been  through, 
the  sense  of  loss  was  heavy  on  her.  And  this  idea  of  not 
paying  his  debts  any  more  brought  it  home  to  her  as  nothing 
else  yet  had.     Some  richness  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  life  . 


472  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Without  her  husband,  without  her  pearls,  without  that 
intimate  sense  that  she  made  a  brave  show  above  the  domestic 
whirlpool,  she  would  now  have  to  face  the  world.  She  felt 
bereaved  indeed. 

And  into  the  chilly  kiss  he  placed  on  her  forehead,  Soames 
put  more  than  his  usual  warmth. 

"  I  have  to  go  down  to  Robin  Hill  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
"  to  see  young  Jolyon  on  business.  He's  got  a  boy  at 
Oxford.  I'd  like  to  take  Val  with  me  and  introduce  him. 
Come  down  to  *  The  Shelter  '  for  the  week-end  and  bring 
the  children.  Oh  !  by  the  way,  no,  that  won't  do;  I've  got 
some  other  people  coming."  So  saying,  he  left  her  and 
turned  towards  Soho. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOHO 

Of  all  quarters  in  the  queer  adventurous  amalgam  called 
London,  Soho  is  perhaps  least  suited  to  the  Forsyte  spirit. 
*  So-ho,  my  wild  one  !'  George  would  have  said  if  he  had 
seen  his  cousin  going  there.  Untidy,  full  of  Greeks,  Ish- 
maelites,  cats,  Italians,  tomatoes,  restaurants,  organs,  coloured 
stuffs,  queer  names,  people  looking  out  of  upper  windows, 
it  dwells  remote  from  the  British  Body  Politic.  Yet  has  it 
haphazard  proprietory  instincts  of  its  own,  and  a  certain 
possessive  prosperity  which  keeps  its  rents  up  when  those  of 
other  quarters  go  down.  For  long  years  Soames'  acquaint- 
anceship with  Soho  had  been  confined  to  its  Western  bastion, 
Wardour  Street.  Many  bargains  had  he  picked  up  there. 
Even  during  those  seven  years  at  Brighton  after  Bosinney's 
death  and  Irene's  flight,  he  had  bought  treasures  there 
sometimes,  though  he  had  no  place  to  put  them;  for  when 
the  conviction  that  his  wife  had  gone  for  good  at  last  became 
firm  within  him,  he  had  caused  a  board  to  be  put  up  in 
Montpellier  Square: 

FOR    SALE 
The  Lease  of  this  Desirable  Residence 

Enquire  of  Messrs.  Lesson  and  Tukes,  Court  Street,  Belgravla. 

It  had  sold  within  a  week — that  desirable  residence,  in 
the  shadow  of  whose  perfection  a  man  and  a  woman  had  eaten 
their  hearts  out. 

Of  a  misty  January  evening,  just  before  the  board  was 

473  i6» 


474  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

taken  down,  Soames  had  gone  there  once  more,  and  stood 
against  the  Square  railings,  looking  at  its  unlighted  windows, 
chewing  the  cud  of  possessive  memories  which  had  turned 
so  bitter  in  the  mouth.  Why  had  she  never  loved  him  ? 
Why  ?  She  had  been  given  all  she  had  wanted,  and  in 
return  had  given  him,  for  three  long  years,  all  he  had  wanted 
— except,  indeed,  her  heart.  He  had  uttered  a  little  in- 
voluntary groan,  and  a  passing  policeman  had  glanced  sus- 
piciously at  him  who  no  longer  possessed  the  right  to  enter 
that  green  door  with  the  carved  brass  knocker  beneath  the 
board  *  For  sale !'  A  choking  sensation  had  attacked  his 
throat,  and  he  had  hurried  away  into  the  mist.  That 
evening  he  had  gone  to  Brighton  to  live.  .  .  . 

Approaching  Malta  Street,  Soho,  and  the  Restaurant 
Bretagne,  where  Annette  would  be  drooping  her  pretty 
shoulders  over  her  accounts,  Soames  thought  with  wonder 
of  those  seven  years  at  Brighton.  How  had  he  managed  to 
go  on  so  long  in  that  town  devoid  of  the  scent  of  sweet- 
peas,  where  he  had  not  even  space  to  put  his  treasures  ? 
True,  those  had  been  years  with  no  time  at  all  for  looking 
at  them — years  of  almost  passionate  money -making,  during 
which  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte  had  become  solicitors 
to  more  limited  Companies  than  they  could  properly  attend 
to.  Up  to  the  City  of  a  morning  in  a  Pullman  car,  down 
from  the  City  of  an  evening  in  a  Pullman  car.  Law  papers 
again  after  dinner,  then  the  sleep  of  the  tired,  and  up  again 
next  morning.  Saturday  to  Monday  was  spent  at  his  Club 
in  town — curious  reversal  of  customary  procedure,  based 
on  the  deep  and  careful  instinct  that  while  working  so  hard 
he  needed  sea  air  to  and  from  the  station  twice  a  day,  and 
while  resting  must  indulge  his  domestic  affections.  The 
Sunday  visit  to  his  family  in  Park  Lane,  to  Timothy^'s,  and 
to  Green  Street;  the  occasional  visits  elsewhere  had  seemed 
to  him  as  necessary  to  health  as  sea  air  on  weekdays.     Even 


IN  CHANCERY  T  475 

since  his  migration  to  Mapledurham  he  had  maintained  those 

habits  until — he  had  known  Annette.  Whether  Annette 
had  produced  the  revolution  in  his  outlook,  or  that  outlook 
had  produced  Annette,he  knewno  more  than  we  know  where 
a  circle  begins.  It  was  intricate  and  deeply  involved  with 
the  growing  consciousness  that  property  without  anyone  to 
leave  it  to  is  the  negation  of  true  Forsyteism.  To  have  an 
heir,  some  continuance  of  self,  who  would  begin  where  he 
left  off — ensure,  in  fact,  that  he  would  not  leave  oif — had 
quite  obsessed  him  for  the  last  year  and  more.  After 
buying  a  bit  of  Wedgwood  one  evening  in  April,  he  had 
dropped  into  Malta  Street  to  look  at  a  house  of  his  father's 
which  had  been  turned  into  a  restaurant — a  risky  proceeding, 
and  one  not  quite  in  accordance  with  the  terms  of  the  lease. 
He  had  stared  for  a  little  at  the  outside — painted  a  good 
cream  colour,  with  two  peacock-blue  tubs  containing  little 
bay-trees  in  a  recessed  doorway — and  at  the  words '  Restaur- 
ant Bretagne  "  above  them  in  gold  letters,  rather  favourably 
impressed.  Entering,  he  had  noticed  that  several  people 
were  already  seated  at  little  round  green  tables  with  little 
pots  of  fresh  flowers  on  them  and  Brittany-ware  plates,  and 
had  asked  of  a  trim  waitress  to  see  the  proprietor.  They 
had  shown  him  into  a  back  room,  where  a  girl  was  sitting  at 
a  simple  bureau  covered  with  papers,  and  a  small  round 
table  was  laid  for  two.  The  impression  of  cleanliness,  order, 
and  good  taste  was  confirmed  when  the  girl  got  up,  saying, 
"  You  wish  to  see  Mamati^  Monsieur  ?"  in  a  broken  accent. 

"  Yes,"  Soames  had  answered,  "  I  represent  your  land- 
lord; in  fact,  Fm  his  son." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  sir,  please  ?  Tell  Maman  to 
come  to  this  gentleman." 

He  was  pleased  that  the  girl  seemed  impressed,  because  it 
showed  business  instinct;  and  suddenly  he  noticed  that  she 
was  remarkably  pretty — so  remarkably  pretty  that  his  eyes 


476  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

found  a  difficulty  in  leaving  her  face.  When  she  moved  to 
put  a  chair  for  him,  she  swayed  in  a  curious  subtle  way,  as 
if  she  had  been  put  together  by  someone  with  a  special  secret 
skill;  and  her  face  and  neck,  which  was  a  little  bared,  looked 
as  fresh  as  if  they  had  been  sprayed  with  dew.  Probably  at 
this  moment  Soames  decided  that  the  lease  had  not  been 
violated;  though  to  himself  and  his  father  he  based  the 
decision  on  the  efficiency  of  those  illicit  adaptations  in 
the  building,  on  the  signs  of  prosperity,  and  the  obvious 
business  capacity  of  Madame  Lamotte.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, neglect  to  leave  certain  matters  to  future  consideration, 
which  had  necessitated  further  visits,  so  that  the  little  back 
room  had  become  quite  accustomed  to  his  spare,  not  unsolid, 
but  unobtrusive  figure,  and  his  pale  chinny  face  with  clipped 
moustache  and  dark  hair  not  yet  grizzling  at  the  sides. 

'  U71  Monsieur  tres  distingui^^  Madame  Lamotte  found 
him;  and  presently,  '  Trhs  amtcal,  tres  gentil^^  watching 
his  eyes  upon  her  daughter. 

She  was  one  of  those  generously  built,  fine -faced,  dark- 
haired  Frenchwomen,  whose  every  action  and  tone  of  voice 
inspire  perfect  confidence  in  the  thoroughness  of  their 
domestic  tastes,  their  knowledge  of  cooking,  and  the  careful 
increase  of  their  bank  balances. 

After  those  visits  to  the  Restaurant  Bretagne  began,  other 
visits  ceased — without,  indeed,  any  definite  decision,  for 
Soames,  like  all  Forsytes,  and  the  great  majority  of  their 
countrymen,  was  a  born  empiricist.  But  it  was  this 
change  in  his  mode  of  life  which  had  gradually  made  him  so 
definitely  conscious  that  he  desired  to  alter  his  condition 
from  that  of  the  unmarried  married  man  to  that  of  the 
married  man  remarried. 

Turning  in  to  Malta  Street  on  this  evening  of  early 
October,  1899,  he  bought  a  paper  to  see  if  there  were  any 
after-development  of  the  Dreyfus  case — a  question  which 


IN  CHANCERY  477 

he  had  always  found  useful  in  making  closer  acquaintance- 
ship with  Madame  Lamotte  and  her  daughter,  who  were 
Catholic  and  anti-Dreyfusard. 

Scanning  those  columns,  Soames  found  nothing  French, 
but  noticed  a  general  fall  on  the  Stock  Exchange  and  an 
ominous  leader  about  the  Transvaal.  He  entered,  thinking: 
*  War's  a  certainty.  I  shall  sel.  my  consols.'  Not  that  he 
had  many,  personally,  the  rate  of  interest  was  too  wretched; 
but  he  should  advise  his  Companies — consols  would  assuredly 
go  down.  A  look,  as  he  passed  the  doorways  of  the  restaurant, 
assured  him  that  business  was  good  as  ever,  and  this,  which 
in  April  would  have  pleased  him,  now  gave  him  a  certain 
uneasiness.  If  the  steps  which  he  had  to  take  ended  in  his 
marrying  Annette,  he  would  rather  see  her  mother  safely 
back  in  France,  a  move  to  which  the  prosperity  of  the 
Restaurant  Bretagne  might  become  an  obstacle.  He  would 
have  to  buy  them  out,  of  course,  for  French  people  only  came 
to  England  to  make  money;  and  it  would  mean  a  higher 
price.  And  then  that  peculiar  sweet  sensation  at  the  back 
of  his  throat,  and  a  slight  thumping  about  the  heart,  which 
he  always  experienced  at  the  door  of  the  little  room,  pre- 
vented his  thinking  how  much  it  would  cost. 

Going  in,  he  was  conscious  of  an  abundant  black  skirt 
vanishing  through  the  door  into  the  restaurant,  and  of 
Annette  with  her  hands  up  to  her  hair.  It  was  the  attitude 
in  which  of  all  others  he  admired  her — so  beautifully  straight 
and  rounded  and  supple.     And  he  said: 

"  I  just  came  in  to  talk  to  your  mother  about  pulling 
down  that  partition.     No,  don't  call  her." 

*'  Monsieur  will  have  supper  with  us  ?  It  will  be  ready 
in  ten  minutes."  Soames,  who  still  held  her  hand,  was 
overcome  by  an  impulse  which  surprised  him. 

"  You  look  so  pretty  to-night,"  he  said,  "  so  very  pretty. 
Do  you  know  how  pretty  you  look,  Annette  ?'* 


478  .  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Annette  withdrew  her  hand,  and  blushed.  "Monsieur 
is  very  good." 

"  Not  a  bit  good,"  said  Soames,  and  sat  down  gloomily. 

Annette  made  a  little  expressive  gesture  with  her  hands; 
a  smile  was  crinkling  her  red  lips  untouched  by  salve. 

And,  looking  at  those  lips,  Soames  said: 

"  Are  you  happy  over  here,  or  do  you  want  to  go  back 
to  France?" 

"  Oh,  I  like  London.  Paris,  of  course.  But  London  is 
better  than  Orleans,  and  the  English  country  is  so  beautiful. 
I  have  been  to  Richmond  last  Sunday." 

Soames  went  through  a  moment  of  calculating  struggle. 
Mapledurham  !  Dared  he  ?  After  all,  dared  he  go  so  far 
as  that,  and  show  her  what  there  was  to  look  forward  to  ! 
Still  !  Down  there  one  could  say  things.  In  this  room  it 
was  impossible. 

"  I  want  you  and  your  mother,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  to 
come  for  the  afternoon  next  Sunday.  My  house  is  on  the 
river,  it's  not  too  late  in  this  weather;  and  I  can  show  you 
some  good  pictures.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

Annette  clasped  her  hands. 

"  It  will  be  lovelee.     The  river  is  so  beautiful." 

"  That's  understood,  then.     I'll  ask  Madame." 

He  need  say  no  more  to  her  this  evening,  and  risk  giving 
himself  away.  But  had  he  not  already  said  too  much .? 
Did  one  ask  restaurant  proprietors  with  pretty  daughters 
down  to  one's  country  house  without  design  ?  Madame 
Lamotte  would  see,  if  Annette  didn't.  Well  !  there  was 
not  much  that  Madame  did  not  see.  Besides,  this  was 
the  second  time  he  had  stayed  to  supper  with  them;  he 
owed  them  hospitality.  .  .  . 

Walking  home  towards  Park  Lane — for  he  was  staying  at 
his  father's — with  the  impression  of  Annette's  soft  clever 
hand  within  his  own,  his  thoughts  were  pleasant,  slightly 


IN  CHANCERY  4.79 

sensnal,  rather  puzzled.  Take  steps  !  What  steps  ?  How  ? 
Dirty  linen  washed  in  public  ?  Pah  !  With  his  reputation 
for  sagacity,  for  far-sightedness  and  the  clever  extrication  of 
others,  he,  who  stood  for  proprietary  interests,  to  become 
the  plaything  of  that  Law  of  which  he  was  a  pillar  !  There 
was  something  revolting  in  the  thought !  Winifred's 
affair  was  bad  enough  !  To  have  a  double  dose  of  publicity 
in  the  family  !  Would  not  a  liaison  be  better  than  that — 
a  liaison,  and  a  son  he  could  adopt  ?  But  dark,  solid, 
watchful,  Madame  Lamotte  blocked  the  avenue  of  that 
vision.  No  !  that  would  not  work.  It  was  not  as  if  Annette 
could  have  a  real  passion  for  him ;  one  could  not  expect  that 
at  his  age.  If  her  mother  wished,  if  the  worldly  advantage 
were  manifestly  great — perhaps  !  If  not,  refusal  would  be 
certain.  Besides,  he  thought:  *  I'm  not  a  villain.  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  her;  and  I  don't  want  anything  underhand. 
But  I  do  want  her,  and  I  want  a  son  !  There's  nothing  for 
it  but  divorce — somehow — anyhow — divorce  !'  Under 
the  shadow  of  the  plane-trees,  in  the  lamplight,  he  passed 
slowly  along  the  railings  of  the  Green  Park.  Mist  clung 
there  among  the  bluish  tree  shapes,  beyond  range  of  the 
lamps.  How  many  hundred  times  he  had  walked  past  those 
trees  from  his  father's  house  in  Park  Lane,  when  he  was  quite 
a  young  man ;  or  from  his  own  house  in  Montpelller  Square 
in  those  four  years  of  married  life  !  And,  to-night,  making 
up  his  mind  to  free  himself  if  he  could  of  that  long  useless 
marriage  tie,  he  took  a  fancy  to  walk  on,  in  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  out  at  Knightsbridge  Gate,  just  as  he  used  to  when 
going  home  to  Irene  in  the  old  days.  What  could  she  be 
like  now  ? — ^how  had  she  passed  the  years  since  he  last  saw 
her,  twelve  years  in  all,  seven  already  since  Uncle  Jolyon 
left  her  that  money  !  Was  she  still  beautiful  ?  Would  he 
know  her  if  he  saw  her  ?  *  I've  not  changed  much,'  he 
thought;  *  I  expect  she  has.     She  made  me  suffer.'     He 


48o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

remembered  suddenly  one  night,  the  first  on  which  he  went 
out  to  dinner  alone — an  old  Malburian  dinner — the  first 
year  of  their  marriage.  With  what  eagerness  he  had 
hurried  back;  and,  entering  softly  as  a  cat,  had  heard  her 
playing.  Opening  the  drawing-room  door  noiselessly,  he  had 
stood  watching  the  expression  on  her  face,  different  from 
any  he  knew,  so  much  more  open,  so  confiding,  as  though 
to  her  music  she  was  giving  a  heart  he  had  never  seen.  And 
he  remembered  how  she  stopped  and  looked  round,  how  her 
face  changed  back  to  that  which  he  did  know,  and  what  an 
icy  shiver  had  gone  through  him,  for  all  that  the  next 
moment  he  was  fondling  her  shoulders.  Yes,  she  had  made 
him  suffer  !  Divorce  !  It  seemed  ridiculous,  after  all  these 
years  of  utter  separation  !  But  it  would  have  to  be.  No 
other  way !  '  The  question,'  he  thought  with  sudden 
realism,  *  is — which  of  us  ?  She  or  me  ?  She  deserted  me. 
She  ought  to  pay  for  it.  There'll  be  someone,  I  suppose.' 
Involuntarily  he  uttered  a  little  snarling  sound,  and,  turning, 
made  his  way  back  to  Park  T.ane. 


CHAPTER  V 

JAMES    SEES    VISIONS 

The  butler  himself  opened  the  door,  and  closing  it  softly, 
detained  Soames  on  the  inner  mat. 

"  The  master's  poorly,  sir,"  he  murmured.  "  He  wouldn't 
go  to  bed  till  you  came  in.     He's  still  in  the  dining-room." 

Soames  responded  in  the  hushed  tone  to  which  the  house 
was  now  accustomed. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  him,  Warmson  ?  '* 

"  Nervous,  sir,  I  think.  Might  be  the  funeral;  might 
be  Mrs.  Dartie's  comin'  round  this  afternoon.  I  think  he 
overheard  something.  I've  took  him  in  a  negus.  The 
mistress  has  just  gone  up." 

Soames  hung  his  hat  on  a  mahogany  stag's-horn 

"  All  right,  Warmson,  you  can  go  to  bed;  I'll  take  him  up 
myself."     And  he  passed  into  the  dining-room.  .  .  . 

James  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  in  a  big  armchair,  with  a 
camel-hair  shaw',  very  light  and  warm,  over  his  frock-coated 
shoulders,  on  to  which  his  long  white  whiskers  drooped. 
His  white  hair,  still  fairly  thick,  glistened  in  the  lamplight; 
a  little  moisture  from  his  fixed,  light  grey  eyes  stained  the 
cheeks,  still  quite  well  coloured,  and  the  long  deep  furrows 
running  to  the  corners  of  the  clean-shaven  lips,  which  moved 
as  if  mumbling  thoughts.  His  long  legs,  thin  as  a  crow's,  in 
shepherd's  plaid  trousers,  were  bent  at  less  than  a  right 
angle,  and  on  one  knee  a  spindly  hand  moved  continually, 
with  fingers  wide  apart  and  glistening  tapered  nails.  Beside 
him,  on  a  low  stool,  stood  a  half- finished  glass  of  negus, 
bedewed  with  beads  of  heat.     There  he  had  been  sitting, 

4S1 


4^2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

with  intervals  for  meals,  all  day.     At  eighty- eight  he  was 
still    oreanically    sound,    but    sutTering    terribly    from    the 
thought  that  no  one  ever  told  him  anything.     It  is,  indeed, 
doubtful  how  he  had  become  aware  that  Roger  was  being 
buried  that  day,  for  Emily  had  kept  it  from  him.     She  was 
always  keeping  things  from  him.     Emily  was  only  seventy  ! 
James  had  a  grudge  against  his  wife's  youth.     He  felt  some- 
times that  he  would  never  have  married  her  if  he  had  known 
that  she  would  have  so  many  years  before  her,  when  he  had 
so   few.     It   was   not   natural.     She   would   live   fifteen   or 
twenty  years  after  he  was  gone,  and  might  spend  a  lot  of 
money;  she  had  always  had  extravagant  tastes.     For  all  he 
knew,   she    might   want   to    buy   one   of   these   motor-cars. 
Cicely  and  Rachel  and  Imogen  and  all  the  young  people — 
they  all  rode  those  bicycles  now,  and  went  off  Goodness 
knew  where.     And  now  Roger  was  gone.     He  didn't  know — 
couldn't  tell  !     The  family  was  breaking  up.     Soames  would 
know  how  much  his  uncle  had  left.     Curiously,  he  thought  of 
Roger  as  Soames'  uncle,  not  as  his  own  brother.     Soames  ! 
It  was  more  and  more  the  one  soHd  spot  in  a  vanishing 
world.     Soam^es  was  careful;  he  was  a  warm  man;  but  he 
had  no  one  to  leave  his  money  to.     There  it  was  !     He 
didn't  know  !     And  there  was   that  fellow  Chamberlain  i 
For  James'  political  principles  had  been  fixed  between  '70 
and  '85,  when  '  that  rascally  Radical '  had  been  the  chief 
thorn  in  the  side  of  property,  and  he  distrusted  him  to  this 
day,  in  spite  of  his  conversion;  he  would  get  the  country  into 
a  mess,  and  make  money  go  down  before  he  had  done  with  it. 
A  stormy  petrel  of  a  chap  !     Where  was  Soames  ?     He  had 
gone  to  the  funeral,  of  course,  which  they  had  tried  to  keep 
from  him.     He  knew  that  perfectly  well;  he  had  seen  his 
son's  trousers.     Roger  !     Roger  in  his  coflin  !     He  remem- 
bered how,  when  they  came  up  from  school  together  from 
the  West,  on  the  box  seat  of  the  old  Slowflycr  in  iSz^ 


IN  CHANCERY  483 

Roger  had  got  into  the  *  boot '  and  gone  to  sleep.  James 
uttered  a  thin  cackle.  A  funny  fellow — Roger — an  original  ! 
He  didn't  know  !  Younger  than  himself,  and  in  his  coffin  ! 
The  family  was  breaking  up.  There  was  Val  going  to  the 
university;  he  never  came  to  see  him  now.  He  would  cost 
a  pretty  penny  up  there.  It  was  an  extravagant  age.  And 
all  the  pretty  pennies  that  his  four  grandchildren  would 
cost  him  danced  before  James'  eyes.  He  did  not  grudge 
them  the  money,  but  he  grudged  terribly  the  risk  which  the 
spending  of  that  money  might  bring  on  them;  he  grudged 
the  diminution  of  security.  And  now  that  Cicely  had  married, 
she  might  be  having  children  too.  He  didn't  know — 
couldn't  tell  !  Nobody  thought  of  anything  but  spending 
money  in  these  days,  and  racing  about,  and  having  what  they 
called  •  a  good  time.'  A  motor-car  went  past  the  window. 
Ugly  great  lumbering  thing,  making  all  that  racket  !  But 
there  it  was,  the  country  rattling  to  the  dogs  !  People  in 
such  a  hurry  that  they  couldn't  even  care  for  style — a  neat 
turn-out  like  his  barouche  and  bays  was  worth  all  those 
new-fangled  things.  And  consols  at  116  !  There  must  be 
a  lot  of  money  in  the  country.  And  now  there  was  this  old 
Kruger  !  They  had  tried  to  keep  old  Kruger  from  him. 
But  he  knew  better;  there  would  be  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish 
out  there  !  He  had  known  how  it  would  be  when  that  fellow 
Gladstone — dead  now,  thank  God  ! — made  such  a  mess  of  it 
after  that  dreadful  business  at  Majuba.  He  shouldn't 
wonder  if  the  Empire  split  up  and  went  to  pot.  And  this 
vision  of  the  Empire  going  to  pot  filled  a  full  quarter  of  an 
hour  with  qualms  of  the  most  serious  character.  He  had 
eaten  a  poor  lunch  because  of  them.  But  it  was  after  lunch 
that  the  real  disaster  to  his  nerves  occurred.  He  had  been 
dozing  when  he  became  aware  of  voices — low  voices.  Ah ! 
they  never  told  him  anything  !  Winifred's  and  her  mother's. 
"  Monty  !  "     That     fellow    Dartie  —  always    that    fellow 


484  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Dartie  !  The  voices  had  receded;  and  James  had  been  left 
alone,  with  his  ears  standing  up  like  a  hare's,  and  fear  creep- 
ing about  his  inwards.  Why  did  they  leave  him  alone  ? 
Why  didn't  they  come  and  tell  him  ?  And  an  awful  thought, 
which  through  long  years  had  haunted  him,  concreted  again 
swiftly  in  his  brain.  Dartie  had  gone  bankrupt — fraudu- 
lently bankrupt,  and  to  save  Winifred  and  the  children,  he — 
James — would  have  to  pay  !  Could  he — could  Soames  turn 
him  into  a  limited  Company  ?  No,  he  couldn't  !  There 
it  was  !  With  every  minute  before  Emily  came  back  the 
spectre  fiercened.  Why,  it  might  be  forgery  !  With  eyes 
fixed  on  the  doubted  Turner  in  the  centre  of  the  wall, 
James  suffered  tortures.  He  saw  Dartie  in  the  dock,  his 
grandchildren  in  the  gutter,  and  himself  in  bed.  He  saw  the 
doubted  Turner  being  sold  at  Jobson's,  and  all  the  majestic 
edifice  of  property  in  rags.  He  saw  in  fancy  Winifred 
unfashionably  dressed,  and  heard  in  fancy  Emily's  voice 
saying:  "  Now,  don't  fuss,  James  !"  She  was  always 
saying:  "  Don't  fuss  !"  She  had  no  nerves;  he  ought  never 
to  have  married  a  woman  eighteen  years  younger  than  him- 
self.    Then  Emily's  real  voice  said : 

"  Have  you  had  a  nice  nap,  James  ?" 

Nap  !     He  was  in  torment,  and  she  asked  him  that  ! 

"  What's  this  about  Dartie  ?  "  he  said,  and  his  eyes 
glared  at  her. 

Emily's  self-possession  never  deserted  her. 

"  What  have  you  been  hearing  ?"  she  asked  blandly. 

"  What's  this  about  Dartie  ?"  repeated  James.  "  He's 
gone  bankrupt." 

"  Fiddle  !" 

James  made  a  great  effort,  and  rose  to  the  full  height  of 
his  stork-like  figure. 

"You  never  tell  me  anything,"  he  said;  "he's  gone 
bankrupt." 


IN  CHANCERY  485 

The  destruction  of  that  fixed  idea  seemed  to  Emily  all 
that  mattered  at  the  moment. 

"  He  has  not,"  she  answered  firmly.  "  He*s  gone  to 
Buenos  Aires." 

If  she  had  said  *  He's  gone  to  Mars '  she  could  not  have 
dealt  James  a  more  stunning  blow;  his  imagination,  invested 
entirely  in  British  securities,  could  as  little  grasp  one  place 
as  the  other. 

"  What's  he  gone  there  for  ?"  he  said.  "  He's  got  no 
money.     What  did  he  take  ?" 

Agitated  within  by  Winifred's  news,  and  goaded  by  the 
constant  reiteration  of  this  jeremiad,  Emily  said  calmly: 

**  He  took  Winifred's  pearls  and  a  dancer." 

"  What  !"  said  James,  and  sat  down. 

His  sudden  collapse  alarmed  her,  and  smoothing  his  fore- 
head, she  said: 

"  Now,  don't  fuss,  James  !" 

A  dusky  red  had  spread  over  James'  cheeks  and  forehead. 

"  I  paid  for  them,"  he  said  tremblingly;  "he's  a  thief!    I — 

I  knew  how  it  would  be.     He'll  be  the  death  of  me;  he " 

words  failed  him  and  he  sat  quite  still.  Emily,  who  thought 
she  knew  him  so  well,  was  alarmed,  and  went  towards  the  side- 
board where  she  kept  some  sal  volatile.  She  could  not  see 
the  tenacious  Forsyte  spirit  working  in  that  thin,  tremulous 
shape  against  the  extravagance  of  the  emotion  called  up  by 
this  outrage  on  Forsyte  principles — the  Forsyte  spirit  deep 
in  there,  saying:  '  You  mustn't  get  into  a  fantod,  it'll  never 
do.  You  won't  digest  your  lunch.  You'll  have  a  fit  !' 
All  unseen  by  her,  it  was  doing  better  work  in  James  than 
sal  volatile. 

"  Drink  this,"  she  said. 

James  waved  it  aside. 

"  What  was  Winifred  about,"  he  said,  "  to  let  him  take 
her  pearls  ?"     Emily  perceived  the  crisis  past. 


486  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

''  "  She  can  have  mine,"  she  said  comfortably.  "  I  never 
wear  them.     She'd  better  get  a  divorce." 

"  There  you  go  !"  said  James.  "  Divorce  !  We've 
never  had  a  divorce  in  the  family.     Where's  Soames  f" 

"  He'll  be  in  directly." 

"  No,  he  won't,"  said  James,  almost  fiercely;  "  he's  at  the 
funeral.     You  think  I  know  nothing." 

"  Well,"  said  Emily  with  calm,  "  you  shouldn't  get  into 
such  fusses  when  we  tell  you  things."  And  plumping  up  his 
cushions,  and  putting  the  sal  volatile  beside  him,  she  left 
the  room. 

But  James  sat  there  seeing  visions — of  Winifred  in  the 
Divorce  Court,  and  the  family  name  in  the  papers;  of  the 
earth  falling  on  Roger's  coffin;  of  Val  taking  after  his  father; 
of  the  pearls  he  had  paid  for  and  would  never  see  again; 
of  money  back  at  four  per  cent.,  and  the  country  going  to  the 
dogs;  and,  as  the  afternoon  wore  into  evening,  and  tea-time 
passed,  and  dinner-time,  those  visions  became  more  and 
more  mixed  and  menacing — of  being  told  nothing,  till  he  had 
nothing  left  of  all  his  wealth,  and  they  told  him  nothing  of 
it.  Where  was  Soames  ?  Why  didn't  he  come  in  ?  .  .  . 
His  hand  grasped  the  glass  of  negus,  he  raised  it  to  drink, 
and  saw  his  son  standing  there  looking  at  him.  A  little 
sigh  of  relief  escaped  his  lips,  and  putting  the  glass  down, 
he  said: 

"  There  you  are  !     Dartie's  gone  to  Buenos  Aires  !" 

Soames  nodded.  "That's  all  right,"  he  said;  "good 
riddance." 

A  wave  of  assuagement  passed  over  James'  brain.  Soames 
knew.  Soames  was  the  only  one  of  them  all  who  had  sense. 
Why  couldn't  he  come  and  live  at  home  ?  He  had  no  son 
of  his  own.     And  he  said  plaintively: 

"  At  my  age  I  get  nervous.  I  wish  you  were  more  at 
home,  my  boy." 


IN  CHANCERY  487 

Again  Soames  nodded;  the  mask  of  his  countenance 
betrayed  no  understanding,  but  he  went  closer,  and  as  if 
hj  accident  touched  his  father's  shoulder. 

"  They  sent  their  love  to  you  at  Timothy's,"  he  said. 
"  It  went  off  all  right.  I've  been  to  see  Winifred.  I'm 
going  to  take  steps."  And  he  thought:  'Yes,  and  you 
mustn't  hear  of  them.' 

James  looked  up;  his  long  white  whiskers  quivered, 
his  thin  throat  between  the  points  of  his  collar  looked  very 
gristly  and  naked. 

"  I've  been  very  poorly  all  day,"  he  said;  "  they  never  tell 
me  anything." 

Soames'  heart  twitched. 

"  WeU,  it's  all  right.  There's  nothing  to  worry  about. 
Will  you  come  up  now?"  and  he  put  his  hand  under  his 
father's  arm. 

James  obediently  and  tremulously  raised  himself,  and 
together  they  went  slowly  across  the  room,  which  had  a 
rich  look  in  the  firelight,  and  out  to  the  stairs.  Very 
slowly  they  ascended. 

"  Good-night,  my  boy,"  said  Jamics  at  his  bedroom  door. 

"  Good-night,  father,"  answered  Soames.  His  hand 
stroked  down  the  sleeve  beneath  the  shawl;  it  seemed  to 
have  almost  nothing  in  it,  so  thin  was  the  arm.  And, 
turning  away  from  the  light  in  the  opening  doorway,  he  went 
up  the  extra  flight  to  his  own  bedroom. 

*  I  want  a  son,'  he  thought,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed;  '  I  want  a  son.'' 


CHAPTER  VI 

NO-LONGER-YOUNG    JOLYON    AT    HOME 

Trees  take  little  account  of  Time,  and  the  old  oak  on  the 
upper  lawn  at  Robin  Hill  looked  no  day  older  than  when 
Bosinney  sprawled  under  it  and  said  to  Soames:  *  Forsyte, 
I've  found  the  very  place  for  your  house.'  Since  then 
Swithin  had  dreamed,  and  old  Jolyon  died,  beneath  its 
branches.  And  now,  close  to  the  swing,  no-longer-young 
Jolyon  often  painted  there.  Of  all  spots  in  the  world  it 
was  perhaps  the  most  sacred  to  him,  for  he  had  loved  his 
father. 

Contemplating  its  great  girth — crinkled  and  a  little 
mossed,  but  not  yet  hollow — he  would  speculate  on  the 
passage  of  time.  That  tree  had  seen,  perhaps,  all  real  English 
history;  it  dated,  he  shouldn't  wonder,  from  the  days  of 
Elizabeth  at  least.  His  own  fifty  years  were  as  nothing  to  its 
wood.  When  the  house  behind  it,  which  he  now  owned, 
was  three  hundred  years  of  age  instead  of  twelve,  that  tree 
might  still  be  standing  there,  vast  and  hollow — for  who 
would  commit  such  sacrilege  as  to  cut  it  down  ?  A  Forsyte 
might  perhaps  still  be  living  in  that  house,  to  guard  it 
jealously.  And  Jolyon  would  wonder  what  the  house  would 
look  like  coated  with  such  age."  Wistaria  was  already  about  its 
walls — the  new  look  had  gone.  Would  it  hold  its  own  and 
keep  the  dignity  Bosinney  had  bestowed  on  it,  or  would  the 
giant  London  have  lapped  it  round  and  made  it  into  an 
asylum  in  the  midst  of  a  jerry-built  wilderness  ?  Often, 
within  and  without  of  it,  he  was  persuaded  that  Bosinney 
had   been  moved  by  the  spirit  when  he  built.     He  had 

4S8 


IN  CHANCERY  489 

put  his  heart  into  that  house,  indeed  I  It  might  even  become 
one  of  the  *  homes  of  England  ' — a  rare  achievement  for  a 
house  in  these  degenerate  days  of  building.  And  the 
aesthetic  spirit,  moving  hand  in  hand  with  his  Forsyte  sense 
of  possessive  continuity,  dwelt  with  pride  and  pleasure  on 
his  ownership  thereof.  There  was  the  smack  of  reverence 
and  ancestor-worship  (if  only  for  one  ancestor)  in  his  desire 
to  hand  this  house  down  to  his  son  and  his  son's  son.  His 
father  had  loved  the  house,  had  loved  the  view,  the  grounds, 
that  tree;  his  last  years  had  been  happy  there,  and  no  one 
had  lived  there  before  him.  These  last  eleven  years  at 
Robin  Hill  had  formed  in  Jolyon's  life,  as  a  painter,  the 
important  period  of  success.  He  was  now  in  the  very  van 
of  water-colour  art,  hanging  on  the  line  everywhere.  His 
drawings  fetched  high  prices.  Specialising  in  that  one 
medium  with  the  tenacity  of  his  breed,  he  had  *  arrived  ' — 
rather  late,  but  not  too  late  for  a  member  of  the  family 
which  made  a  point  of  living  for  ever.  His  art  had  really 
deepened  and  improved.  In  conformity  with  his  position 
he  had  grown  a  short  fair  beard,  which  was  just  beginning  to 
grizzle,  and  hid  his  Forsyte  chin;  his  brown  face  had  lost  the 
warped  expression  of  his  ostracised  period — he  looked,  if 
anything,  younger.  The  loss  of  his  wife  in  1894  had  been 
one  of  those  domestic  tragedies  which  turn  out  in  the  end 
for  the  good  of  all.  He  had,  indeed,  loved  her  to  the  last, 
for  his  was  an  aifectionate  spirit,  but  she  had  become  in- 
creasingly difficult:  jealous  of  her  step-daughter  June, 
jealous  even  of  her  own  little  daughter  Holly,  and  making 
ceaseless  plaint  that  he  could  not  love  her,  ill  as  she  was, 
and  '  useless  to  everyone,  and  better  dead.'  He  had 
mourned  her  sincerely,  but  his  face  had  looked  younger  since 
she  died.  If  she  could  only  have  believed  that  she  made 
him  happy,  how  much  happier  would  the  twenty  years  of 
their  companionship  have  been  ! 


490  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

June  had  never  really  got  on  well  with  her  who  had 
reprehensibly  taken  her  own  mother's  place;  and  ever  since 
old  Jolyon  died  she  had  been  established  in  a  sort  of  studio 
in  London.  But  she  had  come  back  to  Robin  Hill  on  her 
stepmother's  death,  and  gathered  the  reins  there  into  her 
small  decided  hands.  Jolly  was  then  at  Harrow;  Holly 
still  learning  from  Mademoiselle  Beauce.  There  had  been 
nothing  to  keep  Jolyon  at  home,  and  he  had  removed  his 
grief  and  his  paintbox  abroad.  There  he  had  wandered, 
for  the  most  part  in  Brittany,  and  at  last  had  fetched  up  in 
Paris.  He  had  stayed  there  several  months,  and  come  back 
with  the  younger  face  and  the  short  fair  beard.  Essentially 
a  man  who  merely  lodged  in  any  house,  it  had  suited  him 
perfectly  that  June  should  reign  at  Robin  Hill,  so  that  he 
was  free  to  go  off  with  his  easel  where  and  when  he  liked. 
She  was  inclined,  it  is  true,  to  regard  the  house  rather  as 
an  asylum  for  her  protegh ;  but  his  own  outcast  days  had 
filled  Jolyon  for  ever  with  sympathy  towards  an  outcast, 
and  June's  *  lame  ducks  '  about  the  place  did  not  annoy  him. 
By  all  means  let  her  have  them  down  and  feed  them  up; 
and  though  his  slightly  cynical  humour  perceived  that  they 
ministered  to  his  daughter's  love  of  domination  as  well  as 
moved  her  warm  heart,  he  never  ceased  to  admire  her  for 
having  so  many  ducks.  He  fell,  indeed,  year  by  year  into  a 
more  and  more  detached  and  brotherly  attitude  towards  his 
own  son  and  daughters,  treating  them  with  a  sort  of  whimsical 
equality.  When  he  went  down  to  Harrow  to  see  Jolly,  he  never 
quite  knew  w^hich  of  them  was  the  elder,  and  would  sit  eating 
cherries  with  him  out  of  one  paper  bag,  with  an  affectionate 
and  ironical  smile  twisting  up  an  eyebrow  and  curling  his 
lips  a  little.  And  he  was  always  careful  to  have  money  in 
his  pocket,  and  to  be  modish  in  his  dress,  so  that  his  son  need 
not  blush  for  him.  They  were  perfect  friends,  but  never 
seemed  to  have  occasion  for  verbal  confidences,  both  having 


IN  CHANCERY  491 

the  competitive  self-consciousness  of  Forsytes.  They  knew 
they  would  stand  by  each  other  in  scrapes,  but  there  was  no 
need  to  talk  about  it.  Jolyon  had  a  striking  horror — partly 
original  sin,  but  partly  the  result  of  his  early  immorality — 
of  the  moral  attitude.  The  most  he  could  ever  have  said 
to  his  son  would  have  been: 

*  Look  here,  old  man,  don't  forget  you're  a  gentleman;' 
and  then  have  wondered  whimsically  whether  that  was  not 
a  snobbish  sentiment.  The  great  cricket  match  was  perhaps 
the  most  searching  and  awkward  time  they  annually  went 
through  together,  for  Jolyon  had  been  at  Eton.  They 
would  be  particularly  careful  during  that  match,  continually 
saying:  *  Hooray  !  Oh!  hard  luck,  old  man!'  or 
'  Hooray  !  Oh  !  bad  luck.  Dad  !'  to  each  other,  when  some 
disaster  at  which  their  hearts  bounded  happened  to  the 
opposing  school.  And  Jolyon  would  wear  a  grey  top  hat, 
instead  of  his  usual  soft  one,  to  save  his  son's  feelings,  for  a 
black  top  hat  he  could  not  stomach.  When  Jolly  went 
up  to  Oxford,  Jolyon  went  up  with  him,  amused,  humble, 
and  a  little  anxious  not  to  discredit  his  boy  amongst  all 
these  youths  who  seemed  so  much  more  assured  and  old  than 
himself.  He  often  thought,  *  Glad  I'm  a  painter  ' — for 
he  had  long  dropped  under- writing  at  Lloyds — '  it's  so 
innocuous.  You  can't  look  down  on  a  painter — you  can't 
take  him  seriously  enough.'  For  Jolly,  who  had  a  sort  of 
natural  lordliness,  had  passed  at  once  into  a  very  small  set, 
who  secretly  amused  his  father.  The  boy  had  fair  hair 
which  curled  a  little,  and  his  grandfather's  deep-set  iron- 
grey  eyes.  He  was  well-built  and  very  upright,  and  always 
pleased  Jolyon's  aesthetic  sense,  so  that  he  was  a  tiny  bit 
afraid  of  him,  as  artists  ever  are  of  those  of  their  own  sex 
whom  they  admire  physically.  On  that  occasion,  however, 
he  actually  did  screw  up  his  courage  to  give  his  son  advice, 
and  this  was  it: 


192  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

**  Look  here,  old  man,  you're  bound  to  get  into  debt; 
mind  you  come  to  me  at  once.  Of  course,  I'll  always  pay 
them.  But  you  might  remember  that  one  respects  oneself 
more  afterwards  if  one  pays  one's  own  way.  And  don't 
ever  borrow,  except  from  me,  will  you  ?" 

And  Jolly  had  said: 

*'  All  right.  Dad,  I  won't,"  and  he  never  had. 

"  And  there's  just  one  other  thing.  I  don't  know  much 
about  morality  and  that,  but  there  is  this :  It's  always  worth 
while  before  you  do  anything  to  consider  whether  it's  going 
to  hurt  another  person  more  than  is  absolutely  necessary." 

Jolly  had  looked  thoughtful,  and  nodded,  and  presently 
had  squeezed  his  father's  hand.  And  Jolyon  had  thought: 
*  I  wonder  if  I  had  the  right  to  say  that  ?'  He  always  had 
a  sort  of  dread  of  losing  the  dumb  confidence  they  had  in 
each  other;  remembering  how  for  long  years  he  had  lost 
his  own  father's,  so  that  there  had  been  nothing  between 
them  but  love  at  a  great  distance.  He  under-estimated 
no  doubt,  the  change  in  the  spirit  of  the  age  since  he  himself 
went  up  to  Cambridge  in  '65;  and  perhaps  he  under-esti- 
mated, too,  his  boy's  power  of  understanding  that  he  was 
tolerant  to  the  very  bone.  It  was  that  tolerance  of  his,  and 
possibly  his  scepticism,  which  ever  made  his  relations  to- 
wards June  so  queerly  defensive.  She  was  such  a  decided 
mortal;  knew  her  own  mind  so  terribly  well;  wanted  things 
so  inexorably  until  she  got  them — and  then,  indeed,  often 
dropped  them  like  a  hot  potato.  Her  mother  had  been 
like  that,  whence  had  come  all  those  tears.  Not  that  his 
incompatibility  with  his  daughter  was  anything  like  what  it 
had  been  with  the  first  Mrs.  Young  Jolyon,  One  could 
be  amused  where  a  daughter  was  concerned;  in  a  wife's 
case  one  could  not  be  amused.  To  see  June  set  her  heart 
and  jaw  on  a  thing  until  she  got  it  was  all  right,  because 
it  was  never  anything  which  interfered  fundamentally  with 


IN  CHANCERY 


493 


Jolyon's  liberty — the  one  thing  on  which  his  jaw  was  also 
absolutely  rigid,  a  considerable  jaw,  under  that  short 
grizzling  beard.  Nor  was  there  ever  any  necessity  for  real 
heart-to-heart  encounters.  One  could  break  away  into 
irony — as  indeed  he  often  had  to.  But  the  real  trouble  with 
June  was  that  she  had  never  appealed  to  his  aesthetic  sense, 
though  she  might  well  have,  with  her  red-gold  hair  and  her 
viking-coloured  eyes,  and  that  touch  of  the  Berserker  in  her 
spirit.  It  was  very  different  with  Holly,  soft  and  quiet,  shy 
and  affectionate,  with  a  playful  imp  in  her  somewhere.  He 
watched  this  younger  daughter  of  his  through  the  duckling 
stage  with  extraordinary  interest.  Would  she  come  out  a 
swan  ?  With  her  sallow  oval  face  and  her  grey  wistful  eyes 
and  those  long  dark  lashes,  she  might,  or  she  might  not. 
Only  this  last  year  had  he  been  able  to  guess.  Yes,  she  would 
be  a  swan — rather  a  dark  one,  always  a  shy  one,  but  an 
authentic  swan.  She  was  eighteen  now,  and  Mademoiselle 
Beauce  was  gone — the  excellent  lady  had  removed,  after 
eleven  years  haunted  by  her  continuous  reminiscences  of 
the  '  well-brrred  little  Tayleurs,'to  another  family  whose 
bosom  would  now  be  agitated  by  her  reminiscences  of  the 
'  well-brrred  little  Forsytes.'  She  had  taught  Holly  to 
speak  French  like  herself. 

Portraiture  was  not  Jolyon's  forte,  but  he  had  already 
drawn  his  younger  daughter  three  times,  and  was  drawing  her 
a  fourth,  on  the  afternoon  of  October  4th,  1899,  when  a  card 
was  brought  to  him  which  caused  his  eyebrows  to  go  up : 


MR. 

SOAMES 

FORSYTE 

Thi 

-  Shelter, 

Connoisseurs'  Club, 

Mapledurham. 

St.  James's. 

494  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

But  here  the  Forsyte  Saga  must  digress  again.  .  .  , 
To  return  from  a  long  travel  in  Spain  to  a  darkened 
house,  to  a  little  daughter  bewildered  with  tears,  to  the 
sight  of  a  loved  father  lying  peaceful  in  his  last  sleep,  had 
never  been,  was  never  likely  to  be,  forgotten  by  so  impres- 
sionable and  warm-hearted  a  man  as  Jolyon.  A  sense  as  of 
mystery,  too,  clung  to  that  sad  day,  and  about  the  end  of 
one  whose  life  had  been  so  well-ordered,  balanced,  and  above- 
board.  It  seemed  incredible  that  his  father  could  thus 
have  vanished  without,  as  it  were,  announcinc^  his  intention, 
without  last  words  to  his  son,  and  due  farewells.  And  those 
incoherent  allusions  of  little  Holly  to  *  the  lady  in  grey,' 
of  Mademoiselle  Beauce  to  a  Madame  Errant  (as  it  sounded) 
involved  all  things  in  a  mist,  lifted  a  little  when  he  read 
his  father's  will  and  the  codicil  thereto.  It  had  been 
his  duty  as  executor  of  that  will  and  codicil  to  inform 
Irene,  wife  of  his  cousin  Soames,  of  her  life  interest  in 
fifteen  thousand  pounds.  He  had  called  on  her  to  explain 
that  the  existing  investment  in  India  Stock,  ear-marked  to 
meet  the  charge,  would  produce  for  her  the  interesting 
net  sum  of  £^30  odd  a  year,  clear  of  Income  Tax.  This  was 
but  the  third  time  he  had  seen  his  cousin  Soames*  wife — if 
indeed  she  was  still  his  wife,  of  which  he  was  not  quite  sure. 
He  remembered  having  seen  her  sitting  in  the  Botanical 
Gardens  waiting  for  Bosinney — a  passive,  fascinating  figure, 
reminding  him  of  Titian's  *  Heavenly  Love,'  and  again, 
when,  charged  by  his  father,  he  had  gone  to  Montpellier 
Square  on  the  afternoon  when  Bosinney's  death  was  known 
He  still  recalled  vividly  her  sudden  appearance  in  the  drawing- 
room  doorway  on  that  occasion — her  beautiful  face,  passing 
from  wild  eagerness  of  hope  to  stony  despair;  remembered 
the  compassion  he  had  felt,  Soames'  snarling  smile,  his 
words,  *  We  are  not  at  home,'  and  the  slam  of  the  front  door. 
This  third  time  he  saw  a  face  and  form  more  beautiful — 


IN  CHANCERY  495 

freed  from  that  warp  of  wild  hope  and  despair.  Looking 
at  her,  he  thought:  *  Yes,  you  are  just  what  the  dad 
would  have  admired  !'  And  the  strange  story  of  his 
father's  Indian  summer  became  slowly  clear  to  him.  She 
spoke  of  old  Jolyon  with  reverence  and  tears  in  her  eyes, 
*'  He  was  so  wonderfully  kind  to  me;  I  don't  know  why. 
He  looked  so  beautiful  and  peaceful  sitting  in  that  chair 
under  the  tree;  it  was  I  who  first  came  on  him  sitting  there, 
you  know.  Such  a  lovely  day.  I  don't  think  an  end  could 
have  been  happier.     We  should  all  like  to  go  out  like  that." 

'  Quite  right  !'  he  had  thought.  *  We  should  all  like  to 
go  out  in  full  summer  with  beauty  stepping  towards  us 
across  a  lawn.' 

And  looking  round  the  little,  almost  empty  drawing-room, 
he  had  asked  her  what  she  was  going  to  do  now.  "  I  am 
going  to  live  again  a  little.  Cousin  Jolyon.  It's  wonderful 
to  have  money  of  one's  own.  I've  never  had  any.  I  shall 
keep  this  flat,  I  think;  I'm  used  to  it;  but  I  shall  be  able  to 
go  to  Italy." 

"  Exactly  !"  Jolyon  had  murmured,  looking  at  her  faintly 
smiling  lips;  and  he  had  gone  away  thinking:  'A  fascinating 
woman  !  What  a  waste  !  I'm  glad  the  dad  left  her  that 
money.'  He  had  not  seen  her  again,  but  every  quarter 
he  had  signed  her  cheque,  forwarding  it  to  her  bank,  with 
a  note  to  the  Chelsea  flat  to  say  that  he  had  done  so;  and 
always  he  had  received  a  note  in  acknowledgment,  generally 
from  the  flat,  but  sometimes  from  Italy:  so  that  her  person- 
ality had  become  embodied  in  slightly  scented  grey  paper,  an 
upright  fine  handwriting,  and  the  words,  '  Dear  Cousin 
Jolyon.'  Man  of  property  that  he  now  was,  the  slender 
cheque  he  signed  often  gave  rise  to  the  thought:  'Well,  I 
suppose  she  just  manages ';  sliding  into  a  vaeue  wonder  hovv 
she  was  faring  otherwise  in  a  world  of  men  not  wont  to  let 
beauty  go  unpossessed.     At  first  Holly  had  spoken  of  her 


496  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

sometimes,  bat  '  ladies  in  grey  '  soon  fade  from  children's 
memories;  and  the  tightening  of  June's  lips  in  those  first 
weeks  after  her  grandfather's  death  whenever  her  former 
friend's  name  was  mentioned,  had  discouraged  allusion. 
Only  once,  indeed,  had  June  spoken  definitely:  "  I've 
forgiven  her.  I'm  frightfully  glad  she's  independent  now.".  .  . 

On  receiving  Soames'  card,  Jolyon  said  to  the  maid — for 
he  could  not  abide  butlers — "  Show  him  into  the  study, 
please,  and  say  I'll  be  there  in  a  minute";  and  then  he 
looked  at  HoUy  and  asked : 

"  Do  you  remember  '  the  lady  in  grey,'  who  used  to  give 
you  music-lessons  r" 

''  Oh  yes,  why  ?     Has  she  come  r'" 

Jolyon  shook  his  head,  and,  changing  his  holland  blouse 
for  a  coat,  was  silent,  perceiving  suddenly  that  such  history 
was  not  for  those  young  ears.  His  face,  in  fact,  became 
whimsical  perplexity  incarnate  while  he  journeyed  towards 
the  study. 

Standing  by  the  french-window,  looking  out  across  the 
terrace  at  the  oak-tree,  were  two  figures,  middle-aged  and 
young,  and  he  thought:  'Who's  that  boy?  Surely  they 
never  had  a  child.' 

The  elder  figure  turned.  The  meeting  of  those  two 
Forsytes  of  the  second  generation,  so  much  more  sophisti- 
cated than  the  first,  in  the  house  built  for  the  one  and  owned 
and  occupied  by  the  other,  was  marked  by  subtle  defen- 
siveness  beneath  distinct  attempt  at  cordiality.  '  Has  he 
come  about  his  wife  ?'  Jolyon  was  thinking;  and  Soames, 
*  How  shall  I  begin  ?'  while  Val,  brought  to  break  the  ice, 
stood  negligently  scrutinising  this  '  bearded  pard '  from 
under  his  dark,  thick  eyelashes. 

"  This  is  \^al  Dartie,"  said  Soames,  "  my  sister's  son.  He's 
just  going  up  to  Oxford.  I  thought  I'd  like  him  to  know 
your  boy." 


IN  CHANCERY  497 

"  Ah  !     I'm  sorry  Jolly's  away.     What  college  ? " 

"  B.N.C.,"  replied  Val. 

"  Jolly's  at  the  *  House,'  but  he'll  be  delighted  to  look  you 
up." 

"  Thanks  awfully." 

"  Holly's  in — if  you  could  put  up  with  a  female  relation, 
she'd  show  you  round.  You'll  find  her  in  the  hall  if  you  go 
through  the  curtains,     I  was  just  painting  her." 

With  another  "  Thanks,  awfully  !"  Val  vanished,  leaving 
the  two  cousins  with  the  ice  unbroken. 

"  I  see  you've  some  drawings  at  the  '  Water  Colours,'  " 
said  Soames. 

Jolyon  v/inced.  He  had  been  out  of  touch  with  the 
Forsyte  family  at  large  for  twenty- six  years,  but  they  were 
connected  in  his  mind  with  Frith's  '  Derby  Day '  and 
Landseer  prints.  He  had  heard  from  June  that  Soames 
was  a  connoisseur,  which  made  it  worse.  He  had  become 
aware,  too,  of  a  curious  sensation  of  repugnance. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  answered  Soames  betw^een  close  lips,  '*  not  since — 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  it's  about  that  I've  come.  You're  her 
trustee,  I'm  told." 

Jolyon  nodded. 

"Twelve  years  is  a  long  time,"  said  Soames  rapidly: 
"  I— I'm  tired  of  it." 

Jolyon  found  no  more  appropriate  answer  than: 

"  Won't  you  smoke?" 

"  No,  thanks." 

Jolyon  himself  Ht  a  cigarette. 

"  I  wish  to  be  free,"  said  Soames  abruptly. 

"  I  don't  see  her,"  murmured  Jolyon  through  the  fume 
of  his  cigarette. 

"  But  you  know  where  she  lives,  I  suppose  ?" 

Jolyon  nodded.     He  did  not  mean  to  give  her  address 

17 


49^  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

without  permission.  Soames  seemed  to  divine  his 
thought. 

^'  I  don't  want  her  address,"  he  said;  "  I  know  it." 

*'  What  exactly  do  you  want  ?" 

"  She  deserted  me.     I  want  a  divorce." 

"  Rather  late  in  the  day,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Soames.     And  there  was  a  silence. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  these  things — at  least,  I've 
forgotten,"  said  Jolyon  with  a  wry  smile.  He  himself  had 
had  to  wait  for  death  to  grant  him  a  divorce  from  the  first 
Mrs.  Jolyon.     "  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  her  about  it  ?" 

Soames  raised  his  eyes  to  his  cousin's  face. 

*'  I  suppose  there's  someone,"  he  said. 

A  shrug  moved  Jolyon's  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  know  at  all.  I  imagine  you  may  have  both  lived 
as  if  the  other  were  dead.     It's  usual  in  these  cases." 

Soames  turned  to  the  window.  A  few  early  fallen  oak- 
leaves  strewed  the  terrace  already,  and  were  rolling  round  in 
the  wind.  Jolyon  saw  the  figures  of  Holly  and  Val  Dartie 
moving  across  the  lawn  towards  the  stables.  *  I'm  not  going 
to  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds,'  he  thought. 
*  I  must  act  for  her.  The  dad  would  have  wished  that.' 
And  for  a  swift  moment  he  seemed  to  see  his  father's  figure 
in  the  old  armchair,  just  beyond  Soames,  sitting  with  knees 
crossed,  The  Times  in  his  hand.     It  vanished. 

"  My  father  was  fond  of  her,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Why  he  should  have  been  I  don't  know,"  Soames 
answered  without  looking  round.  "  She  brought  trouble 
to  your  daughter  June;  she  brought  trouble  to  everyone. 
I  gave  her  all  she  wanted.  I  would  have  given  her  even — 
forgiveness — but  she  chose  to  leave  me." 

In  Jolyon  compassion  was  checked  by  the  tone  of  that 
close  voice.  What  was  there  in  the  fellow  that  made  it  so 
difficult  to  be  sorry  for  him  ? 


IN  CHANCERY  499 

"  I  can  go  and  see  her,  if  you  like,"  he  said.  "  I 
suppose  she  might  be  glad  of  a  divorce,  but  I  know 
nothing." 

Soames  nodded. 

"  Yes,  please  go.  As  I  say,  I  know  her  address;  but  I've 
no  wish  to  see  her."  His  tongue  was  busy  with  his  lips,  as 
if  they  were  very  dry. 

"  You'll  have  some  tea  ?"  said  Jolyon,  stifling  the  words: 

*  And  see  the  house.'  And  he  led  the  way  into  the  hall. 
When  he  had  rung  the  bell  and  ordered  tea,  he  went  to  his 
easel  to  turn  his  drawing  to  the  wall.  He  could  not  bear, 
somehow,  that  his  work  should  be  seen  by  Soames,  w^ho  was 
standing  there  in  the  middle  of  the  great  room  which  had 
been  designed  expressly  to  afford  wall  space  for  his  ow^n 
pictures.  In  his  cousin's  face,  with  its  unseizable  family 
likeness  to  himself,  and  its  chinny,  narrow,  concentrated 
look,  Jolyon  saw  that  which  moved  him  to  the  thought: 

*  That  chap  could  never  forget  anything — nor  ever  give 
himself  away.     He's  pathetic  1' 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    COLT    AND    THE    FILLY 

When  young  Val  left  the  presence  of  the  last  generation 
he  was  thinking:  *  This  is  jolly  dull!  Uncle  Soames  does 
take  the  bun.  I  wonder  what  this  filly's  like  ?'  He  anti- 
cipated no  pleasure  from  her  society;  and  suddenly  he  saw 
her  standing  there  looking  at  him.  Why,  she  was  pretty  1 
What  luck  ! 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  me,"  he  said.  "  My  name's 
Val  Dartie — I'm  once  removed,  second  cousin,  something 
like  that,  you  know.     My  mother's  name  was  P^orsyte." 

Holly,  whose  slim  brown  hand  remained  in  his  because 
she  was  too  shy  to  withdraw  it,  said: 

"  I  don't  know  any  of  my  relations.     Are  there  many  ?" 

"  Tons.  They're  awful — most  of  them.  At  least,  I 
don't  know — some  of  them.  One's  relations  always  are^ 
aren't  they?" 

"  I  expect  they  think  one  awful  too,"  said  Holly. 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  should.  No  one  could  think 
you  awful,  of  course." 

Holly  looked  at  him — the  wistful  candour  in  those  grey  eyes 
gave  young  Val  a  sudden  feeling  that  he  must  protect  her. 

"  I  mean  there  are  people  and  people,"  he  added  astutely. 
"  Your  dad  looks  awfully  decent,  for  instance." 

"  Oh  yes  !"  said  Holly  fervently;  "  he  is." 

A  flush  mounted  in  Val's  cheeks — that  scene  in  the  Pande- 
monium promenade — the  dark  man  with  the  pink  carnation 
developing  into  his  own  father  !  "  But  you  know  what  the 
Forsytes   are,"  he  said  almost  viciously.     "  Oh  !    I  forgot; 

you  don't." 

500 


IN  CHANCERY  501 

"  What  are  they  ?" 

"  Oh  !  fearfully  careful;  not  sportsmen  a  bit.  Look  at 
Uncle  Soames  !" 

"  I'd  like  to,"  said  Holly. 

Val  resisted  a  desire  to  run  his  arm  through  hers.  "  Oh 
no,"  he  said,  "  let's  go  out.  You'll  see  him  quite  soon 
enough.     What's  your  brother  like  ?" 

Holly  led  the  way  on  to  the  terrace  and  down  to  the  lawn 
without  answering.  How  describe  Jolly,  who,  ever  since  she 
remembered  anything,  had  been  her  lord,  master,  and  ideal  f 

*'  Does  he  sit  on  you  ?"  said  Val  shrewdly.  "  I  shall  be 
knowing  him  at  Oxford.     Have  you  got  any  horses  ?" 

Holly  nodded.     "  Would  you  like  to  see  the  stables  ?" 

"  Rather  !" 

They  passed  under  the  oak-tree,  through  a  thin 
shrubbery,  into  the  stable-yard.  There  under  a  clock 
tower  lay  a  flufiy  brown-and-white  dog,  so  old  that  he  did 
not  get  up,  but  faintly  waved  the  tail  curled  over  his  back. 

"  That's  Balthasar,"  said  Holly;  "  he's  so  old— awfully  old, 
nearly  as  old  as  I  am.     Poor  old  boy  !     He's  devoted  to  dad." 

"  Balthasar  !  That's  a  rum  name.  He  isn't  pure-bred, 
you  know." 

"  No  !  but  he's  a  darling,"  and  she  bent  down  to  stroke 
the  dog.  Gentle  and  supple,  with  dark  uncovered  head  and 
slim  browned  neck  and  hands,  she  seemed  to  Val  strange 
and  sweet,  like  a  thing  slipped  between  him  and  all  previous 
knowledge. 

"  When  grandfather  died,"  she  said,  "  he  wouldn't  eat 
for  two  days.     He  saw  him  die,  you  know." 

"  Was  that  old  Uncle  Jolyon  ?  Mother  always  says  he 
was  a  topper." 

"  He  was,"  said  Holly  simply,  and  opened  the  stable  door. 

In  a  loose-box  stood  a  silver  roan  of  about  fifteen  hands, 
with  a  long  black  tail  and  mane.     "  This  is  mine — Fairy." 


502  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Val,  "  she's  a  jolly  palfrey.  But  you  ought 
to  bang  her  tail.  She'd  look  much  smarter."  Then  catch- 
ing her  wondering  look,  he  thought  suddenly:  *  I  don't 
know — anything  she  likes  !'  And  he  took  a  long  sniff  of 
the  stable  air.  "  Horses  are  ripping,  aren't  they  ?  My 
dad "  he  stopped. 

"Yes?"  said  Holly. 

An  impulse  to  unbosom  himself  almost  overcame  him — 
but  not  quite.  "  Oh !  I  don't  know — he's  often  gone  a  mucker 
over  them.  Fm  jolly  keen  on  them  too — riding  and  hunting. 
I  like  racing  awfully,  as  well ;  I  should  like  to  be  a  gentleman 
rider."  And  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  had  but  one  more 
day  in  town,  with  two  engagements,  he  plumped  out: 

'*  I  say,  if  I  hire  a  gee  to-morrow,  will  you  come  a  ride  in 
Richmond  Park  ?" 

Holly  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Oh  yes !  I  simply  love  riding.  But  there's  Jolly's  horse; 
why  don't  you  ride  him  ?    Here  he  is.  We  could  go  after  tea." 

Val  looked  doubtfully  at  his  trousered  legs.  He  had 
imagined  them  immaculate  before  her  eyes  in  high  brown 
feoots  and  Bedford  cords. 

"  I  don't  much  like  riding  his  horse,"  he  said.  "  He 
mightn't  like  it.  Besides,  Uncle  Soames  wants  to  get  back, 
I  expect.  Not  that  I  believe  in  buckling  under  to  him, 
you  know.  You  haven't  got  an  uncle,  have  you  ?  This 
is  rather  a  good  beast,"  he  added,  scrutinising  Jolly's  horse, 
a  dark  brown,  which  was  showing  the  whites  of  its  eyes. 
"  You  haven't  got  any  hunting  here,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No;  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  hunt.  It  must  be 
awfully  exciting,  of  course  ;  but  it's  cruel,  isn't  it  ?  June 
says  so." 

"  Cruel  ?"  ejaculated  Val.  "  Oh  !  that's  all  rot.  Who's 
June  ?" 

"  My  sister — my  half-sister,  you  know — much  older  than 


IN  CHANCERY  5^3 

me."  She  had  put  her  hands  up  to  both  cheeks  of  Jolly's 
horse,  and  was  rubbing  her  nose  against  its  nose  with  a 
gentle  snuffling  noise  which  seemed  to  have  an  hypnotic 
effect  on  the  animal.  Val  contemplated  her  cheek  resting 
against  the  horse's  nose,  and  her  eyes  gleaming  round  at 
him.     *  She's  really  a  duck,'  he  thought. 

They  returned  to  the  house  less  talkative,  followed  this 
time  by  the  dog  Balthasar,  walking  more  slowly  than  any- 
thing on  earth,  and  clearly  expecting  them  not  to  exceed 
his  speed  limit. 

"  This  is  a  ripping  place,"  said  Val  from  under  the  oak- 
tree,  where  they  had  paused  to  allow  the  dog  Balthasar  to 
come  up. 

"  Yes,"  said  Holly,  and  sighed.  "  Of  course  I  want  to 
go  everywhere.     I  wish  I  were  a  gipsy." 

"  Yes,  gipsies  are  jolly,"  replied  Val,  with  a  conviction 
which  had  just  come  to  him;  "  you're  rather  like  one,  you 
know." 

Holly's  face  shone  suddenly  and  deeply,  like  dark  leaves 
gilded  by  the  sun. 

"  To  go  mad-rabbiting  everywhere  and  see  everything, 
and  live  in  the  open — oh  !  wouldn't  it  be  fun  ?" 

"  Let's  do  it,"  said  Val. 

"  Oh  yes,  let's !" 

"  It'd  be  grand  sport,  just  you  and  I." 

Then  Holly  perceived  the  quaintness  and  flushed. 

"  Well,  we've  got  to  do  it,"  said  Val  obstinately,  but 
reddening  too.  "  I  believe  in  doing  things  you  w^ant  to 
do.     What's  down  there  ?" 

"  The  kitchen-garden,  and  the  pond  and  the  coppice, 
and  the  farm." 

"  Let's  go  down  !" 

Holly  glanced  back  at  the  house. 

"  It's  tea-time,  I  expect;  there's  dad  beckoning." 


504  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Val,  uttering  a  growly  sound,  followed  her  towards  the 
house. 

When  they  re-entered  the  hall  gallery  the  sight  of  two 
middle-aged  Forsytes  drinking  tea  together  had  its  magical 
effect,  and  they  became  quite  silent.  It  was,  indeed,  an 
impressive  spectacle.  The  two  were  seated  side  by  side 
on  an  arrangement  in  marqueterie  which  looked  like  three 
silvery  pink  chairs  made  one,  with  a  low  tea-table  in  front 
of  them.  They  seemed  to  have  taken  up  that  position, 
as  far  apart  as  the  seat  would  permit,  so  that  they  need  not 
look  at  each  other  too  much;  and  they  were  eating  and 
drinking  rather  than  talking — Soames  with  his  air  of  despis- 
ing the  tea-cake  as  it  disappeared,  Jolyon  of  finding  himself 
slightly  amusing.  To  the  casual  eye  neither  would  have 
seemed  greedy,  but  both  were  getting  through  a  good  deal 
of  sustenance.  The  two  young  ones  having  been  supplied 
with  food,  the  process  went  on  silent  and  absorbative,  till, 
with  the  advent  of  cigarettes,  Jolyon  said  to  Soames: 

"  And  how's  Uncle  James  ?" 

*'  Thanks,  very  shaky." 

"  We're  a  wonderful  family,  aren't  we  ?  The  other 
day  I  was  calculating  the  average  age  of  the  ten  old  Forsytes 
from  my  father's  family  Bible.  I  make  it  eighty-four 
already,  and  five  still  living.  They  ought  to  beat  the 
record;"  and  looking  whimsically  at  Soames,  he  added: 
"  We  aren't  the  men  they  were,  you  know." 

Soames  smiled.  *  Do  you  really  think  I  shall  admit  that 
I'm  not  their  equal ';  he  seemed  to  be  saying,  *  or  that  I've 
got  to  give  up  anything,  especially  life  ?' 

"  We  may  live  to  their  age,  perhaps,"  pursued  Jolyon, 
"  but  self-consciousness  is  a  handicap,  you  know,  and  that's 
the  difference  between  us.  We've  lost  conviction.  How 
and  when  self-consciousness  was  born  I  never  can  make 
out.  My  father  had  a  little,  but  I  don't  believe  any  other 
of  the  old  Forsytes  ever  had  a  scrap.     Never  to  see  yourself 


IN  CHANCERY  505 

as  others  see  you,  it's  a  wonderful  preservative.  The  whole 
history  of  the  last  century  is  in  the  difference  between  us. 
And  between  us  and  you,"  he  added,  gazing  through  a 
ring  of  smoke  at  Val  and  Holly,  uncomfortable  under  his 
quizzical  regard,  "  there'll  be — another  difference.  I  wonder 
what." 

Soames  took  out  his  watch. 

"  We  must  go,"  he  said,  "  if  we're  to  catch  our  train." 

"  Uncle  Soames  never  misses  a  train,"  muttered  Val,  with 
his  mouth  full. 

"  Why  should  I  ?"  Soames  answered  simply. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,"  grumbled  Val,  "  other  people  do." 

At  the  front  door  he  gave  Holly's  slim  brown  hand  a  long 
and  surreptitious  squeeze. 

"  Look  out  for  me  to-morrow,"  he  whispered;  "  three 
o'clock.  I'll  wait  for  you  in  the  road;  it'll  save  time.  We'll 
have  a  ripping  ride."  He  gazed  back  at  her  from  the  lodge 
gate,  and,  but  for  the  principles  of  a  man  about  town,  would 
have  waved  his  hand.  He  felt  in  no  mood  to  tolerate  his 
uncle's  conversation.  But  he  was  not  in  danger.  Soames 
preser^^ed  a  perfect  muteness,  busy  with  far-away  thoughts. 

The  yellow  leaves  came  down  about  those  two  walking 

the  mile  and  a  half  which  Soames  had  traversed  so  often 

in  those  long-ago  days  when  he  came  down  to  watch  with 

secret  pride  the  building  of  the  house — that  house  which 

was  to  have  been  the  home  of  him  and  her  from  whom  he 

was  now  going  to  seek  release.     He  looked  back  once,  up 

that  endless  vista  of  autumn  lane  between  the  yellowing 

hedges.     What  an  age  ago  !     '  I   don't  want  to  see  her,' 

he  had  said  to  Jolyon.     Was  that  true  ?     *  I  may  have  to,' 

he  thought;  and  he  shivered,  seized  by  one  of  those  queer 

shudderings  that  they  say  mean  footsteps  on  one's  grave.     A 

chilly  world  !     A  queer  world  !     And  glancing  sidelong  at 

his  nephew,  he  thought:  '  Wish  I  were  his  age  !     I  wonder 

what  she's  like  now  I' 

17* 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JOLYON    PROSECUTES    TRUSTEESHIP 

When  those  two  were  gone  Jolyon  did  not  return  to  his 
painting,  for  daylight  was  failing,  but  went  to  the  study, 
craving  unconsciously  a  revival  of  that  momentary  vision 
of  his  father  sitting  in  the  old  brown  leather  chair  with  his 
knees  crossed  and  his  straight  eyes  gazing  up  from  under  the 
dome  of  his  massive  brow.  Often  in  this  little  room, 
cosiest  in  the  house,  Jolyon  would  catch  a  moment  of  com- 
munion with  his  father.  Not,  indeed,  that  he  had  definitely 
any  faith  in  the  persistence  of  the  human  spirit — the  feeling 
was  not  so  logical — it  was,  rather,  an  atmospheric  impact, 
like  a  scent,  or  one  of  those  strong  animistic  impressions  from 
forms,  or  effects  of  light,  to  which  those  with  the  artist's 
eye  are  especially  prone.  Here  only — in  this  little  unchanged 
room  where  his  father  had  spent  the  most  of  his  waking 
hours — could  be  retrieved  the  feeling  that  he  was  not  quite 
gone,  that  the  steady  counsel  of  that  old  spirit  and  the 
warmth  of  his  masterful  lovability  endured. 

What  would  his  father  be  advising  now,  in  this  sudden 
recrudescence  of  an  old  tragedy — what  would  he  say  to  this 
menace  against  her  to  whom  he  had  taken  such  a  fancy  in 
the  last  weeks  of  his  life  ?  '  I  must  do  my  best  for  her,' 
thought  Jolyon;  '  he  left  her  to  me  in  his  will.  But  what 
is  the  best  ?' 

And  as  if  seeking  to  regain  the  sapience,  the  balance  and 
shrewd  common  sense  of  that  old  Forsyte,  he  sat  down  in 
the  ancient  chair  and  crossed  his  knees.     But  he  felt  a  mere 

shadow  sitting  there;  nor  did  any  inspiration  come,  while 

506 


IN  CHANCERY  loj 

the  fingers  of  the  wind  tapped  on  the  darkening  panes  of  the 
french-window. 

'  Go  and  see  her  ?'  he  thought,  *  or  ask  her  to  come  down 
here  ?  What's  her  life  been  ?  What  is  it  now,  I  wonder  ? 
Beastly  to  rake  up  things  at  this  time  of  day.'  Again  the 
figure  of  his  cousin  standing  with  a  hand  on  a  front  door 
of  a  fine  olive-green  leaped  out,  vivid,  like  one  of  those 
figures  from  old-fashioned  clocks  when  the  hour  strikes; 
and  his  words  sounded  in  Jolyon's  ears  clearer  than  any 
chime:  *  I  manage  my  own  afiairs.  I've  told  you  once,  I 
tell  you  again:  We  are  not  at  home.'  The  repugnance  he 
had  then  felt  for  Soames — for  his  flat-cheeked,  shaven  face 
full  of  spiritual  bidl-doggedness,  for  his  spare,  square,  sleek 
figure  slightly  crouched  as  it  were  over  the  bone  he  could 
not  digest — came  now  again,  fresh  as  ever,  nay,  with  an  odd 
increase.  *  I  dislike  him,'  he  thought,  '  I  dislike  him  to  the 
very  roots  of  me.  And  that's  lucky;  it'll  make  it  easier 
for  me  to  back  his  wife.'  Half- artist  and  half- Forsyte, 
Jolyon  was  constitutionally  averse  from  what  he  termed 
*  ructions  ' ;  unless  angered,  he  conformed  deeply  to  that 
classic  description  of  the  she- dog,  '  Er'd  ruther  run  than 
fight.'  A  little  smile  became  settled  in  his  beard.  Ironical 
that  Soames  should  come  down  here — to  this  house,  built 
for  himself  !  How  he  had  gazed  and  gaped  at  this  ruin 
of  his  past  intention;  furtively  nosing  at  the  waUs  and 
stairway,  appraising  ever)^thing  !  And  intuitively  Jolyon 
thought:  *  I  believe  the  fellow  even  now  would  like  to  be 
living  here.  He  could  never  leave  off  longing  for  what  he 
once  owned  !  Well,  I  must  act,  somehow  or  other;  but  it's 
a  bore — a  great  bore.' 

Late  that  evening  he  wrote  to  the  Chelsea  fiat,  asking  i: 
Irene  would  see  him. 

The  old  century  which  had  seen  the  plant  of  individualism 
flower  so  wonderfully  was  setting  in  a  sky  orange  with  coming 


5o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

storms.  Rumours  of  war  added  to  the  briskness  of  a  London 
turbulent  at  the  close  of  the  summer  holidays.  And  the 
streets  to  Jolyon,  who  was  not  often  up  in  town,  had  a 
feverish  look,  due  to  these  new  motor-cars  and  cabs,  of  which 
he  disapproved  aesthetically.  He  counted  these  vehicles 
from  his  hansom,  and  made  the  proportion  of  them  one  in 
twenty.  '  They  were  one  in  thirty  about  a  year  ago,' 
he  thought;  '  they've  come  to  stay.  Just  so  much  more 
rattling  round  of  wheels  and  general  stink  ' — for  he  was 
one  of  those  rather  rare  Liberals  who  object  to  anything 
new  when  it  takes  a  material  form;  and  he  instructed  his 
driver  to  get  down  to  the  river  quickly,  out  of  the  traffic, 
desiring  to  look  at  the  water  through  the  mellowing  screen 
of  plane-trees.  At  the  little  block  of  flats  which  stood  back 
some  fifty  yards  from  the  Embankment,  he  told  the  cabman 
to  wait,  and  went  up  to  the  first  floor. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Heron  was  at  home  ! 

The  effect  of  a  settled  if  very  modest  income  was  at  once 
apparent  to  him  remembering  the  threadbare  refinement  in 
that  tiny  flat  eight  years  ago  when  he  announced  her  good 
fortune.  Everything  was  now  fresh,  dainty,  and  smelled 
of  flowers.  The  general  effect  was  silvery  with  touches 
of  black,  hydrangea  colour,  and  gold.  *  A  woman  of  great 
taste,'  he  thought.  Time  had  dealt  gently  with  Jolyon, 
for  he  was  a  Forsyte.  But  with  Irene  Time  hardly  seemed 
to  deal  at  all — or  such  was  his  impression.  She  appeared 
to  him  not  a  day  older,  standing  there  in  mole-coloured 
velvet  corduroy,  with  soft  dark  eyes  and  dark  gold  hair, 
with  outstretched  hand  and  a  little  smile. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

He  had  probably  never  occupied  a  chair  with  a  fuller 
sense  of  embarrassment. 

**  You  look  absolutely  unchanged,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  look  younger,  Cousin  Jolyon." 


IN  CHANCERY  509 

Jolyon  ran  his  hands  through  his  hair,  whose  thickness 
was  still  a  comfort  to  him. 

"  I'm  ancient,  but  I  don't  feel  it.  That's  one  thing  about 
painting,  it  keeps  you  young.  Titian  lived  to  ninety-nine, 
and  had  to  have  plague  to  kill  him  off.  Do  you  know,  the 
first  time  I  ever  saw  you  I  thought  of  a  picture  by  him  ?  " 

"  When  did  you  see  me  for  the  first  time  ?" 

"  In  the  Botanical  Gardens." 

"  How  did  you  know  me,  if  you'd  never  seen  me  before  ?" 

"  By  someone  who  came  up  to  you."  He  was  looking 
at  her  hardily,  but  her  face  did  not  change;  and  she  said 
quietly: 

"  Yes;  many  lives  ago." 

"  What  is  your  recipe  for  youth,  Irene  ?" 

*'  People  who  don't  live  are  wonderfully  preserved." 

H'm  !  a  bitter  little  saying  !  People  who  don't  live  ! 
But  an  opening,  and  he  took  it.  "  You  remember  my 
Cousin  Soames  ?" 

He  saw  her  smile  faintly  at  that  whimsicality,  and  at  once 
went  on:  "  He  came  to  see  me  the  day  before  yesterday  ! 
He  wants  a  divorce.     Do  you  ?" 

"  I  ?"  The  word  seemed  startled  out  of  her.  "  After 
twelve  years  ?     It's  rather  late.     Won't  it  be  difficult  ?" 

Jolyon  looked  hard  into  her  face.     "  Unless "  he  said. 

"  Unless  I  have  a  lover  now.  But  I  have  never  had  one 
since." 

What  did  he  feel  at  the  simplicity  and  candour  of  those 
words  ?  Relief,  surprise,  pity !  Venus  for  twelve  years 
without  a  lover  ! 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  you  would  give  a  good 
deal  to  be  free,  too  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     What  does  it  matter,  now  ?'* 

"  But  if  you  were  to  love  again  ?" 

**  I  should  love."     In  that  simple  answer  she  seemed  to 


510  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

sum  up  the  whole  philosophy  of  one  on  whom  the  world 
had  turned  its  back. 

**  Well  !  Is  there  anything  you  would  like  me  to  say  to 
him  ?" 

"  Only  that  I'm  sorry  he's  not  free.  He  had  his  chance 
once.     I  don't  know  why  he  didn't  take  it." 

"  Because  he  was  a  Forsyte;  we  never  part  with  things, 
you  know,  unless  we  want  something  in  their  place;  and  not 
always  then." 

Irene  smiled.  "  Don't  you,  Cousin  Jolyon  f — I  think 
you  do." 

*'  Of  course,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  mongrel — not  quite  a  pure 
Forsyte.  I  never  take  the  halfpennies  off  my  cheques,  I 
put  them  on,"  said  Jolyon  uneasily. 

"  Well,  what  does  Soames  want  in  place  of  me  now  ?" 

"  I  don't  know;  perhaps  children." 

She  was  silent  for  a  little,  looking  down. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured;  "it's  hard.  I  would  help  him 
to  be  free  if  I  could." 

Jolyon  gazed  into  his  hat,  his  embarrassment  was  in- 
creasing fast;  so  was  his  admiration,  his  wonder,  and  his  pity. 
She  was  so  lovely,  and  so  lonely;  and  altogether  it  was  such 
a  coil ! 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  have  to  see  Soames.  If  there's 
anything  I  can  do  for  you  I'm  always  at  your  service.  You 
must  think  of  me  as  a  wretched  substitute  for  my  father. 
At  all  events  I'll  let  you  know  what  happens  when  I  speak 
to  Soames.     He  may  supply  the  material  himself." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  see,  he  has  a  lot  to  lose;  and  I  have  nothing.  I 
should  like  him  to  be  free;  but  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do." 

"  Nor  I  at  the  moment,"  said  Jolyon,  and  soon  after  took 
his  leave.  He  went  down  to  his  hansom.  Half-past  three  ! 
Soames  would  be  at  his  office  still. 


IN  CHANCERY  511 

"  To  the  Poultry,"  he  called  through  the  trap.  In  front 
of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  and  in  Whitehall,  newsvendors 
were  calling,  *  Grave  situation  in  the  Transvaal  !'  but  the 
cries  hardly  roused  him,  absorbed  in  recollection  of  that 
very  beautiful  figure,  of  her  soft  dark  glance,  and  the  words: 
*  I  have  never  had  one  since.'  What  on  earth  did  such  a 
woman  do  with  her  life,  backwatered  like  this  ?  Solitary, 
unprotected,  with  every  man's  hand  against  her  or  rather — 
reaching  out  to  grasp  her  at  the  least  sign.  And  year  after 
year  she  went  on  like  that  ! 

The  word  *  Poultry  '  above  the  passing  citizens  brought 
him  back  to  reality. 

*  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte,'  in  black  letters  on  a 
ground  the  colour  of  peasoup,  spurred  him  to  a  sort  of 
vigour,  and  he  went  up  the  stone  stairs  muttering:  "  Fusty 
musty  ownerships  !     Well,  we  couldn't  do  without  them  !" 

*'  I  want  Mr.  Soames  Forsyte,"  he  said  to  the  boy  who 
opened  the  door. 

"  What  name  ?" 

"  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte." 

The  youth  looked  at  him  curiously,  never  having  seen  a 
Forsyte  with  a  beard,  and  vanished. 

The  offices  of  *  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte  '  had  slowly 
absorbed  the  offices  of  *  Tooting  and  Bowles,'  and  occupied 
the  whole  of  the  first  floor  The  firm  consisted  now  of 
nothing  but  Soames  and  a  namber  of  managing  and  articled 
clerks.  The  complete  retirement  of  James  some  six  years 
ago  had  accelerated  business,  to  which  the  final  touch  of 
speed  had  been  imparted  when  Bustard  dropped  oif,  worn 
out,  as  many  believed,  by  the  suit  of  *  Fryer  versus  Forsyte,* 
more  in  Chancery  than  ever  and  less  likely  to  benefit  its 
beneficiaries.  Soames,  with  his  saner  grasp  of  actualities^ 
had  never  permitted  it  to  worry  him;  on  the  contrary,  he 
had   long   perceived  that   Providence   had   presented  hini 


512  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

therein  with  ^200  a  year  nett  in  perpetuity,  and — why  not  ? 

When  Jolyon  entered,  his  cousin  was  drawing  out  a  list 
of  holdings  in  Consols,  which  in  view  of  the  rumours  of  war 
he  was  going  to  advise  his  companies  to  put  on  the  market 
at  once,  before  other  companies  did  the  same.  He  looked 
round,  sidelong,  and  said: 

"  How  are  you  ?  Just  one  minute.  Sit  down,  won't 
you  ?"  And  having  entered  three  amounts,  and  set  a  ruler 
to  keep  his  place,  he  turned  towards  Jolyon,  biting  the  side 
of  his  flat  fore-finger. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

"  I  have  seen  her." 

Soames  frowned. 

"Well?" 

"  She  has  remained  faithful  to  memory." 

Having  said  that  Jolyon  was  ashamed.  His  cousin  had 
flushed  a  dusky  yellowish  red.  What  had  made  him  tease 
the  poor  brute  !  "  I  was  to  tell  you  she  is  sorry  you  are  not 
free.  Twelve  years  is  a  long  time.  You  know  your  law 
better  than  I  do,  and  what  chance  it  gives  you."  Soames 
uttered  a  curious  little  grunt,  and  the  two  remained  a  full 
minute  without  speaking.  *  Like  wax !'  thought  Jolyon, 
watching  that  close  face,  where  the  flush  was  fast  subsiding. 
*  He'll  never  give  me  a  sign  of  what  he's  thinking,  or  going 
to  do.  Like  wax  !'  And  he  transferred  his  gaze  to  a  plan 
of  that  flourishing  town,  *  By-Street  on  Sea,'  the  future 
existence  of  which  lay  exposed  on  the  wall  to  the  possessive 
instincts  of  the  firm's  clients.  The  whimsical  thought  flashed 
through  him :  '  I  wonder  if  I  shall  get  a  bill  of  costs  for  this — 
"  To  attending  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte  in  the  matter  of  my 
divorce,  to  receiving  his  account  of  his  visit  to  my  wife, 
and  to  advising  him  to  go  and  see  her  again,  sixteen  and 
eightpence."  ' 

Suddenly  Soames  said:  "I  can't  go  on  like  this.     I  tell 


IN  CHANCERY  513 

you,  I  can't  go  on  like  this."  His  eyes  were  shifting  from 
side  to  side,  like  an  animal's  when  it  looks  for  way  of  escape. 
'He  really  suffers,'  thought  Jolyon;  'I've  no  business  to 
forget  that,  just  because  I  don't  like  him.' 

"  Surely,"  he  said  gently,  "  it  lies  with  yourself.  A  man 
can  always  put  these  things  through  if  he'll  take  it  on  him- 
self." 

Soames  turned  square  to  him,  with  a  sound  which  seemed 
to  come  from  somewhere  very  deep. 

"  Why  should  I  suffer  more  than  I've  suffered  already  ? 
Why  should  I  ?" 

Jolyon  could  only  shrug  his  shoulders.  His  reason  agreed, 
his  instinct  rebelled;  he  could  not  have  said  why. 

"  Your  father,"  went  on  Soames,  "  took  an  interest  in 
her — why,  goodness  knows  !  And  I  suppose  you  do  too  ?" 
he  gave  Jolyon  a  sharp  look.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  one  only 
has  to  do  another  person  a  wrong  to  get  all  the  sympathy. 
I  don't  know  in  what  way  I  was  to  blame — I've  never  known. 
I  always  treated  her  well.  I  gave  her  everything  she  could 
wish  for.     I  wanted  her." 

Again  Jolyon's  reason  nodded;  again  his  instinct  shook  its 
head.  *  What  is  it  ?'  he  thought;  '  there  must  be  something 
wrong  in  me.  Yet  if  there  is,  I'd  rather  be  wrong  than 
right.' 

"  After  all,"  said  Soames  with  a  sort  of  glum  fierceness, 
"  she  was  my  wife." 

In  a  flash  the  thought  went  through  his  listener:  *  There 
it  is  !  Ownerships  !  Well,  we  all  own  things.  But — 
human  beings  !     Pah  !' 

"  You  have  to  look  at  facts,"  he  said  drily,  "  or  rather  the 
want  of  them." 

Soames  gave  him  another  quick  suspicious  look. 

"  The  want  of  them  r"  he  said.  "  Yes,  but  I  am  not  so 
sure." 


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:  1  - :  - :  ;.-_zl.  if  anjiHngj  tie  grestsr  rzLrrr^e.  wHIe  jc'ggr^'g 
;.i:^  ::  : :  — -  frcn  Rcbin  HiZ  if-er  iis  riie  wrik  HgZt. 
52it  .'.  ^1  :  T t"  t~t"  "rrerdei'  t''3-^  lie  r ?r  t2i^'iLi2i':  r.--  restfi- 
i^j    : '-  -'- : :        :  ■  '    -Z^  liG— ^-TaT^ecL '  r^  frej  ';  and  it  leanec 

t-ie  "~~? jT — r  :f  _:~iii_  ~~ ;~  injr  r'-^  beets  mi  - ~ "~ -; 
:-:..:--    -    :.r   r-i-mr    :    -  :    -     -     .p.     He  ttck  c^ 


;r  11  ZL::it  niTc 


r:-t    tit    ::-t     -     --:    :-;-:*-:.    ::   the  Pi^i— :t_ 
to  HoZ-  ir:-:  lii  filler.     HZi  fitler  litiei  t:-f~. 


sIiT,  ditk-iiaiied  v:^^  r  : :  _ ; ,  1  : :  i_:      fir  r:ce  '  T-cZt  well' 


5i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

barrenness  of  his  speech;  he  felt  that  he  could  say  *  an  awful 
lot  of  fetching  things  '  if  he  had  but  the  chance  again,  and 
the  thought  that  he  must  go  back  to  Littlehampton  on  the 
morrow,  and  to  Oxford  on  the  twelfth — '  to  that  beastly 
exam,'  too — without  the  faintest  chance  of  first  seeing  her 
again,  caused  darkness  to  settle  on  his  spirit  even  more 
quickly  than  on  the  evening.  He  should  write  to  her, 
however,  and  she  had  promised  to  answer.  Perhaps,  too, 
she  would  come  up  to  Oxford  to  see  her  brother.  That 
thought  was  like  the  first  star,  which  came  out  as  he  rode 
into  Padwick's  livery  stables  in  the  purlieus  of  Sloane  Square. 
He  got  oS  and  stretched  himself  luxuriously,  for  he  had 
ridden  some  twenty-five  good  miles.  The  Dartie  within 
him  made  him  chaffer  for  five  minutes  with  young  Padwick 
concerning  the  favourite  for  the  Cambridgeshire;  then  with 
the  words,  "  Put  the  gee  down  to  my  account,"  he  walked 
away,  a  little  wide  at  the  knees,  and  flipping  his  boots  with 
his  knotty  little  cane.  *  I  don't  feel  a  bit  inclined  to  go  out,' 
he  thought.  '  I  wonder  if  mother  will  stand  fizz  for  my  last 
night !'  With  *  fizz  '  and  recollection,  he  could  well  pass 
a  domestic  evening. 

When  he  came  down,  speckless  after  his  bath,  he  found  his 
mother  scrupulous  in  a  low  evening  dress,  and,  to  his  annoy- 
ance, his  Uncle  Soames.  They  stopped  talking  when  he 
came  in;  then  his  uncle  said: 

"  He'd  better  be  told." 

At  those  words,  which  meant  something  about  his  father, 
of  course,  Val's  first  thought  was  of  Holly.  Was  it  anything 
beastly  ?     His  mother  began  speaking. 

"  Your  father,"  she  said  in  her  fashionably  appointed 
voice,  while  her  fingers  plucked  rather  pitifully  at  sea-green 
brocade,  "  your  father,  my  dear  boy,  has — is  not  at  New- 
market; he's  on  his  way  to  South  America.  He — he's 
left  us." 


IN  CHANCERY  517 

Val  looked  from  her  to  Soames.  Left  them  !  Was  he 
sorry  ?  Was  he  fond  of  his  father  ?  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  did  not  know.  Then,  suddenly — as  at  a  whiff  of  gardenias 
and  cigars — his  heart  twitched  within  him,  and  he  was 
sorry.  One's  father  belonged  to  one,  could  not  go  off  in 
this  fashion — it  was  not  done  !  Nor  had  he  always  been  the 
*  bounder  '  of  the  Pandemonium  promenade.  There  were 
precious  memories  of  tailors'  shops  and  horses,  tips  at  school, 
and  general  lavish  kindness,  when  in  luck. 

"  But  why  ?"  he  said.  Then,  as  a  sportsman  himself, 
was  sorry  he  had  asked.  The  mask  of  his  mother's  face  was 
all  disturbed;  and  he  burst  out: 

"  All  right,  Mother,  don't  tell  me  !  Only,  what  does  it 
mean  ?" 

"  A  divorce,  Val,  I'm  afraid." 

Val  uttered  a  queer  little  grunt,  and  looked  quickly  at 
his  uncle — that  uncle  whom  he  had  been  taught  to  look  on 
as  a  guarantee  against  the  consequences  of  having  a  father, 
even  against  the  Dartie  blood  in  his  own  veins.  The  fiat- 
cheeked  visage  seemed  to  wince,  and  this  upset  him. 

"  It  won't  be  pubHc,  will  it  ?" 

So  vividly  before  him  had  come  recollection  of  his  own 
eyes  glued  to  the  unsavoury  details  of  many  a  divorce  suit 
in  the  public  Press. 

"  Can't  it  be  done  quietly  somehow  ?  It's  so  disgusting 
for — for  mother,  and — and  everybody." 

"  Everything  will  be  done  as  quietly  as  it  can,  you  may  be 
sure." 

"  Yes — but,  why  is  it  necessary  at  all  ?  Mother  doesn't 
want  to  marry  again." 

Himself,  the  girls,  their  name  tarnished  in  the  sight  of  his 
schoolfellows  and  of  Crum,  of  the  men  at  Oxford,  of — 
Holly  !     Unbearable  !     What  was  to  be  gained  by  it  ? 

"  Do  you.  Mother  ?"  he  said  sharply. 


5i8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Thus  brought  face  to  face  with  so  much  of  her  own  feeling 
by  the  one  she  loved  best  in  the  world,  Winifred  rose  from 
the  Empire  chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting.  She  saw 
that  her  son  would  be  against  her  unless  he  was  told  every- 
thing; and,  yet,  how  could  she  tell  him  ?  Thus,  still  plucking 
at  the  green  brocade,  she  stared  at  Soames.  Val,  too,  stared 
at  Soames.  Surely  this  embodiment  of  respectability  and 
the  sense  of  property  could  not  wish  to  bring  such  a  slur 
on  his  own  sister  ! 

Soames  slowly  passed  a  little  inlaid  paper-knife  over  the 
smooth  surface  of  a  marqueterie  table;  then,  without 
looking  at  his  nephew,  he  began: 

"  You  don't  understand  what  your  mother  has  had  to  put 
up  \\dth  these  twenty  years.  This  is  only  the  last  straw, 
Val."     And  glancing  up  sideways  at  Winifred,  he  added: 

"  Shall  I  tell  him?" 

Winifred  was  silent.  If  he  were  not  told,  he  would  be 
against  her  !  Yet,  how  dreadful  to  be  told  such  things  of 
his  own  father  !     Clenching  her  lips,  she  nodded. 

Soames  spoke  in  a  rapid,  even  voice : 

"  He  has  always  been  a  burden  round  your  mother's 
neck.  She  has  paid  his  debts  over  and  over  again;  he  has 
often  been  drunk,  abused  and  threatened  her;  and  now  he 
is  gone  to  Buenos  Aires  with  a  dancer."  And,  as  if  distrust- 
ing the  efficacy  of  those  words  on  the  boy,  he  went  on  quickly : 

"  He  took  your  mother's  pearls  to  give  to  her." 

Val  jerked  up  his  hand,  then.  At  that  signal  of  distress 
Winifred  cried  out: 

"  That'll  do,  Soames— stop  !" 

In  the  boy,  the  Dartie  and  the  Forsyte  were  struggling. 
For  debts,  drink,  dancers,  he  had  a  certain  sympathy;  but 
the  pearls — no  !  That  was  too  much  !  And  suddenly  he 
found  his  mother's  hand  squeezing  his. 

"  You  see,"  he  heard  Soames  say,  "  we  can't  have  it  all 


IN  CHANCERY  519 

begin  over  again.  There's  a  limit ;  we  must  strike  while 
the  iron's  hot." 

Val  freed  his  hand. 

"  But — ^you're — never  going  to  bring  out  that  about  the 
pearls  !     I  couldn't  stand  that — I  simply  couldn't  !" 

Winifred  cried  out: 

"  No,  no,  Val — oh  no  !  That's  only  to  show  you  how 
impossible  your  father  is  !"  And  his  uncle  nodded.  Some- 
what assuaged,  Val  took  out  a  cigarette.  His  father  had 
bought  him  that  thin  curved  case.  Oh  !  it  was  unbearable — 
just  as  he  was  going  up  to  Oxford  ! 

"  Can't  mother  be  protected  without  ?"  he  said.  "  I 
could  look  after  her.  It  could  always  be  done  later  if  it 
was  really  necessary." 

A  smile  played  for  a  moment  round  Soames'  Hps,  and 
became  bitter. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  of;  nothing's  so 
fatal  as  delay  in  such  matters." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  I  teU  you,  boy,  nothing's  so  fatal.  I  know  from 
experience." 

His  voice  had  the  ring  of  exasperation.  Val  regarded  him 
round- eyed,  never  having  known  his  uncle  express  any  sort 
of  feeling.  Oh  !  Yes — he  remembered  now — there  had 
been  an  Aunt  Irene,  and  something  had  happened — some- 
thing which  people  kept  dark;  he  had  heard  his  father  once 
use  an  unmentionable  word  of  her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  speak  ill  of  your  father,"  Soames  went 
on  doggedly,  "  but  I  know  him  well  enough  to  be  sure  that 
he'll  be  back  on  your  mother's  hands  before  a  year's  over. 
You  can  imagine  what  that  will  mean  to  her  and  to  all  of 
you  after  this.     The  only  thing  is  to  cut  the  knot  for  good." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Val  was  impressed;  and,  happening  to 
look  at  his  mother's  face,  he  got  what  was  perhaps  his  first 


520  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

real  insight  into  the  fact  that  his  own  feelings  were  not 
always  what  mattered  most. 

"  All  right,  mother,"  he  said;  "  we'll  back  you  up  Only, 
I'd  like  to  know  when  it'll  be.  It's  my  first  term,  you  know. 
I  don't  want  to  be  up  there  when  it  comes  off." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  boy,"  murmured  Winifred,  "  it  is  a  bore 
for  you."  So,  by  habit,  she  phrased  what,  from  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face,  was  the  most  poignant  regret.  "  Wher 
will  it  be,  Soames  ?" 

"  Can't  tell — not  for  months.  We  must  get  restitution 
first." 

'  What  the  deuce  is  that  ?'  thought  Val.  '  What  silly 
brutes  lawyers  are  !  Not  for  months  !  I  know  one  thing: 
I'm  not  going  to  dine  in  !'     And  he  said: 

"  Awfully  sorry,  mother,  I've  got  to  go  out  to  dinner 
now." 

Though  it  was  his  last  night,  Winifred  nodded  almost 
gratefully;  they  both  felt  that  they  had  gone  quite  far  enough 
in  the  expression  of  feeHng. 

Val  sought  the  misty  freedom  of  Green  Street,  reckless 
and  depressed.  And  not  till  he  reached  Piccadilly  did  he 
discover  that  he  had  only  eighteen-pence.  One  couldn't 
dine  off  eighteen-pence,  and  he  was  very  hungry.  He  looked 
longingly  at  the  windows  of  the  Iseeum  Club,  where  he  had 
often  eaten  of  the  best  with  his  father  !  Those  pearls  ! 
There  was  no  getting  over  them  !  But  the  more  he  brooded 
and  the  further  he  walked  the  hungrier  he  naturally  became. 
Short  of  traihng  home,  there  were  only  two  places  where 
he  could  go — his  grandfather's  in  Park  Lane,  and  Timothy's 
in  the  Bayswater  Road.  Which  was  the  less  deplorable  ? 
At  his  grandfather's  he  would  probably  get  a  better  dinner 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  At  Timothy's  they  gave  you 
a  jolly  good  feed  when  they  expected  you,  not  otherwise. 
He  decided  on  Park  Lane,  not  unmoved  by  the  thought  that 


IN  CHANCERY  521 

to  go  up  to  Oxford  without  affording  his  grandfather  a 
chance  to  tip  him  was  hardly  fair  to  either  of  them.  His 
mother  would  hear  he  had  been  there,  of  course,  and  might 
think  it  funny;  but  he  couldn't  help  that.  He  rang  the 
bell. 

"  Hullo,  Warmson,  any  dinner  for  me,  d'you  think  ?" 

"  They're  just  going  in,  Master  Val.  Mr.  Forsyte  will 
be  very  glad  to  see  you.  He  was  saying  at  lunch  that  he 
never  saw  you  nowadays." 

Val  grinned: 

"  Well,  here  I  am.  Kill  the  fatted  calf,  Warmson,  let's 
have  fizz." 

Warmson  smiled  faintly — in  his  opinion  Val  was  a  young 
limb. 

"  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Forsyte,  Master  Val." 

"  I  say,"  Val  grumbled,  taking  off  his  overcoat,  "  I'm 
not  at  school  any  more,  you  know." 

Warmson,  not  without  a  sense  of  humour,  opened  the 
door  beyond  the  stag's-horn  coatstand,  with  the  words: 

"  Mr.  Valerus,  ma'am." 

*  Confound  him  !'  thought  Val,  entering. 

A  warm  embrace,  a  "  Well,  Val  !"  from  Emily,  and  a 
rather  quavery  "  So  there  you  are  at  last  !"  from  James, 
restored  his  sense  of  dignity. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  us  know  ?  There's  only  saddle 
of  mutton.  Champagne,  Warmson;"  said  Emily.  And 
they  went  in. 

At  the  great  dining-table,  shortened  to  its  utmost,  under 
which  so  many  fashionable  legs  had  rested,  James  sat  at  one 
end,  Emily  at  the  other,  Val  half-way  between  them;  and 
something  of  the  loneliness  of  his  grandparents,  now  that 
all  their  four  children  were  flown,  reached  the  boy's  spirit. 
*  I  hope  I  shall  kick  the  bucket  long  before  I'm  as  old  as 
grandfather,'  he  thought.     '  Poor  old  chap,  he's  as  thin  as 


522  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

a  rail  1*  And  lowering  his  voice  while  his  grandfather  and 
Warmson  were  in  discussion  about  sugar  in  the  soup,  he 
said  to  Emily: 

"  It's  pretty  brutal  at  home,  Granny.  I  suppose  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  dear  boy." 

"  Uncle  Soames  was  there  when  I  left.  I  say,  isn't 
there  anything  to  be  done  to  prevent  a  divorce  ?  Why  is 
he  so  beastly  keen  on  it  ?" 

"  Hush,  my  dear  !"  murmured  Emily;  "  we're  keeping  it 
from  your  grandfather.'* 

James'  voice  sounded  from  the  other  end. 

"  What's  that  ?     What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

*'  About  Val's  college,"  returned  Emily.  "  Young 
Pariser  was  there,  James;  you  remember — he  nearly  broke 
the  Bank  at  Monte  Carlo  afterwards." 

James  muttered  that  he  did  not  know — Val  must  look  after 
himself  up  there,  or  he'd  get  into  bad  ways.  And  he  looked 
at  his  grandson  with  gloom,  out  of  which  affection  distrust- 
fully glimmered. 

"  What  I'm  afraid  of,"  said  Val  to  his  plate,  "  is  of  being 
hard  up,  you  know." 

By  instinct  he  knew  that  the  weak  spot  in  that  old  man 
was  fear  of  insecurity  for  his  grandchildren. 

"  Well,"  said  James,  and  the  soup  in  his  spoon  dribbled 
over,  "you'll  have  a  good  allowance;  but  you  must  keep 
within  it." 

"  Of  course,"  murmured  Val;  "  if  it  is  good.  How  much 
will  it  be,  Grandfather  ?" 

"  Three  hundred  and  fifty;  it's  too  much.  I  had  next 
to  nothing  at  your  age." 

Val  sighed.  He  had  hoped  for  four,  and  been  afraid  of 
three.  "  I  don't  know  what  your  young  cousin  has,"  said 
James;  "  he's  up  there.     His  father's  a  rich  man." 

"  Aren't  you  ?"  asked  Val  hardily. 


IN  CHANCERY  523 

"I  ?"  replied  James,  flustered.  "I've  got  so  many  expenses. 
Your  father "  and  he  was  silent. 

"  Cousin  Jolyon's  got  an  awfully  jolly  place.  I  went  down 
there  with  Uncle  Soames — ripping  stables." 

"  Ah  !"  murmured  James  profoundly.  "  That  house — I 
knew  how  it  would  be  !"  And  he  lapsed  into  gloomy  medita- 
tion over  his  fishbones.  His  son's  tragedy,  and  the  deep 
cleavage  it  had  caused  in  the  Forsyte  family,  had  still  the 
power  to  draw  him  down  into  a  whirlpool  of  doubts  and 
misgivings.  Val,  who  hankered  to  talk  of  Robin  Hill,  because 
Robin  Hill  meant  Holly,  turned  to  Emily  and  said: 

"  Was  that  the  house  built  for  Uncle  Soames  ?"  And, 
receiving  her  nod,  went  on :  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about  him, 
Granny.  What  became  of  Aunt  Irene  ?  Is  she  still  going  ? 
He  seems  awfully  worked-up  about  something  to-night." 

Emily  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips,  but  the  word  Irene  had 
caught  James'  ear. 

"  What's  that  ?"  he  said,  staying  a  piece  of  mutton  close 
to  his  lips.  "  Who's  been  seeing  her  ?  I  knew  we  hadn't 
heard  the  last  of  that." 

"  Now,  James,"  said  Emily,  "  eat  your  dinner.  Nobody's 
been  seeing  anybody.'* 

James  put  down  his  fork. 

"  There  you  go,"  he  said.  "  I  might  die  before  you'd 
tell  me  of  it.     Is  Soames  getting  a  divorce  ?" 

"Nonsense,"  said  Emily  with  incomparable  aplomb; 
"  Soames  is  much  too  sensible." 

James  had  sought  his  own  throat,  gathering  the  long  white 
whiskers  together  on  the  skin  and  bone  of  it. 

"  She — she   was    always "    he   said,    and    with    that 

enigmatic  remark  the  conversation  lapsed,  for  Warmson  had 
returned.  But  later,  when  the  saddle  of  mutton  had  been 
succeeded  bysweet,  savoury,  and  dessert,  and  Val  had  received 
a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  and  his  grandfather's  kiss — like 
no  other  kiss  in  the  world,  from  lips  pushed  out  with  a  sort 


524  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  fearful  suddenness,  as  if  yielding  to  weakness — he  returned 
to  the  charge  in  the  hall. 

"  Tell  us  about  Uncle  Soames,  Granny.  Why  is  he 
so  keen  on  mother's  getting  a  divorce  ?" 

"  Your  Uncle  Soames,"  said  Emily,  and  her  voice  had  in 
it  an  exaggerated  assurance,  "  is  a  lawyer,  my  dear  boy. 
He's  sure  to  know  best." 

"  Is  he  ?"  muttered  Val.  "  But  what  did  become  of  Aunt 
Irene  ?     I  remember  she  was  jolly  good-looking." 

"  She — er — "  said  Emily,  "  behaved  very  badly.  We 
don't  talk  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  everybody  at  Oxford  to  know  about 
our  affairs,"  ejaculated  Val;  "  it's  a  brutal  idea.  Why 
couldn't  father  be  prevented  without  its  being  made  public  ?" 

Emily  sighed.  She  had  always  lived  rather  in  an  atmo- 
sphere of  divorce,  owing  to  her  fashionable  proclivities — so 
many  of  those  whose  legs  had  been  under  her  table  having 
gained  a  certain  notoriety.  When,  however,  it  touched  her 
own  family,  she  liked  it  no  better  than  other  people.  But 
she  was  eminently  practical,  and  a  woman  of  courage,  who 
never  pursued  a  shadow  in  preference  to  its  substance. 

"  Your  mother,"  she  said,  "  will  be  happier  if  she's  quite 
free,  Val.  Good-night,  my  dear  boy;  and  don't  wear 
loud  waistcoats  up  at  Oxford,  they're  not  the  thing  just 
now.     Here's  a  little  present." 

With  another  five  pounds  in  his  hand,  and  a  little  warmth 
in  his  heart,  for  he  was  fond  of  his  grandmother,  he  went  out 
into  Park  Lane.  A  wind  had  cleared  the  mist,  the  autumn 
leaves  were  rustling,  and  the  stars  were  shining.  With  all 
that  money  in  his  pocket  an  impulse  to  *  see  life  '  beset  him; 
but  he  had  not  gone  forty  yards  in  the  direction  of  Piccadilly 
when  Holly's  shy  face,  and  her  eyes  with  an  imp  dancing 
in  their  gravity,  came  up  before  him,  and  his  hand  seemed 
to  be  tingling  again  from  the  pressure  of  her  warm  gloved 
hand-     *  No,  dash  it !'  he  thought,  *  I'm  going  home  !' 


CHAPTER  X 

SOAMES    ENTERTAINS    THE    FUTURE 

It  was  full  late  for  the  river,  but  the  weather  was  lovely, 
and  summer  lingered  below  the  yellowing  leaves.  Soames 
took  many  looks  at  the  day  from  his  riverside  garden  near 
Mapledurham  that  Sunday  morning.  With  his  own  hands 
he  put  flowers  about  his  little  house-boat,  and  equipped  the 
punt,  in  which,  after  lunch,  he  proposed  to  take  them  on  the 
river.  Placing  those  Chinese-looking  cushions,  he  could 
not  tell  whether  or  no  he  wished  to  take  Annette  alone. 
She  was  so  very  pretty — could  he  trust  himself  not  to  say 
irrevocable  words,  passing  beyond  the  limits  of  discretion  ? 
Roses  on  the  veranda  were  still  in  bloom,  and  the  hedges 
evergreen,  so  that  there  was  almost  nothing  of  middle-aged 
autumn  to  chill  the  mood;  yet  was  he  nervous,  fidgety, 
strangely  distrustful  of  his  powers  to  steer  just  the  right 
course.  This  visit  had  been  planned  to  produce  in  Annette 
and  her  mother  a  due  sense  of  his  possessions,  so  that  they 
should  be  ready  to  receive  with  respect  any  overture  he 
might  later  be  disposed  to  make.  He  dressed  with  great 
care,  making  himself  neither  too  young  nor  too  old,  very 
thankful  that  his  hair  was  still  thick  and  smooth  and  had  no 
grey  in  it.  Three  times  he  went  up  to  his  picture-gallery. 
If  they  had  any  knowledge  at  all,  they  must  see  at  once  that 
his  collection  alonewas  worth  at  least  thirty  thousand  pounds. 
He  minutely  inspected,  too,  the  pretty  bedroom  overlooking 
the  river  where  they  would  take  off  their  hats.  It  would  be 
her  bedroom  if — if  the  matter  went  through,  and  she  becam^e 
his  wife.     Going  up  to  the  dressing-table  he  passed  his  hand 

525 


526  .--   rCJ.SVn   SAGA 

OTei  liic  —Ji :■  ::.'-Z'^i  ~  ~  r : ' " . : ~  intc  "wiiic}:  were  ftnct  aD 
lindi  of  ri:^-.  i  :  :  .; ::::::  _::.  tT'i^ei  £  srs":  ili:  ziade 
:  liTi^r-.  r-1-:  ^^^c  !  If  czIt  tie  vrhole 
Iri  :-:  ::  -i-L  i-Z  there  -i^ls  net  liie 
-:r:e  t:  re  rue  r!ir:::ri  frsr:  ^rd  with 


cMld: 


wDtL-d   nexer 

He  ir:Te  tr  tie  rt^ti 


doirr:  and  ter  'rl~e  e~er  ~ere  £e~~re.     Waitinr  ::r  :Jie~ 

to  crrze  iz^m.  to  Inn:'::.  5:ir.t'  :-:::  in  tlie  zz^z  ::T-rh- 
windr^  rf  tjie  d£iiing-r:':n  ~  :~ei  ;-  tJist  se-:-_:_:  itl.rtt 
Tn  rcuEiirie  and  ^o^rer?  izt  tree;:  ~:l:i:i  I— -~  :i~e  r:  t:ie 
full  -whsn  yoiiii  and  be^^rtr  weie  tiieie  to  sh^it  it  witii  one. 
He  i^d  ord-ered  ihs  Itinrli  "wdt-i  ir:  tense  coniiderstfon:  the 
vri^e  ~L!  £  "err  rr>eci£l  ^^"reme.  tne  ~iole  appciitmeit!  r: 

ex-lent.  '  Me i^mt  lL~:t:e    i::t::ti   rreme  le  menthe: 

1   : . '  t . :  :  "    : :  "  tne  r :"::.'- :    :  1 2 :  ~~      : '  t-7  r  : ".  ;•  into  tiieni. 
'  Vt:     t:.:_:nt  SoEmt:.     iL:::.t:  "t::  ::  l::iiDn  and  tiiat 
err:  ::  life,  ^ni  Ene'L  re  rt riled/ 

::    -re    "i:    '.z    :et2:e    7:tr::.    -r-:res.     ""AlorahU! 
I  r:    ..    ;  — .         H:--    e-tr-::-.r:-    .!   ti^if,  is   it  not, 

i-jLner:e  :     Mr  ^_'         ^    rel   ?.lr:e    Cristo/'     Annette 
nnmrnre  r  ; :  ^  -  -         r  i  ' :: :  .  r   = :  5 :  ^  rr  e:  "  nich  be  could 
nr:  re^i       Ht  :-.  r;  :tr  -:  :.".   :  r  rr-t  r!-t:       Btit  to  ptmt 
r- :    rt:;:r:      rtr  me  r:  rnem  lr:i:er  ::  :i-.:r:n?  on  those 
Zz  -  -■-  -         -    -  --■-    -:   :  .-t-  '-:-    i   :--:t  of  lc»t 

rrr  ;::-■-        w   -^;    -  tr:   :.:  i   ::.:::      i;   ::-;:isPang- 


IN  CHANCERY  527 

bourne,  diitdng  dowlj  back,  wicli  everr  now  and  tie-  i- 
autumn  leaf  dropping  on  Annette  or  on  ker  motlier's  click 
amplitude.  And  Soames  was  not  Laruy,  worried  by  tiie 
thought: 'How — when — where — can  I  say — what:'  They 
did  not  yet  even  know  that  he  was  married  To  tell  them 
he  was  married  might  jeopardise  his  every  chance:  vet,  ii  he 
did  not  definitely  make  them  understand  that  he  wished  for 
Annette's  hand,  it  would  be  dropping  inrc  some  cdier 
clutch  before  he  was  free  to  claim  it. 

At  tea,  which  they  both  took  with  lemon,  Scames  sncke 
of  the  Transvaal. 

"  There'U  be  war,"  he  said. 

Madame  Lamotte  lamented. 

"  Ces  tauvres  gsns  hergerj T'"'  Ccnld  thev  net  be  left 
to  themselves  ? 

Soames  smile i — tne  qnesrion  seemei  ::   -  —  absurd. 

Surely  as  a  woman  of  business  she  understood  that  the 
British  could  not  abandon  their  legitimate  ccmmercial 
interests. 

"  Ah  I  that !"  But  Madame  Lamotte  fcnnd  that  the 
English  were  a  little  hypocrite.  They  were  talHne  of  jnstite 
and  the  Uitlanders,  not  of  business.  Monsieur  was  the  nrst 
who  had  spoken  to  her  of  that, 

"  The  Boers  are  only  half- civilised.'"'  remarked  Scames: 
"  they  stand  in  the  way  of  progress.  It  will  never  do  to  let 
our  suzerainty  go." 

"  What  does  that  mean  to  say :  Suzerainty  \  What  a 
strange  word  !"  Soames  became  eloquent,  roused  bv  these 
threats  to  the  principle  of  possession,  and  stimulated  bv 
Annette's  eyes  fixed  on  him-  He  was  delighted  when 
presently  she  said: 

"  I  think  Monsieur  is  right.  They  should  be  tanrht  i. 
lesson."     She  was  sensible  ! 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  we  must  act  w-dth  mtcerinc:: 


52S  THE  FCRSITE  SAGA 


I'z:  nr  "iiiiro.  ^  -  ~us:  be  f.na  "vviihcut  b-iUTin?,  Will 
r:u  ::~e  ur  izi  see  ~t  r:::ure5  :"*     Mcri^r  :::~    rze  to 

■ :"  ::  :::rie  treisures,  lie  soon  percciTcc.  init  zl.cj  A.iiew 

Ti-z-    riised   his  last   Miure,    xhan   remarkable 
fruzT  ;:  :  •  Hi-v-cart  goi~g  Home,'  as  if  it  were  a  lithograph. 
Ke      ;-i:f :-  :1~::":  -^r.r.  r~t  to  see  how  they  would  view  the 
ie"i^;-    .:       :    ::t:::~ — m   Isriels   whose    price    Ee    had 
M::Jiri  irce'iizr   :  :=    "ow  almcst  certain  it  had 

r±i.Eie-  rcr  T^-^e.  2z_  _  .  .  _  :r  retier  en  zzt  zzarket  again. 
They  did  not  vie"  i:  i:  il.  Tf-is  %v:!  ;  5J:::>:  ^nd  yet  to 
live  iz  A--t::e  i  -■::.-  ::;:t  ::  :::~    -  :  .:-i  :;  ztzzei  than 

middle-clii;  :c  deal  wiiii.  A:  zz.t  tzi  ::  :r.e  r^-;~  was 
a  Meissoniei  of  which  he  was  rather  ii:.^zz.ti — 2\Ieissonier 
was  so  steaii-y  £-cizg  down.  Miia~e  lizi:tte  stepped 
before  it. 

"  Meisfonier  I  Ah  ]  What  a  jewel ."  She  had  he^ri  : lie 
name;  Seine?  tcoV  sdr^ntage  of  that  mczient.  Very  gezrly 
tonching  Az^tzzt'i  ^rzi.  ::e  said: 

'•  How  do  yon  liie  my  place,  Annette  :'' 

Q"- ^  -5" £  —  ~~  ^hrizix.  21-2.  not  res'DOiid *  she  .z  z £.tz  lz  mm  inil, 
lockei  -:~-.  azz  zmm-rei: 

"WE:    -  :Ei  i::  me  i:  :      I:  is  s:  beiurifm:^' 

"PerEiT;  iizif:  11" "  Smmt:  Eiii.  ^li  storired. 

5:  ireT"  sEe  'vi:.  m  seE-T  i-.t^ti — E.r  fririTtzed  him. 
Those  c:mE:--:"tr-:--e  t-e:.  :i-t  :_:'  ::  :m:  ;:r^m-  'tm. 
her  deli^ite  cmres — iz.t  '■^•"=.1  i  i-iz.z::.::  Trzim^:::-  ::  mn:- 
cretion  !  No!  No!  Onezi_5:  :t  m:e  ::  :zt  i  r:--m. — 
mni-"-  ;  irtr  .  '  _r  _  z.\.z  on,  ne  'z.'.z'zz-'.  i"  "  i—  T«r.T;.:;e 
her."  E.I.1  nt  ;::-ei  ever  to  Mmime  Eiii:::e,  m:  ms 
rt-ni  in  f — :  ::  the  Meissemer. 

"Ye:,  mi:  :  :---  ^  T'^  -:"rE  ::>:;  E:m  mm.  Yea 
must  cem;  irim.  mimmt.  irm  i.z  :  .im  -iimi  _r.  Yon 
must  both  come  ii-i  mez.i  *  m^m:. 


IN  CH.\NXERY  529 

Enchanted,  would  it  not  be  beautiful  to  see  them  lighted  ? 
By  moonlight  too,  the  river  muft  be  rayishing  ! 

Annette  murmured: 

"  Thou  art  sentimental,  Mamanr* 

Sentimental  •  That  black-robed,  comelv,  substantial 
Frenchwoman  of  the  world  !  And  suddenly  he  was  certain 
as  he  could  be  that  there  was  no  sentiment  in  either  of  them. 
All  the  better.     Of  what  use  sentiment  ?     And  yet ! 

He  drove  to  the  station  with  them,  and  saw  them  into  the 
train.  To  the  tightened  pressure  of  his  hand  it  seemed 
that  Annette's  fingers  responded  just  a  little;  her  face  ;ni-e£ 
at  him  through  the  darL 

He  went  back  to  the  carriage,  brooding.  "  Go  en  ho^e, 
Jordan,"  he  said  to  the  coachman;  "I'll  walk."  Azi  lit 
strode  out  into  the  darkening  lanes,  caution  and  the  itsL-e 
of  possession  playing  see-saw  within  him  "  Bon  soir^ 
monsieur  P"*  How  softly  she  had  said  it.  To  know 
what  was  in  her  mind  !  The  French — they  were  like  cats — 
one  could  teU  nothing !  But — hew  pretty !  What  a 
perfect  young  thing  to  hold  in  one's  arms  !  What  a  mother 
for  his  heir  !  And  he  thought,  with  a  smUe,  of  his  family 
and  their  surprise  at  a  French  wife,  and  their  curiosity,  and 
of  the  way  he  would  play  with  it  and  bu5et  it — confound 
them  !  The  poplars  sighed  in  the  darkness;  an  owl  hooted. 
Shadows  deepened  in  the  water.  *  I  will  and  must  be  free,' 
he  thought.  *  I  won't  hang  about  any  longer.  I'U  go  and 
see  Irene.  If  you  want  things  done,  do  them  yotirselL  I 
must  live  again — live  and  move  and  have  my  being.'  And 
in  echo  to  that  queer  biblicality  church-hells  ch:— ei  :he 
call  to  evening  prayer. 


iS 


CHAPTER  XI 

AND    VISITS    THE    PAST 

On  a  Tuesday  evening  after  dining  at  his  Club  Soames  set 
out  to  do  what  required  more  courage  and  perhaps  less 
delicacy  than  anything  he  had  yet  undertaken  in  his  life — 
save  perhaps  his  birth,  and  one  other  action.  He  chose  the 
evening,  indeed,  partly  because  Irene  was  more  likely  to  be 
in,  but  mainly  because  he  had  failed  to  find  sufficient 
resolution  by  daylight,  had  needed  wine  to  give  him  extra 
daring. 

He  left  his  hansom  on  the  Embankment,  and  walked  up 
to  the  Old  Church,  uncertain  of  the  block  of  flats  where 
he  knew  she  lived.  He  found  it  hiding  behind  a  much  larger 
mansion:  and  having  read  the  name,  *  Mrs.  Irene  Heron  * 
— Heron,  forsooth  !  Her  maiden  name:  so  she  used  that 
again,  did  she  ? — he  stepped  back  into  the  road  to  look  up 
at  the  windows  of  the  first  floor.  Light  was  coming 
through  in  the  corner  flat,  and  he  could  hear  a  piano  being 
played.  He  had  never  had  a  love  of  music,  had  secretly 
borne  it  a  grudge  in  the  old  days  when  so  often  she  had 
turned  to  her  piano,  making  of  it  a  refuge  place  into  which 
she  knew  he  could  not  enter.  Repulse  !  The  long  repulse, 
at  first  restrained  and  secret,  at  last  open  1  Bitter  memory 
came  with  that  sound.  It  must  be  she  playing,  and  thus 
almost  assured  of  seeing  her,  he  stood  more  undecided  than 
ever.  Shivers  of  anticipation  ran  through  him;  his  tongue 
felt  dry,  his  heart  beat  fast.  *  /  have  no  cause  to  be  afraid,' 
he  thought.  And  then  the  lawyer  .stirred  within  him. 
Was   he   doing  a   foolish   thing  ?     Ought  he   not   to  have 

530 


IN  CHANCERY ^  531 

arranged  a  formal  meeting  in  the  presence  of  her  trustee  ? 
No  !  Not  before  that  fellow  Jolyon,  who  sympathised  with 
her !  Never !  He  crossed  back  into  the  doorway,  and, 
slowly,  to  keep  down  the  beating  of  his  heart,  mounted  the 
single  flight  of  stairs  and  rang  the  bell.  When  the  door  was 
opened  to  him  his  sensations  were  regulated  by  the  scent 
which  came — that  perfume — from  away  back  in  the  past, 
bringing  mufiled  remembrance:  fragrance  of  a  drawing- 
room  he  used  to  enter,  of  a  house  he  used  to  own — perfume 
of  dried  rose-leaves  and  honey  ! 

"  Say,  Mr.  Forsyte,"  he  said,  "  your  mistress  will  see  me, 
I  know."     He  had  thought  this  out;  she  would  think  it  was 


on  1 


Joly 

When  the  maid  was  gone  and  he  was  alone  in  the  tiny 
hall,  where  the  light  was  dim  from  one  pearly-shaded  sconce, 
and  walls,  carpet,  everything  was  silvery,  making  the  walled- 
in  space  all  ghostly,  he  could  only  think  ridiculously:  *  Shall 
I  go  in  with  my  overcoat  on,  or  take  it  off?'  The  music 
ceased,  the  maid  said  from  the  doorway: 

"  Will  you  walk  in,  sir  ?" 

Soames  walked  in.  He  noted  mechanically  that  all  was 
still  silvery,  and  that  the  upright  piano  was  of  satinwood. 
She  had  risen  and  stood  recoiled  against  it;  her  hand,  placed 
on  the  keys  as  if  groping  for  support,  had  struck  a  sudden 
discord,  held  for  a  moment,  and  released.  The  light  from 
the  shaded  piano-candle  fell  on  her  neck,  leaving  her  face 
rather  in  shadow.  She  was  in  a  black  evening  dress,  with  a 
sort  of  mantilla  over  her  shoulders — he  did  not  remember 
ever  having  seen  her  in  black,  and  the  thought  passed  through 
him:  *  She  dresses  even  when  she's  alone.' 

"  You  !"  he  heard  her  whisper. 

Many  times  Soames  had  rehearsed  this  scene  in  fancy. 
Rehear-sal  served  him  not  at  all.  He  simply  could  not  speak. 
He  had  never  thought  that  the  sight  of  this  woman  whom 


53«  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

lis  had  once  so  passionatclv  desired,  so  completely  owned, 
and  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  twelve  jears,  could  a5ect  him 
in  this  way.  He  had  imagined  himself  speaking  and  acting, 
half  as  man  of  business,  half  as  judge.  And  now  it  was  as 
if  he  were  in  the  presence  not  of  a  mere  woman  and  erring 
wife,  but  of  some  force,  subtle  and  elusive  as  atmosphere 
itself,  within  him  and  outside.  A  kind  of  defensive  irony 
welled  up  in  him. 

'•  Yes,  it's  a  queer  visit  !     I  hope  you're  well." 

"  Thank  you.     Will  vou  sit  down  r" 

She  had  moved  away  from  the  piano,  and  gone  over  to  a 
window- seat,  sinking  on  to  it,  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her 
lap.  Light  fell  on  her  there,  so  that  Soames  could  see  her 
face,  ejes,  hair,  strangely  as  he  remembered  them,  strangely 
beautiful. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  satin-wood  chair,  upholstered 
with  silver-coloured  stutt,  close  to  where  he  was  standing. 

"  You  have  not  changed,"  he  said. 

"  No  :     What  have  you  come  for  '" 

"  To  discuss  things." 

•'  I  have  heard  what  you  want  from  your  cousin." 

"Well?" 

"  I  am  willing.     I  have  always  been." 

The  sound  of  her  voice,  reserved  and  close,  the  sight  of  her 
ngure  watchfully  poised,  defensive,  was  helping  him  now. 
A  thousand  memories  of  her,  ever  on  the  watch  against  him, 
stirred,  and  he  said  bitterly: 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough,  then,  to  give  me 
information  on  which  I  can  act.  The  law  must  be  complied 
with." 

"  I  have  none  to  give  you  that  you  don't  know  of." 

"  Twelve  years  !     Do  you  suppose  I  can  believe  that  ?" 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  mil  believe  anything  I  say;  but  it's 
the  truth." 


IN  CHANCERY  533 

Soames  looked  at  her  hard.  He  had  said  that  she  had  not 
changed;  now  he  perceived  that  she  had.  Not  in  face, 
except  that  it  was  more  beautiful;  not  in  form,  except  that 
it  was  a  little  fuller — no  !  She  had  changed  spiritually. 
There  was  more  of  her,  as  it  were,  something  of  activity  and 
daring,  where  there  had  been  sheer  passive  resistance. 
*  Ah !'  he  thought,  *  that's  her  independent  income ! 
Confound  Uncle  Jolyon  I' 

"  I  suppose  you're  comfortably  cS  now  ?"  he  said. 

**  Thank  you,  yes." 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  me  provide  for  you  ?  I  would  have, 
in  spite  of  everything.'* 

A  faint  smile  came  on  her  lips;  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  You  are  still  my  wife,"  said  Soames.  Why  he  said  that, 
what  he  meant  by  it,  he  knew  neither  when  he  spoke  nor 
after.  It  was  a  truism  almost  preposterous,  but  its  efiect 
was  startling.  She  rose  from  the  window- seat,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  perfectly  still,  looking  at  him.  He  could  see 
her  bosom  heaving.  Then  she  turned  to  the  window  and 
threw  it  open. 

"  Why  do  that  ?"  he  said  sharply.  "  You'll  catch  ccld  in 
that  dress.  Pm  not  dangerous."  And  he  uttered  a  little 
sad  laugh. 

She  echoed  it — faintly,  bitterly, 

"  It  was— habit." 

"  Rather  odd  habit,"  said  Soames  as  bitterly.  "  Shut 
the  window  I" 

She  shut  it  and  sat  down  again.  She  had  developed  power, 
this  woman — this — wife  of  his  !  He  felt  it  issuing  from  her 
as  she  sat  there,  in  a  sort  of  armour.  And  almost  uncon- 
sciously he  rose  and  moved  nearer;  he  wanted  to  see  the 
expression  on  her  face.  Her  eyes  met  his  unflinching 
Heavens  !  how  clear  they  were,  and  what  a  dark  brown 
aeainst  that  white  skin,  and  that  burnt-amber  hair  !     And 


534  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

how  white  her  shoulders  !  Funny  sensation  this  !  He 
ought  to  hate  her. 

"  You  had  better  tell  me,"  he  said ;  "  it's  to  your  advantage 
to  be  free  as  well  as  to  mine.     That  old  matter  is  too  old." 

"  I  have  told  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there  has  been  nothing — 
nobody  ?" 

"  Nobody.     You  must  go  to  your  own  life." 

Stung  by  that  retort,  Soames  moved  towards  the  piano 
and  back  to  the  hearth,  to  and  fro,  as  he  had  been  wont  in 
the  old  days  in  their  drawing-room  when  his  feelings  were 
too  much  for  him. 

"  That  won't  do,"  he  said.  "  You  deserted  me.  In 
common  justice  it's  for  you " 

He  saw  her  shrug  those  white  shoulders,  heard  her 
murmur: 

"  Yes.  Why  didn't  you  divorce  me  then  ?  Should  I 
have  cared  ?" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  her  intently  with  a  sort  of 
curiosity.  What  on  earth  did  she  do  with  herself,  if  she 
really  lived  quite  alone  ?  And  why  had  he  not  divorced 
her  ?  The  old  feeling  that  she  had  never  understood  him, 
never  done  him  justice,  bit  him  while  he  stared  at  her. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  have  made  me  a  good  wife  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes;  it  was  a  crime  to  marry  you.  I  have  paid  for  it. 
You  will  find  some  way  perhaps.  You  needn't  mind  my 
name,  I  have  none  to  lose.     Now  I  think  you  had  better  go." 

A  sense  of  defeat — of  being  defrauded  of  his  self -justifi- 
cation, and  of  something  else  beyond  power  of  explanation 
to  himself,  beset  Soames  like  the  breath  of  a  cold  fog. 
Mechanically  he  reached  up,  took  from  the  mantel-shelf 
a  little  china  bowl,  reversed  it,  and  said: 

"  Lowestoft.  Where  did  you  get  this  ?  I  bought  its 
fellow  at  Jobson's."     And,  visited  by  the  sudden  memory 


IN  CHANCERS  535 

of  how,  those  many  years  ago,  he  and  she  had  bought  china 
together,  he  remained  staring  at  the  little  bowl,  as  if  it 
contained  all  the  past.     Her  voice  roused  him. 

"  Take  it.     I  don't  want  it." 

Soames  put  it  back  on  the  shelf. 

'*  Will  you  shake  hands  ?"  he  said. 

A  faint  smile  curved  her  lips.  She  held  out  her  hand. 
It  was  cold  to  his  rather  feverish  touch.  '  She's  made  of  ice,' 
he  thought — *  she  was  always  made  of  ice  !'  But  even 
as  that  thought  darted  through  him,  his  senses  were  assailed 
by  the  perfume  of  her  dress  and  body,  as  though  the  warmth 
within  her,  which  had  never  been  for  him,  were  struggling 
to  show  its  presence.  And  he  turned  on  his  heel.  He  walked 
out  and  away,  as  if  someone  with  a  whip  were  after  him, 
not  even  looking  for  a  cab,  glad  of  the  empty  Embankment 
and  the  cold  river,  and  the  thick-strewn  shadows  of  the 
plane-tree  leaves — confused,  flurried,  sore  at  heart,  and 
vaguely  disturbed,  as  though  he  had  made  some  deep 
mistake  whose  consequences  he  could  not  foresee.  And 
the  fantastic  thought  suddenly  assailed  him:  if  instead  of: 
*  I  think  you  had  better  go,'  she  had  said,  *  I  think  you 
had  better  stay  '!  What  should  he  have  felt,  what  would  he 
have  done  ?  That  cursed  attraction  of  her  was  there 
for  him  even  now,  after  all  these  years  of  estrangement  and 
bitter  thoughts.  It  was  there,  ready  to  mount  to  his  head 
at  a  sign,  a  touch.  "  I  was  a  fool  to  go  !"  he  muttered. 
"  I've  advanced  nothing.     Who  could  imagine  ?     I  never 

thought !"     Memory,  flown  back  to  the  first  years  of 

his  marriage,  played  him  torturing  tricks.  She  had  not 
deserved  to  keep  her  beauty — the  beauty  he  had  owned  and 
known  so  well.  And  a  kind  of  bitterness  at  the  tenacity 
of  his  own  admiration  welled  up  in  him.  Most  men  would 
have  hated  the  sight  of  her,  as  she  had  deserved.  She  had 
spoiled  his  life,  wounded  his  pride  to  death,  defrauded  him 


536  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  a  son.  And  yet  the  mere  .'  lit  of  her,  cold  and  resisting 
as  ever,  had  this  power  to  upset  him  utterly  !  It  was  some 
damned  magnetism  she  had  !  And  no  wonder  if,  as  she 
asserted,  she  had  lived  untouched  these  last  twelve  years. 
So  Bosinney — cursed  be  his  memory  ! — had  lived  on  all  this 
time  with  her  !  Soames  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  glad 
of  that  knowledge  or  no. 

Nearing  his  Club  at  last  he  stopped  to  buy  a  paper.  A 
headline  ran:  *  Boers  reported  to  repudiate  suzerainty!' 
Suzerainty  !  *  Just  like  her  !'  he  thought:  '  she  always  did. 
Suzerainty  !  I  still  have  it  by  rights.  She  must  be  awfully 
lonely  in  that  wretched  little  fiat  !* 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON    FORSYTE    'CHANGE 

SoAMES  belonged  to  two  Clubs,  '  The  Connoisseurs,'  which 
he  put  on  his  cards  and  seldom  visited,  and  *  The  Remove.' 
which  he  did  not  put  on  his  cards  and  frequented.  He 
had  joined  this  Liberal  institution  five  years  ago,  having 
made  sure  that  its  members  were  now  nearly  all  sound 
Conservatives  in  heart  and  pocket,  if  not  in  principle. 
Uncle  Nicholas  had  put  him  up.  The  fine  reading-room 
was  decorated  in  the  Adam  style. 

On  entering  that  evening  he  glanced  at  the  tape  for  any 
news  about  the  Transvaal,  and  noted  that  Consols  were 
down  seven-sixteenths  since  the  morning.  He  was  turning 
away  to  seek  the  reading-room  when  a  voice  behind  him  said: 

"  Well,  Soames,  that  went  off  all  right." 

It  was  Uncle  Nicholas,  in  a  frock-coat  and  his  special 
cut-away  collar,  with  a  black  tie  passed  through  a  ring. 
Heavens  !  How  young  and  dapper  he  looked  at  eighty- 
two  1 

"  I  think  Rogerd  have  been  pleased,"  his  uncle  went  on. 
"  The  thing  was  very  well  done.  Blackley's  ?  I'll  make  a 
note  of  them.  Buxton's  done  me  no  good.  These  Boers 
are  upsetting  me — that  fellow  Chamberlain's  driving  the 
country  into  war.     What  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Bound  to  come,"  murmured  Soames. 

Nicholas  passed  his  hand  over  his  thin,  clean-shaven  cheeks, 
very  rosy  after  his  summer  cure;  a  slight  pout  had  gathered 
on  his  lips.  This  business  had  revived  all  his  Liberal  prin- 
ciples, 

537  'S« 


538  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I  mistrust  that  chap;  he's  a  stormy  petrel.  House- 
property  will  go  down  if  there's  war.  You'll  have  trouble 
with  Roger's  estate.  I  often  told  him  he  ought  to  get  out  of 
some  of  his  houses.     He  was  an  opinionated  beggar." 

*  There  was  a  pair  of  you  !'  th®ught  Soames.  But  he 
never  argued  with  an  uncle,  in  that  way  preserving  their 
opinion  of  him  as  *  a  long-headed  chap,'  and  the  legal  care 
of  their  property. 

"  They  tell  me  at  Timothy's,"  said  Nicholas,  lowering 
his  voice,  "  that  Dartie  has  gone  off  at  last.  That'll  be  a 
relief  to  your  father.     He  was  a  rotten  egg.^' 

Again  Soames  nodded.  If  there  was  a  subject  on  which 
the  Forsytes  really  agreed,  it  was  the  character  of  Montague 
Dartie. 

"  You  take  care,"  said  Nicholas,  "  or  he'll  turn  up  again. 
Winifred  had  better  have  the  tooth  out,  I  should  say.  No 
use  preserving  what's  gone  bad." 

Soames  looked  at  him  sideways.     His  nerves,  exacerbated 
by  the  interview  he  had  just  come  through,  disposed  him  to 
see  a  personal  allusion  in  those  words. 
"  I'm  advising  her,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  Well,"  said  Nicholas,  "  the  brougham's  waiting;  I  must 

get  home.     I'm  very  poorly.    Remember  me  to  your  father." 

And  having  thus  reconsecrated  the  ties  of  blood,  he  passed 

down  the  steps  at  his  youthful  gait  and  was  wrapped  into 

his  fur  coat  by  the  junior  porter. 

*  I've  never  known  Uncle  Nicholas  other  than  "  very 
poorly,"  '  mused  Soames,  *  or  seen  him  look  other  than  ever- 
lasting. What  a  family  !  Judging  by  him,  I've  got  thirty- 
eight  years  of  health  before  me.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to 
waste  them.'  And  going  over  to  a  mirror  he  stood  looking 
at  his  face.  Except  for  a  line  or  two,  and  three  or  four  grey 
hairs  in  his  little  dark  moustache,  had  he  aged  any  more  than 
Irene?     The  prime  of  life — he  and  she  in  the  very  prime 


IN  CHANCERY  539 

of  life  !  And  a  fantastic  thought  shot  into  his  mind. 
Absurd !  Idiotic  !  But  again  it  came.  And  genuinel7 
alarmed  by  the  recurrence,  as  one  is  by  the  second  fit  of 
shivering  which  presages  a  feverish  cold,  he  sat  down  on  the 
weighing  machine.  Eleven  stone  !  He  had  not  varied 
two  pounds  in  twenty  years.  What  age  was  she  ?  Nearly 
thirty-seven — not  too  old  to  have  a  child — not  at  all ! 
Thirty-seven  on  the  ninth  of  next  month.  He  remembered 
her  birthday  well — he  had  always  observed  it  religiously, 
even  that  last  birthday  so  soon  before  she  left  him,  when  he 
was  almost  certain  she  was  faithless.  Four  birthdays  in  his 
house.  He  had  looked  forward  to  them,  because  his  gifts 
had  meant  a  semblance  of  gratitude,  a  certain  attempt  at 
warmth.  Except,  indeed,  that  last  birthday — which  had 
tempted  him  to  be  too  religious  !  And  he  shied  away  in 
thought.  Memory  heaps  dead  leaves  on  corpse-like  deeds, 
from  under  which  they  do  but  vaguely  offend  the  sense. 
And  then  he  thought  suddenly:  '  I  could  send  her  a  present 
for  her  birthday.  After  all,  we're  Christians  !  Couldn't 
I — couldn't  we  join  up  again  !'  And  he  uttered  a  deep 
sigh  sitting  there.  Annette  !  Ah  !  but  between  him 
and  Annette  was  the  need  for  that  wretched  divorce  suit  ! 
And  how  ? 

"  A  man  tan  always  work  these  things,  if  he'll  take  it  on 
himself,"  Jolyon  had  said. 

But  why  should  he  take  the  scandal  on  himself  with  his 
whole  career  as  a  pillar  of  the  law  at  stake  ?  It  was  not 
fair  !  It  was  quixotic  !  Twelve  years'  separation  in  which 
he  had  taken  no  steps  to  free  himself  put  out  of  court  the 
possibility  of  using  her  conduct  with  Bosinney  as  a  ground 
for  divorcing  her.  By  doing  nothing  to  secure  relief  he 
had  acquiesced,  even  if  the  evidence  could  now  be  gathered, 
which  was  more  than  doubtful.  Besides,  his  own  pride 
would  never  let  him  use  that  old  incident,  he  had  suffered 


540  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

from  it  too  much.  No  !  Nothing  but  fresh  misconduct 
on  her  part — but  she  had  denied  it;  and — almost — he  had 
believed  her.     Hung  up  !     Utterly  hung  up  ! 

He  rose  from  the  scooped-out  red  velvet  seat  with  a  feeling 
of  constriction  about  his  vitals.  He  would  never  sleep  with 
this  going  on  in  him  !  And,  taking  coat  and  hat  again,  he 
went  out,  moving  eastward.  In  Trafalgar  Square  he  became 
aware  of  some  special  commotion  travelling  towards  him  out 
of  the  mouth  of  the  Strand.  It  materialised  in  newspaper 
men  calling  out  so  loudly  that  no  words  whatever  could  be 
heard.     He  stopped  to  listen,  and  one  came  by. 

"  Payper  !  Special  !  Ultimatium  by  Krooger  !  Declar- 
ation of  war  !"  Soames  bought  the  paper.  There  it  was 
in  the  stop  press!  His  first  thought  was:  *  The  Boers  are 
committing  suicide.'  His  second:  '  Is  there  anything  still  I 
ought  to  sell  ?'  If  so  he  had  missed  the  chance — there  would 
certainly  be  a  slump  in  the  City  to-morrow.  He  swallowed 
this  thought  with  a  nod  of  defiance.  That  ultimatum  was 
insolent — sooner  than  let  it  pass  he  was  prepared  to  lose 
money.  They  wanted  a  lesson,  and  they  would  get  it; 
but  it  would  take  three  months  at  least  to  bring  them  to 
heel.  There  weren't  the  troops  out  there;  always  behind 
time,  the  Government  !  Confound  those  newspaper  rats  ! 
What  was  the  use  of  waking  everybody  up  ?  Breakfast 
to-morrow  was  quite  soon  enough.  And  he  thought  with 
alarm  of  his  father.  They  would  cry  it  down  Park  Lane. 
Hailing  a  hansom,  he  got  in  and  told  the  man  to  drive  there. 
James  and  Emily  had  just  gone  up  to  bed,  and  after 
communicating  the  news  to  Warmson,  Soames  prepared 
to  follow.  He  paused  by  after-thought  to  say: 
"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Warmson  ?" 
The  butler  ceased  passing  a  hat  brush  over  the  silk  hat 
Soames  had  taken  off,  and,  inclining  his  face  a  little  forward, 
said  in  a  low  voice: 


IN  CHANCERY  541 

"  Well,  sir,  they  'aven't  a.  chance,  of  course;  but  I'm 
told  they're  very  good  shots.  I've  got  a  son  in  the  Innis- 
killings." 

"  You,  Warmson  ?  Why,  I  didn't  know  you  were 
married." 

"  No,  sir.    I  don't  talk  of  it.     I  expect  he'll  be  going  out.*' 

The  slighter  shock  Soames  had  felt  on  discovering  that  he 
knew  so  little  of  one  whom  he  thought  he  knew  so  well  was 
lost  in  the  slight  shock  of  discovering  that  the  war  might 
touch  one  personally.  Born  in  the  year  of  the  Crimean 
War,  he  had  only  come  to  consciousness  by  the  time  the 
Indian  Mutiny  was  over;  since  then  the  many  little  wars  of 
the  British  Empire  had  been  entirely  professional,  quite 
unconnected  with  the  Forsytes  and  all  they  stood  for  in  the 
body  politic.  This  war  would  surely  be  no  exception. 
But  his  mind  ran  hastily  over  his  family.  Two  of  the 
Haymans,  he  had  heard,  were  in  some  Yeomanry  or  other — 
it  had  always  been  a  pleasant  thought,  there  was  a  certain 
distinction  about  the  Yeomanry;  they  wore,  or  used  to  wear, 
a  blue  uniform  with  silver  about  it,  and  rode  horses.  And 
Archibald,  he  remembered,  had  once  on  a  time  joined  the 
Militia,  but  had  given  it  up  because  his  father,  Nicholas, 
had  made  such  a  fuss  about  his  *  wasting  his  time  peacocking 
about  in  a  uniform.'  Recently  he  had  heard  somewhere 
that  young  Nicholas'  eldest,  very  young  Nicholas,  had 
become  a  Volunteer.  *  No,'  thought  Soames,  mounting 
the  stairs  slowly,  *  there's  nothing  in  that  !' 

He  stood  on  the  landing  outside  his  parents'  bed  and 
dressing  rooms,  debating  whether  or  not  to  put  his  nose 
in  and  say  a  reassuring  word  Opening  the  landing  window, 
he  listened.  The  rumble  from  Piccadilly  was  all  the  sound 
he  heard,  and  with  the  thought,  '  If  these  motor-cars 
increase,  it'll  affect  house  property,'  he  was  about  to  pass 
on  up  to  the  room  always  kept  ready  for  him  when  he  heard. 


:e  forsyti  saga 


jii-^   cill   c:   1   ze.T5Teiidor. 

:  TJie  zruse  .     n^  izcciec  en 


whire   iJier:    iz"    rill:-.v.    c::-:   c:   vt'iIz'sl  :le  r::z:s    c:  ]i:s 


T^e  Bc^n 


-0-  .--..-  :Ii^e5:-.  :-i:::-£a:Jirie5. 

Szi-ei.    :::.    li-iei    -    ^5    i.-tr.     He   vr..    taking   it 


litzlr,  "  I  sl^z":  live  to  see  iLt 


Xczic-e,  ]i-ts  :     Ir Z  be  orer 


^•_  _• •» 

'•  7-e-  :-?i:   -    itzz   ziz  Roberts.     I:   aZ   ::niei  frcm 


IN  CK-^\XIRY  543 

¥oice,  something  of  real  anxietj.     Ir  ^ks  a-  if  Le  L^d  said: 

*I  shall  iicTer  see  tke  c:f  :c"-'r~  rri:e:i-  :-z  :£:t  iraiiL 
I  shall  liave  to  die  cefort  -  _:  :        ;  ;  i        ._:      .:   irite 

of  the  feeling  that  Janei  zi ie:  i : :  :  t  ti : :  _:; ;  1 1  : :  :  t  :  _:.7, 
thev  were  tcnched.  Siames  .. ez:  -z  :o  zie  :t:  :.  ;-i 
stroked  his  fathers  hand  which  had  siLz^zztz  iziz^  . :  :  ::  :.t 
b-edclothes,  long  and  wriniled  with  Teins. 

"  Mark  mv  words  ?'  said  James,  "  ccnscli  v. ill  ^-_  ::  z'=^z. 
For  all  I  know.  Val  mar  go  and  enlist." 

"  Oh,  ccme,  James  :'  cried  EmllT,  ^*  tch  talk  as  ii 
there  were  canger." 

Her  comfortable  Tcice  ittTz^ti  :s  5c-::iie  J^mes  f:r  cnce. 

"  Well.*"  he  muttered,  *"  I  told  jon  how  ii  ^:nld  ze.  I 
don't  know,  Pm  sure — nohcdv  tells  me  anrthing.  .-irt  jcn 
sleeping  here,  mj  hojr  :"' 

The  crisis  was  past,  he  would  now  ccmzife  nimseli  ::  jiis 
normal  decree  ot  anxietr:  and,  assnnng  ms  latner  '.r.kz  ne 
was  sleeping  in  the  house,  Soames  pressed  'l^i  hazz.  azz  went 
op  to  his  room. 

The  following  aftemocn  .:zt:;;Z  zze  greaieit  crcwd 
Timothj-'s  had  known  for  ziizj  a  veir.  On  nid&nal 
occasions,  snch  as  thds,  it  was,  indeez.  ilmis:  :n:T::.:zir  :o 
aroid  going  there.  Not  that  there  ^as  anj  danger.  ; :  ::  tier. 
onlv  jnst  enough  to  make  it  necesarv  :c  assnre  e^iz  :\i.tz 
that  there  was  ncne. 

befcre — Siizies  had  said  it  was  bound  tc  ccme.  7...  ;.i 
Kmger  was  in  his  dotage — whj,  ze  ziz.-:  ct  -"zTeniy-nTc  d. 
he  was  a  dav !  ^'Nicholas  w=5  elg-ty-c-vcO  What  had 
Timothr  said:  He  had  hid  2.  z:  after  Majnba.  These 
Boers  were  a  grasping  lot  .  The  dirk -haired  Frande,  who 
had  arrired  on  his  heels,  with  the  ccztradicticzs  tczch  which 
became  the  free  spirit  of  a  danehter  c:  Rcrer.  chimed  zz; 
"Kettle    azd    ret!    Uncle'' Xichc  las.  ^  -^^Tiat   rnce    the 


544  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Uitlanders  ?"  What  price,  indeed  !  A  new  expression,  and 
believed  to  be  due  to  her  brother  George. 

Aunt  Juley  thought  Francie  ought  not  to  say  such  a  thing. 
Dear  Mrs.  MacAnder's  boy,  Charlie  MacAnder,  was  one, 
and  no  one  could  call  him  grasping.  At  this  Francie  uttered 
one  of  her  mots^  scandalising,  and  so  frequently  repeated: 

"  Well,  his  father's  a  Scotchman,  and  his  mother's  a  cat." 

Aunt  Juley  covered  her  ears,  too  late,  but  Aunt  Hester 
s-Jiiled;  as  for  Nicholas,  he  pouted — witticism  of  which  he 
was  not  the  author  was  hardly  to  his  taste.  Just  then 
Marian  Tweetyman  arrived,  followed  almost  immediately 
by  young  Nicholas.     On  seeing  his  son,  Nicholas  rose. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  he  said,  "  Nick  here  will  tell 
you  what'll  win  the  race."  And  with  this  hit  at  his  eldest, 
who,  as  a  pillar  of  accountancy,  and  director  of  an  insurance 
company,  was  no  more  addicted  to  sport  than  his  father 
had  ever  been,  he  departed.  Dear  Nicholas  !  What  race 
was  that  ?  Or  was  it  only  one  of  his  jokes  ?  He  was  a  wonder- 
ful man  for  his  age  !  How  many  lumps  would  dear  Marian 
take  ?  And  how  were  Giles  and  Jesse  ?  Aunt  Juley 
supposed  their  Yeomanry  would  be  very  busy  now  guarding 
the  coast,  though  of  course  the  Boers  had  no  ships.  But 
one  never  knew  what  the  French  might  do  if  they  had  the 
chance,  especially  since  that  dreadful  Fashoda  scare,  which 
had  upset  Timothy  so  terribly  that  he  had  made  no  invest- 
ments for  months  afterwards.  It  was  the  ingratitude  of  the 
Boers  that  was  so  dreadful,  after  everything  had  been  done 
for  them — Dr.  Jameson  imprisoned,  and  he  was  so  nice, 
Mrs.  MacAnder  had  always  said.  And  Sir  Alfred  Milner 
sent  out  to  talk  to  them — such  a  clever  man  !  She  didn't 
know  what  they  wanted. 

But  at  this  moment  occurred  one  of  those  sensations — 
so  precious  at  Timothy's — which  ^reat  occasions  sometimes 
bring  forth: 


IN  CHANCERY  545 

"  Miss  June  Forsyte." 

Aunts  Julej and  Hester  were  on  their  feet  at  once,  trembling 
from  smothered  resentment,  and  old  affection  bubbhng  up, 
and  pride  at  the  return  of  a  prodigal  June  !  Well,  this  was 
a  surprise  !  Dear  June — after  all  these  years  !  And  how 
well  she  was  looking  !  Not  changed  at  all  !  It  was  almost 
on  their  lips  to  add,  '  And  how  is  your  dear  grandfather  ?' 
forgetting  in  that  giddy  moment  that  poor  dear  Jolyon  had 
been  in  his  grave  for  seven  years  now. 

Ever  the  most  courageous  and  downright  of  all  the 
Forsytes,  June,  with  her  decided  chin  and  her  spirited  eyei 
and  her  hair  like  flames,  sat  down,  slight  and  short,  on  a 
gilt  chair  with  a  bead-worked  seat,  for  all  the  world  as  if 
ten  years  had  not  elapsed  since  she  had  been  to  see  them — 
ten  years  of  travel  and  independence  and  devotion  to 
lame  ducks.  Those  ducks  of  late  had  been  all  definitely 
painters,  etchers,  or  sculptors,  so  that  her  impatience 
with  the  Forsytes  and  their  hopelessly  inartistic  outlook 
had  become  intense.  Indeed,  she  had  almost  ceased  to 
believe  that  her  family  existed,  and  looked  round  her  now 
with  a  sort  of  challenging  directness  which  brought  exquisite 
discomfort  to  the  roomful.  She  had  not  expected  to  meet 
any  of  them  but  *  the  poor  old  things  ';  and  why  she  had 
come  to  see  them  she  hardly  knew,  except  that,  while  on 
her  way  from  Oxford  Street  to  a  studio  in  Latimer  Road, 
she  had  suddenly  remembered  them  with  compunction  aa 
two  long-neglected  old  lame  ducks. 

Aunt  Juley  broke  the  hush  again:  "We've  just  been 
saying,  dear,  how  dreadful  it  is  about  these  Boers  !  And 
what  an  impudent  thing  of  that  old  Kruger  I" 

"  Impudent  !"  said  June.  "  I  think  he's  quite  right. 
What  business  have  we  to  meddle  with  them  ?  If  he  turned 
out  all  those  wretched  Uitlanders  it  would  serve  them  right. 
They're  only  after  money." 


546  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

The  silence  of  sensation  was  broken  by  Francie  saying: 

"  What  ?  Are  you  a  pro-Boer  ?"  (undoubtedly  the  first 
use  of  that  expression). 

"  Well  !  Why  can't  we  leave  them  alone  ?"  said  June, 
just  as,  in  the  open  doorway,  the  maid  said:  "  Mr.  Soames 
Forsyte."  Sensation  on  sensation  !  Greeting  was  almost 
held  up  by  curiosity  to  see  how  June  and  he  would  take  this 
encounter,  for  it  was  shrewdly  suspected,  if  not  quite  known, 
that  they  had  not  met  since  that  old  and  lamentable  affair 
of  her  fiance  Bosinney  with  Soames'  wife.  They  were  seen 
to  just  touch  each  other's  hands,  and  look  each  at  the  other's 
left  eye  only.     Aunt  Juley  came  at  once  to  the  rescue: 

"  Dear  June  is  so  original.  Fancy,  Soames,  she  thinks 
the  Boers  are  not  to  blame." 

"  They  only  want  their  independence,"  said  June;  "  and 
why  shouldn't  they  have  it  ?" 

"  Because,"  answered  Soames,  with  his  smile  a  little  on 
one  side,  "  they  happen  to  have  agreed  to  our  suzerainty." 

"  Suzerainty  !"  repeated  June  scornfully;  "  we  shouldn't 
like  anyone's  suzerainty  over  us." 

"  They  got  advantages  in  payment,"  replied  Soames; 
"  a  contract  is  a  contract." 

*'  Contracts  are  not  always  just,"  flamed  June,  "  and 
when  they're  not,  they  ought  to  be  broken.  The  Boers 
are  much  the  weaker.     We  could  afford  to  be  generous." 

Soames  sniffed.     "  That's  mere  sentiment,"  he  said. 

Aunt  Hester,  to  whom  nothing  was  more  awful  than  any 
kind  of  disagreement,  here  leaned  forward  and  remarked 
decisively. 

"  What  lovely  weather  it  has  been  for  the  time  of  year  ?" 

But  June  was  not  to  be  diverted. 

"  I  don't  know  why  sentiment  should  be  sneered  at. 
It's  the  best  thing  in  the  world."  She  looked  defiantly 
round,  and  Aunt  Juley  had  to  intervene  again: 


IN  CHANCERY  547 

"  Have  you  bought  any  pictures  lately,  Soames  ?" 
Her  incomparable  instinct  for  the  wrong  subject  had  not 
failed  her.  Soames  flushed.  To  disclose  the  name  of  his 
latest  purchases  would  be  like  walking  into  the  jaws  of 
disdain.  For  somehow  they  all  knew  of  June's  predilection 
for  *  genius  '   not  yet  on  its  legs,   and  her  contempt  for 

*  success  '  unless  she  had  had  a  finger  in  securing  it. 

"  One  or  two,"  he  muttered. 

But  June's  face  had  changed;  the  Forsyte  within  her  was 
seeing  its  chance.  Why  should  not  Soames  buy  some  of 
the  pictures  of  Eric  Cobbley — her  last  lame  duck  ?  And 
she  promptly  opened  her  attack:  Did  Soames  know  his  work  ? 
It  was  so  wonderful.     He  was  the  coming  man. 

Oh    yes,   Soames     new   his   work.     It  was    in    his  view 

*  splashy,'  and  would  never  get  hold  of  the  public. 

June  blazed  up. 

"  Of  course  it  won't;  that's  the  last  thing  one  would  wish 
for.    I  thought  you  were  a  connoisseur,  not  a  picture- dealer." 

"  Of  course  Soames  is  a  connoisseur,"  Aunt  Juley  said 
hastily;  "  he  has  wonderful  taste — he  can  always  tell  before- 
hand 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." 


548  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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." 


IN  CHANCERY  549 

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  !  '  /  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  !  yes,  what  ?  .  .  .  The  noise  of 
hoofs  called  him   back  to  the  other  window.     Holly  was 

550 


IN  CHANCERY  551 

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  murmured.  "  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  ro  stare  at  her,  afflicted  by  the 


SS2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  evenin?.     "  I've  been 


IN  CHANCERY  553 

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  fellovv-  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  m.ansions.  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  V  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 


554 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


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  V 

"  Hallo  !"  answered  Jolyon.     "  You  ?" 

The  quick  suspicion  on  his  cousin's  face,  white  in  the 
lamplight,  decided  him. 

"  I  can  give  you  a  lift,"  he  said,  "  if  you're  going  West." 

"  Thanks,"  answered  Soames,  and  got  in. 

"  I've  been  seeing  Irene,"  said  Jolyon  when  the  cab  had 
started. 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  You  went  to  see  her  yesterday  yourself,  I  understand." 

"  I  did,"  said  Soames;  "  she's  my  wife,  you  know." 

The  tone,  the  half-lifted  sneering  lip,  roused  sudden 
anger  in  Jolyon;  but  he  subdued  it. 

"  You  ought  to  know  best,"  he  said,  "  but  if  you  want  a 
divorce  it's  not  very  wise  to  go  seeing  her,  is  it  ?  One  can't 
run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds." 

"  You're  very  good  to  warn  me,"  said  Soames,  "  but  I 
have  not  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Shf  has,"  said  Jolyon,  looking  straight  before  him; 
"you  can't  take  things  up,  you  know,  as  they  were  twelve 
years  ago." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen." 

"  Look  here !"  said  Jolyon,  "  she's  in  a  damnable 
position,  and  I  am  the  only  person  with  any  legal  say  in  her 
affairs." 

"  Except  myself,"  retorted  Soames,  "  who  am  also  in  a 
damnable  position.  Hers  is  what  she  made  for  herself; 
mine  what  she  made  for  me.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  in 
her  own  interests  I  shan't  require  her  to  return  to  me." 

"  What  !"  exclaimed  Jolyon;  and  a  shiver  went  through 
his  whole  body. 


IN  CHANCERY  555 

**  I  don't  know  what  you  may  mean  by  *  what,'  " 
answered  Soames  coldly;  "  your  say  in  her  affairs  is  confined 
to  paying  out  her  income;  please  bear  that  in  mind.  In 
choosing  not  to  disgrace  her  by  a  divorce,  I  retained  my 
rights,  and,  as  I  say,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  shan't  require 
to  exercise  them." 

"  My  God  !"  ejaculated  Jolyon,  and  he  uttered  a  short 
laugh. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Soames,  and  there  was  a  deadly  quality  in 
his  voice.  "  I've  not  forgotten  the  nickname  your  father 
gave  me,  *  The  man  of  property '  !  I'm  not  called  names 
for  nothing." 

"  This  is  fantastic,"  murmured  Jolyon.  Well,  the  fellow 
couldn't  force  his  wife  to  live  with  him.  Those  days  were 
past,  anyway  !  And  he  looked  round  at  Soames  with  the 
thought:  *  Is  he  real,  this  man?'  But  Soames  looked  very 
real,  sitting  square  yet  almost  elegant  with  the  clipped 
moustache  on  his  pale  face,  and  a  tooth  showing  where 
a  lip  was  lifted  in  a  fixed  smile.  There  was  a  long  silence, 
while  Jolyon  thought:  *  Instead  of  helping  her,  I've  made 
things  worse.'     Suddenly  Soames  said: 

"  It  would  be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  her 
in  many  ways.  " 

At  those  words  such  a  turmoil  began  taking  place  in  Jolyon 
that  he  could  barely  sit  still  in  the  cab.  It  was  as  if  he  TTcre 
boxed  up  with  hundreds  of  thousands  of  his  countrymen, 
boxed  up  with  that  something  in  the  national  character 
which  had  always  been  to  him  revolting,  something  which 
he  knew  to  be  extremely  natural  and  yet  which  seemed  to 
him  inexplicable — their  intense  belief  in  contracts  and  vested 
rights,  their  complacent  sense  of  virtue  in  the  exaction  of 
those  rights.  Here  beside  him  in  the  cab  was  the  very 
embodiment,  the  corporeal  sum  as  it  were,  of  the  possessive 
instinct — his    own    kinsman,    too  !      It    was    uncanny    and 


556  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

intolerable  !  *  But  there's  something  more  in  it  than  that !' 
he  thought  with  a  sick  feeling.  *  The  dog,  they  say,  returns 
to  his  vomit  !  The  sight  of  her  has  reawakened  something. 
Beauty  !     The  devil's  in  it  !' 

"  As  I  say,"  said  Soames,  "  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind. 
I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  kindly  leave  her  quite  alone." 

Jolyon  bit  his  lips;  he  who  had  always  hated  rows  almost 
welcomed  the  thought  of  one  now. 

"  I  can  give  you  no  such  promise,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Soames,  "  then  we  know  where  we 
are.  I'll  get  down  here."  And  stopping  the  cab  he  got 
out  without  word  or  sign  of  farewell.  Jolyon  travelled  on 
to  his  Club. 

The  first  news  of  the  war  was  being  called  in  the  streets, 
but  he  paid  no  attention.  What  could  he  do  to  help  her  ? 
If  only  his  father  were  alive  !  He  could  have  done  so  much  ! 
But  why  could  he  not  do  all  that  his  father  could  have  done  ? 
Was  he  not  old  enough  ? — turned  fifty  and  tvnce  married, 
with  grown-up  daughters  and  a  son.  *  Queer,'  he  thought. 
*  If  she  were  plain  I  shouldn't  be  thinking  twice  about  it. 
Beauty  is  the  devil,  when  you're  sensitive  to  it  !'  And  into 
the  Club  reading-room  he  went  with  a  disturbed  heart. 
In  that  very  room  he  and  Bosinney  had  talked  one  summer 
afternoon;  he  well  remembered  even  now  the  disguised 
and  secret  lecture  he  had  given  that  young  man  in  the 
interests  of  June,  the  diagnosis  of  the  Forsytes  he  had 
hazarded;  and  how  he  had  wondered  what  sort  of  woman 
it  was  he  was  warning  him  against.  And  now  !  He  was 
almost  in  want  of  a  warning  himself.  *  It's  deuced  funny  !' 
he  thought,  '  really  deuced  funny  I* 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SOAMES    DISCOVERS    WHAT    HE    WANTS 

It  is  so  much  easier  to  say,  "  Then  we  know  where  we  are," 
than  to  mean  anything  particular  by  the  words.  And  in 
saying  them  Soames  did  but  vent  the  jealous  rankling  of 
his  instincts.  He  got  out  of  the  cab  in  a  state  of  wary  anger 
— with  himself  for  not  having  seen  Irene,  with  Jolyon  for 
having  seen  her;  and  now  with  his  inability  to  tell  exactly 
what  he  wanted. 

He  had  abandoned  the  cab  because  he  could  not  bear 
to  remain  seated  beside  his  cousin,  and  walking  briskly 
eastwards  he  thought:  *  I  wouldn't  trust  that  fellow  Jolyon 
a  yard.  Once  outcast,  always  outcast  !'  The  chap  had  a 
natural  sympathy  with — with — laxity  (he  had  shied  at 
the  word  sin,  because  it  was  too  melodramatic  for  use  by  a 
Forsyte). 

Indecision  in  desire  was  to  him  a  new  feeling.  He  was 
like  a  child  between  a  promised  toy  and  an  old  one  which 
had  been  taken  away  from  him;  and  he  was  astonished  at 
himself.  Only  last  Sunday  desire  had  seemed  simple — just 
his  freedom  and  Annette.  *  I'll  go  and  dine  there,'  he 
thought.  To  see  her  might  bring  back  his  singleness  of 
intention,  calm  his  exasperation,  clear  his  mind. 

The  restaurant  was  fairly  full — a  good  many  foreigners 
and  folk  whom,  from  their  appearance,  he  took  to  be  literary 
or  artistic.  Scraps  of  conversation  came  his  way  through 
the  clatter  of  plates  and  glasses.  He  distinctly  heard  the 
Boers  sympathised  with,  the  British  Government  blamed. 
*  Don't  think  much  of  their  clientele,'  he  thought.     He 

557 


558  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

went  stolidly  through  his  dinner  and  special  coffee  without 
making  his  presence  known,  and  when  at  last  he  had  finished, 
was  careful  not  to  be  seen  going  towards  the  sanctum  of 
Madame  Lamotte.  They  were,  as  he  expected,  having 
supper — such  a  much  nicer-looking  supper  than  the  dinner 
he  had  eaten  that  he  felt  a  kind  of  grief — and  they  greeted 
him  with  a  surprise  so  seemingly  genuine  that  he  thought 
with  sudden  suspicion:  *  I  believe  they  knew  I  was  here  all  the 
time.'  He  gave  Annette  a  look  furtive  and  searching. 
So  pretty,  seemingly  so  candid;  could  she  be  angling  for 
him  ?     He  turned  to  Madame  Lamotte  and  said: 

"  I've  been  dining  here." 

Really !  If  she  had  only  known  !  There  were  dishes 
she  could  have  recommended;  what  a  pity  !  Soames  was 
confirmed  in  his  suspicion.  *  I  must  look  out  what  I'm 
doing  !'  he  thought  sharply. 

"  Another  little  cup  of  very  special  coffee,  monsieur ; 
a  liqueur,  Grand  Marnier  ?"  and  Madame  Lamotte  rose  to 
order  these  delicacies. 

Alone  with  Annette,  Soames  said,  "  Well,  Annette  ?" 
with  a  defensive  little  smile  about  his  lips. 

The  girl  blushed.  This,  which  last  Sunday  would  have 
set  his  nerves  tingling,  now  gave  him  much  the  same  feel- 
ing a  man  has  when  a  dog  that  he  owns  wriggles  and  looks 
at  him.  He  had  a  curious  sense  of  power,  as  if  he  could 
have  said  to  her,  *  Come  and  kiss  me,'  and  she  would  have 
come.  And  yet — it  was  strange — but  there  seemed  an- 
other face  and  form  in  the  room  too;  and  the  itch  in  his 
nerves,  was  it  for  that — or  for  this  ?  He  jerked  his  head 
toward  the  restaurant  and  said:  "You  have  some  queer 
customers.     Do  you  like  this  life  ?" 

Annette  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  looked  down, 
and  played  with  her  fork. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  like  it." 


IN  CHANCERY  559 

*  I've  got  her,'  thought  Soames,  *  if  I  want  her.  But 
do  I  want  her  ?'  She  was  graceful,  she  was  pretty — very- 
pretty;  she  was  fresh,  she  had  taste  of  a  kind.  His  eyes 
travelled  round  the  little  room;  but  the  eyes  of  his  mind 
went  another  journey — a  half-light,  and  silvery  walls, 
a  satinwood  piano,  a  woman  standing  against  it,  reined 
back  as  it  were  from  him — a  woman  with  white  shoulders 
that  he  knew,  and  dark  eyes  that  he  had  sought  to  know, 
and  hair  like  dull  dark  amber.  And  as  in  an  artist  who 
strives  for  the  unrealisable  and  is  ever  thirsty,  so  there  rose 
in  him  at  that  moment  the  thirst  of  the  old  passion  he  had 
never  satisfied. 

"  Well,"  he  said  calmly,  "  you're  young.  There's  every- 
thing before  yow." 

Annette  shook  her  head. 

"  I  think  sometimes  there  is  nothing  before  me  but  hard 
work.     I  am  not  so  in  love  with  work  as  mother." 

"  Your  mother  is  a  wonder,"  said  Soames,  faintly  mock- 
ing; "  she  will  never  let  failure  lodge  in  her  house." 

Annette  sighed.     "  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  rich." 

"  Oh  !  You'll  be  rich  some  day,"  answered  Soames,  still 
with  that  faint  mockery;  "  don't  be  afraid." 

Annette  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Monsieur  is  very 
kind."     And  between  her  pouting  lips  she  put  a  chocolate. 

*  Yes,  my  dear,'  thought  Soames,  *  they're  very  pretty.' 
Madame  Lamotte,  with  coffee  and  liqueur,  put  an  end  to 

that  colloquy.     Soames  did  not  stay  long. 

Outside  in  the  streets  of  Soho,  which  always  gave  him 
such  a  feeling  of  property  improperly  owned,  he  mused. 
If  only  Irene  had  given  him  a  son,  he  wouldn't  now 
be  squirming  after  women  !  The  thought  had  jumped 
out  of  its  little  dark  sentry-box  in  his  inner  conscious- 
ness. A  son — something  to  look  forward  to,  some- 
thing to  make  the  rest  of  life  worth  while,  something  to 


560  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

leave  himself  to,  some  perpetuity  of  self.  *  If  I  had  a 
son,'  he  thought  bitterly,  '  a  proper  legal  son,  I  could  make 
shift  to  go  on  as  I  used.  One  woman's  much  the  same  as 
another,  after  all.'  But  as  he  walked  he  shook  his  head. 
No  !  One  woman  was  not  the  same  as  another.  Many 
a  time  had  he  tried  to  think  that  in  the  old  days  of  his 
thwarted  married  life;  and  he  had  always  failed.  He  was 
failing  now.  He  was  trying  to  think  Annette  the  same  as 
that  other.  But  she  was  not,  she  had  not  the  lure  of  that 
old  passion.  *  And  Irene's  my  wife,'  he  thought,  *  my 
legal  wife.  I  have  done  nothing  to  put  her  away  from  me. 
Why  shouldn't  she  come  back  to  me  ?  It's  the  right  thing, 
the  lawful  thing.  It  makes  no  scandal,  no  disturbance. 
If  it's  disagreeable  to  her — but  why  should  it  be  f  I'm  not 
a  leper,  and  she — she's  no  longer  in  love  !'  Why  should  he 
be  put  to  the  shifts  and  the  sordid  disgraces  and  the  lurking 
defeats  of  the  Divorce  Court,  when  there  she  was  like  an 
empty  house  only  waiting  to  be  retaken  into  use  and  pos- 
session by  him  who  legally  owned  her  ?  To  one  so  secretive 
as  Soames  the  thought  of  re-entry  into  quiet  possession  of 
his  own  property  with  nothing  given  away  to  the  world 
was  intensely  alluring.  *  No,'  he  mused,  '  I'm  glad  I  went 
to  see  that  girl.  I  know  now  what  I  want  most.  If  only 
Irene  will  come  back  I'll  be  as  considerate  as  she  wishes; 
she  could  live  her  own  life;  but  perhaps — perhaps  she 
would  come  round  to  me.'  There  was  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
And  doggedly  along  by  the  railings  of  the  Green  Park, 
towards  his  father's  house,  he  went,  trying  to  tread  on  his 
shadow  walking  before  him  in  the  brilliant  moonlight. 


PART  II 


'9 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    THIRD    GENERATION 

Jolly  Forsyte  was  strolling  down  High  Street,  Oxford, 
on  a  November  afternoon;  Val  Dartie  was  strolling  up. 
Jolly  had  just  changed  out  of  boating  flannels  and  was  on 
his  way  to  the  *  Frying-pan,'  to  which  he  had  recently  been 
elected.  Val  had  just  changed  out  of  riding  clothes  and 
was  on  his  way  to  the  fire — a  bookmaker's  in  Cornmarket. 

"  Hallo  !"  said  JoUy. 

"  HaUo  !"  replied  Val. 

The  cousins  had  met  but  twice,  Jolly,  the  second-year 
man,  having  invited  the  freshman  to  breakfast;  and  last 
evening  they  had  seen  each  other  again  under  somewhat 
exotic  circumstances. 

Over  a  tailor's  in  the  Cornmarket  resided  one  of  those 
privileged  young  beings  called  minors,  whose  inheritances 
are  large,  whose  parents  are  dead,  whose  guardians  are  remote, 
and  whose  instincts  are  vicious.  At  nineteen  he  had  com- 
menced one  of  those  careers  attractive  and  inexplicable  to 
ordinary  mortals  for  whom  a  single  bankruptcy  is  good  as  a 
feast.  Already  famous  for  having  the  only  roulette  table 
then  to  be  found  in  Oxford,  he  was  anticipating  his  expec- 
tations at  a  dazzling  rate.  He  out-crummed  Crum, 
though  of  a  sanguine  and  rather  beefy  type  which  lacked 
the  latter's  fascinating  languor.  For  Val  it  had  been  in 
the  nature  of  baptism  to  be  taken  there  to  play  roulette; 
in  the  nature  of  confirmation  to  get  back  into  college,  after 
hours,  through  a  window  whose  bars  were  deceptive.  Once, 
during  that  evening  of  delight,  glancing  up  from  the  seduc- 

563 


564  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tire  ereez  brfrre  'r.-.~.  Ee  Eii  cinght  sight,  tlirough  a  cloud 
of  smoke,  of  his  cxjnsin  standing  opposite.  '  Raugg  gagne^ 
impair,  :1  ".s^r^  P     He  liad  not  seen  him  again. 

"  Crzie  iz  :c  the  Frring-pan  and  have  tea,"  said  J0II7, 

A  5tri-^tr.  se^izg  thezi  trg-ether,  wo;ild  have  noticed 
an  nnseizirle  resemb'ance  be:vveen  these  second  cousins 
c:  tEe  EEri  re-er^dcn  oi  FcrsTtes;  Eie  sine  bone  fonnation 
E:  :E:e.  lE:  .igE  Jcil~'5  eres  were  iirker  ^rey,  his  hair  lighter 


£ 


•  Tei  ^l£  b-::erei  buzs.  waiter,  please,"  said  Jolly. 

•'  Elive  cne  of  227  ci^=^et:es  :*'  iiii  \il.  "  I  saw  you  last 
zigE:.     How  did  you  do  :" 

"  I  didn't  play." 

"IwonrfTte*^   - Ei  " 

Thous^h  :.7.-  ::_.-  ::  rereiEng  a  whimsical  comment  on 
gamblizr  Ee  im.  :z:e  Eeiri  his  father  make — *  X^lien  you're 


'*  Rc::ez  rizie,  I  think;  I  -.vas  at  iii.i.'.  ■■■izn.  that  chap. 
He's  an  i-:^Ei  fooL" 

**  OE  '.  I  E^n't  know,"  said  Wl,  a;  one  migEt  speak  in 
defence  cf  a  disparaged  god;  "  heE  ^  r--*^^  good  sport." 

TEey  eiEninrtf   vEifs  in  silence. 

"'  Yc_  -  t:  ~y  r  t  ii.e.  didn't  you  :*'  said  Jolly,  *'  They're 
coining  up  to-morrow." 

\"al  grew  a  little  red. 

"  Really  !  I  can  give  you  a  rire  g-ood  tip  for  the  Man- 
chester November  handicap." 

"  Thanks,  I  only  take  interes:  in  the  classic  races." 

"  Y'ou  can't  make  any  miney  over  them,"  said  \'al. 

**  I  hate  the  Enr."  ia.:n  JoEy;  ''there's  iizz.  a  rev  and 
tdnL     I  like  the  paniook."* 

"  I  like  to  back  my  judgment,"  ans-.vered  \'aL 


IN  CHANCERY  565 

J0II7  smiled;  hh  smile  was  like  his  father's.  "  I  KaTen'r 
got  any.     I  always  lose  moneT  if  I  bet." 

"  You  hare  to  But  experience,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  all  messed-up  with  doing  people  in  the  eje." 

"  Of  course,  or  therii  do  yon — thar's  the  excfrement." 

JoUt  looked  a  little  scomfnL 

"  Wliat  do  you  do  with  yourself  :     Row  :" 

"  No — ride,  and  drire  about.  Fm  going  to  play  polo 
next  term,  if  I  can  get  my  granddad  to  stump  up." 

"  Thafa  old  Uncle  James,  isn't  it  r     What's  he  like  r" 

"  Older  than  forty  hills,"  said  VaL  ''  and  always  thinHng 
he's  going  to  be  ruined." 

"  I  suppose  my  granddad  and  he  were  brothers." 

"  I  don't  believe  any  of  that  old  lot  were  sportsmen," 
laid  Val;  "  they  must  have  worshipped  money." 

"  Mine  didn't !"  said  Jolly  warmly. 

Val  flipped  the  ash  o^  his  cigarette. 

"  Money's  only  fit  to  spend,"  he  said;  "  I  wish  the  dcucc 
I  had  more." 

JoUy  gave  him  that  direct  upward  look  of  judgment 
which  he  had  inherited  from  old  Jolyon:  One  didn't  talk 
about  money  !  And  again  there  was  silence,  while  thev 
drank  tea  and  ate  the  buttered  buns. 

"  Where  are  your  people  going  to  stay :"  asked  Val, 
elaborately  casual 

"  '  Rainbow.'     What  do  you  rhiik  of  the  war  :" 

"  Rotten,  so  far.  The  Boers  aren't  sports  a  bit.  Wtj 
don't  they  come  out  into  the  open  :" 

'*  Why  should  they :  They've  got  everything  a^aizst 
them  except  their  way  of  fighting.     I  rather  admire  them." 

"  They  can  ride  and  shoot,"  admitted  \'al,  *"  but  the— 're 
a  lousy  lot.     Do  you  know  Crum  :'' 

"  Of  Merton  ?  Only  by  sight.  He's  in  that  f^st  set 
too,  isn't  he?     Lather  La-di-da  and  BrjLzi— irem.'' 


566  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Val  said  fixedly:  "  He's  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Oh  !  Sorry  !^'  And  they  sat  awkwardly  staring  past 
each  other,  having  pitched  on  their  pet  points  of  snobbery. 
For  Jolly  was  forming  himself  unconsciously  on  a  set  whose 
motto  was:  '  We  defy  you  to  bore  us.  Life  isn't  half  long 
enough,  and  we're  going  to  talk  faster  and  more  crisply, 
do  more  and  know  more,  and  dwell  less  on  any  subject  than 
you  can  possibly  imagine.  We  are  "  the  best  " — made  of 
wire  and  whipcord.'  And  Val  was  unconsciously  forming 
himself  on  a  set  whose  motto  was:  *  We  defy  you  to  interest 
or  excite  us.  We  have  had  every  sensation,  or  if  we  haven't, 
we  pretend  we  have.  We  are  so  exhausted  with  living  that 
no  hours  are  too  small  for  us.  We  will  lose  our  shirts  with 
equanimity.  We  have  flown  fast  and  are  past  everything. 
All  is  cigarette  smoke.  Bismillah  !'  Competitive  spirit^ 
bone-deep  in  the  English,  was  obliging  those  two  young 
Forsytes  to  have  ideals;  and  at  the  close  of  a  century  ideals 
are  mixed.  The  aristocracy  had  already  in  the  main  adopted 
the  '  jumping- jesus  '  principle;  though  here  and  there  one 
like  Crum — who  was  an  honourable — stood  starkly  languid 
for  that  gambler's  Nirvana  which  had  been  the  summum 
bonum  of  the  old  *  dandies  '  and  of  '  the  mashers  '  in  the 
eighties.  And  round  Crum  were  still  gathered  a  forlorn  hope 
of  blue- bloods  with  a  plutocratic  following. 

But  there  was  between  the  cousins  another  far  less  obvious 
antipathy — coming  from  the  unseizable  family  resemblance, 
which  each  perhaps  resented;  or  from  some  half -conscious- 
ness of  that  old  feud  persisting  still  between  their  branches 
of  the  clan,  formed  within  them  by  odd  words  or  half- hints 
dropped  by  their  elders.  And  Jolly,  tinkling  his  teaspoon,, 
was  musing:  *  His  tie-pin  and  his  waistcoat  and  his  drawl 
and  his  betting — good  Lord  !' 

And  Val,  finishing  his  bun,  was  thinking:  *  He's  rather 
a  young  beast  !' 


IN  CHANCERY  5^7 

"  I  suppose  you'll  be  meeting  your  people  ?"  he  said, 
getting  up.  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  them  I  should  like  to  show 
them  over  B.N.C. — not  that  there's  anything  much  there — 
if  they'd  care  to  come." 

"  Thanks,  I'll  ask  them." 

"  Would  they  lunch  ?     I've  got  rather  a  decent  scout." 

Jolly  doubted  if  they  would  have  time. 

"  You'll  ask  them,  though  ?" 

"  Very  good  of  you,"  said  Jolly,  fully  meaning  that  they 
should  not  go;  but,  instinctively  polite,  he  added:  "You'd 
better  come  and  have  dinner  with  us  to-morrow." 

"  Rather.     What  time  ?" 

"  Seven-thirty." 

"  Dress  ?" 

"  No."  And  they  parted,  a  subtle  antagonism  alive 
within  them. 

Holly  and  her  father  arrived  by  a  midday  train.  It  was 
her  first  visit  to  the  city  of  spires  and  dreams,  and  she  was 
very  silent,  looking  almost  shyly  at  the  brother  who  was  part 
of  this  wonderful  place.  After  lunch  she  wandered,  exam- 
ining his  household  gods  with  intense  curiosity.  Jolly's 
sitting-room  was  panelled,  and  Art  represented  by  a  set  ot 
Bartolozzi  prints  which  had  belonged  to  old  Jolyon,  and  by 
college  photographs — of  young  men,  live  young  men,  a 
little  heroic,  and  to  be  compared  with  her  memories  of  Val. 
Jolyon  also  scrutinised  with  care  that  evidence  of  his  boy's 
character  and  tastes. 

Jolly  was  anxious  that  they  should  see  him  rowing,  so 
they  set  forth  to  the  river.  Holly,  between  her  brother  and 
her  father,  felt  elated  when  heads  were  turned  and  eyes 
rested  on  her.  That  they  might  see  him  to  the  best  advan- 
tage they  left  him  at  the  Barge  and  crossed  the  river  to  the 
towing-path.  Slight  in  build — for  of  all  the  Forsytes  only 
old  S within  and  George  were  beefy — Jolly  was  rowing  ^Two' 


568  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

in  a  trial  eight.  He  looked  very  earnest  and  strenuous. 
With  pride  Jolyon  thought  him  the  best-looking  hoy  of 
the  lot;  H0II7,  as  became  a  sister,  was  more  struck  by  one  or 
two  of  the  others,  but  would  not  have  said  so  for  the  world. 
The  river  was  bright  that  afternoon,  the  meadows  lush, 
the  trees  still  beautiful  with  colour.  Distinguished  peace 
clung  around  the  old  city;  Joljon  promised  himself  a  day's 
sketching  if  the  weather  held.  The  Eight  passed  a  second 
time,  spurting  home  along  the  Barges — Jolly's  face  was  very 
set,  so  as  not  to  show  that  he  was  blown.  They  returned 
across  the  river  and  waited  for  him. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Jolly  in  the  Christ  Church  meadows, 
"  I  had  to  ask  that  chap  Val  Dartie  to  dine  with  us  to-night. 
He  wanted  to  give  you  lunch  and  show  you  B.N.C.,  so  I 
thought  Vd  better;  then  you  needn't  go.  I  don't  like  him 
much." 

Holly's  rather  sallow  face  had  become  suffused  with  pink. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  He  seems  to  me  rather  showy 
and  bad  form.  What  are  his  people  like,  Dad  ?  He's 
only  a  second  cousin,  isn't  he  ?" 

Jolyon  took  refuge  in  a  smile. 

"  Ask  Holly,"  he  said;  "  she  saw  his  uncle." 

"  I  liked  Val,"  Holly  answered,  staring  at  the  ground 
before  her;  "  his  uncle  looked — awfully  different."  She 
stole  a  glance  at  Jolly  from  under  her  lashes. 

"  Did  you  ever,"  said  Jolyon  with  whimsical  intention, 
"  hear  our  family  history,  my  dears  ?  It's  quite  a  fairy 
tale.  The  first  Jolyon  Forsyte — at  all  events  the  first  we 
know  anything  of,  and  that  would  be  your  great-great- 
grandfather— dwelt  in  the  land  of  Dorset  on  the  edge  of  the 
sea,  being  by  profession  an  '  agriculturalist,'  as  your  great- 
aunt  put  it,  and  the  son  of  an  agriculturist — farmers,  in  fact; 
your  grandfather  used  to  call  them,  *  Very  small  beer.'  " 


IN  CHANCERY  569 

He  looked  at  Jolly  to  see  how  his  lordliness  was  standing  it, 
and  with  the  other  eye  noted  Holly's  malicious  pleasure 
in  the  slight  drop  of  her  brother's  face. 

"  We  may  suppose  him  thick  and  sturdy,  standing  for 
England  as  it  was  before  the  Industrial  Era  began.  The 
second  Jolyon  Forsyte — your  great-grandfather.  Jolly; 
better  known  as  Superior  Dosset  Forsyte — built  houses, 
so  the  chronicle  runs,  begat  ten  children,  and  migrated  to 
London  town.  It  is  known  that  he  drank  madeira.  We  may 
suppose  him  representing  the  England  of  Napoleon's  wars, 
and  general  unrest.  The  eldest  of  his  six  sons  was  the 
third  Jolyon,  your  grandfather,  my  dears — tea  merchant 
and  chairman  of  companies,  one  of  the  soundest  Englishmen 
who  ever  lived — and  to  me  the  dearest."  Jolyon's  voice  had 
lost  its  irony,  and  his  son  and  daughter  gazed  at  him  solemnly. 
"He  was  just  and  tenacious,  tender  and  young  at  heart.  You 
remember  him,  and  I  remember  him.  Pass  to  the  others ! 
Your  great- uncle  James,  that's  young  Val's  grandfather,  had  a 
son  called  Soames — whereby  hangs  a  tale  of  no  love  lost,  and 
I  don't  think  I'll  tell  it  you.  James  and  the  other  eight 
children  of  '  Superior  Dosset,'  of  whom  there  are  still  five 
alive,  may  be  said  to  have  represented  Victorian  England, 
with  its  principles  of  trade  and  individualism  at  five  per  cent, 
and  your  money  back — if  you  know  what  that  means.  At 
all  events  they've  turned  thirty  thousand  pounds  into  a 
cool  million  between  them  in  the  course  of  their  long  lives. 
They  never  did  a  wild  thing — unless  it  was  your  great-uncle 
Swithin,  who  I  believe  was  once  swindled  at  thimble-rig, 
and  was  called  *  Four-in-hand  Forsyte  '  because  he  drove  a 
pair.  Their  day  is  passing,  and  their  type,  not  altogether 
for  the  advantage  of  the  country.  They  were  pedestrian, 
but  they  too  were  sound.  I  am  the  fourth  Jolyon  Forsyte — 
a  poor  holder  of  the  name " 

"  No,  Dad,"  said  Jolly,  and  Holly  squeezed  his  hand. 

19' 


570  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Jolyon,  "  a  poor  specimen,  representing, 
I'm  afraid,  nothing  but  the  end  of  the  century,  unearned 
income,  amateurism,  and  individual  liberty — a  different  thing 
from  individualism.  Jolly.  You  are  the  fifth  Jolyon  Forsyte, 
old  man,  and  you  open  the  ball  of  the  new  century." 

As  he  spoke  they  turned  in  through  the  college  gates, 
and  Holly  said:  "  It's  fascinating.  Dad." 

None  of  them  quite  knew  what  she  meant.  Jolly  was 
grave. 

The  Rainbow,  distinguished,  as  only  an  Oxford  hostel 
can  be,  for  lack  of  modernity,  provided  one  small  oak-panelled 
private  sitting-room,  in  which  Holly  sat  to  receive,  white- 
frocked,  shy,  and  alone,  when  the  only  guest  arrived. 

Rather  as  one  would  touch  a  moth,  Val  took  her  hand. 
And  wouldn't  she  wear  this  *  measly  flower  '  ?  It  would  look 
ripping  in  her  hair.     He  removed  a  gardenia  from  his  coat. 

"  Oh  !  No,  thank  you — I  couldn't  !"  But  she  took  it 
and  pinned  it  at  her  neck,  having  suddenly  remembered 
that  word  *  shov^y '!  Val's  buttonhole  would  give  offence; 
and  she  so  much  wanted  Jolly  to  like  him.  Did  she  realise 
that  Val  was  at  his  best  and  quietest  in  her  presence,  and  was 
that,  perhaps,  half  the  secret  of  his  attraction  for  her  ? 

"  I  never  said  anything  about  our  ride,  Val." 

"  Rather  not  !     It's  just  between  us." 

By  the  uneasiness  of  his  hands  and  the  fidgeting  of  his 
feet  he  was  giving  her  a  sense  of  power  very  delicious;  a  soft 
feeling  too — the  wish  to  make  him  happy. 

"  Do  tell  me  about  Oxford.     It  must  be  ever  so  lovely." 

Val  admitted  that  it  was  frightfully  decent  to  do  what  you 
liked;  the  lectures  were  nothing;  and  there  were  some  very 
good  chaps.  "  Only,"  he  added,  "  of  course  I  wish  I  was 
in  town,  and  could  come  down  and  see  you." 

Holly  moved  one  hand  shyly  on  her  knee,  and  her  glance 
dropped. 


IN  CHANCERY  57^ 

**  You  haven't  forgotten,"  he  said,  suddenly  gathering 
•courage,  "  that  we're  going  madrabbiting  together  ?" 

Holly  smiled. 

"  Oh !  That  was  only  make-believe.  One  can't  do 
that  sort  of  thing  after  one's  grown  up,  you  know." 

"  Dash  it !  cousins  can,"  said  Val.  "  Next  Long  Vac — 
it  begins  in  June,  you  know,  and  goes  on  for  ever — we'll 
watch  our  chance." 

But,  though  the  thrill  of  conspiracy  ran  through  her 
veins.  Holly  shook  her  head.  "  It  won't  come  off,"  she 
-murmured. 

"  Won't  it  !"  said  Val  fervently;  "  who's  going  to  stop  it  ? 
Not  your  father  or  your  brother." 

At  this  moment  Jolyon  and  Jolly  came  in;  and  romance 
£ed  into  Val's  patent  leather  and  Holly's  white  satin  toes, 
where  it  itched  and  tingled  during  an  evening  not  con- 
spicuous for  open-heartedness. 

Sensitive  to  atmosphere,  Jolyon  soon  felt  the  latent 
antagonism  between  the  boys,  and  was  puzzled  by  Holly; 
-so  he  became  unconsciously  ironical,  which  is  fatal  to  the 
expansiveness  of  youth.  A  letter,  handed  to  him  after 
dinner,  reduced  him  to  a  silence  hardly  broken  till  Jolly 
and  Val  rose  to  go.  He  went  out  with  them,  smoking  his 
cigar,  and  walked  with  his  son  to  the  gates  of  Christ  Church. 
Turning  back,  he  took  out  the  letter  and  read  it  again  be- 
neath a  lamp. 

"  Dear  Jolyon, 

"  Soames  came  again  to-night — my  thirty-seventh 
birthday.  You  were  right,  I  mustn't  stay  here.  I'm 
going  to-morrow  to  the  Piedmont  Hotel,  but  I  won't  go 
abroad  without  seeing  you.     I  feel  lonely  and  down-hearted. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  Irene." 


572  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  folded  the  letter  back  into  his  pocket  and  walked  on, 
astonished  at  the  violence  of  his  feelings.  What  had  the 
fellow  said  or  done  ? 

He  turned  into  High  Street,  down  the  Turl,  and  on 
among  a  maze  of  spires  and  domes  and  long  college  fronts 
and  walls,  bright  or  dark-shadowed  in  the  strong  moonlight. 
In  this  very  heart  of  England's  gentility  it  was  difficult  to 
realise  that  a  lonely  woman  could  be  importuned  or  hunted, 
but  what  else  could  her  letter  mean  ?  Soames  must  have 
been  pressing  her  to  go  back  to  him  again,  with  public 
opinion  and  the  Law  on  his  side,  too  !  *  Eighteen-ninety- 
nine  !'  he  thought,  gazing  at  the  broken  glass  shining  on  the 
top  of  a  villa  garden  wall;  '  but  when  it  comes  to  property 
we're  still  a  heathen  people  !  I'll  go  up  to-morrow  morning. 
I  dare  say  it'll  be  best  for  her  to  go  abroad.'  Yet  the 
thought  displeased  him.  Why  should  Soames  hunt  her  out 
of  England  !  Besides,  he  might  follow,  and  out  there  she 
would  be  still  more  helpless  against  the  attentions  of  her 
own  husband  !  *  I  must  tread  warily,'  he  thought;  *  that 
fellow  could  make  himself  very  nasty.  I  didn't  hke  his 
manner  in  the  cab  the  other  night.'  His  thoughts  turned 
to  his  daughter  June.  Could  she  help  ?  Once  on  a  time 
Irene  had  been  her  greatest  friend,  and  now  she  was  a  *  lame 
duck,'  such  as  must  appeal  to  June's  nature  !  He  determined 
to  wire  to  his  daughter  to  meet  him  at  Paddington  Station. 
Retracing  his  steps  towards  the  Rainbow  he  questioned 
his  own  sensations.  Would  he  be  upsetting  himself  over 
every  woman  in  like  case  ?  No !  he  would  not.  The 
candour  of  this  conclusion  discomfited  him;  and,  finding 
that  Holly  had  gone  up  to  bed,  he  sought  his  own  room. 
But  he  could  not  sleep,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  at  his  window, 
huddled  in  an  overcoat,  watching  the  moonlight  on  the 
roofs. 

Next  door  Holly  too  was  awake,  thinking  of  the  lashes 


IN  CHANCERY  573 

above  and  below  VaPs  eyes,  especially  below;  and  of  what 
she  could  do  to  make  Jolly  like  him  better.  The  scent  of 
the  gardenia  was  strong  in  her  little  bedroom,  and  pleasant 
to  her. 

And  Val,  leaning  out  of  his  first-floor  window  in  B.N.C., 
was  gazing  at  a  moonlit  quadrangle  without  seeing  it  at  all, 
seeing  instead  Holly,  slim  and  white-frocked,  as  she  sat 
beside  the  fire  when  he  first  went  in. 

But  Jolly,  in  his  bedroom  narrow  as  a  ghost,  lay  with  a 
hand  beneath  his  cheek  and  dreamed  he  was  with  Val  in 
one  boat,  rowing  a  race  against  him,  while  his  father  was 
calling  from  the  towpath:  *  Two  !  Get  your  hands  away 
there,  bless  you  !' 


CHAPTER  II 

S0AMES    PUTS    IT    TO    THE    TOUCH 

Of  all  those  radiant  iirms  which  emblazon  with  their  windows 
the  West  End  of  London,  Gaves  and  Cortegal  were  con- 
sidered by  Soames  the  most  '  attractive  ' — word  just  coming 
into  fashion.  He  had  never  had  his  Uncle  Swithin's  taste 
in  precious  stones,  and  the  abandonment  by  Irene  when  she 
left  his  house  in  1889  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  glittering  things  he  had  given 
her  had  disgusted  him  with  this  form  of  investment.  But 
he  still  knew  a  diamond  when  he  saw  one,  and  during  the 
week  before  her  birthday  he  had  taken  occasion,  on  his 
way  into  the  Poultry  or  his  way  out  therefrom,  to  dally  a 
little  before  the  greater  jewellers  where  one  got,  if  not  one's 
money's  worth,  at  least  a  certain  cachet  with  the  goods. 

Constant  cogitation  since  his  cab  drive  with  Jolyon  had 
convinced  him  more  and  more  of  the  supreme  importance 
of  this  moment  in  his  life,  the  supreme  need  for  taking  steps 
and  those  not  wrong.  And,  alongside  the  dry  and  reasoned 
sense  that  it  was  now  or  never  with  his  self-preservation, 
now  or  never  if  he  were  to  range  himself  and  found  a  family, 
went  the  secret  urge  of  his  senses  roused  by  the  sight  of  her 
who  had  once  been  a  passionately  desired  wife,  and  the 
conviction  that  it  was  a  sin  against  common  sense  and  the 
decent  secrecy  of  Forsytes'  to  waste  the  wife  he  had. 

In  an  opinion  on  Winifred's  case,  Dreamer,  Q.C. — he 
would  much  have  preferred  Waterbuck,  but  they  had  made 
him  a  judge  (so  late  in  the  day  as  to  rouse  the  usual  suspicion 
of  a  political  job) — had  advised  that  they  should  go  forward 
and  obtain  restitution  of  conjugal  rights,  a  point  which  to 

574 


IN  CHANCERY  575 

Soames  had  never  been  in  doubt.  When  they  had  obtained 
a  decree  to  that  effect  they  must  wait  to  see  if  it  was  obeyed. 
If  not,  it  would  constitute  legal  desertion,  and  they  should 
obtain  evidence  of  misconduct  and  file  their  petition  for 
divorce.  'All  of  which  Soames  knew  perfectly  well.  They 
had  marked  him  ten  and  one.  This  simplicity  in  his 
sister's  case  only  made  him  the  more  desperate  about  the 
difficulty  in  his  own.  Everything,  in  fact,  was  driving  him 
towards  the  simple  solution  of  Irene's  return.  If  it  were 
still  against  the  grain  with  her,  had  he  not  feelings  to  subdue, 
injury  to  forgive,  pain  to  forget  ?  He  at  least  had  never 
injured  her,  and  this  was  a  world  of  compromise  !  He  could 
offer  her  so  much,  more  than  she  had  now.  He  would  be 
prepared  to  make  a  liberal  settlement  on  her  which  would 
not  be  upset.  He  often  scrutinised  his  image  in  these  days. 
He  had  never  been  a  peacock  like  that  fellow  Dartie,  or 
fancied  himself  a  woman's  man,  but  he  had  a  certain  belief 
in  his  own  appearance — not  unjustly,  for  it  was  weU-coupled 
and  preserved,  neat,  healthy,  pale,  unblemished  by  drink 
or  excess  of  any  kind.  The  Forsyte  jaw  and  the  concen- 
tration of  his  face  were,  in  his  eyes,  virtues.  So  far  as  he 
could  tell  there  was  no  feature  of  him  which  need  inspire 
dislike. 

Thoughts  and  yearnings,  with  which  one  lives  daily, 
become  natural,  even  if  far-fetched  in  their  inception. 
If  he  could  only  give  tangible  proof  enough  of  his  determina- 
tion to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  to  do  all  in  his  power 
to  please  her,  why  should  she  not  come  back  to  him  f 

He  entered  Gaves  and  Cortegal's  therefore,  on  the 
morning  of  November  the  9th,  to  buy  a  certain  diamond 
brooch.  "  Four  twenty-five  and  dirt  cheap,  sir,  at  the 
money.  It's  a  lady's  brooch."  There  was  that  in  his  mood 
which  made  him  accept  without  demur.  And  he  went  on 
into  the  Poultry  with  the  fiat  green  morocco  case  in  his 


5/6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

breast  pocket.     Several  times  that  day  he  opened  it  to  look 
at  the  seven  soft  shining  stones  in  their  velvet  oval  nest. 

"  If  the  lady  doesn't  like  it,  sir,  happy  to  exchange  it  any 
time.  But  there's  no  fear  of  that."  If  only  there  were 
not  !  He  got  through  a  vast  amount  of  work,  only  soother 
of  the  nerves  he  knew.  A  cable  came  in  while  he  was  in  the 
office  with  details  from  the  agent  in  Buenos  Aires,  and  the 
name  and  address  of  a  stewardess  who  would  be  prepared 
to  swear  to  what  was  necessary.  It  was  a  timely  spur  to 
Soames'  intense  and  rooted  distaste  for  the  washing  of 
dirty  linen  in  public.  And  when  he  set  forth  by  Under- 
ground to  Victoria  Station  he  received  a  fresh  impetus 
towards  the  renewal  of  his  married  life  from  the  account 
in  his  evening  paper  of  a  fashionable  divorce  suit.  The 
homing  instinct  of  all  true  Forsytes  in  anxiety  and  trouble, 
the  corporate  tendency  which  kept  them  strong  and  solid, 
made  him  choose  to  dine  at  Park  Lane.  He  neither  could 
nor  would  breathe  a  word  to  his  people  of  his  intention — too 
reticent  and  proud — but  the  thought  that  at  least  they  would 
be  glad  if  they  knew,  and  wish  him  luck,  was  heartening. 

James  was  in  lugubrious  mood,  for  the  fire  which  the 
impudence  of  Kruger's  ultimatum  had  lit  in  him  had  been 
cold-watered  by  the  poor  success  of  the  last  month,  and  the 
exhortations  to  effort  in  Thg  Times.  He  didn't  know 
where  it  would  end.  Soames  sought  to  cheer  him  by  the 
continual  use  of  the  word  BuUer.  But  James  couldn't  tell  ! 
There  was  Colley — and  he  got  stuck  on  that  hill,  and  this 
Ladysmith  was  down  in  a  hollow,  and  altogether  it  looked 
to  him  a  *  pretty  kettle  of  fish  ' ;  he  thought  they  ought  to  be 
sending  the  sailors — they  were  the  chaps,  they  did  a  lot  of 
good  in  the  Crimea.  Soames  shifted  the  ground  of  conso- 
lation. Winifred  had  heard  from  Val  that  there  had  been  a 
*  rag  '  and  a  bonfire  on  Guy  Fawkes  Day  at  Oxford,  and  that 
he  had  escaped  detection  by  blacking  his  face. 


IN  CHANCERY  577 

"  Ah  !"  James  muttered,  "  he's  a  clever  little  chap." 
But  he  shook  his  head  shortly  afterwards,  and  remarked 
that  he  didn't  know  what  would  become  of  him,  and  looking 
wistfully  at  his  son,  murmured  on  that  Soames  had  nevei 
had  a  boy.  He  would  have  liked  a  grandson  of  his  own  name. 
And  now — well,  there  it  was  ! 

Soames  flinched.  He  had  not  expected  such  a  challenge 
to  disclose  the  secret  in  his  heart.  And  Emily,  who  saw 
him  wince,  said: 

"  Nonsense,  James;  don't  talk  like  that !" 

But  James,  not  looking  anyone  in  the  face,  muttered  on. 
There  were  Roger  and  Nicholas  and  Jolyon;  they  all  had 
grandsons.  And  Swithin  and  Timothy  had  never  married. 
He  had  done  his  best;  but  he  would  soon  be  gone  now. 
And,  as  though  he  had  uttered  words  of  profound  consola- 
tion, he  was  silent,  eating  brains  with  a  fork  and  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  swallowing  the  bread. 

Soames  excused  himself  directly  after  dinner.  It  was  not 
really  cold,  but  he  put  on  his  fur  coat,  which  served  to  fortify 
him  against  the  fits  of  nervous  shivering  he  had  been  subject 
to  all  day.  Subconsciously,  he  knew  that  he  looked  better 
thus  than  in  an  ordinary  black  overcoat.  Then,  feeling 
the  morocco  case  flat  against  his  heart,  he  sallied  forth. 
He  was  no  smoker,  but  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and  smoked  it 
gingerly  as  he  walked  along.  He  moved  slowly  down  the 
Row  towards  Knightsbridge,  timing  himself  to  get  to  Chelsea 
at  nine-fifteen.  What  did  she  do  with  herself  evening  after 
evening  in  that  little  hole  ?  How  mysterious  women  were  ! 
One  lived  alongside  and  knew  nothing  of  them.  What  could 
she  have  seen  in  that  fellow  Bosinney  to  send  her  mad  ? 
For  there  was  madness  after  all  in  what  she  had  done — 
crazy  moonstruck  madness,  in  which  all  sense  of  values 
had  been  lost,  and  her  life  and  his  life  ruined  !  And  for  a 
moment    he    was    filled    with    a    sort    of     exaltation,    as 


578  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

though  he  were  a  man  read  of  in  a  story  who,  possessed 
by  the  Christian  spirit,  would  restore  to  her  all  the 
prizes  of  existence,  forgiving  and  forgetting,  and  becom- 
ing the  good  fairy  of  her  future.  Under  a  tree  opposite 
Knightsbridge  Barracks,  where  the  moonlight  struck  dow^n 
clear  and  white,  he  took  out  once  more  the  morocco 
case,  and  let  the  beams  draw  colour  from  those  stones. 
Yes,  thev  were  of  the  iirst  water  !  But,  at  the  hard  closing 
snap  of  the  case,  another  cold  shiyer  ran  through  his  neryes; 
and  he  walked  on  faster,  clenching  his  gloved  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  his  coat,  almost  hoping  she  would  not  be  in.  The 
thought  of  how  mvsterious  she  was  again  beset  him.  Dining 
alone  there  night  after  night — in  an  evening  dress,  too.  as 
if  she  were  making  beHeve  to  be  in  society  !  Playing  the 
piano — to  herself  I  Not  even  a  dog  or  cat,  so  far  as  he  had 
seen.  And  that  reminded  him  suddenly  of  the  mare  he 
kept  for  starion  work  at  Mapledurham.  If  ever  he  went 
to  the  stable,  there  she  was  quite  alone,  half  asleep,  and  yet, 
on  her  home  journeys  going  more  freely  than  on  her  way 
out,  as  if  longing  to  be  back  and  lonely  in  her  stable  I  *  I 
would  treat  her  well,'  he  thought  incoherently.  *  I  would 
be  very  careful.'  And  all  that  capacity  for  home  life  of 
which  a  mocking  Fate  seemed  for  ever  to  have  deprived  him 
swelled  suddenly  in  Soames,  so  that  he  dreamed  dreams 
opposite  South  Kensington  Starion.  In  the  King's  Road 
a  man  came  sUthering  out  of  a  public  house  playing  a 
concerrina.  Soames  watched  him  for  a  moment  dance 
crazily  on  the  pavement  to  his  own  drawHng  jagged  sounds, 
then  crossed  over  to  avoid  contact  with  this  piece  of  drunken 
foolerv.  A  night  in  the  lock-up  !  What  asses  people  were  ! 
But  the  man  had  noticed  his  movement  of  avoidance,  and 
streams  of  genial  blasphemy  followed  him  across  the  street. 
'  I  hope  they'll  run  him  in,'  thought  Soames  viciously. 
*  To  have  rufians  like  that  about,  with  women  out  alone !' 


IX  CH-IXCERY  579 

A  woman's  figure  in  front  had  induced  this  thought.  Her 
walk  seemed  oddly  familiar,  and  when  she  turned  the 
corner  for  which  he  was  bound,  his  heart  began  to  beat. 
Ke  hastened  on  to  the  comer  to  make  certain.  Yes  ! 
It  was  Irene;  he  could  not  mistake  her  walk  in  that  little 
drab  street.  She  threaded  two  more  turnings,  and  from 
the  last  comer  he  saw  her  enter  her  block  of  fiats.  To  make 
sure  of  her  now,  he  ran  those  few  paces,  hurried  up  the  stairs, 
and  caught  her  standing  at  her  door.  Ke  heard  the  larch- 
kev  in  the  lock,  and  reached  her  side  just  as  she  turned 
round,  startled,  in  the  open  doorway. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said,  breathless,  "  I  happened  to 
see  Tou.     Let  me  come  in  a  minute." 

She  had  put  her  hand  up  to  her  breast,  her  face  was 
colourless,  her  eyes  widened  by  alarm.  Then  seeming  to 
master  herself,  she  inclined  her  head,  and  said:  "  Very  welL" 

Soames  closed  the  door.  He,  too,  had  need  to  recover, 
and  when  she  had  passed  into  the  sitting-room,  waited  a  full 
minute,  taking  deep  breaths  to  stiU  the  beating  of  his  heart. 
At  this  moment,  so  fraught  with  the  future,  to  take  out  that 
morocco  case  seemed  crude.  Yet,  not  to  take  it  out  left 
him  there  before  her  with  no  preliminary  excuse  for  coming. 
And  in  this  dilemma  he  was  seized  with  impatience  at  all  this 
paraphernalia  of  excuse  and  justification.  This  was  a 
scene — it  could  be  nothing  else,  and  he  must  face  it  I  He 
heard  her  voice,  uncomfortably,  pathetically  soft: 

**  Why  have  you  come  again  r  Didn't  you  understand 
that  I  would  rather  you  did  not  r" 

Ke  noticed  her  clothes — a  dark  brown  velvet  corduroy, 
a  sable  boa,  a  small  round  toque  of  the  same.  They  suited 
her  admirably.  She  had  money  to  spare  for  dress,  evidently  ! 
He  said  abruptly: 

"  It's  your  birthday.  I  brought  you  this,"  and  he  held 
out  to  her  the  ^reen  morocco  case. 


S8o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Oh  !     No— no  !" 

Soames  pressed  the  clasp ;  the  seven  stones  gleamed  out  on 
the  pale  grey  velvet. 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  said.  "  Just  as  a  sign  that  you  don't 
bear  me  ill-feeling  any  longer." 

"  I  couldn't." 

Soames  took  it  out  of  the  case. 

"  Let  me  just  see  how  it  looks." 

She  shrank  back. 

He  followed,  thrusting  his  hand  with  the  brooch  in  it 
against  the  front  of  her  dress.     She  shrank  again. 

Soames  dropped  his  hand. 

"  Irene,"  he  said,  "  let  bygones  be  bygones.  If  I  can, 
surely  you  might.  Let's  begin  again,  as  if  nothing  had  been. 
Won't  you  ?"  His  voice  was  wistful,  and  his  eyes,  resting 
on  her  face,  had  in  them  a  sort  of  supplication. 

She,  who  was  standing  literally  with  her  back  against  the 
wall,  gave  a  little  gulp,  and  that  was  all  her  answer.  Soames 
went  on: 

"  Can  you  really  want  to  live  all  your  days  half-dead  in 
this  little  hole  ?  Come  back  to  me,  and  I'U  give  you  all 
you  want.     You  shall  live  your  own  life;  I  swear  it." 

He  saw  her  face  quiver  ironically. 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated,  "  but  I  mean  it  this  time.  I'll  only 
ask  one  thing.  I  just  want — I  just  want  a  son.  Don't 
look  like  that  !  I  want  one.  It's  hard."  His  voice  had 
grown  hurried,  so  that  he  hardly  knew  it  for  his  own,  and 
twice  he  jerked  his  head  back  as  if  struggling  for  breath. 
It  was  the  sight  of  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  dark  with  a  sort 
of  fascinated  fright,  which  pulled  him  together  and  changed 
that  painful  incoherence  to  anger. 

"  Is  it  so  very  unnatural  ?"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 
"  Is  it  unnatural  to  want  a  child  from  one's  own  wife  ?  You 
wrecked  our  life  and  put  this  blight  on  everything.  We  go 
on  only  half  alive,  and  without  any  future.     Is  it  so  very 


IN  CHANCERY  581 

unflattering  to  you  that  in   spite  of  everything  I — I  still 
want  you  for  my  wife  f  Speak,  for  Goodness' sake  !  do  speak." 

Irene  seemed  to  try,  but  did  not  succeed. 

"  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you,"  said  Soames  more  gently, 
"  Heaven  knows.  I  only  want  you  to  see  that  I  can't  go  on 
like  this.     I  want  you  back.     I  want  you." 

Irene  raised  one  hand  and  covered  the  lower  part  of 
her  face,  but  her  eyes  never  moved  from  his,  as  though  she 
trusted  in  them  to  keep  him  at  bay.  And  all  those  years, 
barren  and  bitter,  since — ah  !  when  ? — almost  since  he 
had  first  known  her,  surged  up  in  one  great  wave  of  recol- 
lection in  Soames;  and  a  spasm  that  for  his  life  he  could 
not  control  constricted  his  face. 

"It's  not  too  late,"  he  said;  "it's  not — if  you'll  only 
believe  it." 

Irene  uncovered  her  lips,  and  both  her  hands  made  a 
writhing  gesture  in  front  of  her  breast.     Soames  seized  them. 

"  Don't  !"  she  said  under  her  breath.  But  he  stood 
holding  on  to  them,  trying  to  stare  into  her  eyes  which 
did  not  waver.     Then  she  said  quietly: 

"  I  am  alone  here.  You  won't  behave  again  as  you 
once  behaved." 

Dropping  her  hands  as  though  they  had  been  hot  irons, 
he  turned  away.  Was  it  possible  that  there  could  be  such 
relentless  unforgiveness !  Could  that  one  act  of  violent 
possession  be  still  alive  within  her  ?  Did  it  bar  him  thus 
utterly?     And  doggedly  he  said,  without  looking  up: 

"  I  am  not  going  till  you've  answ^ered  me.     I  am  offering 
what  few  men  would  bring  themselves  to  offer,  I  want  a — 
a  reasonable  answer." 
And  almost  with  surprise  he  heard  her  say: 

"  You  can't  have  a  reasonable  answer.  Reason  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  You  can  only  have  the  brutal  truth:  I  would 
rather  die." 

Soames  stared  at  her. 


S82-  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

''  "  Oh  !"  he  said.  And  there  intervened  in  him  a  sort  of 
paralysis  of  speech  and  movement,  the  kind  of  quivering 
which  comes  when  a  man  has  received  a  deadly  insult,  and 
does  not  yet  know  how  he  is  going  to  take  it,  or  rather  what 
it  is  going  to  do  with  him. 

"  Oh  !"  he  said  again,  "  as  bad  as  that  ?  Indeed  !  You 
would  rather  die.     That's  pretty  !" 

"  I  am  sorry.  You  wanted  me  to  answer.  I  can't  help 
the  truth,  can  I  ?" 

At  that  queer  spiritual  appeal  Soames  turned  for  relief 
to  actuality.  He  snapped  the  brooch  back  into  its  case 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"The  truth!"  he  said;  "there's  no  such  thing  with 
women.     It's  nerves — nerves." 

He  heard  the  whisper: 

"Yes;  nerves  don't  lie.  Haven't  you  discovered  that?'* 
He  was  silent,  obsessed  by  the  thought :  '  I  will  hate  this 
woman.  I  zvill  hate  her.'  That  was  the  trouble !  If 
only  he  could  !  He  shot  a  glance  at  her  who  stood  unmoving 
against  the  wall  with  her  head  up  and  her  hands  clasped, 
for  all  the  world  as  if  she  were  going  to  be  shot.  And  he 
said  quickly: 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  You  have  a  lover.  If 
you  hadn't,  you  wouldn't  be  such  a — such  a  little  idiot." 
He  was  conscious,  before  the  expression  in  her  eyes,  that  he 
had  uttered  something  of  a  non-sequitur,  and  dropped 
back  too  abruptly  into  the  verbal  freedom  of  his  connubial 
days.  He  turned  away  to  the  door.  But  he  could  not  go 
out.  Something  within  him — that  most  deep  and  secret 
Forsyte  quality,  the  impossibility  of  letting  go,  the  im- 
possibility of  seeing  the  fantastic  and  forlorn  nature  of  his 
own  tenacity — prevented  him  He  turned  about  again, 
and  there  stood,  with  his  back  against  the  door,  as  hers  was 
against  the  wall  opposite,  quite  unconscious  of  anything 
ridiculous  in  this  separation  by  the  whole  width  of  the  room. 


IN  CHANCERY  583 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  anybody  but  yourself  ?"  he  said. 

Irene's  lips  quivered;  then  she  answered  slowly: 

"  Do  you  ever  think  that  I  found  out  my  mistake — 
my  hopeless,  terrible  mistake — the  very  first  week  of  our 
marriage;  that  I  went  on  trying  three  years — you  know 
I  went  on  trying  ?     Was  it  for  myself  ?'* 

Soames  gritted  his  teeth.  "  God  knows  what  it  was. 
Pve  never  understood  you;  I  shall  never  understand  you. 
You  had  everything  you  wanted;  and  you  can  ha-ve  it  again, 
and  more.  What's  the  matter  with  me  ?  I  ask  you  a 
plain  question:  What  is  it?"  Unconscious  of  the  pathos 
in  that  enquiry,  he  went  on  passionately:  "  I'm  not  lame, 
I'm  not  loathsome,  I'm  not  a  boor,  I'm  not  a  fool.  What 
is  it  ?     What's  the  mystery  about  me  ?" 

Her  answer  was  a  long  sigh. 

He  clasped  his  hands  with  a  gesture  that  for  him  was 
strangely  full  of  expression.  "  When  I  came  here  to-night 
I  was — I  hoped — I  meant  everything  that  I  could  to  do 
away  with  the  past,  and  start  fair  again.  And  you  meet  me 
with  *  nerves,'  and  silence,  and  sighs.  There's  nothing 
tangible.     It's  like — it's  like  a  spider's  web." 

"  Yes." 

That  whisper  from  across  the  room  maddened  Soames 
afresh. 

"  Well,  I  don't  choose  to  be  in  a  spider's  web.  I'll  cut  it." 
He  walked  straight  up  to  her.  "  Now  !'*  What  he  had 
gone  up  to  her  to  do  he  really  did  not  know.  But  when  he 
v/as  close,  the  old  familiar  scent  of  her  clothes  suddenly 
affected  him.  He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  bent 
forward  to  kiss  her.  He  kissed  not  her  lips,  but  a  little  hard 
line  where  the  lips  had  been  drawn  in;  then  his  face  was 
pressed  away  by  her  hands;  he  heard  her  say:  "  Oh  !  No  !" 
Shame,  compunction,  sense  of  futility  flooded  his  whole 
being,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  straight  out. 


CHAPTER  III 

VISIT   TO    IRENE 

JoLYON  found  June  waiting  on  the  platform  at  Paddington 
She  had  received  his  telegram  while  at  breakfast.  Her 
abode — a  studio  and  two  bedrooms  in  a  St.  John's  Wood 
garden — had  been  selected  by  her  for  the  complete  indepen- 
dence which  it  guaranteed.  Unwatched  by  Mrs.  Grundy, 
unhindered  by  permanent  domestics,  she  could  receive 
lame  ducks  at  any  hour  of  day  or  night,  and  not  seldom  had 
a  duck  without  studio  of  its  own  made  use  of  June's.  She 
enjoyed  her  freedom,  and  possessed  herself  with  a  sort  of 
virginal  passion;  the  warmth  which  she  would  have  lavished 
on  Bosinney,  and  of  which — given  her  Forsyte  tenacity — 
he  must  surely  have  tired,  she  now  expended  in  championship 
of  the  underdogs  and  budding  *  geniuses  '  of  the  artistic 
world.  She  lived,  in  fact,  to  turn  ducks  into  the  swans  she 
believed  they  were.  The  very  fervour  of  her  protections 
warped  her  judgments.  But  she  was  loyal  and  liberal; 
her  small  eager  hand  was  ever  against  the  oppressions  of 
academic  and  commercial  opinion,  and  though  her  income 
was  considerable,  her  bank  balance  was  often  a  minus 
quantity. 

She  had  come  to  Paddington  Station  heated  in  her  soul 
by  a  visit  to  Eric  Cobbley.  A  miserable  Gallery  had  refused 
to  let  that  straight-haired  genius  have  his  one-man  show 
after  all.  Its  impudent  manager,  after  visiting  his  studio, 
had  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  would  only  be  a  '  one-horse 
show  from  the  selling  point  of  view.'  This  crowning 
example  of  commercial  cowardice   towards  her  favourite 

584 


IN  CHANCERY  585 

lame  duck — and  he  so  hard  up,  with  a  wife  and  two  children, 
that  he  had  caused  her  account  to  be  overdrawn — was  still 
making  the  blood  glow  in  her  small,  resolute  face,  and  her 
red-gold  hair  to  shine  more  than  ever.  She  gave  her  father 
a  hug,  and  got  into  a  cab  with  him,  having  as  many  fish  to 
fry  with  him  as  he  with  her.  It  became  at  once  a  question 
which  would  fry  them  first. 

Jolyon  had  reached  the  words :  "  My  dear,  I  want  you  to 
come  with  me,"  when,  glancing  at  her  face,  he  perceived 
by  her  blue  eyes  moving  from  side  to  side — like  the  tail  of 
a  preoccupied  cat — that  she  was  not  attending. 

"  Dad,  is  it  true  that  I  absolutely  can't  get  at  any  of  my 
money  ?" 

"  Only  the  income,  fortunately,  my  love." 

"  How  perfectly  beastly  !  Can't  it  be  done  somehow  ? 
There  must  be  a  way.  I  know  I  could  buy  a  small  Gallery 
for  ten  thousand  pounds." 

"  A  small  Gallery,"  murmured  Jolyon,  "  seems  a  modest 
desire.     But  your  grandfather  foresaw  it." 

"  I  think,"  cried  June  vigorously,  "  that  all  this  care  about 
money  is  awful,  when  there's  so  much  genius  in  the  world 
simply  crushed  out  for  want  of  a  little.  I  shall  never  marry 
and  have  children;  why  shouldn't  I  be  able  to  do  some  good 
instead  of  having  it  all  tied  up  in  case  of  things  which  will 
never  come  off  ?" 

"  Our  name  is  Forsyte,  my  dear,"  replied  Jolyon  in  the 
ironical  voice  to  which  his  impetuous  daughter  had  never 
quite  grown  accustomed;  "  and  Forsytes,  you  know,  are 
people  who  so  settle  their  property  that  their  grandchildren, 
in  case  they  should  die  before  their  parents,  have  to  make 
wills  leaving  the  property  that  will  only  come  to  themselves 
when  their  parents  die.  Do  you  follow  that  ?  Nor  do  I,  but 
it's  a  fact,  anyway;  we  live  by  the  principle  that  so  long  as 
there  is  a  possibility  of  keeping  wealth  in  the  family  it  must 


586  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

not  go  out;  if  you  die  unmarried,  your  money  goes  to 
Jolly  and  Holly  and  their  children  if  they  marry.  Isn't  it 
pleasant  to  know  that  whatever  you  do  you  can  none  of  you  be 
destitute  ?" 

"But  can't  I  borrow  the  money?" 

Jolyon  shook  his  head.  "  You  could  rent  a  Gallery,  no 
doubt,  if  you  could  manage  it  out  of  your  income." 

June  uttered  a  contemptuous  sound. 

'*  Yes;  and  have  no  income  left  to  help  anybody  with." 

"  My  dear  child,"  murmured  Jolyon,  "  wouldn't  it  come 
to  the  same  thing  ?" 

"  No,"  said  June  shrewdly,  "  I  could  buy  for  ten  thousand; 
that  would  only  be  four  hundred  a  year.  But  I  should 
have  to  pay  a  thousand  a  year  rent,  and  that  would  only 
leave  me  five  hundred.  If  I  had  that  Gallery,  Dad,  think 
what  I  could  do,  I  could  make  Eric  Cobbley's  name  in  no 
time,  and  ever  so  many  others." 

"  Names  worth  making  make  themselves  in  time." 

"  When  they're  dead." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  anybody  living,  my  dear,  improved 
by  having  his  name  made  ?" 

"  Yes,  you,"  said  June,  pressing  his  arm. 

Jolyon  started.  *  I  ?'  he  thought.  '  Oh  !  Ah  !  Now 
she's  going  to  ask  me  to  do  something.  We  take  it  out,  we 
Forsytes,  each  in  our  different  ways.' 

June  came  closer  to  him  in  the  cab. 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  'fou  buy  the  Gallery,  and  I'll  pay 
you  four  hundred  a  year  for  it.  Then  neither  of  us  will 
be  any  the  worse  o£F.     Besides,  it's  a  splendid  investment." 

Jolyon  wriggled.  "  Don't  you  think,"  he  said,  "  that 
for  an  artist  to  buy  a  Gallery  is  a  bit  dubious  ?  Besides, 
ten  thousand  pounds  is  a  lump,  and  I'm  not  a  commercial 
character." 

June  looked  at  him  with  admiring  appraisement. 


IN  CHANCERY  587 

"  Of  course  you're  not,  but  you're  awfully  businesslike. 
And  I'm  sure  we  could  make  it  pay.  It'll  be  a  perfect  way 
of  scoring  oft  those  wretched  dealers  and  people."  And 
again  she  squeezed  her  father's  arm. 

Jolyon's  face  expressed  quizzical  despair. 

"  Where  is  this  desirable  Gallery  ?  Splendidly  situated, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"  Just  oQ  Cork  Street." 

*  Ah  !'  thought  Jolyon,  *  I  knew  it  was  just  oil  somewhere. 
Now  for  what  I  want  out  of  her  P 

"  Well,  I'll  think  of  it,  but  not  just  now.  You  remember, 
Irene  ?  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  and  see  her.  Soames 
is  after  her  again.  She  might  be  safer  if  we  could  give  her 
asylum  somewhere." 

The  word  asylum,  which  he  had  used  by  chance,  was  of 
all  most  calculated  to  rouse  June's  interest. 

"  Irene  !     I    haven't    seen    her    since !     Of    course  i 

I'd  love  to  help  her." 

It  was  Jolyon's  turn  to  squeeze  her  arm,  in  warm  admira- 
tion for  this  spirited,  generous-hearted  little  creature  of  his 
begetting. 

"  Irene  is  proud,"  he  said,  with  a  sidelong  glance,  in 
sudden  doubt  of  June's  discretion;  "  she's  difficult  to  help. 
We  must  tread  gently.  This  is  the  place.  I  wired  her  to 
expect  us.     Let's  send  up  our  cards." 

"  I  can't  bear  Soames,"  said  June  as  she  got  out;  "  he 
sneers  at  everything  that  isn't  successful." 

Irene  was  in  what  was  called  the  '  Ladies'  drawing-room  * 
of  the  Piedmont  Hotel. 

Nothing  if  not  morally  courageous,  June  walked  straight 
up  to  her  former  friend,  kissed  her  cheek,  and  the  two 
settled  down  on  a  sofa  never  sat  on  since  the  hotel's  founda- 
tion. Jolyon  could  see  that  Irene  was  deeply  aifected  by  this 
simple  forgiveness. 


S88  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  So  Soames  has  been  worrying  you  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  had  a  visit  from  him  last  night;  he  wants  me  to  go  back 
to  him." 

"  You're  not,  of  course  ?"  cried  June. 

Irene  smiled  faintly  and  shook  her  head.  "  But  his 
position  is  horrible,"  she  murmured. 

"  It's  his  own  fault;  he  ought  to  have  divorced  you  when 
he  could." 

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  f " 

"  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 " 


IN  CHANCERY  589 

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  sancti- 
monious 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  !" 

W^ith  a  memory  of  tears  in  Irene's  eyes,  and  of  a  smile  on 


590  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

her  lips,  they  went  awav  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  to-morrow  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 

591 


592  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

one  of  his  clients.  And  that  wouli  be  true — for  was  he 
not  his  own  soHcitor  ? 

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  break- 
fast. 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 
moneylender'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  overpower- 
ing 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  Phoenicians;  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  chent  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 


IN  CHANCERY  593 

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  com- 
plexion, betrayed  him. 

"  Send  her  off  at  once,  then,  to  watch  a  Mrs.  Irene  Heron 
of  Flat  D,  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  Jx.     The  party  watched  will  be  17;  the 


594  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

watcher  19;  the  Mansions  25;  yourself — I  should  say,  youi 
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  com- 
patible." 

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  cypher  destined  to  make  crystal-clear 
his  domestic  bankruptcy. 

Odd  that  one  whose  life  was  spent  in  bringing  to  the 
public  eye  all  the  private  coils  of  property,  the  domestic 
disagreements  of  others,  should  dread  so  utterly  the  public 
eye  turned  on  his  own;  and  yet  not  odd,  for  who  should 
know  so  well  as  he  the  whole  unfeeling  process  of  legal 
regulation  ? 

He  worked  hard  all  day.  Winifred  was  due  at  four 
o'clock;  he  was  to  take  her  down  to  a  conference  in  the 
Temple  with  Dreamer  Q.C.,  and  waiting  for  her  he  re-read 


IN  CHANCERY  595 

the  letter  he  had  caused  her  to  write  the  day  of  Dartie's 
departure,  requiring  him  to  return. 

*'  Dear  Montague, 

"  I  have  received  your  letter  v/ith  the  news  that 
you  have  left  me  for  ever  and  are  on  your  way  to  Buenos 
Aires.  It  has  naturally  been  a  great  shock.  I  am  taking 
this  earliest  opportunity  of  writing  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
prepared  to  let  bygones  be  bygones  if  you  will  return  to 
me  at  once.  I  beg  you  to  do  so.  I  am  very  much  upset, 
and  will  not  say  any  more  now.  I  am  sending  this  letter 
registered  to  the  address  you  left  at  your  Club.  Please 
cable  to  me. 

"  Your  still  affectionate  v/ife, 

"  Winifred  Dartie." 

Ugh  !  What  bitter  humbug  !  He  remembered  leaning 
over  Winifred  while  she  copied  what  he  had  pencilled, 
and  how  she  had  said,  laying  down  her  pen,  *'  Suppose  he 
comes,  Soames  !"  in  such  a  strange  tone  of  voice,  as  if  she 
did  not  know  her  own  mind.  "  He  won't  come,"  he  had 
answered,  "  till  he's  spent  his  money.  That's  why  we  must 
act  at  once."  Annexed  to  the  copy  of  that  letter  was  the 
original  of  Dartie's  drunken  scrawl  from  the  Iseeum  Club. 
Soames  could  have  wished  it  had  not  been  so  manifestly 
penned  in  liquor.  Just  the  sort  of  thing  the  Court  would 
pitch  on.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  Judge's  voice  say:  "  You 
took  this  seriously  !  Seriously  enough  to  write  him  as  you 
did?  Do  you  think  he  meant  it?"  Never  mind!  The 
fact  was  clear  that  Dartie  had  sailed  and  had  not  returned. 
Annexed  also  was  his  cabled  answer:  '  Impossible  return. 
Dartie.'  Soames  shook  his  head.  If  the  whole  thing  were 
not  disposed  of  within  the  next  few  months  the  fellow 
would  turn  up  again  like  a  bad  penny.  It  saved  a  thousand 
a  year  at  least  to  get  rid  of  him,  besides  all  the  worry  to 


596  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Winifred  and  his  father.     *  I  must  stiffen  Dreamer's  back/ 
he  thought;  *  we  must  push  it  on.' 

Winifred,  who  had  adopted  a  kind  of  half-mourning  which 
became  her  fair  hair  and  tall  figure  very  well,  arrived  in 
James'  barouche  drawn  by  James'  pair.  Soames  had  not 
seen  it  in  the  City  since  his  father  retired  from  business  five 
years  ago,  and  its  incongruity  gave  him  a  shock.  *  Times 
are  changing,'  he  thought  ;  *  one  doesn't  know  what'll  go 
next  !'  Top  hats  even  were  scarcer.  He  enquired  after 
Val.  Val,  said  Winifred,  wrote  that  he  was  going  to  play 
polo  next  term.  She  thought  he  was  in  a  very  good  set. 
She  added  with  fashionably  disguised  anxiety:  "  Will  there 
be  much  publicity  about  my  affair,  Soames  ?  Must  it  be 
in  the  papers  ?     It's  so  bad  for  him,  and  the  girls." 

With  his  own  calamity  all  raw  within  him,  Soames 
answered : 

"  The  papers  are  a  pushing  lot;  it's  very  difficult  to  keep 
things  out.  They  pretend  to  be  guarding  the  public's 
morals,  and  they  corrupt  them  with  their  beastly  reports. 
But  we  haven't  got  to  that  yet.  We're  only  seeing  Dreamer 
to-day  on  the  restitution  question.  Of  course  he  under- 
stands that  it's  to  lead  to  a  divorce;  but  you  must  seem 
genuinely  anxious  to  get  Dartie  back — you  might  practise 
that  attitude  to-day." 
Winifred  sighed. 

"  Oh  !  What  a  clown  Monty's  been  !"  she  said. 
Soames  gave  her  a  sharp  look.  It  was  clear  to  him  that 
she  could  not  take  her  Dartie  seriously,  and  would  go  back 
on  the  whole  thing  if  given  half  a  chance.  His  own  instinct 
had  been  firm  in  this  matter  from  the  first.  To  save  a  little 
scandal  now  would  only  bring  on  his  sister  and  her  children 
real  disgrace  and  perhaps  ruin  later  on  if  Dartie  were 
allowed  to  hang  on  to  them,  going  down-hill  and  spending 
the  money  James  would  leave  his  daughter.     Though  it 


IN  CHANCERY  597 

was  all  tied  up,  that  fellow  would  milk  the  settlements 
somehow,  and  make  his  family  pay  through  the  nose  to  keep 
him  out  of  bankruptcy  or  even  perhaps  gaol !  They  left 
the  shining  carriage,  with  the  shining  horses  and  the  shining- 
hatted  servants  on  the  Embankment,  and  walked  up  to 
Dreamer  Q.C.'s  Chambers  in  Crown  Office  Row. 

"  Mr.  Bellby  is  here,  sir,"  said  the  clerk;  "  Mr.  Dreamer 
will  be  ten  minutes." 

Mr.  Bellby,  the  junior — not  as  junior  as  he  might  have 
been,  for  Soames  only  employed  barristers  of  established 
reputation;  it  was,  indeed,  something  of  a  mystery  to  him 
how  barristers  ever  managed  to  establish  that  which  made 
him  employ  them — Mr.  Bellby  was  seated,  taking  a  final 
glance  through  his  papers.  He  had  come  from  Court,  and 
was  in  wig  and  gown,  which  suited  a  nose  jutting  out  like 
the  handle  of  a  tiny  pump,  his  small  shrewd  blue  eyes,  and 
rather  protruding  lower  lip — no  better  man  to  supplement 
and  stiffen  Dreamer. 

The  introduction  to  Winifred  accomplished,  they  leaped 
the  weather  and  spoke  of  the  war.  Soames  interjected 
suddenly: 

"  If  he  doesn't  comply  we  can't  bring  proceedings  for  six 
months.     I  want  to  get  on  with  the  matter,  Bellby." 

Mr.  Bellby,  who  had  the  ghost  of  an  Irish  brogue,  smiled 
at  Winifred  and  murmured:  "The  Law's  delays,  Mrs. 
Dartie." 

"  Six  months  !"  repeated  Soames  ;  "  it'll  drive  it  up  to 
June  !  We  shan't  get  the  suit  on  till  after  the  long  vacation. 
Wc  must  put  the  screw  on,  Bellby" — he  would  have  all 
his  work  cut  out  to  keep  Winifred  up  to  the  scratch. 

"  Mr.  Dreamer  will  see  you  now,  sir." 

They  filed  in,  Mr.  Bellby  going  first,  and  Soames  escorting 
Winifred  after  an  interval  of  one  minute  by  his  watch. 

Dreamer  Q.C.,  in  a  gown  but  divested  of  wig,  was  standing 


598  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

before  the  fire,  as  if  this  conference  were  in  the  nature  of  a 
treat;  he  had  the  leathery,  rather  oily  complexion  which 
goes  with  great  learning,  a  considerable  nose  with  glasses 
perched  on  it,  and  little  greyish  whiskers;  he  luxuriated  in  the 
perpetual  cocking  of  one  eye,  and  the  concealment  of  his 
lower  with  his  upper  lip,  which  gave  a  smothered  turn  to  his 
speech.  He  had  a  way,  too,  of  coming  suddenly  round  the 
corner  on  the  person  he  was  talking  to;  this,  with  a  dis- 
concerting tone  of  voice,  and  a  habit  of  growling  before  he 
began  to  speak — had  secured  a  reputation  second  in  Probate 
and  Divorce  to  very  few.  Having  listened,  eye  cocked,  to 
Mr.  Bellby's  breezy  recapitulation  of  the  facts,  he  growled, 
and  said: 

"  I  knov/  all  that  ;"  and  coming  round  the  corner  at 
Winifred,  smothered  the  words: 

"  We  want  to  get  him  back,  don't  we,  Mrs.  Dartie  ?" 

Soames  interposed  sharply: 

"  My  sister's  position,  of  course,  is  intolerable." 

Dreamer  growled.  "  Exactly.  Now,  can  we  rely  on  the 
cabled  refusal,  or  must  we  wait  till  after  Christmas  to  give 
him  a  chance  to  have  written — that's  the  point,  isn't  it  r" 

"  The  sooner "  Soames  began. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Bellby  ?"  said  Dreamer,  coming  round 
his  corner. 

Mr.  Bellby  seemed  to  sni5  the  air  like  a  hound. 

"  We  won't  be  on  till  the  middle  of  December.  W^e've 
no  need  to  give  um  more  rope  than  that." 

"  No,"  said  Soames,  "  why  should  my  sister  be  incom- 
moded by  his  choosing  to  go " 

'*  To  Jericho !"  said  Dreamer,  again  coming  round  his 
corner;  "  quite  so.  People  oughtn't  to  go  to  Jericho, 
ought  they,  Mrs.  Dartie  ?"  And  he  raised  his  gown  into 
a  sort  of  fantail.  "  I  agree.  We  can  go  forward.  Is  there 
anything  more  f " 


IN  CHANXERY  599 

"  Nothing  at  present,"  said  Soames  meaningly;  "  I 
wanted  you  to  see  my  sister." 

Dreamer  growled  softly:  "Delighted.  Good-evening!" 
And  let  fall  the  protection  of  his  gown. 

They  filed  out.  Winifred  went  down  the  stairs.  Soames 
lingered.     In  spite  of  himself  he  was  impressed  by  Dreamer. 

"  The  evidence  is  all  right,  I  think,"  he  said  to  Bellby. 
"  Between  ourselves,  if  we  don't  get  the  thing  through 
quick,  we  never  may.     D'you  think  he  understands  that  ?" 

"  I'll  make  um,"  said  Bellby.  "  Good  man  though — 
good  man." 

Soames  nodded  and  hastened  after  his  sister.  He  found 
her  in  a  draught,  biting  her  lips  behind  her  veil,  and  at 
once  said: 

"  The  evidence  of  the  stewardess  will  be  very  complete." 

Winifred's  face  hardened;  she  drew  herself  up,  and  they 
walked  to  the  carriage.  And,  all  through  that  silent  drive 
back  to  Green  Street,  the  souls  of  both  of  them  revolved 
a  single  thought:  *  Why,  oh  !  why  should  I  have  to  expose 
my  misfortune  to  the  public  like  this  ?  W^hy  have  to  employ 
spies  to  peer  into  my  private  troubles  ?  They  were  not 
of  my  making.' 


CHAPTER  V 

JOLLY    SITS    IN    JUDGMENT 

The  possessive  instinct,  which,  so  determinedly  balked, 
was  animating  two  members  of  the  Forsyte  family  towards 
riddance  of  what  they  could  no  longer  possess,  was  hardening 
daily  in  the  British  body  politic.  Nicholas,  originally  so 
doubtful  concerning  a  war  which  must  affect  property, 
had  been  heard  to  say  that  these  Boers  were  a  pig-headed 
lot;  they  were  causing  a  lot  of  expense,  and  the  sooner  they 
had  their  lesson  the  better.  He  would  send  out  Wolseley  ! 
Seeing  always  a  little  further  than  other  people — whence 
the  most  considerable  fortune  of  all  the  Forsytes — he  had 
perceived  already  that  BuUer  was  not  the  man — *  a  bull  of 
a  chap,  who  just  went  butting,  and  if  they  didn't  look  out 
Ladysmith  would  fall.*  This  was  early  in  December,  so 
that  when  Black  Week  came,  he  was  enabled  to  say  to  every- 
body: *  I  told  you  so.'  During  that  week  of  gloom  such 
as  no  Forsyte  could  remember,  very  young  Nicholas  attended 
so  many  drills  in  his  corps,  *  The  Devil's  Own,'  that  young 
Nicholas  consulted  the  family  physician  about  his  son's 
health  and  was  alarmed  to  find  that  he  was  perfectly  sound. 
The  boy  had  only  just  eaten  his  dinners  and  been  called 
to  the  bar,  at  some  expense,  and  it  was  in  a  way  a  nightmare 
to  his  father  and  mother  that  he  should  be  playing  with 
military  efficiency  at  a  time  when  military  efficiency  in  the 
civilian  population  might  conceivably  be  wanted.  His 
grandfather,  of  course,  pooh-poohed  the  notion,  too  thor- 
oughly educated  in  the  feeling  that  no  British  war  could 
be    other    than    little    and    professional,    and    profoundly 

600 


IN  CHANCERY  60 1 

distrustful  of  Imperial  commitments,  by  which,  more- 
over, he  stood  to  lose,  for  he  owned  De  Beers,  now  going 
down  fast,  more  than  a  sufficient  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  his 
grandson. 

At  Oxford,  however,  rather  different  sentiments  prevailed. 
The  inherent  effervescence  of  conglomerate  youth  had, 
during  the  two  months  of  the  term  before  Black  Week,  been 
gradually  crystallising  out  into  vivid  oppositions.  Normal 
adolescence,  ever  in  England  of  a  conservative  tendency, 
though  not  taking  things  too  seriously,  was  vehement  for 
a  fight  to  a  finish  and  a  good  licking  for  the  Boers.  Of  this 
larger  faction  Val  Dartie  was  naturally  a  member.  Radical 
youth,  on  the  other  hand,  a  small  but  perhaps  more  vocal 
body,  was  for  stopping  the  war  and  giving  the  Boers 
autonomy.  Until  Black  Week,  however,  the  groups  were 
amorphous,  without  sharp  edges,  and  argument  remained 
but  academic.  Jolly  was  one  of  those  who  knew  not  where 
he  stood.  A  streak  of  his  grandfather  old  Jolyon's  love  of 
justice  prevented  him  from  seeing  one  side  only.  Moreover, 
in  his  set  of  *  the  best '  there  was  a  *  jumping-jesus '  of 
extremely  advanced  opinions  and  some  personal  magnetism 
Jolly  wavered.  His  father,  too,  seemed  doubtful  in  his 
views.  And  though,  as  was  proper  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
he  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  his  father,  watchful  for  defects  which 
might  still  be  remedied,  still  that  father  had  an  '  air '  which 
gave  a  sort  of  glamour  to  his  creed  of  ironic  tolerance. 
Artists,  of  course,  were  notoriously  Hamlet-like,  and  to  this 
extent  one  must  discount  for  one's  father,  even  if  one  loved 
him.  But  Jolyon's  original  view,  that  to  *  put  your  nose  in 
where  you  aren't  wanted  '  (as  the  Uitlanders  had  done) 
*  and  then  work  the  oracle  till  you  get  on  top  is  not  being 
quite  the  clean  potato,'  had,  whether  founded  in  fact  or  no, 
a  certain  attraction  for  his  son,  who  thought  a  deal  about 
gentility.     On  the  other  hand  Jolly  could  not  abide  such 


6o2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

as  his  set  called  *  cranks/  and  Val's  set  called  *  smugs,'  so 
that  he  was  still  balancing  when  the  clock  of  Black  Week 
struck.  One — two — three,  came  those  ominous  repulses 
at  Stormberg,  Magersfontein,  Colenso.  The  sturdy 
English  soul  reacting  after  the  first  cried,  *  Ah !  but 
Methuen  !'  after  the  second:  *  Ah  !  but  Buller  !'  then, 
in  inspissated  gloom,  hardened.  And  Jolly  said  to  himself: 
"  No,  damn  it  !  We've  got  to  lick  the  beggars  now;  I 
don't  care  whether  we're  right  or  wrong."  And,  if  he  had 
known  it,  his  father  was  thinking  the  same  thought. 

That  next  Sunday,  last  of  the  term,  Jolly  was  bidden  to 
wine  with  '  one  of  the  best.'  After  the  second  toast, 
*  Buller  and  damnation  to  the  Boers,'  drunk — no  heel  taps — 
in  the  college  Burgundy,  he  noticed  that  Val  Dartie, 
also  a  guest,  was  looking  at  him  with  a  grin  and  saying 
something  to  his  neighbour.  He  was  sure  it  was  disparaging. 
The  last  boy  in  the  world  to  make  himself  conspicuous  or 
cause  public  disturbance.  Jolly  grew  rather  red  and  shut  his 
lips.  The  queer  hostihty  he  had  always  felt  towards  his 
second-cousin  was  strongly  and  suddenly  reinforced.  "  All 
right  1"  he  said  to  himself;  "  you  wait,  my  friend  !"  More 
wine  than  was  good  for  him,  as  the  custom  was,  helped  him 
to  remember,  when  they  all  trooped  forth  to  a  secluded  spot, 
to  touch  Val  on  the  arm. 

"  What  did  you  say  about  me  in  there  ?" 

"  Mayn't  I  say  what  I  like  ?" 

''  No." 

'*  Well,  I  'said  you  were  a  pro-Boer — and  so  you  are  !" 

"  You're  a  liar  !" 

"  D'you  want  a  row  ?" 

*'  Of  course,  but  not  here;  in  the  garden." 

"All  right.     Come  on." 

They  went,  eyeing  each  other  askance,  unsteady,  and  un- 
flinching; they  cHmbed  the  garden   railings.     The  spikes 


IN  CHANCERY  603 

on  the  top  slightly  ripped  VaPs  sleeve,  and  occupied  his  mind. 
Jolly's  mind  was  occupied  by  the  thought  that  they  were 
going  to  fight  in  the  precincts  of  a  college  foreign  to  them 
both.  It  was  not  the  thing,  but  never  mind — the  young 
beast  ! 

They  passed  over  the  grass  into  very  nearly  darkness,  and 
took  off  their  coats. 

"You're  not  screwed,  are  you?"  said  Jolly  suddenly. 
"  I  can't  fight  you  if  you're  screwed." 

"  No  more  than  you." 

"  All  right  then." 

Without  shaking  hands,  they  put  themselves  at  once  into 
postures  of  defence.  They  had  drunk  too  much  for  science, 
and  so  were  especially  careful  to  assume  correct  attitudes, 
until  Jolly  smote  Val  almost  accidentally  on  the  nose. 
After  that  it  was  all  a  dark  and  ugly  scrimmage  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  old  trees,  with  no  one  to  call  *  time,'  till, 
battered  and  blown,  they  uncHnched  and  staggered  back 
from  each  other,  as  a  voice  said : 

"  Your  names,  young  gentlemen  ?" 

At  this  bland  query  spoken  from  under  the  lamp  at  the 
garden  gate,  like  some  demand  of  a  god,  their  nerves  gave 
way,  and  snatching  up  their  coats,  they  ran  at  the  railings, 
shinned  up  them,  and  made  for  the  secluded  spot  whence 
they  had  issued  to  the  fight.  Here,  in  dim  light,  they 
mopped  their  faces,  and  without  a  word  walked,  ten  paces 
apart,  to  the  coUege  gate.  They  went  out  silently,  Val 
going  towards  the  Broad  along  the  Brewery,  Jolly  down  the 
lane  towards  the  High.  His  head,  still  fumed,  was  busy 
with  regret  that  he  had  not  displayed  more  science,  passing 
in  review  the  counters  and  knock-out  blows  which  he  had 
not  delivered.  His  mind  strayed  on  to  an  imagined  combat, 
infinitely  unlike  that  which  he  had  just  been  through, 
infinitely  gallant,  with  sash    and  sword,   with  thrust  and 


6o4  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

parry,  as  if  he  were  in  the  pages  of  his  beloved  Dumas.  He 
fancied  himself  La  Mole,  and  Aramis,  Bussy,  Chicot,  and 
D'Artagnan  rolled  into  one,  but  he  quite  failed  to  envisage 
Val  as  Coconnas,  Brissac,  or  Rochefort.  The  fellow  was 
just  a  confounded  cousin  who  didn't  come  up  to  Cocker. 
Never  mind  !  He  had  given  him  one  or  two.  '  Pro-Boer  !' 
The  word  still  rankled,  and  thoughts  of  enlisting  jostled  his 
aching  head;  of  riding  over  the  veldt,  firing  gallantly,  while 
the  Boers  rolled  over  like  rabbits.  And,  turning  up  his 
smarting  eyes,  he  saw  the  stars  shining  between  the  house- 
tops of  the  High,  and  himself  lying  out  on  the  Karoo 
(whatever  that  was)  rolled  in  a  blanket,  with  his  rifle  ready 
and  his  gaze  fixed  on  a  glittering  heaven. 

He  had  a  fearful  *  head  '  next  morning,  which  he  doctored, 
as  became  one  of  '  the  best,'  by  soaking  it  in  cold  water, 
brewing  strong  coffee  which  he  could  not  drink,  and  only 
sipping  a  little  Hock  at  lunch.  The  legend  that  *  some 
fool '  had  run  into  him  round  a  corner  accounted  for  a 
bruise  on  his  cheek.  He  would  on  no  account  have 
mentioned  the  fight,  for,  on  second  thoughts,  it  fell  far 
short  of  his  standards. 

The  next  day  he  went  *  down,'  and  travelled  through  to 
Robin  Hill.  Nobody  was  there  but  June  and  Holly,  for 
his  father  had  gone  to  Paris.  He  spent  a  restless  and  un- 
settled Vacation,  quite  out  of  touch  with  either  of  his  sisters. 
June,  indeed,  was  occupied  with  lame  ducks,  whom,  as  a 
rule,  Jolly  could  not  stand,  especially  that  Eric  Cobbley 
and  his  family, '  hopeless  outsiders,'  who  were  always  littering 
up  the  house  in  the  Vacation.  And  between  Holly  and 
himself  there  was  a  strange  division,  as  if  she  were  beginning 
to  have  opinions  of  her  own,  which  was  so — unnecessary. 
He  punched  viciously  at  a  ball,  rode  furiously  but  alone  in 
Richmond  Park,  making  a  point  of  jumping  the  stiff,  high 
hurdles  put  up  to  close  certain  worn  avenues  of  grass — 


IN  CHANCERY  605 

keeping  his  nerve  in,  he  called  it.  J0II7  was  more  afraid  of 
being  afraid  than  most  boys  are.  He  bought  a  rifle,  too, 
and  put  a  range  up  in  the  home  field,  shooting  across  the 
pond  into  the  kitchen-garden  wall,  to  the  peril  of  gardeners, 
with  the  thought  that  some  day,  perhaps,  he  would  enlist  and 
save  South  Africa  for  his  country.  In  fact,  now  that  they 
were  appealing  for  Yeomanry  recruits  the  boy  was  thoroughly 
upset.  Ought  he  to  go  ?  None  of  '  the  best,'  so  far  as  he 
knew — and  he  was  in  correspondence  with  several — were 
thinking  of  joining.  If  they  had  been  making  a  move  he 
would  have  gone  at  once — very  competitive,  and  with  a 
strong  sense  of  form,  he  could  not  bear  to  be  left  behind  in 
anything — but  to  do  it  off  his  own  bat  might  look  like 
'swagger';  because  of  course  it  wasn't  really  necessary 
Besides,  he  did  not  want  to  go,  for  the  other  side  of  this 
young  Forsyte  recoiled  from  leaping  before  he  looked.  It 
was  altogether  mixed  pickles  within  him,  hot  and  sickly 
pickles,  and  he  became  quite  unlike  his  serene  and  rather 
lordly  self. 

And  then  one  day  he  saw  that  which  moved  him  to  uneasy 
wrath — two  riders,  in  a  glade  of  the  Park  close  to  the  Ham 
Gate,  of  whom  she  on  the  left-hand  was  most  assuredly 
Holly  on  her  silver  roan,  and  he  on  the  right-hand  as  assuredly 
that  '  squirt '  Val  Dartie.  His  first  impulse  was  to  urge  on 
his  own  horse  and  demand  the  meaning  of  this  portent, 
tell  the  feUow  to  '  bunk,'  and  take  Holly  home.  His  second — 
to  feel  that  he  would  look  a  fool  if  they  refused.  He  reined 
his  horse  in  behind  a  tree,  then  perceived  that  it  was  equally 
impossible  to  spy  on  them.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  go  home 
and  await  her  coming  !  Sneaking  out  with  that  young 
bounder  !  He  could  not  consult  with  June,  because  she 
had  gone  up  that  morning  in  the  train  of  Eric  Cobbley  and 
his  lot.  And  his  father  was  still  in  *  that  rotten  Paris.' 
He  felt  that  this  was  emphatically  one  of  those  moments 


6o6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

for  which  he  had  trained  himself,  assiduously,  at  school, 
where  he  and  a  boy  called  Brent  had  frequently  set  fire 
to  newspapers  and  placed  them  in  the  centre  of  their  studies 
to  accustom  them  to  coolness  in  moments  of  danger.  He 
did  not  feel  at  all  cool  waiting  in  the  stable-yard,  idly  strok- 
ing the  dog  Balthasar,  who,  queasy  as  an  old  fat  monk, 
and  sad  in  the  absence  of  his  master,  turned  up  his  face, 
panting  with  gratitude  for  this  attention.  It  was  half  an 
hour  before  Holly  came,  flushed  and  ever  so  much  prettier 
than  she  had  any  right  to  look.  He  saw  her  look  at  him 
quickly — guiltily  of  course — then  followed  her  in,  and, 
taking  her  arm,  conducted  her  into  what  had  been  their 
grandfather's  study.  The  room,  not  much  used  now,  was 
still  vaguely  haunted  for  them  both  by  a  presence  with  which 
they  associated  tenderness,  large  drooping  white  moustaches, 
the  scent  of  cigar  smoke,  and  laughter.  Here  Jolly,  in  the 
prime  of  his  youth,  before  he  went  to  school  at  all,  had  been 
wont  to  wrestle  with  his  grandfather,  who  even  at  eighty 
had  an  irresistible  habit  of  crooking  his  leg.  Here  Holly, 
perched  on  the  arm  of  the  great  leather  chair,  had  stroked 
hair  curving  silvery  over  an  ear  into  which  she  would  whisper 
secrets.  Through  that  window  they  had  all  three  sallied 
times  without  number  to  cricket  on  the  lawn,  and  a  mys- 
terious game  called  '  Wopsy-doozle,'  not  to  be  understood 
by  outsiders,  which  made  old  Jolyon  very  hot.  Here  once 
on  a  warm  night  Holly  had  appeared  in  her  '  nighty,' 
having  had  a  bad  dream,  to  have  the  clutch  of  it  released. 
And  here  Jolly,  having  begun  the  day  badly  by  introducing 
fizzy  magnesia  •  into  Mademoiselle  Beauce's  new-laid  egg, 
and  gone  on  to  worse,  had  been  sent  down  (in  the  absence 
of  his  father)  to  the  ensuing  dialogue: 

**  Now,  my  boy,  you  mustn't  go  on  like  this." 
**  Well,  she  boxed  my  ears,  Gran,  so  I  only  boxed  hers,  and 
then  she  boxed  mine  again." 


IN  CHANCERY  607 

"  Strike  a  lady  ?  That'll  never  do  !  Have  you  begged 
her  pardon  ?" 

''  Not  yet." 

'*  Then  you  must  go  and  do  it  at  once.     Come  along." 

'*  But  she  began  it,  Gran;  and  she  had  two  to  my  one." 

"  My  dear,  it  was  an  outrageous  thing  to  do." 

**  Well,  she  lost  her  temper;  and  I  didn't  lose  mine." 

'*  Come  along." 

"  You  come  too,  then,  Gran." 

"'  Well — this  time  only." 

And  they  had  gone  hand  in  hand. 

Here — where  the  Waverley  novels  and  Byron's  works  and 
Gibbon's  Roman  Empire  and  Humboldt's  Cosmos,  and  the 
bronzes  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  that  masterpiece  of  the 
oily  school,  '  Dutch  Fishing- Boats  at  Sunset,'  were  fixed 
as  fate,  and  for  all  sign  of  change  old  Jolyon  might  have  been 
sitting  there  still,  with  legs  crossed,  in  the  armchair,  and 
domed  forehead  and  deep  eyes  grave  above  The  7imes — 
here  they  came,  those  two  grandchildren.  And  Jolly 
said : 

"  I  saw  you  and  that  fellow  in  the  Park." 

The  sight  of  blood  rushing  into  her  cheeks  gave  him  some 
satisfaction;  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  ! 

"  Well  ?"  she  said. 

Jolly  was  surprised;  he  had  expected  more,  or  less. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said  weightily,  "  that  he  called  me 
a  pro-Boer  last  term  ?     And  I  had  to  fight  him." 

"  Who  won  ?" 

Jolly  wished  to  answer:  *  I  should  have,'  but  it  seemed 
beneath  him. 

"  Look  here  !"  he  said,  "  what's  the  meaning  of  it  ? 
Without  telling  anybody  !" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  Dad  isn't  here;  why  shouldn't  I  ride 
with  him  ?" 


6o8  THE  FORSYTE  bAGA 

"  You've  got  me  to  ride  with.  I  think  he's  an  awful 
young  rotter." 

Holly  went  pale  with  anger. 

"  He  isn't.     It's  your  own  fault  for  not  liking  him." 

And  slipping  past  her  brother  she  went  out,  leaving  him 
staring  at  the  bronze  Venus  sitting  on  a  tortoise,  which 
had  been  shielded  from  him  so  far  by  his  sister's  dark  head 
under  her  soft  felt  riding  hat.  He  felt  queerly  disturbed, 
shaken  to  his  young  foundations.  A  lifelong  domination 
lay  shattered  round  his  feet.  He  went  up  to  the  Venus 
and  mechanically  inspected  the  tortoise.  Why  didn't  he 
like  Val  Dartie  ?  He  could  not  tell.  Ignorant  of  family 
history,  barely  aware  of  that  vague  feud  which  had  started 
thirteen  years  before  with  Bosinney's  defection  from  June 
in  favour  of  Soames'  wife,  knowing  really  almost  nothing 
about  Val,  he  was  at  sea.  He  just  did  dislike  him.  The 
question,  however,  was :  What  should  he  do  ?  Val  Dartie, 
it  was  true,  was  a  second-cousin,  but  it  was  not  the  thing 
for  Holly  to  go  about  with  him.  And  yet  to  *  tell '  of  what 
he  had  chanced  on  was  against  his  creed.  In  this  dilemma 
he  went  and  sat  in  the  old  leather  chair  and  crossed  his  legs. 
It  grew  dark  while  he  sat  there  staring  out  through  the  long 
window  at  the  old  oak-tree,  ample  yet  bare  of  leaves,  be- 
coming slowly  just  a  shape  of  deeper  dark  printed  on  the 
dusk. 

'  Grandfather  !'  he  thought  without  sequence,  and  took 
out  his  watch.  He  could  not  see  the  hands,  but  he  set  the 
repeater  going.  *  Five  o'clock  !'  His  grandfather's  first 
gold  hunter  watch,  butter-smooth  with  age — all  the  milling 
worn  from  it,  and  dented  with  the  mark  of  many  a  fall. 
The  chime  was  like  a  little  voice  from  out  of  that  golden  age, 
when  they  first  came  from  St.  John's  Wood,  London,  to 
this  house — came  driving  with  grandfather  in  his  carriage, 
and  almost  instantly  took  to  the  trees.     Trees  to  climb, 


IN  CHANCERY  609 

and  grandfather  watering  the  geranium -beds  below  !  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  Tell  Dad  he  must  come  home  ?  Confide 
in  June  ? — only  she  was  so — so  sudden  !  Do  nothing  and 
trust  to  luck  ?  After  all,  the  Vac.  would  soon  be  over. 
Go  up  and  see  Val  and  warn  him  off  ?  But  how  get  his 
address  ?  Holly  wouldn't  give  it  liim  !  A  maze  of  paths, 
a  cloud  of  possibilities  !  He  lit  a  cigarette.  When  he 
had  smoked  it  halfway  through  his  brow  relaxed,  almost  as  if 
some  thin  old  hand  had  been  passed  gently  over  it;  and  in  his 
ear  something  seemed  to  whisper:  *  Do  nothing;  be  nice 
to  Holly,  be  nice  to  her,  my  dear  !'  And  Jolly  heaved  a 
sigh  of  contentment,  blowing  smoke  through  his  nostrils.  .  .  . 
But  up  in  her  room,  divested  of  her  habit.  Holly  was  still 
frowning.  *  He  is  not — he  is  not  P  were  the  words  which 
kept  forming  on  her  hps. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOLYON    IN    TWO    MINDS 

A  LITTLE  private  hotel  over  a  well-known  restaurant  near  the 
Gare  St.  Lazare  was  Jolyon's  haunt  in  Paris.  He  hated  his 
fellow  Forsytes  abroad — vapid  as  fish  out  of  water  in  their 
well-trodden  runs  the  Opera,  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  Moulin 
Rouge.  Their  air  of  having  come  because  they  wanted  to 
be  somewhere  else  as  soon  as  possible  annoyed  him.  But 
no  other  Forsyte  came  near  this  haunt,  where  he  had  a 
wood  fire  in  his  bedroom  and  the  coffee  was  excellent. 
Paris  was  always  to  him  more  attractive  in  winter.  The 
acrid  savour  from  woodsmoke  and  chestnut-roasting  braziers, 
the  sharpness  of  the  wintry  sunshine  on  bright  days,  the 
open  cafes  defying  keen-aired  winter,  the  self-contained 
brisk  boulevard  crowds,  all  informed  him  that  in  winter  Paris 
possessed  a  soul  which,  like  a  migrant  bird,  in  high  summer 
flew  away. 

He  spoke  French  well,  had  some  friends,  knew  little  places 
where  pleasant  dishes  could  be  met  with,  queer  types 
observed.  He  felt  philosophic  in  Paris,  the  edge  of  irony 
sharpened;  life  took  on  a  subtle,  purposeless  meaning, 
became  a  bunch  of  flavours  tasted,  a  darkness  shot  with 
shifting  gleams  of  light. 

When  in  the  first  week  of  December  he  decided  to  go  to 
Paris,  he  was  far  from  admitting  that  Irene's  presence  was 
influencing  him.  He  had  not  been  there  two  days  before 
he  owned  that  the  wish  to  see  her  had  been  more  than  half 
the  reason.  In  England  one  did  not  admit  what  was  natural. 
He  had  thought  it  might  be  well  to  speak  to  her  about  the 

610 


IN  CHANCERY  6ii 

letting  of  her  flat  and  other  matters,  but  in  Paris  he  at  once 
knew  better.  There  was  a  glamour  over  the  city.  On 
the  third  day  he  wrote  to  her,  and  received  an  answer  which 
procured  him  a  pleasurable  shiver  of  the  nerves: 

"  My  dear  Jolyon, 

"  It  will  be  a  happiness  for  me  to  see  you. 

"  Irene." 

He  took  his  way  to  her  hotel  on  a  bright  day  with  a  feeling 
such  as  he  had  often  had  going  to  visit  an  adored  picture. 
No  woman,  so  far  as  he  remembered,  had  ever  inspired  in 
him  this  special  sensuous  and  yet  impersonal  sensation.  He 
was  going  to  sit  and  feast  his  eyes,  and  come  away  knowing 
her  no  better,  but  ready  to  go  and  feast  his  eyes  again  to- 
morrow. Such  was  his  feeling,  when  in  the  tarnished  and 
ornate  little  lounge  of  a  quiet  hotel  near  the  river  she  came 
to  him  preceded  by  a  small  page-boy  who  uttered  the  word, 
"  Madame^^  and  vanished.  Her  face,  her  smile,  the  poise 
of  her  figure,  were  just  as  he  had  pictured,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  said  plainly:  *  A  friend  !' 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  news,  poor  exile  ?'* 

"  None." 

"  Nothing  from  Soames  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  have  let  the  flat  for  you,  and  like  a  good  steward  I 
bring  you  some  money.     How  do  you  like  Paris  ?" 

While  he  put  her  through  this  catechism,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  never  seen  lips  so  fine  and  sensitive,  the 
lower  lip  curving  just  a  little  upwards,  the  upper  touched 
at  one  corner  by  the  least  conceivable  dimple.  It  was  like 
discovering  a  woman  in  what  had  hitherto  been  a  sort  of 
soft  and  breathed-on  statue,  almost  impersonally  admired 
She  owned  that  to  be  alone  in  Paris  was  a  little  difficult; 
and  yet,  Paris  was  so  full  of  its  own  life  that  it  was  often, 


6i2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

she  confessed,  as  innocuous  as  a  desert.  Besides,  the 
English  were  not  liked  just  now  ! 

"  That  will  hardly  be  your  case,"  said  Jolyon  ;  "  you 
should  appeal  to  the  French." 

"  It  has  its  disadvantages." 

Jolyon  nodded. 

"  Well,  you  must  let  me  take  you  about  while  I'm 
here.  We'll  start  to-morrow.  Come  and  dine  at  my  pet 
restaurant;  and  we'll  go  to  the  Opera-Comique." 

It  was  the  beginning  of  daily  meetings. 

Jolyon  soon  found  that  for  those  who  desired  a  static  condi- 
tion of  the  affections,  Paris  was  at  once  the  first  and  last  place 
in  which  to  be  friendly  with  a  pretty  woman.  Revelation  was 
alighting  like  a  bird  in  his  heart,  singing:  '^  Elle  est  ton  reve ! 
Elle  est  ton  reve  T  Sometimes  this  seemed  natural,  some- 
times ludicrous — a  bad  case  of  elderly  rapture.  Having 
once  been  ostracised  by  Society,  he  had  never  since  had  any 
real  regard  for  conventional  morality;  but  the  idea  of  a  love 
which  she  could  never  return — and  how  could  she  at  his 
age  ? — hardly  mounted  beyond  his  subconscious  mind.  He 
was  full,  too,  of  resentment,  at  the  waste  and  loneliness  of 
her  life.  Aware  of  being  some  comfort  to  her,  and  of  the 
pleasure  she  clearly  took  in  their  many  little  outings,  he  was 
amiably  desirous  of  doing  and  saying  nothing  to  destroy 
that  pleasure.  It  was  like  watching  a  starved  plant  draw 
up  water,  to  see  her  drink-in  his  companionship.  So  far 
as  they  could  tell,  no  one  knew  her  address  except  himself; 
she  was  unknown  in  Paris,  and  he  but  little  known,  so  that 
discretion  seemed  unnecessary  in  those  walks,  talks,  visits 
to  concerts,  picture-galleries,  theatres,  little  dinners,  ex- 
peditions to  Versailles,  St.  Cloud,  even  Fontainebleau. 
And  time  fled — one  of  those  full  months  without  past  to  it 
or  future.  What  in  his  youth  would  certainly  have  been 
headlong  passion,  was  now  perhaps  as  deep  a  feeling,  but  far 


IN  CHANCERY  613 

gentler,  tempered  to  protective  companionship  by  admira- 
tion, hopelessness,  and  a  sense  of  chivalry — arrested  in  his 
veins  at  least  so  long  as  she  was  there,  smiling  and  happy  in 
their  friendship,  and  always  to  him  more  beautiful  and 
spiritually  responsive:  for  her  philosophy  of  life  seemed  to 
march  in  admirable  step  with  his  own,  conditioned  by 
emotion  more  than  by  reason,  ironically  mistrustful,  sus- 
ceptible to  beauty,  almost  passionately  humane  and  tolerant, 
yet  subject  to  instinctive  rigidities  of  which  as  a  mere  man 
he  was  less  capable.  And  during  all  this  companionable 
month  he  never  quite  lost  that  feeling  with  which  he  had 
set  out  on  the  first  day  as  if  to  visit  an  adored  work  of  art, 
a  wellnigh  impersonal  desire.  The  future — inexorable 
pendant  to  the  present — he  took  care  not  to  face,  for  fear 
of  breaking  up  his  untroubled  manner;  but  he  made  plans 
to  renew  this  time  in  places  still  more  delightful,  where 
the  sun  was  hot  and  there  were  strange  things  to  see  and 
paint.  The  end  came  swiftly  on  the  20th  of  January  with  a 
telegram: 

"  Have  enlisted  in  Imperial  Yeomanry. — Jolly." 

Jolyon  received  it  just  as  he  was  setting  out  to  meet  her 
at  the  Louvre.  It  brought  him  up  with  a  round  turn 
While  he  was  lotus -eating  here,  his  boy,  whose  philosopher 
and  guide  he  ought  to  be,  had  taken  this  great  step  towards 
danger,  hardship,  perhaps  even  death.  He  felt  disturbed 
to  the  soul,  realising  suddenly  how  Irene  had  twined  herself 
round  the  roots  of  his  being.  Thus  threatened  with  sever- 
ance, the  tie  between  them — for  it  had  become  a  kind  of  tie 
— no  longer  had  impersonal  quality.  The  tranquil  enjoy- 
ment of  things  in  common,  Jolyon  perceived,  was  gone  for 
ever.  He  saw  his  feeling  as  it  was,  in  the  nature  of  an  in- 
fatuation. Ridiculous,  perhaps,  but  so  real  that  sooner  or 
later  it  must  disclose  itself.     And  now,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 


6i4  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

he  could  not,  must  not,  make  any  such  disclosure.  The  news 
of  Jolly  stood  inexorably  in  the  way.  He  was  proud  of  this 
enlistment;  proud  of  his  boy  for  going  off  to  fight  for  the 
country;  for  on  Jolyon's  pro-Boerism,  too.  Black  Week  had 
left  its  mark.  And  so  the  end  was  reached  before  the 
beginning  !     Well,  luckily  he  had  never  made  a  sign  ! 

When  he  came  into  the  Gallery  she  was  standing  before  the 
*  Virgin  of  the  Rocks,'  graceful,  absorbed,  smiling  and  un- 
conscious. *  Have  I  to  give  up  seeing  that  ?''  he  thought, 
'  It's  unnatural,  so  long  as  she's  willing  that  I  should  see  her.' 
He  stood,  unnoticed,  watching  her,  storing  up  the  image 
of  her  figure,  envying  the  picture  on  which  she  was  bending 
that  long  scrutiny.  Twice  she  turned  her  head  towards 
the  entrance,  and  he  thought:  'That's  for  me!'  At  last 
he  went  forward. 

"  Look  !"  he  said. 

She  read  the  telegram,  and  he  heard  her  sigh. 

That  sigh,  too,  was  for  him  !  His  position  was  really 
cruel !  To  be  loyal  to  his  son  he  must  just  shake  her  hand 
and  go.  To  be  loyal  to  the  feeling  in  his  heart  he  must  at 
least  tell  her  what  that  feeling  was.  Could  she,  would  she 
understand  the  silence  in  which  he  was  gazing  at  that  picture  ? 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  home  at  once,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  shall  miss  all  this  awfully." 

"  So  shall  I;  but,  of  course,  you  must  go." 

"  Well  !"  said  Jolyon  holding  out  his  hand. 

Meeting  her  eyes,  a  flood  of  feeling  nearly  mastered  him. 

"  Such  is  life  !"  he  said.  "  Take  care  of  yourself,  my 
dear!" 

He  had  a  stumbling  sensation  in  his  legs  and  feet,  as  if  his 
brain  refused  to  steer  him  away  from  her.  From  the  door- 
way, he  saw  her  lift  her  hand  and  touch  its  fingers  with  her 
lips.  He  raised  his  hat  solemnly,  and  did  not  look  back 
again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DARTIE    VERSUS    DARTIE 

The  suit — Dartie  versus  Dartie — for  restitution  of  those 
conjugal  rights  concerning  which  Winifred  was  at  heart  so 
deeply  undecided,  followed  the  laws  of  subtraction  towards 
day  of  judgment.  This  was  not  reached  before  the  Courts 
rose  for  Christmas,  but  the  case  was  third  on  the  list  when 
they  sat  again.  Winifred  spent  the  Christmas  holidays  a 
thought  more  fashionably  than  usual,  with  the  matter 
locked  up  in  her  low-cut  bosom.  James  was  particularly 
liberal  to  her  that  Christmas,  expressing  thereby  his  sym- 
pathy, and  relief,  at  the  approaching  dissolution  of  her 
marriage  with  that  '  precious  rascal,'  which  his  old  heart 
felt  but  his  old  lips  could  not  utter. 

The  disappearance  of  Dartie  made  the  fall  in  Consols  a 
comparatively  small  matter;  and  as  to  the  scandal — the 
real  animus  he  felt  against  that  fellow,  and  the  increasing 
lead  which  property  was  attaining  over  reputation  in  a 
true  Forsyte  about  to  leave  this  world,  serv^ed  to  drug  a 
mind  from  which  all  allusions  to  the  matter  (except  his 
own)  were  studiously  kept.  What  worried  him  as  a  lawyer 
and  a  parent  was  the  fear  that  Dartie  might  suddenly  turn 
up  and  obey  the  Order  of  the  Court  w^hen  made.  That 
would  be  a  pretty  how-de-do  !  The  fear  preyed  on  him 
in  fact  so  much  that,  in  presenting  Winifred  with  a  large 
Christmas  cheque,  he  said:  "  It's  chiefly  for  that  chap  out 
there;  to  keep  him  from  coming  back."  It  was,  of  course, 
to  pitch  away  good  money,  but  all  in  the  nature  of  insurance 
against  that  bankruptcy  which  would  no  longer  hang  over 

615 


6i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

him  if  only  the  divorce  went  through;  and  he  questioned 
Winifred  rigorously  until  she  could  assure  him  that  the 
money  had  been  sent.  Poor  woman  ! — it  cost  her  many  a 
pang  to  send  what  must  find  its  way  into  the  vanity-bag  of 
*  that  creature  !'  Soames,  hearing  of  it,  shook  his  head. 
They  were  not  dealing  with  a  Forsyte,  reasonably  tenacious 
of  his  purpose.  It  was  very  risky  without  knowing  how  the 
land  lay  out  there.  Still,  it  would  look  well  with  the  Court; 
and  he  would  see  that  Dreamer  brought  it  out.  "  I  wonder," 
he  said  suddenly,  "  where  that  ballet  goes  after  the  Argen- 
tine"; never  omitting  a  chance  of  reminder;  for  he  knew 
that  Winifred  still  had  a  weakness,  if  not  for  Dartie,  at  least 
for  not  laundering  him  in  public.  Though  not  good  at 
showing  admiration,  he  admitted  that  she  was  behaving 
extremely  well,  with  all  her  children  at  home  gaping  like 
young  birds  for  news  of  their  father — Imogen  just  on  the 
point  of  coming  out,  and  Val  very  restive  about  the  whole 
thing.  He  felt  that  Val  was  the  real  heart  of  the  matter 
to  Winifred,  who  certainly  loved  him  beyond  her  other 
children.  The  boy  could  spoke  the  wheel  of  this  divorce 
yet  if  he  set  his  mind  to  it.  And  Soames  was  very  careful 
to  keep  the  proximity  of  the  preliminary  proceedings  from 
his  nephew's  ears.  He  did  more.  He  asked  him  to  dine 
at  the  Remove,  and  over  Val's  cigar  introduced  the  subject 
which  he  knew  to  be  nearest  to  his  heart. 

"  I  hear,"  he  said,  "  that  you  want  to  play  polo  up  at 
Oxford." 

Val  became  less  recumbent  in  his  chair. 

"  Rather  !"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  continued  Soames,  "  that's  a  very  expensive 
business.  Your  grandfather  isn't  likely  to  consent  to  it 
unless  he  can  make  sure  that  he's  not  got  any  other  drain 
on  him."  And  he  paused  to  see  whether  the  boy  under- 
stood his  meaning. 


IN  CHANCERY  617 

Val's  dark  thick  lashes  concealed  his  eyes,  but  a  slight 
grimace  appeared  on  his  wide  mouth,  and  he  muttered: 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  my  dad  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Soames;  "  I'm  afraid  it  depends  on  whether 
he  continues  to  be  a  drag  or  not;"  and  said  no  more,  letting 
the  boy  dream  it  over. 

But  Val  was  also  dreaming  in  those  days  of  a  silver-roan 
palfrey  and  a  girl  riding  it.  Though  Crum  was  in  town 
and  an  introduction  to  Cynthia  Dark  to  be  had  for  the  asking, 
Val  did  not  ask;  indeed,  he  shunned  Crum  and  lived  a  life 
strange  even  to  himself,  except  in  so  far  as  accounts  with 
tailor  and  livery  stable  were  concerned.  To  his  mother, 
his  sisters,  his  young  brother,  he  seemed  to  spend  this 
Vacation  in  '  seeing  fellows,'  and  his  evenings  sleepily  at 
home.  They  could  not  propose  anything  in  daylight  that 
did  not  meet  with  the  one  response:  "  Sorry;  I've  got  to  see 
a  fellow";  and  he  was  put  to  extraordinary  shifts  to  get  in 
and  out  of  the  house  unobserved  in  riding  clothes;  until, 
being  made  a  member  of  theGoat's  Club,  he  was  able  to 
transport  them  there,  where  he  could  change  unregarded 
and  slip  off  on  his  hack  to  Richmond  Park.  He  kept  his 
growing  sentiment  religiously  to  himself.  Not  for  a  world 
would  he  breathe  to  the  'fellows,'  whom  he  was  not  'seeing,' 
anything  so  ridiculous  from  the  point  of  view  of  their  creed 
and  his.  But  he  could  not  help  its  destroying  his  other 
appetites.  It  was  coming  between  him  and  the  legitimate 
pleasures  of  youth  at  last  on  its  own  in  a  way  which  must,  he 
knew,  make  him  a  milksop  in  the  eyes  of  Crum.  All  he  cared 
for  was  to  dress  in  his  last-created  riding  togs,  and  steal  away 
to  the  Robin  Hood  Gate,  where  presently  the  silver  roan 
would  come  demurely  sidling  with  its  slim  and  dark- haired 
rider,  and  in  the  glades  bare  of  leaves  they  would  go  off  side 
by  side,  not  talking  very  much,  riding  races  sometimes,  and 
sometimes  holding  hands.     More  than  once  of  an  evening, 


6i8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

in  a  moment  of  expansion,  he  had  been  tempted  to  tell  his 
mother  how  this  shy  sweet  cousin  had  stolen  in  upon  him 
and  wrecked  his  '  life.'  But  bitter  experience,  that  all 
persons  above  thirty-five  were  spoil-sports,  prevented  him. 
After  all,  he  supposed  he  would  have  to  go  through  with 
College,  and  she  would  have  to  '  come  out,'  before  they  could 
be  married;  so  why  complicate  things,  so  long  as  he  could 
see  her?  Sisters  were  teasing  and  unsympathetic  beings, 
a  brother  worse,  so  there  was  no  one  to  confide  in;  besides, 
this  beastly  divorce  business  !  Ah  !  what  a  misfortune  to 
have  a  name  which  other  people  hadn't  !  If  only  he  had 
been  called  Gordon  or  Scott  or  Howard  or  something  fairly 
common  !  But  Dartie — there  wasn't  another  in  the  direc- 
tory !  One  might  as  well  have  been  named  Morkin  for  all 
the  covert  it  afforded  !  So  matters  went  on,  till  one  day  in 
the  middle  of  January  the  silver-roan  palfrey  and  its  rider 
were  missing  at  the  tryst.  Lingering  in  the  cold,  he  debated 
whether  he  should  ride  on  to  the  house.  But  Jolly  might 
be  there,  and  the  memory  of  their  dark  encounter  was  still 
fresh  within  him.  One  could  not  be  always  fighting  with 
her  brother  !  So  he  returned  dismally  to  town  and  spent 
an  evening  plunged  in  gloom.  At  breakfast  next  day  he 
noticed  that  his  mother  had  on  an  unfamiliar  dress  and  was 
wearing  her  hat.  The  dress  was  black  with  a  glimpse  of 
peacock  blue,  the  hat  black  and  large — she  looked  exception- 
ally well.  But  when  after  breakfast  she  said  to  him,  "  Come 
in  here,  Val,"  and  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  he  was 
at  once  beset  by  qualms.  Winifred  carefully  shut  the  door 
and  passed  her  handkerchief  over  her  lips;  inhaling  the 
violette  de  Parme  with  which  it  had  been  soaked,  Val 
thought:  *  Has  she  found  out  about  Holly  V 

Her  voice  interrupted: 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  nice  to  me,  dear  boy?" 

Val  grinned  doubtfulJy. 


IN  CHANCERY  619 

"  Will  70U  come  with  me  this  morning " 

"  I've  got  to  see "  began  Val,  but  something  in  her 

face  stopped  him.     "  I  say,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  mean " 

"  Yes,  I  have  to  go  to  the  Court  this  morning." 

Already  ! — that  d — d  business  which  he  had  almost 
succeeded  in  forgetting,  since  nobody  ever  mentioned  it. 
In  self- commiseration  he  stood  picking  little  bits  of  skin  o5 
his  fingers.  Then  noticing  that  his  mother's  lips  were  all 
awry,  he  said  impulsively:  "All  right,  mother;  I'll  come. 
The  brutes  !"  What  brutes  he  did  not  know,  but  the  ex- 
pression exactly  summed  up  their  joint  feeling,  and  restored 
a  measure  of  equanimity. 

'*  I  suppose  I'd  better  change  into  a  *  shooter,'  "  he 
muttered,  escaping  to  his  room.  He  put  on  the  *  shooter,' 
a  higher  collar,  a  pearl  pin,  and  his  neatest  grey  spats,  to  a 
somewhat  blasphemous  accompaniment.  Looking  at  him- 
self in  the  glass,  he  said,  "  Well,  I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to 
show  anything !"  and  went  down.  He  found  his  grand- 
father's carriage  at  the  door,  and  his  mother  in  furs,  with  the 
appearance  of  one  going  to  a  Mansion  House  Assembly. 
They  seated  themselves  side  by  side  in  the  closed  barouche, 
and  all  the  way  to  the  Courts  of  Justice  Val  made  but  one 
allusion  to  the  business  in  hand.  "  There'll  be  nothing 
about  those  pearls,  will  there?" 

The  little  tufted  white  tails  of  Winifred's  muff  began  to 
shiver. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  "  it'll  be  quite  harmless  to-day.  Your 
grandmother  wanted  to  come  too,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her. 
I  thought  you  could  take  care  of  me.  You  look  so  nice,  Val. 
Just  pull  your  coat  collar  up  a  little  more  at  the  back — that's 
right." 

"  If  they  buUy  you "  began  Val. 

"  Oh  !  they  won't.  I  shall  be  very  cool.  It's  the  only 
way." 


620  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  They  won't  want  me  to  give  evidence  or  anything  ?" 

"  No,  dear;  it's  all  arranged."  And  she  patted  his  hand. 
The  determined  front  she  was  putting  on  it  stayed  the  tur- 
moil in  Val's  chest,  and  he  busied  himself  in  drawing  his 
gloves  off  and  on.  He  had  taken  what  he  now  saw  was  the 
wrong  pair  to  go  with  his  spats ;  they  should  have  been  grey, 
but  were  deerskin  of  a  dark  tan;  whether  to  keep  them  on  or 
not  he  could  not  decide.  They  arrived  soon  after  ten.  It 
was  his  first  visit  to  the  Law  Courts,  and  the  building  struck 
him  at  once. 

"  By  Jove  !"  he  said  as  they  passed  into  the  hall,  "  this'd 
make  four  or  five  jolly  good  racket  courts." 

Soames  was  awaiting  them  at  the  foot  of  some  stairs. 

"  Here  you  are  !"  he  said,  without  shaking  hands,  as  if  the 
event  had  made  them  too  familiar  for  such  formalities.  "  It's 
Happerly  Browne,  Court  I.     We  shall  be  on  first." 

A  sensation  such  as  he  had  known  when  going  in  to  bat 
was  playing  now  in  the  top  of  Val's  chest,  but  he  followed  his 
mother  and  uncle  doggedly,  looking  at  no  more  than  he 
could  help,  and  thinking  that  the  place  smelled  '  fuggy.' 
People  seemed  to  be  lurking  everywhere,  and  he  plucked 
Soames  by  the  sleeve. 

"  I  say.  Uncle,  you're  not  going  to  let  those  beastly  papers 
in,  are  you  ?" 

Soames  gave  him  the  sideway  look  which  had  reduced 
many  to  silence  in  its  time. 

"  In  here,"  he  said.  "  You  needn't  take  off  your  furs, 
Winifred." 

Val  entered  behind  them,  nettled  and  with  his  head  up. 
In  this  confounded  hole  everybody — and  there  were  a  good 
many  of  them — seemed  sitting  on  everybody  else's  knee, 
though  really  divided  from  each  other  by  pews ;  and  Val  had 
a  feeling  that  they  might  all  slip  down  together  into  the  well. 
This,  however,  was  but  a  momentary  vision — of  mahogany. 


IN  CHANCERY  621 

and  black  gowns,  and  white  blobs  of  wigs  and  faces  and  papers, 
all  rather  secret  and  whispery — before  he  was  sitting  next 
his  mother  in  the  front  row,  with  his  back  to  it  all,  glad  of 
her  violette  de  Parme,  and  taking  off  his  gloves  for  the  last 
time.  His  mother  was  looking  at  him;  he  was  suddenly 
conscious  that  she  had  really  wanted  him  there  next  to  her, 
and  that  he  counted  for  something  in  this  business.  All 
right  !  He  would  show  them  !  Squaring  his  shoulders, 
he  crossed  his  legs  and  gazed  inscrutably  at  his  spats.  But 
just  then  an  '  old  Johnny  '  in  a  gown  and  long  wig,  looking 
awfully  like  a  funny  raddled  woman,  came  through  a  door 
into  the  high  pew  opposite,  and  he  had  to  uncross  his  legs 
hastily,  and  stand  up  with  everybody  else. 

*  Dartie  versus  Dartie  !' 

It  seemed  to  Val  unspeakably  disgusting  to  have  one's 
name  called  out  like  this  in  pubHc  !  And,  suddenly  conscious 
that  someone  nearly  behind  him  had  begun  talking  about 
his  family,  he  screwed  his  face  round  to  see  an  old  be-wigged 
buffer,  who  spoke  as  if  he  were  eating  his  own  words — 
queer-looking  old  cuss,  the  sort  of  man  he  had  seen  once  or 
twice  dining  at  Park  Lane  and  punishing  the  port;  he  knew 
now  where  they  '  dug  them  up.'  All  the  same  he  found  the 
old  buffer  quite  fascinating,  and  would  have  continued  to 
stare  if  his  mother  had  not  touched  his  arm.  Reduced  to 
gazing  before  him,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  Judge's  face 
instead.  Why  should  that  old  *  sportsman  '  with  his  sar- 
castic mouth  and  his  quick-moving  eyes  have  the  power  to 
meddle  with  their  private  affairs — hadn't  he  affairs  of  his 
own,  just  as  many,  and  probably  just  as  nasty  ?  And  there 
moved  in  Val,  like  an  illness,  all  the  deep-seated  individualism 
of  his  breed.  The  voice  behind  him  droned  along:  "  Differ- 
ences about  money  matters — extravagance  of  the  respon- 
dent "  (What  a  word  !  Was  that  his  father  ?)— "  strained 
situation — frequent  absences  on  the  part  of  Mr.   Dartie. 


622  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

My  client,  very  rightly,  your  Ludship  will  agree,  was  anxious 
to    check    a    course — but    lead    to     ruin — remonstrated — 

gambling  at  cards  and  on  the  racecourse "     ('  That's 

right  !'  thought  Val,  '  pile  it  on  !')  '*  Crisis  early  in 
October,  when  the  respondent  wrote  her  this  letter  from  his 
Club."  Val  sat  up  and  his  ears  burned.  "  I  propose  to 
read  it  with  the  emendations  necessary  to  the  epistle  of  a 
gentleman  who  has  been — shall  we  say  dining,  me  Lud  ?" 

*  Old  brute  !'  thought  Val,  Hushing  deeper;  '  you're 
not  paid  to  make  jokes  I' 

"  '  You  will  not  get  the  chance  to  insult  me  again  in  my 
own  house.  I  am  leaving  the  countrj'  to-morrow.  It's 
played  out ' — an  expression,  your  Ludship,  not  unknown 
in  the  mouths  of  those  who  have  not  met  with  conspicuous 
success." 

*  Sniggering  owls  !'  thought  Val,  and  his  flush  deepened. 
*'  *  I  am  tired  of  being  insulted  by  you.*     My  client  will 

tell  your  Ludship  that  these  so-called  insults  consisted  in 
her  calling  him  'the  limit  ' — a  very  mild  expression,  I  venture 
to  suggest,  in  all  the  circumstances." 

Val  glanced  sideways  at  his  mother's  impassive  face,  it  had 
a  hunted  look  in  the  eyes.  *  Poor  mother '  he  thought, 
and  touched  her  arm  with  his  own.  The  voice  behind 
droned  on. 

"  *  I  am  going  to  live  a  new  life. — M.  D.' 

"And  next  day,  me  Lud,  the  respondent  left  by  the  steam- 
ship Tuscarora  for  Buenos  Aires.  Since  then  we  have  no- 
thing from  him  but  a  cabled  refusal  in  answer  to  the  letter 
which  my  client  wrote  the  following  day  in  great  distress, 
begging  him  to  return  to  her.  With  your  Ludship's 
permission,  I  shall  now  put  Mrs.  Dartie  in  the  box." 

When  his  mother  rose,  Val  had  a  tremendous  impulse  to 
rise  too  and  say:  '  Look  here  !  I'm  going  to  see  you  jolly 
well  treat  her  decently.'     He  subdued  it,  however;   heard 


IN  CHANCERY  623 

her  saying,  *  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,'  and  locked  up.  She  made  a  rich  figure  of  it,  in  her 
furs  and  large  hat,  with  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheek-bones, 
calm,  matter-of-fact;  and  he  felt  proud  of  her  thus  con- 
fronting all  these  '  confounded  la^vyers.'  The  examination 
began.  Knowing  that  this  was  only  the  preliminary  to 
divorce,  Val  followed  with  a  certain  glee  the  questions 
framed  so  as  to  give  the  impression  that  she  really  wanted 
his  father  back.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  '  foxing 
Old  Bagwigs  finely.'  And  he  had  a  most  unpleasant  jar 
when  the  Judge  said  suddenly: 

"  Now,  why  did  your  husband  leave  you — not  because 
you  called  him  *  the  limit,'  you  know  ?" 

Val  saw  his  uncle  lift  his  eyes  to  the  witness  box,  without 
moving  his  face;  heard  a  shuffle  of  papers  behind  him;  and 
instinct  told  him  that  the  issue  was  in  peril.  Had  Uncle 
Soames  and  the  old  buffer  behind  made  a  mess  of  it }  His 
mother  was  speaking  with  a  slight  drawl. 

"  No,  my  lord,  but  it  had  gone  on  a  long  time." 

"  What  had  gone  on  ?" 

"  Our  differences  about  money." 

"  But  you  supplied  the  money.  Do  you  suggest  that  he 
left  you  to  better  his  position  ?" 

*  The  brute  !  The  old  brute,  and  nothing  but  the  brute  !' 
thought  Val  suddenly.  *  He  smells  a  rat — he's  trying  to  get 
at  the  pastry  !'  And  his  heart  stood  still.  If — if  he  did, 
then,  of  course,  he  would  know  that  his  mother  didn't  reaUy 
want  his  father  back.  His  mother  spoke  again,  a  thought 
more  fashionably. 

"  No,  my  Lord,  but  you  see  I  had  refused  to  give  him  any 
more  money.  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  believe  that,  but 
he  did  at  last — and  when  he  did " 

"  I  see,  you  had  refused.    But  you've  sent  him  some  since." 

"  My  Lord,  I  wanted  him  back." 


624  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  And  vou  thought  that  would  bring  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  Lord,  I  acted  on  my  father's  advice." 

Something  in  the  Judge's  face,  in  the  sound  of  the  papers 
behind  him,  in  the  sudden  crossing  of  his  uncle's  legs,  told 
\'al  that  she  had  made  just  the  right  answer.  *  Crafty  !'  he 
thought;  '  by  Jove,  what  humbug  it  all  is  !' 

The  Judge  was  speaking: 

"  Just  one  more  question,  Mrs.  Dartie.  Are  you  still 
fond  of  your  husband  :" 

Val's  hands,  slack  behind  him,  became  lists.  \"\'hat 
business  had  that  Judge  to  make  things  human  suddenly  r 
To  make  his  mother  speak  out  of  her  heart,  and  say  what, 
perhaps,  she  didn't  know  herself,  before  all  these  people  ! 
It  wasn't  decent.  His  mother  answered,  rather  low:  "  Yes, 
my  Lord."  Val  saw  the  Judge  nod.  *  Wish  I  could  take  a 
cock-shy  at  your  head  !'  he  thought  irreverently,  as  his 
mother  came  back  to  her  seat  beside  him.  Witnesses  to  his 
father's  departure  and  continued  absence  followed — one 
of  their  own  maids  even,  which  struck  Val  as  particularly 
beastly;  there  was  more  talking,  all  humbug;  and  then  the 
Judge  pronounced  the  decree  for  restitution,  and  they  got 
up  to  go.  Val  walked  out  behind  his  mother,  chin  squared, 
eyelids  drooped,  doing  his  level  best  to  despise  everybody. 
His  mother's  voice  in  the  corridor  roused  him  from  an  angry 
trance. 

"  You  bebaved  beautifully,  dear.  It  was  such  a  comfort 
to  have  you.     Your  uncle  and  I  are  going  to  lunch." 

"  AJl  right,"  said  Val;  '*'  I  shall  have  time  to  go  and  see  that 
fellow."  And,  parting  from  them  abruptly,  he  ran  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  air.  He  bolted  into  a  hansom,  and 
drove  to  the  Goat's  Club.  His  thoughts  were  on  Holly 
and  what  he  must  do  before  her  brother  showed  her  this 
thing  in  to-morrow's  paper. 


IX  CIL^nXERY  -25 

WTien  Val  had  left  them  Soames  and  Winifred  made  theLr 
way  to  the  Cheshire  Cheese.  He  had  snores  ted  it  as  a 
meeting  place  with  Mr.  Bellby.  At  that  earlj  honr  of  noon 
they  would  haye  it  to  themielyes,  and  Winifred  had  thonght 
it  would  be  *  amnsirig '  to  see  this  far-famed  hosteirr. 
Having  ordered  a  light  repast,  to  the  consternation  of  the 
waiter,  thev  awaited  it3  arrival  together  with  that  of  Mr. 
Bellby,  in  silent  reaction  after  the  honr  and  a  half's  snsrense 
on  the  tenterhooks  of  publicity.  Mr.  Bellby  entered 
presently,  preceded  by  his  nose,  as  cheerful  as  they  were 
glum.  Well !  they  had  got  the  decree  of  restitution,  and 
what  was  the  matter  with  that ! 

"  Quite,"  said  Soames  in  a  suitably  low  voice,  "  but  we 
shall  have  to  begin  again  to  get  evidence.  Hell  probably 
try  the  divorce — it  will  look  £shy  if  it  comes  out  that  we 
knew  of  misconduct  from  the  start.  His  questions  showed 
well  enough  that  he  doesn't  like  this  restitution  dcJge." 

"  Pho  !"  said  Mr.  Bellby  cheerily,  "  he'D  forget !  Why. 
man,  he'll  have  tried  a  hundred  cases  between  now  and  then 
Besides,  he's  bound  by  precedent  to  give  ye  your  divorce, 
if  the  evidence  is  satisfactory.  We  won't  let  um  know  that 
Mrs.  Dartie  had  knowledge  of  the  facts.  Dreamer  did  it 
very  nicely — he's  got  a  fatherly  touch  abcnt  um  !" 

Soames  nodded. 

"  And  I  compliment  ye,  Mrs.  Dartie,"  ^ent  en  Mr. 
Bellby;  "  ye've  a  natural  ?ift  for  giving  evidence.  Steady 
£s  a  rock.''' 

Here  the  waiter  arrived  with  three  pktes  balanced  on  one 
arm,  and  the  remark:  "  I  'urried  up  the  pndden.  sir.  YcuTI 
End  plenty  o'  lark  in  it  to-day." 

Mr.  Bellby  applauded  his  forethought  with  a  div  of  hii 
nose.  But  Soames  and  Winifred  locked  with  dismay  at 
their  light  lunch  of  gravined  brown  masses,  touching  them 
gingerly  with  their  forks  in  the  hope  of  distinguishing  the 


626  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

bodies  of  the  tasty  little  song-givers.  Having  begun,  hoW' 
ever,  they  found  they  were  hungrier  than  they  thought, 
and  finished  the  lot,  with  a  glass  of  port  apiece.  Conversa- 
tion turned  on  the  war.  Soames  thought  Ladysmith  would 
fall,  and  it  might  last  a  year.  Bellby  thought  it  would  be 
over  by  the  summer.  Both  agreed  that  they  wanted  more 
men.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  complete  victory,  since 
it  was  now  a  question  of  prestige.  Winifred  brought  things 
back  to  more  solid  ground  by  saying  that  she  did  not  want 
the  divorce  suit  to  come  on  till  after  the  summer  holidays 
had  begun  at  Oxford,  then  the  boys  would  have  forgotten 
about  it  before  Val  had  to  go  up  again;  the  London  season 
too  would  be  over.  The  lawyers  reassured  her,  an  interval 
of  six  months  was  necessary — after  that  the  earlier  the  better. 
People  were  now  beginning  to  come  in,  and  they  parted — 
Soames  to  the  city,  Bellby  to  his  chambers,  Winifred  in  a 
hansom  to  Park  Lane  to  let  her  mother  know  how  she  had 
fared.  The  issue  had  been  so  satisfactory  on  the  whole 
that  it  was  considered  advisable  to  tell  James,  who  never 
failed  to  say  day  after  day  that  he  didn't  know  about 
Winifred's  affair,  he  couldn't  tell.  As  his  sands  ran  out,  the 
importance  of  mundane  matters  became  increasingly  grave 
to  him,  as  if  he  were  feeling:  *  I  must  make  the  most  of  it, 
and  worry  well;  I  shall  soon  have  nothing  to  worry  about.' 

He  received  the  report  grudgingly.  It  was  a  new-fangled 
way  of  going  about  things,  and  he  didn't  know  !  But  he 
gave  Winifred  a  cheque,  saying: 

"  I  expect  you'll  have  a  lot  of  expense.  That's  a  new  hat 
you've  got  on.     Why  doesn't  Val  come  and  see  us  ?" 

Winifred  promised  to  bring  him  to  dinner  soon.  And, 
going  home,  she  sought  her  bedroom  where  she  could  be 
alone.  Now  that  her  husband  had  been  ordered  back  into 
her  custody  with  a  view  to  putting  him  away  from  her  for 
ever,  she  would  try  once  more  to  find  out  from  her  sore  and 
lonely  heart  what  she  really  wanted. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    CHALLENGE 

The  morning  had  been  misty,  verging  on  frost,  but  the  sun 
came  out  while  Val  was  jogging  towards  the  Roehampton 
Gate,  whence  he  would  canter  on  to  the  usual  tryst.  His 
spirits  were  rising  rapidly.  There  had  been  nothing  so  very 
terrible  in  the  morning's  proceedings  beyond  the  general 
disgrace  of  violated  privacy.  '  If  we  were  engaged  !'  he 
thought,  *  what  happens  wouldn't  matter.'  He  felt,  indeed, 
like  human  society,  which  kicks  and  clamours  at  the  results 
of  matrimony,  and  hastens  to  get  married.  And  he  galloped 
over  the  winter-dried  grass  of  Richmond  Park,  fearing  to  be 
late.  But  again  he  was  alone  at  the  trj-'sting  spot,  and  this 
second  defection  on  the  part  of  Holly  upset  him  dreadfully. 
He  could  not  go  back  without  seeing  her  to-day  !  Emerging 
from  the  Park,  he  proceeded  towards  Robin  Hill.  He  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  for  whom  to  ask.  Suppose  her  father 
were  back,  or  her  sister  or  brother  were  in  !  He  decided 
to  gamble,  and  ask  for  them  all  first,  so  that  if  he  were  in 
luck  and  they  were  not  there,  it  would  be  quite  natural  in  the 
end  to  ask  for  Holly;  while  if  any  of  them  zvere  in — an 
*  excuse  for  a  ride  '  must  be  his  saving  grace. 

"  Only  Miss  Holly  is  in,  sir." 

"  Oh !  thanks.  Might  I  take  my  horse  round  to  the  stables  ? 
And  would  you  say — her  cousin,  Mr.  Val  Dartie." 

When  he  returned  she  was  in  the  hall,  very  flushed  and 
shy.  She  led  him  to  the  far  end,  and  they  sat  down  on  a 
wide  window-seat. 

627 


628  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I've  been  awfully  anxious,"  said  Val  in  a  low  voice. 
"  What's  the  matter?" 

"  Jolly  knows  about  our  riding." 

"Is  he  in?" 

"  No;  but  I  expect  he  will  be  soon." 

"  Then !"  cried  Val,   and  diving  forward,  he  seized 

her  hand.  She  tried  to  withdraw  it,  failed,  gave  up  the 
attempt,  and  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"  First  of  all,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  something 
about  my  family.  My  Dad,  you  know,  isn't  altogether — 
I  mean,  he's  left  my  mother  and  they're  trying  to  divorce 
him;  so  they've  ordered  him  to  come  back,  you  see.  You'll 
see  that  in  the  paper  to-morrow." 

Her  eyes  deepened  in  colour  and  fearful  interest;  her 
hand  squeezed  his.  But  the  gambler  in  Val  was  roused  now, 
and  he  hurried  on: 

*'  Of  course  there's  nothing  very  much  at  present,  but 
there  will  be,  I  expect,  before  it's  over;  divorce  suits  are 
beastly,  you  know.  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  because— because 
— you  ought  to  know — if — "  and  he  began  to  stammer, 
gazing  at  her  troubled  eyes,  "  if — if  you're  going  to  be  a 
darling  and  love  me.  Holly.  I  love  you — ever  so;  and  I 
want  to  be  engaged.'*  He  had  done  it  in  a  manner  so  in- 
adequate that  he  could  have  punched  his  own  head;  and, 
dropping  on  his  knees,  he  tried  to  get  nearer  to  that  soft, 
troubled   face.     "You    do    love   me — don't   you?     If  you 

don't,  I "     There  was  a  moment  of  silence  and  suspense, 

so  awful  that  he  could  hear  the  sound  of  a  mowing-machine 
far  out  on  the  lawn  pretending  there  was  grass  to  cut.  Then 
she  swayed  forward;  her  free  hand  touched  his  hair,  and  he 
gasped:  "Oh,  Holly!" 

Her  answer  was  very  soft :  "  Oh,  Val  !" 

He  had  dreamed  of  this  moment,  but  always  in  an  impera- 
tive mood,  as  the  masterful  young  lover,  and  now  he  felt 


IN  CHANCERY  629 

humble,  touched,  trembly.  He  was  afraid  to  stir  off  iiis 
knees  lest  he  should  break  the  spell;  lest,  if  he  did,  she  should 
shrink  and  deny  her  own  surrender — so  tremulous  was  she 
in  his  grasp,  with  her  eyelids  closed  and  his  lips  nearing  them. 
Her  eyes  opened,  seemed  to  swim  a  little;  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  hers.  Suddenly  he  sprang  up;  there  had  been  footsteps, 
a  sort  of  startled  grunt.  He  looked  round.  No  one!  But  the 
long  curtains  which  barred  off  the  outer  hall  were  quivering. 
•     "  My  God  !     Who  was  that?'^ 

Holly  too  was  on  her  feet. 

"  Jolly,  I  expect,"  she  whispered. 

Val  clenched  fists  and  resolution. 

"  All  right  !"  he  said,  "  I  don't  care  a  bit  now  we're 
engaged,"  and  striding  towards  the  curtains,  he  drew 
them  aside.  There  at  the  fireplace  in  the  hall  stood  Jolly, 
with  his  back  elaborately  turned.  Val  went  forward.  Jolly 
faced  round  on  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  hearing,"  he  said. 

With  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  Val  could  not  help 
admiring  him  at  that  moment;  his  face  was  clear,  his  voice 
quiet,  he  looked  somehow  distinguished,  as  if  acting  up  to 
principle. 

"  Well  !"  Val  said  abruptly,  "  it's  nothing  to  you." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Jolly;  "  you  come  this  way,"  and  he  crossed 
the  hall.  Val  followed.  At  the  study  door  he  felt  a  touch 
on  his  arm;  Holly's  voice  said: 

"  I'm  coming  too." 

"  No,"  said  Jolly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Holly. 

Jolly  opened  the  door,  and  they  all  three  went  in.  Once 
in  the  little  room,  they  stood  in  a  sort  of  triangle  on 
three  corners  of  the  worn  Turkey  carpet;  awkwardly  upright, 
not  looking  at  each  other,  quite  incapable  of  seeing  any 
humour  in  the  situation. 


6sb  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Val  broke  the  silence. 

"  Holly  and  I  are  engaged." 

Jolly  stepped  back  and  leaned  against  the  lintel  of  the 
window. 

"  This  is  our  house,"  he  said;  "  I'm  not  going  to  insult 
you  in  it.  But  my  father's  away.  I'm  in  charge  of  my 
sister.     You've  taken  advantage  of  me." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to,"  said  Val  hotly. 

''  I  think  you  did,"  said  Jolly.  "  If  you  hadn't  meant  to, 
you'd  have  spoken  to  me,  or  waited  for  my  father  to  come 
back." 

"  There  were  reasons,"  said  Val. 

"  What  reasons?" 

"  About  my  family — I've  just  told  her.  I  wanted  her  to 
know  before  things  happen." 

JoUy  suddenly  became  less  distinguished. 

"  You're  kids,"  he  said,  "  and  you  know  you  are." 

"  I  am  not  a  kid,"  said  Val. 

"  You  are — you're  not  twenty." 

"  Well,  what  are  you.?" 

"  I  am  twenty,"  said  Jolly. 

^'  Only  just;  anyway,  I'm  as  good  a  man  as  you." 

Jolly's  face  crimsoned,  then  clouded.  Some  struggle  was 
evidently  taking  place  in  him;  and  Val  and  Holly  stared  at 
him,  so  clearly  was  that  struggle  marked;  they  could  even 
hear  him  breathing.  Then  his  face  cleared  up  and  became 
oddly  resolute. 

"  We'll  see  that,"  he  said.  "  I  dare  you  to  do  what  I'm 
going  to  do." 

'*  Dare  me?" 

Jolly  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  ''dare  you;  and  I  know 
very  well  you  won't." 

A  stab  of  misgiving  shot  through  Val;  this  was  riding  very 
blind. 


IN  CHANCERY  631 

"  I  haven't  forgotten  that  you're  a  fire-eater,"  said  Jolly 
slowly,  "  and  I  think  that's  about  all  you  are;  or  that  you 
called  me  a  pro-Boer." 

Val  heard  a  gasp  above  the  sound  of  his  own  hard 
breathing,  and  saw  Holly's  face  poked  a  little  forward,  very 
pale,  with  big  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  went  on  Jolly  with  a  sort  of  smile,  "  we  shall  soon 
see.  I'm  going  to  join  the  Imperial  Yeomanry,  and  I  dare 
you  to  do  the  same,  Mr.  Val  Dartie." 

Val's  head  jerked  on  its  stem.  It  was  like  a  blow  between 
the  eyes,  so  utterly  unthought  of,  so  extreme  and  ugly  in  the 
midst  of  his  dreaming;  and  he  looked  at  HoUy  with  eyes 
grown  suddenly,  touchingly  haggard. 

"  Sit  down  !"  said  Jolly.  "  Take  your  time  !  Think  it 
over  well."  And  he  himself  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his 
grandfather's  chair. 

Val  did  not  sit  down;  he  stood  with  hands  thrust  deep 
into  his  breeches'  pockets — hands  clenched  and  quivering. 
The  full  awfulness  of  this  decision  one  way  or  the  other 
knocked  at  his  mind  with  double  knocks  as  of  an  angry  post- 
man. If  he  did  not  take  that  *  dare  '  he  was  disgraced  in 
Holly's  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  that  young  enemy,  her  brute 
of  a  brother.  Yet  if  he  took  it,  ah  !  then  all  would  vanish — 
her  face,  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  kisses  just  begun  ! 

"  Take  your  time,"  said  Jolly  again;  "  I  don't  want  to  be 
unfair." 

And  they  both  looked  at  Holly.  She  had  recoiled  against 
the  bookshelves  reaching  to  the  ceiling;  her  dark  head  leaned 
against  Gibbon's  Roman  Empire,  her  eyes  in  a  sort  of  soft 
grey  agony  were  fixed  on  Val.  And  he,  who  had  not  much 
gift  of  insight,  had  suddenly  a  gleam  of  vision.  She  would 
be  proud  of  her  brother — that  enemy  !  She  would  be 
ashamed  of  him  !  His  hands  came  out  of  his  pockets  as  if 
lifted  by  a  spring. 


632  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  AU  right  !"  he  said.     "  Done  !" 

Holly's  face — oh  !  it  was  queer  !  He  saw  her  flush,  start 
forward.  He  had  done  the  ri^ht  thin^r — her  face  was  shining 
with  wistful  admiration.  Jolly  stood  up  and  made  a  little 
bow  as  who  should  say:  '  You've  passed.' 

"  To-morrow,  then,"  he  said,  "  we'll  go  together." 

Recovering  from  the  impetus  which  had  carried  him  to 
that  decision,  \'al  looked  at  him  maliciously  from  under  his 
lashes.  *  All  right,'  he  thought,  '  one  to  you.  I  shall  have 
to  join — but  ril  get  back  on  you  somehow.'  And  he  said 
with  dignity:  "  I  shall  be  ready." 

"  We'll  meet  at  the  main  Recruiting  Oihce,  then,"  said 
Jolly,  "  at  twelve  o'clock."  And,  opening  the  window,  he 
went  out  on  to  the  terrace,  conforming  to  the  creed  which 
had  made  him  retire  when  he  surprised  them  in  the  hall. 

The  confusion  in  the  mind  of  Val  thus  left  alone  with  her 
for  whom  he  had  paid  this  sudden  price  was  extreme.  The 
mood  of  '  sho\^'ing-ofl  '  was  still,  however,  uppermost.  One 
must  do  the  wretched  thing  with  an  air  ! 

"  We  shall  get  plenty  of  riding  and  shooting,  anpvay," 
he  said;  "  that's  one  comfort."  And  it  gave  him  a  sort  of 
grim  pleasure  to  hear  the  sigh  which  seemed  to  come  from 
the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

"Oh!  the  war'U  soon  be  over,"  he  said;  "perhaps  we 
shan't  even  have  to  go  out.  I  don't  care,  except  for  you." 
He  would  be  out  of  the  way  of  that  beastly  divorce.  It 
was  an  ill-wind  !  He  felt  her  warm  hand  slip  into  his 
Jolly  thought  he  had  stopped  their  loving  each  other,  did  he  ? 
He  held  her  tightly  round  the  waist,  looking  at  her  softly 
through  his  lashes,  smiling  to  cheer  her  up,  promising  to 
come  down  and  see  her  soon,  feeling  somehow  six  inches 
taller  and  much  more  in  command  of  her  than  he  had  ever 
dared  feel  before.  Many  times  he  kissed  her  before  he 
mounted  and  rode  back  to  town.  So,  swiftly,  on  the  least 
provocation,  does  the  possessive  instinct  flourish  and  grow. 


CHAPTER  IX 


Dinner  parties  were  not  now  given  at  James'  in  Park  Lane — 
to  every  house  the  moment  comes  when  Master  or  Mistress 
is  no  longer  '  up  to  it ' ;  no  more  can  nine  courses  be  served 
to  twenty  mouths  above  twenty  fine  white  expanses;  nor 
does  the  household  cat  any  longer  wonder  why  she  is 
suddenly  shut  up. 

So  with  something  like  excitement  Emily — who  at  seventy 
would  still  have  liked  a  little  feast  and  fashion  now  and  then 
— ordered  dinner  for  six  instead  of  two,  herself  wrote  a 
number  of  foreign  words  on  cards,  and  arranged  the  flowers — 
mimosa  from  the  Riviera,  and  white  Roman  hyacinths  not 
from  Rome.  There  would  only  be,  of  course,  James  and 
herself,  Soames,  Winifred,  Val,  and  Imogen — but  she  liked 
to  pretend  a  little  and  dally  in  imagination  with  the  glory 
of  the  past.     She  so  dressed  herself  that  James  remarked  : 

"  What  are  you  putting  on  that  thing  for  ?  You'll  catch 
cold." 

But  Emily  knew  that  the  necks  of  women  are  protected  by 
love  of  shining,  unto  fourscore  years,  and  she  only  answered: 

"  Let  me  put  you  on  one  of  those  dickies  I  got  you,  James; 
then  you'll  only  have  to  change  your  trousers,  and  put  on 
your  velvet  coat,  and  there  you'U  be.  \^al  Hkes  you  to  lock 
nice." 

"  Dicky  !"  said  James.  "  You're  always  wasting  your 
money  on  something." 

But  he  suffered  the  change  to  be  made  till  his  neck  also 
shone,  murmuring  vaguely : 

633  2I« 


634  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  He's  an  extravagant  chap,  Pm  afraid." 

A  little  brighter  in  the  eye,  with  rather  more  colour  than 
usual  in  his  cheeks,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  drawing-room  to 
wait  for  the  sound  of  the  front- door  bell. 

"  I've  made  it  a  proper  dinner  party,"  Emily  said  com- 
fortably; "I  thought  it  would  be  good  practice  for  Imogen — 
she  must  get  used  to  it  now  she's  coming  out." 

James  uttered  an  indeterminate  sound,  thinking  of  Imogen 
as  she  used  to  climb  about  his  knee  or  pull  Christmas 
crackers  with  him. 

"  She'll  be  pretty,"  he  muttered,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

**  She  is  pretty,"  said  Emily;  "  she  ought  to  make  a  good 
match." 

"  There  you  go,"  murmured  James ;  "  she'd  much  better 
stay  at  home  and  look  after  her  mother."  A  second  Dartie 
carrying  off  his  pretty  granddaughter  would  finish  him  ! 
He  had  never  quite  forgiven  Emily  for  having  been  as 
much  taken  in  by  Montague  Dartie  as  he  himself  had 
been. 

"  Where's  Warmson  ?"  he  said  suddenly.  "  I  should  like 
a  glass  of  Madeira  to-night." 

"  There's  champagne,  James." 

James  shook  his  head.  "No  body,"  he  said:  "I  can't 
get  any  good  out  of  it." 

Emily  reached  forward  on  her  side  of  the  fire  and  rang  the 
bell. 

"  Your  master  would  like  a  bottle  of  Madeira  opened, 
Warmson." 

"  No,  no  !"  said  James,  the  tips  of  his  ears  quivering  with 
vehemence,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  an  object  seen  by  him 
alone.  "  Look  here,  Warmson,  you  go  to  the  inner  cellar, 
and  on  the  middle  shelf  of  the  end  bin  on  the  left  you'll  see 
seven  bottles;  take  the  one  in  the  centre,  and  don't  shake  it. 
It's  the  last  of  the  Madeira  I  had  from  Mr.  Jolyon  when  we 


IN  CHANCERY  635 

came  in  here — never  been  moved;  it  ought  to  be  in  prime 
condition  still;  but  I  don't  know,  I  can't  tell." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  responded  the  withdrawing  Warmson. 

"  I  was  keeping  it  for  our  golden  wedding,"  said  James 
suddenly,  "  but  I  shan't  live  three  years  at  my  age." 

"  Nonsense,  James,"  said  Emily,  "  don't  talk  like  that." 

"  I  ought  to  have  got  it  up  myself,"  murmured  James, 
"  he'll  shake  it  as  likely  as  not."  And  he  sank  into  silent  recol- 
lection of  long  moments  among  the  open  gas-jets,  the  cob- 
webs and  the  good  smell  of  wine-soaked  corks,  which  had  been 
appetiser  to  so  many  feasts.  In  the  wine  from  that  cellar  was 
written  the  history  of  the  forty  odd  years  since  he  had 
come  to  the  Park  Lane  house  with  his  young  bride,  and 
of  the  many  generations  of  friends  and  acquaintances  who 
had  passed  into  the  unknown;  its  depleted  bins  preserved 
the  record  of  family  festivity — all  the  marriages,  births, 
deaths  of  his  kith  and  kin.  And  when  he  was  gone  there 
it  would  be,  and  he  didn't  know  what  would  become  of 
it.     It'd  be  drunk  or  spoiled,  he  shouldn't  wonder  ! 

From  that  deep  reverie  the  entrance  of  his  son  dragged 
him,  followed  very  soon  by  that  of  Winifred  and  her  two 
eldest. 

They  went  down  arm-in-arm — James  with  Imogen,  the 
debutante,  because  his  pretty  grandchild  cheered  him; 
Soames  with  Winifred;  Emily  with  Val,  whose  eyes  lighting 
on  the  oysters  brightened.  This  was  to  be  a  proper  full 
*  blow-out '  with  '  fizz  '  and  port  !  And  he  felt  in  need  of  it, 
after  what  he  had  done  that  day,  as  yet  undivulged.  After 
the  first  glass  or  two  it  became  pleasant  to  have  this  bomb- 
shell up  his  sleeve,  this  piece  of  sensational  patriotism,  or 
example,  rather,  of  personal  daring,  to  display — for  his 
pleasure  in  what  he  had  done  for  his  Queen  and  Country 
was  so  far  entirely  personal.  He  was  now  a  '  blood,'  indis- 
solubly  connected  with  guns  and  horses ;  he  had  a  right  to 


636  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

sv/agger — not,  of  course,  that  he  was  goirxg  to.  He  should 
just  announce  it  quietly,  when  there  was  a  pause.  And, 
glancing  down  the  menu,  he  determined  on  '  Bombe  aux 
f raises  '  as  the  proper  moment;  there  would  be  a  certain 
solemnity  while  they  were  eating  that.  Once  or  twice  before 
they  reached  that  rosy  summit  of  the  dinner  he  was  attacked 
by  remembrance  that  his  grandfather  was  never  told  any- 
thing !  Still,  the  old  boy  was  drinking  Madeira,  and  looking 
jelly  fit  !  Besides,  he  ought  to  be  pleased  at  this  set-off 
to  the  disgrace  of  the  divorce.  The  sight  of  his  uncle  oppo- 
site, too,  was  a  sharp  incentive.  He  was  so  far  from  being 
a  sportsman  that  it  would  be  worth  a  lot  to  see  his  face. 
Besides,  better  to  tell  his  mother  in  this  way  than  privately, 
which  might  upset  them  both  !  He  was  sorry  for  her,  but 
after  all  one  couldn't  be  expected  to  feel  much  for  others 
when  one  had  to  part  from  Holly. 

His  grandfathers  voice  travelled  to  him  thinly. 

"  Val,  try  a  little  of  the  Madeira  with  your  ice.  You 
won't  get  that  up  at  college." 

Val  watched  the  slow  liquid  filling  his  glass,  the  essential 
oil  of  the  old  wine  glazing  the  surface;  inhaled  its  aroma, 
and  thought :  '  Now  for  it  !'  It  was  a  rich  moment.  He 
sipped,  and  a  gentle  glow  spread  in  his  veins,  already  heated. 
With  a  rapid  look  round,  he  said,  "  I  joined  the  Imperial 
Yeomanry  to-day,  Granny,"  and  emptied  his  glass  as  though 
drinking  the  health  of  his  own  act. 

"  What  !"     It  was  his  mother's  desolate  little  word. 

"  Young  Jolly  Forsyte  and  I  went  down  there 
together." 

"  You  didn't  sign  ?"  from  Uncle  Soames. 

"  Rather  !     We  go  into  camp  on  Monday." 

"  I  say  .'"  cried  Imogen. 

All  looked  at  James.  He  was  leaning  forward  with  his 
hand  behind  his  ear. 


IN  CHANCERY  637 

"  What's  that  ?"  he  said.  "  What's  he  saying  ?  I  can't 
hear." 

Emily  reached  forward  to  pat  Val's  hand. 

"  It's  only  that  Val  has  joined  the  Yeomanry,  James;  it's 
very  nice  for  him.     He'll  look  his  best  in  uniform." 

"  Joined  the  —  rubbish  !"  came  from  James,  tremu- 
lously loud.  "  You  can't  see  two  yards  before  your  nose. 
He — he'll  have  to  go  out  there.  Why  !  he'll  be  fighting 
before  he  knows  where  he  is." 

Val  saw  Imogen's  eyes  admiring  him,  and  his  mother  still 
and  fashionable  with  her  handkerchief  before  her  lips. 

Suddenly  his  uncle  spoke. 

"  You're  under  age." 

"  I  thought  of  that,"  smiled  Val;  "  I  gave  my  age  as 
twenty-one." 

He  heard  his  grandmother's  admiring, "Well,  Val,  that  was 
plucky  of  you";  was  conscious  of  Warmson  deferential  y 
filling  his  champagne  glass;  and  of  his  grandfather's 
voice  moaning:  "/  don't  know  what'll  become  of  you 
if  you  go  on  like  this." 

Imogen  was  patting  his  shoulder,  his  uncle  looking  at  him 
oidelong;  only  his  mother  sat  unmoving,  till,  affected  by  her 
stillness,  Val  said: 

"  It's  aU  right,  you  know;  we  shall  soon  have  them  on  the 
run.     I  only  hope  I  shall  come  in  for  something." 

He  felt  elated,  sorry,  tremendously  important  all  at  once. 
This  would  show  Uncle  Soames,  and  all  the  Forsytes,  how 
to  be  sportsmen.  He  had  certainly  done  something  heroic 
and  exceptional  in  giving  his  age  as  twenty-one. 

Emily's  voice  brought  him  back  to  earth. 

"  You  mustn't  have  a  second  glass,  James.     Warmson  I" 

"  Won't  they  be  astonished  at  Timothy's  !"  burst  out 
Imogen.  "  I'd  give  anything  to  see  their  faces.  Do  you 
have  a  sword,  Val,  or  only  a  popgun  ?" 


638  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  What  made  you  ?" 

His  uncle's  voice  produced  a  slight  chill  in  the  pit  of  Val's 
stomach.  Made  him  ?  How  answer  that  ?  He  was 
grateful  for  his  grandmother's  comfortable: 

"  Well,  I  think  it's  very  plucky  of  Val.  I'm  sure  he'll 
make  a  splendid  soldier;  he's  just  the  figure  for  it.  We  shall 
all  be  proud  of  him." 

"  What  had  young  Jolly  Forsyte  to  do  with  it  ?  Why  did 
you  go  together?"  pursued  Soames,  uncannily  relentless. 
"  I  thought  you  weren't  friendly  with  him  ?" 

"  I'm  not,"  mumbled  Val,  "  but  I  wasn't  going  to  be 
beaten  by  y^zw."  He  saw  his  uncle  look  at  him  quite 
differently,  as  if  approving.  His  grandfather  was  nodding 
too,  his  grandmother  tossing  her  head.  They  all  approved 
of  his  not  being  beaten  by  that  cousin  of  his.  There  must 
be  a  reason  !  Val  was  dimly  conscious  of  some  disturbing 
point  outside  his  range  of  vision;  as  it  might  be,  the  unlocated 
centre  of  a  cyclone.  And,  staring  at  his  uncle's  face,  he  had 
a  quite  unaccountable  vision  of  a  woman  with  dark  eyes, 
gold  hair,  and  a  white  neck,  who  smelt  nice,  and  had  pretty 
silken  clothes  which  he  had  liked  feeling  when  he  was  quite 
small.  By  Jove,  yes  !  Aunt  Irene  !  She  used  to  kiss  him, 
and  he  had  bitten  her  arm  once,  playfully,  because  he  liked 
it — so  soft.     His  grandfather  was  speaking: 

"What's  his  father  doing?" 

"  He's  away  in  Paris,"  Val  said,  staring  at  the  very  queer 
expression  on  his  uncle's  face,  like — like  that  of  a  snarHng 
dog. 

"  Artists  !"  said  James.  The  word  coming  from  the  very 
bottom  of  his  soul,  broke  up  the  dinner. 

Opposite  his  mother  in  the  cab  going  home,  Val  tasted 
the  after- fruits  of  heroism,  like  medlars  over-ripe. 

She  only  said,  indeed,  that  he  must  go  to  his  tailor's  at 
once  and  have  his  uniform  properly  made,  and  not  just  put 


IN  CHANCERY  639 

up  with  what  they  gave  him.  But  he  could  feel  that  she 
was  very  much  upset.  It  was  on  his  lips  to  console  her  with 
the  spoken  thought  that  he  would  be  out  of  the  way  of  that 
beastly  divorce,  but  the  presence  of  Imogen,  and  the  know- 
ledge that  his  mother  would  not  be  out  of  the  way,  restrained 
him.  He  felt  aggrieved  that  she  did  not  seem  more  proud 
of  him.  When  Imogen  had  gone  to  bed,  he  risked  the 
emotional. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  have  to  leave  you.  Mother." 

"  Well,  I  must  make  the  best  of  it.  We  must  try  and  get 
you  a  commission  as  soon  as  we  can;  then  you  won't  have  to 
rough  it  so.     Do  you  know  any  drill,  Val  ?" 

"  Not  a  scrap." 

"  I  hope  they  won't  worry  you  much.  I  must  take  you 
about  to  get  the  things  to-morrow.  Good-night;  kiss 
me. 

With  that  kiss,  soft  and  hot,  between  his  eyes,  and  those 
words,  *  I  hope  they  won't  worry  you  much,'  in  his  ears,  he 
sat  down  to  a  cigarette,  before  a  dying  fire.  The  heat  was 
out  of  him — the  glow  of  cutting  a  dash.  It  was  all  a  damned 
heartaching  bore.  *  I'll  be  even  with  that  chap  Jolly,'  he 
thought,  trailing  up  the  stairs,  past  the  room  where  his 
mother  was  biting  her  pillow  to  smother  a  sense  of  desolation 
which  was  trying  to  make  her  sob. 

And  soon  only  one  of  the  diners  at  James'  was  awake — 
Soames,  in  his  bedroom  above  his  father's. 

So  that  fellow  Jolyon  was  in  Paris — what  was  he  doing 
there  ?  Hanging  round  Irene !  The  last  report  from 
Polteed  had  hinted  that  there  might  be  something  soon. 
Could  it  be  this  ?  That  fellow,  with  his  beard  and  his 
cursed  amused  way  of  speaking — son  of  the  old  man  who 
had  given  him  the  nickname  *  Man  of  Property,'  and 
bought  the  fatal  house  from  him.  Soames  had  ever  re- 
sented having  had  to  sell  the  house  at  Robin  Hill;  never 


640  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

forgiven  his  uncle  for  having  bought  it,  or  his  cousin  for 
living  in  it. 

Reckless  of  the  cold,  he  threw  his  window  up  and  gazed 
out  across  the  Park.  Bleak  and  dark  the  January  night; 
little  sound  of  traffic;  a  frost  coming;  bare  trees;  a  star  or 
two.    *  I'll  see  Polteed  to-morrow,'  he  thought.    *  By  God  ! 

Tm  mad,  I  think,  to  want  her  still.    That  fellow  !    If ? 

Urn  !     No  !' 


CHAPTER  X 

DEATH    OF    THE    DOG    BALTHASAR 

JoLYON,  who  had  crossed  from  Calais  by  night,  arrived  at 
Robin  Hill  on  Sunday  morning.  He  had  sent  no  word 
beforehand,  so  walked  up  from  the  station,  entering  his 
domain  by  the  coppice  gate.  Coming  to  the  log  seat 
fashioned  out  of  an  old  fallen  trunk,  he  sat  down,  first  laying 
his  overcoat  on  it.  '  Lumbago  !'  he  thought;  '  that's  what 
love  ends  in  at  my  time  of  life  !'  And  suddenly  Irene 
seemed  very  near,  just  as  she  had  been  that  day  of  rambhrg 
at  Fontainebleau  when  they  sat  on  a  log  to  eat  their  lunch. 
Hauntingly  near  !  Odour  drawn  out  of  fallen  leaves  by 
the  pale  filtering  sunlight  soaked  his  nostrils.  *  Pm  glad 
it  isn't  spring,'  he  thought.  With  the  scent  of  sap,  and  the 
song  of  birds,  and  the  bursting  of  the  blossoms,  it  would 
have  been  unbearable  !  '  I  hope  I  shall  be  over  it  by 
then,  old  fool  that  I  am  !'  and  picking  up  his  coat,  he 
walked  on  into  the  field.  He  passed  the  pond  and  mounted 
the  hill  slowly.  Near  the  top  a  hoarse  barking  greeted  him. 
Up  on  the  lawn  above  the  fernert^  he  could  see  his  old  dog 
Balthasar.  The  animal,  whose  dim  eyes  took  his  master 
for  a  stranger,  was  warning  the  world  against  him.  Jolyon 
gave  his  special  whistle.  Even  at  that  distance  of  a  hundred 
yards  and  more  he  could  see  the  dawning  recognition  in  the 
obese  brown- white  body.  The  old  dog  got  off  his  haunches, 
and  his  tail,  close- curled  over  his  back,  began  a  feeble. 
excited  fluttering;  he  came  waddling  forward,  gathered 
momentum,  and  disappeared  over  the  edge  of  the  fernery. 
Jolyon  expected  to  meet  him  at  the  wicket  £-ate,  but  B-il- 


642  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

thasar  was  not  there,  and,  rather  alarmed,  he  turned  into  the 
ferneiy.  On  his  fat  side,  looking  up  with  eyes  already- 
glazing,  the  old  dog  lay. 

"  What  is  it,  my  poor  old  man  ?"  cried  Jolyon.  Baltha- 
sar's  curled  and  fluffy  tail  just  moved;  his  filming  eyes 
seemed  saying:  "  I  can't  get  up,  master,  but  I'm  glad  to  see 
you." 

Jolyon  knelt  down;  his  eyes,  very  dimmed,  could  hardly 
see  the  slowly  ceasing  heave  of  the  dog's  side.  He  raised 
the  head  a  little — very  heavy. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  man  ?  Where  are  you  hurt  ?"  The  tail 
fluttered  once;  the  eyes  lost  the  look  of  life.  Jolyon  passed 
his  hands  all  over  the  inert  warm  bulk.  There  was  nothing 
— the  heart  had  simply  failed  in  that  obese  body  from  the 
emotion  of  his  master's  return.  Jolyon  could  feel  the 
muzzle,  where  a  few  whitish  bristles  grew,  cooling  already 
against  his  lips.  He  stayed  for  some  minutes  kneeling,  with 
his  hand  beneath  the  stiffening  head.  The  body  was  very 
heavy  when  he  bore  it  to  the  top  of  the  field;  leaves  had 
drifted  there,  and  he  strewed  it  with  a  covering  of  them; 
there  was  no  wind,  and  they  would  keep  him  from  curious 
eyes  until  the  afternoon.  *  I'll  bury  him  myself,'  he  thought. 
Eighteen  years  had  gone  since  he  first  went  into  the  St. 
John's  Wood  house  with  that  tiny  puppy  in  his  pocket. 
Strange  that  the  old  dog  should  die  just  now  !  Was  it  an 
omen  ?  He  turned  at  the  gate  to  look  back  at  that  russet 
mound,  then  went  slowly  towards  the  house,  very  choky  in 
the  throat. 

June  was  at  home;  she  had  come  down  hot-foot  on  hearing 
the  news  of  Jolly's  enlistment.  His  patriotism  had  con- 
quered her  feeling  for  the  Boers.  The  atmosphere  of  his 
house  was  strange  and  pockety  when  Jolyon  came  in  and 
told  them  of  the  dog  Balthasar's  death.  The  news  had  a 
unifying  effect.     A  link  with  the  past  had  snapped — the 


IN  CHANCERY  643 

dog  Balthasar  !  Two  of  them  could  remember  nothing 
before  his  day;  to  June  he  represented  the  last  years  of  her 
grandfather;  to  Jolyon  that  life  of  domestic  stress  and  aesthe- 
tic struggle  before  he  came  again  into  the  kingdom  of  his 
father's  love  and  wealth  !     And  he  was  gone  ! 

In  the  afternoon  he  and  Jolly  took  picks  and  spades  and 
went  out  to  the  field.  They  chose  a  spot  close  to  the  russet 
mound,  so  that  they  need  not  carry  him  far,  and,  carefully 
cutting  ofi  the  surface  turf,  began  to  dig.  They  dug  in 
silence  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  rested. 

"  Well,  old  man,"  said  Jolyon,  *'  so  you  thought  you 
ought  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Jolly;  "  I  don't  want  to  a  bit,  of  course." 

How  exactly  those  words  represented  Jolyon's  own  state 
of  mind  ! 

"  I  admire  you  for  it,  old  boy.  I  don't  believe  I  should 
have  done  it  at  your  age — too  much  of  a  Forsyte,  I'm  afraid. 
But  I  suppose  the  type  gets  thinner  with  each  generation. 
Your  son,  if  you  hare  one,  may  be  a  pure  altruist;  who 
knows  ?" 

"  He  won't  be  like  me,  then,  Dad;  I'm  beastly  selfish." 

"  No,  my  dear,  that  you  clearly  are  not."  Jolly  shook  his 
head,  and  they  dug  again. 

"  Strange  life  a  dog's,"  said  Jolyon  suddenly;  "  the  only 
four-footer  with  rudiments  of  altruism,  and  a  sense  of  God  !" 

Jolly  looked  at  his  father. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  God,  Dad  ?     I've  never  known." 

At  so  searching  a  question  from  one  to  whom  it  was 
impossible  to  make  a  light  reply,  Jolyon  stood  for  a  moment, 
feeling  his  back  tried  by  the  digging. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  God  ?"  he  said;  "  there  are  two 
irreconcilable  ideas  of  God,  There's  the  Unknowable 
Creative  Principle — one  believes  in  That.  And  there's  the 
Sum  of  altruism  in  man — naturally  one  believes  in  That." 


644  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I  see.     That  leaves  out  Christ,  doesn't  it  ?" 

Joljon  stared.  Christ,  the  link  between  those  two  ideas  ! 
Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes  !  Here  was  orthodoxy  scientifi- 
cally explained  at  last  !  The  sublime  poem  of  the  Christ 
life  was  man's  attempt  to  join  those  two  irreconcilable  con- 
ceptions of  God.  And  since  the  Sum  of  human  altruism 
was  as  much  a  part  of  the  Unknowable  Creative  Principle 
as  anything  else  in  Nature  and  the  Universe,  a  worse  link 
might  have  been  chosen  after  all  !  Funny — how  one  went 
through  life  without  seeing  it  in  that  sort  of  way  ! 

"  What  do  you  think,  old  man  ?"  he  said. 

Jolly  frowned.  "  Of  course,  my  first  year  we  talked  a 
good  bit  about  that  sort  of  thing.  But  in  the  second  year 
one  gives  it  up;  I  don't  know  why — it's  awfully  interesting." 

Jolyon  remembered  that  he  also  had  talked  a  good  deal 
about  it  his  first  year  at  Cambridge,  and  given  it  up  in  his 
second. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Jolly,  "  it's  the  second  God,  you  mean, 
that  old  Balthasar  had  a  sense  of." 

"  Yes,  or  he  would  never  have  burst  his  poor  old  heart 
because  of  something  outside  himself." 

"  But  wasn't  that  just  selfish  emotion,  really  ?" 

Jolyon  shook  his  head.  "  No,  dogs  are  not  pure  Forsytes, 
they  love  something  outside  themselves.'* 

Jolly  smiled. 

"  Well,  I  think  I'm  one,"  he  said.  "  You  know,  I  only 
enlisted  because  I  dared  Val  Dartie  to." 

"  But  why  ?" 

**  We  bar  each  other,"  said  Jolly  shortly. 

"  Ah  !"  muttered  Jolyon.  So  the  feud  went  on,  unto  the 
third  generation — this  modern  feud  which  had  no  overt 
expression  ? 

'  Shall  I  tell  the  boy  about  it  V  he  thought.  But  to 
what  end — if  he  had  to  stop  short  of  his  own  part  ? 


IN  CHANCERY  645 

And  Jolly  thought:  '  It's  for  Holly  to  let  him  know  about 
that  chap.  If  she  doesn't,  it  means  she  doesn't  want  him 
told,  and  I  should  be  sneaking.  Anyway,  I've  stopped  it. 
I'd  better  leave  well  alone  !' 

So  they  dug  on  in  silence,  till  Jolyon  said: 

"  Now,  old  man,  I  think  it's  big  enough."  And,  resting 
on  their  spades,  they  gazed  down  into  the  hole  where  a  few 
leaves  had  drifted  already  on  a  sunset  wind. 

"  I  can't  bear  this  part  of  it,"  said  Jolyon  suddenly. 

"  Let  me  do  it.  Dad.     He  never  cared  much  for  me." 

Jolyon  shook  his  head. 

"  We'll  lift  him  very  gently,  leaves  and  all.  I'd  rather 
not  see  him  again.     I'll  take  his  head.     Now  !" 

With  extreme  care  they  raised  the  old  dog's  body,  whose 
faded  tan  and  white  showed  here  and  there  under  the  leaves 
stirred  by  the  wind.  They  laid  it,  heavy,  cold,  and  unre- 
sponsive, in  the  grave,  and  Jolly  spread  more  leaves  over  it, 
while  Jolyon,  deeply  afraid  to  show  emotion  before  his 
son,  began  quickly  shovelling  the  earth  on  to  that  still 
shape.  There  went  the  past  !  If  only  there  were  a  joyful 
future  to  look  forward  to  !  It  was  like  stamping  down  earth 
on  one's  own  life.  They  replaced  the  turf  carefully  on  the 
smooth  little  mound,  and,  grateful  that  they  had  spared 
each  other's  feelings,  returned  to  the  house  arm-in-arm. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TIMOTHY    STAYS    THE    ROT 

On  Forsyte  'Change  news  of  the  enlistment  spread  fast, 
together  with  the  report  that  June,  not  to  be  outdone,  was 
going  to  become  a  Red  Cross  nurse.  These  events  were  so 
extreme,  so  subversive  of  pure  Forsyteism,  as  to  have  a 
binding  effect  upon  the  family,  and  Timothy's  was  thronged 
next  Sunday  afternoon  by  members  trying  to  find  out  what 
they  thought  about  it  all,  and  exchange  with  each  other  a 
sense  of  family  credit.  Giles  and  Jesse  Hayman  would  no 
longer  defend  the  coast  but  go  to  South  Africa  quite  soon; 
Jolly  and  Val  would  be  following  in  April;  as  to  June — well, 
you  never  knew  what  she  would  really  do  ! 

The  retirement  from  Spion  Kop  and  the  absence  of  any 
good  news  from  the  seat  of  war  imparted  an  air  of  reality 
to  all  this,  clinched  in  startling  fashion  by  Timothy.  The 
youngest  of  the  old  Forsytes — scarcely  eighty,  in  fact — 
popularly  supposed  to  resemble  their  father,  '  Superior 
Dosset,'  even  in  his  best-known  characteristic  of  drinking 
madeira — had  been  invisible  for  so  many  years  that  he  was 
almost  mythical.  A  long  generation  had  elapsed  since  the 
risks  of  a  publisher's  business  had  worked  on  his  nerves  at  the 
age  of  forty,  so  that  he  had  got  out  with  a  mere  thirty-five 
thousand  pounds  in  the  world,  and  started  to  make  his  living 
by  careful  investment.  Putting  by  every  year,  at  compound 
interest,  he  had  doubled  his  capital  in  forty  years  without 
having  once  known  what  it  was  like  to  shake  in  his  shoes  over 
money  matters.  He  was  now  putting  aside  some  two  thou- 
sand a  year,  and,  with  the  care  he  was  taking  of  himself, 

646 


IN  CHANCERY  647 

expected,  so  Aunt  Hester  said,  to  double  his  capital  again 
before  he  died.  What  he  would  do  with  it  then,  with  his 
sisters  dead  and  himself  dead,  was  often  mockingly  queried 
by  free  spirits  such  as  Francie,  Euphemia,  or  young  Nicholas' 
second,  Christopher,  whose  spirit  was  so  free  that  he  had 
actually  said  he  was  going  on  the  stage.  All  admitted,  how- 
ever, that  this  was  best  known  to  Timothy  himself,  and 
possibly  to  Soames,  who  never  divulged  a  secret. 

Those  few  Forsytes  who  had  seen  him  reported  a  man 
of  thick  and  robust  appearance,  not  very  tall,  with  a  brown- 
red  complexion,  grey  hair,  and  little  of  the  refinement  of 
feature  with  which  most  of  the  Forsytes  had  been  endowed 
by  *  Superior  Dosset's  '  wife,  a  woman  of  some  beauty  and  a 
gentle  temperament.  It  was  known  that  he  had  taken 
surprising  interest  in  the  war,  sticking  flags  into  a  map  ever 
since  it  began,  and  there  was  uneasiness  as  to  what  would 
happen  if  the  English  were  driven  into  the  sea,  when  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  for  him  to  put  the  flags  in  the 
right  places.  As  to  his  knowledge  of  family  movements  or 
his  views  about  them,  little  was  known,  save  that  Aunt 
Hester  was  always  declaring  that  he  was  very  upset.  It  was, 
then,  in  the  nature  of  a  portent  when  Forsytes,  arriving  on 
the  Sunday  after  the  evacuation  of  Spion  Kop,  became 
conscious,  one  after  the  other,  of  a  presence  seated  in  the 
only  really  comfortable  arm-chair,  back  to  the  light,  con- 
cealing the  lower  part  of  his  face  wdth  a  large  hand,  and  were 
greeted  by  the  awed  voice  of  Aunt  Hester: 

"  Your  Uncle  Timothy,  my  dear." 

Timothy's  greeting  to  them  all  was  somewhat  identical; 
and  rather,  as  it  were,  passed  over  by  him  than  expressed: 

"  How  de  do  ?     How  de  do  ?     'Xcuse  me  gettin'  up  !" 

Francie  was  present,  and  Eustace  had  come  in  his  car; 
Winifred  had  brought  Imogen,  breaking  the  ice  of  the 
restitution  proceedings  with  the  warmth  of  family  apprecia- 


rt$4«  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tion  at  Val's  enlistment;  and  Marian  Tweetyman  with  the 
last  news  of  Giles  and  Jesse.  These  with  Aunts  Juley  and 
Hester,  young  Nicholas,  Euphemia,  and — of  all  people ! — 
George,  who  had  come  with  Eustace  in  the  car,  constituted 
an  assembly  worthy  of  the  family's  palmiest  days.  There 
was  not  one  chair  vacant  in  the  whole  of  the  little  drawing- 
room,  and  anxiety  was  felt  lest  someone  else  should  arrive. 

The  constraint  caused  by  Timothy's  presence  having 
worn  off  a  little,  conversation  took  a  military  turn.  George 
asked  Aunt  Juley  when  she  was  going  out  with  the  Red  Cross, 
almost  reducing  her  to  a  state  of  gaiety;  whereon  he  turned 
to  Nicholas  and  said: 

"  Young  Nick's  a  warrior  bold,  isn't  he  ?  When's  he  going 
to  don  the  wild  khaki  ?" 

Young  Nicholas,  smiHng  with  a  sort  of  sweet  deprecation, 
intimated  that  of  course  his  mother  was  very  anxious. 

"  The  Dromios  are  off,  I  hear,"  said  George,  turning  to 
Marian  Tweetyman  ;  "  we  shall  all  be  there  soon.  En  avant^ 
the  Forsytes  !     Roll,  bowl,  or  pitch  !     Who's  for  a  cooler  ?" 

Aunt  Juley  gurgled,  George  was  so  droll  !  Should  Hester 
get  Timothy's  map  ?  Then  he  could  show  them  all  where 
they  were. 

At  a  sound  from  Timothy,  interpreted  as  assent,  Aunt 
Hester  left  the  room. 

George  pursued  his  image  of  the  Forsyte  advance,  address- 
ing Timothy  as  Field  Marshal;  and  Imogen,  whom  he  had 
noted  at  once  for '  a  pretty  filly,' — as  Vivandiere;  and  holding 
his  top-hat  between  his  knees,  he  began  to  beat  it  with 
imaginary  drumsticks.  The  reception  accorded  to  his 
fantasy  was  mixed.  All  laughed — George  was  licensed;  but 
all  felt  that  the  family  was  being  *  rotted';  and  this  seemed 
to  them  unnatural,  now  that  it  was  going  to  give  five  of  its 
members  to  the  service  of  the  Queen.  George  might  go  too 
far;  and  there  w^as  relief  when  he  got  up,  offered  his  arm  to 


IN  CHANCERY  649 

Aunt  Juley,  marched  up  to  Timothy,  saluted  him,  kissed 
his  aunt  with  mock  passion,  said,  "  Oh  !  what  a  treat,  dear 
papa  !  Come  on,  Eustace  !"  and  walked  out,  followed  by 
the  grave  and  fastidious  Eustace,  who  had  never  smiled. 
Aunt  Juley's  bewildered,  "  Fancy  not  waiting  for  the  map  ! 
You  mustn't  mind  him,  Timothy.  He's  so  droll  !"  broke  the 
hush,  and  Timothy  removed  the  hand  from  his  mouth. 

"  I  don't  know  what  things  are  comin'  to,"  he  was  heard 
to  say.  "  What's  all  this  about  goin'  out  there  ?  That's 
not  the  way  to  beat  those  Boers." 

Francie  alone  had  the  hardihood  to  observe: 

"  What  is,  then,  Uncle  Timothy  ?" 

"  All  this  new-fangled  volunteerin'  and  expense — lettin' 
money  out  of  the  country." 

Just  then  Aunt  Hester  brought  in  the  map,  handling  it 
like  a  baby  with  eruptions.  With  the  assistance  of  Euphemia 
it  was  laid  on  the  piano,  a  small  Colwood  grand,  last  played 
on,  it  was  believed,  the  summer  before  Aunt  Ann  died, 
thirteen  years  ago.  Timothy  rose.  He  walked  over  to  the 
piano,  and  stood  looking  at  his  map  while  they  all  gathered 
round. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said;  "  that's  the  position  up  to  date; 
and  very  poor  it  is.     H'm  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Francie,  greatly  daring,  "  but  how  are  you 
going  to  alter  it.  Uncle  Timothy,  without  more  men  ?" 

"  Men  !"  said  Timothy;  "  you  don't  want  men — wastin' 
the  country's  money.  You  want  a  Napoleon,  he'd  settle 
it  in  a  month." 

"  But  if  you  haven't  got  him.  Uncle  Timothy  ?" 

"  That's  their  business,"  replied  Timothy.  "  What  have 
we  kept  the  Army  up  for — to  eat  their  heads  off  in  time  of 
peace  !  They  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves,  comin' 
on  the  country  to  help  them  like  this  !  Let  every  man 
stick  to  his  business,  and  we  shall  get  on." 


650  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

And  looking  round  him,  he  added  ahnost  angrily: 

**  Volunteerin',  indeed  I  Throwin'  good  money  aftei 
bad  !  We  must  save  !  Conserve  energy — that's  the  only 
way."  And  \^•ith  a  prolonged  sound,  not  quite  a  snifi  and 
not  quite  a  snort,  he  trod  on  Euphemia's  toe,  and  went 
out,  leaving  a  sensation  and  a  faint  scent  of  barley-sugar 
behind  him. 

The  eSect  of  something  said  with  conviction  by  one  who 
has  evidently  made  a  sacrifice  to  say  it  is  ever  considerable. 
xA.nd  the  eight  Forsytes  left  behind,  all  women  except  young 
Nicholas,  were  silent  for  a  moment  round  the  map.  Then 
Francie  said: 

"  Really,  I  think  he's  right,  you  know.  After  all,  what  is 
the  Army  for  ?  They  ought  to  have  known.  It's  only 
encouraging  them." 

"  My  dear  !"  cried  Aunt  Juley,  "  but  they've  been  so 
progressive.  Think  of  their  giving  up  their  scariet.  They 
were  always  so  proud  of  it.  And  now  they  all  look  like  con- 
victs. Hester  and  I  were  sapng  only  yesterday  we  were 
sure  they  must  feel  it  very  much.  Fancy  what  the  Iron 
Duke  would  have  said  !" 

"The  new  colour's  very  smart,"  said  Winifred;  "  Val 
looks  quite  nice  in  his." 

Aunt  Juley  sighed. 

"  I  do  so  wonder  what  Jolyon's  boy  is  like.  To  think 
we've  never  seen  him  !     His  father  must  be  so  proud  of  him." 

"  His  father's  in  Paris,"  said  Winifred. 

Aunt  Hester's  shoulder  was  seen  to  mount  suddenly,  as  if 
to  ward  o5  her  sister's  next  remark,  for  Juley's  crumpled 
cheeks  had  flushed. 

"  We  had  dear  little  Mrs.  Mac.Ajider  here  yesterday,  just 
back  from  Paris.  And  whom  d'you  think  she  saw  there  in 
the  street  ?     You'll  never  guess." 

''  We  shan't  try,  Auntie,"  said  Euphemia. 


IN  CIL^NCERY  651 

"  Irene  !  Imagine  !  After  all  tliis  time;  walking  with  a 
fair  beard " 

"  Auntie  !  you'll  kill  me  !     A  fair  beard " 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  Aunt  Juley  severely,  "  a  fair- 
bearded  gentleman.  And  not  a  day  older;  she  was  always 
so  pretty,"  she  added,  with  a  sort  of  lingering  apology. 

"  Oh  !  tell  us  about  her,  Auntie,"  cried  Imogen;  "  I  can 
just  remember  her.  She's  the  skeleton  in  the  family  cup- 
board, isn't  she  ?     And  they're  such  fun." 

Aunt  Hester  sat  down.     Really,  Juley  had  done  it  now  ! 

"  She  wasn't  much  of  a  skeleton  as  I  remember  her," 
murmured  Euphemia,  "  extremely  well-covered." 

"  My  dear !"  said  Aunt  Juley,  "  what  a  peculiar  way  of 
putting  it — not  very  nice." 

"  No,  but  what  was  she  like  ?"  penisted  Imogen. 

"I'll  tell  you,  my  child,"  said  Francie;  "a  kind  of 
modem  Venus,  very  well-dressed." 

Euphemia  said  sharply:  "Venus  was  never  dressed,  and 
she  had  blue  eyes  of  melting  sapphire." 

At  this  juncture  Nicholas  took  his  leave. 

"  Mrs.  Nick  is  awfully  strict,"  said  Francie  with  a  laugh. 

"She  has  six  children,"  said  Aunt  Juley;  "it's  very 
proper  she  should  be  careful." 

"  Was  Uncle  Soames  awfully  fond  of  her  V  pursued  the 
inexorable  Imogen,  moving  her  dark  luscious  eyes  from  face 
to  face. 

Aunt  Hester  made  a  gesture  of  despair,  just  as  Aunt  Juley 
answered:  "  Yes,  your  Uncle  Soames  was  verv  much  attached 
to  her." 

"  I  suppose  she  ran  ofi  with  someone :" 

"  No,  certainly  not;  that  is — not  precisely." 

"  What  did  she  do,  then,  Auntie  ?" 

"  Come  along,  Imogen,"  said  Winifred,  "  we  must  be 
getting  back." 


652  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

But  Aunt  Juley  interjected  resolutely:  "  She — she  didn't 
behave  at  all  well." 

"  Oh,  bother  !"  cried  Imogen;  "  that's  as  far  as  I  ever  get." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Francie,  "  she  had  a  love  affair 
which  ended  with  the  young  man's  death;  and  then  she  left 
your  uncle.     I  always  rather  liked  her." 

"  She  used  to  give  me  chocolates,"  murmured  Imogen, 
"  and  smell  nice." 

"  Of  course  !"  remarked  Euphemia. 

"  Not  of  course  at  all !"  replied  Francie,  who  used  a  partic- 
ularly expensive  essence  of  gilly-flower  herself. 

"  I  can't  think  what  we  are  about,"  said  Aunt  Juley, 
raising  her  hands,  "  talking  of  such  things  !" 

'*  Was  she  divorced  ?"  asked  Imogen  from  the  door. 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Aunt  Juley;  "  that  is — certainly 
not." 

A  sound  was  heard  over  by  the  far  door.  Timothy  had 
re-entered  the  back  drawing-room.  "  I've  come  for  my 
map,"  he  said.     "  Who's  been  divorced  ?" 

"  No  one.  Uncle,"  replied  Francie  with  perfect  truth. 

Timothy  took  his  map  off  the  piano. 

"  Don't  let's  have  anything  of  that  sort  in  the  family,"  he 
said.  "  All  this  enlistin's  bad  enough.  The  country's 
breakin'  up;  I  don't  know  what  we're  comin'  to."  He 
shook  a  thick  finger  at  the  room:  "  Too  many  women  nowa- 
days, and  they  don't  know  what  they  want." 

So  saying,  he  grasped  the  map  firmly  with  both  hands,  and 
went  out  as  if  afraid  of  being  answered. 

The  seven  women  whom  he  had  addressed  broke  into  a 
subdued  murmur,  out  of  which  emerged  Francie's,  "  Really, 

the  Forsytes !"  and  Aunt  Juley's :  "  He  must  have  his 

feet  in  mustard  and  hot  water  to-night,  Hester;  will  you 
tell  Jane  ?  The  blood  has  gone  to  his  head  again,  I'm 
afraid."  .  .  . 


IN  CHANCERY  653 

That  evening,  when  she  and  Hester  were  sitting  alone 
after  dinner,  she  dropped  a  stitch  in  her  crochet,  and 
looked  up: 

"  Hester,  I  can't  think  where  I've  heard  that  dear  Soames 
wants  Irene  to  come  back  to  him  again.  Who  was  it  told  us 
that  George  had  made  a  funny  drawing  of  him  with  the 
words,  *  He  won't  be  happy  till  he  gets  it  '  ?" 

"  Eustace,"answered  Aunt  Hester  from  behind  7hg  Tima; 
*'  he  had  it  in  his  pocket,  but  he  wouldn't  show  it  us.'* 

Aunt  Juley  was  silent,  ruminating.  The  clock  ticked, 
7 he  Times  crackled,  the  fire  sent  forth  its  rustling  purr. 
Aunt  Juley  dropped  another  stitch. 

"  Hester,"  she  said,  "  I  have  had  such  a  dreadful  thought.'* 

"  Then  don't  tell  me,"  said  Aunt  Hester  quickly. 

"  Oh  !  but  I  must.  You  can't  think  how  dreadful  !" 
Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper: 

"  Jolyon — Jolyon,  they  say,  has  a — has  a  fair  beard,  now." 


CHAPTER  XII 

PROGRESS    OF    THE    CHASE 

Two  days  after  the  dinner  at  James',  Mr.  Polteed  provided 
Soames  with  food  for  thought. 

"  A  gentleman,"  he  said,  consulting  the  key  concealed  in 
his  left  hand,  "  47  as  we  say,  has  been  paying  marked  attention 
to  17  during  the  last  month  in  Paris.  But  at  present  there 
seems  to  have  been  nothing  very  conclusive.  The  meetings 
have  all  been  in  public  places,  without  concealment — res- 
taurants, the  Opera,  the  Comique,  the  Louvre,  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  lounge  of  the  hotel,  and  so  forth.  She  has  not 
yet  been  traced  to  his  rooms,  nor  vicf  vsrsa.  They  went 
to  Fontainebleau — but  nothing  of  value.  In  short,  the 
situation  is  promising,  but  requires  patience."  And  looking 
up  suddenly,  he  added: 

"  One  rather  curious  point — 47  has  the  same  name  as — 
cr-31  !" 

*  The  fellow  knows  I'm  her  husband,'  thought  Soames. 

"  Christian  name — an  odd  one — Jolyon,"  continued 
Mr.  Polteed.  "  We  know  his  address  in  Paris  and  his 
residence  here.  We  don't  wish,  of  course,  to  be  running 
a  wrong  hare." 

"  Go  on  with  it,  but  be  careful,"  said  Soames  doggedly. 

Instinctive  certainty  that  this  detective  fellow  had 
fathomed  his  secret  made  him  all  the  more  reticent. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Polteed,  "  I'll  just  see  if  there's 
anything  fresh  in." 

He  returned  with  some  letters.  Relocking  the  door,  he 
glanced  at  the  envelopes. 

654 


IN  CHANCERY  655 

"  Yes,  here's  a  personal  one  from  19  to  myself." 

"  Well  ?"  said  SoGmes. 

"Um!"  said  Mr.  Polteed,  "she  says:  '47  left  for 
England  to-day.  Address  on  his  baggage:  Robin  Hill. 
Parted  from  17  in  Louvre  Gallery  at  3.30;  nothing  very 
striking.  Thought  it  best  to  stay  and  continue  observation 
of  17.  You  will  deal  with  47  in  England  if  you  think 
desirable,  no  doubt.'  "  And  Mr.  Polteed  lifted  an  un- 
professional glance  on  Soames,  as  though  he  might  be  storing 
material  for  a  book  on  human  nature  after  he  had  gone  out 
of  business.  *'  Very  intelligent  woman,  19,  and  a  wonderful 
make-up.  Not  cheap,  but  earns  her  money  well.  There's 
no  suspicion  of  being  shadowed  so  far.  But  after  a  time,  as 
you  know,  sensitive  people  are  liable  to  get  the  feeling  of  it, 
without  anything  definite  to  go  on.  I  should  rather  advise 
letting-up  on  17,  and  keeping  an  eye  on  47.  We  can't  get 
at  correspondence  without  great  risk.  I  hardly  advise  that 
at  this  stage.  But  you  can  tell  your  client  that  it's  looking 
up  very  well."  And  again  his  narrowed  eyes  gleamed  at  his 
taciturn  customer. 

"  No,"  said  Soames  suddenly,  "  I  prefer  that  you  should 
keep  the  watch  going  discreetly  in  Paris,  and  not  concern 
yourself  with  this  end." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Polteed,  "  we  can  do  it." 

"  What — what  is  the  manner  between  them  ?" 

"  I'll  read  you  what  she  says,"  said  Mr.  Polteed,  unlocking 
a  bureau  drawer  and  taking  out  a  file  of  papers  ;  "  she  sums 
it  up  somewhere  confidentially.  Yes,  here  it  is  !  *  17  very 
attractive — conclude  47,  longer  in  the  tooth  '  (slang  for  age, 
you  know) — '  distinctly  gone — waiting  his  time — 17  perhaps 
holding  off  for  terms,  impossible  to  say  without  knowing 
more.  But  inclined  to  think  on  the  whole — doesn't  know 
her  mind — likely  to  act  on  impulse  some  day.  Both  have 
style." 


656  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

'*  What  does  that  mean  ?"  said  Soames  between  close  lips. 

"  Well,"  murmured  Mr.  Polteed  with  a  smile,  showing 
many  white  teeth,  "  an  expression  we  use.  In  other  words, 
it's  not  likely  to  be  a  week-end  business — they'll  come 
together  seriously  or  not  at  all." 

"  H'm  !"  muttered  Soames,  "  that's  all,  is  it  ?" 

**  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Polteed,  "  but  quite  promising." 

*  Spider  !'  thought  Soames.      "  Good-day  !" 

He  walked  into  the  Green  Park  that  he  might  cross  to 
Victoria  Station  and  take  the  Underground  into  the  City. 
For  so  late  in  January  it  was  warm;  sunlight,  through  the 
haze,  sparkled  on  the  frosty  grass — an  illumined  cobweb  of 
a  day. 

Little  spiders — and  great  spiders  !  And  the  greatest 
spinner  of  all,  his  own  tenacity,  for  ever  wrapping  its  cocoon 
of  threads  round  any  clear  way  out.  What  was  that  fellow 
hanging  round  Irene  for  ?  Was  it  really  as  Polteed  sug- 
gested ?  Or  was  Jolyon  but  taking  compassion  on  her 
loneliness,  as  he  would  call  it — sentimental  radical  chap  that 
he  had  always  been  ?  If  it  were,  indeed,  as  Polteed  hinted  ! 
Soames  stood  still.  It  could  not  be  !  The  fellow  was  seven 
years  older  than  himself,  no  better  looking  !  No  richer  ! 
What  attraction  had  he  i 

*  Besides,  he's  come  back,'  he  thought  ;  *  that  doesn't  look 
I'll  go  and  see  him  !'  and,  taking  out  a  card,  he  wrote: 

"  If  you  can  spare  half  an  hour  some  afternoon  this  week, 
I  shall  be  at  the  Connoisseurs  any  day  between  5.30  and  6, 
or  I  could  come  to  the  Hotch  Potch  if  you  prefer  it.  I  want 
to  see  you.— S.  F." 

He  walked  up  St.  James's  Street  and  confided  it  to  the 
porter  at  the  Hotch  Potch. 

"  Give  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte  this  as  soon  as  he  comes  in," 
he  said,  and  took  one  of  the  new  motor  cabs  into  tlie  City.  .  -  . 


IN  CHANCERY  657 

Jolyon  received  that  card  the  same  afternoon,  and  turned 
his  face  towards  the  Connoisseurs.  What  did  Soames  want 
now  ?  Had  he  got  wind  of  Paris  ?  And  stepping  across 
St.  James's  Street,  he  determined  to  make  no  secret  of  his 
visit.  '  But  it  won't  do,'  he  thought,  *  to  let  him  know  she^s 
there,  unless  he  knows  already.'  In  this  complicated  state 
of  mind  he  was  conducted  to  where  Soames  was  drinking 
tea  in  a  small  bay-window. 

*'  No  tea,  thanks,"  said  Jolyon,  "  but  I'll  go  on  smoking 
if  I  may." 

The  curtams  were  not  yet  drawn,  though  the  lamps 
outside  were  lighted;  the  two  cousins  sat  waiting  on  each 
other. 

"  You've  been  in  Paris,  I  hear,"  said  Soames  at  last. 

"Yes;  just  back." 

"  Young  Val  told  me ;  he  and  your  boy  are  going  off,  then  ?" 
Jolyon  nodded. 

"  You  didn't  happen  to  see  Irene,  I  suppose.  It  appears 
she's  abroad  somewhere." 

Jolyon  wreathed  himself  in  smoke  before  he  answered: 
"  Yes,  I  saw  her." 

'■  How  was  she  ?" 

"  Very  well." 

There  was  another  silence  ;  then  Soames  roused  himself  in 
his  chair. 

"  When  I  saw  you  last,"  he  said,  '*  I  was  in  two  minds. 
We  talked,  and  you  expressed  your  opinion.  I  don't  wish 
to  re-open  that  discussion.  I  only  wanted  to  say  this:  My 
position  with  her  is  extremely  difficult.  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  using  your  influence  against  me.  What  happened  is  a 
very  long  time  ago.  I'm  going  to  ask  her  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones." 

"  You  have  asked  her,  you  know,"  murmured  Jolyon. 

"  The  idea  was  new  to  her  then ;  it  came  as  a  shock.     But 


658  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  more  she  thinks  of  it,  the  more  she  must  see  that  it's  the 
only  way  out  for  both  of  us." 

"  That's  not  my  impression  of  her  state  of  mind,"  said 
Jolyon  with  particular  calm.  "  And,  forgive  my  saying,  you 
misconceive  the  matter  if  you  think  reason  comes  into  it 
at  all." 

He  saw  his  cousin's  pale  face  grow  paler — he  had  used, 
without  knowing  it,  Irene's  own  words. 

"  Thanks,"  muttered  Soames,  "  but  I  see  things  perhaps 
more  plainly  than  you  think.  I  only  want  to  be  sure  that 
you  won't  try  to  influence  her  against  me." 

"  I  don't  know  what  makes  you  think  I  have  any  influ- 
ence," said  Jolyon;  "  but  if  I  have  I'm  bound  to  use  it  in  the 
direction  of  what  I  think  is  her  happiness.  I  am  what  they 
call  a  *  feminist,'  I  believe." 

"  Feminist  !"  repeated  Soames,  as  if  seeking  to  gain  time. 
"  Does  that  mean  that  you're  against  me  ?" 

"  Bluntly,"  said  Jolyon,  "  I'm  against  any  woman  living 
with  any  man  whom  she  definitely  dislikes.  It  appears  to 
me  rotten." 

"  And  I  suppose  each  time  you  see  her  you  put  your 
opinions  into  her  mind." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  be  seeing  her." 

"  Not  going  back  to  Paris  ?" 

**'Not  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Jolyon,  conscious  of  the 
intent  watchfulness  in  Soames'  face. 

"  Well,  that's  all  I  had  to  say.  Anyone  who  comes 
between  man  and  wife,  you  know,  incurs  heavy  responsi- 
bility." 

Jolyon  rose  and  made  him  a  slight  bow. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and,  without  offering  to  shake 
hands,  moved  away,  leaving  Soames  staring  after  him. 
*  We  Forsytes,'  thought  Jolyon,  hailing  a  cab,  *  are  very  civi- 
lised.    With  simpler  folk  that  might  have  come  to  a  row.. 


IN  CHANCERY  659 

If  it  weren't  for  my  hoy  going  to  the  war *     The  war  ! 

A  gust  of  his  old  doubt  swept  over  him.  A  precious  war  ! 
Domination  of  peoples  or  of  women  1  Attempts  to  master 
and  possess  those  who  did  not  want  you  !  The  negation 
of  gentle  decency  !     Possession,  vested  rights ;  and  anyone 

*  agin  '  'em — outcast  !  *  Thank  Heaven  !'  he  thought,  *  / 
always  felt  "  agin  "  'em,  anyway  !'  Yes  !  Even  before  his 
first  disastrous  marriage  he  could  remember  fuming  over  the 
bludgeoning  of  Ireland,  or  the  m^atrimonial  suits  of  women 
trying  to  be  free  of  men  they  loathed.  Parsons  would  have 
it  that  freedom  of  soul  and  body  were  quite  different  things  ! 
Pernicious  doctrine,  that  !  Body  and  soul  could  not  thus 
be  separated.  Free  will  was  the  strength  of  any  tie,  and  not 
its  weakness.     *  I  ought  to  have  told  Soames,'  he  thought, 

*  that  1  think  him  comic.     Ah  !  but  he's  tragic,  too  !' 

Was  there  anything,  indeed,  more  tragic  in  the  world  than 
a  man  enslaved  by  his  own  possessive  instinct,  v/ho  couldn't 
see  the  sky  for  it,  or  even  enter  fully  into  what  another  person 
felt  !  *  I  must  write  and  warn  her,'  he  thought  ;  '  he's 
going  to  have  another  try.'  And  all  the  way  home  to  Robin 
Hill  he  rebelled  at  the  strength  of  that  duty  to  his  son  which 
prevented  him  from  posting  back  to  Paris.  .  .  . 

But  Soames  sat  long  in  his  chair,  the  prey  of  a  no  less 
gnawing  ache — a  jealous  ache,  as  if  it  had  been  revealed  to 
him  that  this  fellow  held  precedence  of  himself,  and  had  spun 
fresh  threads  of  resistance  to  his  way  out.  '  Does  that  mean 
that  you're  against  me?'  he  had  got  nothing  out  of  that 
disingenuous  question.  Feminist  !  Phrasey  fellow  i  '  I 
mustn't  rush  things,'  he  thought.  *  I  have  some  breathing 
space;  he's  not  going  back  to  Paris,  unless  he  was  lying.  I'lJ 
let  the  spring  come  !'  Though  how  the  spring  could  serve 
him,  save  by  adding  to  his  ache,  he  Could  not  tell.  And 
gazing  down  into  the  street,  where  figures  were  passing  from 
pool  to  pool  of  the  light  from  the  high  lamps,  he  thought; 


66o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*  Nothing   seems    any   good — nothing   seems    worth   while. 
I'm  lonely — that's  the  trouble.' 

He  closed  his  eyes;  and  at  once  he  seemed  to  see  Irene,  in 
a  dark  street  below  a  church — passing,  turning  her  neck  so 
that  he  caught  the  gleam  of  her  eyes  and  her  white  forehead 
under  a  little  dark  hat,  which  had  gold  spangles  on  it  and  a 
veil  hanging  down  behind.  He  opened  his  eyes — so  vividly 
he  had  seen  her  !  A  woman  was  passing  below,  but  not 
she  !     Oh  no,  there  was  nothing  there  ! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

*  HERE    WE    ARE    AGAIN  !' 

Imogen's  frocks  for  her  first  season  exercised  the  judgment 
of  her  mother  and  the  purse  of  her  grandfather  all  through 
the  month  of  March.  With  Forsyte  tenacity  Winifred 
quested  for  perfection.  It  took  her  mind  off  the  slowly 
approaching  rite  which  would  give  her  a  freedom  but  doubt- 
fully desired;  took  her  mind,  too,  off  her  boy  and  his  fast 
approaching  departure  for  a  war  from  which  the  news  re- 
mained disquieting.  Like  bees  busy  on  summer  flowers,  or 
bright  gadflies  hovering  and  darting  over  spiky  autumn 
blossoms,  she  and  her  *  little  daughter,'  tall  nearly  as  herself 
and  with  a  bust  measurement  not  far  inferior,  hovered  in  the 
shops  of  Regent  Street,  the  establishments  of  Hanover 
Square  and  of  Bond  Street,  lost  in  consideration  and  the  feel 
of  fabrics.  Dozens  of  young  women  of  striking  deportment 
and  peculiar  gait  paraded  before  Winifred  and  Imogen, 
draped  in  *  creations.'  The  models — 'Very  new,  modom; 
quite  the  latest  thing — '  which  those  two  reluctantly 
turned  down,  would  have  filled  a  museum ;  the  models  which 
they  were  obliged  to  have  nearly  emptied  James',  bank.  It 
was  no  good  doing  things  by  halves,  Winifred  felt,  in  view 
of  the  need  for  making  this  first  and  sole  untarnished  season 
a  conspicuous  success.  Their  patience  in  trying  the  patience 
of  those  impersonal  creatures  who  swam  about  before  them 
could  alone  have  been  displayed  by  such  as  were  moved  by 
faith.  It  was  for  Winifred  a  long  prostration  before  her  dear 
goddess  Fashion,  fervent  as  a  Catholic  might  make  before  the 
Virgin;    for  Imogen  an  experience  by  no  means  too  un- 

66i 


662  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

pleasant — she  often  looked  so  nice,  and  flattery  was  implicit 
everywhere:  in  a  word  it  was  *  amusing.' 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  20th  of  March,  having,  as  it  were, 
gutted  Skyward's,  they  had  sought  refreshment  over  the  way 
at  Caramel  and  Baker's,  and,  stored  with  chocolate  frothed 
at  the  top  with  cream,  turned  homewards  through  Berkeley 
Square  of  an  evening  touched  with  spring.  Opening  the 
door — freshly  painted  a  light  olive-green;  nothing  neglected 
that  year  to  give  Imogen  a  good  send-off — Winifred  passed 
towards  the  silver  basket  to  see  if  anyone  had  called,  and 
suddenly  her  nostrils  twitched.     What  was  that  scent  ? 

Imogen  had  taken  up  a  novel  sent  from  the  library,  and 
stood  absorbed.  Rather  sharply,  because  of  the  queer 
feeling  in  her  breast,  Winifred  said: 

"  Take  that  up,  dear,  and  have  a  rest  before  dinner." 

Imogen,  still  reading,  passed  up  the  stairs.  Winifred 
heard  the  door  of  her  room  slammed  to,  and  drew  a  long 
savouring  breath.  Was  it  spring  tickling  her  senses — whip- 
ping up  nostalgia  for  her  '  clown,'  against  all  wisdom  and 
outraged  virtue  ?  A  male  scent  !  A  faint  reek  of  cigars  and 
lavender-water  not  smelt  since  that  early  autumn  night  six 
months  ago,  when  she  had  called  him  '  the  limit.'  Whence 
came  it,  or  was  it  ghost  of  scent — sheer  emanation  from 
memory  ?  She  looked  round  her.  Nothing — not  a  thing, 
no  tiniest  disturbance  of  her  hall,  nor  of  the  dining-room. 
A  little  day-dream  of  a  scent — illusory,  saddening,  silly  ! 
In  the  silver  basket  Vv^ere  new  cards,  two  with  '  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Polegate  Thorn,'  and  one  with  *  Mr.  Polegate  Thom ' 
thereon;  she  sniffed  them,  but  they  smelled  severe.  *I 
must  be  tired,'  she  thought,  *  I'll  go  and  lie  down.'  Up- 
stairs the  drawing-room  was  darkened,  waiting  for  some 
hand  to  give  it  evening  light;  and  she  passed  on  up  to  her 
bedroom.  This,  too,  was  half-curtained  and  dim,  for  it 
was  six  o'clock.     Winifred  threw  off   her   coat — that  scent 


IN  CHANCERY  663 

again  ! — then  stood,  as  if  shot,  transfixed  against  the  bedrail. 
Something  dark  had  risen  from  the  sofa  in  the  far  corner. 
A  word  of — horror — in  her  family  escaped  her:  "God!" 

"  It's  I— Monty,"  said  a  voice. 

Clutching  the  bed-rail,  Winifred  reached  up  and  turned 
the  switch  of  the  light  hanging  above  her  dressing-table. 
He  appeared  just  on  the  rim  of  the  light's  circumference, 
emblazoned  from  the  absence  of  his  watch-chain  down  to 
boots  neat  and  sooty  brown,  but — yes ! — split  at  the  toe- 
cap.  His  chest  and  face  were  shadowy.  Surely  he  was  thin 
— or  was  it  a  trick  of  the  light  ?  He  advanced,  lighted  now 
from  toe-cap  to  the  top  of  his  dark  head — surely  a  little 
grizzled  !  His  complexion  had  darkened,  sallowed;  his 
black  moustache  had  lost  boldness,  becom.e  sardonic;  there 
were  lines  which  she  did  not  know  about  his  face.  There 
was  no  pin  in  his  tie.  His  suit — ah  ! — she  knew  that — but 
how  unpressed,  unglossy  !  She  stared  again  at  the  toe-cap 
of  his  boot.  Something  big  and  relentless  had  been  *  at 
him,'  had  turned  and  twisted,  raked  and  scraped  him.  And 
she  stayed,  not  speaking,  motionless,  staring  at  that  crack 
across  the  toe. 

"  Well  !"  he  said,  "  I  got  the  letter.     I'm  back." 

Winifred's  bosom  began  to  heave.  The  nostalgia  for  her 
husband  which  had  rushed  up  with  that  scent  was  struggling 
with  a  deeper  jealousy  than  any  she  had  felt  yet.  There  he 
was — a  dark,  and  as  if  harried,  shadow  of  his  sleek  and  brazen 
self  !  What  force  had  done  this  to  him — squeezed  him  like 
an  orange  to  its  dry  rind  !     That  woman  ! 

"  I'm  back,"  he  said  again.  "  I've  had  a  beastly  time.  By 
God  !  I  came  steerage.  I've  got  nothing  but  what  I  stand 
up  in,  and  that  bag." 

"  And  who  has  the  rest  ?"  cried  Winifred,  suddenly  alive. 
"  How  dared  you  come  }  You  knew  it  was  just  for  divorce 
that  you  got  that  letter  to  come  back.     Don't  touch  me  J" 


664  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

They  held  each  to  the  rail  of  the  big  bed  where  they  had 
spent  so  many  years  of  nights  together.  Many  times,  yes — 
many  times  she  had  wanted  him  back.  But  now  that  he 
had  come  she  was  filled  with  this  cold  and  deadly  resent- 
ment. He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  moustache;  but  did  not 
frizz  and  twist  it  in  the  old  familiar  way,  he  just  pulled  it 
downwards. 

"  Gad  !"  he  said  :    "  If  you  knew  the  time  I've  had  !** 

"  Pm  glad  I  don't  !" 

"  Are  the  kids  all  right  ?'* 

Winifred  nodded.     '*  How  did  you  get  in  ?" 

"  With  my  key." 

"  Then  the  maids  don't  know.  You  can't  stay  here, 
Monty." 

He  uttered  a  little  sardonic  laugh. 

"  Where  then?'* 

"  Anywhere." 

"  Well,  look  at  me  !     That — that  damned " 

"  If  you  mention  Z»/fr,"  cried  Winifred,  "  I  go  straight  out 
to  Park  Lane  and  I  don't  come  back." 

Suddenly  he  did  a  simple  thing,  but  so  uncharacteristic 
that  it  moved  her.  He  shut  his  eyes.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
said:  *  All  right  !     I'm  dead  to  the  world  !' 

"You  can  have  a  room  for  the  night,"  she  said;  "your 
things  are  still  here.     Only  Imogen  is  at  home." 

He  leaned  back  against  the  bed-rail.  "  Well,  it's  in  your 
hands,"  and  his  own  made  a  writhing  movement.  "  I've 
been  through  it.  You  needn't  hit  too  hard — it  isn't  worth 
while.    I've  been  frightened;  I've  been  frightened,  Freddie." 

That  old  pet  name,  disused  for  years  and  years,  sent  a 
shiver  through  Winifred. 

*  What  am  I  to  do  with  him?'  she  thought.  *  What  in 
God's  name  am  I  to  do  with  him  ?' 

"  Got  a  cigarette  ?" 


IN  CHANCERY  665 

She  gave  him  one  from  a  little  box  she  kept  up  there  for 
when  she  couldn't  sleep  at  night,  and  lighted  it.  With  that 
action  the  matter-of-fact  side  of  her  nature  came  to  life  again. 

"  Go  and  have  a  hot  bath.  I'll  put  some  clothes  out  for 
70U  in  the  dressing-room.     We  can  talk  later." 

He  nodded,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  her — they  looked  half- 
dead,  or  was  it  that  the  folds  in  the  lids  had  become  heavier? 

'  He's  not  the  same,'  she  thought.  He  would  never  be 
quite  the  same  again  !     But  what  would  he  be  ? 

"  All  right  !"  he  said,  and  went  towards  the  door.  He 
even  moved  differently,  like  a  man  who  has  lost  illusion 
and  doubts  whether  it  is  worth  while  to  move  at  all. 

When  he  was  gone,  and  she  heard  the  water  in  the  bath 
running,  she  put  out  a  complete  set  of  garments  on  the  bed 
in  his  dressing-room,  then  went  downstairs  and  fetched  up 
the  biscuit  box  and  whisky.  Putting  on  her  coat  again, 
and  listening  a  moment  at  the  bathroom  door,  she  went 
down  and  out.  In  the  street  she  hesitated.  Past  seven 
o'clock  !  Would  Soames  be  at  his  Club  or  at  Park  Lane  ? 
She  turned  towards  the  latter.  Back  !  Soames  had  always 
feared  it — she  had  sometimes  hoped  it.  Back  !  So  like 
him — clown  that  he  was — with  this  :  '  Here  we  are  again  !' 
to  make  fools  of  them  all — of  the  Law,  of  Soames,  of  herself  ! 
Yet  to  have  done  with  the  Law,  not  to  have  that  murky 
cloud  hanging  over  her  and  the  children!  What  a  relief!  Ah! 
but  how  to  accept  his  return  ?  That  '  woman  '  had  ravaged 
him,  taken  from  him  passion  such  as  he  had  never  bestowed 
on  herself,  such  as  she  had  not  thought  him  capable  of. 
There  was  the  sting  !  That  selfish,  blatant  '  clown  '  of  hers, 
whom  she  herself  had  never  really  stirred,  had  been  swept 
and  ungarnished  by  another  woman  !  Insulting  !  Too 
insulting  !  Not  right,  not  decent  to  take  him  back  !  And 
yet  she  had  asked  for  him ;  the  Law  perhaps  would  make  her 
now  !     He  was  as  much  her  husband  as  ever — she  had  put 


666  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

herself  out  of  court  !  And  all  he  wanted,  no  doubt,  was 
money — to  keep  him  in  cigars  and  lavender-water  !  That 
scent  !  *  After  all,  I'm  not  old,'  she  thought,  '  not  old  vet  !* 
But  that  woman  who  had  reduced  him  to  those  words: 
*  I've  been  through  it.  I've  been  frightened — frightened, 
Freddie  J'  She  neared  her  father's  house,  driven  this  way 
and  that,  while  all  the  time  the  Forsyte  undertow  was 
drawing  her  to  deep  conclusion  that  after  all  he  was  her 
property,  to  be  held  against  a  robbing  world.  And  so  she 
came  to  James'. 

"Mr.  Soames  ?  In  his  room?  I'll  go  up;  don't  say 
I'm  here." 

Her  brother  was  dressing.  She  found  him  before  a 
mirror,  tying  a  black  bow  with  an  air  of  despising  its  ends. 

**  Hullo  !"  he  said,  contemplating  her  in  the  glass; 
"  what's  wrong  ?" 

"  Monty  !"  said  Winifred  stonily. 

Soames  spun  round.     "  What !" 

"  Back  !" 

"  Hoist,"  muttered  Soames,  "  with  our  own  petard.  Why 
the  deuce  didn't  you  let  me  try  cruelty  ?  I  always  knew  it 
was  too  much  risk  this  way." 

"  Oh  I     Don't  talk  about  that  !     What  shall  I  do  ?^ 

Soames  answered,  with  a  deep,  deep  sound. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Winifred  impatiently. 

"  What  has  he  to  say  for  himself  ?" 

"  Nothing.     One  of  his  boots  is  split  across  the  toe." 

Soames  stared  at  her. 

"  Ah  !"  he  said,  "  of  course  !  On  his  beam  ends.  So- 
it  begins  again  !     This'll  about  finish  father." 

"  Can't  we  keep  it  from  him  ?" 

"  Impossible.  He  has  an  uncanny  flair  for  anything  that's 
worrying." 

And  he  brooded,  with  fingers  hooked  into  his  blue  silk 


IN  CHANCERY  667 

braces.     "  There  ought  to  be  some  way  in  law,"  he  muttered, 
"  to  make  him  safe." 

"  No,"  cried  Winifred,  *'  I  won't  be  made  a  fool  of  again; 
I'd  sooner  put  up  with  him." 

The  two  stared  at  each  other.  Their  hearts  were  full 
of  feeling,  but  they  could  give  it  no  expression — Forsytes 
that  they  were. 

"  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?" 

"  In  the  bath,"  and  Winifred  gave  a  little  bitter  laugh. 
"  The  only  thing  he's  brought  back  is  lavender-water." 

"Steady!"  said  Soames;  "you're  thoroughly  upset. 
I'll  go  back  with  you." 

"  What's  the  use  ?" 

"  We  ought  to  make  terms  with  him." 

"  Terms  !  It'll  always  be  the  same.  When  he  recovers — 
cards  and  betting,  drink  and !"  She  was  silent,  remem- 
bering the  look  on  her  husband's  face.  The  burnt  child — 
the  burnt  child  !     Perhaps ! 

"  Recovers  ?"  replied  Soames:  "  Is  he  ill  .'"' 

"  No  ;   burnt  out  ;   that's  all." 

Soames  took  his  waistcoat  from  a  chair  and  put  it  on,  he 
took  his  coat  and  got  into  it,  he  scented  his  handkerchief 
with  eau-de-Cologne,  threaded  his  watch-chain,  and  said: 
"  We  haven't  any  luck." 

And  in  the  midst  of  her  own  trouble  Winifred  was  sorry 
for  him,  as  if  in  that  little  saying  he  had  revealed  deep 
trouble  of  his  own. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  mother,"  she  said. 

"  She'll  be  with  father  in  their  room.  Come  down 
quietly  to  the  study.     I'll  get  her." 

Winifred  stole  down  to  the  little  dark  study,  chiefly 
remarkable  for  a  Canaletto  too  doubtful  to  be  placed  else- 
where, and  a  fine  collection  of  Law  Reports  unopened  for 
many  years.     Here  she  stood,  with  her    back   to    maroon- 


668  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

coloured  curtains  close- drawn,  staring  at  the  empty  grate, 
till  her  mother  came  in  followed  by  Soames. 

"  Oh  !  my  poor  dear  !"  said  Emily:  "  How  miserable 
you  look  in  here  !     This  is  too  bad  of  him,  really  !" 

As  a  family  they  had  so  guarded  themselves  from  the 
expression  of  all  unfashionable  emotion  that  it  was  impossible 
to  go  up  and  give  her  daughter  a  good  hug.  But  there 
was  comfort  in  her  cushioned  voice,  and  her  still  dimpled 
shoulders  under  some  rare  black  lace.  Summoning  pride 
and  the  desire  not  to  distress  her  mother,  Winifred  said  in 
her  most  off-hand  voice: 

"  It's  all  right,  Mother;  no  good  fussing." 

**  I  don't  see,"  said  Emily,  looking  at  Soames,  "  why 
Winifred  shouldn't  tell  him  that  she'll  prosecute  him  if  he 
doesn't  keep  off  the  premises.  He  took  her  pearls;  and  if 
he's  not  brought  them  back,  that's  quite  enough." 

Winifred  smiled.  They  would  all  plunge  about  with 
suggestions  of  this  and  that,  but  she  knew  already  what  she 
would  be  doing,  and  that  was — nothing.  The  feeling  that, 
after  all,  she  had  won  a  sort  of  victory,  retained  her  property, 
was  every  moment  gaining  ground  in  her.  No  !  if  she  wanted 
to  punish  him,  she  could  do  it  at  home  without  the  world 
knowing. 

"  Well,"  said  Emily,  "  come  into  the  dining-room  com- 
fortably— you  must  stay  and  have  dinner  with  us.  Leave  it 
to  me  to  tell  your  father."  And,  as  Winifred  moved  towards 
the  door,  she  turned  out  the  light.  Not  till  then  did  they 
see  the  disaster  in  the  corridor. 

There,  attracted  by  light  from  a  room  never  lighted,  James 
was  standing  with  his  dun-coloured  camel-hair  shawl  folded 
about  him,  so  that  his  arms  were  not  free  and  his  silvered 
head  looked  cut  off  from  his  fashionably  trousered  legs  as  if  by 
an  expanse  of  desert.  He  stood,  inimitably  stork-like,  with  an 
expression  as  if  he  saw  before  him  a  frog  too  large  to  swallow. 


IN  CHANCERY  eSg 

"  What's  all  this  ?"  he  said.  "  Tell  your  father  ?  You 
never  tell  me  anything." 

The  moment  found  Emily  without  reply.  It  was  Winifred 
who  went  up  to  him,  and,  laying  one  hand  on  each  of  his 
swathed,  helpless  arms,  said: 

"  Monty's  not  gone  bankrupt,  Father.  He's  only  come 
back." 

They  all  three  expected  something  serious  to  happen,  and 
were  glad  she  had  kept  that  grip  of  his  arms,  but  they  did  not 
know  the  depth  of  root  in  that  shadowy  old  Forsyte.  Some- 
thing wry  occurred  about  his  shaven  mouth  and  chin,  some- 
thing scratchy  between  those  long  silvery  whiskers.  Then 
he  said  with  a  sort  of  dignity:  "  He'll  be  the  death  of  me. 
I  knew  how  it  would  be." 

"  You  mustn't  worry.  Father,"  said  Winifred  calmly. 
"  I  mean  to  make  him  behave." 

"Ah  !"  said  James.  "  Here,  take  this  thing  off,  I'm  hot." 
They  unwound  the  shawl.  He  turned,  and  walked  firmly 
to  the  dining-room. 

"  I  don't  want  any  soup,"  he  said  to  Warmson,  and  sat 
down  in  his  chair.  They  all  sat  down  too,  Winifred  still 
in  her  hat,  while  Warmson  laid  the  fourth  place.  When  he 
left  the  room,  James  said:  *'  What's  he  brought  back?" 

"  Nothing,  Father." 

James  concentrated  his  eyes  on  his  own  image  in  a  table- 
spoon. "  Divorce  !"  he  muttered;  "  rubbish  !  What  was 
I  about  ?  I  ought  to  have  paid  him  an  allowance  to  stay 
out  of  England.     Soames !  you  go  and  propose  it  to  him." 

It  seemed  so  right  and  simple  a  suggestion  that  even 
Winifred  was  surprised  when  she  said :  "  No,  I'll  keep 
him  now  he's  back;  he  must  just  behave — that's  all." 

They  all  looked  at  her.  It  had  always  been  known  that 
Winifred  had  pluck. 

"  Out  there  !"  said  James  elHptically,  "  who  knows  what 


670  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

cut-throats  !  You  look  for  his  revolver  !  Don't  go  to  bed 
without.  Y'ou  ought  to  have  Warmson  to  sleep  in  the  house. 
I'll  see  him  myself  to-morrovi^." 

They  were  touched  by  this  declaration,  and  Emily  said 
comfortably:  '' That's  right,  James,  v^e  won't  have  any 
nonsense." 

"  Ah  !"  muttered  James  darkly,  "  I  can't  tell." 

The  advent  of  Warmson  with  fish  diverted  conversation. 

When,  directly  after  dinner,  Winifred  v*^ent  over  to  kiss 
her  father  good-night,  he  looked  up  v/ith  eyes  so  full  of 
question  and  distress  that  she  put  all  the  comfort  she  could 
into  her  voice. 

**  It's  all  right,  Daddy,  dear;  don't  worry.  I  shan't  need 
anyone — he's  quite  bland.  I  shall  only  be  upset  if  you  worry. 
Good- night,  bless  you  !" 

James  repeated  the  words,  "  Bless  you  !"  as  if  he  did  not 
quite  know  what  they  meant,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  to 
the  door. 

She  reached  home  before  nine,  and  went  straight  upstairs. 

Dartie  was  lying  on  the  bed  in  his  dressing-room,  fully 
re-dressed  in  a  blue  serge  suit  and  pumps;  his  arms  were 
crossed  behind  his  head,  and  an  extinct  cigarette  drooped 
from  his  mouth. 

Winifred  remembered  ridiculously  the  flowers  in  her 
window- boxes  after  a  blazing  summer  day;  the  way  they  lay, 
or  rather  stood — parched,  yet  rested  by  the  sun's  retreat. 
It  was  as  if  a  little  dew  had  come  already  on  her  burnt-up 
husband. 

He  said  apathetically:  "  I  suppose  you've  been  to  Park 
Lane.     How's  the  old  man  ?" 

Winifred  could  not  help  the  bitter  answer:  "  Not  dead." 

He  winced,  actually  he  winced. 

"  Understand,  Monty,"  she  said,  "  I  will  not  have  him 
worried.  If  you  aren't  going  to  behave  yourself,  you  may 
go  back,  you  may  go  anywhere.     Have  you  had  dinner  ?" 


IN  CHANCERY  671 

''  No." 

"  Would  you  like  some  r" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Imogen  offered  me  some.     I  didn't  want  any." 

Imogen  !  In  the  plenitude  of  emotion  Winifred  had 
forgotten  her. 

"  So  you've  seen  her  ?     What  did  she  say  ?" 

"  She  gave  me  a  kiss." 

With  mortification  Winifred  saw  his  dark  sardonic  face 
relaxed.  *  Yes  !'  she  thought,  *  he  cares  for  her,  not  for  me 
a  bit.' 

Dartie's  eyes  w^ere  moving  from  side  to  side. 

"  Does  she  know  about  me  ?"  he  said. 

it  flashed  through  Winifred  that  here  was  the  weapon  she 
needed.     He  minded  their  knczuing  ! 

"  No.  Val  knows.  The  others  don't  ;  they  only  know 
you  went  away." 

She  heard  him  sigh  with  relief. 

"  But  they  shall  know,"  she  said  firmly,  "  if  you  give  me 
cause." 

"  All  right  !"  he  muttered,  "  hit  me  !     I'm  down  !" 

Winifred  went  up  to  the  bed.  "  Look  here,  Monty  I  I 
don't  want  to  hit  you.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  I  shan't 
allude  to  anything.  I'm  not  going  to  worry.  What's  the 
use  ?"  She  was  silent  a  moment.  "  I  can't  stand  any  more, 
though,  and  I  won't !  You'd  better  know.  You've  made 
me  suffer.     But  I  used  to  be  fond  of  you.     For  the  sake  of 

that "    She  met  the  heavy-lidded  gaze  of  his  brown  eyes 

with  the  downward  stare  of  her  green-grey  eyes  ;  touched 
his  hand  suddenly,  turned  her  back,  and  went  into  her  room. 

She  sat  there  a  long  time  before  her  glass,  fingering  her 
rings,  thinking  of  this  subdued  dark  man,  almost  a  stranger 
to  her,  on  the  bed  in  the  other  room;  resolutely  not  *  worry- 
ing ',  but  gnawed  by  jealousy  of  what  he  had  been  through, 
and  now  and  again  just  visited  by  pity. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OUTLANDISH    NIGHT 

SoAMES  doggedly  let  the  spring  come — no  easy  task  for  one 
conscious  that  time  was  flying,  his  birds  in  the  bush  no 
nearer  the  hand,  no  issue  from  the  web  anywhere  visible. 
Mr.  Polteed  reported  nothing,  except  that  his  watch  went 
on — costing  a  lot  of  money.  Val  and  his  cousin  were  gone 
to  the  war,  whence  came  news  more  favourable;  Dartie  was 
behaving  himself  so  far;  James  had  retained  his  health; 
business  prospered  almost  terribly — there  was  nothing  to 
worry  Soames  except  that  he  was  *  held  up,'  could  take  no 
step  in  any  direction. 

He  did  not  exactly  avoid  Soho,  for  he  could  not  afford  to 
let  them  think  that  he  had  *  piped  off,'  as  James  would  have 
put  it — he  might  want  to  *  pipe  on  '  again  at  any  minute. 
But  he  had  to  be  so  restrained  and  cautious  that  he  would 
often  pass  the  door  of  the  Restaurant  Bretagne  without 
going  in,  and  wander  out  of  the  purlieus  of  that  region 
which  always  gave  him  the  feeling  of  having  been  possessively 
irregular. 

He  wandered  thus  one  May  night  into  Regent  Street  and 
the  most  amazing  crowd  he  had  ever  seen:  a  shrieking, 
whistling,  dancing,  jostling,  grotesque  and  formidably  jovial 
crowd,  with  false  noses  and  mouth-organs,  penny  whistles 
and  long  feathers,  every  appanage  of  idiocy,  as  it  seemed  to 
him.  Mafeking  !  Of  course,  it  had  been  relieved  !  Good  ! 
But  was  that  an  excuse  ?  Who  were  these  people,  what  were 
they,  where  had  they  come  from  into  the  West  End  ?  His 
face  was  tickled,  his  ears  whistled  into.     Girls  cried:  *  Keep 

672 


IN  CHANCERY  673 

your  hair  on,  stucco  !'  A  youth  so  knocked  off  his  top-hat 
that  he  recovered  it  with  difficulty.  Crackers  were  exploding 
beneath  his  nose,  between  his  feet.  He  was  bewildered, 
exasperated,  offended.  This  stream  of  people  came  from 
every  quarter,  as  if  impulse  had  unlocked  flood-gates,  let  flow 
waters  of  whose  existence  he  had  heard,  perhaps,  but  believed 
in  never.  This,  then,  was  the  populace,  the  innumerable 
living  negation  of  gentility  and  Forsyteism.  This  was — 
egad  ! — Democracy  !  It  stank,  yelled,  was  hideous  !  In 
the  East  End,  or  even  Soho,  perhaps — but  here  in  Regent 
Street,  in  Piccadilly  !  What  were  the  police  about  !  In 
1900,  Soames,  with  his  Forsyte  thousands,  had  never  seen 
the  cauldron  with  the  lid  off;  and  now  looking  into  it,  could 
hardly  believe  his  scorching  eyes.  The  whole  thing  was 
unspeakable  !  These  people  had  no  restraint,  they  seemed 
to  think  him  funny;  such  swarms  of  them,  rude,  coarse, 
laughing — and  what  laughter  !  Nothing  sacred  to  them  ! 
He  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  began  to  break  windows. 
In  Pall  Mall,  past  those  august  dwellings,  to  enter  which 
people  paid  sixty  pounds,  this  shrieking,  whistling,  dancing 
dervish  of  a  crowd  was  swarming.  From  the  Club  windows 
his  own  kind  were  looking  out  on  them  with  regulated 
amusement.  They  didn't  realise  !  Why,  this  was  serious 
— might  come  to  anything  !  The  crowd  was  cheerful,  but 
some  day  they  would  come  in  different  mood  !  He  remem- 
bered there  had  been  a  mob  in  the  late  eighties,  when  he 
was  at  Brighton;  they  had  smashed  things  and  made 
speeches.  But  more  than  dread,  he  felt  a  deep  surprise. 
They  were  hysterical — it  wasn't  English  !  And  all  about 
the  relief  of  a  little  town  as  big  as — Watford,  six  thousand 
miles  away.  Restraint,  reserve  !  Those  qualities  to  him 
more  dear  almost  than  life,  those  indispensable  attributes  of 
property  and  culture,  where  were  they  ?  It  wasn't  English  ! 
No,   it  wasn't  English !     So    Soames    brooded,  threading 


674  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

his  way  on.  It  was  as  if  he  had  suddenly  caught  sight  of 
someone  cutting  the  covenant  '  for  quiet  possession  '  out 
of  his  legal  documents;  or  of  a  monster  lurking  and  stalking 
out  in  the  future,  casting  its  shadow  before.  Their  want  of 
stolidity^  their  want  of  reverence  !  It  was  like  discovering 
that  nine- tenths  of  the  people  of  England  were  foreigners. 
And  if  that  were  so — then,  anything  might  happen  ! 

At  Hyde  Park  Corner  he  ran  into  George  Forsyte,  very 
sunburnt  from  racing,  holding  a  false  nose  in  his  hand. 

"  Hallo,  Soames  1"  he  said;  "  have  a  nose  !" 

Soames  responded  with  a  pale  smile. 

"  Got  this  from  one  of  these  sportsmen,"  went  on  George, 
who  had  evidently  been  dining;  "  had  to  lay  him  out — for 
trying  to  bash  my  hat.  I  say,  one  of  these  days  we  shall  have 
to  fight  these  chaps,  they're  getting  so  damned  cheeky — 
all  radicals  and  socialists.  They  want  our  goods.  You  tell 
Uncle  James  that,  it'll  make  him  sleep." 

*  In  vino  Veritas^''  thought  Soames,  but  he  only  nodded, 
and  passed  on  up  Hamilton  Place.  There  was  but  a  trickle 
of  roysterers  in  Park  Lane,  not  very  noisy.  And  looking  up 
at  the  houses  he  thought:  *  After  all,  we're  the  backbone  of 
the  country.  They  v/on't  upset  us  easily.  Possession's  nine 
points  of  the  law.' 

But,  as  he  closed  the  door  of  his  father's  house  behind  him, 
all  that  queer  outlandish  nightmare  in  the  streets  passed  out 
of  his  mind  almost  as  completely  as  if,  having  dreamed  it, 
he  had  awakened  in  the  warm  clean  morning  comfort  of  his 
spring-mattressed  bed. 

Walking  into  the  centre  of  the  great  empty  drawing- 
room,  he  stood  still. 

A  wife  !  Somebody  to  talk  things  over  with.  One  had  a 
right  !     Damn  it !     One  had  a  right  ! 


PART    III 


CHAPTER  I 

SOAMES    IN    PARIS 

SoAMES  had  travelled  little.  Aged  nineteen  he  had  made 
the  '  petty  tour  '  with  his  father,  mother,  and  Winifred — 
Brussels,  the  Rhine,  Switzerland,  and  home  by  way  of  Paris. 
Aged  twenty-seven,  just  when  he  began  to  take  interest  in 
pictures,  he  had  spent  five  hot  weeks  in  Italy,  looking  into 
the  Renaissance — not  so  much  in  it  as  he  had  been  led  to 
expect — and  a  fortnight  in  Paris  on  his  way  back,  looking 
into  himself,  as  became  a  Forsyte  surrounded  by  people  so 
strongly  self-centred  and  *  foreign '  as  the  French.  His 
knowledge  of  their  language  being  derived  from  his  public 
school,  he  did  not  understand  them  when  they  spoke. 
Silence  he  had  found  better  for  all  parties;  one  did  not  make 
a  fool  of  oneself.  He  had  disliked  the  look  of  the  men's 
clothes,  the  closed-in  cabs,  the  theatres  which  looked  like 
beehives,  the  Galleries  which  smelled  of  beeswax.  He  was 
too  cautious  and  too  shy  to  explore  that  side  of  Paris  supposed 
by  Forsytes  to  constitute  its  attraction  under  the  rose; 
and  as  for  a  collector's  bargain — not  one  to  be  had  !  As 
Nicholas  might  have  put  it — they  were  a  grasping  lot.  He 
had  come  back  uneasy,  saying  Paris  was  overrated. 

When,  therefore,  in  June  of  1900,  he  went  to  Paris,  it  was 
but  his  third  attempt  on  the  centre  of  civilisation.  This 
time,  however,  the  mountain  was  going  to  Mahomet;  for  he 
felt  by  now  more  deeply  civilised  than  Paris,  and  perhaps  he 
really  was.  Moreover,  he  had  a  definite  objective.  This 
was  no  mere  genuflexion  to  a  shrine  of  taste  and  immorality, 
but  the  prosecution  of  his  own  legitimate  affairs.     He  went, 

677 


6jS  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

indeed,  because  things  were  getting  past  a  joke.  The  ^-vatch 
went  on  and  on,  and — nothing — nothing  !  Jolyon  had 
never  returned  to  Paris,  and  no  one  else  was  *  suspect  !' 
Busy  with  new  and  verv  confidential  matters,  Soames  was 
realising  more  than  ever  how  essential  reputation  is  to  a 
solicitor.  But  at  night  and  in  his  leisure  moments  he  was 
ravaged  by  the  thought  that  time  was  always  flying  and 
money  flowing  in,  and  his  own  future  as  much  '  in  irons '  as 
ever.     Since  Mafeking  night  he  had  become  aware  that  a 

*  young  fool  of  a  doctor '  was  hanging  round  Annette. 
Twice  he  had  come  across  him — a  cheerful  young  fool,  not 
more  than  thirty.  Nothing  annoyed  Soames  so  much  as 
cheerfulness — an  indecent,  extravagant  sort  of  quality, 
which  had  no  relation  to  facts.  The  mixture  of  his  desires 
and  hopes  was,  in  a  word,  becoming  torture;  and  lately  the 
thought  had  come  to  him  that  perhaps  Irene  knew  she  was 
being  shadowed.  It  was  this  which  finally  decided  him  to 
go  and  see  for  himself;  to  go  and  once  more  try  to  break 
down  her  repugnance,  her  refusal  to  make  her  own  and  his 
path  comparatively  smooth  once  more.  If  he  failed  again — 
well,  he  would  see  what  she  did  with  herself,  anyway  ! 

He  went  to  an  hotel  in  the  Rue  Caumartin,  highly  recom- 
mended to  Forsytes,  where  practically  nobody  spoke  French. 
He  had  formed  no  plan.  He  did  not  want  to  startle  her; 
yet  must  contrive  that  she  had  no  chance  to  evade  him  by 
night.     And  next  morning  he  set  out  in  bright  weather. 

Paris  had  an  air  of  gaiety,  a  sparkle  over  its  star-shape 
which  almost  annoyed  Soames.  He  stepped  gravely,  his 
nose  lifted  a  little  sideways  in  real  curiosity.  He  desired  now 
to  understand  things  French.  Was  not  Annette  French  ? 
There  was  much  to  be  got  out  of  his  visit,  if  he  could  only 
get  it.  In  this  laudable  mood  and  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
he  was   nearly  run  down  three  times.     He   came  on  the 

*  Cours  la  Reine,'  where  Irene's  hotel  was  situated,  almost 


IX  CHANCERY  679 

too  suddenly,  for  he  had  not  yet  fixed  on  his  procedure. 
Crossing  oyer  to  the  riyer  side,  he  noted  the  building,  white 
and  cheerful -looking,  with  green  sunblinds,  seen  through  a 
screen  of  plane-tree  leayes.  And,  conscious  that  it  would 
be  far  better  to  meet  her  casually  in  some  open  place  than  to 
risk  a  call,  he  sat  down  on  a  bench  whence  he  could  watch 
the  entrance.  It  w^as  not  quite  eleyen  o'clock,  and  im.prob- 
able  that  she  had  yet  gone  out.  Some  pigeons  were  strutting 
and  preening  their  feathers  in  the  pools  of  sunlight  betw-een 
the  shadows  of  the  plane-trees.  A  workm.an  in  a  blue  blouse 
passed,  and  threw  them  crumbs  from  the  paper  v.hich  con- 
tained his  dinner.  A  '  bonne  '  coified  with  ribbon  shep- 
herded two  little  girls  with  pigtails  and  frilled  drawers. 
A  cab  meandered  by,  whose  cocher  wore  a  blue  coat  and  a 
black-glazed  hat.  To  Soames  a  kind  of  affectation  seemed 
to  cling  about  it  all,  a  sort  of  picturesqueness  which  was  out 
of  date.  A  theatrical  people,  the  French  !  He  lit  one  of 
his  rare  cigarettes,  wdth  a  sense  of  injury  that  Fate  should 
be  casting  his  life  into  outlandish  w^aters.  He  shouldn't 
wonder  if  Irene  quite  enjoyed  this  foreign  life:  she  had  never 
been  properly  English — even  to  look  at  !  And  he  began 
considerin,^  which  of  those  windows  could  be  hers  under  the 
green  sunblinds.  How  could  he  word  what  he  had  come  to 
say  so  that  it  might  pierce  the  defence  of  her  proud  obsti- 
nacy :  He  threw  the  fag-end  of  his  cigarette  at  a  pigeon, 
with  the  thought:  '  I  can't  stay  here  for  eyer  nviddling  my 
thumbs.  Better  giye  it  up  and  caU  on  her  in  the  late  after- 
noon.' But  he  still  sat  on,  heard  twelve  strike,  and  then 
half-past.  '  ril  wait  till  one,'*  he  thought.  '  while  I'm  about 
it.'  But  just  then  he  started  up,  and  shrinkingly  sat  dow^n 
a^ain.  A  woman  had  come  out  in  a  cream-coloured  frock, 
and  was  moving  away  under  a  fawn-coloured  parasol.  Irene 
herself  !  He  waited  till  she  was  too  far  avray  to  recognise 
him,  then  set  out  after  her.     She  was  strolling  as  though  she 


68o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  no  particular  objective;  moving,  if  he  remembered 
rightly,  toward  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  For  half  an  hour  at 
least  he  kept  his  distance  on  the  far  side  of  the  way  till  she 
had  passed  into  the  Bois  itself.  Was  she  going  to  meet 
someone  after  all  ?  Some  confounded  Frenchman — one  of 
those  '  Bel  Ami '  chaps,  perhaps,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but 
hang  about  women — for  he  had  read  that  book  with  diffi- 
culty and  a  sort  of  disgusted  fascination.  He  followed 
doggedly  along  a  shady  alley,  losing  sight  of  her  now  and 
then  when  the  path  curved.  And  it  came  back  to  him  how, 
long  ago,  one  night  in  Hyde  Park  he  had  slid  and  sneaked 
from  tree  to  tree,  from  seat  to  seat,  hunting  blindly,  ridicu- 
lously, in  burning  jealousy  for  her  and  young  Bosinney.  The 
path  bent  sharply,  and,  hurrying,  he  came  on  her  sitting  in 
front  of  a  small  fountain — a  little  green- bronze  Niobe  veiled 
in  hair  to  her  slender  hips,  gazing  at  the  pool  she  had  wept. 
He  came  on  her  so  suddenly  that  he  was  past  before  he  could 
turn  and  take  off  his  hat.  She  did  not  start  up.  She  had 
always  had  great  self-command — it  was  one  of  the  things  he 
most  admired  in  her,  one  of  his  greatest  grievances  against 
her,  because  he  had  never  been  able  to  tell  what  she  was 
thinking.  Had  she  realised  that  he  was  following  ?  Her 
self-possession  made  him  angry;  and, disdaining  to  explain  his 
presence,  he  pointed  to  the  mournful  little  Niobe,  and  said: 

"  That's  rather  a  good  thing." 

He  could  see,  then,  that  she  was  struggling  to  preserve 
her  composure. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  startle  you;  is  this  one  of  your  haunts  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  A  little  lonely."  As  he  spoke,  a  lady,  strolling  by, 
paused  to  look  at  the  fountain  and  passed  on. 

Irene's  eyes  followed  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  prodding  the  ground  with  her  parasol, 
"  never  lonely.     One  has  always  one's  shadow." 


IN  CHANCERY  68 1 

Soames  understood;  and,  looking  at  her  hard,  he 
exclaimed: 

"  Well,  it's  your  own  fault.  You  can  be  free  of  it  at  any 
moment.     Irene,  come  back  to  me,  and  be  free." 

Irene  laughed. 

"  Don't  !"  cried  Soames,  stamping  his  foot;  '*it's  inhuman. 
Listen  !  Is  there  any  condition  I  can  make  which  will  bring 
you  back  to  me  ?  If  I  promise  you  a  separate  house — and 
just  a  visit  now  and  then  ?" 

Irene  rose,  something  wild  suddenly  in  her  face  and 
figure. 

"  None !  None !  None  !  You  may  hunt  me  to  the 
grave.     I  will  not  come." 

Outraged  and  on  edge,  Soames  recoiled. 

"  Don't  make  a  scene  !"  he  said  sharply.  And  they  both 
stood  motionless,  staring  at  the  little  Niobe,  whose  greenish 
flesh  the  sunlight  was  burnishing. 

"  That's  your  last  word,  then, "muttered  Soames,  clenching 
his  hands;  "  you  condemn  us  both." 

Irene  bent  her  head.  "  I  can't  come  back.  Good- 
bye !" 

A  feeling  of  monstrous  injustice  flared  up  in  Soames. 

"  Stop  !"  he  said,  "  and  listen  to  me  a  moment.  You 
gave  me  a  sacred  vow — you  came  to  me  without  a  penny. 
You  had  all  I  could  give  you.  You  broke  that  vow  without 
cause,  you  made  me  a  by- word;  you  refused  me  a  child; 
you've  left  me  in  prison;  you — you  still  move  me  so  that 
I  want  you — I  want  you.  Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
yourself  ?" 

Irene  turned,  her  face  was  deadly  pale,  her  eyes  burning 
dark. 

"  God  made  me  as  I  am,"  she  said;  "  wicked  if  you  like — 
but  not  so  wicked  that  I'll  give  myself  again  to  a  man  I 
hate." 


682  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

The  sunlight  gleamed  on  her  hair  as  she  moved  away,  and 
seemed  to  lay  a  caress  all  down  her  clinging  cream-coloured 
frock. 

Soames  could  neither  speak  nor  move.  That  word  *  hate  ' 
— so  extreme,  so  primitive — made  all  the  Forsyte  in  him 
tremble.  With  a  deep  imprecation  he  strode  away  from 
where  she  had  vanished,  and  ran  almost  into  the  arms  of  the 
lady  sauntering  back — the  fool,  the  shadowing  fool ! 

He  was  soon  dripping  with  perspiration,  in  the  depths  of 
the  Bois. 

'  Well,'  he  thought,  '  I  need  have  no  consideration  for 
her  now;  she  has  not  a  grain  of  it  for  me.  I'll  show  her  this 
very  day  that  she's  my  wife  still.' 

But  on  the  way  home  to  his  hotel,  he  was  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  did  not  know  what  he  meant.  One  could  not 
make  scenes  in  public,  and  short  of  scenes  in  public  what  was 
there  he  could  do  ?  He  almost  cursed  his  own  thin-skinned- 
ness.  She  might  deserve  no  consideration;  but  he — alas ! 
deserved  some  at  his  own  hands.  And  sitting  lunchless  in 
the  hall  of  his  hotel,  with  tourists  passing  every  moment, 
Baedeker  in  hand,  he  was  visited  by  black  dejection.  In 
irons  !  His  whole  life,  with  every  natural  instinct  and  every 
decent  yearning  gagged  and  fettered,  and  all  because  Fate 
had  driven  him  seventeen  years  ago  to  set  his  heart  upon 
this  woman — so  utterly,  that  even  now  he  had  no  real  heart 
to  set  on  any  other  !  Cursed  was  the  day  he  had  met  her, 
and  his  eyes  for  seeing  in  her  anything  but  the  cruel  Venus 
she  was  !  And  yet,  still  seeing  her  with  the  sunlight  on  the 
clinging  China  crepe  of  her  gown,  he  uttered  a  little  groan, 
so  that  a  tourist  who  was  passing,  thought :  *  Man  in  pain  ! 
Let's  see  !  what  did  I  have  for  lunch  ?' 

Later,  in  front  of  a  cafe  near  the  Opera,  over  a  glass  of 
cold  tea  with  lemon  and  a  straw  in  it,  he  took  the  malicious 
resolution  to  go  and  dine  at  her  hotel.     If  she  were  there, 


IN  CHANCERY  683 

he  would  speak  to  her;  if  she  were  not, he  would  leave  a  note. 
He  dressed  carefully,  and  wrote  as  follows: 

"  Your  idyll  with  that  fellow  Jolyon  Forsyte  is  known  to 
me  at  all  events.  If  you  pursue  it,  understand  that  I  wiU 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  make  things  unbearable  for  him. 

^'S.   F." 

He  sealed  this  note  but  did  not  address  it,  refusing  to 
write  the  maiden  name  which  she  had  impudently  resumed, 
or  to  put  the  word  Forsyte  on  the  envelope  lest  she  should 
tear  it  up  unread.  Then  he  went  out,  and  made  his  way 
through  the  glowing  streets,  abandoned  to  evening  pleasure- 
seekers.  Entering  her  hotel,  he  took  his  seat  in  a  far  corner 
of  the  dining-room  whence  he  could  see  all  entrances  and 
exits.  She  was  not  there.  He  ate  little,  quickly,  watch- 
fully. She  did  not  come.  He  lingered  in  the  lounge  over 
his  coffee,  drank  two  liqueurs  of  brandy.  But  still  she  did 
not  come.  He  went  over  to  the  key  board  and  examined 
the  names.  Number  twelve,  on  the  first  floor  !  And  he 
determined  to  take  the  note  up  himself.  He  mounted  red- 
carpeted   stairs,    past   a   little   salon;    eight — ten — twelve  ! 

Should  he  knock,  push  the  note  under,  or ?     He  looked 

furtively  round  and  turned  the  handle.  The  door  opened, 
but  into  a  little  space  leading  to  another  door;  he  knocked 
on  that — no  answer.  The  door  was  locked.  It  fitted  very 
closely  to  the  floor;  the  note  would  not  go  under.  He  thrust 
it  back  into  his  pocket,  and  stood  a  moment  listening.  He 
felt  somehow  certain  that  she  was  not  there.  And  suddenly 
he  came  away,  passing  the  little  salon  down  the  stairs.  He 
stopped  at  the  bureau  and  said: 

"  Will  you  kindly  see  that  Mrs.  Heron  has  this 
note?" 

"  Madame  Heron  left  to-day,  Monsieur — suddenly,  about 
three  o'clock.     There  was  illness  in  her  family." 


684  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Soames  compressed  his  lips.  "  Oh  !"  he  said;  "  do  you 
know  her  address  ?" 

"  Non,  Monsieur.     England,  I  think." 

Soames  put  the  note  back  into  his  pocket  and  went  out. 
He  hailed  an  open  horse-cab  which  was  passing. 

"  Drive  me  anywhere  !" 

The  man,  who,  obviously,  did  not  understand,  smiled, 
and  waved  his  whip.  And  Soames  was  borne  along  in  that 
little  yellow-wheeled  Victoria  all  over  star-shaped  Paris, 
with  here  and  there  a  pause,  and  the  question,  "  C^gst  far 
ici.  Monsieur  ?"  "  No,  go  on,*'  till  the  man  gave  it  up  in 
despair,  and  the  yellow-wheeled  chariot  continued  to  roll 
between  the  tall,  flat-fronted  shuttered  houses  and  plane- 
tree  avenues — a  little  Flying  Dutchman  of  a  cab. 

*Like  my  life,'  thought  Soames,  '  without  object,  on  and 
on!' 


CHAPTER    II 

IN    THE    WEB 

SoAME?  returned  to  England  the  following  dav,  and  on  the 
third  morning  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  PoUeed,  who  wore 
a  flower  and  carried  a  brown  billycock  hat.  Soames  motioned 
him  to  a  seat. 

"  The  news  from  the  war  is  not  so  bad,  is  it  ?"  said 
Mr.  Polteed.    "  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir." 

"  Thanks  !  quite." 

Mr.  Polteed  leaned  forward,  smiled,  opened  his  hand, 
looked  into  it,  and  said  softly: 

"  I  think  we've  done  your  business  for  you  at  last." 

"  What  ?"  ejaculated  Soames. 

"  Nineteen  reports  quite  suddenly  what  I  think  we  shall 
be  justified  in  calling  conclusive  evidence,"  and  Mr.  Polteed 
paused. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  On  the  icth  instant,  after  witnessing  an  interview 
between  17  and  a  party,  earlier  in  the  day,  19  can  swear 
to  having  seen  him  coming  out  of  her  bedroom  in  the 
hotel  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening.  With  a  little 
care  in  the  giving  of  the  evidence  that  will  be  enough, 
especially  as  17  has  left  Paris — no  doubt  with  the  party 
in  question.  In  fact,  they  both  slipped  off,  and  we 
haven't  got  on  to  them  again,  yet:  but  we  shall — we  shall. 
She's  worked  hard  under  very  difficult  circumstances,  and 
I'm  glad  she's  brought  it  off  at  last."  Mr.  Polteed  took  out 
a  cigarette,  tapped  its  end  against  the  table,  looked  at  Soames, 
and  put  it  back.  The  expression  on  his  client's  face  was  not 
encouraging. 

685 


686  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*'  Who  is  this  new  person?"  said  Soames  abruptly. 

"  That  we  don't  know.  She'll  swear  to  the  fact,  and  she's 
got  his  appearance  pat.'* 

Mr.  Polteed  took  out  a  letter,  and  began  reading: 

"  *  Middle-aged,  medium  height,  blue  dittoes  in  afternoon, 
evening  dress  at  night,  pale,  dark  hair,  small  dark  moustache, 
flat  cheeks,  good  chin,  grey  eyes,  small  feet,  guilty  look '" 

Soames  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  He  stood  there  in 
sardonic  fury,  Congenital  idiot — spidery  congenital  idiot ! 
Seven  months  at  fifteen  pounds  a  w^eek — to  be  tracked  down 
as  his  own  wife's  lover  !  Guilty  look!  He  threw  the  window 
open. 

"  It's  hot,"  he  said,  and  came  back  to  his  seat.  Crossing 
his  knees,  he  bent  a  supercilious  glance  on  Mr.  Polteed. 

"  I  doubt  if  that's  quite  good  enough,"  he  said,  drawling 
the  words,  "  with  no  name  or  address.  I  think  you  may  let 
that  lady  have  a  rest,  and  take  up  our  friend  47  at  this 
end."  Whether  Polteed  had  spotted  him  he  could  not 
tell;  but  he  had  a  mental  vision  of  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  cronies  dissolved  in  inextinguishable  laughter.  'Guilty 
look  !'     Damnation  ! 

Mr.  Polteed  said  in  a  tone  of  urgency,  almost  of  pathos: 
"  I  assure  you  we  have  put  it  through  sometimes  on  less  than 
that.  It's  Paris,  you  know.  Attractive  woman  living  alone. 
Why  not  risk  it,  sir  ?     We  might  screw  it  up  a  peg." 

Soames  had  sudden  insight.  The  fellow's  professional 
zeal  was  stirred:  *  Greatest  triumph  of  my  career;  got  a  man 
his  divorce  through  a  visit  to  his  own  wife's  bedroom  ! 
Something  to  talk  of  there,  when  I  retire  !'  And  for  one 
wild  moment  he  thought:  *  Why  not  ?'  After  all,  hundreds 
of  men  of  medium  height  had  small  feet  and  a  .guilty 
look  ! 

"  I'm  not  authorised  to  take  any  risk  !"  he  said  shortly, 

Mr.  Polteed  looked  up. 


IN  CHANCERY  687 

"  Pity,"  he  said,  "  quite  a  pity  !  That  other  affair 
seemed  very  costive." 

Soames  rose. 

"  Never  mind  that.  Please  watch  47,  and  take  care 
not  to  find  a  mare's  nest.     Good-morning  !" 

Mr.  Polteed's  eye  glinted  at  the  words  *  mare's  nest  !' 

"  Very  good.     You  shall  be  kept  informed." 

And  Soames  was  alone  again.  The  spidery,  dirty,  ridicu- 
lous business  !  Laying  his  arms  on  the  table,  he  leaned  his 
forehead  on  them.  Full  ten  minutes  he  rested  thus,  till 
a  managing  clerk  roused  him  with  the  draft  prospectus  of  a 
new  issue  of  shares,  very  desirable,  in  Manifold  and  Topping's. 
That  afternoon  he  left  work  early  and  made  his  way  to  the 
Restaurant  Bretagne.  Only  Madame  Lamotte  was  in. 
Would  Monsieur  have  tea  with  her  ? 

Soames  bowed. 

When  they  were  seated  at  right  angles  to  each  other  in  the 
little  room,  he  said  abruptly: 

"  I  want  a  talk  with  you,  Madame. '^^ 

The  quick  lift  of  her  clear  brown  eyes  told  him  that  she 
had  long  expected  such  words. 

"  I  have  to  ask  you  something  first:  That  young  doctor — 
what's  his  name  ?  Is  there  anything  between  him  and 
Annette  ?" 

Her  whole  personality  had  become,  as  it  were,  like  jet — 
clear-cut,  black,  hard,  shining. 

"  Annette  is  young,"  she  said;  "  so  is  monsieur  le  docteur. 
Between  young  people  things  move  quickly;  but  Annette 
is  a  good  daughter.     Ah  !   what  a  jewel  of  a  nature  !" 

The  least  little  smile  twisted  Soames'  lips. 

"  Nothing  definite,  then  ?" 

"  But  definite — no,  indeed  !  The  young  man  is  veree 
nice,  but — what  would  you  ?  There  is  no  money  at 
present." 


688  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

She  raised  her  willow-patterned  tea-cup;  Soames  did 
the  same.     Their  eyes  met. 

*'  I  am  a  married  man,"  he  said,  "  living  apart  from  my 
wife  for  many  years.     I  am  seeking  to  divorce  her." 

Madame  Lamotte  put  down  her  cup.  Indeed  !  What 
tragic  things  there  were  !  The  entire  absence  of  sentiment 
in  her  inspired  a  queer  species  of  contempt  in  Soames. 

"  I  am  a  rich  man,"  he  added,  fully  conscious  that  the 
remark  was  not  in  good  taste.  "  It  is  useless  to  say  more  at 
present,  but  I  think  you  understand." 

Madame's  eyes,  so  open  that  the  whites  showed  above 
them,  looked  at  him  very  straight. 

"  Ah  !  ca — mats  nous  avons  le  temfs  J"  was  all  she  said. 
"  Another  little  cup  ?"  Soames  refused,  and,  taking  his 
leave,  walked  westward. 

He  had  got  that  o5  his  mind;  she  would  not  let  Annette 

commit   herself   with   that   cheerful  young   ass   until ! 

But  what  chance  of  his  ever  being  able  to  say  :  *  I'm  free  ? ' 
What  chance  ?  The  future  had  lost  all  semblance  of  reality. 
He  felt  like  a  fly,  entangled  in  cobweb  filaments,  watching 
the  desirable  freedom  of  the  air  with  pitiful  eyes. 

He  was  short  of  exercise,  and  wandered  on  to  Kensington 
Gardens,  and  down  Queen's  Gate  towards  Chelsea.  Perhaps 
she  had  gone  back  to  her  flat.  That  at  all  events  he  could 
find  out.  For  since  that  last  and  most  ignominious  repulse 
his  wounded  self-respect  had  taken  refuge  again  in  the 
feeling  that  she  must  have  a  lover.  He  arrived  before  the 
little  Mansions  at  the  dinner-hour.  No  need  to  enquire  ! 
A  grey-haired  lady  was  watering  the  flower- boxes  in  her 
window.  It  was  evidently  let.  And  he  walked  slowly  past 
again,  along  the  river — an  evening  of  clear,  quiet  beauty, 
all  harmony  and  comfort,  except  within  his  heart. 


CHAPTER    III 

RICHMOND    PARK 

On  the  afternoon  that  Soames  crossed  to  France  a  cable- 
gram v/as  received  by  Jolyon  at  Robin  Hill: 

"  Your  son  down  with  enteric  no  immediate  danger  will 
cable  again." 

It  reached  a  household  already  agitated  by  the  imminent 
departure  of  June,  whose  berth  was  booked  for  the  following 
day.  She  was,  indeed,  in  the  act  of  confiding  Eric  Cobbley 
and  his  family  to  her  father's  care  when  the  message  arrived. 

The  resolution  to  become  a  Red  Cross  nurse,  taken  under 
stimulus  of  Jolly's  enlistment,  had  been  loyally  fulfilled 
with  the  irritation  and  regret  which  all  Forsytes  feel  at  what 
curtails  their  individual  liberties.  Enthusiastic  at  first 
about  the  *  wonderfulness  '  of  the  work,  she  had  begun  after 
a  month  to  feel  that  she  could  train  herself  so  much  better 
than  others  could  train  her.  And  if  Holly  had  not  insisted 
on  following  her  example,  and  being  trained  too,  she  must 
inevitably  have  *  cried  of!.'  The  departure  of  Jolly  and  Val 
with  their  troop  in  April  had  further  stiffened  her  failing 
resolve.  But  now,  on  the  point  of  departure,  the  thought 
of  leaving  Eric  Cobbley,  with  a  wife  and  two  children,  adrift 
in  the  cold  waters  of  an  unappreciative  world  weighed  on 
her  so  that  she  was  still  in  danger  of  backing  out.  The 
reading  of  that  cablegram,  with  its  disquieting  reality, 
clinched  the  matter.  She  saw  herself  already  nursing  Jolly 
— for  of  course  they  would  let  her  nurse  her  own  brother  ! 
Jolyon— ever  vnde  and  doubtful — had  no  such  hope.     Poor 

689  23 


690  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

June  !  Could  any  Forsyte  of  her  generation  grasp  how  rude 
and  brutal  life  was  ?  Ever  since  he  knew  of  his  boy's 
arrival  at  Cape  Town  the  thought  of  him  had  been  a  kind 
of  recurrent  sickness  in  Jolyon.  He  could  not  get  reconciled 
to  the  feeling  that  Jolly  was  in  danger  all  the  time.  The 
cablegram,  grave  though  it  was,  was  almost  a  relief.  He  was 
now  safe  from  bullets,  anyway.  And  yet — this  enteric  was 
a  virulent  disease  !  The  Times  was  full  of  deaths  therefrom. 
Why  could  he  not  be  lying  out  there  in  that  up-country 
hospital,  and  his  boy  safe  at  home  t  The  un-Forsytean  self- 
sacrifice  of  his  three  children,  indeed,  had  quite  bewildered 
Jolyon.  He  would  eagerly  change  places  with  Jolly,  because 
he  loved  his  boy;  but  no  such  personal  motive  was  influencing 
them.  He  could  only  think  that  it  marked  the  decline  of 
the  Forsyte  type. 

Late  that  afternoon  Holly  came  out  to  him  under  the  old 
oak-tree.  She  had  grown  up  very  much  during  these  last 
months  of  hospital  training  away  from  home.  And,  seeing 
her  approach,  he  thought:  *  She  has  more  sense  than  June, 
child  though  she  is;  more  wisdom.  Thank  God  she  isn't 
going  out.'  She  had  seated  herself  in  the  swing,  very  silent 
and  still.  *  She  feels  this,'  thought  Jolyon,  *  as  much  as  I.* 
And,  seeing  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  he  said:  "  Don't  take  it 
to  heart  too  much,  my  child.  If  he  weren't  ill,  he  might  be 
in  much  greater  danger.  " 

Holly  got  out  of  the  swing. 

*'  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  Dad.  It  was  through  me 
that  Jolly  enlisted  and  went  out." 

"  How's  that  ?" 

"  When  you  were  away  in  Paris,  Val  Dartie  and  I  fell  in 
love.  We  used  to  ride  in  Richmond  Park;  we  got  engaged. 
Jolly  found  it  out,  and  thought  he  ought  to  stop  it;  so  he 
dared  Val  to  enlist.  It  was  all  my  fault.  Dad;  and  I  want  to 
go    out   too.       Because   if  anything  happens   to  either  of 


IN  CHANCERY  691 

them  I  should  feel  awful.  Besides,  I'm  just  as  much  trained 
as  June." 

Jolyon  gazed  at  her  in  a  stupefaction  that  was  tinged  with 
irony.  So  this  was  the  answer  to  the  riddle  he  had  been 
asking  himself;  and  his  three  children  were  Forsytes  after 
all.  Surely  Holly  might  have  told  him  all  this  before  ! 
But  he  smothered  the  sarcastic  sayings  on  his  lips.  Tender- 
ness to  the  young  was  perhaps  the  most  sacred  article  of  his 
belief.  He  had  got,  no  doubt,  what  he  deserved.  Engaged  ! 
So  this  was  why  he  had  so  lost  touch  with  her  !  And  to 
young  Val  Dartie — nephew  of  Soames — in  the  other  camp  ! 
It  was  aU  terribly  distasteful.  He  closed  his  easel,  and  set 
his  drawing  against  the  tree. 

"  Have  you  told  June  ?" 

"  Yes ;  she  says  she'll  get  me  into  her  cabin  somehow. 
It's  a  single  cabin;  but  one  of  us  could  sleep  on  the  f^oor.  If 
you  consent,  she'll  go  up  now  and  get  permission." 

*  Consent  ?'  thought  Jolyon.  *  Rather  late  in  the  day  to 
ask  for  that  !'     But  again  he  checked  himself. 

"  You're  too  young,  my  dear;  they  won't  let  you." 

"  June  knows  some  people  that  she  helped  to  go  to  Cape 
Town.  If  they  won't  let  me  nurse  yet,  I  could  stay  with 
them  and  go  on  training  there.     Let  me  go,  Dad  !" 

Jolyon  smiled  because  he  could  have  cried. 

"  I  never  stop  anyone  from  doing  anything,"  he  said. 

Holly  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  Oh  !  Dad,  you  are  the  best  in  the  world." 

*  That  means  the  worst,'  thought  Jolyon.  If  he  had  ever 
doubted  his  creed  of  tolerance  he  did  so  then. 

"  I'm  not  friendly  with  Veal's  family,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
don't  know  Val,  but  Jolly  didn't  like  him." 
Holly  looked  at  the  distance,  and  said: 
"  I  love  him." 
"  That  settles  it,"  said  Jolyon  dryly,  then  catching  the 


692  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

expression  on  her  face,  he  kissed  her,  with  the  thought :  '  Is 
anything  more  pathetic  than  the  faith  of  the  young?* 
Unless  he  actually  forbade  her  going  it  was  obvious  that  he 
must  make  the  best  of  it,  so  he  went  up  to  town  with  June. 
Whether  due  to  her  persistence,  or  the  fact  that  the  official 
they  saw  was  an  old  school  friend  of  Jolyon's,  they  obtained 
permission  for  Holly  to  share  the  single  cabin.  He  took 
them  to  Surbiton  station  the  following  erening,  and  they 
duly  slid  away  from  him,  pro\4ded  with  money,  invaHd 
foods,  and  those  letters  of  credit  without  which  Forsytes  do 
not  travel. 

He  drove  back  to  Robin  Hill  under  a  brilliant  sky  to  his 
late  dinner,  served  \^'ith  an  added  care  by  servants  trying  to 
show  him  that  they  S}Tnpathised,  eaten  with  an  added  scru- 
pulousness to  show  them  that  he  appreciated  that  sympathy. 
But  it  was  a  real  relief  to  get  to  his  cigar  on  the  terrace  of 
flag-stones — cunningly  chosen  by  young  Bosinney  for 
shape  and  colour — with  night  closing  in  around  him,  so 
beautiful  a  night,  hardly  whispering  in  the  trees,  and  smeUing 
so  sweet  that  it  made  him  ache.  The  grass  was  drenched 
with  dew,  and  he  kept  to  those  flag-stones,  up  and  down,  till 
presently  it  began  to  seem  to  him  that  he  was  one  of  three, 
not  wheeling,  but  turning  right  about  at  each  end,  so  that 
hh  father  was  always  nearest  to  the  house,  and  his  son  always 
nearest  to  the  terrace  edge.  Each  had  an  arm  lightly 
within  his  arm ;  he  dared  not  lift  his  hand  to  his  cigar  lest  he 
should  disturb  them,  and  it  burned  away,  dripping  ash  on 
him,  till  it  dropped  from  his  lips,  at  last,  which  were  getting 
hot.  They  left  him  then,  and  his  arms  felt  chilly.  Three 
Jolyons  in  one  Jolyon  they  had  walked  ! 

He  stood  still,  counting  the  sounds — a  carriage  passing  on 
the  highroad,  a  distant  train,  the  dog  at  Gage's  farm,  the 
whispering  trees,  the  groom  playing  on  his  penny  whistle. 
A  multitude  of  stars  up  there — bright  and  silent,  so  far  off  ! 


IN  CH.\XCERY  693 

No  moon  as  yet  !  Just  enough  light  to  show  him  the  dark 
flags  and  swords  of  the  iris  flowers  along  the  terrace  edge — 
his  favourite  flower  that  had  the  night's  own  colour  on  its 
curving  crumpled  petals.  He  turned  round  to  the  house. 
Big,  unlighted,  not  a  soul  beside  himself  to  live  in  all  that 
part  of  it.  Stark  loneliness  !  He  could  not  go  on  living 
here  alone.  And  yet,  so  long  as  there  was  beauty,  why  should 
a  man  feel  lonely  ?  The  answer — as  to  some  idiot's  riddle 
— was:  Because  he  did.  The  greater  the  beauty,  the  greater 
the  loneliness,  for  at  the  hack  of  beauty  was  harmony,  and  at 
the  back  of  harmony  was — union.  Beauty  could  not  com- 
fort if  the  soul  were  out  of  it.  The  night,  maddeningly 
lovely,  with  bloom  of  grapes  on  it  in  starshine,  and  the  breath 
of  grass  and  honey  coming  from  it,  he  could  not  enjoy, 
while  she  who  was  to  him  the  life  of  beauty,  its  embodiment 
and  essence,  was  cut  o5  from  him,  utterly  cut  off  now,  he 
felt,  by  honourable  decency. 

He  made  a  poor  fist  of  sleeping,  striving  too  hard  after 
that  resignation  which  Forsytes  find  difficult  to  reach,  bred 
to  their  own  way  and  left  so  comfortably  off  by  their  fathers. 
But  after  dawn  he  dozed  off,  and  soon  was  dreaming  a 
strange  dream. 

He  was  on  a  stage  with  immensely  high  rich  curtains — high 
as  the  very  stars — stretching  in  a  semi-circle  from  foothghts 
to  footlights.  He  himself  was  very  small,  a  little  black 
restless  figure  roaming  up  and  down;  and  the  odd  thing  was 
that  he  was  not  altogether  himself,  but  Soames  as  well,  so 
that  he  was  not  only  experiencing  but  watching.  This 
figure  of  himself  and  Soames  w^as  tr}dng  to  fi.nd  a  way  out 
through  the  curtains,  which,  heavy  and  dark,  kept  him  in. 
Several  times  he  had  crossed  in  front  of  them  before  he  saw 
with  delight  a  sudden  narrow  rift — a  tall  chink  of  beauty  the 
colour  of  iris  flowers,  like  a  glimpse  of  Paradise,  remote, 
ineffable.      Stepping  quickly  forward   to   pass   into   it,   he 


694  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

found  the  curtains  closing  before  him.  Bitterly  disappointed 
he — or  was  it  Soames  ? — moved  on,  and  there  was  the  chink 
again  through  the  parted  curtains,  which  again  closed  too 
soon.  This  went  on  and  on  and  he  never  got  through 
till  he  woke  with  the  word  "  Irene  "  on  his  lips.  The 
dream  disturbed  him  badly,  especially  that  identification  of 
himself  with  Soames. 

Next  morning,  finding  it  impossible  to  work,  he  spent 
hours  riding  Jolly's  horse  in  search  of  fatigue.  And  on  the 
second  day  he  made  up  his  mind  to  move  to  London  and 
see  if  he  could  not  get  permission  to  follow  his  daughters  to 
South  Africa.  He  had  just  begun  to  pack  the  following 
morning  when  he  received  this  letter: 

"  Green  Hotel, 

"  Richmond. 
'"June  13. 
"  My  dear  Jolyon, 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  see  how  near  I  am  to  you. 
Paris  became  impossible — and  I  have  come  here  to  be  within 
reach  of  your  advice.  I  would  so  love  to  see  you  again. 
Since  you  left  Paris  I  don't  think  I  have  met  anyone  I  could 
really  talk  to.  Is  all  well  with  you  and  with  your  boy  ?  No 
one  knows,  I  think,  that  I  am  here  at  present. 

"  Always  your  friend, 

"  Irene." 

Irene  within  three  miles  of  him  ! — and  again  in  flight  ! 
He  stood  with  a  very  queer  smile  on  his  lips.  This  was  more 
than  he  had  bargained  for  ! 

About  noon  he  set  out  on  foot  across  Richmond  Park, 
and  as  he  went  along,  he  thought :  *  Richmond  Park  !  By 
Jove,  it  suits  us  Forsytes  !'  Not  that  Forsytes  lived  there — 
nobody  lived  there  save  royalty,  rangers,  and  the  deer — 
but  in  Richmond  Park  Nature  was  allowed  to  go  so  far  and 


IN  CHANCERY  695 

no  further,  putting  up  a  brave  show  of  being  natural, 
seeming  to  say:  '  Look  at  my  instincts — they  are  almost 
passions,  very  nearly  out  of  hand,  but  not  quite,  of  course; 
the  very  hub  of  possession  is  to  possess  oneself.'  Yes  ! 
Richmond  Park  possessed  itself,  even  on  that  bright  day  of 
June,  with  arrowy  cuckoos  shifting  the  tree-points  of  their 
calls,  and  the  wood  doves  announcing  high  summer. 

The  Green  Hotel,  which  Jolyon  entered  at  one  o'clock, 
stood  nearly  opposite  that  more  famous  hostelry,  the  Crown 
and  Sceptre;  it  was  modest,  highly  respectable,  never  out  of 
cold  beef,  gooseberry  tart,  and  a  dowager  or  too,  so  that  a 
carriage  and  pair  was  almost  always  standing  before  the  door. 

In  a  room  draped  in  chintz  so  slippery  as  to  forbid  all 
emotion,  Irene  was  sitting  on  a  piano  stool  covered  with 
crewel  work,  playing  *  Hansel  and  Gretel '  out  of  an  old 
score.  Above  her  on  a  wall,  not  yet  Morris-papered,  was 
a  print  of  the  Queen  on  a  pony,  amongst  deer-hounds, 
Scotch  caps,  and  slain  stags;  beside  her  in  a  pot  on  the 
window-sill  was  a  white  and  rosy  fuschia.  The  Victorianism 
of  the  room  almost  talked;  and  in  her  clinging  frock  Irene 
seemed  to  Jolyon  like  Venus  emerging  from  the  shell  of  the 
past  century. 

"If  the  proprietor  had  eyes,"  he  said,  "he  would  show  you 
the  door;  you  have  broken  through  his  decorations."  Thus 
lightly  he  smothered  up  an  emotional  moment.  Having 
eaten  cold  beef,  pickled  walnut,  gooseberry- tart,  and  drunk 
stone-bottle  ginger-beer,  they  walked  into  the  Park,  and 
light  talk  was  succeeded  by  the  silence  Jolyon  had  dreaded. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  about  Paris,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  No.  I've  been  shadowed  for  a  long  time;  one  gets  used 
to  that.  But  then  Soames  came.  By  the  little  Niobe — 
the  same  story;  would  I  go  back  to  him  ?" 

"  Incredible  !" 

She  had  spoken  without  raising  her  eyes,  but  she  looked 


696  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Qp  now.     These  iirk  eves  clinging  to  his  said  as  no  words 

cou!i  hirt:  '  I  iiive  ccme  :o  an  end;  if  tou  want  me,  here  I 
am." 

For  sheer  emrdonal  intensity  had  he  ever — old  as  he  was 
— passed  tnrcngh  snch  a  moment : 

The  words:  *  Irene,  I  adore  yon!'  almost  escaped  him. 
Then,  with  a  clearness  of  which  he  wonld  not  hare  believed 
mental  vision  capable,  he  saw  Jolly  lying  with  a  white  face 
mmed  to  a  white  wall. 

*'•'  Mv  boy  is  very  ill  :  -:  :-'-ere."  he  said  ctiietly. 

Irene  slipned  her  arm  turi-ugn  his. 

"  Let's  walk:  on;  I  understand.'* 

No  miserable  ext>Ianation  to  attempt  !     She  had  under- 
stood !     And  thev  walked  on  among  the  bracken,  knee-high ' 
already,  between  the  rabbit-holes  and  the  oak-trees,  talking 
of  Jolly.     He  left  her  two  hours  later  at  the  Richmond  Hill 
Gate,  and  tnrned  towards  home. 

'  She  knows  of  mv  feeling  for  her,  then,*  he  thought.  Of 
conrse  '.  One  ccnld  not  keep  knowledge  of  that  from  snch 
a  wrman  ! 


CHAPTER    IV 

OVZR    THE    JvIVZR 

Jolly  was  tired  to  death  of  dream?.  Thej  Lad  left  him 
now  too  wan  and  weak  to  dream  again ;  left  him  to  lie  torpid, 
faintlj  remembering  far-o5  things;  just  able  to  ttim  his  eyes 
and  gaze  through  the  window  near  his  cot  at  the  trickle  of 
river  running  hy  in  the  sands,  at  the  straggling  milk- bush 
of  the  Karoo  beyond.  He  knew  what  the  Karoo  was  now, 
even  if  he  had  not  seen  a  Boer  roll  over  like  a  rabbit,  or  heard 
the  whiffle  of  flying  bullets.  This  pestilence  had  sneaked 
on  him  before  he  had  smelled  powder.  A  thirsty  day  and  s 
rash  drink,  or  perhaps  a  tainted  fruit — who  knew  r  Not  he^ 
who  had  not  even  strength  left  to  grudge  the  evil  thing  its 
victory — just  enough  to  know  that  there  were  many  lying 
here  with  him,  that  he  was  sore  with  frenzied  dreaming; 
just  enough  to  watch  that  thread  cf  r>er  and  be  able  to 
remember  faintly  those  far-away  things.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  nearly  down.  It  would  be  cooler  soon.  He 
would  have  liked  to  know  the  time — to  feel  his  old  watch, 
so  butter-smooth,  to  hear  the  repeater  strike.  It  would 
have  been  friendly,  home-like.  He  had  not  even  strength 
to  remember  that  the  old  watch  was  last  wotmd  the  day  he 
began  to  lie  here.  The  pulse  of  his  brain  beat  so  feebly 
that  faces  which  came  and  went,  nurse's,  doctor's,  orderly's, 
were  indistinguishable,  just  one  indi5erent  face;  and  the 
words  spoken  about  him  meant  all  the  same  thing,  and  that 
almost  nothing.  Those  things  he  used  to  do,  though  far 
and  faint,  were  more  distinct — walking  past  the  foot  of  the 
old    steDS    at   Harrow   '  bill  ' — *  Here,   sir  !     Here,   sir  !' — 


698  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

wrapping  boots  in  the  Westminster  Gazette,  greenish  paper, 
shining  boots — grandfather  coming  from  somewhere  dark — 
a  smell  of  earth — the  mushroom  house  !  Robin  Hill ! 
Burying  poor  old  Balthasar  in  the  leaves!    Dad!   Home.  .  .  . 

Consciousness  came  again  with  noticing  that  the  river 
had  no  water  in  it — someone  was  speaking  too.  Want 
anything  ?  No.  What  could  one  want  ?  Too  weak  to 
want — only  to  hear  his  watch  strike.   .  .  . 

Holly  !  She  wouldn't  bowl  properly.  Oh  !  Pitch  them 
up  !  Not  sneaks  !  .  .  .  '  Back  her,  Two  and  Bow  !'  He 
was  Two  !  .  .  .  Consciousness  came  once  more  with  a  sense 
of  the  violet  dusk  outside,  and  a  rising  blood-red  crescent 
moon.  His  eyes  rested  on  it  fascinated;  in  the  long  minutes 
of  brain-nothingness  it  went  moving  up  and  up.  .  .  . 

"  He's  going,  doctor  !"  Not  pack  boots  again  ?  Never  ? 
*  Mind  your  form,  Two  !'  Don't  cry  !  Go  quietly — over 
the  river — sleep  !  .  .  .  Dark  ?  If  somebody  would — 
strike — his — watch  !  .  .  . 


CHAPTER    V 

80AMES    ACTS 

A  SEALED  letter  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Polteed  remained 
unopened  in  Soames'  pocket  throughout  two  hours  of  sus- 
tained attention  to  the  affairs  of  the  *  New  Colliery  Com- 
pany,' which,  declining  almost  from  the  moment  of  old 
Jolyon's  retirement  from  the  Chairmanship,  had  lately  run 
down  so  fast  that  there  was  now  nothing  for  it  but  a  *  wind- 
ing-up.' He  took  the  letter  out  to  lunch  at  his  City  Club, 
sacred  to  him  for  the  meals  he  had  eaten  there  with  his 
father  in  the  early  seventies,  when  James  used  to  like  him  to 
come  and  see  for  himself  the  nature  of  his  future  life. 

Here  in  a  remote  corner  before  a  plate  of  roast  mutton  and 
mashed  potato,  he  read: 

"Dear  Sir, 

"  In  accordance  with  your  suggestion  we  have  duly 
taken  the  matter  up  at  the  other  end  with  gratifying  results. 
Observation  of  47  has  enabled  us  to  locate  17  at  the  Green 
Hotel,  Richmond.  The  two  have  been  observed  to  meet 
daily  during  the  past  week  in  Richmond  Park.  Nothing 
absolutely  crucial  has  so  far  been  notified.  But  in  conjunc- 
tion with  what  we  had  from  Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year,  I  am  confident  we  could  now  satisfy  the  Court.  We 
shall,  of  course,  continue  to  watch  the  matter  until  we  hear 
from  you. 

"  Very  faithfully  yours, 

*'  Claud  Polteed.'* 
699 


700  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Soames  read  it  through  twice  and  beckoned  to  the  waiter. 
"  Take  this  away;  it's  cold." 
'•  Shall  I  bring  you  some  more,  sir  f " 
'*  No.     Get  me  some  coffee  in  the  other  room." 
And,  paying  for  what  he  had  not  eaten,  he  went  out, 
passing  two  acquaintances  without. sign  of  recognition. 

*  Satisfy  the  Court  !'  he  thought,  sitting  at  a  little  round 
marble  table  with  the  coffee  before  him.  That  fellow 
Jolyon  !  He  poured  out  his  coffee,  sweetened  and  drank  it. 
He  would  disgrace  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  own  children! 
And  rising,  with  that  resolution  hot  within  him,  he  found 
for  the  first  time  the  inconvenience  of  being  his  own  solicitor. 
He  could  not  treat  this  scandalous  matter  in  his  own  office. 
He  must  commit  the  soul  of  his  private  dignity  to  a  stranger, 
some  other  professional  dealer  in  family  dishonour.  Who 
was  there  he  could  go  to  ?  Linkman  and  Laver  in  Budge 
Row,  perhaps — reliable,  not  too  conspicuous,  only  nodding 
acquaintances.  But  before  he  saw  them  he  must  see  Polteed 
again.  But  at  this  thought  Soames  had  a  moment  of  sheer 
weakness.  To  part  with  his  secret  ?  How  find  the  words  ? 
How  subject  himself  to  contempt  and  secret  laughter  ?  Yet, 
after  all,  the  fellow  knew  already — oh  yes,  he  knew  !  And, 
feeling  that  he  must  finish  with  it  now,  he  took  a  cab  into  the 
West  End. 

In  this  hot  weather  the  window  of  Mr.  Polteed's  room  was 
positively  open,  and  the  only  precaution  was  a  wire  gauze, 
preventing  the  intrusion  of  flies.  Two  or  three  had  tried  to 
come  in,  and  been  caught,  so  that  they  seemed  to  be  clinging 
there  with  the  intention  of  being  devoured  presently. 
Mr.  Polteed,  following  the  direction  of  his  client's  eye,  rose 
apologetically  and  closed  the  window. 

*  Posing  ass  !'  thought  Soames.  Like  all  who  fundamen- 
tally believe  in  themselves  he  was  rising  to  the  occasion,  and, 
with  his  little  sideway  smile,  he  said:  "  I've  had  your  letter. 


IN  CHANCERY  701 

I'm  going  to  act.  I  suppose  you  know  who  the  lady  you've 
been  watching  really  is  ?" 

Mr.  Polteed's  expression  at  that  moment  was  a  master- 
piece. It  so  clearly  said:  '  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  But 
mere  professional  knowledge,  I  assure  you — pray  forgive  it !' 
He  made  a  little  half  airy  movement  with  his  hand,  as  who 
should  say:   *  Such  things — such  things  will  happen  to  us  1' 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Soames,  moistening  his  lips: 
*'  there's  no  need  to  say  more.  I'm  instructing  Linkman 
and  Laver  of  Budge  Row  to  act  for  me.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  your  evidence,  but  kindly  make  your  report  to  them  at 
five  o'clock,  and  continue  to  observe  the  utmost  secrecy." 

Mr.  Polteed  half  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  to  comply  at  once. 
*'  My  dear  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Are  you  convinced,"  asked  Soames  with  sudden  energy, 
"  that  there  is  enough  ?" 

The  faintest  movement  occurred  to  Mr.  Polteed's 
shoulders. 

"  You  can  risk  it,"  he  murmured;  "  with  what  we  have, 
and  human  nature,  you  can  risk  it." 

Soames  rose.  "  You  will  ask  for  Mr.  Linkman.  Thanks; 
don't  get  up."  He  could  not  bear  Mr.  Polteed  to  slide  as 
usual  between  him  and  the  door.  In  the  sunlight  of  Picca- 
dilly he  wiped  his  forehead.  This  had  been  the  worst  of  it — 
he  could  stand  the  strangers  better.  And  he  went  back  into 
the  City  to  do  what  still  lay  before  him. 

That  evening  in  Park  Lane,  watching  his  father  dine,  he 
was  overwhelmed  by  his  old  longing  for  a  son — a  son,  to 
watch  him  eat  as  he  went  down  the  years,  to  be  taken  on  his 
knee  as  James  on  a  time  had  been  wont  to  take  him;  a  son  of 
his  own  begetting,  who  could  understand  him  because  he 
was  the  same  flesh  and  blood — understand,  and  comfort  him, 
and  become  more  rich  and  cultured  than  himself  because 
he  w^ould  start  even  better  o5.     To  get  old — like  that  thin, 


702  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

grey,  wiry-frail  figure  sitting  there — and  be  quite  alone  with 
possessions  heaping  up  around  him;  to  take  no  interest  in 
anything  because  it  had  no  future  and  must  pass  away  trom 
him  to  hands  and  mouths  and  eyes  for  whom  he  cared  no 
jot  !  No  !  He  would  force  it  through  now,  and  be  free  to 
marry,  and  have  a  son  to  care  for  him  before  he  grew  to  be 
like  the  old  old  man  his  father,  wistfully  watching  now  his 
sweetbread,  now  his  son. 

In  that  mood  he  went  up  to  bed.  But,  lying  warm  be- 
tween those  fine  linen  sheets  of  Emily's  providing,  he  was 
visited  by  memories  and  torture.  Visions  of  Irene,  almost 
the  solid  feeling  of  her  body,  beset  him.  Why  had  he  ever 
been  fool  enough  to  see  her  again,  and  let  this  flood  back  on 
him  so  that  it  was  pain  to  think  of  her  with  that  fellow — 
that  stealing  fellow  ! 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    SUMMER    DAY 

His  boy  was  seldom  absent  from  Jolyon's  mind  in  the  days 
which  followed  the  first  walk  with  Irene  in  Richmond  Park, 
No  further  news  had  come;  enquiries  at  the  War  OfHce 
elicited  nothing;  nor  could  he  expect  to  hear  from  }une  and 
HoUy  for  three  weeks  at  least.  In  these  days  he  felt  how 
insufficient  were  his  memories  of  Jolly,  and  what  an  amateur 
of  a  father  he  had  been.  There  was  not  a  single  memory  in 
which  anger  played  a  part;  not  one  reconciliation,  because 
there  had  never  been  a  rupture;  nor  one  heart-to-heart  con 
fidence,  not  even  when  Jolly's  mother  died.  Nothing  but 
half-ironical  affection.  He  had  been  too  afraid  of  commit- 
ting himself  in  any  direction,  for  fear  of  losing  his  liberty,  or 
interfering  with  that  of  his  boy. 

Only  in  Irene's  presence  had  he  relief,  highly  complicated 
by  the  ever-growing  perception  of  how  divided  he  was 
between  her  and  his  son.  With  Jolly  was  bound  up  all  that 
sense  of  continuity  and  social  creed  of  which  he  had  drunk 
deeply  in  his  youth  and  again  during  his  boy's  public  school 
and  varsity  life — all  that  sense  of  not  going  back  on  what 
father  and  son  expected  of  each  other.  With  Irene  was 
bound  up  all  his  delight  in  beauty  and  in  Nature.  And  he 
seemed  to  know  less  and  less  which  was  the  stronger  within 
him.  From  such  sentimental  paralysis  he  was  rudely 
awakened,  however,  one  afternoon,  just  as  he  was  starting  off 
to  Richmond,  by  a  young  man  with  a  bicycle  and  a  face  oddly 
familiar,  who  came  forward  faintly  smiling. 

**  Mr.  Jolyon  Forsyte  ?     Thank  you  !"     Placing  an  enve- 
703 


704  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

lope  in  Jolyon's  hand  he  wheeled  off  the  path  and  rode 
away.     Bewildered,  Jolyon  opened  it. 

'•  Admiralty  Probate  and  Divorce,  Forsyte  v.  Forsyte  and 
Forsyte  !"  A  sensation  of  shame  and  disgust  was  followed 
by  the  instant  reaction :  '  Why  !  here's  the  very  thing  you 
want,  and  you  don't  like  it  !'  But  she  must  have  had  one 
too;  and  he  must  go  to  her  at  once.  He  turned  things  over 
as  he  went  along.  It  was  an  ironical  business.  For,  what- 
ever the  Scriptures  said  about  the  heart,  it  took  more  than 
mere  longings  to  satisfy  the  law.  They  could  perfectly 
well  defend  this  suit,  or  at  least  in  good  faith  try  to.  But 
the  idea  of  doing  so  revolted  Jolyon.  If  not  her  lover  in 
deed  he  was  in  desire,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  ready  to 
come  to  him.  Her  face  had  told  him  so.  Not  that  he 
exaggerated  her  feeling  for  him.  She  had  had  her  grand 
passion,  and  he  could  not  expect  another  from  her  at  his  age. 
But  she  had  trust  in  him,  affection  for  him;  and  must  feel 
that  he  would  be  a  refuge.  Surely  she  would  not  ask  him  to 
defend  the  suit,  knowing  that  he  adored  her !  Thank 
Heaven  she  had  not  that  maddening  British  conscientious- 
ness which  refused  happiness  for  the  sake  of  refusing  !  She 
must  rejoice  at  this  chance  of  being  free — after  seventeen 
years  of  death  in  life  !  As  to  publicity,  the  fat  was  in  the 
fire  !  To  defend  the  suit  would  not  take  away  the  slur. 
Jolyon  had  all  the  proper  feeling  of  a  Forsyte  whose  privacy 
is  threatened :  If  he  was  to  be  hung  by  the  Law,  by  all  means 
let  it  be  for  a  sheep  !  Moreover  the  notion  of  standing  in  a 
witness  box  and  swearing  to  the  truth  that  no  gesture,  not 
even  a  word  of  love  had  passed  between  them  seemed  to  him 
more  degrading  than  to  take  the  tacit  stigma  of  being  an 
adulterer — more  truly  degrading,  considering  the  feeling  in 
his  heart,  and  just  as  bad  and  painful  for  his  children.  The 
thought  of  explaining  away,  if  he  could,  before  a  judge  and 
twelve  average  Englishmen,  their  meetings  in  Paris,  and  the 


IN  CHL-\NXERY  705 

walks  in  Richmond  Park,  horrified  him.  The  brutality  and 
hypocritical  censoriousness  of  the  whole  process;  the  proba- 
bility that  they  would  not  be  believed — the  mere  vision  of  her, 
whom  he  looked  on  as  the  embodiment  of  Nature  and  of 
Beauty,  standing  there  before  all  those  suspicious,  gloating 
eyes  was  hideous  to  him.  No,  no  !  To  defend  a  suit  only 
made  a  London  holiday,  and  sold  the  newspapers.  A 
thousand  times  better  accept  what  Soames  and  the  gods 
had  sent  ! 

'  Besides,  '  he  thought  honestly,  '  who  knows  whether, 
even  for  my  boy's  sake,  I  could  have  stood  this  state  of 
things  much  longer .?  Anyway,  her  neck  will  be  out  of 
chancery  at  last  !'  Thus  absorbed,  he  was  hardly  conscious 
of  the  heavy  heat.  The  sky  had  become  overcast,  purplish, 
with  little  streaks  of  white.  A  heavy  heat- drop  plashed 
a  little  star  pattern  in  the  dust  of  the  road  as  he  entered 
the  Park.  '  Phew  !'  he  thought,  *  thunder  !  I  hope  she's 
not  come  to  meet  me;  there's  a  ducking  up  there  !'  But 
at  that  very  minute  he  saw  Irene  coming  towards  the 
Gate.  '  We  must  scuttle  back  to  Robin  Hill,'  he  thought. 
****** 

The  storm  had  passed  over  the  Poultry  at  four  o'clock, 
bringing  welcome  distraction  to  the  clerks  in  every  omce. 
Soames  was  drinking  a  cup  of  tea  when  a  note  was  brought 
in  to  him: 

"  Dear  Sir, 

Forsyte  v.  Forsyte  and  Forsyte 

"  In  accordance  with  your  instructions,  we  be^  to 
inform  you  that  we  personally  served  the  respondent  and 
co-respondent  in  this  suit  to-day,  at  Richmond,  and  Robin 
Hill,  respectively. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  LiNKMAN    AND    LaVER." 


7o6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

For  some  minutes  Soames  stared  at  that  note.  Ever  since 
he  had  given  those  instructions  he  had  been  tempted  to  annul 
them.  It  was  so  scandalous,  such  a  general  disgrace  !  The 
evidence,  too,  what  he  had  heard  of  it,  had  never  seemed  to 
him  conclusive;  somehow,  he  believed  less  and  less  that  those 
two  had  gone  all  lengths.  But  this,  of  course,  would  drive 
them  to  it;  and  he  suffered  from  the  thought.  That  fellow 
to  have  her  love,  where  he  had  failed  !  Was  it  too  late  f 
Now  that  they  had  been  brought  up  sharp  by  service  of  this 
petition,  had  he  not  a  lever  with  which  he  could  force  them 
apart  ?  '  But  if  I  don't  act  at  once,'  he  thought,  '  it  will  be 
too  late,  now  they've  had  this  thing.  I'll  go  and  see  him; 
I'll  go  down  !' 

And,  sick  with  nervous  anxiety,  he  sent  out  for  one  of  the 
*  new-fangled  '  motor-cabs.  It  might  take  a  long  time  to 
run  that  fellow  to  ground,  and  Goodness  knew  what  decision 
they  might  come  to  after  such  a  shock  !  *  If  I  were  a  theat- 
rical ass,'  he  thought,  *  I  suppose  I  should  be  taking  a  horse- 
whip or  a  pistol  or  something  !'  He  took  instead  a  bundle  of 
papers  in  the  case  of  '  Magentie  versus  Wake,*  intending  to 
read  them  on  the  way  down.  He  did  not  even  open  them, 
but  sat  quite  still,  jolted  and  jarred,  unconscious  of  the 
draught  down  the  back  of  his  neck,  or  the  smell  of  petrol. 
He  must  be  guided  by  the  fellow's  attitude;  the  great  thing 
was  to  keep  his  head  ! 

London  had  already  begun  to  disgorge  its  workers  as  he 
neared  Putney  Bridge;  the  ant-heap  was  on  the  move  out- 
wards. What  a  lot  of  ants,  all  with  a  living  to  get,  holding 
on  by  their  eyelids  in  the  great  scramble  !  Perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  Soames  thought :  *  /  could  let  go  if  I 
liked  !  Nothing  could  touch  me;  I  could  snap  my  fingers, 
live  as  I  wished — enjoy  myself  !'  No  !  One  could  not  live 
as  he  had  and  just  drop  it  all — settle  down  in  Capua,  to 
spend  the  money  and  reputation  he  had  made.     A  man's  life 


IN  CHANCERY  707 

was  what  he  possessed  and  sought  to  possess.  Only  fools 
thought  otherwise — fools,  and  socialists,  and  libertines  ! 

The  cab  was  passing  villas  now,  going  a  great  pace. 
*  Fifteen  miles  an  hour,  I  should  think  !'  he  mused;  '  this'll 
take  people  out  of  town  to  live  !'  and  he  thought  of  its 
bearing  on  the  portions  of  London  owned  by  his  father — he 
himself  had  never  taken  to  that  form  of  investment,  the 
gambler  in  him  having  all  the  outlet  needed  in  his  pictures. 
And  the  cab  sped  on,  down  the  hill  past  Wimbledon  Com- 
mon. This  interview  !  Surely  a  man  of  iifty-tw^o  with 
grown-up  children,  and  hung  on  the  line,  would  not  be 
reckless.  '  He  won't  want  to  disgrace  the  family,'  he 
thought  ;  '  he  was  as  fond  of  his  father  as  I  am  of  mine,  and 
they  were  brothers.  That  woman  brings  destruction — 
what  is  it  in  her  ?  I've  never  known.'  The  cab  branched  off, 
along  the  side  of  a  wood,  and  he  heard  a  late  cuckoo  calling, 
almost  the  first  he  had  heard  that  year.  He  was  now  almost 
opposite  the  site  he  had  originally  chosen  for  his  house,  and 
which  had  been  so  unceremoniously  rejected  by  Bosinney  in 
favour  of  his  own  choice.  He  began  passing  his  handker- 
chief over  his  face  and  hands,  taking  deep  breaths  to  give 
him  steadiness.  '  Keep  one's  head,'  he  thought,  *  keep  one's 
head  !' 

The  cab  turned  in  at  the  drive  w^hich  might  have  been 
his  own,  and  the  sound  of  music  met  him.  He  had  forgotten 
the  fellow's  daughters. 

"  I  may  be  out  again  directly,"  he  said  to  the  driver,  "  or 
I  may  be  kept  some  time  ;"  and  he  rang  the  bell. 

Following  the  maid  through  the  curtains  into  the  inner 
hall,  he  felt  relieved  that  the  impact  of  this  meeting  would 
be  broken  by  June  or  Holly,  whichever  was  playing  in  there, 
so  that  with  complete  surprise  he  saw  Irene  at  the  piano,  and 
Jolyon  sitting  in  an  armchair  listening.  They  both  stood 
up.     Blood  surged  into  Soames'  brain,  and  all  his  resolution 


7o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  be  guided  bv  this  or  that  left  him  utterly.  The  look  of 
his  farmer  forbears — dogged  Forsytes  down  by  the  sea,  from 
'  Superior  Dosset '  back — grinned  out  of  his  face. 

"  Very  pretty  !"  he  said. 

He  heard  the  fellow  murmur: 

"  This  is  hardly  the  place — we'll  go  to  the  study,  if  you 
don't  mind."  And  they  both  passed  him  through  the 
curtain  opening.  In  the  little  room  to  which  he  followed 
them,  Irene  stood  by  the  open  window,  and  the  '  fellow  ' 
close  to  her  by  a  big  chair.  Soames  pulled  the  door  to 
behind  him  with  a  slam;  the  sound  carried  him  back  all  those 
years  to  the  day  when  he  had  shut  out  Jolyon — shut  him  out 
for  meddling  with  his  aSairs. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourselves  ?" 

The  fellow  had  the  eSrontery  to  smile. 

"  What  we  have  received  to-day  has  taken  away  your  right 
to  ask.  I  should  imagine  you  will  be  glad  to  have  your  neck 
out  of  chancery." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Soames;  "  you  think  so  !  I  came  to  tell  you 
that  I'll  divorce  her  with  every  circumstance  of  disgrace 
to  you  both,  unless  you  swear  to  keep  clear  of  each  other 
from  now  on." 

He  was  astonished  at  his  fluency,  because  his  mind  was 
stammerino;  and  his  hands  twitchinjj.  Neither  of  them 
answered;  but  their  faces  seemed  to  him  as  if  con^ 
temptuous. 

''  WeU,"  he  said;  "  you— Irene  ?" 

Her  lips  moved,  but  Jolyon  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Let  her  alone  1"  said  Soames  furiously.  *'  Irene,  will 
you  swear  it  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Oh  !  and  you  ?" 

''  StiU  less." 

*'  So  then  you're  guilty,  are  you  ?" 


IN  CR\NXERY  709 

'*  Yes,  guilty.'*  It  was  Irene  speaking  in  that  serene  voice, 
with  that  unreached  air  which  had  maddened  him  so  often; 
and,  carried  beyond  himself,  he  cried: 

"  Ton  are  a  devil." 

"  Go  out  !  Leave  this  house,  or  I'll  do  you  an  injury." 
That  fellow  to  talk  of  injuries  I  Did  he  know  how  near  his 
throat  was  to  being  scragged  ? 

"  A  trustee,"  he  said,  "  embezzling  trust  property  !  A 
thief,  stealing  his  cousin's  wife." 

"  Call  me  what  you  like.  You  have  chosen  your  part,  we 
have  chosen  ours.     Go  out  !" 

If  he  had  brought  a  weapon  Soames  might  have  used  it  at 
that  moment. 

"  I'll  make  you  pay  !"  he  said. 

"  I  shall  be  ver^'  happy." 

At  that  deadly  turning  of  the  meaning  of  his  speech  by  the 
son  of  him  who  had  nicknamed  him  '  the  man  of  property,' 
Soames  stood  glaring.     It  was  ridiculous  ! 

There  they  were,  kept  from  violence  by  some  secret 
force.  No  blow  possible,  no  words  to  meet  the  case.  But 
he  could  not,  did  not  know  how  to  turn  and  go  away.  His 
eyes  fastened  on  Irene's  face — the  last  time  he  would  ever 
see  that  fatal  face — the  last  time,  no  doubt  ! 

"  You,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  I  hope  you'll  treat  him  as  you 
treated  me — that's  all." 

He  saw  her  v^ince,  and  with  a  sensation  not  quite  triumph, 
not  quite  relief,  he  wrenched  open  the  door,  passed  out 
through  the  hall,  and  got  into  his  cab.  He  lolled  against  the 
cushion  with  his  eyes  shut.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so 
near  to  murderous  violence,  never  so  thrown  away  the  re- 
straint which  w^as  his  second  nature.  He  had  a  stripped  and 
naked  feeling,  as  if  all  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him — life 
meaningless,  mind  striking  work.  Sunlight  streamed  in  on 
him,  but  he  felt  cold.     The  scene  he  had  passed  through  had 


710  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

gone  from  him  already,  what  was  before  him  would  not 
materialise,  he  could  catch  on  to  nothing;  and  he  felt 
frightened,  as  if  he  had  been  hanging  over  the  edge  of  a 
precipice,  as  if  with  another  turn  of  the  screw  sanity  would 
have  failed  him.  *  I'm  not  lit  for  it,'  he  thought;  *  I 
mustn't — I'm  not  fit  for  it.'  The  cab  sped  on,  and  in 
mechanical  procession  trees,  houses,  people  passed,  but  had 
no  significance.  *  I  feel  very  queer,'  he  thought;  '  I'll  take 
a  Turkish  bath.  I — I've  been  very  near  to  something.  It 
won't  do.'  The  cab  whirred  its  way  back  over  the  bridge, 
up  the  Fulham  Road,  along  the  Park. 

"  To  the  Hammam,"  said  Soames. 

Curious  that  on  so  warm  a  summer  day,  heat  should  be  so 
comforting  !  Crossing  into  the  hot  room  he  met  George 
Forsyte  coming  out,  red  and  glistening. 

"Hallo!"  said  George;  "what  are  you  training  for? 
You've  not  got  much  superfluous." 

Buffoon  !  Soames  passed  him  with  his  sideway  smile. 
Lying  back,  rubbing  his  skin  uneasily  for  the  first  signs  of 
perspiration,  he  thought:  *  Let  them  laugh  !  I  won't  feel 
anything  !     I  can't  stand  violence  !     It's  not  good  for  me  !' 


CHAPTER    VII 

A    SUMMER    NIGHT 

SoAMES  left  dead  silence  in  the  little  study. 

"  Thank  you  for  that  good  lie,"  said  Jolyon   suddenly. 
''  Come  out — the  air  in  here  is  not  what  it  was  !" 

In  front  of  a  long  high  southerly  wall  on  which  were 
trained  peach-trees,  the  two  walked  up  and  down  in  silence. 
Old  Jolyon  had  planted  some  cupressus-trees,  at  intervals, 
between  this  grassy  terrace  and  the  dipping  meadow  full  of 
buttercups  and  ox-eyed  daisies;  for  twelve  years  they  had 
flourished,  till  their  dark  spiral  shapes  had  quite  a  look  of 
Italy.  Birds  fluttered  softly  in  the  wet  shrubbery;  the 
swallows  swooped  past,  with  a  steel-blue  sheen  on  their 
swift  little  bodies;  the  grass  felt  springy  beneath  the  feet, 
its  green  refreshed;  and  butterflies  chased  each  other. 
After  that  painful  scene  the  quiet  of  Nature  was  wonderfully 
poignant.  Under  the  sun-soaked  wall  ran  a  narrow  strip  of 
garden-bed  full  of  mignonette  and  pansies,  and  from  the 
bees  came  a  low  hum  in  which  all  other  sounds  were  set — 
the  mooing  of  a  cow  deprived  of  her  calf,  the  calling  of  a 
cuckoo  from  an  elm- tree  at  the  bottom  of  the  meadow 
Who  would  have  thought  that  behind  them,  within  ten 
miles,  London  began — that  London  of  the  Forsytes,  with  its 
wealth,  its  misery;  its  dirt  and  noise;  its  jumbled  stone  isles 
of  beauty,  its  grey  sea  of  hideous  brick  and  stucco  ?  That 
London  which  had  seen  Irene's  early  tragedy,  and  Jolyon's 
own  hard  days;  that  web;  that  princely  workhouse  of  the 
possessive  instinct  ! 

And  while  they  walked  Jolyon  pondered  those  words:   *  I 

711 


712  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hope  you'll  treat  him  as  you  treated  me.*  That  would 
depend  on  himself.  Could  he  trust  himself  ?  Did  Nature 
permit  a  Forsyte  not  to  make  a  slave  of  what  he  adored  ? 
Could  beauty  be  confided  to  him  ?  Or  should  she  not  be 
just  a  visitor,  coming  when  she  would,  possessed  for  moments 
which  passed,  to  return  only  at  her  own  choosing  ?  *  We  are 
a  breed  of  spoilers  !'  thought  Jolyon,  *  close  and  greedy;  the 
bloom  of  life  is  not  safe  with  us.  Let  her  come  to  me  as  she 
will,  when  she  will,  not  at  all  if  she  will  not.  Let  me  be 
just  her  stand-by,  her  pcrching-place;  never — never  her 
cage  !' 

She  was  the  chink  of  beauty  in  his  dream.  Was  he  to  pass 
through  the  curtains  now  and  reach  her  ?  Was  the  rich 
stuff  of  many  possessions,  the  close  encircling  fabric  of  the 
possessive  instinct  walling  in  that  little  black  figure  of  himself, 
and  Soamcs — was  it  to  be  rent  so  that  he  could  pass  through 
into  his  vision,  find  there  something  not  of  the  senses  only  } 
*  Let  me,'  he  thought,  '  ah  !  let  me  only  know  how  not  to 
grasp  and  destroy  !' 

But  at  dinner  there  were  plans  to  be  made.  To-night  she 
would  go  back  to  the  hotel,  but  to-morrow  he  would  take  her 
up  to  London.  He  must  instruct  his  solicitor — Jack 
Herring.  Not  a  finger  must  be  raised  to  hinder  the  process 
of  the  Law.  Damages  exemplary,  judicial  strictures,  costs, 
what  they  liked — let  it  go  through  at  the  first  moment,  so 
that  her  neck  might  be  out  of  chancery  at  last  !  To-morrow 
he  would  see  Herring — they  would  go  and  see  him  together. 
And  then — abroad,  leaving  no  doubt,  no  difficulty  about 
evidence,  making  the  lie  she  had  told  into  the  truth.  He 
looked  round  at  her;  and  it  seemed  to  his  adoring  eyes  that 
more  than  a  woman  was  sitting  there.  The  spirit  of  uni- 
versal beauty,  deep,  mysterious,  which  the  old  painters, 
Titian,  Giorgione,  Botticelli,  had  known  how  to  capture  and 
transfer  to   the  faces  of  their  women — this   flying  beauty 


IN  CHANCERY  713 

seemed  to  him  imprinted  on  her  brow,  her  hair,  her  lips,  and 
in  her  eyes. 

*  And  this  is  to  be  mine  !'  he  thought.  *  It  frightens  me  !* 
After  dinner  they  went  out  on  to  the  terrace  to  have 
coffee.  They  sat  there  long,  the  evening  was  so  lovely, 
watching  the  summer  night  come  very  slowly  on.  It  was 
still  warm  and  the  air  smelled  of  lime  blossom — early  this 
summer.  Two  bats  were  flighting  with  the  faint  mysterious 
little  noise  they  make.  He  had  placed  the  chairs  in  front  of 
the  study  window,  and  moths  flew  past  to  visit  the  discreet 
light  in  there.  There  was  no  wind,  and  not  a  whisper  in  the 
old  oak-tree  twenty  yards  away  !  The  moon  rose  from  be- 
hind the  copse,  nearly  full;  and  the  two  lights  struggled,  till 
moonlight  conquered,  changing  the  colour  and  quality  of 
all  the  garden,  stealing  along  the  flagstones,  reaching  their 
feet,  climbing  up,  changing  their  faces. 

"  Well,"  said  Jolyon  at  last,  "  you'll  be  so  tired;  we'd 
better  start.  The  maid  will  show  you  Holly's  room,"  and 
he  rang  the  study  bell.  The  maid  who  came  handed  him  a 
telegram.  Watching  her  take  Irene  away,  he  thought: 
'  This  must  have  come  an  hour  or  more  ago,  and  she  didn't 
bring  it  out  to  us  !  That  shows  !  Well,  we'll  be  hung  for  a 
sheep  soon  !*     And,  opening  the  telegram,  he  read: 

"  JoLYON  Forsyte,  Robin  Hill. — Your  son  passed  pain- 
lessly away  on  June  20th.  Deep  sympathy  " — some  name 
unknown  to  him. 

He  dropped  it,  spun  round,  stood  motionless.  The 
moon  shone  in  on  him;  a  moth  flew  in  his  face.  The 
first  day  of  all  that  he  had  not  thought  almost  ceaselessly 
of  Jolly.  He  went  blindly  towards  the  window,  struck 
against  the  old  armchair — his  father's — and  sank  down  on  to 
the  arm  of  it.  He  sat  there  huddled  forward,  staring  intc 
the  night.     Gone  out  like  a  candle  flame;  far  from  home. 


7H 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


from  love,  all  by  himself,  in  the  dark  !  His  boy  !  From  a 
little  chap  always  so  good  to  him — so  friendly  !  Twenty 
years  old,  and  cut  down  like  grass — to  have  no  life  at  all  I 
*  I  didn't  really  know  him,'  he  thought,  '  and  he  didn't  know 
me;  but  we  loved  each  other.     It's  only  love  that  matters.' 

To  die  out  there — lonely — wanting  them — wanting  home! 
This  seemed  to  his  Forsyte  heart  more  painful,  more  pitiful 
than  death  itself.  No  shelter,  no  protection,  no  love  at  the 
last  !  And  all  the  deeply  rooted  clanship  in  him,  the  family 
feeling  and  essential  clinging  to  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
which  had  been  so  strong  in  old  Jolyon — was  so  strong  in  all 
the  Forsytes— felt  outraged,  cut,  and  torn  by  his  boy's  lonely 
passing.  Better  far  if  he  had  died  in  battle,  without  time 
to  long  for  them  to  come  to  him,  to  call  out  for  them,  per- 
haps, in  his  delirium  ! 

The  moon  had  passed  behind  the  oak- tree  now,  endowing 
it  with  uncanny  life,  so  that  it  seemed  watching  him — the 
oak-tree  his  boy  had  been  so  fond  of  climbing,  out  of  which 
he  had  once  fallen  and  hurt  himself,  and  hadn't  cried  ! 

The  door  creaked.  He  saw  Irene  come  in,  pick  up  the 
telegram  and  read  it.  He  heard  the  faint  rustle  of  her  dress. 
She  sank  on  her  knees  close  to  him,  and  he  forced  himself  to 
smile  at  her.  She  stretched  up  her  arms  and  drew  his  head 
down  on  her  shoulder.  The  perfume  and  warmth  of  her 
encircled  him;  her  presence  gained  slowly  his  whole  being. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

JAMES    IN    WAITING 

Sweated  to  serenity,  Soames  dirxcd  at  the  Remove  and  turned 
his  face  toward  Park  Lane.  His  father  had  been  unwell 
lately.  This  would  have  to  be  kept  from  him  !  Never  tiU 
that  moment  had  he  realised  how  much  the  dread  of  bringing 
James'  grey  hairs  down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  had  counted 
with  him;  how  intimately  it  was  bound  up  with  his  own 
shrinking  from  scandal.  His  affection  for  his  father,  always 
deep,  had  increased  of  late  years  with  the  knowledge  that 
James  looked  on  him  as  the  real  prop  of  his  decline.  It 
seemed  pitiful  that  one  who  had  been  so  careful  all  his  life 
and  done  so  much  for  the  family  name — so  that  it  was  almost 
a  byword  for  solid,  wealthy  respectability — should  at  his  last 
gasp  have  to  see  it  in  all  the  newspapers.  This  was  like 
lending  a  hand  to  Death,  that  final  enemy  of  Forsytes.  *  I 
must  tell  mother,'  he  thought,  *  and  when  it  comes  on,  we 
must  keep  the  papers  from  him  somehow.  He  sees  hardly 
anyone.'  Letting  himself  in  with  his  latchkey,  he  was 
beginning  to  ascend  the  stairs  when  he  became  conscious  of 
commotion  on  the  second-floor  landing.  His  mother's 
voice  was  saying: 

"  Now,  James,  you'll  catch  cold.  Why  can't  you  wait 
quietly  ?" 

His  father's  answering: 

"  Wait  ?    I'm  always  waiting.    Why  doesn't  he  come  in  ?" 

"  You  can  speak  to  him  to-morrow  morning,  instead  of 
making  a  guy  of  yourself  on  the  landing." 

"  He'll  go  up  to  bed,  I  shouldn't  wonder.     I  shan't  sleep." 

715 


7i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Now  come  back  to  bed,  James." 

"  Um  !  I  might  die  before  to-morrow  morning  for  all 
you  can  tell." 

"  You  shan't  have  to  wait  till  to-morrow  morning;  I'll 
go  down  and  bring  him  up.     Don't  fuss  !" 

"  There  you  go — always  so  cock-a-hoop.  He  mayn't 
come  in  at  all." 

"  Well,  if  he  doesn't  come  in  you  won't  catch  him  by 
standing  out  here  in  your  dressing-gown." 

Soames  rounded  the  last  bend  and  came  in  sight  of  his 
father's  tall  figure  wrapped  in  a  brown  silk  quilted  gown, 
stooping  over  the  balustrade  above.  Light  fell  on  his  silvery 
hair  and  whiskers,  investing  his  head  with  a  sort  of  halo. 

"  Here  he  is  !"  he  heard  him  say  in  a  voice  which  sounded 
injured,  and  his  mother's  comfortable  answer  from  the  bed- 
room door: 

"  That's  all  right.  Come  in,  and  I'll  brush  your  hair." 
James  extended  a  thin,  crooked  finger,  oddly  like  the  beckon- 
ing of  a  skeleton,  and  passed  through  the  doorway  of  his 
bedroom. 

*  What  is  it  ?'  thought  Soames.  *  What  has  he  got  hold 
of  now  ?' 

His  father  was  sitting  before  the  dressing-table  sideways  to 
the  mirror,  while  Emily  slowly  passed  two  silver-backed 
brushes  through  and  through  his  hair.  She  would  do  this 
several  times  a  day,  for  it  had  on  him  something  of  the  effect 
produced  on  a  cat  by  scratching  between  its  ears. 

"  There  you  are  !"  he  said.     "  I've  been  waiting." 

Soames  stroked  his  shoulder,  and,  taking  up  a  silver  button- 
hook, examined  the  mark  on  it. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you're  looking  better." 

James  shook  his  head. 

"  I  want  to  say  something.  Your  mother  hasn't  heard." 
He  announced  Emily's  ignorance  of  what  he  hadn't  told  her, 
as  if  it  were  a  grievance. 


IN  CHANCERY  717 

"  Your  father's  been  in  a  great  state  all  the  evening.  Vm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  about."  The  faint  *  whish-whish  '  of 
the  brushes  continued  the  soothing  of  her  voice. 

"  No  !  you  know  nothing,"  said  James.  "  Soames  can 
tell  me."  And,  fixing  his  grey  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a 
look  of  strain,  uncomfortable  to  watch,  on  his  son,  he 
muttered: 

"  I'm  getting  on,  Soames.  At  my  age  I  can't  tell.  I 
might  die  any  time.  There'll  be  a  lot  of  money.  There's 
Rachel  and  Cicely  got  no  children;  and  Val's  out  there — 
that  chap  his  father  will  get  hold  of  all  he  can.  And  some- 
body'll  pick  up  Imogen,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Soames  listened  vaguely — he  had  heard  all  this  before. 
Whish-whish  !  went  the  brushes. 

"  If  that's  all !"  said  Emily. 

"All !"  cried  James;  "  it's  nothing.  I'm  coming  to  that." 
And  again  his  eyes  strained  pitifully  at  Soames. 

**  It's  you,  my  boy,"  he  said  suddenly;  "  you  ought  to 
get  a  divorce." 

That  word,  from  those  of  all  lips,  was  almost  too  much  for 
Soames'  composure.  His  eyes  reconcentrated  themselves 
quickly  on  the  buttonhook,  and  as  if  in  apology  James 
hurried  on: 

"  I  don't  know  what's  become  of  her — they  say  she's 
abroad.  Your  Uncle  Swithin  used  to  admire  her— he  was  a 
funny  fellow."  (So  he  always  alluded  to  his  dead  twin — 
*  The  Stout  and  the  Lean  of  it,'  they  had  been  called.) 
"  She  wouldn't  be  alone,  I  should  say."  And  with  that 
summing-up  of  the  effect  of  beauty  on  human  nature,  he 
was  silent,  watching  his  son  with  eyes  doubting  as  a  bird's. 
Soames,  too,  was  silent.     Whish-whish  I  went  the  brushes. 

"  Come,  James  !  Soames  knows  best.     It's  his  business." 

"  Ah  !"  said  James,  and  the  word  came  from  deep  down; 
"  but  there's  all  my  money,  and  there's  his — who's  it  to  go 
to  ?     And  when  he  dies  the  name  goes  out." 


7i8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Soames  replaced  the  buttonhook  on  the  lace  and  pink  silk 
of  the  dressing-table  coverlet. 

"  The  name  ?"  said  Emily,  "  there  are  all  the  other 
Forsytes." 

"  As  if  that  helped  m^,"  muttered  James.  "I  shall  be  in 
my  grave,  and  there'll  be  nobody,  unless  he  marries  again." 

"  You're  quite  right,"  said  Soames  quietly;  "  I'm  getting 
a  divorce." 

James'  eyes  almost  started  from  his  head. 

"  What  ?"  he  cried.    "  There  !  nobody  tells  me  anything." 

"  Well,"  said  Emily,  "  who  would  have  imagined  you 
wanted  it  ?  My  dear  boy,  that  is  a  surprise,  after  all  these 
years." 

"  It'll  be  a  scandal,"  muttered  James,  as  if  to  himself; 
"  but  I  can't  help  that.  Don't  brush  so  hard.  When'll 
it  come  on  ?" 

"  Before  the  Long  Vacation;  it's  not  defended." 

James'  lips  moved  in  secret  calculation.  "  I  shan*t  live 
to  see  my  grandson,"  he  muttered. 

Emily  ceased  brushing.  "  Of  course  you  will,  James. 
Soames  will  be  as  quick  as  he  can." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  till  James  reached  out  his  arm. 

*'  Here  !  let's  have  the  eau-de-Cologne,"  and,  putting 
it  to  his  nose,  he  moved  his  forehead  in  the  direction  of  his 
son.  Soames  bent  over  and  kissed  that  brow  just  where 
the  hair  began.  A  relaxing  quiver  passed  over  James'  face, 
as  though  the  wheels  of  anxiety  within  were  running  down. 

"  I'll  get  to  bed,"  he  said;  "  I  shan't  want  to  see  the  papers 
when  that  comes.  They're  a  morbid  lot;  but  I  can't  pay 
attention  to  them,  I'm  too  old." 

Queerly  affected,  Soames  went  to  the  door;  he  heard  his 
father  say: 

"  Here,  I'm  tired.     I'll  say  a  prayer  in  bed." 

And  his  mother  answering: 

"  That's  right,  James;  it'll  be  ever  so  much  more  comfy." 


CHAPTER    IX 

OUT    OF    THE    WEB 

On  Forsyte  'Change  the  announcement  of  Jolly's  death, 
among  a  batch  of  troopers,  caused  mixed  sensation.  Strange 
to  read  that  Jolyon  Forsyte  (fifth  of  the  name  in  direct 
descent)  had  died  of  disease  in  the  service  of  his  country, 
and  not  be  able  to  feel  it  personally.  It  revived  the  old 
grudge  against  his  father  for  having  estranged  himself.  For 
such  was  still  the  prestige  of  old  Jolyon  that  the  other 
Forsytes  could  never  quite  feel,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
that  it  was  they  who  had  cut  off  his  descendants  for  irregu- 
larity. The  news  increased,  of  course,  the  interest  and 
anxiety  about  Val;  but  then  Val's  name  was  Dartie,  and  even 
if  he  were  killed  in  battle  or  got  the  Victoria  Cross,  it  would 
not  be  at  all  the  same  as  if  his  name  were  Forsyte.  Not  even 
casualty  or  glory  to  the  Haymans  would  be  really  satisfactory. 
Family  pride  felt  defrauded. 

How  the  rumour  arose,  then,  that  *  something  very 
dreadful,  my  dear,'  was  pending,  no  one,  least  of  all  Soames, 
could  tell,  secret  as  he  kept  everything.  Possibly  some  eye 
had  seen  *  Forsyte  v.  Forsyte  and  Forsyte  '  in  the  cause  list; 
and  had  added  it  to  '  Irene  in  Paris  with  a  fair  beard.' 
Possibly  some  wall  at  Park  Lane  had  ears.  The  fact  remained 
that  it  tvas  known — whispered  among  the  old,  discussed 
among  the  young — that  family  pride  must  soon  receive  a 
blow. 

Soames,  paying  one  of  his  Sunday  visits  to  Timothy's — 
paying  it  with  the  feeling  that  after  the  suit  came  on  he 
would  be  paying  no  more — felt  knowledge  in  the  air  as  he 

719 


720 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


came  in.  Nobody,  of  course,  dared  speak  of  it  before  him, 
but  each  of  the  four  other  Forsytes  present  held  their  breath, 
aware  that  nothing  could  prevent  Aunt  Juley  from  making 
them  all  uncomfortable.  She  looked  so  piteously  at  Soames, 
she  checked  herself  on  the  point  of  speech  so  often,  that 
Aunt  Hester  excused  herself  and  said  she  must  go  and  bathe 
Timothy's  eye — he  had  a  sty  coming.  Soames  impassive, 
slightly  supercilious,  did  not  stay  long.  He  went  out  with 
a  curse  stifled  behind  his  pale,  just  smiling  lips. 

Fortunately  for  the  peace  of  his  mind,  cruelly  tortured  by 
the  coming  scandal,  he  was  kept  busy  day  and  night  with  plans 
for  his  retirement — for  he  had  come  to  that  grim  conclu- 
sion. To  go  on  seeing  all  those  people  who  had  known  him 
as  a  *  long-headed  chap,'  an  astute  adviser — after  that — no  ! 
The  fastidiousness  and  pride  which  was  so  strangely,  so 
inextricably  blended  in  him  with  possessive  obtuseness, 
revolted  against  the  thought.  He  would  retire,  live  pri- 
vately, go  on  buying  pictures,  make  a  great  name  as  a 
collector — after  all,  his  heart  was  more  in  that  than  it  had 
ever  been  in  Law.  In  pursuance  of  this  now  fixed  resolve, 
he  had  to  get  ready  to  amalgamate  his  business  with  another 
firm  without  letting  people  know,  for  that  would  excite 
curiosity  and  make  humiliation  cast  its  shadow  before.  He 
had  pitched  on  the  firm  of  Cuthcott,  Holliday  and  Kingson, 
two  of  whom  were  dead.  The  full  name  after  the  amal- 
gamation would  therefore  be  Cuthcott,  Holliday,  Kingson, 
Forsyte,"  Bustard  and  Forsyte.  But  after  debate  as  to  which 
of  the  dead  still  had  any  influence  with  the  living,  it  was 
decided  to  reduce  the  title  to  Cuthcott,  Kingson  and  Forsyte, 
of  whom  Kingson  would  be  the  active  and  Soames  the 
sleeping  partner.  For  leaving  his  name,  prestige,  and  clients 
behind  him,  Soames  would  receive  considerable  value. 

One  night,  as  befitted  a  man  who  had  arrived  at  so 
important  a  stage  of  his  career,  he  made  a  calculation  of 


IN  CHANCERY  721 

what  he  was  worth,  and  after  writing  off  liberally  for  depre- 
ciation by  the  war,  found  his  value  to  be  some  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  pounds.  At  his  father's  death,  which  could 
not,  alas,  be  delayed  much  longer,  he  must  come  into  at 
least  another  fifty  thousand,  and  his  yearly  expenditure  at 
present  just  reached  two.  Standing  among  his  pictures, 
he  saw  before  him  a  future  full  of  bargains  earned  by  the 
trained  faculty  of  knowing  better  than  other  people.  Selling 
what  was  about  to  decline,  keeping  what  was  still  going  up, 
and  exercising  judicious  insight  into  future  taste,  he  would 
make  a  unique  collection,  which  at  his  death  would  pass 
to  the  nation  under  the  title  *  Forsyte  Bequest.' 

If  the  divorce  went  through,  he  had  determined  on  his 
line  with  Madame  Lamotte.  She  had,  he  knew,  but  one 
real  ambition — to  live  on  her  *  rentes  '  in  Paris  near  her 
grandchildren.  He  would  buy  the  goodwill  of  the  Restaur- 
ant Bretagne  at  a  fancy  price.  Madame  would  live  like  a 
Queen-Mother  in  Paris  on  the  interest,  invested  as  she  would 
know  how.  (Incidentally  Soames  meant  to  put  a  capable 
manager  in  her  place,  and  make  the  restaurant  pay  good 
interest  on  his  money.  There  were  great  possibilities  in 
Soho.)  On  Annette  he  would  promise  to  settle  fifteen 
thousand  pounds  (whether  designedly  or  not),  precisely  the 
sum  old  Jolyon  had  settled  on  '  that  woman.' 

A  letter  from  Jolyon's  solicitor  to  his  own  had  disclosed 
the  fact  that  *  those  two  '  were  in  Italy.  And  an  opportunity 
had  been  duly  given  for  noting  that  they  had  first  stayed  at 
an  hotel  in  London.  The  matter  was  clear  as  daylight, 
and  would  be  disposed  of  in  half  an  hour  or  so;  but  during 
that  half-hour  he,  Soames,  would  go  down  to  hell;  and  after 
that  half-hour  all  bearers  of  the  Forsyte  name  would  feel 
the  bloom  was  ofl  the  rose.  He  had  no  illusions  like  Shakes- 
peare that  roses  by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 
The  name  was  a  possession,  a  concrete,  unstained  piece  of 

24 


722  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

property,  the  value  of  which  would  be  reduced  some  twenty 
per  cent,  at  least.  Unless  it  were  Roger,  who  had  once 
refused  to  stand  for  Parliament,  and — oh,  irony  ! — Jolyon, 
hung  on  the  line,  there  had  never  been  a  distinguished 
Forsyte.  But  that  very  lack  of  distinction  was  the  name's 
greatest  asset.  It  was  a  private  name,  intensely  individual, 
and  his  own  property;  it  had  never  been  exploited  for  good 
or  evil  by  intrusive  report.  He  and  each  member  of  his 
family  owned  it  wholly,  sanely,  secretly,  without  any  more 
interference  from  the  public  than  had  been  necessitated  by 
their  births,  their  marriages,  their  deaths.  And  during 
these  weeks  of  waiting  and  preparing  to  drop  the  Law,  he 
conceived  for  that  Law  a  bitter  distaste,  so  deeply  did  he 
resent  its  coming  violation  of  his  name,  forced  on  him  by  the 
need  he  felt  to  perpetuate  that  name  in  a  lawful  manner. 
The  monstrous  injustice  of  the  whole  thing  excited  in  him  a 
perpetual  suppressed  fury.  He  had  asked  no  better  than  to 
live  in  spotless  domesticity,  and  now  he  must  go  into  the 
witness  box,  after  all  these  futile,  barren  years,  and  proclaim 
his  failure  to  keep  his  wife — incur  the  pity,  the  amusement, 
the  contempt  of  his  kind.  It  was  all  upside  down.  She 
and  that  fellow  ought  to  be  the  sufferers,  and  they — were 
in  Italy  !  In  these  weeks  the  Law  he  had  served  so  faith- 
fully, looked  on  so  reverently  as  the  guardian  of  all  property, 
seemed  to  him  quite  pitiful.  What  could  be  more  insane 
than  to  tell  a  man  that  he  owned  his  wife,  and  punish  him 
when  someone  unlawfully  took  her  away  from  him  ?  Did 
the  Law  not  know  that  a  man's  name  was  to  him  the  apple 
of  his  eye,  that  it  was  far  harder  to  be  regarded  as  cuckold 
than  as  seducer  ?  He  actually  envied  Jolyon  the  reputation 
of  succeeding  where  he,  Soames,  had  failed.  The  question 
of  damages  worried  him,  too.  He  wanted  to  make  that 
fellow  suffer, but  he  rem.embered  his  cousin's  words,  "I  shall 
be  very  happy,"  with  the  uneasy  feeling  that  to  claim  damages 


IN  CHANCERY  723 

would  make  not  Jolyon  but  himself  suffer;  he  felt  uncannily 
that  Jolyon  would  rather  like  to  pay  them — the  chap  was  so 
loose.  Besides,  to  claim  damages  was  not  the  thing  to  do. 
The  claim,  indeed,  had  been  made  almost  mechanically; 
and  as  the  hour  drew  near  Soames  saw  in  it  just  another 
dodge  of  this  insensitive  and  topsy-turvy  Law  to  make  him 
ridiculous;  so  that  people  might  sneer  and  say:  "  Oh  yes, 
he  got  quite  a  good  price  for  her  1"  And  he  gave  instructions 
that  his  Counsel  should  state  that  the  money  would  be  given 
to  a  Home  for  Fallen  Women.  He  was  a  long  time  hitting 
off  exactly  the  right  charity;  but,  having  pitched  on  it,  he 
used  to  wake  up  in  the  night  and  think:  *  It  won't  do,  too 
lurid;  it'll  draw  attention.  Something  quieter — better 
taste.'  He  did  not  care  for  dogs,  or  he  would  have  named 
them;  and  it  was  in  desperation  at  last — for  his  knowledge 
of  charities  was  limited — that  he  decided  on  the  blind. 
That  could  not  be  inappropriate,  and  it  would  make  the 
Jury  assess  the  damages  high. 

A  good  many  suits  were  dropping  out  of  the  list,  which 
happened  to  be  exceptionally  thin  that  summer,  so  that  his 
case  would  be  reached  before  August.  As  the  day  grew 
nearer,  Winifred  was  his  only  comfort.  She  showed  the 
fellow-feeling  of  one  who  had  been  through  the  mill,  and  was 
the  *  feme-sole  '  in  whom  he  confided,  well  knowing  that  she 
would  not  let  Dartie  into  her  confidence.  That  rufhan 
would  be  only  too  rejoiced  !  At  the  end  of  July,  on  the 
afternoon  before  the  case,  he  went  in  to  see  her.  They  had 
not  yet  been  able  to  leave  town,  because  Dartie  had  already 
spent  their  summer  holiday,  and  Winifred  dared  not  go 
to  her  father  for  more  money  while  he  was  waiting  not  to 
be  told  anything  about  this  affair  of  Soames. 
Soames  found  her  with  a  letter  in  her  hand, 
"  That  from  Val  ?"  he  asked  gloomily.  "  What  does  he 
say  ?" 


724  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  He  says  he's  married,"  said  Winifred. 

"  Whom  to,  for  Goodness'  sake  ?" 

Winifred  looked  up  at  him. 

"  To  Holly  Forsyte,  Jolvon's  daughter." 

"  What  ?"' 

"  He  got  leave  and  did  it.  I  didn't  even  know  he  knew 
her.     x\wkward,  isn't  it  r" 

Soames  uttered  a  short  laugh  at  that  characteristic  mini- 
misation. 

"  Awkward  !  Well,  I  don't  suppose  they'll  hear  about  this 
till  they  come  back.  They'd  better  stay  out  there.  That 
fellow  will  give  her  money." 

"  But  I  want  Val  back,"  said  Winifred  almost  piteously; 
*'  I  miss  him,  he  helps  me  to  get  on." 

"I  know,"  murmured  Soames.  "  How's  Dartie  behaving 
now  ?" 

"  It  might  be  worse;  but  it's  always  money.  Would  you 
like  me  to  come  down  to  the  Court  to-morrow,  Soames  ?'* 

Soames  stretched  out  his  hand  for  hers.  The  gesture  so 
betrayed  the  loneliness  in  him  that  she  pressed  it  between 
her  two. 

"  Never  mind,  old  boy.  You'll  feel  ever  so  much  better 
when  it's  all  over." 

'*  I  don't  know  what  I've  done,"  said  Soames  huskily; 
"  I  never  have.  It's  all  upside  down.  I  was  fond  of  her; 
I've  always  been." 

Winifred  saw  a  drop  of  blood  ooze  out  of  his  lip,  and  the 
sight  stirred  her  profoundly. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  it's  been  too  bad  of  her  all  along  ! 
But  what  shall  I  do  about  this  marriage  of  Val's,  Soames  ? 
I  don't  know  how  to  write  to  him,  with  this  coming  on. 
You've  seen  that  child.     Is  she  pretty  r" 

"  Yes,  she's  pretty,"  said  Soames.  "  Dark — lady-like 
enough." 


IX  CHANCERY  725 

'  That  doesn't  sound  so  bad,'  thought  Winifred.  '  Jolyon 
had  style.' 

"  It  is  a  coil,"  she  said.    "  What  will  father  say  ?" 

"  Mustn't  be  told,"  said  Soames.  "  The  war'll  soon  be 
over  now,  you'd  better  let  Val  take  to  farming  out  there." 

It  was  tantamount  to  sajdng  that  his  nephew  was  lost. 

"  I  haven't  told  Monty,"  Winifred  murmured  desolately. 

The  case  was  reached  before  noon  next  day,  and  was  over 
in  little  more  than  half  an  hour.  Soames — pale,  spruce, 
sad-eyed  in  the  witness  box — had  suffered  so  much  before- 
hand that  he  took  it  aU  like  one  dead.  The  moment  the 
decree  nisi  was  pronounced  he  left  the  Courts  of  Justice. 

Four  hours  until  he  became  public  property  !  *  Solici- 
tor's divorce  suit  !'  A  surly,  dogged  anger  replaced  that 
dead  feeling  within  him.  '  Damn  them  all  !'  he  thought: 
'  I  won't  run  away.  I'll  act  as  if  nothing  had  happened.' 
And  in  the  sweltering  heat  of  Fleet  Street  and  Ludgate  Hill 
he  walked  all  the  way  to  his  City  Club,  lunched,  and  went 
back  to  his  office.  He  worked  there  stolidly  throughout  the 
afternoon. 

On  his  way  out  he  saw  that  his  clerks  knew,  and  answered 
their  involuntary  glances  with  a  look  so  sardonic  that  they 
were  immediately  withdrawn.  In  front  of  St.  Paul's,  he 
stopped  to  buy  the  most  gentlemanly  of  the  evening  papers. 
Yes  !  there  he  was  !  '  Well-known  solicitor's  divorce. 
Cousin  co-respondent.  Damages  given  to  the  blind  ' — so, 
they  had  got  that  in  !  At  ever}'  other  face,  he  thought: 
'  I  wonder  if  you  know  !'  And  suddenly  he  felt  queer,  as  if 
something  were  racing  round  in  his  head. 

What  was  this  ?  He  was  letting  it  get  hold  of  him  I  He 
mustn't  !  He  would  be  ill.  He  mustn't  think  !  He  would 
get  down  to  the  river  and  row  about,  and  fish.  *  I'm  not 
going  to  be  laid  up,'  he  thought. 

It  flashed  across  him  that  he  had  something  of  importance 


726  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  do  before  he  went  out  of  town.  Madame  Lamotte  !  He 
must  explain  the  Law.  Another  six  months  before  he  was 
really  free  !  Only  he  did  not  want  to  see  Annette  !  And  he 
passed  his  hand  over  the  top  of  his  head — it  was  very  hot. 

He  branched  off  through  Covent  Garden.  On  this  sultry 
day  of  late  July  the  garbage-tainted  air  of  the  old  market 
offended  him,  and  Soho  seemed  more  than  ever  the  disen- 
chanted home  of  rapscallionism.  Alone,  the  Restaurant 
Bretagne,  neat,  daintily  painted,  with  its  blue  tubs  and  the 
dwarf  trees  therein,  retained  an  aloof  and  Frenchified  self- 
respect.  It  was  the  slack  hour,  and  pale  trim  waitresses  were 
preparing  the  little  tables  for  dinner.  Soames  went  through 
into  the  private  part.  To  his  discv-^mfiture  Annette 
ansv>^ered  his  knock.  She,  too,  looked  pale  and  dragged 
down  by  the  heat. 

"  You  are  quite  a  stranger,"  she  said  languidly. 

Soames  smiled. 

"  I  haven't  wished  to  be;  I've  been  busy.  Where's  your 
mother,  Annette  ?     I've  got  some  news  for  her." 

"  Mother  is  not  in." 

It  seemed  to  Soames  that  she  looked  at  him  in  a  queer 
way.  What  did  she  know  ?  How  much  had  her  mother  told 
her  ?  The  worry  of  trying  to  make  that  out  gave  him  an 
alarming  feeling  in  the  head.  He  gripped  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  dizzily  saw  Annette  come  forward,  her  eyes  clear 
with  surprise.     He  shut  his  own  and  said: 

"  It's  all  right.  I've  had  a  touch  of  the  sun,  I  think." 
The  sun  !  What  he  had  was  a  touch  of  darkness  !  Annette's 
voice,  French  and  composed,  said: 

"  Sit  down,  it  will  pass,  then."  Her  hand  pressed  his 
shoulder,  and  Soames  sank  into  a  chair.  When  the  dark 
feeling  dispersed,  and  he  opened  his  eyes,  she  was  looking 
down  at  him.  What  an  inscrutable  and  odd  expression  for 
a  girl  of  twenty  ! 


IN  CHANCERY  727 

"  Do  you  feel  better  V 

"  It's  nothmg,"  said  Soames.  Instinct  told  him  that  to 
be  feeble  before  her  was  not  helping  him — age  was  enough 
handicap  without  that.  Will-power  was  his  fortune  with 
Annette;  he  had  lost  ground  these  latter  months  from  inde- 
cision— he  could  not  afford  to  lose  any  m.ore.  He  got  up, 
and  said: 

"  I'll  write  to  your  mother.  Vm  going  down  to  my  river 
house  for  a  long  holiday.  I  want  you  both  to  come  there 
presently  and  stay.  It's  just  at  its  best.  You  will,  won't 
you  ?" 

"  It  will  be  veree  nice."  A  pretty  little  roll  of  that  *  r,' 
but  no  enthusiasm.     And  rather  sadly  he  added: 

"  You're  feeling  the  heat,  too,  aren't  you,  Annette  ?  It'll 
do  you  good  to  be  on  the  river.  Good-night."  Annette 
swayed  forward.  There  was  a  sort  of  compunction  in  the 
movement. 

"  Are  you  fit  to  go  ?  Shall  I  give  you  some 
coffee  r" 

"  No,"  said  Soames  firmly.     "  Give  me  your  hand." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Soames  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
When  he  looked  up,  her  face  wore  again  that  strange  expres- 
sion. *  I  can't  tell,'  he  thought  as  he  went  out;  '  but  I 
mustn't  think — I  mustn't  worry.' 

But  worry  he  did,  walking  toward  Pall  Mall.  English, 
not  of  her  religion,  middle-aged,  scarred  as  it  were  by  do- 
mestic tragedy,  what  had  he  to  give  her  ?  Only  wealth,  social 
position,  leisure,  admiration  !  It  was  much,  but  was  it 
enough  for  a  beautiful  girl  of  twenty  ?  He  felt  so  ignorant 
about  Annette.  He  had,  too,  a  curious  fear  of  the  French 
nature  of  her  mother  and  herself.  They  knew  so  well  what 
they  wanted.  They  were  almost  Forsytes.  They  would 
never  grasp  a  shadow  and  mdss  a  substance  ! 

The  tremendous  effort  it  was  to  write  a  simple  note  to 


728  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Madame  Lamotte  when  he  reached  his  Club  warned  him 
still  further  that  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  tether. 

"  My  dear  Madame  (he  said), 

"  You  will  see  by  the  enclosed  newspaper  cutting  that 
I  obtained  my  decree  of  divorce  to-day.  By  the  English 
Law  I  shall  not,  however,  be  free  to  marry  again  till  the 
decree  is  confirmed  six  months  hence.  In  the  meanwhile  I 
have  the  honour  to  ask  to  be  considered  a  formal  suitor  for 
the  hand  of  your  daughter.  I  shall  write  again  in  a  few  days 
and  beg  you  both  to  come  and  stay  at  my  river  house. 
"  I  am,  dear  Madame, 

"  Sincerely  yours. 

"  SoAMEs  Forsyte." 

Having  sealed  and  posted  this  letter,  he  went  into  the 
dining-room.  Three  mouthfuls  of  soup  convinced  him  that 
he  could  not  eat;  and,  causing  a  cab  to  be  summoned,  he 
drove  to  Paddington  Station  and  took  the  first  train  to 
Reading.  He  reached  his  house  just  as  the  sun  went  down, 
and  wandered  out  on  to  the  lawn.  The  air  was  drenched 
with  the  scent  of  pinks  and  picotees  in  his  flower  borders.  A 
stealing  coolness  came  off  the  river. 

Rest — peace  !  Let  a  poor  fellow  rest  '  Let  not  worry 
and  shame  and  anger  chase  like  evil  night-birds  in  his  head  ! 
Like  those  doves  perched  half-sleeping  on  their  dovecot,  like 
the  furry  creatures  in  the  woods  on  the  far  side,  and  the 
simple  folk  in  their  cottages,  like  the  trees  and  the  river 
itself,  whitening  fast  in  twilight,  like  the  darkening  corn- 
flower-blue sky  where  stars  were  coming  up — let  him  cease 
from  himself^  and  rest  ! 


CH.\PTER   X 

PASSING    OF    AN    AGE 

The  marriage  of  Soames  with  Annette  took  place  in  Paris  on 
the  last  day  of  Januan-,  1901,  with  such  privacy  that  not  even 
Emily  vras  told  until  it  v^as  accomplished.  The  day  after 
the  wedding  he  brought  her  to  one  of  those  quiet  hotels  in 
London  where  greater  expense  can  be  incurred  for  less 
result  than  anvwhere  else  under  heaven.  Her  beauty  in  the 
best  Parisian  frocks  was  giving  him  more  satisfaction  than  if 
he  had  collected  a  perfect  bit  of  china,  or  a  jewel  of  a  picture; 
he  looked  forward  to  the  moment  when  he  would  exhibit  her 
in  Park  Lane,  in  Green  Street,  and  at  Timothy's. 

If  someone  had  asked  him  in  those  days,  "  In  confidence — 
are  you  in  love  with  this  girl?"  he  would  have  replied: 
"  In  love  ?  \^'hat  is  love  ?  If  you  mean  do  I  feel  to  her  as 
I  did  towards  Irene  in  those  old  days  when  I  first  met  her 
and  she  would  not  have  me:  when  I  sighed  and  starved  after 
her  and  couldn't  rest  a  minute  until  she  yielded — no  !  If 
you  mean  do  I  admire  her  youth  and  prettiness,  do  my 
senses  ache  a  little  when  I  see  her  moving  about — yes  !  Do 
I  think  she  will  keep  me  straight,  make  me  a  creditable  wife 
and  a  good  mother  for  my  children  ? — again  yes  !  What 
more  do  I  need  ?  and  what  more  do  three-quarters  of  the 
women  who  are  married  get  from  the  men  who  marry  them  ?" 
And  if  the  enquirer  had  pursued  his  query,  "  And  do  you 
think  it  was  fair  to  have  tempted  this  girl  to  give  herself  to 
you  for  life  unless  you  have  really  touched  her  heart  ?"  he 
would  have  answered :  "  The  French  see  these  things 
di5erently  from  us.     They  look  at  marriage  from  the  point 

7^9  24* 


730  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  view  of  establishments  and  children;  and,  from  my  own 
experience,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  theirs  is  not  the  sensible 
view.  I  shall  not  expect  this  time  more  than  I  can  get,  or 
she  can  give.  Years  hence  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  I  have 
trouble  with  her;  but  I  shall  be  getting  old,  I  shall  have 
children  by  then.  I  shall  shut  my  eyes.  I  have  had  my 
great  passion;  hers  is  perhaps  to  come — I  don't  suppose  it 
will  be  for  me.  I  offer  her  a  great  deal,  and  I  don't  expect 
much  in  return,  except  children,  or  at  least  a  son.  But  one 
thing  I  am  sure  of — she  has  very  good  sense  !" 

And  if,  insatiate,  the  enquirer  had  gone  on,  "  You  do  not 
look,  then,  for  spiritual  union  in  this  marriage  .?"  Soames 
would  have  lifted  his  sideway  smile,  and  rejoined:  "  That's 
as  it  may  be.  If  I  get  satisfaction  for  my  senses,  perpetua- 
tion of  myself,  good  taste  and  good  humour  in  the  house,  it 
is  all  I  can  expect  at  my  age.  I  am  not  likely  to  be  going 
out  of  my  way  towards  any  far-fetched  sentimentalism." 
Whereon,  the  enquirer  must  in  good  taste  have  ceased 
enquiry. 

The  Queen  was  dead,  and  the  air  of  the  greatest  city  upon 
earth  grey  with  unshed  tears.  Fur-coated  and  top-hatted, 
with  Annette  beside  him  in  dark  furs,  Soames  crossed  Park 
Lane  on  the  morning  of  the  funeral  procession,  to  the  rails 
in  Hyde  Park.  Little  moved  though  he  ever  was  by  public 
matters,  this  event,  supremely  symbolical,  this  summing-up 
of  a  long  rich  period,  impressed  his  fancy.  In  '37,  when  she 
came  to  the  throne,  *  Superior  Dosset  '  was  still  building 
houses  to,  make  London  hideous;  and  James,  a  stripling  of 
twenty-six,  just  laying  the  foundations  of  his  practice  in  the 
Law.  Coaches  still  ran;  men  wore  stocks,  shaved  their  upper 
lips,  ate  oysters  out  of  barrels;  'tigers'  swung  behind  cabrio- 
lets; women  said,  *  La  !'  and  owned  no  property;  there  were 
manners  in  the  land,  and  pigsties  for  the  poor;  unhappy 
devils  were  hanged  for  little  crimes,  and  Dickens  had  but  just 


IN  CHANCERY  731 

begun  to  write.  Wellnigh  two  generations  had  slipped  by — 
of  steamboats,  railways,  telegraphs,  bicycles,  electric  light, 
telephones,  and  now  these  motor-cars — of  such  accumulated 
wealth,  that  eight  per  cent,  had  become  three,  and  Forsytes 
were  numbered  by  the  thousand  1  Morals  had  changed, 
manners  had  changed,  men  had  become  monkeys  twice- 
removed,  God  had  becomie  Mammon — Mammon  so  respect- 
able as  to  deceive  himiself.  Sixty- four  years  that  favoured 
property,  and  had  m.ade  the  upper  middle  class ;  buttressed, 
chiselled,  polished  it,  till  it  was  alm.ost  indistinguishable  in 
manners,  morals,  speech,  appearance,  habit,  and  soul  from 
the  nobility.  An  epoch  which  had  gilded  individual  liberty 
so  that  if  a  man  had  m.oney,  he  was  free  in  law  and  fact,  and 
if  he  had  not  money  he  was  free  in  law  and  not  in  fact.  An 
era  which  had  canonised  hypocrisy,  so  that  to  seem  to  be 
respectable  was  to  be.  A  great  Age,  whose  transmuting  in- 
fluence nothing  had  escaped  save  the  nature  of  man  and  the 
nature  of  the  Universe. 

And  to  witness  the  passing  of  this  Age,  London — its  pet 
and  fancy — was  pouring  forth  her  citizens  through  every 
gate  into  Hyde  Park,  hub  of  Victorianism,  happy  hunting- 
ground  of  Forsytes.  Under  the  grey  heavens,  whose  drizzle 
just  kept  off,  the  dark  concourse  gathered  to  see  the  show. 
The  'good  old'  Queen,  full  of  years  and  virtue,  had  em.erged 
from  her  seclusion  for  the  last  time  to  make  a  London 
holiday.  From  Houndsditch,  Acton,  Ealing.  Hampstead, 
Islington,  and  Bethnal  Green;  from  Hackney,  Hornsey,  Lev- 
tonstone,  Battersea,  and  Fulham;  and  from  those  green 
pastures  where  Forsytes  flourish — Mayfair  and  Kensington, 
St.  James'  and  Belgravia,  Bayswater  and  Chelsea  and  the 
Regent's  Park,  the  people  swarmed  dov/n  en  to  the  roads 
where  death  would  presently  pass  v/ith  dusky  pomp  and 
pageantr;/.  Never  again  would  a  Queen  reign  so  long,  or 
people  have  a  chance  to  see  so  much  history  buried  for  their 


732  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

money.  A  pity  the  war  dragged  on,  and  that  the  Wreath  of 
Victory  could  not  be  laid  upon  her  coffin  !  All  else  would 
be  there  to  follow  and  commemorate — soldiers,  sailors, 
foreign  princes,  half-masted  bunting,  tolling  bells,  and  above 
all  the  surging,  great,  dark- coated  crowd,  with  perhaps  a 
simple  sadness  here  and  there  deep  in  hearts  beneath  black 
clothes  put  on  by  regulation.  After  all,  more  than  a  Queen 
was  going  to  her  rest,  a  woman  who  had  braved  sorrow,  lived 
well  and  wisely  according  to  her  lights. 

Out  in  the  crowd  against  the  railings,  with  his  arm  hooked 
in  Annette's,  Soames  waited.  Yes  !  the  Age  was  passing  ! 
What  with  this  Trade-Unionism,  and  Labour  fellows  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  with  continental  fiction,  and  something 
in  the  general  feel  of  everything,  not  to  be  expressed  in 
words,  things  were  very  different;  he  recalled  the  crowd  on 
Maf eking  night,  and  George  Forsyte  saying:  "They're  all 
socialists,  they  want  our  goods."  Like  James,  Soame") 
didn't  know,  he  couldn't  tell — with  Edward  on  the  throne  ! 
Things  would  never  be  as  safe  again  as  under  good  old 
Viccy !  Convulsively  he  pressed  his  young  wife's  arm. 
There,  at  any  rate,  was  something  substantially  his  own, 
domestically  certain  again  at  last;  something  which  made 
property  worth  while — a  real  thing  once  more.  Pressed 
close  against  her  and  trying  to  ward  others  off,  Soames  was 
content.  The  crowd  swayed  round  them,  ate  sandwiches 
and  dropped  crumbs;  boys  who  had  climbed  the  plane-trees 
chattered  above  like  monkeys,  threw  twigs  and  orange-peel. 
It  was  past  time;  they  should  be  coming  soon  !  And, 
suddenly,  a  little  behind  them  to  the  left,  he  saw  a  tallish 
man  with  a  soft  hat  and  short  grizzling  beard,  and  a  tallish 
woman  in  a  little  round  fur  cap  and  veil.  Jolyon  and  Irene 
talking,  smiling  at  each  other,  close  together  like  Annette 
and  himself  !  They  had  not  seen  him;  and  stealthily,  with 
a  very  queer  feeling  in  his  heart,  Soames  watched  those  two. 


IN  CHANCERY  733 

Thev  looked  happy  I  What  had  they  come  here  for — 
inherently  illicit  creatures,  rebels  from  the  Victorian  ideal  ? 
What  business  had  they  in  this  crowd  ?  Each  of  them  twice 
exiled  by  morality — making  a  boast,  as  it  were,  of  love  and 
laxity  !  He  watched  them  fascinated;  admitting  grudgingly 
even  with  his  arm  thrust  through  Annette's  that — that  she — 

Irene No  !   he  would  not  admit  it  ;   and  he  turned  his 

eyes  away.  He  would  not  see  them,  and  let  the  old  bitter- 
ness, the  old  longing  rise  up  within  him  !  And  then  Annette 
turned  to  him  and  said:  "  Those  two  people,  Soames;  they 
know  you,  I  am  sure.     Who  are  they  ?" 

Soames  nosed  sideways. 

"What  people?" 

"There,  you  see  them;  just  turning  away.  They  know 
you." 

"  No,"  Soames  answered;  "  a  mistake,  my  dear." 

"  A  lovely  face  !  And  how  she  walk  !  Elle  est  tres 
distinguee  .^" 

Soames  looked  then.  Into  his  life,  out  of  his  life  she  had 
walked  like  that — swaying  and  erect,  remote,  unseizable; 
ever  eluding  the  contact  of  his  soul  !  He  turned  abruptly 
from  that  receding  vision  of  the  past. 

"  You'd  better  attend,"  he  said,  "  they're  coming  now  !" 

But  while  he  stood,  grasping  her  arm,  seemingly  intent  on 
the  head  of  the  procession,  he  was  quivering  with  the  sense 
of  always  missing  something,  with  instinctive  regret  that  he 
had  not  got  them  both. 

Slow  came  the  music  and  the  march,  till,  in  silence,  the  long 
line  wound  in  through  the  Park  gate.  He  heard  Annette 
whisper,  "  How  sad  it  is  and  beautiful !"  felt  the  clutch  of  her 
hand  as  she  stood  up  on  tiptoe;  and  the  crowd's  emotion 
gripped  him.  There  it  was — the  bier  of  the  Queen,  coffin  of 
the  Age  slow  passing  !  And  as  it  went  by  there  came  a  mur- 
muring groan  from  all  the  long  line  of  those  who  watched. 


734  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

a  sound  sach  as  Soames  had  never  heard,  so  unconscious, 
primitive,  deep  and  wild,  that  neither  he  nor  any  knew 
whether  they  had  joined  in  uttering  it.  Strange  sound, 
indeed!  Tribute  of  an  Age  to  its  own  death.  .  .  .  Ah! 
Ah !  .  .  '.  The  hold  on  life  had  slipped.  That  which  had 
seemed  eternal  was  gone  !     The  Queen — God  bless  her  ! 

It  moved  on  with  the  bier,  that  travelling  groan,  as  a  fire 
moves  on  over  grass  in  a  thin  line;  it  kept  step,  and  marched 
alongside  down  the  dense  crowds  mile  after  mile.  It  was  a 
human  sound,  and  yet  inhuman,  pushed  out  by  animal  sub- 
consciousness, by  intimate  knowledge  of  universal  death  and 
change.     None  of  us — none  of  us  can  hold  on  for  ever  ! 

It  left  silence  for  a  little — a  very  little  time,  till  tongues 
began,  eager  to  retrieve  interest  in  the  show.  Soam.es 
lingered  just  long  enough  to  gratify  Annette,  then  took  her 
out  of  the  Park  to  lunch  at  his  father's  in  Park  Lane.  .  .  . 

James  had  spent  the  morning  gazing  out  of  his  bedroom 
window.  The  last  show  he  would  see — last  of  so  many ! 
So  she  was  gont  !  Well,  she  was  getting  an  old  woman. 
Swithin  and  he  had  seen  her  crowned — slim  slip  of  a  girl, 
not  so  old  as  Imogen  !  She  had  got  very  stout  of  late. 
Jolyon  and  he  had  seen  her  married  to  that  German  chap, 
her  husband — he  had  turned  out  all  right  before  he  died, 
and  left  her  with  that  son  of  his.  And  he  remembered  the 
many  evenings  he  and  his  brothers  and  their  cronies  had 
wagged  their  heads  over  their  wine  and  walnuts  and  that 
fellow  in  his  salad  days.  And  now  he  had  come  to  the  throne. 
They  said  he  had  steadied  down — he  didn't  know — couldn't 
tell  !  He'd  make  the  money  fiy  still,  he  shouldn't  wonder. 
What  a  lot  of  people  out  there  !  It  didn't  seem  so  very  long 
since  he  and  Swithin  stood  in  the  crowd  outside  Westminster 
Abbey  when  she  was  crowned,  and  Swithin  had  taken  him 
to  Cremorne  afterwards — racketty  chap,  Swithin;  no,  it 
didn't  seem  much  longer  ago  than  Jubilee  Year,  when  he 


IN  CHANCERY  735 

had  joined  with  Roger  in  renting  a  balcony  in  Piccadilly. 
Jolyon,  Svvithin,  Roger  all  gone,  and  he  would  be  ninety  in 
August  !  And  there  was  Soames  married  again  to  a  French 
girl.  The  French  were  a  queer  lot,  but  they  made  good 
mothers,  he  had  heard.  Things  changed  !  They  said  this 
German  Emperor  was  here  for  the  funeral,  his  telegram  to 
old  Kruger  had  been  in  shocking  taste.  He  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  that  chap  made  trouble  some  day.  Change  ! 
H'm  !  Well,  they  must  look  after  themselves  when  he  was 
gone:  he  didn't  know  where  he'd  be  !  And  now  EmJly  had 
asked  Dartie  to  lunch,  with  Winifred  and  Imogen,  to  meet 
Soames'  wife — she  was  always  doing  something.  And  there 
was  Irene  living  with  that  fellow  Jolyon,  they  said.  He'd 
marry  her  now,  he  supposed. 

'  My  brother  Jolyon,'  he  thought,  *  what  would  he  have 
said  to  it  all  ?'  And  somehow  the  utter  im.possibility  of 
knowing  what  his  elder  brother,  once  so  looked  up  to,  would 
have  said,  so  worried  James  that  he  got  up  from  his  chair  by 
the  v/indow,  and  began  slowly,  feebly  to  pace  the  room. 

'She  was  a  pretty  thing,  too,'  he  thought;  'I  was  fond  of 
her.  Perhaps  Soames  didn't  suit  her — I  don't  know — I 
can't  tell.  We  never  had  any  trouble  with  our  wives.' 
Women  had  changed — everything  had  changed  !  And  now 
the  Queen  was  dead — well,  there  it  was  !  A  movement  in 
the  crowd  brought  him  to  a  standstill  at  the  window,  his 
nose  touching  the  pane  and  whitening  from  the  chill  of  it. 
They  had  got  her  as  far  as  Hyde  Park  Corner — they  were 
passing  now  !  Why  didn't  Emily  come  up  here  where  she 
could  see,  instead  of  fussing  about  lunch.  He  missed  her 
at  that  moment — missed  her  !  Through  the  bare  branches 
of  the  plane-trees  he  could  just  see  the  procession,  could  see 
the  hats  coming  off  the  people's  heads^ — a  lot  of  them  would 
catch  colds,  he  shouldn't  wonder  !  A  voice  behind  him 
said: 


736  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  You've  got  a  capital  view  here,  James  !" 

"  There  you  are  !"  muttered  James;  "  why  didn't  you 
come  before  ?     You  might  have  missed  it  !" 

And  he  was  silent,  staring  with  all  his  might. 

"  What's  that  noise  ?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  There's  no  noise,"  returned  Emily;  "  what  are  you 
thinking  of  ? — they  wouldn't  cheer." 

"  I  can  hear  it." 

"  Nonsense,  James  !" 

No  sound  came  through  those  double  panes;  what  James 
heard  was  the  groaning  in  his  own  heart  at  sight  of  his  Age 
passing. 

"  Don't  you  ever  tell  me  where  I'm  buried,"  he  said 
suddenly.  "  I  shan't  want  to  know."  And  he  turned  from 
the  window.  There  she  went,  the  old  Queen;  she'd  had 
a  lot  of  anxiety — she'd  be  glad  to  be  out  of  it,  he  should 
think  ! 

Emily  took  up  the  hair- brushes. 

"  There'll  be  just  time  to  brush  your  head,"  she  said, 
"  before  they  come.     You  must  look  your  best,  James." 

"  Ah  !"  muttered  James;  "  they  say  she's  pretty." 

The  meeting  with  his  new  daughter-in-law  took  place  in 
the  dining-room.  James  was  seated  by  the  fire  when  she 
was  brought  in.  He  placed  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the 
chair  and  slowly  raised  himself.  Stooping  and  immaculate 
in  his  frock-coat,  thin  as  a  line  in  Euclid,  he  received  Annette's 
hand  in  his ;  and  the  anxious  eyes  of  his  furrowed  face,  which 
had  lost  its  colour  now,  doubted  above  her.  A  Httle  warmth 
came  into  them  and  into  his  cheeks,  refracted  from  her 
bloom. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  he  said.  "  You've  been  to  see  the 
Queen,  I  suppose  ?  Did  you  have  a  good  crossing  ?" 
In  this  way  he  greeted  her  from  whom  he  hoped  for  a 
grandson  of  his  name. 


IN  CHANCERY  737 

Gazing  at  him,  so  old,  thin,  white,  and  spotless,  Annette 
murmured  something  in  French  which  James  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  you  want  your  lunch,  I  expect. 
Soames,  ring  the  bell;  we  won't  wait  for  that  chap  Dartie." 
But  just  then  they  arrived.  Dartie  had  refused  to  go  out 
of  his  way  to  see  *  the  old  girl.'  With  an  early  cock-tail 
beside  him,  he  had  taken  a  '  squint  '  from  the  smoking-room 
of  the  Iseeum,  so  that  Winifred  and  Imogen  had  been 
obliged  to  come  back  from  the  Park  to  fetch  him  thence. 
His  brown  eyes  rested  on  Annette  with  a  stare  of  almost 
startled  satisfaction.  The  second  beauty  that  fellow  Soames 
had  picked  up  !  What  women  could  see  in  him  !  Well, 
she  would  play  him  the  same  trick  as  the  other,  no  doubt; 
but  in  the  meantime  he  was  a  lucky  devil  !  And  he  brushed 
up  his  moustache,  having  in  nine  months  of  Green  Street 
domesticity  regained  almost  all  his  flesh  and  his  assurance. 
Despite  the  comfortable  efforts  of  Emily,  Winifred's  com- 
posure, Imogen's  enquiring  friendliness,  Dartie's  showing-off, 
and  James'  solicitude  about  her  food,  it  was  not,  Soames  felt, 
a  successful  lunch  for  his  bride.     He  took  her  away  very  soon. 

"  That  Monsieur  Dartie,"  said  Annette  in  the  cab,  "  je 
fCamie  'pas  ce  type — la  1" 

"  No,  by  George  !"  said  Soames. 

"  Your  sister  is  veree  amiable,  and  the  girl  is  pretty. 
Your  father  is  veree  old.  I  think  your  mother  has  trouble 
with  him;  I  should  not  like  to  be  her." 

Soames  nodded  at  the  shrewdness,  the  clear  hard  judgment 
in  his  young  wife ;  but  it  disquieted  him  a  little.  The  thought 
may  have  just  flashed  through  him,  too:  *  When  I'm  eighty 
she'll  be  fifty-five,  having  trouble  with  me  !' 

"  There's  just  one  other  house  of  my  relations  I  must  take 
you  to,"  he  said;  "  you'll  find  it  funny,  but  we  must  get  it 
over;  and  then  we'll  dine  and  go  to  the  theatre." 


73 S  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

In  this  way  he  prepared  her  for  Timothy's.  But  Timothy's 
was  different.  They  were  delighted  to  see  dear  Soames 
after  this  long  long  time;  and  so  this  was  Annette  ! 

"  You  are  so  pretty,  my  dear;  almost  too  young  and  pretty 
for  dear  Soames,  aren't  you  ?     But  he's  very  attentive  and 

careful — such  a  good  husb "   Aunt  Juley  checked  herself, 

and  placed  her  lips  just  under  each  of  Annette's  eyes — she 
afterwards  described  them  to  Francie,  who  dropped  in,  as: 
'*  Cornflower- blue,  so  pretty,  I  quite  wanted  to  kiss  them. 
I  must  say  dear  Soames  is  a  perfect  connoisseur.  In  her 
French  way,  and  not  so  very  French  either,  I  think  she's  as 
pretty — though  not  so  distinguished,  not  so  alluring — as 
Irene.  Because  she  zvas  alluring,  wasn't  she  ?  with  that 
white  skin  and  those  dark  eyes,  and  that  hair,  couleur  de — 
what  was  it  ?     I  always  forget." 

"  Feuille  imrte,''^  Francie  prompted. 

"Of  course,  dead  leaves — so  strange.  I  remember  when 
I  was  a  girl,  before  we  came  to  London,  we  had  a  foxhound 
puppy — to  *  walk  '  it  was  called  then ;  it  had  a  tan  top  to  its 
head  and  a  white  chest,  and  beautiful  dark  brown  eyes,  and 
it  was  a  lady." 

"  Yes,  auntie,"  said  Francie,  "  but  I  don't  see  the  con- 
nection." 

"  Oh  !"  replied  Aunt  Juley,  rather  flustered,  "  it  was  so 

alluring,  and  her  eyes  and  hair,  you  know '*     She  was 

silent,  as  if  surprised  in  some  indelicacy.  "  Feuille  viorte^^'* 
she  added  suddenly;  "  Hester — do  remember  that  I".  .  . 

Considerable  debate  took  place  between  the  two  sisters 
whether  Timothy  should  or  should  not  be  summoned  to  see 
Annette. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  !"  said  Soames. 

"  But  it's  no  trouble,  only  of  course  Annette's  being 
French  might  upset  him  a  little.  He  was  so  scared  about 
Fashoda.     I  think  perhaps  we  had  better  not  run  the  risk, 


IN  CHANCERY  739 

Hester.  It's  nice  to  have  her  all  to  ourselves,  isn't  it  ? 
And  how  are  you,  Soames  ?  Have  you  quite  got  over 
your " 

Hester  interposed  hurriedly: 

"  What  do  you  think  of  London,  Annette  ?" 

Soames,  disquieted,  awaited  the  reply.  It  came,  sensible, 
composed:  "  Oh  !  I  know  London,  I  have  visited  before.*' 

He  had  never  ventured  to  speak  to  her  on  the  subject  of 
the  restaurant.  The  French  had  different  notions  about 
gentility,  and  to  shrink  from  connection  with  it  might  seem 
to  her  ridiculous;  he  had  waited  to  be  married  before 
mentioning  it;  and  now  he  wished  he  hadn't. 

"  And  what  part  do  you  know  best  ?"  asked  Aunt  Juley, 

"  Soho,"  said  Annette  simply. 

Soames  snapped  his  jaw. 

"  Soho  ?"  repeated  Aunt  Juley  ;  "  Soho  .?" 

*  That'll  go  round  the  family,'  thought  Soames 

"  It's  very  French,  and  interesting,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Aunt  Juley,  "  your  Uncle  Roger  had 
some  houses  there  once;  he  was  always  having  to  turn  the 
tenants  out,  I  remember." 

Soames  changed  the  subject  to  Mapledurham. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  "  you  will  be  going  dowi2 
there  soon  to  settle  in.  We  are  all  so  looking  forward  to  the 
time  when  Annette  has  a  dear  little " 

"  Juley  !"  cried  Aunt  Hester  desperately,  "  ring  for  tea  !" 

Soames  dared  not  wait  for  tea,  and  took  Annette  away. 

'*  I  shouldn't  mention  Soho  if  I  were  you,"  he  said  in  the 
cab.  "  It's  rather  a  shady  part  of  London;  and  you're 
altogether  above  that  restaurant  business  now  ;  I  mean," 
he  added,  "  I  want  you  to  know  nice  people,  and  the  English 
are  fearful  snobs." 

Annette's  clear  eyes  opened;  a  little  smile  came  on  her 
lips. 


740  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

*  H'm  !'  thought  Soames,  *  that's  meant  for  me  !'  and  he 
looked  at  her  hard.  *  She's  got  good  business  instincts,' 
he  thought.     *  I  must  make  her  grasp  it  once  for  all  !' 

"  Look  here,  Annette  !  it's  very  simple,  only  it  wants 
understanding.  Our  professional  and  leisured  classes  still 
think  themselves  a  cut  above  our  business  classes,  except  of 
course  the  very  rich.  It  may  be  stupid,  but  there  it  is,  you 
see.  It  isn't  advisable  in  England  to  let  people  know  that 
you  ran  a  restaurant  or  kept  a  shop  or  were  in  any  kind  of 
trade.  It  may  have  been  extremely  creditable,  but  it  puts 
a  sort  of  label  on  you;  you  don't  have  such  a  good  time,  or 
meet  such  nice  people— that's  all." 

"  I  see,"  said  Annette;  "  it  is  the  same  in  France." 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  Soames,  at  once  relieved  and  taken 
aback.    "  Of  course,  class  is  everything,  really." 

"  Yes,"  said  Annette;  "  comme  vous  Hes  sage^"* 

*  That's  all  right,'   thought   Soames,  watching  her  lips, 

*  only  she's  pretty  cynical.'     His  knowledge  of  French  was 
not  yet  such  as  to  make  him  grieve  that  she  had  not  said 

*  /«.'     He  slipped  his  arm  round  her,  and  murmured  with 
an  effort: 

"  Et  vous  etes  ma  belli  femmey 

Annette  went  off  into  a  little  fit  of  laughter. 

"  O^,  non  !"  she  said.  "  Oh,  noni  ne  farlez  fas  Fran^ais, 
Soames.  What  is  that  old  lady,  your  aunt,  looking  forward 
to?" 

Soames  bit  his  lip.  "  God  knows  !"  he  said;  "  she's  always 
saying  something  ;"   but  he  knew  better  than  God. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SUSPENDED    ANIMATION 

The  war  dragged  on.  Nicholas  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
it  would  cost  three  hundred  millions  if  it  cost  a  penny  before 
they'd  done  with  it!  The  income-tax  was  seriously 
threatened.  Still,  there  would  be  South  Africa  for  their 
money,  once  for  all.  And  though  the  possessive  instinct 
felt  badly  shaken  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  it  re- 
covered by  breakfast- time  with  the  recollection  that  one  gets 
nothing  in  this  world  without  paying  for  it.  So,  on  the 
whole,  people  went  about  their  business  much  as  if  there 
were  no  war,  no  concentration  camps,  no  slippery  de  Wet, 
no  feeling  on  the  Continent,  no  anything  unpleasant. 
Indeed,  the  attitude  of  the  nation  was  typified  by  Timothy's 
map,  whose  animation  was  suspended — for  Timothy  no  longer 
moved  the  flags,  and  they  could  not  move  themselves, 
not  even  backwards  and  forwards  as  they  should  have 
done. 

Suspended  animation  went  further;  it  invaded  Forsyte 
'Change,  and  produced  a  general  uncertainty  as  to  what  was 
going  to  happen  next.  The  announcement  in  the  marriage 
column  of  ^hg  Times,  *Jolyon  Forsyte  to  Irene,  only  daughter 
of  the  late  Professor  Heron,'  had  occasioned  doubt  whether 
Irene  had  been  justly  described.  And  yet,  on  the  whole, 
relief  was  felt  that  she  had  not  been  entered  as,  *  Irene,  late 
the  wife,'  or  'the  divorced  wife,'  'of  Soames  Forsyte.'  Alto- 
gether, there  had  been  a  kind  of  sublimity  from  the  first 
about  the  way  the  family  had  taken  that  *  affair.'  As  James 
had  phrased  it,  'There  it  was!'     No  use  to  fuss  !     Nothing 

741 


742  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  be  had  out  of  admitting  that  it  had  been  a  'nasty  jar' — in 
the  phraseology  of  the  day. 

But  what  would  happen  now  that  both  Soames  and  Jolyon 
were  married  again  ?  That  was  very  intriguing.  George 
was  known  to  have  laid  Eustace  six  to  four  on  a  little  Jolyon 
before  a  little  Soames.  George  was  so  droll  !  It  was 
rumoured,  too,  that  he  and  Dartie  had  a  bet  as  to  whether 
James  would  attain  the  age  of  ninety,  though  which  of  them 
had  backed  James  no  one  knew. 

Early  in  May,  Winifred  came  round  to  say  that  Val 
had  been  wounded  in  the  leg  by  a  spent  bullet,  and  was  to 
be  discharged.  His  \Yiie  was  nursing  him.  He  would  have 
a  little  limp — nothing  to  speak  of.  He  wanted  his  grand- 
father to  buy  him  a  farm  out  there  where  he  could  breed 
horses.  Her  father  was  giving  Holly  eight  hundred  a  year, 
so  they  could  be  quite  comfortable,  because  his  grandfather 
would  give  Val  five, he  had  said;  but  as  to  the  farm,  he  didn't 
know — couldn't  tell:  he  didn't  want  Val  to  go  throwing 
away  his  money. 

"  But,  you  know,"said  Winifred,  "  he  must  do  something." 

Aunt  Hester  thought  that  perhaps  his  dear  grandfather 
was  u^se,  because  if  he  didn't  buy  a  farm  it  couldn't  turn  out 
badly. 

"  But  Val  loves  horses,"  said  Winifred.  "  It'd  be  such  an 
occupation  for  him." 

Aunt  Juley  thought  that  horses  were  very  uncertain,  had 
not  Montagu  found  them  so  ? 

"  Val's  ditiFerent,"  said  Winifred;  "  he  takes  after  me." 

Aunt  Juley  was  sure  that  dear  Val  was  very  clever.  ''  I 
always  remember,"  she  added,  "  how  he  gave  his  bad  penny 
to  a  beggar.  His  dear  grandfather  was  so  pleased.  He 
thought  it  showed  such  presence  of  mind.  I  remember  his 
saying  that  he  ought  to  go  into  the  Navy." 

Aunt  Hester  chimed  in:  Did  not  Winifred  think  that  it 


IX  CHANCERY 


743 


was  much  better  for  the  young  people  to  be  secure  and  not 
run  anj^  risk  at  their  age  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Winifred,  "  if  they  were  in  London,  perhaps ; 
in  London  it's  amusing  to  do  nothing.  But  out  there,  of 
course,  he'll  simply  get  bored  to  death." 

Aunt  Hester  thought  that  it  would  be  nice  for  him  to 
work,  if  he  were  quite  sure  not  to  lose  by  it.  It  was  not  as 
if  they  had  no  money.  Timothy,  of  course,  had  done  so 
well  by  retiring.  Aunt  Juley  wanted  to  know  what  Mon- 
tague had  said. 

Winifred  did  not  tell  her,  for  Montague  had  merely  re- 
marked: "  Wait  till  the  old  man  dies." 

At  this  moment  Francie  was  announced.  Ker  eyes  were 
brimming  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  what  do  you  think  of  it  r" 

"Of  what,  dear?" 

"  In  ^he  Tunes  this  morning." 

"  We  haven't  seen  it,  we  always  read  it  after  dinner; 
Timothy  has  it  till  then." 

Francie  rolled  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  tell  us :"  said  Aunt  Juley. 
"Whatk^^iit?" 

"  Irene's  had  a  son  at  Robin  Hill." 

Aunt  Juley  drew  in  her  breath.  *'  But,"  she  said, 
"  they  were  only  married  in  March  !" 

"  Yes,  Auntie  ;  isn't  it  interesting  r" 

"  Well,"  said  Winifred,  "  I'm  glad.  I  was  sorry  for  Jolyon 
losing  his  boy.     It  might  have  been  \'al." 

Aunt  Juley  seemed  to  go  into  a  sort  of  dream. 

*'  I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  "  what  dear  Soames  will 
think  ?  He  has  so  wanted  to  have  a  son  himself.  A  little 
bird  has  always  told  me  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Winifred,  "  he's  going  to — bar  accidents." 

Gladness  trickled  out  of  Aunt  Juley's  eyes. 


744  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  How  delightful  !"  she  said.     "  When  ?" 

"  November." 

Such  a  lucky  month  !  But  she  did  wish  it  could  be  sooner. 
It  was  a  long  time  for  James  to  wait,  at  his  age  ! 

To  wait  !  They  dreaded  it  for  James,  but  they  were  used 
to  it  themselves.  Indeed,  it  was  their  great  distraction. 
To  wait  !  For  The  Times  to  read;  for  one  or  other  of  their 
nieces  or  nephews  to  come  in  and  cheer  them  up;  for  news 
of  Nicholas'  health;  for  that  decision  of  Christopher's  about 
going  on  the  stage;  for  information  concerning  the  mine  of 
Mrs.  MacAnder's  nephew;  for  the  doctor  to  come  about 
Hester's  inclination  to  wake  up  early  in  the  morning;  for 
books  from  the  library  which  were  always  out;  for  Timothy 
to  have  a  cold;  for  a  nice  quiet  warm  day,  not  too  hot, 
when  they  could  take  a  turn  in  Kensington  Gardens.  To 
w^ait,  one  on  each  side  of  the  hearth  in  the  drawing-room, 
for  the  clock  between  them  to  strike;  their  thin,  veined, 
knuckled  hands  plying  knitting-needles  and  crochet-hooks, 
their  hair  ordered  to  stop — like  Canute's  waves — from  any 
further  advance  in  colour.  To  wait  in  their  black  silks  or 
satins  for  the  Court  to  say  that  Hester  might  wear  her  dark 
green,  and  Juley  her  darker  maroon.  To  wait,  slowly 
turning  over  and  over  in  their  old  minds  the  little  joys  and 
sorrows,  events  and  expectancies,  of  their  little  family  world, 
as  cows  chew  patient  cuds  in  a  familiar  field.  And  this  new 
event  was  so  well  worth  waiting  for.  Soames  had  always 
been  their  pet,  with  his  tendency  to  give  them  pictures,  and 
his  almost  weekly  visits  which  they  missed  so  much,  and  his 
need  for  their  sympathy  evoked  by  the  wreck  of  his  first 
marriage.  This  new  event — the  birth  of  an  heir  to  Soames — 
was  so  important  for  hLn,  and  for  his  dear  father,  too,  that 
James  might  not  have  to  die  without  some  certainty  about 
things.  James  did  so  dislike  uncertainty;  and  with  Montagu, 
of  course,  he  could  not  feel  really  satisfied  to  leave  no  grand- 


IN  CHANCERY 


745 


children  but  the  young  Darties.  After  all,  one's  own  name 
did  count  !  And  as  James'  ninetieth  birthday  neared  they 
wondered  what  precautions  he  was  taking.  He  would  be  the 
first  of  the  Forsytes  to  reach  that  age,  and  set,  as  it  were,  a 
new  standard  in  holding  on  to  life.  That  was  so  important, 
they  felt,  at  their  ages  eighty-seven  and  eighty-five;  though 
they  did  not  want  to  think  of  themselves  when  they  had 
Timothy,  who  was  not  yet  eighty-two,  to  think  of.  There 
was,  of  course,  a  better  world.  '  In  my  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions  '  was  one  of  Aunt  Juley's  favourite  sayings — 
it  always  comforted  her,  with  its  suggestion  of  house  property, 
which  had  made  the  fortune  of  dear  Roger.  The  Bible 
was,  indeed,  a  great  resource,  and  on  very  fine  Sundays  there 
was  church  in  the  morning;  and  sometimes  Juley  would 
steal  into  Timothy's  study  when  she  was  sure  he  was  out, 
and  just  put  an  open  New  Testament  casually  among  the 
books  on  his  little  table — he  was  a  great  reader,  of  course, 
having  been  a  publisher.  But  she  had  noticed  that  Timothy 
was  always  cross  at  dinner  aftenvards.  And  Smither  had 
told  her  more  than  once  that  she  had  picked  books  off  the 
floor  in  doing  the  room.  Still,  with  all  that,  they  did  feel 
that  heaven  could  not  be  quite  so  cosy  as  the  rooms  in  which 
they  and  Timothy  had  been  waiting  so  long.  Aunt  Hester, 
especially,  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  the  exertion.  Anv 
change,  or  rather  the  thought  of  a  change — for  there  never 
was  any — always  upset  her  very  much.  Aunt  Juley,  who 
had  more  spirit,  sometimes  thought  it  would  be  quite  ex- 
citing; she  had  so  enjoyed  that  visit  to  Brighton  the  year 
dear  Susan  died.  But  then  Brighton  one  knew  was  nice,  and 
it  was  so  difficult  to  tell  what  heaven  would  be  like,  so  on  the 
whole  she  was  more  than  content  to  wait. 

On  the  morning  of  James'  birthday,  August  the  5th,  they 
felt  extraordinary  animation,  and  little  notes  passed  between 
them  by  the  hand  of  Smither  while  they  were  having  break- 


746  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

fast  in  their  beds.  Smither  must  go  round  and  take  their 
love  and  little  presents  and  find  out  how  ?vlr.  James  was,  and 
whether  he  had  passed  a  good  night  with  all  the  excitement. 
And  on  the  way  back  would  Smither  call  in  at  Green  Street — 
it  was  a  little  out  of  her  way,  but  she  could  take  the  bus  up 
Bond  Street  afterwards;  it  would  be  a  nice  little  change  for 
her — and  ask  dear  Mrs.  Dartie  to  be  sure  and  look  in  before 
she  went  out  of  town. 

All  this  Smither  did — an  undeniable  servant  trained 
thirty  years  ago  under  Aunt  Ann  to  a  perfection  not  now 
procurable.  Mr.  James,  so  Mrs.  James  said,  had  passed 
an  excellent  night,  he  sent  his  love;  Mrs.  James  had  said  he 
was  very  funny  and  had  complained  that  he  didn't  know 
what  all  the  fuss  was  about.  Oh  !  and  Mrs.  Dartie  sent 
her  love,  and  she  would  come  to  tea. 

Aunts  Juley  and  Hester,  rather  hurt  that  their  presents 
had  not  received  special  mention — they  forgot  every  year 
that  James  could  not  bear  to  receive  presents,  *  throwing 
away  their  money  on  him,'  as  he  always  called  it — were 
*  delighted  ' ;  it  showed  that  James  was  in  good  spirits,  and 
that  was  so  important  for  him.  And  they  began  to  wait  for 
Winifred.  She  came  at  four,  bringing  Imogen,  and  Maud, 
just  back  from  school,  and  *  getting  such  a  pretty  girl,  too,* 
so  that  it  was  extremely  difficult  to  ask  for  news  about 
Annette.  Aunt  Juley,  however,  summoned  courage  to 
enquire  whether  Winifred  had  heard  anything,  and  if 
Soames  was  anxious. 

"  Uncle  Soames  is  always  anxious.  Auntie,"  interrupted 
Imogen;  "  he  can't  be  happy  now  he's  got  it." 

The  words  struck  fam^iliarly  on  Aunt  Juley's  ears.  Ah  ! 
yes  ;  that  funny  drawing  of  George's,  which  had  not  been 
shown  them  !  But  what  did  Imogen  mean  ?  That  her 
uncle  always  wanted  more  than  he  could  have  ?  It  was  not 
at  all  nice  to  think  like  that. 


IN  CHANCERY  747- 

Imogen's  voice  rose  clear  and  clipped: 

"  Imagine  !  Annette's  only  two  years  older  than  me; 
it  must  be  awful  for  her,  married  to  Uncle  Soamics." 

Aunt  Juley  lifted  her  hands  in  horror. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about.  Your  Uncle  Soames  is  a  match  for  anybody. 
He's  a  very  clever  man,  and  good-looking  and  wealthy,  and 
most  considerate  and  careful,  and  not  at  all  old,  considering 
everything." 

Im.ogen,  turning  her  luscious  glance  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  '  old  dears,'  only  smiled. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Aunt  Juley  quite  severely,  "  that  you  will 
marry  as  good  a  man." 

"  I  shan't  marry  a  good  man.  Auntie,"  murmured  Imo- 
gen; "they're  duU." 

"  If  you  go  on  like  this,"  replied  Aunt  Juley,  still  very^ 
much  upset,  "  you  won't  marry  anybody.  We'd  better  not 
pursue  the  subject  ;"  and  turning  to  Winifred,  she  said: 
"  How  is  Montague  ?" 

That  evening,  while  they  were  waiting  for  dinner,  she 
murmured: 

"  I've  told  Smither  to  get  up  half  a  bottle  of  the  sweet 
champagne,  Hester.  I  think  \\t  ought  to  drink  dear  James' 
health,  and — and  the  health  of  Soamies'  wife;  only,  let's  keep 
that  quite  secret.  I'll  just  say  like  this,  'And  you  know, ^ 
Hester  !'  and  then  we'll  drink.     It  might  upset  Timothy.'^ 

"  It's  more  likely  to  upset  us,"  said  Aunt  Hester.  "  But 
we  must,  I  suppose;  for  such  an  occasion." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Juley  rapturously,  "  it  is  an  occasion! 
Only  fancy  if  he  has  a  dear  little  boy,  to  carry  the  family  on: 
I  do  feel  it  so  important,  novv  that  Irene  has  had  a  son. 
Winifred  says  George  is  calling  Jolyon  '  The  Three-Decker,^' 
because  of  his  three  families,  you  know  !  George  //  droll. 
And  fancy  !    Irene  is  living  after  all  in   the  house  SoameE- 


748  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  built  for  them  both.     It  does  seem  hard  on  dear  Soames; 
and  he's  always  been  so  regular." 

That  night  in  bed,  excited  and  a  little  flushed  still  by  her 
glass  of  wine  and  the  secrecy  of  the  second  toast,  she  lay  with 
her  prayer-book  opened  flat,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  ceiling 
yellowed  by  the  light  from  her  reading-lamp.  Young 
things  I  It  was  so  nice  for  them  all  !  And  she  would  be  so 
happy  if  she  could  see  dear  Soames  happy.  But,  of  course, 
he  must  be  now,  in  spite  of  what  Imogen  had  said.  He  would 
have  all  that  he  wanted:  property,  and  wife,  and  children  ! 
And  he  would  live  to  a  green  old  age,  like  his  dear  father,  and 
forget  all  about  Irene  and  that  dreadful  case.  If  only  she 
herself  could  be  here  to  buy  his  children  their  first  rocking- 
horse  !  Smither  should  choose  it  for  her  at  the  stores,  nice 
and  dappled.  Ah  !  how  Roger  used  to  rock  her  until  she 
fell  off  !     Oh  dear  !    that  was  a  long  time  ago  !     It  was  ! 

*  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions '     A  little 

scrattling  noise  caught  her  ear — *  but  no  mice  !'  she  thought 
mechanically.  The  noise  increased.  There  !  it  was  a 
mouse  !  How  naughty  of  Smither  to  say  there  wasn't !  It 
would  be  eating  through  the  wainscot  before  they  knew 
where  they  were,  and  they  would  have  to  have  the  builders 
in.  They  were  such  destructive  things  !  And  she  lay,  with 
her  eyes  just  moving,  following  in  her  mind  that  little 
scrattling  sound,  and  waiting  for  sleep  to  release  her  from  it 


CHAPTER  XII 

EIRTH    OF    A    FORSYTE 

SoAMES  walked  out  of  the  garden  door,  crossed  the  lawn, 
stood  on  the  path  above  the  river,  turned  round  and  walked 
back  to  the  garden  door,  without  having  realised  that  he  had 
moved.  The  sound  of  wheels  crunching  the  drive  convinced 
him  that  time  had  passed,  and  the  doctor  gone.  What, 
exactly,  had  he  said  ? 

"  This  is  the  position,  Mr.  Forsyte.  I  can  make  pretty 
certain  of  her  life  if  I  operate,  but  the  baby  will  be  born  dead. 
If  I  don't  operate,  the  baby  will  most  probably  be  born  alive, 
but  it's  a  great  risk  for  the  mother — a  great  risk.  In  either 
case  I  don't  think  she  can  ever  have  another  child.  In  her 
state  she  obviously  can't  decide  for  herself,  and  we  can't  wait 
for  her  mother.  It's  for  you  to  make  the  decision,  while 
I'm  getting  what's  necessary.  I  shall  be  back  within  the 
hour." 

The  decision  !  What  a  decision  !  No  time  to  get  a 
specialist  down  !     No  time  for  anything  ! 

The  sound  of  wheels  died  away,  but  Soames  still  stood 
intent;  then,  suddenly  covering  his  ears,  he  walked  back  to 
the  river.  To  come  before  its  time  like  this,  with  no  chance 
to  foresee  anything,  not  even  to  get  her  mother  here  !  It 
was  for  her  mother  to  make  that  decision,  and  she  couldn't 
arrive  from  Paris  till  to-night  !  If  only  he  could  have  under- 
stood the  doctor's  jargon,  the  medical  niceties,  so  as  to  be 
sure  he  was  weighing  the  chances  properly;  but  they  were 
Greek  to  him — like  a  legal  problem  to  a  layman.  And  yet 
he  must  decide  !    He  brought  his  hand  away  from  his  brow 

749 


750  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

^et,  though  the  air  was  chilly.  These  sounds  which  came 
from  her  room  !  To  go  back  there  would  only  make  it  more 
difficult.^  He  must  be  calm,  clear.  On  the  one  hand  life, 
nearly  certain,  of  his  young  wife,  death  quite  certain,  of  his 
child;  and — no  more  children  afterwards  !  On  the  other, 
death  perhaps  of  his  wife,  nearly  certain  life  for  the  child; 
and — no  more  children  af  tenvards  !  Which  to  choose  ?  .  .  . 
It  had  rained  this  last  fortnight — the  river  was  very  full,  and 
in  the  water,  collected  round  the  little  house- boat  moored  by 
his  landing-stage,  were  many  leaves  from  the  woods  above, 
brought  off  by  a  frost.  Leaves  fell,  lives  drifted  down  ! 
Death  !  To  decide  about  death  !  And  no  one  to  give  him 
a  hand.  Life  lost  was  lost  for  good.  Let  nothing  go  that 
you  could  keep;  for,  if  it  v/ent,  you  couldn't  get  it  back.  It 
left  you  bare,  like  those  trees  when  they  lost  their  leaves; 
barer  and  barer  until  you,  too,  withered  and  came  down. 
And,  by  a  queer  somersault  of  thought,  he  seemed  to  see 
not  Annette  lying  up  there  behind  that  window-pane  on 
which  the  sun  was  shining,  but  Irene  lying  in  their  bedroom 
in  Montpellier  Square,  as  it  might  conceivably  have  been  her 
fate  to  lie,  sixteen  years  ago.  Would  he  have  hesitated  then  ? 
Not  a  moment  !  Operate,  operate  !  Make  certain  of  her 
life  !  No  decision — a  mere  instinctive  cry  for  help,  in  spite 
of  his  knowledge,  even  then,  that  she  did  not  love  him  ! 
But  this  !  Ah  !  there  was  nothing  overmastering  in  his 
feeling  for  Annette  !  Many  times  these  last  months,  espe- 
cially since  she  had  been  growing  frightened,  he  had  won- 
dered. She  had  a  will  of  her  own,  was  selfish  in  her  French 
way.  And  yet — so  pretty  !  What  would  she  wish — to  take 
the  risk  ?  *  I  know  she  wants  the  child,'  he  thought.  *  If 
it's  born  dead,  and  no  more  chance  afterwards — it'll  upset 
her  terribly.  No  more  chance  !  All  for  nothing  !  Married 
life  with  her  for  years  and  years  without  a  child.  Nothing 
to  steady  her  !     She's  too  young.     Nothing  to  look  forward 


IN  CHANCERY  751 

to,  for  her — for  me  !  For  me  P  He  struck  his  hands  against 
his  chest !  Why  couldn't  he  think  without  bringing  himself 
in — get  out  of  himself  and  see  what  he  ought  to  do  ?  The 
thought  hurt  him,  then  lost  edge,  as  if  it  had  come  in  contact 
with  a  breastplate.  Out  of  oneself !  Impossible !  Out 
into  soundless,  scentless,  touchless,  sightless  space  !  The 
very  idea  was  ghastly,  futile  !  And  touching  there  the  bed- 
rock of  reality,  the  bottom  of  his  Forsyte  spirit,  Soames 
rested  for  a  moment.  When  one  ceased,  all  ceased;  it 
might  go  on,  but  there'd  be  nothing  in  it  ! 

He  looked  at  his  watch.     In  half  an  hour  the  doctor  would 

be  back.     He  must  decide  !     If  against  the  operation  and 

she  died,  how  face  her  mother  and  the  doctor  afterwards  ? 

How  face  his  own  conscience  ?     It  was  his  child  that  she  was 

having.     If  for  the  operation — then  he  condemned  them 

both  to  childlessness.     And  for  what  else  had  he  married  her 

but  to  have  a  lawful  heir  ?     And  his  father — at  death's  door, 

waiting  for  the  news  !     '  It's  cruel  !'  he  thought;  *  I  ought 

never  to  have  such  a   thing  to  settle  !     It's  cruel  !'     He 

turned    towards    the   house.     Some   deep,    simple   way   of 

deciding  !     He  took  out  a  coin,  and  put  it  back.     If  he  spun 

it,  he  knew  he  would  not  abide  by  what  came  up  !     He  went 

into  the  dining-room,  furthest  away  from  that  room  whence 

the  sounds  issued.     The  doctor  had  said  there  was  a  chance. 

In  here  that  chance  seemed  greater;  the  river  did  not  flow, 

nor  the  leaves  fall.     A  fire  was  burning.     Soames  unlocked 

the  tantalus.     He  hardly  ever  touched  spirits,  but  now  he 

poured  himself  out  some  whisky  and  drank  it  neat,  craving  a 

faster  flow  of  blood.     *  That  fellow  Jolyon,'  he  thought; 

*  he  had  children  already.     He  has  the  woman  I  really  loved; 

and  now  a  son  by  her  !     And  I — I'm  asked  to  destroy  my 

only  child  !     Annette   carCt  die;   it's   not   possible.     She's 

strong  !' 

He  was  still  standing  sullenly  at  the  sideboard  when  he 


752  THE  FORSYTE   SAGA 

heard  the  doctor's  carriage,  and  went  out  to  him.  He  had 
to  wait  for  him  to  come  downstairs. 

"Well,  doctor?" 

"  The  situation's  the  same.     Have  you  decided  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Soamcs;  "  don't  operate  !" 

"  Not  ?     You  understand — the  risk's  great  ?" 

In  Soames'  set  face  nothing  moved  but  the  lips. 

"  You  said  there  wa*^  a  chance  ?*' 

"  A  chance,  yes;   not  much  of  one." 

"  You  say  the  baby  must  be  born  dead  if  you  do  r'* 

"  Yes."  ' 

"  Do  you  still  think  that  in  any  case  she  can't  have 
another .?" 

"  One  can't  be  absolutely  sure,  but  it's  most  unlikely." 

"  She's  strong,"  said  Soames;  "  we'll  take  the  risk." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  very  gravely.  "  It's  on  your 
shoulders,"  he  said;  "  with  my  own  wife,  I  couldn't." 

Soames'  chin  jerked  up  as  if  someone  had  hit  him. 

"  Am  I  of  any  use  up  there  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No;  keep  away." 

"  I  shall  be  in  my  picture-gallery,  then;  you  know 
where." 

The  doctor  nodded,  and  went  upstairs. 

Soames  continued  to  stand,  listening.  *  By  this  time  to- 
morrow,' he  thought,  *  I  may  have  her  death  on  my  hands.' 
No!  it  was  unfair  —  monstrous,  to  put  it  that  way! 
SuUenness  dropped  on  him  again,  and  he  went  up  to  the 
gallery.  /He  stood  at  the  window.  The  wind  was  in  the 
north;  it  was  cold,  clear  ;  very  blue  sky,  heavy  ragged  white 
clouds  chasing  across ;  the  river  blue,  too,  through  the  screen 
of  goldening  trees;  the  woods  all  rich  with  colour,  glowing, 
burnished — an  early  autumn.  If  it  were  his  own  life,  would 
he  be  taking  that  risk  t  '  But  she^d  take  the  risk  of  losing  me,' 
he  thought,  *  sooner  than  lose  her  child  !     She  doesn't  really 


IN  CHANCERY  753 

love  me  !'  What  could  one  expect — a  girl  and  French  ? 
The  one  thing  really  vital  to  them  both,  vital  to  their 
marriage  and  their  futures,  was  a  child  !  *  I've  been 
through  a  lot  for  this,'  he  thought,  *  I'll  hold  on — hold  on. 
There's  a  chance  of  keeping  both — a  chance  !'  One  kept 
till  things  were  taken — one  naturally  kept  !  He  began  walk- 
ing round  the  gallery.  He  had  made  one  purchase  lately 
which  he  knew  was  a  fortune  in  itself,  and  he  halted  before 
it — a  girl  with  dull  gold  hair  which  looked  like  filaments  of 
metal  gazing  at  a  little  golden  monster  she  was  holding  in 
her  hand.  Even  at  this  tortured  moment  he  could  just  feel 
the  extraordinary  nature  of  the  bargain  he  had  made — admire 
the  quality  of  the  table,  the  floor,  the  chair,  the  girl's  figure, 
the  absorbed  expression  on  her  face,  the  dull  gold  filaments 
of  her  hair,  the  bright  gold  of  the  little  monster.     Collecting 

pictures ;  growing  richer,  richer  !     What  use,  if !    He 

turned  his  back  abruptly  on  the  picture,  and  went  to  the 
window.  Some  of  his  doves  had  flown  up  from  their  perches 
round  the  dovecot,  and  were  stretching  their  wings  in  the 
wind.  In  the  clear  sharp  sunlight  their  whiteness  almost 
flashed.  They  flew  far,  making  a  flung-up  hieroglyphic 
against  the  sky.  Annette  fed  the  doves;  it  was  pretty  to  see 
her.  They  took  it  out  of  her  hand;  they  knew  she  was 
matter-of-fact.  A  choking  sensation  came  into  his  throat. 
She  would  not — could  not  die  !  She  was  too — too  sensible; 
and  she  was  strong,  really  strong,  like  her  mother,  in  spite  of 
her  fair  prettiness  ! 

It  was  already  growing  dark  when  at  last  he  opened  the 
door,  and  stood  listening.  Not  a  sound  !  A  milky  twilight 
crept  about  the  stairway  and  the  landings  below.  He  had 
turned  back  when  a  sound  caught  his  ear.  Peering  down,  he 
saw  a  black  shape  moving,  and  his  heart  stood  still.  What 
was  it  ?  Death  ?  The  shape  of  Death  coming  from  her 
door  ?      No !    only  a  maid  without  cap  or  apron.      She 

25 


754  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

came   to   the  foot  of  his  flight  of  stairs   and   said  breath- 
lessly: 

"  The  doctor  wants  to  see  you,  sir." 

He  ran  down.  She  stood  flat  against  the  wall,  to  let  him 
pass,  and  said: 

"  Oh,  sir  !  it's  over." 

"Over?"  said  Soames,  with  a  sort  of  menace;  "what 
d'you  mean  ?" 
"  It's  born,  sir." 

He  dashed  up  the,  four  steps  in  front  of  him,  and  came 
suddenly  on  the  doctor  in  the  dim  passage.  The  man  was 
wiping  his  brow. 

"Well?"  he  said;  "quick!" 
"  Both  Hving;  it's  all  right,  I  think." 
Soames  stood  quite  still,  covering  his  eyes. 
"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  heard  the  doctor  say;  "  it  was 
touch  and  go." 

Soames  let  fall  the  hand  which  was  covering  his  face. 
"  Thanks,"     he    said  ;     "  thanks     very     much.       What 
is  it  ?" 

"  Daughter — luckily;  a  son  would  have  killed  her — the 
head." 

A  daughter ! 

"  The  utmost  care  of  both,"  he  heard  the  doctor  say, 
"  and  we  shall  do.     When  does  the  mother  come  ?" 
"  To-night,  between  nine  and  ten,  I  hope." 
"  I'll  stay  till  then.     Do  you  want  to  see  them  ?" 
"Not  now,"   said  Soames;   "before  you  go.     Pll  have 
dinner  sent  up  to  you."     And  he  went  downstairs. 

Relief  unspeakable,  and  yet — a  daughter  !  It  seemed  to 
him  unfair.  To  have  taken  that  risk — to  have  been  through 
this  agony — and  what  agony  ! — for  a  daughter  !  He  stood 
before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood  logs  in  the  hall,  touching  it 
with  his  toe  and  trying  to  readjust  himself.     *  My  father  I' 


IN  CHANCERY  755 

he  thought.  A  bitter  disappointment,  no  disguising  it  ! 
One  never  got  all  one  wanted  in  this  life  !  And  there  was 
no  other — at  least,  if  there  was,  it  was  no  use  ! 

While  he  was  standing  there,  a  telegram  was  brought  him. 

**  Come  up  at  once,  your  father  sinking  fast. — Mother." 

He  read  it  with  a  choking  sensation.  One  would  have 
thought  he  couldn't  feel  anything  after  these  last  hours,  but 
he  felt  this.  Half-past  seven,  a  train  from  Reading  at  nine, 
and  madame's  train,  if  she  had  caught  it,  came  in  at  eight- 
forty — he  would  meet  that,  and  go  on.  He  ordered  the 
carriage,  ate  some  dinner  mechanically,  and  went  upstairs. 
The  doctor  came  out  to  him. 

"  They're  sleeping." 

"  I  won't  go  in,"  said  Soames  with  relief.  "  My  father's 
dying;  I  have  to  go  up.     Is  it  all  right  ?" 

The  doctor's  face  expressed  a  kind  of  doubting  admiratioFx. 
*  If  they  were  all  as  unemotional  !'  he  might  have  been 
saying. 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  may  go  with  an  easy  mind.  You'll  be 
down  soon  ?" 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Soames.     "  Here's  the  address." 

The  doctor  seemed  to  hover  on  the  verge  of  sympathy, 

"  Good-night  !"  said  Soames  abruptly,  and  turned  away. 
He  put  on  his  fur  coat.  Death  !  It  was  a  chilly  business. 
He  smoked  a  cigarette  in  the  carriage — one  of  his  rare 
cigarettes.  The  night  was  windy  and  flew  on  black  wings; 
the  carriage  lights  had  to  search  out  the  way.  His  father  ! 
That  old,  old  man  !     A  comfortless  night — to  die  ! 

The  London  train  came  in  just  as  he  reached  the  station, 
and  Madame  Lamotte,  substantial,  dark-clothed,  very 
yellow  in  the  lamplight,  came  towards  the  exit  vnth  a 
dressing-bag. 

"  This  all  you  have  ?"  asked  Soames. 


756  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  But  yes;  I  had  not  the  time.  How  is  my  little 
one  ?" 

"  Doing  well — both.     A  girl  !" 

"  A  girl  !     What  joy  !     I  had  a  frightful  crossing  !" 

Her  black  bulk,  solid,  unreduced  by  the  frightful  crossing, 
climbed  into  the  brougham. 

"  And  you,  mon  cher  .^" 

"  Mv  father's  dying,"  said  Soames  between  his  teeth. 
"  Pm  going  up.     Give  my  love  to  Annette." 

"  Tiem  P^  murmured  Madame  Lamotte  ;  "  qud  maU 
heur  /" 

Soames  took  his  hat  off,  and  moved  towards  his  train. 
*  The  French  !'  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JAMES    IS    TOLD 

A  SIMPLE  cold,  caught  in  the  room  with  double  windows, 
where  the  air  and  the  people  who  saw  him  were  filtered,  as 
it  were,  the  room  he  had  not  left  since  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember— and  James  was  in  deep  waters.  A  little  cold, 
passing  his  little  strength  and  flying  quickly  to  his  lungs. 
"  He  mustn't  catch  cold,"  the  doctor  had  declared,  and  he 
had  gone  and  caught  it.  When  he  first  felt  it  in  his  throat 
he  had  said  to  his  nurse — for  he  had  one  now — "  There,  I 
knew  how  it  would  be,  airing  the  room  like  that  !"  For  a 
whole  day  he  was  highly  nervous  about  himself  and  went  in 
advance  of  all  precautions  and  remedies;  drawing  every 
breath  with  extreme  care  and  having  his  temperature  taken 
every  hour.     Emily  was  not  alarmed. 

But  next  morning  when  she  went  in  the  nurse  whispered: 
**  He  won't  have  his  temperature  taken." 

Emily  crossed  to  the  side  of  the  bed  where  he  was  lying, 
and  said  softly,  "  How  do  you  feel,  James  ?"  holding  the 
thermometer  to  his  lips.     James  looked  up  at  her. 

"  What's  the  good  of  that  ?"  he  murmured  huskily;  "  I 
don't  want  to  know." 

Then  she  was  alarmed.  He  breathed  with  difficulty,  he 
looked  terribly  frail,  white,  with  faint  red  discolorations. 
She  had  '  had  trouble  '  with  him.  Goodness  knew;  but  he 
was  James,  had  been  James  for  nearly  fifty  years ;  she  couldn't 
remember  or  imagine  life  without  James — James,  behind  all 
his  fussiness,  his  pessimism,  his  crusty  shell,  deeply  affection- 
ate, really  kind  and  generous  to  them  all  ! 

757 


758  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

All  that  day  and  the  next  he  hardly  uttered  a  word,  but 
there  was  in  his  eyes  a  noticing  of  everything  done  for  him, 
a  look  on  his  face  which  told  her  he  was  fighting;  and  she  did 
not  lose  hope.  His  very  stillness,  the  way  he  conserved 
every  little  scrap  of  energy,  showed  the  tenacity  with  which 
he  was  fighting.  It  touched  her  deeply;  and  though  her 
face  was  composed  and  comfortable  in  the  sick-room,  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks  when  she  was  out  of  it. 

About  tea-time  on  the  third  day — she  had  just  changed 
her  dress,  keeping  her  appearance  so  as  not  to  alarm  him, 
because  he  noticed  everything — she  saw  a  difference.  '  It's 
no  use;  I'm  tired,'  was  written  plainly  across  that  w-hite  face, 
and  when  she  went  up  to  him,  he  muttered:  "  Send  for 
Soames." 

"  Yes,  James,"  she  said  comfortably;  "  all  right — at 
once."  And  she  kissed  his  forehead.  A  tear  dropped 
there,  and  as  she  wiped  it  off  she  saw  that  his  eyes  looked 
grateful.  Much  upset,  and  without  hope  now,  she  sent 
Soames  the  telegram. 

When  he  entered  out  of  the  black  windy  night,  the  big 
house  was  still  as  a  grave.  Warmson's  broad  face  looked 
almost  narrow;  he  took  the  fur  coat  with  a  sort  of  added  care, 
saying: 

"  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  wine,  sir  ?" 

Soames  shook  his  head,  and  his  eyebrows  made 
enquiry. 

Warmson's  lips  twitched.     "  He's  asking  for  you,  sir;  " 
and  suddenly  he  blew  his  nose.     *'  It's  a  long  time,  sir,"  he. 
said,  "  that  I've  been  with  Mr.  Forsyte — a  long  time." 

Soames  left  him  folding  the  coat,  and  began  to  mount  the 
stairs.  This  house,  where  he  had  been  born  and  sheltered, 
had  never  seemed  to  him  so  warm,  and  rich,  and  cosy,  as 
during  this  last  pilgrimage  to  his  father's  room.  It  was  not 
his  taste;  but  in  its  own  substantial,  lincrusta  way  it  was  the 


IN  CR4NCERY  759 

acme  of  comfort  and  security.     And  the  night  was  so  dark 
and  windy;  the  grave  so  cold  and  lonely  ! 

He  paused  outside  the  door.  No  sound  came  from 
within  He  turned  the  handle  softly  and  was  in  the  room 
before  he  was  perceived.  The  light  was  shaded.  His 
mother  and  Winifred  were  sitting  on  the  far  side  of  the  bed; 
the  nurse  was  moving  away  from  the  near  side  where  was  an 
empty  chair.  '  For  me  !'  thought  Soames.  As  he  moved 
from  the  door  his  mother  and  sister  rose,  but  he  signed  with 
his  hand  and  they  sat  down  again.  He  went  up  to  the  chair 
and  stood  looking  at  his  father.  James'  breathing  was  as  if 
strangled;  his  eyes  were  closed.  And  in  Soames,  looking  on 
his  father  so  worn  and  white  and  wasted,  listening  to  his 
strangled  breathing,  there  rose  a  passionate  vehemence  of 
anger  against  Nature,  cruel,  inexorable  Nature,  kneeling  on 
the  chest  of  that  wisp  of  a  body,  slowly  pressing  out  the 
breath,  pressing  out  the  life  of  the  being  who  was  dearest 
to  him  in  the  world.  His  father,  of  all  men,  had  lived  a 
careful  life,  moderate,  abstemious,  and  this  was  his  reward — 
to  have  life  slowly,  painfully  squeezed  out  of  him  1  And, 
without  knowing  that  he  spoke,  he  said:  "  It's  cruel." 

He  saw  his  mother  cover  her  eyes  and  Winifred  bow  her 
face  towards  the  bed.  Women  !  They  put  up  with  things 
so  much  better  than  men.  He  took  a  step  nearer  to  his 
father.  For  three  days  James  had  not  been  shaved,  and  his 
lips  and  chin  were  covered  with  hair,  hardly  more  snowy  than 
his  forehead.  It  softened  his  face,  gave  it  a  queer  look  already 
not  of  this  world.  His  eyes  opened.  Soames  went  quite 
close  and  bent  over.  The  lips  moved. 
■  *'  Here  I  am,  Father." 

"  Um — what — what   news  ?     They   never   tell "   the 

voice  died,  and  a  flood  of  emotion  made  Soames'  face  work 
so  that  he  could  not  speak.  Tell  him  ? — yes.  But  what  ? 
He  made  a  great  effort,  got  his  lips  together,  and  said: 


76o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Good  news,  dear,  good— Annette,  a  son." 

"  Ah  !"  It  was  the  queerest  sound,  ugly,  relieved,  pitiful, 
triumphant — like  the  noise  a  baby  makes  getting  what  it 
wants.  The  eyes  closed,  and  that  strangled  sound  of  breath- 
ing began  again.  Soames  recoiled  to  the  chair  and  stonily 
sat  down.  The  lie  he  had  told,  based,  as  it  were,  on  some 
deep,  temperamental  instinct  that  after  death  James  would 
not  know  the  truth,  had  taken  away  all  power  of  feeling  for 
the  moment.  His  arm  brushed  against  something.  It  was 
his  father's  naked  foot.  In  the  struggle  to  breathe  he  had 
pushed  it  out  from  under  the  clothes.  Soames  took  it  in 
his  hand,  a  cold  foot,  light  and  thin,  white,  very  cold.  What 
use  to  put  it  back,  to  wTap  up  that  which  must  be  colder 
soon  !  He  warmed  it  mechanically  with  his  hand,  listening 
to  his  father's  laboured  breathing;  while  the  power  of  feeling 
rose  again  within  him.  A  little  sob,  quickly  smothered, 
came  from  Winifred,  but  his  mother  sat  unmoving 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  James.  Soames  signed  to  the 
nurse. 

"  Where's  the  doctor?"  he  whispered. 

"  He's  been  sent  for." 

"  Can't  you  do  anything  to  ease  his  breathing  ?" 

"  Only  an  injection;  and  he  can't  stand  it.  The  doctor 
said,  while,  he  was  fighting " 

"  He's  not  fighting,"  whispered  Soames,  "  he's  being 
slowly  smothered.     It's  awful." 

James  stirred  uneasily,  as  if  he  knew  what  they  were 
saying.  Soames  rose  and  bent  over  him.  James  feebly 
moved  his  two  hands,  and  Soames  took  them. 

"  He  wants  to  be  pulled  up,"  whispered  the  nurse. 

Soames  pulled.  He  thought  he  pulled  gently,  but  a  look 
almost  of  anger  passed  over  James'  face.  The  nurse  plumped 
the  pillows.  Soames  laid  the  hands  down,  and  bending 
over  kissed  his  father's  forehead.     As  he  was  raising  himself 


IN  CHANCERY  761 

again,  James'  eyes  bent  on  him  a  look  which  seemed  to  come 
from  the  very  depths  of  what  was  Jeft  within.  '  I'm  done, 
my  boy,'  it  seemed  to  say,  '  take  care  of  them,  take  care  of 
yourself;  take  care — I  leave  it  all  to  you.' 
"  Yes,  yes,"  Soames  whispered,  "  yes,  yes." 
Behind  him  the  nurse  did  he  knew  not  what,  for  his  father 
made  a  tiny  movement  of  repulsion  as  if  resenting  that  inter- 
ference; and  almost  at  once  his  breathing  eased  away,  became 
quiet;  he  lay  very  still.  The  strained  expression  on  his  face 
passed,  a  curious  white  tranquillity  took  its  place.  His 
eyelids  quivered,  rested;  the  whole  face  rested,  at  ease. 
Only  by  the  faint  puffing  of  his  lips  could  they  tell  that  he 
was  breathing.  Soames  sank  back  on  his  chair,  and  fell  to 
cherishing  the  foot  again.  He  heard  the  nurse  quietly 
crying  over  there  by  the  fire;  curious  that  she,  a  stranger, 
should  be  the  only  one  of  them  who  cried  !  He  heard  the 
quiet  lick  and  flutter  of  the  fire  flames.  One  more  old 
Forsyte  going  to  his  long  rest — wonderful,  they  were  ! — 
wonderful  how  he  had  held  on  !  His  mother  and  Winifred 
were  leaning  forward,  hanging  on  the  sight  of  James'  lips. 
But  Soames  bent  sideways  over  the  feet,  warming  them  both; 
they  gave  him  comfort,  colder  and  colder  though  they  grew. 
Suddenly  he  started  up;  a  sound,  a  dreadful  sound  such  as 
he  had  never  heard,  was  coming  from  his  father's  lips,  as  if 
an  outraged  heart  had  broken  with  a  long  moan.  What  a 
strong  heart,  to  have  uttered  that  farewell  !  It  ceased. 
Soames  looked  into  the  face.  No  motion;  no  breath  I 
Dead  !  He  kissed  the  brow,  turned  round  and  went  out  of 
the  room.  He  ran  upstairs  to  the  bedroom,  his  old  bed- 
room, still  kept  for  him,  flung  himself  face  down  on  the 
bed,  and  broke  into  sobs  which  he  stifled  with  the 
pillow.  ... 

A  little  later  he  went  downstairs  and  passed  into  the  room. 
James  lay  alone,  wonderfully  calm,  free  from  shadow  and 

25' 


7^2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

anxiety,  with  the  gravity  on  his  ravaged  face  which  underlies 
great  age,  the  worn  fine  gravity  of  old  coins. 

Soames  looked  steadily  at  that  face,  at  the  fire,  at  all 
the  room  with  windows  thrown  open  to  the  London 
aight. 

"  Good-bye  !"  he  whispered,  and  went  out 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HIS 

He  had  much  to  see  to,  that  night  and  all  next  day.  A  tele- 
gram at  breakfast  reassured  him  about  Annette,  and  he  only 
caught  the  last  train  back  to  Reading,  with  Emily's  kiss  on 
his  forehead  and  in  his  ears  her  words: 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  you,  my 
dear  boy." 

He  reached  his  house  at  midnight.  The  weather  had 
changed,  was  mild  again,  as  though,  having  finished  its  work 
and  sent  a  Forsyte  to  his  last  account,  it  could  relax.  A 
second  telegram,  received  at  dinner-time,  had  confirmed  the 
good  news  of  Annette,  and,  instead  of  going  in,  Soames 
passed  down  through  the  garden  in  the  moonlight  to  his 
houseboat.  He  could  sleep  there  quite  well.  Bitterly 
tired,  he  lay  down  on  the  sofa  in  his  fur  coat  and  fell  asleep. 
He  woke  soon  after  dawn  and  went  on  deck.  He  stood 
against  the  rail,  looking  west  where  the  river  swept  round 
in  a  wide  curve  under  the  woods.  In  Soames,  appreciation 
of  natural  beauty  was  curiously  like  that  of  his  farmer 
ancestors,  a  sense  of  grievance  if  it  wasn't  there,  sharpened, 
no  doubt,  and  civilised,  by  his  researches  among  landscape 
painting.  But  dawn  has  power  to  fertilise  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  vision,  and  he  was  stirred.  It  was  another  world 
from  the  river  he  knew,  under  that  remote  cool  light;  a 
world  into  which  man  had  not  entered,  an  unreal  world,  like 
some  strange  shore  sighted  by  discovery.  Its  colour  was  not 
the  colour  of  convention,  was  hardly  colour  at  all ;  its  shapes 
were  brooding  yet  distinct;  its  silence  stunning;  it  had  no 
scent.  Why  it  should  move  him  he  could  not  tell,  unless  it 
were  that  he  felt  so  alone  in  it,  bara  of  all  relationship  and  all 

7^Z 


764  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

possessions.  Into  such  a  world  his  father  might  be  voyaging, 
for  all  resemblance  it  had  to  the  world  he  had  left.  And 
Soames  took  refuge  from  it  in  wondering  what  painter  could 
have  done  it  justice.  The  white-grey  water  was  like — like 
the  belly  of  a  fish  !  Was  it  possible  that  this  world  on  which 
he  looked  was  all  private  property,  except  the  water — and 
even  that  was  tapped  !  No  tree,  no  shrub,  not  a  blade  of 
grass,  not  a  bird  or  beast,  not  even  a  fish  that  was  not  owned. 
And  once  on  a  time  all  this  was  jungle  and  marsh  and  water^ 
and  weird  creatures  roamed  and  sported  without  humaa 
cognizance  to  give  them  names;  rotting  luxuriance  had 
rioted  where  those  tall,  carefully  planted  woods  came  down 
to  the  water,  and  marsh-misted  reeds  on  that  far  side  had 
covered  all  the  pasture.  Well  !  they  had  got  it  under, 
kennelled  it  all  up,  labelled  it,  and  stowed  it  in  lawyers'" 
offices.  And  a  good  thing  too !  But  once  in  a  way,  as  now,  the 
gh«st  of  the  past  came  out  to  haunt  and  brood  and  whisper 
to  any  human  who  chanced  to  be  awake:  'Out  of  my  unowned 
loneliness  you  all  came,  into  it  some  day  you  will  all  return.^ 

And  Soames,  who  felt  the  chill  and  the  eeriness  of  that 
world — new  to  him  and  so  very  old:  the  world,  unowned, 
visiting  the  scene  of  its  past — went  down  and  made  himself 
tea  on  a  spirit-lamp.  When  he  had  drunk  it,  he  took  out 
writing  materials  and  wrote  two  paragraphs: 

'*  On  the  20th  instant  at  his  residence  in  Park  Lane, 
James  Forsyte,  in  his  ninety-first  year.  Funeral  at  noon 
on  the  24th  at  Highgate.     No  flowers  by  request." 

"  On  the  20th  instant  at  The  Shelter,  Mapledurham* 
Annette,  wife  of  Soames  Forsyte,  of  a  daughter."  And 
underneath  on  the  blotting-paper  he  traced  the  word  "son."" 

It  was  eight  o'clock  in  an  ordinary  autumn  world  when 
he  went  across  to  the  house.  Bushes  across  the  river  stood 
round  and  bright-coloured  out  of  a  milky  haze;  the  wood- 
smoke  went  up  blue  and  straight ;  and  his  doves  cooed, 
preening  their  feathers  in  the  sunlight 


IN  CHANCERY  765 

He  stole  up  to  his  dressing-room,  bathed,  shaved,  put  on 
fresh  linen  and  dark  clothes. 

Madame  Lamotte  was  beginning  her  breakfast  when  he 
went  down. 

She  looked  at  his  clothes,  said,  "  Don't  tell  me  !"  and 
pressed  his  hand.  "  Annette  is  prettee  well.  But  the 
doctor  say  she  can  never  have  no  more  children.  You 
knew  that  ?"  Soames  nodded.  "  It  is  a  pity.  Mais  la 
petite  est  adorable.     Du  caf/F" 

Soames  got  away  from  her  as  soon  as  he  could.  She 
offended  him — solid,  matter-of-fact,  quick,  clear — French. 
He  could  not  bear  her  vowels,  her  *r's';  he  resented  the 
way  she  had  looked  at  him,  as  if  it  were  his  fault  that 
Annette  could  never  bear  him  a  son  !  His  fault  !  He 
even  resented  her  cheap  adoration  of  the  daughter  he  had 
not  yet  seen. 

Curious  how  he  jibbed  away  from  sight  of  hi?  wife  and 
child  ! 

One  would  have  thought  he  must  have  rushed  up  at  the 
first  moment.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  a  sort  of  physical 
shrinking  from  it — fastidious  possessor  that  he  was.  He  was 
afraid  of  what  Annette  was  thinking  of  him,  author  of  her 
agonies,  afraid  of  the  look  of  the  baby,  afraid  of  showing  his 
disappointment  with  the  present  and — the  future. 

He  spent  an  hour  walking  up  and  down  the  drawing-room 
before  he  could  screw  his  courage  up  to  mount  the  stairs 
and  knock  on  the  door  of  their  room. 

Madame  Lamotte  opened  it. 

"  Ah  !  At  last  you  come  !  Elle  vous  attend  r  She 
passed  him,  and  Soames  went  in  with  his  noiseless  step,  his 
jaw  firmly  set,  his  eyes  furtive. 

Annette  was  very  pale  and  very  pretty  lying  there.  The 
baby  was  hidden  away  somewhere;  he  could  not  see  it.  He 
went  up  to  the  bed,  and  with  sudden  emotion  bent  and  kissed 
her  forehead. 


766  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Here  you  are  then,  Soames,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not  so 
bad  now.  But  I  suffered  terribly,  terribly.  I  am  glad  I 
cannot  have  any  more.     Oh  !  how  I  suffered  !" 

Soames  stood  silent,  stroking  her  hand;  words  of  endear- 
ment, of  sympathy, absolutely  would  not  come;  the  thought 
passed  through  him :  *  An  English  girl  wouldn't  have  said 
that !'  At  this  moment  he  knew  with  certainty  that  he 
would  never  be  near  to  her  in  spirit  and  in  truth,  nor  she 
to  him.  He  had  collected  her — that  was  all !  And  Jolyon's 
words  came  rushing  into  his  mind :  "  I  should  imagine  you 
will  be  glad  to  have  your  neck  out  of  chancery."  Well,  he 
had  got  it  out  !     Had  he  got  it  in  again  ? 

"  We  must  feed  you  up,"  he  said,  "  you'll  soon  be  strong.'* 

"  Don't  vou  want  to  see  baby,  Soames  ?     She  is  asleep." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Soames,  **  very  much." 

He  passed  round  the  foot  of  the  bed  to  the  other  side  and 

stood  staring.     For  the  first  moment  what  he  saw  was  much 

what  he  had  expected  to  see — a  baby.     But  as  he  stared  and 

the  baby  breathed  and  made  little  sleeping  movements  with 

its  tiny  features,  it  seemed  to  assume  an  individual  shape, 

grew  to  be  like  a  picture,  a  thing  he  would  know  again;  not 

repulsive,   strangely  bud-like  and  touching.     It  had  dark 

hair.     He  touched  it  with  his  finger,  he  wanted  to  see  its 

eyes.     They  opened,  they  were  dark — whether  blue  or  brown 

he  could  not  tell.     The  eyes  winked,  stared,  they  had  a  sort 

of  sleepy  depth  in  them.     And  suddenly  his  heart  felt  queer, 

warm,  as  if  elated. 

"  Ma  petite  fleur  P*  Annette  said  softly. 
"  Fleur,"  repeated  Soames:  "  Fleur  !  we'll  call  her  that." 
The  sense  of    triumph  and  renewed  possession  swelled 
within  him. 

By  God  !  this — this  thing  was  his  / 


INTERLUDE 
AWAKENING 


AWAKENING 

Through  the  massive  skylight  illuminating  the  hall  at 
Robin  Hill,  the  July  sunlight  at  five  o'clock  fell  just  where 
the  broad  stairway  turned;  and  in  that  radiant  streak  little 
Jon  Forsyte  stood,  blue-Hnen-suited.  His  hair  was  shining, 
and  his  eyes,  from  beneath  a  frown,  for  he  was  considering 
how  to  go  downstairs,  this  last  of  innumerable  times,  before 
the  car  brought  his  father  and  mother  home.  Four  at  a 
time,  and  five  at  the  bottom  ?  Stale!  Down  the  banisters  ? 
But  in  which  fashion  ?  On  his  face,  feet  foremost  ?  Very 
stale.  On  his  stomach,  sideways  ?  Paltry  !  On  his  back, 
with  his  arms  stretched  down  on  both  sides  ?  Forbidden  ! 
Or  on  his  face,  head  foremost,  in  a  manner  unknown  as  yet 
to  any  but  himself  ?  Such  was  the  cause  of  the  Z^rown 
on  the  illuminated  face  of  little  Jon.  .  .  . 

In  that  summer  of  1909  the  simple  souls  who  even  then 
desired  to  simplify  the  English  tongue,  had,  of  course,  no 
cognizance  of  little  Jon,  or  they  would  have  claimed  him 
for  a  disciple.  But  one  can  be  too  simple  in  this  life,  for  his 
real  name  was  Jolyon,  and  his  living  father  and  dead  half- 
brother  had  usurped  of  old  the  other  shortenings,  Jo  and 
Jolly.  As  a  fact  little  Jon  had  done  his  best  to  conform 
to  convention  and  spell  himself  first  Jhon,  then  John;  not 
till  his  father  had  explained  the  sheer  necessity,  had  he 
spelled  his  name  Jon. 

Up  till  now  that  father  had  possessed  what  was  left  of 
his  heart  by  the  groom,  Bob,  who  played  the  concertina, 
and  his  nurse  "  Da,"  who  wore  the  violet  dress  on  Sundays, 
and  enjoyed  the  name  of  Spraggins  in  that  private  life  lived 

769 


770  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

at  odd  moments  even  by  domestic  servants.  His  mothef 
had  only  appeared  to  him,  as  it  were,  in  dreams,  smelling 
delicious,  smoothing  his  forehead  just  before  he  fell  asleep, 
and  sometimes  docking  his  hair,  of  a  golden  brown  colour. 
When  he  cut  his  head  open  against  the  nursery  fender  she 
was  there  to  be  bled  over;  and  when  he  had  nightmare  she 
would  sit  on  his  bed  and  cuddle  his  head  against  her  neck. 
She  was  precious  but  remote,  because  "  Da  "  was  so  near, 
and  there  is  hardly  room  for  more  than  one  woman  at  a 
time  in  a  man's  heart.  With  his  father,  too,  of  course, 
he  had  special  bonds  of  union;  for  little  Jon  also  meant  to  be 
a  painter  when  he  grew  up — with  the  one  small  difference, 
that  his  father  painted  pictures,  and  little  Jon  intended  to 
paint  ceilings  and  walls,  standing  on  a  board  between  two 
step  ladders,  in  a  dirty-white  apron,  and  a  lovely  smell  of 
whitewash.  His  father  also  took  him  riding  in  Richmond 
Park,  on  his  pony,  Mouse,  so-called  because  it  was  so- 
coloured. 

Little  Jon  had  been  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  a  mouth 
which  was  ratlier  curly  and  large.  He  had  never  heard  his 
father  or  his  mother  speak  in  an  angry  voice,  either  to  each 
other,  himself,  or  anybody  else;  the  groom.  Bob,  the  cook, 
Jane,  Bella  and  the  other  servants,  even  "  Da,"  who  alone 
restrained  him  in  his  courses,  had  special  voices  when  they 
talked  to  him.  He  was  therefore  of  opinion  that  the  world 
was  a  place  of  perfect  and  perpetual  gentility  and  freedom. 

A  child  of  1 901,  he  had  come  to  consciousness  when  his 
country,  just  over  that  bad  attack  of  scarlet  fever,  the 
Boer  War,  was  preparing  for  the  Liberal  revival  of  1906. 
Coercion  was  unpopular,  parents  had  exalted  notions  of 
giving  their  offspring  a  good  time.  They  spoiled  their  rods, 
spared  their  children,  and  anticipated  the  results  with 
enthusiasm.  In  choosing,  moreover,  for  his  father  an 
amiable  man  of  fifty-two,  who  had  already  lost  an  only  son. 


AWAKENING  771 

and  for  his  mother  a  woman  of  thirty-eight,  whose  first 
and  only  child  he  was,  little  Jon  had  done  well  and  wisely. 
What  had  saved  him  from  becoming  a  cross  between  a  lap 
dog  and  a  little  prig,  had  been  his  father's  adoration  of  his 
mother,  for  even  little  Jon  could  see  that  she  was  not  merely 
just  his  mother,  and  that  he  played  second  fiddle  to  her  in 
his  father's  heart.  What  he  played  in  his  mother's  heart 
he  knew  not  yet.  As  for  "  Auntie  *"  June,  his  half-sister 
(but  so  old  that  she  had  grown  out  of  the  relationship), 
she  loved  him,  of  course,  but  was  too  sudden.  His 
devoted  "  Da,"  too,  had  a  Spartan  touch.  His  bath  was 
cold  and  his  knees  were  bare;  he  was  not  encouraged  to  be 
sorry  for  himself.  As  to  the  vexed  question  of  his  education, 
little  Jon  shared  the  theory  of  those  who  considered  that 
children  should  not  be  forced.  He  rather  liked  the  Made- 
moiselle who  came  for  two  hours  every  morning  to  teach  him 
her  language,  together  with  history,  geography  and  sums,- 
nor  were  the  piano  lessons  which  his  mother  gave  him  dis- 
agreeable, for  she  had  a  way  of  luring  him  from  tune  to  tune, 
never  making  him  practise  one  which  did  not  give  him 
pleasure,  so  that  he  remained  eager  to  convert  ten  thumbs 
into  eight  fingers.  Under  his  father  he  learned  to  draw 
pleasure-pigs  and  other  animals.  He  was  not  a  highly 
educated  little  boy.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  the  silver  spoon 
stayed  in  his  mouth  without  spoiling  it,  though  "  Da  " 
sometimes  said  that  other  children  would  do  him  a  "  world 
of  good." 

It  was  a  disillusionment,  then,  when  at  the  age  of  nearly 
seven  she  held  him  down  on  his  back,  because  he  wanted 
to  do  something  of  which  she  did  not  approve.  This  first 
interference  with  the  free  individualism  of  a  Forsyte  drove 
him  almost  frantic.  There  was  something  appalling  in  the 
utter  helplessness  of  that  position,  and  the  uncertainty  as 
to  whether  it  would  ever  come  to  an  end.     Suppose  she 


772  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

never  let  him  get  up  any  more  !  He  suffered  torture  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  for  fifty  seconds.  Worse  than  anything  was 
his  perception  that  "  Da "  had  taken  all  that  time  to 
realise  the  agony  of  fear  he  was  enduring.  Thus,  dreadfully, 
was  revealed  to  him  the  lack  of  imagination  in  the  human 
being  '  When  he  was  let  up  he  remained  convinced  that 
"  Da  '*  had  done  a  dreadful  thing.  Though  he  did  not 
wish  to  bear  witness  against  her,  he  had  been  compelled, 
by  fear  of  repetition,  to  seek  his  mother  and  say:  "  Mum, 
don't  let '  Da  '  hold  me  down  on  my  back  again." 

His  mother,  her  hands  held  up  over  her  head,  and  in  them 
two  plaits  of  hair — "  couleur  de  feuille  morte,''^  as  little  Jon 
had  not  yet  learned  to  call  it — had  looked  at  him  with  eyes 
like  little  bits  of  his  brown  velvet  tunic,  and  answered — 

"  No,  darling,  I  won't." 

She,  being  in  the  nature  of  a  goddess,  little  Jon  was 
satisfied;  especially  when,  from  under  the  dining-table  at 
breakfast,  where  he  happened  to  be  waiting  for  a  mushroom, 
he  had  overheard  her  say  to  his  father — 

"  Then,  will  you  tell  '  Da,'  dear,  or  shall  I  ?  She's  so 
devoted  to  him  " ;  and  his  father's  answer — 

"  Well,  she  mustn't  show  it  that  way.  I  know  exactly 
what  it  feels  like  to  be  held  down  on  one's  back.  No 
Forsyte  can  stand  it  for  a  minute." 

Conscious  that  they  did  not  know  him  to  be  under  the 
table,  little  Jon  was  visited  by  the  quite  new  feeling  of 
embarrassment,  and  stayed  where  he  was,  ravaged  by  desire 
for  the  mushroom. 

Such  had  been  his  first  dip  into  the  dark  abysses  of  exist- 
ence. Nothing  much  had  been  revealed  to  him  after  that, 
till  one  day,  having  gone  down  to  the  cow-house  for  his 
drink  of  milk  fresh  from  the  cow,  after  Garratt  had  finished 
milking,  he  had  seen  Clover's  calf,  dead.  Inconsolable, 
and  followed  by  an  upset  Garratt,  he  had  sought  "  Da  "; 


AWAKENING  773 

but  suddenly  aware  that  she  was  not  the  person  he  wanted, 
had  rushed  away  to  find  his  father,  and  had  run  into  the  arms 
of  his  mother. 

"  Clover's  calf's  dead  !     Oh  !  Oh  !     It  looked  so  soft  !" 

His  mother's  clasp,  and  her — 

*'  Yes,  darling,  there,  there  !"  had  stayed  his  sobbing. 
But  if  Clover's  calf  could  die,  anything  could — not  only 
bees,  flies,  beetles  and  chickens — and  look  soft  like  that  ! 
This  was  appalling — and  soon  forgotten  ! 

The  next  thing  had  been  to  sit  on  a  humble-bee,  a  poig- 
nant experience,  which  his  mother  had  understood  much 
better  than  "Da";  and  nothing  of  vital  importance  had 
happened  after  that  till  the  year  turned;  when,  following 
a  day  of  utter  wretchedness,  he  had  enjoyed  a  disease  com- 
posed of  little  spots,  bed,  honey  in  a  spoon,  and  many 
Tangerine  oranges.  It  was  then  that  the  world  had 
flowered.  To  "  Auntie  "  June  he  owed  that  flowering,  for 
no  sooner  was  he  a  little  lame  duck  than  she  came  rushing 
down  from  London,  bringing  with  her  the  books  which 
had  nurttired  her  own  Berserker  spirit,  born  in  the  noted 
year  of  1869.  Aged,  and  of  many  colours,  they  were  stored 
with  the  most  formidable  happenings.  Of  these  she  read 
to  little  Jon,  till  he  was  allowed  to  read  to  himself;  where- 
upon she  whisked  back  to  London  and  left  them  with  him 
in  a  heap.  Those  books  cooked  his  fancy,  till  he  thought 
and  dreamed  of  nothing  but  midshipmen  and  dhows, 
pirates,  rafts,  sandal-wood  traders,  iron  horses,  sharks, 
battles,  Tartars,  Red  Indians,  balloons,  North  Poles  and 
other  extravagant  delights.  The  moment  he  was  suffered 
to  get  up,  he  rigged  his  bed  fore  and  aft,  and  set  out  from 
it  in  a  narrow  bath  across  green  seas  of  carpet,  to  a  rock, 
which  he  climbed  by  means  of  its  mahogany  drawer  knobs, 
to  sweep  the  horizon  with  his  drinking  tumbler  screwed 
to  his  eye,  in  search  of  rescuing  sails.     He  made  a  daily 


774  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

raft  out  of  the  towel  stand,  the  tea  tray,  and  his  pillows. 
He  saved  the  juice  from  his  French  plums,  bottled  it  in 
an  empty  medicine  bottle,  and  provisioned  the  raft  with  the 
rum  that  it  became;  also  with  pemmican  made  out  of 
little  saved-up  bits  of  chicken  sat  on  and  dried  at  the  fire; 
and  with  lime  juice  against  scurvy,  extracted  from  the  peel 
of  his  oranges  and  a  little  economised  juice.  He  made  a 
North  Pole  one  morning  from  the  whole  of  his  bedclothes 
except  the  bolster,  and  reached  it  in  a  birch-bark  canoe  (in 
private  life  the  fender),  after  a  terrible  encounter  with  a 
polar  bear  fashioned  from  the  bolster  and  four  skittles 
dressed  up  in  "  Da's  "  nightgown.  After  that,  his  father, 
seeking  to  steady  his  imagination,  brought  him  Ivanhoe^ 
Bevis^  a  book  about  King  Arthur,  and  Tom  Brown^s  School- 
days. He  read  the  first,  and  for  three  days  built,  defended 
and  stormed  Front  de  Boeuf's  castle,  taking  every  part  in 
the  piece  except  those  of  Rebecca  and  Rowena;  with  piercing 
cries  of:  "  En  avant^  de  Bracy  .'"  and  similar  utterances. 
After  reading  the  book  about  King  Arthur  he  became 
almost  exclusively  Sir  Lamorac  de  Galis,  because,  though 
there  was  very  little  about  him,  he  preferred  his  name  to 
that  of  any  other  knight;  and  he  rode  his  old  rocking-horse 
to  death,  armed  with  a  long  bamboo.  Bevis  he  found  tame; 
besides,  it  required  woods  and  animals,  of  which  he  had 
none  in  his  nursery,  except  his  two  cats,  Fitz  and  Puck 
Forsyte,  who  permitted  no  liberties.  For  Tom  Brown  he 
was  as  yet  too  young.  There  was  relief  in  the  house  when, 
after  the  fourth  week,  he  was  permitted  to  go  down  and  out. 
The  month  being  March  the  trees  were  exceptionally 
like  the  masts  of  ships,  and  for  little  Jon  that  was  a  wonderful 
Spring,  extremely  hard  on  his  knees,  suits,  and  the  patience 
of  "  Da,"  who  had  the  washing  and  reparation  of  his  clothes. 
Every  morning  the  moment  his  breakfast  was  over,  he 
could  be  viewed  by  his  mother  and  father,  whose  windows 


AWAKENING  775 

looked  out  that  way,  coming  from  the  study,  crossing  the 
terrace,  climbing  the  old  oak  tree,  his  face  resolute  and  his 
hair  bright.  He  began  the  day  thus  because  there  was  not 
time  to  go  far  afield  before  his  lessons.  The  old  tree's 
variety  never  staled;  it  had  mainmast,  foremast,  top -gallant 
mast,  and  he  could  always  come  down  by  the  halyards — 
or  ropes  of  the  swing.  After  his  lessons,  completed  by 
eleven,  he  would  go  to  the  kitchen  for  a  thin  piece  of  cheese, 
a  biscuit  and  two  French  plums — provision  enough  for 
a  jolly-boat  at  least — and  eat  it  in  some  imaginative  way; 
then,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  gun,  pistols,  and  sword, 
he  would  begin  the  serious  climbing  of  the  morning,  en- 
countering by  the  way  innumerable  slavers,  Indians,  pirates, 
leopards,  and  bears.  He  was  seldom  seen  at  that  hour  of  the 
day  without  a  cutlass  in  his  teeth  (like  Dick  Needham)  amid 
the  rapid  explosion  of  copper  caps.  And  many  were  the 
gardeners  he  brought  down  with  yellow  peas  shot  out  of  his 
little  gun.     He  lived  a  life  of  the  most  violent  action. 

"  Jon,"  said  his  father  to  his  mother,  under  the  oak  tree, 
"  is  terrible.  I'm  afraid  he's  going  to  turn  out  a  sailor,  or 
something  hopeless.  Do  you  see  any  sign  of  his  appreciating 
beauty  ?" 

"  Not  the  faintest." 

"  Well,  thank  heaven  he's  no  turn  for  wheels  or  engines  ! 
I  can  bear  anything  but  that.  But  I  wish  he'd  take  more 
interest  in  Nature." 

"  He's  imaginative,  Jolyon." 

"  Yes,  in  a  sanguinary  way.  Does  he  love  anyone  just 
now  ?" 

"  No;  only  everyone.  There  never  was  anyone  born 
more  loving  or  more  lovable  than  Jon.'* 

"  Being  your  boy,  Irene." 

At  this  moment  little  Jon,  lying  along  a  branch  high 
above  them,  brought  them  down  with  two  peas;  but  that 


-]>](>  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

fragment  of  talk  lodged,  thick,  in  his  small  gizzard.  Loving, 
lovable,  imaginative,  sanguinary  ! 

The  leaves  also  were  thick  by  now,  and  it  was  time  for 
his  birthday,  which,  occurring  every  year  on  the  twelfth 
of  May,  was  always  memorable  for  his  chosen  dinner  of 
sweetbread,  mushrooms,  macaroons,  and  ginger-beer. 

Between  that  eighth  birthday,  however,  and  the  afternoon 
when  he  stood  in  the  July  radiance  at  the  turning  of  the 
stairway,  several  important  things  had  happened. 

"  Da,"  worn  out  by  washing  his  knees,  or  moved  by  that 
mysterious  instinct  which  forces  even  nurses  to  desert  their 
nurslings,  left  the  very  day  after  his  birthday  in  floods  of 
tears  "  to  be  married  "  of  all  things — "  to  a  man."  Little 
Jon,  from  whom  it  had  been  kept,  was  inconsolable  for  an 
afternoon.  It  ought  not  to  have  been  kept  from  him  ! 
Two  large  boxes  of  soldiers,  and  some  artillery,  together 
with  The  Young  Buglers,  which  had  been  among  his  birthday 
presents,  co-operated  with  his  grief  in  a  sort  of  conversion, 
and  instead  of  seeking  adventures  in  person  and  risking 
his  own  life,  he  began  to  play  imaginative  games,  in  which 
he  risked  the  lives  of  countless  tin  soldiers,  marbles,  stones 
and  beans.  Of  these  forms  of  "  chair  a  canon  "  he  made 
collections,  and,  using  them  alternately,  fought  the  Penin- 
sular, the  Seven  Years,  the  Thirty  Years,  and  other  wars, 
about  which  he  had  been  reading  of  late  in  a  big  History  oj 
Euro-pe  which  had  been  his  grandfather's.  He  altered 
them  to  suit  his  genius,  and  fought  them  all  over  the  floor 
in  his  day  nursery,  so  that  nobody  could  come  in,  for 
fear  of  disturbing  Gustavus  Adolphus,  King  of  Sweden, 
or  treading  on  an  army  of  Austrians.  Because  of  the  sound 
of  the  word  he  was  passionately  addicted  to  the  Austrians, 
and  finding  there  were  so  few  battles  in  which  they  were 
successful  he  had  to  invent  them  in  his  games.  His  favourite 
generals  were  Prince  Eugene,  the  Archduke  Charles  and 


AWAKENING  -j-j-j 

Wallenstein.  Tilly  and  Mack  ("  music-hall  turns "  he 
heard  his  father  call  them  one  day,  whatever  that  might 
mean)  one  really  could  not  love  very  much,  Austrian  though 
they  were.     For  euphonic  reasons,  too,  he  doted  on  Turenne. 

This  phase,  which  caused  his  parents  anxiety,  because  it 
kept  him  indoors  when  he  ought  to  have  been  out,  lasted 
through  May  and  half  of  June,  till  his  father  killed  it  by 
bringing  home  to  him  Tom  lawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn. 
When  he  read  those  books  something  happened  in  him,  and 
he  went  out  of  doors  again  in  passionate  quest  of  a  river. 
There  being  none  on  the  premises  at  Robin  Hill,  he  had 
to  make  one  out  of  the  pond,  which  fortunately  had  water 
lilies,  dragon -flies,  gnats,  bullrushes,  and  three  small  willow 
trees.  On  this  pond,  after  his  father  and  Garratt  had 
ascertained  by  sounding  that  it  had  a  reliable  bottom  and 
was  nowhere  more  than  two  feet  deep,  he  was  allowed  a  little 
collapsible  canoe,  in  which  he  spent  hours  and  hours  pad- 
dling, and  lying  down  out  of  sight  of  Indian  Joe  and  other 
enemies.  On  the  shore  of  the  pond,  too,  he  built  himself  a 
wigwam  about  four  feet  square,  of  old  biscuit  tins,  roofed 
in  by  boughs.  In  this  he  would  make  little  fires,  and  cook 
the  birds  he  had  not  shot  with  his  gun,  hunting  in  the  cop- 
pice and  fields,  or  the  fish  he  did  not  catch  in  the  pond 
because  there  were  none.  This  occupied  the  rest  of  June 
and  that  July  when  his  father  and  mother  were  away  in 
Ireland.  He  led  a  lonely  life  of  "  make  believe  "  during 
those  five  weeks  of  summer  weather,  with  gun,  wigwam, 
water  and  canoe;  and,  however  hard  his  active  little  brain 
tried  to  keep  the  sense  of  beauty  away,  she  did  creep  in  on 
him  for  a  second  now  and  then,  perching  on  the  wing  of  a 
dragon-fly,  glistening  on  the  water  lilies,  or  brushing  his 
eyes  with  her  blue  as  he  lay  on  his  back  in  ambush. 

"  Auntie  "  June,  who  had  been  left  in  charge,  had  a 
"  grown-up  "  in  the  house,  with  a  cough  and  a  large  piece 


778  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  putty  which  he  was  making  into  a  face;  so  she  hardly  ever 
came  down  to  see  him  in  the  pond.  Once,  however,  she 
brought  with  Pier  two  other  "  grown-ups."  Little  Jon, 
who  happened  to  have  painted  his  naked  self  bright  blue  and 
yellow  in  stripes  out  of  his  father's  water-colour  box, 
and  put  some  duck's  feathers  in  his  hair,  saw  them  coming, 
and  ambushed  himself  among  the  willows.  As  he  had  fore- 
seen, they  came  at  once  to  his  wagwam  and  knelt  down  to 
look  inside,  so  that  with  a  blood-curdling  yell  he  was  able 
to  take  the  scalps  of  "  Auntie "  June  and  the  woman 
"  grown-up  "  in  an  almost  complete  manner  before  they 
kissed  him.  The  names  of  the  two  grown-ups  were 
"  Auntie  "  Holly  and  "  Uncle  "  Val,  who  had  a  bi*own  face 
and  a  little  limp,  and  laughed  at  him  terribly.  He  took  a 
fancy  to  "  Auntie  "  Holly,  who  seemed  to  be  a  sister  too; 
but  they  both  went  away  the  same  afternoon  and  he  did  not 
see  them  again.  Three  days  before  his  father  and  mother 
were  to  come  home  "  Auntie  "  June  also  went  off  in  a  great 
hurry,  taking  the  "  grown-up  "  who  coughed  and  his  piece 
of  putty;  and  Mademoiselle  said:  "  Poor  man,  he  was  veree 
ill.  I  forbid  you  to  go  into  his  room,  Jon."  Little  Jon, 
who  rarely  did  things  merely  because  he  was  told  not  to, 
refrained  from  going,  though  he  was  bored  and  lonely. 
In  truth  the  day  of  the  pond  was  past,  and  he  was  filled 
to  the  brim  of  his  soul  with  restlessness  and  the  want  of 
something — not  a  tree,  not  a  gun— something  soft  Those 
last  two  days  had  seemed  like  months  in  spite  of  Cast  up  by 
the  Sea,  wherein  he  was  reading  about  Mother  Lee  and  her 
terrible  wrecking  bonfire.  He  had  gone  up  and  down  the 
stairs  perhaps  a  hundred  times  in  those  tw^o  days,  and  often 
from  the  day  nursery,  where  he  slept  now,  had  stolen  into 
his  mother's  room,  looked  at  everything,  without  touching, 
and  on  into  the  dressing-room;  and  standing  on  one  leg 
beside  the  bath,  like  Slingsby,  had  whispered — 


AWAKENING  779 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  Dog  my  cats  !"  mysteriouslv,  to  bring 
luck.  Then,  stealing  back,  he  had  opened  his  mother's 
wardrobe,  and  taken  a  long  sniff  which  seemed  to  bring  him 
nearer  to — he  didn't  know  what. 

He  had  done  this  just  before  he  stood  in  the  streak  of 
sunlight,  debating  in  which  of  the  several  ways  he  should 
slide  down  the  banisters.  They  all  seemed  silly,  and  in  a 
sudden  languor  he  began  descending  the  steps  one  by  one. 
During  that  descent  he  could  remember  his  father  quite 
distinctly — the  short  grey  beard,  the  deep  eyes  twinkling, 
the  furrow  between  them,  the  funny  smile,  the  thin  figure 
which  always  seemed  so  tall  to  little  Jon;  but  his  mother 
he  couldn't  see.  All  that  represented  her  was  something 
swaying  with  two  dark  eyes  looking  back  at  him;  and  the 
Bcent  of  her  wardrobe. 

Bella  was  in  the  hall,  drawing  aside  the  big  curtains,  and 
opening  the  front  door.     Little  Jon  said,  wheedling — 

"  Bella  !" 

"  Yes,  Master  Jon." 

"  Do  let's  have  tea  under  the  oak  tree  when  they  come; 
I  know  they'd  like  it  best." 

"  You  mean  you'd  like  it  best." 

Little  Jon  considered. 

"  No,  they  would,  to  please  me." 

Bella  smiled.     "  Very  well,  I'll  take  it  out  if  you'll  stay 
quiet  here  and  not  get  into  mischief  before  they  come." 
*  Little  Jon  sat  down  on  the  bottom  step,  and  nodded. 
Bella  came  close,  and  looked  him  over. 

"  Get  up  !"  she  said. 

Little  Jon  got  up.  She  scrutinized  him  behind;  he 
was  not  green,  and  his  knees  seemed  clean. 

"  All  right  !"  she  said.  "  My  !  Aren't  you  brown  ? 
Give  me  a  kiss  !" 

And  little  Jon  received  a  peck  on  his  hair. 


78o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  What  jam  ?"  he  asked.     "  I'm  so  tired  of  waiting." 

"  Gooseberry  and  strawberry." 

Num  !     They  were  his  favourites ! 

When  she  was  gone  he  sat  still  for  quite  a  minute.  It 
was  quiet  in  the  big  hall  open  to  its  east  end  so  that  he 
could  see  one  of  his  trees,  a  brig  sailing  very  slowly  across 
the  upper  lawn.  In  the  outer  hall  shadows  were  slanting 
from  the  pillars.  Little  Jon  got  up,  jumped  one  of  them, 
and  walked  round  the  clump  of  iris  plants  which  filled  the 
pool  of  grey-white  marble  in  the  centre.  The  flowers 
were  pretty,  but  only  smelled  a  very  little.  He  stood  in 
the  open  doorway  and  looked  out.  Suppose  ! — suppose 
they  didn't  come  !  He  had  waited  so  long  that  he  felt 
he  could  not  bear  that,  and  his  attention  slid  at  once  from 
such  finality  to  the  dust  motes  in  the  bluish  sunlight  coming 
in.  Thrusting  his  hand  up,  he  tried  to  catch  some.  Bella 
ought  to  have  dusted  that  piece  of  air  !  But  perhaps  they 
weren't  dust — only  what  sunlight  was  made  of,  and  he 
looked  to  see  whether  the  sunlight  out  of  doors  was  the 
same.  It  was  not.  He  had  said  he  would  stay  quiet  in  the 
hall,  but  he  simply  couldn't  any  more;  and  crossing  the 
gravel  of  the  drive  he  lay  down  on  the  grass  beyond.  Pulling 
six  daisies  he  named  them  carefully.  Sir  Lamorac,  Sir 
Tristram,  Sir  Lancelot,  Sir  Palimedes,  Sir  Bors,  Sir  Gawain, 
and  fought  them  in  couples  till  only  Sir  Lamorac,  whom  he 
had  selected  for  a  specially  stout  stalk,  had  his  head  on,  and 
even  he,  after  three  encounters,  looked  worn  and  waggly. 
A  beetle  was  moving  slowly  in  the  grass,  which  almost  wanted 
cutting  Every  blade  was  a  small  tree,  round  whose  trunk 
the  beetle  had  to  glide.  Little  Jon  stretched  out  Sir 
Lamorac,  feet  foremost,  and  stirred  the  creature  up.  It 
scuttled  painfully.  Little  Jon  laughed,  lost  interest,  and 
sighed.  His  heart  felt  empty.  He  turned  over  and  lay  on 
his  back.     There  was  a  scent  of  honey  from  the  lime  trees  in 


AWAKENING  781 

flower,  and  in  the  sky  the  blue  was  beautiful,  with  a  few 
white  clouds  which  looked  and  perhaps  tasted  like  lemon 
ice.  He  could  hear  Bob  playing:  "  Way  down  upon  de 
Suwannee  ribber  "  on  his  concertina,  and  it  made  him  nice 
and  sad.  He  turned  over  again  and  put  his  ear  to  the 
ground — Indians  could  hear  things  coming  ever  so  far — 
but  he  could  hear  nothing — only  the  concertina  1  And 
almost  instantly  he  did  hear  a  grinding  sound,  a  faint  toot. 
Yes  !  it  was  a  car — coming — coming  !  Up  he  jumped. 
Should  he  wait  in  the  porch,  or  rush  upstairs,  and  as  they 
came  in,  shout :  "  Look  !"  and  slide  slowly  down  the  banisters, 
head  foremost  ?  Should  he  ?  The  car  turned  in  at  the 
drive.  It  was  too  late  !  And  he  only  waited,  jumping  up 
and  down  in  his  excitement.  The  car  came  quickly, 
whirred,  and  stopped.  His  father  got  out,  exactly  like  life. 
He  bent  down  and  little  Jon  bobbed  up — they  bumped. 
His  father  said — 

"  Bless  us  !  Well,  old  man,  you  are  brown  !"  just  as  he 
would;  and  the  sense  of  expectation — of  something  wanted 
— bubbled  unextinguished  in  little  Jon.  Then,  with  a 
long,  shy  look  he  saw  his  mother,  in  a  blue  dress,  with  a 
blue  motor  scarf  over  her  cap  and  hair,  smiling.  He  jumped 
as  high  as  ever  he  could,  twined  his  legs  behind  her  back, 
and  hugged.  He  heard  her  gasp,  and  felt  her  hugging  back. 
His  eyes,  very  dark  blue  just  then,  looked  into  hers,  very 
dark  brown,  till  her  lips  closed  on  his  eyebrow,  and,  squeezing 
with  all  his  might  he  heard  her  creak  and  laugh,  and  say — 

"  You  are  strong,  Jon  !" 

He  slid  down  at  that,  and  rushed  into  the  hall,  dragging 
her  by  the  hand. 

While  he  was  eating  his  jam  beneath  the  oak  tree,  he 
noticed  tilings  about  his  mother  that  he  had  never  seemed 
to  see  before  :  her  cheeks,  for  instance,  were  creamy,  there 
were  silver  threads  in  her  dark  goldy  hair,  her  throat  had 


782  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

no  knob  in  It  like  Bella's,  and  she  went  in  and  out  softly. 
He  noticed,  too,  some  little  lines  running  away  from  the 
corners  of  her  eyes,  and  a  nice  darkness  under  them.  She 
was  ever  so  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  "  Da  "  or  "  Made- 
moiselle,*' or  "  Auntie  "  June  or  even  "  Auntie  "  Holly,  to 
whom  he  had  taken  a  fancy;  even  more  beautiful  than  Bella, 
who  had  pink  cheeks  and  came  out  too  suddenly  in  places. 
This  new  beautifulness  of  his  mother  had  a  kind  of  particular 
importance,  and  he  ate  less  than  he  had  expected  to. 

When  tea  was  over  his  father  wanted  him  to  walk  round 
the  gardens.  He  had  a  long  conversation  with  his  father 
about  things  in  general,  avoiding  his  private  life — Sir 
Lamorac,  the  Austrians,  and  the  emptiness  he  had  felt  these 
last  three  days,  now  so  suddenly  filled  up.  His  father  told 
him  of  a  place  called  Glensofantrim,  where  he  and  his 
mother  had  been;  and  of  the  little  people  who  came  out 
of  the  ground  there  when  it  was  very  quiet.  Little  Jon 
came  to  a  halt,  with  his  heels  apart. 

"  Do  you  really  believe  they  do,  Daddy  V* 

"  No,  Jon,  but  I  thought  you  might." 

''  Why  ?" 

*'  You're  younger  than  I;  and  they're  fairies." 

Little  Jon  squared  the  dimple  in  his  chin. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  fairies.     I  never  see  any." 

"  Ha  !"  said  his  father. 

"  Does  Mum  ?" 

His  father  smiled  his  funny  smile. 

"  No;  she  only  sees  Pan." 

"  What's  Pan  ?" 

"  The  Goaty  God  who  skips  about  in  wild  and  beautiful 
places." 

"  Was  he  in  Glensofantrim  ?" 

"  Mum  said  so." 

Little  Jon  took  his  heels  up,  and  led  on. 


AWAKENING  783 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?" 

"  No;  I  only  saw  Venus  Anadyomene." 

Little  Jon  reflected;  Venus  was  in  his  book  about  the 
Greeks  and  Trojans.  Then  Anna  was  her  Christian  and 
Dyomene  her  surname  ?  But  it  appeared,  on  inquiry,  that 
it  was  one  word,  which  meant  rising  from  the  foam. 

"  Did  she  rise  from  the  foam  in  Glensofantrim  ?" 

"  Yes;  every  day." 

"  What  is  she  like,  Daddy?" 

^'  Like  Mum." 

^'  Oh  !     Then  she  must  be "  but  he  stopped  at  that, 

rushed  at  a  wall,  scrambled  up,  and  promptly  scrambled 
down  again.  The  discovery  that  his  mother  was  beautiful 
was  one  which  he  felt  must  absolutely  be  kept  to  himself. 
His  father's  cigar,  however,  took  so  long  to  smoke,  that  at 
last  he  was  compelled  to  say  : 

"  I  want  to  see  what  Mum's  brought  home.  Do  you 
mind.  Daddy  r" 

He  pitched  the  motive  low,  to  absolve  him  from  un- 
manliness,  and  was  a  little  disconcerted  when  his  father 
looked  at  him  right  through,  heaved  an  important  sigh, 
and  answered  : 

^'  All  right,  old  man,  you  go  and  love  her." 

He  went,  with  a  pretence  of  slowness,  and  then  rushed,  to 
make  up.  He  entered  her  bedroom  from  his  own,  the 
door  being  open.  She  was  still  kneeling  before  a  trunk,  and 
he  stood  close  to  her,  quite  still. 

She  knelt  up  straight,  and  said  : 

^'  Well,  Jon  ?" 

"  I  thought  I'd  just  come  and  see." 

Having  given  and  received  another  hug,  he  mounted 
the  window-seat,  and  tucking  his  legs  up  under  him,  watched 
her  unpack.  He  derived  a  pleasure  from  the  operation  such 
as  he  had  not  yet  known,  partly  because  she  was  taking  out 


784  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

things  which  looked  suspicious,  and  partly  because  he  liked 
to  look  at  her.  She  moved  differently  from  anybody  else, 
especially  from  Bella;  she  was  certainly  the  refinedest- 
looking  person  he  had  ever  seen.  She  finished  the  trunk 
at  last,  and  knelt  down  in  front  of  him. 

"  Have  you  missed  us,  Jon  ?" 

Little  Jon  nodded,  and  having  thus  admitted  his  feelings, 
continued  to  nod. 

"  But  you  had  '  Auntie  '  June  ?" 

"  Oh  !  she  had  a  man  with  a  cough." 

His  mother's  face  changed,  and  looked  almost  angry. 
He  added  hastily  : 

"  He  was  a  poor  man,  Mum;  he  coughed  awfully;  I — I 
liked  him." 

His  mother  put  her  hands  behind  his  waist. 

"  You  like  everybody,  Jon." 

Little  Jon  considered. 

"  Up  to  a  point,"  he  said:  "  *  Auntie  '  June  took  me  to 
church  one  Sunday." 

"  To  church  ?     Oh  !" 

*'  She  wanted  to  see  how  it  would  affect  me." 

"  And  did  it  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  came  over  all  funny,  so  she  took  me  home  again 
very  quick.  I  wasn't  sick  after  all.  I  went  to  bed  and  had 
hot  brandy  and  water,  and  read  The  Boys  of  Beechwood.  It 
was  scrumptious." 

His  mother  bit  her  lip. 

''  When  was  that  ?" 

**  Oh  !  about — a  long  time  ago — I  wanted  her  to  take  me 
again,  but  she  wouldn't.  You  and  Daddy  never  go  to 
church,  do  you  ?'* 

"  No,  we  don't." 

"  Why  don't  you  ?" 

His  mother  smiled. 


AWAKENING  785 

"  Well,  dear,  we  both  of  us  went  when  we  were  little. 
Perhaps  we  went  when  we  were  too  little." 

"  I  see,"  said  little  Jon,  "  it's  dangerous." 

"  You  shall  judge  for  yourself  about  all  those  things  as 
you  grow  up." 

Little  Jon  replied  in  a  calculating  manner  : 

"  I  don't  want  to  grow  up,  much.  I  don't  want  to  go 
to  school."  A  sudden  overwhelming  desire  to  say  some- 
thing more,  to  say  what  he  really  felt,  turned  him  red. 
"  I — I  want  to  stay  with  you,  and  be  your  lover,  Mum." 

Then  with  an  instinct  to  improve  the  situation,  he  added 
quickly  : 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  to-night,  either.  I'm  simply 
tired  of  going  to  bed,  every  night." 

"  Have  you  had  any  more  nightmares  ?" 

"  Only  about  one.  May  I  leave  the  door  open  into  your 
room  to-night,  Mum  ?" 

"  Yes,  just  a  little." 

Little  Jon  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  What  did  you  see  in  Glensofantrim  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  beauty,  darling." 

"  What  exactly  is  beauty  ?" 

"  What  exactly  is Oh  !  Jon,  that's  a  poser." 

"  Can  I  see  it,  for  instance  ?" 

His  mother  got  up,  and  sat  beside  him. 

"  You  do,  every  day.  The  sky  is  beautiful,  the  stars,  and 
moonlit  nights,  and  then  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  trees — 
they're  all  beautiful.  Look  out  of  the  window — there's 
beauty  for  you,  Jon." 

"  Oh  1  yes,  that's  the  view.     Is  that  all  ?" 

"  All  ?  no.  The  sea  is  wonderfully  beautiful,  and  the 
waves,  with  their  foam  flying  back." 

"  Did  you  rise  from  it  every  day,  Mum  ?" 

His  mother  smiled.     "  Well,  we  bathed." 

26 


yS6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Little  Jon  suddenly  reached  out  and  caught  her  neck  In 
his  hands. 

"  /  knoza,^^  he  said  mysteriously,  "  you're  it,  really,  and 
all  the  rest  is  make-believe." 

She  sighed,  laughed,  said: 

"  Oh  !  Jon  !" 

Little  Jon  said  critically: 

"  Do  you  think  Bella  beautiful,  for  instance  ?  I  hardly 
do." 

"  Bella  is  young;  that's  something." 

"  But  you  look  younger.  Mum.  If  you  bump  against 
Bella  she  hurts.  I  don't  believe  '  Da  '  was  beautiful,  when 
I  come  to  think  of  It;  and  Mademoiselle's  almost  ugly." 

"  Mademoiselle  has  a  very  nice  face." 

"  Oh  !  yes;  nice.     I  love  your  little  rays.  Mum." 

"  Rays  ?" 

Little  Jon  put  his  finger  to  the  outer  corner  of  her  eye. 

*  Oh  !     Those  ?     But  they're  a  sign  of  age." 

*  They  come  when  you  smile." 
*'  But  they  usen't  to." 

"  Oh  !  well,  I  like  them.     Do  you  love  me.  Mum  ?" 

"  I  do — I  do  love  you,  darling." 

"  Ever  so  ?" 

"  Ever  so  !" 

"  More  than  I  thought  you  did  ?" 

"  Much — much  more." 

"  Well,  so  do  I;  so  that  makes  it  even." 

Conscious  that  he  had  never  in  his  life  so  given  himself 
away,  he  felt  a  sudden  reaction  to  the  manliness  of  Sir 
Lamorac,  Dick  Needham,  Huck  Finn,  and  other  heroes. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  a  thing  or  two  ?"  he  said;  and  slipping 
out  of  her  arms,  he  stood  on  his  head.  Then  fired  by  her 
obvious  admlratlc«i,  he  mounted  the  bed,  and  threw  him- 
self head  foremost  from   his  feet  on  to  his   back,  without 


AWAKENING  787 

touching  anything  with  his  hands.  He  did  this  several 
times. 

That  evening,  having  inspected  what  they  had  brought, 
he  stayed  up  to  dinner,  sitting  between  them  at  the  Uttle 
round  table  they  used  when  they  were  alone.  He  was 
extremely  excited.  His  mother  wore  a  French-grey  dress, 
with  creamy  lace  made  out  of  little  scriggly  roses,  round  her 
neck,  which  was  browner  than  the  lace.  He  kept  looking  at 
her,  till  at  last  his  father's  funny  smile  made  him  suddenly 
attentive  to  his  slice  of  pineapple.  It  was  later  than  he  had 
ever  stayed  up,  when  he  went  to  bed.  His  mother  went  up 
with  him,  and  he  undressed  slowly  so  as  to  keep  her  there. 
When  at  last  he  had  nothing  on  but  his  pyjamas,  he  said: 

"  Promise  you  won't  go  while  I  say  my  prayers  !" 

"  I  promise." 

Kneeling  down  and  plunging  his  face  into  the  bed,  little 
Jon  hurried  up,  under  his  breath,  opening  one  eye  now  and 
then,  to  see  her  standing  perfectly  still  with  a  smile  on  her 
face.  "  Our  Father  " — so  went  his  last  prayer,  "  which 
art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  Mum,  thy  Kingdom  Mum — 
on  Earth  as  it  is  in  heaven,  give  us  this  day  our  daily  Mum  and 
forgive  us  our  trespasses  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven  and  tres- 
pass against  us,  for  thine  is  the  evil  the  power  and  the  glory 
for  ever  and  ever.  Amum  !  Look  out  !"  He  sprang,  and 
for  a  long  minute  remained  in  her  arms.  Once  in  bed,  he 
continued  to  hold  her  hand. 

**  You  won't  shut  the  door  any  more  than  that,  will  you  ? 
Are  you  going  to  be  long.  Mum  ?" 

"  I  must  go  down  and  play  to  Daddy." 

"  Oh  !  well,  I  shall  hear  you." 

"  I  hope  not  ;  you  must  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  can  sleep  any  night." 

**  Well,  this  is  just  a  night  like  any  other." 


788  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Oh  !  no — it's  extra  special." 

"  On  extra  special  nights  one  always  sleeps  soundest." 

"  But  if  I  go  to  sleep,  Mum,  I  shan't  hear  you   come 

"  Well,  when  I  do,  I'll  come  in  and  give  you  a  kiss,  then 
if  you're  awake  you'll  know,  and  if  you're  not  you'll  still 
know  you've  had  one." 

Little  Jon  sighed,  "  All  right  !"  he  said:  "  I  suppose  I 
must  put  up  with  that.     Mum  ?" 

"  Yes  ?" 

"  What  was  her  name  that  Daddy  believes  in  ?  Venus 
Anna  Diomedes  ?" 

"  Oh  !  my  angel  !     Anadyomene." 

'^  Yes  !  but  I  like  my  name  for  you  much  better." 

"  What  is  yours,  Jon  ?" 

Little  Jon  answered  shyly: 

"  Guinevere  !  it's  out  of  the  Round  Table — I've  only 
just  thought  of  it,  only  of  course  her  hair  was  down." 

His  mother's  eyes,  looking  past  him,  seemed  to  float. 

*'  You  won't  forget  to  come.  Mum  ?" 

"  Not  if  you'll  go  to  sleep." 

"  That's  a  bargain,  then."  And  little  Jon  screwed  up  his 
eyes. 

He  felt  her  lips  on  his  forehead,  heard  her  footsteps^ 
opened  his  eyes  to  see  her  gliding  through  the  doorway,  and, 
sighing,  screwed  them  up  again. 

Then  time  began. 

For  some  ten  minutes  of  it  he  tried  loyally  to  sleep,, 
counting  a  great  number  of  thistles  in  a  row,  "  Da's "  old 
recipe  for  bringing  slumber.  He  seemed  to  have  been 
hours  counting.  It  must,  he  thought,  be  nearly  time  for 
her  to  come  up  now.  He  threw  the  bedclothes  back. 
*'  I'm  hot  !"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded  funny  in  the 
darkness,    like    someone    else's.     Why    didn't    she    come  ? 


AWAKENING  789 

He  sat  up.  He  must  look  !  He  got  out  of  bed,  went  to  the 
window  and  pulled  the  curtain  a  slice  aside.  It  wasn't 
dark,  but  he  couldn't  tell  whether  because  of  daylight  or 
the  moon,  which  was  ver)^  big.  It  had  a  funny,  wicked 
face,  as  if  laughing  at  him,  and  he  did  not  want  to  look  at  it. 
Then,  remembering  that  his  mother  had  said  moonlit 
nights  were  beautiful,  he  continued  to  stare  out  in  a  general 
way.  The  trees  threw  thick  shadows,  the  lawn  looked  like 
spilt  milk,  and  a  long,  long  way  he  could  see;  oh  !  very  far; 
right  over  the  world,  and  it  all  looked  different  and  swimmy. 
There  was  a  lovely  smell,  too,  in  his  open  window. 
^'  I  wish  I  had  a  dove  like  Noah  !"  he  thought. 

"  The  moony  moon  was  round  and  bright, 
It  shone  and  shone  and  made  it  light/' 

After  that  rhyme,  which  came  into  his  head  all  at  once, 
he  became  conscious  of  music,  very  soft — lovely  !  Mum 
playing  !  He  bethought  himself  of  a  macaroon  he  had, 
laid  up  in  his  chest  of  drawers,  and,  getting  it,  came  back 
to  the  window.  He  leaned  out,  now  munching,  now 
holding  his  jaws  to  hear  the  music  better.  "  Da  "  used  to 
say  that  angels  played  on  harps  in  heaven;  but  it  wasn't  half 
so  lovely  as  Mum  playing  in  the  moony  night,  with  him 
eating  a  macaroon.  A  cockchafer  buzzed  by,  a  moth  flew 
in  his  face,  the  music  stopped,  and  little  Jon  drew  his  head 
in.  She  must  be  coming!  He  didn't  want  to' be  found 
awake.  He  got  back  into  bed  and  pulled  the  clothes  nearly 
over  his  head;  but  he  had  left  a  streak  of  moonlight  coming 
in.  It  fell  across  the  floor,  near  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and 
he  watched  it  moving  ever  so  slowly  towards  him,  as  if  it 
were  alive.  The  music  began  again,  but  he  could  only  just 
hear  it  now;  sleepy  music,  pretty — sleepy — music — sleepy 
— slee . 

And  time  slipped  by,  the  music  rose,  fell,  ceased;  the 


790  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

moonbeam  crept  towards  his  face.  Little  Jon  turned  in  his 
sleep  till  he  lay  on  his  back,  with  one  brown  fist  still  grasping 
the  bedclothes.  The  corners  of  his  eyes  twitched — he  had 
begun  to  dream.  He  dreamed  he  was  drinking  milk  out 
of  a  pan  that  was  the  moon,  opposite  a  great  black  cat  which 
watched  him  with  a  funny  smile  like  his  father's.  He 
heard  it  whisper:  "  Don't  drink  too  much  !"  It  was  the 
cat's  milk,  of  course,  and  he  put  out  his  hand  amicably  to 
stroke  the  creature;  but  it  was  no  longer  there;  the  pan  had 
h>ecome  a  bed,  in  which  he  was  lying,  and  when  he  tried 
to  get  out  he  couldn't  find  the  edge;  he  couldn't  find  it — 
he — he — couldn't  get  out  !     It  was  dreadful ! 

He  whimpered  in  his  sleep.  The  bed  had  begun  to  go 
round  too;  it  was  outside  him  and  inside  him;  going  round 
and  round,  and  getting  fiery,  and  Mother  Lee  out  of  Cast 
up  by  the  Sea  was  stirring  it  !  Oh  !  so  horrible  she  looked  ! 
Faster  and  faster  ! — till  he  and  the  bed  and  Mother  Lee  and 
the  moon  and  the  cat  were  all  one  wheel  going  round  and 
round  and  up  and  up — awful — awful — awful ! 

He  shrieked. 

A  voice  saying:  "  Darling,  darling  !"  got  through  the 
wheel,  and  he  awoke,  standing  on  his  bed,  with  his  eyes 
wide  open. 

There  was  his  mother,  with  her  hair  like  Guinevere's^ 
and,  clutching  her,  he  buried  his  face  in  it: 

"  Oh  !  oh  !" 

"  It's  all  right,  treasure.  You're  awake  now.  There  I 
There  !     It's  nothing  !" 

But  little  Jon  continued  to  say:  "  Oh  !  oh  !'* 

Her  voice  went  on,  velvety  in  his  ear: 

"  It  was  the  moonHght,  sweetheart,  coming  on  youl 
face." 

Little  Jon  burbled  into  her  nightgown* 

"  You  said  it  was  beautiful.     Oh  !" 


AWAKENING  791 

''  Not  to  sleep  in,  Jon.  Who  let  it  in  ?  Did  you  draw 
the  curtains  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  see  the  time;  I — I  looked  out,  I — I  heard 
you  playing.  Mum;  I — I  ate  my  macaroon."  But  he  was 
growing  slowly  comforted;  and  the  instinct  to  excuse  his 
fear  revived  within  him. 

"  Mother  Lee  went  round  in  me  and  got  all  fiery,"  he 
mumbled. 

"  Well,  Jon,  what  can  you  expect  if  you  eat  macaroons 
after  you've  gone  to  bed  ?" 

"  Only  one.  Mum;  it  made  the  music  ever  so  more  beauti- 
ful. I  was  waiting  for  you — I  nearly  thought  it  was  to- 
morrow." 

"  My  ducky,  it's  only  just  eleven  now." 

Little  Jon  was  silent,  rubbing  his  nose  on  her  neck. 

"  Mum,  is  Daddy  in  your  room  r" 

"  Not  to-night." 

''  Can  I  come  ?" 

"  If  you  wash,  my  precious." 

Half  himself  again,  little  Jon  drew  back. 

"  You  look  different  Mum;  ever  so  younger." 

"  It's  my  hair,  darHng." 

Little  Jon  laid  hold  of  it,  thick,  dark  gold,  with  some 
silver  threads. 

"  I  like  it,"  he  said:  "  I  like  you  best  of  all  like  this." 

Taking  her  hand  he  had  begun  dragging  her  towards 
the  door.     He  shut  it  as  they  passed,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Which  side  of  the  bed  do  you  like,  Mum  r" 

"  The  left  side." 

"  All  right." 

Wasting  no  time,  giving  her  no  chance  to  change  her  mind, 
little  Jon  got  into  the  bed,  which  seemed  much  softer  than 
his  own.  He  heaved  another  sigh,  screwed  his  head  into  the 
pillow  and  lay  examining  the  battle  of  chariots  and  swords 


792  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  spears  which  always  went  on  outside  blankets,  where 
the  little  hairs  stood  up  against  the  light. 

"  It  wasn't  anything,  really,  was  it  ?"  he  said. 

From  before  her  glass  his  mother  answered: 

"  Nothing  but  the  moon  and  your  imagination  heated 
up.     You  mustn't  get  so  excited,  Jon." 

But,  still  not  quite  in  possession  of  his  nerves,  little  Jon 
answered  boastfully: 

"  I  wasn't  afraid,  really,  of  course  !"  And  again  he  lay 
watching  the  spears  and  chariots.     It  all  seemed  very  long. 

"  Oh  !  Mum,  do  hurry  up  !" 

"  Darling,  I  have  to  plait  my  hair." 

"  Oh  !  not  to-night.  You'll  only  have  to  unplait  it 
again  to-morrow.  I'm  sleepy  now;  if  you  don't  come,  I 
shan't  be  sleepy  soon." 

His  mother  stood  up  white  and  flowey  before  the  winged 
mirror;  he  could  see  three  of  her,  with  her  neck  turned  and 
her  hair  bright  under  the  light,  and  her  dark  eyes  smiling. 
It  was  unnecessary,  and  he  said: 

"  Do  come.  Mum;  I'm  waiting." 

"  Very  well,  my  love,  I'll  come." 

Little  Jon  closed  his  eyes.  Everything  was  turning  out 
most  satisfactory,  only  she  must  hurry  up  !  He  felt  the  bed 
shake,  she  was  getting  in.  And,  still  with  his  eyes  closed, 
he  said  sleepily: 

"  It's  nice,  isn't  it  ?" 

He  heard  her  voice  say  something,  felt  her  lips  touching 
his  nose,  and,  snuggling  up  beside  her  who  lay  awake  and 
loved  him  with  her  thoughts,  he  fell  into  the  dreamless 
sleep  which  rounded  off  his  past. 


BOOK   III 
TO    LET 


"  From  out  the  fatal  loias  of  those  two  foes 
A  pair  of  star-crossed  lovers  take  their  life." 

Romeo  and  Juliet, 


26* 


TO 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER 


PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 


ENCOUNTER 


SoAMEs  Forsyte  emerged  from  the  Knightsbridge  Hotel, 
where  he  was  staying,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  12th  of  May, 
1920,  with  the  intention  of  visiting  a  collection  of  pictures 
in  a  Gallery  off  Cork  Street,  and  looking  into  the  Future. 
He  walked.  Since  the  War  he  never  took  a  cab  if  he  could 
help  it.  Their  drivers  were,  in  his  view,  an  uncivil  lot, 
though  now  that  the  War  was  over  and  supply  beginning 
to  exceed  demand  again,  getting  more  civil  in  accordance 
with  the  custom  of  human  nature.  Still,  he  had  not  for- 
given them,  deeply  identifying  them  with  gloomy  memories 
and  now,  dimly,  like  all  members  of  their  class,  with  revolu- 
tion. The  considerable  anxiety  he  had  passed  through 
during  the  War,  and  the  more  considerable  anxiety  he  had 
since  undergone  in  the  Peace,  had  produced  psychological 
consequences  in  a  tenacious  nature.  He  had,  mentally,  so 
frequently  experienced  ruin,  that  he  had  ceased  to  beheve 
in  its  material  probability.  Paying  away  four  thousand 
a  year  in  income  and  super  tax,  one  could  not  very  well 
be  worse  off  !  A  fortune  of  a  quarter  of  a  million,  encum- 
bered only  by  a  wife  and  one  daughter,  and  very  diversely 
invested,  afforded  substantial  guarantee  even  against  that 
"  wildcat  notion  " — a  levy  on  capital.  And  as  to  confisca- 
tion of  war  profits,  he  was  entirely  in  favour  of  it,  for  he 
had  none,  and  "  serve  the  beggars  right  !"  The  price  of 
pictures,  moreover,  had,  if  anything,  gone  up,  and  he  had 
done  better  with  his  collection  since  the  War  began  than 
ever  before.    Air-raids,  also,  had  acted  beneficially  on  a  spirit 

795 


796  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

congenitally  cautious,  and  hardened  a  character  already 
dogged.  To  be  in  danger  of  being  entirely  dispersed  in- 
clined one  to  be  less  apprehensive  of  the  more  partial 
dispersions  involved  in  levies  and  taxation,  while  the  habit 
of  condemning  the  impudence  of  the  Germans  had  led 
naturally  to  condemning  that  of  Labour,  if  not  openly  at 
least  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  soul. 

He  walked.  There  was,  moreover,  time  to  spare,  for 
Fleur  was  to  meet  him  at  the  Gallery  at  four  o'clock,  and 
it  was  as  yet  but  half-past  two.  It  was  good  for  him  to 
walk — ^his  liver  was  a  little  constricted,  and  his  nerves  rather 
■  on  edge.  His  wife  was  always  out  when  she  was  in  Town, 
and  his  daughter  would  flibberty-gibbet  all  over  the  place 
like  most  young  women  since  the  War.  Still,  he  must  be 
thankful  that  she  had  been  too  young  to  do  anything  in 
that  War  itself.  Not,  of  course,  that  he  had  not  supported 
the  War  from  its  inception,  with  all  his  soul,  but  between 
that  and  supporting  it  with  the  bodies  of  his  wife  and 
daughter,  there  had  been  a  gap  fixed  by  something  old- 
fashioned  within  him  which  abhorred  emotional  extrava- 
gance. He  had,  for  instance,  strongly  objected  to  Annette, 
so  attractive,  and  in  191 4  only  thirty-five,  going  to  her 
native  France,  her  "  chhe  patrie  "  as,  under  the  stimulus 
of  war,  she  had  begun  to  call  it,  to  nurse  her  ''  braves  -poilus,''^ 
forsooth  !  Ruining  her  health  and  her  looks  !  As  if  she 
were  really  a  nurse  !  He  had  put  a  stopper  on  it.  Let  her 
do  needlework  for  them  at  home,  or  knit  !  She  had  not 
gone,  therefore,  and  had  never  been  quite  the  same  woman 
since.  A  bad  tendency  of  hers  to  mock  at  him,  not  openly, 
but  in  continual  little  ways,  had  grown.  As  for  Fleur,  the 
War  had  resolved  the  vexed  problem  whether  or  not  she 
should  go  to  school.  She  was  better  away  from  her  mother 
in  her  war  mood,  from  the  chance  of  air-raids,  and  the 
impetus  to  do  extravagant  things;  so  he  had  placed  her  in  a 


TO  LET  797 

seminary  as  far  West  as  had  seemed  to  him  compatible  with 
excellence,  and  had  missed  her  horribly.  Fleur  !  He  had 
never  regretted  the  somewhat  outlandish  name  by  which 
at  her  birth  he  had  decided  so  suddenly  to  call  her — marked 
concession  though  it  had  been  to  the  French.  Fleur  !  A 
pretty  name — a  pretty  child  !  But  restless — too  restless; 
and  wilful  !  Knowing  her  power  too  over  her  father  ! 
Soames  often  reflected  on  the  mistake  it  was  to  dote  on  his 
daughter.  To  get  old  and  dote  !  Sixty-five  !  He  was 
getting  on;  but  he  didn't  feel  it,  for,  fortunately  perhaps, 
considering  Annette's  youth  and  good  looks,  his  second 
marriage  had  turned  out  a  cool  affair.  He  had  known  but 
one  real  passion  in  his  life — for  that  first  wife  of  his — Irene. 
Yes,  and  that  fellow,  his  cousin  Jolyon,  who  had  gone  off 
with  her,  was  looking  very  shaky,  they  said.  No  wonder, 
at  seventy-two,  after  twenty  years  of  a  third  marriage  ! 

Soames  paused  a  moment  in  his  march  to  lean  over  the 
railings  of  the  Row.  A  suitable  spot  for  reminiscence, 
half-way  between  that  house  in  Park  Lane  which  had  seen 
his  birth  and  his  parents'  deaths,  and  the  Httle  house  in 
Montpellier  Square  where  thirty-five  years  ago  he  had 
enjoyed  his  first  edition  of  matrimony.  Now,  after  twenty 
years  of  his  second  edition,  that  old  tragedy  seemed  to  him 
like  a  previous  existence — which  had  ended  when  Fleur  was 
born  in  place  of  the  son  he  had  hoped  for.  For  many 
years  he  had  ceased  regretting,  even  vaguely,  the  son  who 
had  not  been  born;  Fleur  filled  the  bill  in  his  heart.  After 
all,  she  bore  his  name,  and  he  was  not  looking  forward  at 
all  to  the  time  when  she  would  change  it.  Indeed,  if  he 
ever  thought  of  such  a  calamity,  it  was  seasoned  by  the 
vague  f  eeHng  that  he  could  make  her  rich  enough  to  purchase 
perhaps  and  extinguish  the  name  of  the  fellow  who  married 
her — why  not,  since,  as  it  seemed,  women  were  equal  to 
men  nowadays  ?      And  Soames,  secretly  convinced  that  they 


798  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

were  not,  passed  his  curved  hand  over  his  face  vigorously, 
till  it  reached  the  comfort  of  his  chin.  Thanks  to  abstemious 
habits,  he  had  not  grown  fat  and  flabby;  his  nose  was  pale 
and  thin,  his  grey  moustache  close-clipped,  his  eyesight 
unimpaired.  A  slight  stoop  closened  and  corrected  the 
expansion  given  to  his  face  by  the  heightening  of  his  forehead 
in  the  recession  of  his  grey  hair.  Little  change  had  Time 
wrought  in  the  "  warmest  "  of  the  young  Forsytes,  as  the 
last  of  the  old  Forsytes — Timothy — now  in  his  hundred 
and  first  year,  would  have  phrased  it. 

The  shade  from  the  plane-trees  fell  on  his  neat  Homburg 
hat;  he  had  given  up  top  hats — it  was  no  use  attracting 
attention  to  w^ealth  in  days  like  these.  Plane-trees  !  His 
thoughts  travelled  sharply  to  Madrid — the  Easter  before 
the  War,  when,  having  to  make  up  his  mind  about  that 
Goya  picture,  he  had  taken  a  voyage  of  discovery  to  study 
the  painter  on  his  spot.  The  fellow  had  impressed  him — 
great  range,  real  genius  1  Highly  as  the  chap  ranked,  he 
would  rank  even  higher  before  they  had  finished  with  him. 
The  second  Goya  craze  would  be  greater  even  than  the  first; 
oh,  yes  !  And  he  had  bought.  On  that  visit  he  had — as 
never  before — commissioned  a  copy  of  a  fresco  painting 
called  "  La  Vendimia,"  wherein  was  the  figure  of  a  girl  with 
an  arm  akimbo,  who  had  reminded  him  of  his  daughter.  He 
had  it  now  in  the  Gallery  at  Mapledurham,  and  rather  poor 
it  was — you  couldn't  copy  Goya.  He  would  still  look  at  it, 
however,  if  his  daughter  were  not  there,  for  the  sake  of 
something  irresistibly  reminiscent  in  the  light,  erect  balance 
of  the  figure,  the  wddth  between  the  arching  eye- 
brows, the  eager  dreaming  of  the  dark  eyes.  Curious  that 
Fleur  should  have  dark  eyes,  when  his  own  were  grey — no 
pure  Forsyte  had  brown  eyes — and  her  mother's  blue  ! 
But  of  course  her  grandmother  Lamotte's  eyes  were 
dark  as  treacle  ! 


TO  LET  799 

He  began  to  walk  on  again  toward  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
No  greater  change  in  all  England  than  in  the  Row  !  Born 
almost  within  hail  of  it,  he  could  remember  it  from  i860  on. 
Brought  there  as  a  child  between  the  crinolines  to  stare 
at  tight -trousered  dandies  in  whiskers,  riding  wdth  a  cavalrj' 
seat;  to  watch  the  doffing  of  curly-brimmed  and  white  top 
hats;  the  leisurely  air  of  it  all,  and  the  little  bow-legged  man 
in  a  long  red  waistcoat  who  used  to  come  among  the  fashion 
with  dogs  on  several  strings,  and  try  to  sell  one  to  his  mother: 
King  Charles  spaniels,  Italian  greyhounds,  affectionate  to  her 
crinoline — you  never  saw  them  now.  You  saw  no  quality 
of  any  sort,  indeed,  just  working  people  sitting  in  dull  row^s 
with  nothing  to  stare  at  but  a  few  young  bouncing  females 
in  pot  hats,  riding  astride,  or  desultory  Colonials  charging 
up  and  down  on  dismal-looking  hacks;  wdth,  here  and  there, 
Httle  girls  on  ponies,  or  old  gentlemen  jogging  their  livers, 
or  an  orderly  trying  a  great  galumphing  cavalry  horse;  no 
thoroughbreds,  no  grooms,  no  bowing,  no  scraping,  no 
gossip — nothing;  only  the  trees  the  same — the  trees  in- 
different to  the  generations  and  declensions  of  mankind. 
A  democratic  England — dishevelled,  hurried,  noisy,  and 
seemingly  without  an  apex.  And  that  something  fastidious 
in  the  soul  of  Soames  turned  over  within  him.  Gone 
forever,  the  close  borough  of  rank  and  polish  !  Wealth 
there  was — oh,  yes  !  wealth — he  himself  was  a  richer  man 
than  his  father  had  ever  been;  but  manners,  flavour,  quality^ 
all  gone,  engulfed  in  one  vast,  ugly,  shoulder-rubbing, 
petrol-smelHng  Cheerio.  Little  half-beaten  pockets  of 
gentihty  and  caste  lurking  here  and  there,  dispersed  and 
ck^tif,  as  Annette  would  say;  but  nothing  ever  again  firm 
and  coherent  to  look  up  to.  And  into  this  new  hurly-burly 
of  bad  manners  and  loose  morals  his  daughter — flower  of 
his  Hfe — was  flung  !  And  when  those  Labour  chaps  got 
power — if  they  ever  did — the  worst  was  yet  to  come  ! 


8oo  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  passed  out  under  the  archway,  at  last  no  longer — 
thank  goodness  ! — disfigured  by  the  gun -grey  of  its  search- 
light. '  They'd  better  put  a  search-light  on  to  where 
they're  all  going,'  he  thought,  '  and  light  up  their  precious 
democracy  !'  And  he  directed  his  steps  along  the  Club 
fronts  of  Piccadilly.  George  Forsyte,  of  course,  would  be 
sitting  in  the  bay  window  of  the  Iseeum.  The  chap  was 
so  big  now  that  he  was  there  nearly  all  his  time,  like  some 
immovable,  sardonic,  humorous  eye  noting  the  decline 
of  men  and  things.  And  Soames  hurried,  ever  constitu- 
tionally uneasy  beneath  his  cousin's  glance.  George,  who, 
as  he  had  heard,  had  written  a  letter  signed  "  Patriot  "  in 
the  middle  of  the  War,  complaining  of  the  Government's 
hysteria  in  docking  the  oats  of  race-horses.  Yes,  there  he 
was,-  tall,  ponderous,  neat,  clean-shaven,  with  his  smooth 
hair,  hardly  thinned,  smelling,  no  doubt,  of  the  best  hair- 
wash,  and  a  pink  paper  in  his  hand.  Well,  he  didn't  change  ! 
And  for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  Soames  felt  a  kind 
of  sympathy  tapping  in  his  waistcoat  for  that  sardonic 
kinsman.  With  his  weight,  his  perfectly  parted  hair,  and 
bull -like  gaze,  he  was  a  guarantee  that  the  old  order  would 
take  some  shifting  yet.  He  saw  George  move  the  pink 
paper  as  if  inviting  him  to  ascend — the  chap  must  want 
to  ask  something  about  his  property.  It  was  still  under 
Soames'  control;  for  in  the  adoption  of  a  sleeping  partner- 
ship at  that  painful  period  twenty  years  back  when  he  had 
divorced  Irene,  Soames  had  found  himself  almost  insensibly 
retaining  control  of  all  purely  Forsyte  affairs. 

Hesitating  for  just  a  moment,  he  nodded  and  w^ent  in. 
Since  the  death  of  his  brother-in-law  Montague  Dartie, 
in  Paris,  which  no  one  had  quite  known  what  to  make  of, 
except  that  it  was  certainly  not  suicide — the  Iseeum  Club 
had  seemed  more  respectable  to  Soames.  George,  too,  he 
knew,  had  sown  the  last  of  his  wild  oats,  and  was  committed 


TO  LET  80  r 

definitely  to  the  joys  of  the  table,  eating  only  of  the  very 
best  so  as  to  keep  his  weight  down,  and  owning,  as  he  said, 
"  just  one  or  two  old  screws  to  give  me  an  interest  in  life." 
He  joined  his  cousin,  therefore,  in  the  bay  window  without 
the  embarrassing  sense  of  indiscretion  he  had  been  used  to 
feel  up  there.     George  put  out  a  well-kept  hand. 

"  Haven't  seen  you  since  the  War,"  he  said.  "  How's 
your  wife  ?" 

"  Thanks,"  said  Soames  coldly,  "  well  enough." 

Some  hidden  jest  curved,  for  a  moment,  George's  fleshy 
face,  and  gloated  from  his  eye. 

"  That  Belgian  chap,  Profond,"  he  said,  "  is  a  member 
here  now.     He's  a  rum  customer." 

"  Quite !"  muttered  Soames.  "  What  did  you  want 
to  see  me  about  ?" 

"  Old  Timothy;  he  might  go  off  the  hooks  at  any  moment. 
I  suppose  he's  made  his  Will." 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  you  or  somebody  ought  to  give  him  a  look  up — 
last  of  the  old  lot;  he's  a  hundred,  you  know.  They  say 
he's  like  a  mummy.  Where  are  you  goin'  to  put  him  ? 
He  ought  to  have  a  pyramid  by  rights." 

Soames  shook  his  head.     ''  Highgate,  the  family  vault." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  old  girls  would  miss  him,  if  he 
was  anywhere  else.  They  say  he  still  takes  an  interest  in 
food.  He  might  last  on,  you  know.  Don't  we  get  any- 
thing for  the  old  Forsytes  ?  Ten  of  them — average  age 
eighty-eight — I  worked  it  out.  That  ought  to  be  equal 
to  triplets." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  said  Soames,     "  I  must  be  getting  on." 

"  You  unsociable  devil,"  George's  eyes  seemed  to  answer. 
*' Yes,  that's  all:  Look  him  up  in  his  mausoleum — the  old 
chap  might  want  to  prophesy."  The  grin  died  on  the  rich 
curves  of  his  face,  and  he  added:  "  Haven't  you  attorneys 


8o2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

invented  a  way  yet  of  dodging  this  damned  income  tax  ? 
It  hits  the  fixed  inherited  income  like  the  very  deuce.  I 
used  to  have  two  thousand  five  hundred  a  year;  now  I've 
got  a  beggarly  fifteen  hundred,  and  the  price  of  living 
doubled." 

"  Ah  !"  murmured  Soames,  "  the  turf's  in  danger." 

Over  George's  face  moved  a  gleam  of  sardonic  self-defence. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  they  brought  mxe  up  to  do  nothing, 
and  here  I  am  in  the  sear  and  yellow,  getting  poorer  every 
day.  These  Labour  chaps  mean  to  have  the  lot  before 
they've  done.  What  are  you  going  to  do  for  a  living  when 
it  comes  ?  I  shall  work  a  six-hour  day  teaching  politicians 
how  to  see  a  joke.  Take  my  tip,  Soames ;  go  into  Parliament, 
make  sure  of  your  four  hundred — and  employ  me." 

And,  as  Soames  retired,  he  resumed  his  seat  in  the  bay 
window. 

Soames  moved  along  Piccadilly  deep  in  reflections  excited 
by  his  cousin's  words.  He  himself  had  always  been  a  worker 
and  a  saver,  George  always  a  drone  and  a  spender;  and  yet, 
if  confiscation  once  began,  it  was  he — the  worker  and  the 
saver — who  would  be  looted  !  That  was  the  negation  of 
all  virtue,  the  overturning  of  all  Forsyte  principles.  Could 
civilization  be  built  on  any  other  ?  He  did  not  think  so. 
Well,  they  wouldn't  confiscate  his  pictures,  for  they  wouldn't 
know  their  worth.  But  what  would  they  be  worth,  if  these 
maniacs  once  began  to  milk  capital  ?  A  drug  on  the  market. 
*  I  don't  care  about  myself,'  he  thought;  '  I  could  live  on 
five  hundred  a  year,  and  never  know  the  difference,  at  my 
age.'  But  Fleur  !  This  fortune,  so  wisely  invested,  these 
treasures  so  carefully  chosen  and  amassed,  were  all  for  her. 
And  if  it  should  turn  out  that  he  couldn't  give  or  leave  them 
to  her — well,  life  had  no  meaning,  and  what  was  the  use  of 
going  in  to  look  at  this  crazy,  futuristic  stuff  with  the  view 
of  seeing  whether  it  had  any  future  r 


TO  LET  803 

Arriving  at  the  Gallery  off  Cork  Street,  however,  he  paid 
his  shilling,  picked  up  a  catalogue,  and  entered.  Some  ten 
persons  were  prowling  round.  Soames  took  steps  and  came 
on  what  looked  to  him  like  a  lamp-post  bent  by  collision  with 
a  motor  omnibus.  It  was  advanced  some  three  paces  from 
the  wall,  and  was  described  in  his  catalogue  as  "  Jupiter." 
He  examined  it  with  curiosity,  having  recently  turned  some 
of  his  attention  to  sculpture.  '  If  that's  Jupiter,'  he 
thought,  '  I  wonder  what  Juno's  like.'  And  suddenly 
he  saw  her,  opposite.  She  appeared  to  him  like  nothing  so 
much  as  a  pump  with  two  handles,  lightly  clad  in  snow. 
He  was  still  gazing  at  her,  when  two  of  the  prowlers  halted 
on  his  left.     "  E-patant  .^"  he  heard  one  say. 

"  Jargon  !"  growled  Soames  to  himself. 

The  other's  boyish  voice  replied : 

*'  Missed  it,  old  bean;  he's  pulHng  your  leg.  When  Jove 
and  Juno  created  he  them,  he  was  saying:  '  I'll  see  how  much 
these  fools  will  swallow.'     And  they've  lapped  up  the  lot." 

*^  You  young  duffer  !  Vospovitch  is  an  innovator. 
Don't  you  see  that  he's  brought  satire  into  sculpture  ? 
The  future  of  plastic  art,  of  music,  painting,  and  even 
architecture,  has  set  in  satiric.  It  was  bound  to.  People 
are  tired — the  bottom's  tumbled  out  of  sentiment." 

"  Well,  I'm  quite  equal  to  taking  a  little  interest  in  beauty. 
I  was  through  the  War.  You've  dropped  your  handker- 
chief, sir." 

Soames  saw  a  handkerchief  held  out  in  front  of  him.  He 
took  it  with  some  natural  suspicion,  and  approached  it  to 
his  nose.  It  had  the  right  scent — of  distant  Eau  de  Cologne 
— and  his  initials  in  a  corner.  Slightly  reassured,  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  young  man's  face.  It  had  rather  fawn-like 
ears,  a  laughing  mouth,  with  half  a  toothbrush  growing  out 
of  it  on  each  side,  and  small  lively  eyes,  above  a  normally 
dressed  appearance. 


8o4  THE  FORSYTE  "SAGA 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said;  and  moved  by  a  sort  of  irritation, 
added :  "Glad  to  hear  you  like  beauty ;  that's  rare,  nowadays." 

"  I  dote  on  it,"  said  the  young  man;  "  but  you  and  I 
are  the  last  of  the  old  guard,  sir." 

Soames  smiled. 

"  If  you  really  care  for  pictures,"  he  said,  "  here's  my  card. 
I  can  show  you  some  quite  good  ones  any  Sunday,  if  ypu're 
down  the  river  and  care  to  look  in." 

"  Awfully  nice  of  you,  sir.  I'll  drop  in  like  a  bird.  My 
name's  Mont — Michael."     And  he  took  off  his  hat. 

Soames,  already  regretting  his  impulse,  raised  his  own 
slightly  in  response,  with  a  downward  look  at  the  young 
man's  companion,  who  had  a  purple  tie,  dreadful  little  slug- 
like whiskers,  and  a  scornful  look — as  if  he  were  a  poet  ! 

It  was  the  first  indiscretion  he  had  committed  for  so  long 
that  he  went  and  sat  down  in  an  alcove.  What  had  possessed 
him  to  give  his  card  to  a  rackety  young  fellow,  who  went 
about  with  a  thing  like  that  ?  And  Fleur,  always  at  the 
back  of  his  thoughts,  started  out  like  a  filagree  figure  from 
a  clock  when  the  hour  strikes.  On  the  screen  opposite  the 
alcove  was  a  large  canvas  with  a  great  many  square  tomato- 
coloured  blobs  on  it,  and  nothing  else,  so  far  as  Soames 
could  see  from  where  he  sat.  He  looked  at  his  catalogue: 
"  No.  32—'  The  Future  Town  '—Paul  Post."  '  I  suppose 
that's  satiric  too,'  he  thought.  '  What  a  thing  !'  But  his 
second  impulse  was  more  cautious.  It  did  not  do  to 
condemn  hurriedly.  There  had  been  those  stripey,  streaky 
creations  of  Monet's,  which  had  turned  out  such  trumps; 
and  then  the  stippled  school ;  and  Gauguin.  Why,  even  since 
the  Post -Impressionists  there  had  been  one  or  two  painters 
not  to  be  sneezed  at.  During  the  thirty-eight  years  of  his 
connoisseur's  life,  indeed,  he  had  marked  so  many  "  move- 
ments," seen  the  tides  of  taste  and  technique  so  ebb  and 
flow,  that  there  was  really  no  telHng  anything  except  that 


TO  LET  805 

there  was  money  to  be  made  out  of  every  change  of  fashion. 
This  too  might  quite  well  be  a  case  where  one  must  subdue 
primordial  instinct,  or  lose  the  market.  He  got  up  and 
stood  before  the  picture,  trying  hard  to  see  it  with  the  eyes 
of  other  people.  Above  the  tomato  blobs  was  what  he  took 
to  be  a  sunset,  till  some  one  passing  said:  "  He's  got  the 
airplanes  wonderfully,  don't  you  think !"  Below  the 
tomato  blobs  was  a  band  of  white  with  vertical  black  stripes* 
to  which  he  could  assign  no  meaning  whatever,  till  some  one 
else  came  by,  murmuring:  "  What  expression  he  gets  with 
his  foreground  !"  Expression  ?  Of  what  ?  Soames  went 
back  to  his  seat.  The  thing  w^as  "  rich,"  as  his  father  would 
have  said,  and  he  wouldn't  give  a  damn  for  it.  Expression  ! 
Ah  !  they  were  all  Expressionists  now,  he  had  heard,  on  the 
Continent.  So  it  was  coming  here  too,  was  it  ?  He  re- 
membered the  first  wave  of  influenza  in  1887 — or  8 — 
hatched  in  China,  so  they  said.  He  wondered  where  this — 
this  Expressionism — had  been  hatched.  The  thing  was  a 
regular  disease  ! 

He  had  become  conscious  of  a  woman  and  a  youth 
standing  between  him  and  the  "  Future  Town."  Their 
backs  were  turned;  but  very  suddenly  Soames  put  his 
catalogue  before  his  face,  and  drawing  his  hat  forward, 
gazed  through  the  slit  between.  No  mistaking  that  back, 
elegant  as  ever  though  the  hair  above  had  gone  grey. 
Irene  !  His  divorced  wife — Irene  1  And  this,  no  doubt, 
was  her  son — by  that  fellow  Jolyon  Forsyte — their  boy, 
six  months  older  than  his  own  girl !  And  mumbling  over 
in  his  mind  the  bitter  days  of  his  divorce,  he  rose  to  get 
out  of  sight,  but  quickly  sat  down  again.  She  had  turned 
her  head  to  speak  to  her  boy;  her  profile  was  still  so  youthful 
that  it  made  her  grey  hair  seem  powdery,  as  if  fancy-dressed; 
and  her  lips  were  smiling  as  Soames,  first  possessor  of  them, 
had  never  seen  them  smile.     Grudgingly  he  admitted  her 


8o6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

still  beautiful,  and  in  figure  almost  as  young  as  ever.  And 
how  that  boy  smiled  back  at  her  !  Emotion  squeezed 
Soames'  heart.  The  sight  infringed  his  sense  of  justice. 
He  grudged  her  that  boy's  smile — it  went  beyond  what 
Fleur  gave  him,  and  it  was  undeserved.  Their  son  might 
have  been  his  son;  Fleur  might  have  been  her  daughter,  if 
she  had  kept  straight  !  He  lowered  his  catalogue.  If  she 
saw  him,  all  the  better  !  A  reminder  of  her  conduct  in  the 
presence  of  her  son,  who  probably  knew  nothing  of  it,  would 
be  a  salutary  touch  from  the  finger  of  that  Nemesis  which 
surely  must  soon  or  late  visit  her  !  Then,  half-conscious 
that  such  a  thought  was  extravagant  for  a  Forsyte  of  his  age, 
Soames  took  out  his  watch.  Past  four  !  Fleur  was  late. 
She  had  gone  to  his  niece  Imogen  Cardigan's,  and  there  they 
would  keep  her  smoking  cigarettes  and  gossiping,  and  that. 
He  heard  the  boy  laugh,  and  say  eagerly:  "  I  say,  Mum,  is 
this  by  one  of  Auntie  June's  lame  ducks  ?" 

"  Paul  Post — I  believe  it  is,  darUng." 

The  word  produced  a  little  shock  in  Soames ;  he  had  never 
heard  her  use  it.  And  then  she  saw  him.  His  eyes  must 
have  had  in  them  something  of  George  Forsyte's  sardonic 
look;  for  her  gloved  hand  crisped  the  folds  of  her  frock,  her 
eyebrows  rose,  her  face  went  stony.     She  moved  on. 

"  It  is  a  caution,"  said  the  boy,  catching  her  arm  again. 

Soames  stared  after  them.  That  boy  was  good-looking, 
with  a  Forsyte  chin,  and  eyes  deep -grey,  deep  in;  but  with 
something  sunny,  like  a  glass  of  old  sherry  spilled  over  him; 
his  smile  perhaps,  his  hair.  Better  than  they  deserved — 
those  two  !  They  passed  from  his  view  into  the  next  room, 
and  Soames  continued  to  regard  the  Future  Town,  but  saw 
it  not.  A  little  smile  snarled  up  his  lips.  He  was  despising 
the  vehemence  of  his  own  feeHngs  after  all  these  years. 
Ghosts  !  And  yet  as  one  grew  old — was  there  anything  but 
what  was  ghost-like  left  ?     Yes,  there  was  Fleur  !     He  fixed 


TO  LET  807 

his  eyes  on  the  entrance.  She  was  due ;  but  she  would  keep 
him  waiting,  of  course  !  And  suddenly  he  became  aware  of  a 
sort  of  human  breeze — a  short,  slight  form  clad  in  a  sea-green 
djibbahwith  a  metal  belt  and  a  fillet  binding  unruly  red -gold 
hair  all  streaked  with  grey.  She  was  talking  to  the  Gallery 
attendants,  and  something  familiar  riveted  his  gaze — in  her 
eyes,  her  chin,  her  hair,  her  spirit — something  which 
suggested  a  thin  Skye  terrier  just  before  its  dinner.  Surely 
June  Forsyte  !  His  cousin  June — and  coming  straight  to 
his  recess  !  She  sat  down  beside  him,  deep  in  thought, 
took  out  a  tablet,  and  made  a  pencil  note.  Soames  sat 
unmoving.  A  confounded  thing  cousinship  !  "  Disgust- 
ing !"  he  heard  her  murmur;  then,  as  if  resenting  the 
presence  of  an  overhearing  stranger,  she  looked  at  him. 
The  worst  had  happened. 

"  Soames  !" 

Soames  turned  his  head  a  very  little. 

"  How  are  you  .^"  he  said.  "  Haven't  seen  you  for 
twenty  years." 

"  No.     Whatever  made  you  come  here  ?" 

"  My  sins,"  said  Soames!     "  What  stuff  !" 

"  Stuff  ?     Oh,  yes — of  course;  it  hasn't  arrived  yet." 

"  It  never  will,"  said  Soames;  "  it  must  be  making  a  dead 
loss." 

"  Of  course  it  is." 

"  How  d'you  know  ?" 

"  It's  my  Gallery." 

Soames  sniffed  from  sheer  surprise. 

"  Yours  ?  \\^at  on  earth  makes  vou  run  a  show  like 
this  ?" 

"  /  don't  treat  Art  as  if  it  were  grocery." 

Soames  pointed  to  the  Future  Town.  '*'  Look  at  that  1 
Who's  going  to  live  in  a  town  like  that,  or  with  it  on  his 
walls  ?" 


8o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

June  contemplated  the  picture  for  a  moment.  "  It's 
a  vision,"  she  said. 

"  The  deuce  !" 

There  was  silence,  then  June  rose.  '  Crazy-looking 
creature  !'  he  thought. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you'll  find  your  young  stepbrother 
here  with  a  woman  I  used  to  know.  If  you  take  my  advice, 
you'U  close  this  exhibition." 

June  looked  back  at  him.  "  Oh  !  You  Forsyte  !"  she  said, 
and  moved  on.  About  her  Hght,  fly-away  figure,  passing 
so  suddenly  away,  was  a  look  of  dangerous  decisions.  For- 
syte !  Of  course,  he  was  a  Forsyte  !  And  so  was  she  !  But 
from  the  time  when,  as  a  mere  girl,  she  brought  Bosinney 
into  his  life  to  wreck  it,  he  had  never  hit  it  off  with  June — 
and  never  would  !  And  here  she  was,  unmarried  to  this 
day,  owning  a  Gallery  !  .  .  .  x\nd  suddenly  it  came  to 
Soames  how  little  he  knew  now  of  his  own  family.  The  old 
aunts  at  Timothy's  had  been  dead  so  many  years;  there  was 
no  clearing-house  for  news.  What  had  they  all  done  in  the 
War  ?  Young  Roger's  boy  had  been  wounded,  St.  John 
Hayman's  second  son  killed;  young  Nicholas'  eldest  had  got 
an  O.B.E.,  or  whatever  they  gave  them.  They  had  all 
joined  up  somehow,  he  believed.  That  boy  of  Jolyon's 
and  Irene's,  he  supposed,  had  been  too  young;  his  own 
generation,  of  course,  too  old,  though  Giles  Hayman  had 
driven  a  car  for  the  Red  Cross — and  Jesse  Hayman  been  a 
special  constable — those  "  Dromios  "  had  always  been  of  a 
sporting  type  !  As  for  himself,  he  had  given  a  motor 
ambulance,  read  the  papers  till  he  was  sick  of  them,  passed 
through  much  anxiety,  bought  no  clothes,  lost  seven  pounds 
in  weight;  he  didn't  know  what  more  he  could  have  done 
at  his  age.  Indeed,  thinking  it  over,  it  struck  him  that  he 
and  his  family  had  taken  this  war  very  differently  to  that 
affair  with  the  Boers,  which  had  been  supposed  to  tax  aU 


TO  LET  809 

the  resources  of  the  Empire.  In  that  old  war,  of  course, 
his  nephew  Val  Dartie  had  been  wounded,  that  fellow 
Jolyon's  first  son  had  died  of  enteric,  "  the  Dromios  "  had 
gone  out  on  horses,  and  June  had  been  a  nurse;  but  all  that 
had  seemed  in  the  nature  of  a  portent,  while  in  this  war 
everybody  had  done  "  their  bit,"  so  far  as  he  could  make  out, 
as  a  matter  of  course.  It  seemed  to  show  the  growth  of 
something  or  other — or  perhaps  the  decline  of  something 
else.  Had  the  Forsytes  become  less  individual,  or  more 
Imperial,  or  less  provincial  ?  Or  was  it  simply  that  one 
hated  Germans  ?  .  .  .  Why  didn't  Fleur  come,  so  that 
he  could  get  away  ?  He  saw  those  three  return  together 
from  the  other  room  and  pass  back  along  the  far  side  of  the 
screen.  The  boy  was  standing  before  the  Juno  now.  And, 
suddenly,  on  the  other  side  of  her,  Soames  saw — his  daughter, 
with  eyebrows  raised,  as  well  they  might  be.  He  could  see 
her  eyes  glint  sideways  at  the  boy,  and  the  boy  look  back  at 
her.  Then  Irene  sUpped  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and 
drew  him  on.  Soames  saw  him  glancing  round,  and  Fleur 
looking  after  them  as  the  three  went  out. 

A  voice  said  cheerfully:  "  Bit  thick,  isn't  it,  sir  ?" 

The  young  man  who  had  handed  him  his  handkerchief 
was  again  passing.     Soames  nodded. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we're  coming  to." 

"  Oh  !  That's  all  right,  sir,"  answered  the  young  man 
cheerfully;  "  they  don't  either." 

Fleur's  voice  said:  "Hallo,  Father  I  Here  you  are!" 
precisely  as  if  he  had  been  keeping  her  waiting. 

The  young  man,  snatching  off  his  hat,  passed  on. 

"  Well,"  said  Soames,  looking  her  up  and  down,  "  you're 
a  punctual  sort  of  young  woman  !" 

This  treasured  possession  of  his  life  was  of  medium  height 
and  colour,  with  short,  dark-chestnut  hair;  her  wdde-apart 
brown  eyes  were  set  in  whites  so  clear  that  they  glinted  when 


8 10  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

they  moved,  and  yet  in  repose  were  almost  dreamy  under 
very  white,  black-lashed  lids,  held  over  them  in  a  sort  of 
suspense.  She  had  a  charming  profile,  and  nothing  of  her 
father  in  her  face  save  a  decided  chin.  Aware  that  his 
expression  was  softening  as  he  looked  at  her,  Soames  frowned 
to  preserve  the  unemotionalism  proper  to  a  Forsyte.  He 
knew  she  was  only  too  inclined  to  take  advantage  of  his 
weakness. 

Slipping  her  hand  under  his  arm,  she  said: 

"  Who  was  that  ?" 

"  He  picked  up  my  handkerchief.  We  talked  about  the 
pictures." 

"  You're  not  going  to  buy  that.  Father  ?*' 

"  No,"  said  Soames  grimly;  "  nor  that  Juno  you've  been 
looking  at." 

Fleur  dragged  at  his  arm.  "  Oh  !  Let's  go  !  It's  a 
ghastly  show." 

In  the  doorway  they  passed  the  young  man  called  Mont 
and  his  partner.  But  Soames  had  hung  out  a  board  marked 
"  Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted,"  and  he  barely  acknow- 
ledged the  young  fellow's  salute. 

"  Well,"  he  said  in  the  street,  "  whom  did  you  meet  at 
Imogen's  ?" 

"  Aunt  Winifred,  and  that  Monsieur  Profond." 

"  Oh  1"  muttered  Soames;  "that  chap!  What  does 
your  aunt  see  in  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  looks  pretty  deep — mother  says  she 
likes  him." 

Soames  grunted. 

"  Cousin  Val  and  his  wife  were  there,  too." 

"  What  !"  said  Soames.  "  I  thought  they  were  back  in 
South  Africa." 

"  Oh,  no  !  They've  sold  their  farm.  Cousin  Val  is 
going  to  train  race-horses  on  the  Sussex  Downs.     They've 


TO  LET  8ii 

got  a  jolly  old  manor-house;  they  asked  me  down 
there." 

Soames  coughed:  the  news  was  distasteful  to  him. 
"  What's  his  wife  like  now  ?" 

"  Very  quiet,  but  nice,  I  think." 

Soames  coughed  again.  "  He's  a  rackety  chap,  your 
Cousin  Val." 

"Oh  !  no,  Father;  they're  awfully  devoted.  I  promised 
to  go — Saturday  to  Wednesday  next." 

"  Training  race-horses  !"  said  Soames.  It  was  bad 
enough,  but  not  the  reason  for  his  distaste.  Why  the  deuce 
couldn't  his  nephew  have  stayed  out  in  South  Africa  ?  His 
own  divorce  had  been  bad  enough,  without  his  nephew's 
marriage  to  the  daughter  of  the  co-respondent;  a  half-sister 
too  of  June,  and  of  that  boy  whom  Fleur  had  just  been 
looking  at  from  under  the  pump-handle.  If  he  didn't 
look  out,  she  would  come  to  know  all  about  that  old  disgrace  ! 
Unpleasant  things  1  They  were  round  him  this  afternoon 
like  a  swarm  of  bees  ! 

"  I  don't  like  it  !"  he  said. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  race-horses,"  murmured  Fleur;  "  and 
they've  promised  I  shall  ride.  Cousin  Val  can't  walk  much, 
you  know;  but  he  can  ride  perfectly.  He's  going  to  show 
me  their  gallops." 

"  Racing  !"  said  Soames.  "  It's  a  pity  the  War  didn't 
knock  that  on  the  head.  He's  taking  after  his  father,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  his  father." 

"  No,"  said  Soames,  grimly.  "  He  took  an  interest  in 
horses  and  broke  his  neck  in  Paris,  walking  down-stairs. 
Good  riddance  for  your  aunt."  He  frowned,  recollecting 
the  inquiry  into  those  stairs  which  he  had  attended  in  Paris 
six  years  ago,  because  Montague  Dartie  could  not  attend  it 
h  imself — perfectly  normal  stairs    in    a  house   where  they 


8i2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

played  baccarat.  Either  his  winnings  or  the  way  he  had 
celebrated  them  had  gone  to  his  brother-in-law*s  head. 
The  French  procedure  had  been  very  loose;  he  had  had  a 
lot  of  trouble  with  it. 

A  sound  from  Fleur  distracted  his  attention.  "  Look  ! 
The  people  who  were  in  the  Gallery  with  us." 

"  What  people  ?"  muttered  Soames,  who  knew  perfectly 
well. 

"  I  think  that  woman's  beautiful." 

"  Come  into  this  pastry-cook's,"  said  Soames  abruptly, 
and  tightening  his  grip  on  her  arm  he  turned  into  a  con- 
fectioner's. It  was — for  him — a  surprising  thing  to  do, 
and  he  said  rather  anxiously:     "  What  will  you  have  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  want  anything.  I  had  a  cocktail  and  a 
tremendous  lunch." 

"  We  must  have  something  now  we're  here,"  muttered 
Soames,  keeping  hold  of  her  arm. 

"Two  teas,"  he  said;  "and  two  of  those  nougat 
things." 

But  no  sooner  was  his  body  seated  than  his  soul  sprang  up. 
Those  three — those  three  were  coming  in  !  He  heard  Irene 
say  something  to  her  boy,  and  his  answer: 

"Oh!  no.  Mum;  this  place  is  all  right.  My  stunt." 
And  the  three  sat  down. 

At  that  moment,  most  awkward  of  his  existence,  crowded 
with  ghosts  and  shadows  from  his  past,  in  presence  of  the 
only  two  women  he  had  ever  loved — his  divorced  wife  and 
his  daughter  by  her  successor — Soames  was  not  so  much 
afraid  of  them  as  of  his  cousin  June.  She  might  make  a  scene 
— she  might  introduce  those  two  children — she  was  capable 
of  anything.  He  bit  too  hastily  at  the  nougat,  and  it  stuck 
to  his  plate.  Working  at  it  with  his  finger,  he  glanced  at 
Fleur.  She  was  masticating  dreamily,  but  her  eyes  were  on 
the  boy.     The  Forsyte  in  him  said :  "  Think,  feel,  and  you're 


TO  LET  813 

done  for  !"  And  he  wiggled  his  finger  desperately.  Plate  ! 
Did  Jolyon  wear  a  plate  ?  Did  that  woman  wear  a  plate  ? 
Time  had  been  when  he  had  seen  her  wearing  nothing  ! 
That  was  something,  anyway,  which  had  never  been  stolen 
from  him.  And  she  knew  it,  though  she  might  sit  there 
calm  and  self-possessed,  as  if  she  had  never  been  his  wife. 
An  acid  humour  stirred  in  his  Forsyte  blood;  a  subtle  pain 
divided  by  hair's -breadth  from  pleasure.  If  only  June  did 
not  suddenly  bring  her  hornets  about  his  ears  !  The  boy 
was  talking. 

"  Of  course.  Auntie  June  " — so  he  called  his  half-sister 
"  Auntie,"  did  he  ? — well,  she  must  be  fifty,  if  she  was  a 
day  ! — "  it's  jolly  good  of  you  to  encourage  them.  Only — 
hang  it  all  !"  Soames  stole  a  glance.  Irene's  startled  eyes 
were  bent  watchfully  on  her  boy.  She — she  had  these 
devotions — for  Bosinney — for  that  boy's  father — for  this 
boy  !     He  touched  Fleur's  arm,  and  said: 

"  Well,  have  you  had  enough  ?" 

"  One  more.  Father,  please." 

She  would  be  sick  !  He  went  to  the  counter  to  pay. 
When  he  turned  round  again  he  saw  Fleur  standing  near 
the  door,  holding  a  handkerchief  which  the  boy  had  evidently 
just  handed  to  her. 

*'  F.  F.,"  he  heard  her  say.  "  Fleur  Forsyte — it's  mine 
all  right.     Thank  you  ever  so." 

Good  God  !  She  had  caught  the  trick  from  what  he'd 
told  her  in  the  Gallery — monkey  ! 

*'  Forsyte  ?  Why — that's  my  name  too.  Perhaps  we're 
cousins." 

*'  Really  !  We  must  be.  There  aren't  any  others.  I 
live  at  Mapledurham;  where  do  you  ?" 

"  Robin  Hill." 

Question  and  answer  had  been  so  rapid  that  all  was  over 
before  he  could  lift  a  finger.     He  saw  Irene's  face  alive  with 


8 14  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

startled  feeling,  gave  the  slightest  shake  of  his  head,  and 
slipped  his  arm  through  Fleur's. 

"  Come  along  !"  he  said. 

She  did  not  move. 

"  Didn't  you  hear,  Father  ?  Isn't  it  queer — our  name's 
the  same.     Are  we  cousins  ?" 

"  What's  that  ?"  he  said.     "  Forsyte  ?     Distant,  perhaps." 

"  My  name's  Jolyon,  sir.     Jon,  for  short." 

"  Oh  !  Ah  !"  said  Soames.  "  Yes.  Distant.  How  are 
you  ?     Very  good  of  you.     Good-bye  !" 

He  moved  on. 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  Fleur  was  saying.     "  Au  revoir  .'" 

"  Au  revoir  .^"  he  heard  the  boy  reply. 


CHAPTER  II 

FINE    FLEUR    FORSYTE 

Emerging  from  the  "  pastry-cook's,"  Soames'  first  impulse 
was  to  vent  his  nerves  by  saying  to  his  daughter :  "  Dropping 
your  handkerchief!"  to  which  her  reply  might  well  be: 
"  I  picked  that  up  from  you  !"  His  second  impulse  there- 
fore was  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie.  But  she  would  surely 
question  him.  He  gave  her  a  sidelong  look,  and  found  she 
was  giving  him  the  same.     She  said  softly: 

"  Why  don't  you  Hke  those  cousins.  Father  ?" 

Soames  lifted  the  corner  of  his  lip. 

"  What  made  you  think  that  ?" 

"  Cela  se  voitr 

'  That  sees  itself  !'     What  a  way  of  putting  it  ! 

After  twenty  years  of  a  French  wife  Soames  had  still  little 
sympathy  with  her  language;  a  theatrical  affair  and  con- 
nected in  his  mind  with  all  the  refinements  of  domestic  irony. 

"  How  ?"  he  asked. 

"  You  must  know  them ;  and  you  didn't  make  a  sign.  I 
saw  them  looking  at  you." 

"  I've  never  seen  the  boy  in  my  life,"  replied  Soames  with 
perfect  truth. 

"  No;  but  you've  seen  the  others,  dear." 

Soames  gave  her  another  look.  What  had  she  picked  up  ? 
Had  her  Aunt  Winifred,  or  Imogen,  or  Val  Dartie  and  his 
wife,  been  talking  ?  Every  breath  of  the  old  scandal  had 
been  carefuUy  kept  from  her  at  home,  and  Winifred  warned 
many  times  that  he  wouldn't  have  a  whisper  of  it  reach  her 
for  the  world.  So  far  as  she  ought  to  know,  he  had  never 
been  married  before.     But  her  dark  eyes,  whose  southern 

815 


8i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

glint  and  clearness  often  almost  frightened  him,   met  his 
with  perfect  innocence. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  your  grandfather  and  his  brother  had 
a  quarrel.     The  two  families  don't  know  each  other." 

"  How  romantic  !" 

*  Now,  what  does  she  mean  by  that  ?'  he  thought.  The 
word  was  to  him  extravagant  and  dangerous — it  was  as  if 
she  had  said:  "  How  jolly  !" 

"  And  they'll  continue  not  to  know  each  other,"  he  added, 
but  instantly  regretted  the  challenge  in  those  words.  Fleur 
was  smiling.  In  this  age,  when  young  people  prided  them- 
selves on  going  their  own  ways  and  paying  no  attention  to 
any  sort  of  decent  prejudice,  he  had  said  the  very  thing  to 
excite  her  wilfulness.  Then,  recollecting  the  expression 
on  Irene's  face,  he  breathed  again. 

"  What  sort  of  a  quarrel  ?"  he  heard  Fleur  say. 

"  About  a  house.  It's  ancient  history  for  you.  Your 
grandfather  died  the  day  you  were  born.     He  was  ninety." 

"  Ninety  ?  Are  there  many  Forsytes  besides  those  in 
the  Red  Book  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Soames.  "  They're  all  dispersed 
now.     The  old  ones  are  dead,  except  Timothy." 

Fleur  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Timothy  ?     Isn't  that  delicious .?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Soames.  It  offended  him  that  she 
should  think  "  Timothy  "  delicious — a  kind  of  insult  to  his 
breed.  This  new  generation  mocked  at  anything  solid  and 
tenacious.  "  You  go  and  see  the  old  boy.  He  might  want 
to  prophesy."  Ah  !  If  Timothy  could  see  the  disquiet 
England  of  his  greatnephews  and  greatnieces,  he  would 
certainly  give  tongue.  And  involuntarily  he  glanced  up 
at  the  Iseeum ;  yes — George  was  still  in  the  window,  with  the 
same  pink  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  Where  is  Robin  Hill,  father  ?" 


TO  LET  817 

Robin  Hill !  Robin  Hill,  round  which  all  that  tragedy 
had  centred  !     What  did  she  want  to  know  for  ? 

"In  Surrey,"  he  muttered;  "not  far  from  Richmond. 
Why  ?" 

"  Is  the  house  there  ?" 

"  What  house  ?" 

"  That  they  quarrelled  about." 

"  Yes.  But  what's  all  that  to  do  with  you  ?  We're  going 
home  to-morrow — you'd  better  be  thinking  about  your 
frocks." 

"  Bless  you  !  They're  all  thought  about.  A  family 
feud  ?  It's  like  the  Bible,  or  Mark  Twain — awfully  exciting. 
What  did  you  do  in  the  feud.  Father  ?" 

"  Never  you  mind." 

"  Oh  !     But  if  I'm  to  keep  it  up  ?" 

"  Who  said  you  were  to  keep  it  up  ?" 

"  You,  darhng." 

"  I  ?     I  said  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"  Just  what  /  think,  you  know;  so  that's  all  right." 

She  was  too  sharp  for  him;  /?«<?,  as  Annette  sometimes 
called  her.     Nothing  for  it  but  to  distract  her  attention. 

"  There's  a  bit  of  rosaline  point  in  here,"  he  said,  stopping 
before  a  shop,  "  that  I  thought  you  might  like." 

When  he  had  paid  for  it  and  they  had  resumed  their 
progress,  Fleur  said: 

"  Don't  you  think  that  boy's  mother  is  the  most  beautiful, 
woman  of  her  age  you've  ever  seen  ?" 

Soames  shivered.     Uncanny,  the  way  she  stuck  to  it  ! 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  noticed  her." 

"  Dear,  I  saw  the  corner  of  your  eye." 

"  You  see  everything — and  a  great  deal  more,  it  seem^" 
to  me  !" 

"  What's  her  husband  like  ?  He  must  be  your  first 
cousin,  if  your  fathers  were  brothers." 

27 


8i8  THE  FORSY^TE  SAGA 

"  Dead,  for  all  I  know,"  said  Soames,  with  sudden 
vehemence.     "  I  haven't  seen  him  for  twentj^  years." 

"  What  was  he  ?" 

"  A  painter." 

''■  That's  quite  jolly." 

The  words :  ''  If  you  want  to  please  me  you'll  put 
those  people  out  of  your  head,"  sprang  to  Soames'  lips, 
but  he  choked  them  back — he  must  not  let  her  see  his 
feelings. 

"  He  once  insulted  me,"  he  said. 

Her  quick  eyes  rested  on  his  face. 

"  I  see  !  You  didn't  avenge  it,  and  it  rankles.  Poor 
Father  !     You  let  me  have  a  go  1" 

It  was  really  like  lying  in  the  dark  with  a  mosquito  hover- 
ing above  his  face.  Such  pertinacity  in  Fleur  was  new  to 
him,  and,  as  they  reached  the  hotel,  he  said  grimly: 

"  I  did  my  best.  And  that's  enough  about  these  people. 
I'm  going  up  till  dinner." 

"  I  shall  sit  here." 

With  a  parting  look  at  her  extended  in  a  chair — a  look 
half -resentful,  half-adoring — Soames  moved  into  the  lift 
and  was  transported  to  their  suite  on  the  fourth  floor.  He 
stood  by  the  window  of  the  sitting-room  which  gave  view 
over  Hyde  Park,  and  drummed  a  finger  on  its  pane.  His 
feelings  were  confused,  techy,  troubled.  The  throb  of  that 
old  wound,  scarred  over  by  Time  and  new  interests,  was 
mingled  with  displeasure  and  anxiety,  and  a  slight  pain  in 
his  chest  where  that  nougat  stuff  had  disagreed.  Had 
Annette  come  in  ?  Not  that  she  was  any  good  to  him  in 
such  a  difficulty.  Whenever  she  had  questioned  him  about 
his  first  marrigse,  he  iiad  always  shut  her  up;  she  knew 
nothing  of  it,  save  that  it  had  been  the  great  passion  of  his 
life,  and  his  marriage  with  herself  but  domestic  makeshift. 
She  had  always  kept  the  grudge  of  that  up  her  sleeve,  as  it 
were,  and  used  it  commercially.     He  listened.     A  sound — 


TO  LET  819 

the  vague  murmur  of  a  woman's  movements — was  coming 
through  the  door.     She  was  in.     He  tapped. 

"  Who  ?" 

"  I,"  said  Soames. 

She  had  been  changing  her  frock,  and  was  still  imperfectly 
clothed;  a  striking  figure  before  her  glass.  There  was  a 
certain  magnificence  about  her  arms,  shoulders,  hair,  which 
had  darkened  since  he  first  knew  her,  about  the  turn  of  her 
neck,  the  silkiness  of  her  garments,  her  dark-lashed,  grey- 
blue  eyes — she  was  certainly  as  handsome  at  forty  as  she 
had  ever  been.  A  fine  possession,  an  excellent  housekeeper, 
a  sensible  and  affectionate  enough  mother.  If  only  she 
weren't  always  so  frankly  cynical  about  the  relations  between 
them  !  Soames,  who  had  no  more  real  affection  for  her  than 
she  had  for  him,  suffered  from  a  kind  of  English  grievance 
in  that  she  had  never  dropped  even  the  thinnest  veil  of 
sentiment  over  their  partnership.  Like  most  of  his  country- 
men and  women,  he  held  the  view  that  marriage  should  be 
based  on  mutual  love,  but  that  when  from  a  marriage  love 
had  disappeared,  or  been  found  never  to  have  really  existed — 
so  that  it  was  manifestly  not  based  on  love — you  must  not 
admit  it.  There  it  was,  and  the  love  was  not — but  there  you 
were,  and  must  continue  to  be  !  Thus  you  had  it  both  ways, 
and  were  not  tarred  with  cynicism,  realism,  and  immorality 
Uke  the  French.  Moreover,  it  was  necessary  in  the  interests 
of  property.  He  knew  that  she  knew  that  they  both  knew 
there  was  no  love  between  them,  but  he  still  expected  her 
not  to  admit  in  words  or  conduct  such  a  thing,  and  he 
could  never  understand  what  she  meant  when  she  talked  of 
the  hypocrisy  of  the  English.     He  said: 

"  Whom  have  you  got  at  '  The  Shelter  '  next  week  ?" 

Annette  went  on  touching  her  lips  delicately  with  salve 
— he  always  wished  she  wouldn't  do  that. 

"  Your  sister  Winifred,  and  the  Car-r-digans — "  she  took 
up  a  tiny  stick  of  black — "  and  Prosper  Profond." 


fl- 


SSiZ 


r^  r^^Oi-ir  ^Av^A 


WV-  -  -  ^ 


"Ribb-irr.     I 


''111 


T'   SSuZ  ML-- 


.    __  i . 


-Me 


=  sort 


/,_._.,^^,  * 


TO  1Z7  82» 

"That's  it,  rhez-,'*  nmrterei  5:in^.  "Dees  Le  know 
anvthing  about  picnires  r" 

"  He  knows  about  eTervr'n irrg — a  man  of  tne  world-"* 

"  WelL  get  some  one  for  Flenr.  I  want  to  diaxract  tier. 
She's  going  o:E  on  Sarordav  to  Val  Danie  and  bis  wife; 
I  don't  like  it." 

"  Whv  not :" 

Since  the  reason  cotdd  not  be  explained  without  going  into 
family  historv.  Soames  merely  answered : 

"  Racketing  abonr.     There's  too  mnch  of  it." 

'*  I  like  that  little  Mrs.  Val;  she  is  renr  quiet  and  clerer." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  her  exceDt This  thing's  new.*' 

And  Soames  took  up  a  creation  from  the  bed. 

Annette  received  it  from  him. 

"  Would  you  hook  me  :''  she  said. 

Soames  hooked.  Glancing  once  over  her  £n;-^~er  into 
the  slass.  he  siw  the  eiDression  :n  her  face,  faintly  amused, 
faintly  contemptuous,  as  much  as  to  say :  ~  Thinks  .  Yoa 
will  never  learn  '.''  Xo,  thank  Grd.  he  wasn't  a  Frenchman  i 
He  finished  with  a  jerL  mi  ihe  words:  "It's  too  iow 
here."  And  he  went  to  the  door,  with  the  wish  to  eet 
away  from  her  and  so  down  to  Fleur  again. 

Annette  stayed  a  :?owier-d£.  iz.z  saia  witn  startlmg 
suddenness : 

"  Ou^  tu  es  grossisr  f 

He  knew  the  expression — he  hii  reason  to.  The  nrst 
time  she  had  used  it  he  had  thought  it  meant  ""  What  a 
grocer  vou  are  I"  and  had  not  known  whether  to  be  relieved 
or  not  when  better  informed.  He  res=n:r^  :he  w:ri — he 
was  not  coarse  I  If  he  wis  coarse,  wiiat  was  that  chap  in  the 
room  beyond  his,  who  made  those  horrible  noises  in  the 
morning  when  he  cleared  hb  throat,  or  those  people  in  the 
Lounge  who  thought  it  well-bred  to  sav  nothing  but  what 
the  whole  world  could  hear  at  the  tor  of  their  voices — cuack- 


822  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

ing  inanity  !  Coarse,  because  he  had  said  her  dress  was  low  I 
Well,  so  it  was  !     He  went  out  without  reply. 

Coming  into  the  Lounge  from  the  far  end,  he  at  once 
saw  Fleur  where  he  had  left  her.  She  sat  with  crossed  knees, 
slowly  balancing  a  foot  in  silk  stocking  and  grey  shoe,  sure 
sign  that  she  was  dreaming.  Her  eyes  showed  it  too — they 
went  off  like  that  sometimes.  And  then,  in  a  moment, 
she  would  come  to  life,  and  be  as  quick  and  restless  as  a 
monkey.  And  she  knew  so  much,  so  self-assured,  and  not 
yet  nineteen.  What  was  that  odious  word  ?  Flapper  ! 
Dreadful  young  creatures — squealing  and  squawking  and 
showing  their  legs  !  The  worst  of  them  bad  dreams,  the 
best  of  them  powdered  angels  !  Fleur  was  not  a  flapper, 
not  one  of  those  slangy,  ill-bred  young  females.  And  yet 
she  was  frighteningly  self-willed,  and  full  of  life,  and  deter- 
mined to  enjoy  it.  Enjoy  !  The  word  brought  no  puritan 
terror  to  Soames;  but  it  brought  the  terror  suited  to  his 
temperament.  He  had  always  been  afraid  to  enjoy  to-day 
for  fear  he  might  not  enjoy  to-morrow  so  much.  And  it 
was  terrifying  to  feel  that  his  daughter  was  divested  of  that 
safeguard.  The  very  way  she  sat  in  that  chair  showed  it — 
lost  in  her  dream.  He  had  never  been  lost  in  a  dream  him- 
self— there  was  nothing  to  be  had  out  of  it ;  and  where  she 
got  it  from  he  did  not  know  !  Certainly  not  from  Annette  1 
And  yet  Annette,  as  a  young  girl,  when  he  was  hanging 
about  her,  had  once  had  a  flowery  look.  Well,  she  had  lost 
it  now  ! 

Fleur  rose  from  her  chair — swiftly,  restlessly,  and  flung 
herself  down  at  a  writing-table.  Seizing  ink  and  writing- 
paper,  she  began  to  write  as  if  she  had  not  time  to  breathe 
before  she  got  her  letter  written.  And  suddenly  she  saw 
him.  The  air  of  desperate  absorption  vanished,  she  smiled, 
waved  a  kiss,  made  a  pretty  face  as  if  she  were  a  little  puzzled 
and  a  little  bored. 

Ah  !     She  was  "  fine  "— "  fine  r 


CHAPTER    III 

AT    ROBIN    HILL 

JoLYON  Forsyte  had  spent  his  boy's  nineteenth  birthday  at 
Robin  Hill,  quietly  going  into  his  affairs.  He  did  every- 
thing quietly  now,  because  his  heart  was  in  a  poor  way,  and, 
like  all  his  family,  he  disliked  the  idea  of  dying.  He  had 
never  realized  how  much  till  one  day,  two  years  ago,  he  had 
gone  to  his  doctor  about  certain  symptoms,  and  been  told: 

''  At  any  moment,  on  any  overstrain." 

He  had  taken  it  with  a  smile — the  natural  Forsyte  reaction 
against  an  unpleasant  truth.  But  with  an  increase  of 
symptoms  in  the  train  on  the  way  home,  he  had  realized 
to  the  full  the  sentence  hanging  over  him.  To 
leave  Irene,  his  boy,  his  home,  his  work — though  he  did 
little  enough  work  now  !  To  leave  them  for  unknown 
darkness,  for  the  unimaginable  state,  for  such  nothingness 
that  he  would  not  even  be  conscious  of  wind  stirring  leaves 
above  his  grave,  nor  of  the  scent  of  earth  and  grass.  Of 
such  nothingness  that,  however  hard  he  might  try  to  con- 
ceive it,  he  never  could,  and  must  still  hover  on  the  hope 
that  he  might  see  again  those  he  loved  !  To  realize  this  was 
to  endure  very  poignant  spiritual  anguish.  Before  he  reached 
home  that  day  he  had  determined  to  keep  it  from  Irene. 
He  would  have  to  be  more  careful  than  man  had  ever  been, 
for  the  least  thing  would  give  it  away  and  make  her  as 
wretched  as  himself,  almost.  His  doctor  had  passed  him 
sound  in  other  respects,  and  seventy  was  nothing  of  an  age — 
he  would  last  a  long  time  yet,  if  he  could  ! 

Such   a   conclusion,   followed  out  for   nearly  two   years, 

823 


824  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

develops  to  the  full  the  subtler  side  of  character.  Naturally 
not  abrupt,  except  when  nervously  excited,  Jolyon  had 
become  control  incarnate.  The  sad  patience  of  old  people 
who  cannot  exert  themselves  was  masked  by  a  smile  which 
his  lips  preserved  even  in  private.  He  devised  continually 
all  manner  of  cover  to  conceal  his  enforced  lack  of  exertion. 

Mocking  himself  for  so  doing,  he  counterfeited  conversion 
to  the  Simple  Life;  gave  up  wine  and  cigars,  drank  a  special 
kind  of  coffee  with  no  coffee  in  it.  In  short,  he  made  himself 
as  safe  as  a  Forsyte  in  his  condition  could,  under  the  rose  of 
his  mild  irony.  Secure  from  discovery,  since  his  wife  and 
son  had  gone  up  to  Town,  he  had  spent  the  fine  May  day 
quietly  arranging  his  papers,  that  he  might  die  to-morrow 
without  inconveniencing  any  one,  giving  in  fact  a  final 
polish  to  his  terrestrial  state.  Having  docketed  and  enclosed 
it  in  his  father's  old  Chinese  cabinet,  he  put  the  key  into  an 
envelope,  wrote  the  words  outside:  "  Key  of  the  Chinese 
cabinet,  wherein  will  be  found  the  exact  state  of  me.  J.  F.," 
and  put  it  in  his  breast-pocket,  where  it  would  be,  always 
about  him,  in  case  of  accident.  Then,  ringing  for  tea,  he 
went  out  to  have  it  under  the  old  oak-tree. 

All  are  under  sentence  of  death;  Jolyon,  whose  sentence 
was  but  a  little  more  precise  and  pressing,  had  become  so 
used  to  it  that  he  thought  habitually,  like  other  people,  of 
other  things.     He  thought  of  his  son  now. 

Jon  was  nineteen  that  day,  and  Jon  had  come  of  late  to  a 
decision.  Educated  neither  at  Eton  like  his  father,  nor  at 
Harrow,  like  his  dead  half-brother,  but  at  one  of  those 
establishments  which,  designed  to  avoid  the  evil  and  contain 
the  good  of  the  Public  School  system,  may  or  may  not 
contain  the  evil  and  avoid  the  good,  Jon  had  left  in  April 
perfectly  ignorant  of  what  he  wanted  to  become.  The 
War,  which  had  promised  to  go  on  for  ever,  had  ended  just 
as  he  was  about  to  join  the  Army,  six  months  before  his  time. 


TO  LET  825 

It  had  taken  him  ever  since  to  get  used  to  the  idea  that  he 
could  now  choose  for  himself.     He  had  held  with  his  father 
several  discussions,  from  which,  under  a  cheery  show  of  being 
ready  for  anything — except,  of  course,  the  Church,  Army, 
Law,    Stage,    Stock    Exchange,    Medicine,    Business,    and 
Engineering — Jolyon  had  gathered  rather  clearly  that  Jon 
wanted  to  go  in  for  nothing.      He  himself  had  felt  exactly 
like  that  at  the  same  age.     With  him  that  pleasant  vacuity 
had  soon  been  ended  by  an  early  marriage,  and  its  unhappy 
consequences.     Forced  to  become  an  underwriter  at  Lloyd's, 
he  had   regained  prosperity   before  his   artistic   talent  had 
outcropped.     But  having — as   the  simple  say — "  learned  " 
his  boy  to  draw  pigs  and  other  animals,  he  knew  that  Jon 
would  never  be  a  painter,  and  inclined  to  the  conclusion 
that  his  aversion  from  everything  else  meant  that  he  was 
going  to   be  a   writer.     Holding,  however,   the  view  that 
experience   was   necessary   even   for   that   profession,    there 
seemed  to  Jolyon  nothing  in  the  meantime,  for  Jon,  but 
University,   travel,   and  perhaps   the  eating  of  dinners  for 
the  Bar.     After  that  one  would  see,  or  more  probably  one 
would  not.     In  face  of  these  proffered  allurements,  however, 
Jon  had  remained  undecided. 

Such  discussions  with  his  son  had  confirmed  in  Jolyon  a 
doubt  whether  the  world  had  really  changed.  People  said 
that  it  was  a  new  age.  With  the  profundity  of  one  not  too 
long  for  any  age,  Jolyon  perceived  that  under  slightly 
different  surfaces  the  era  was  precisely  what  it  had  been. 
Mankind  was  still  divided  into  two  species :  The  few  who  had 
"  speculation  "  in  their  souls,  and  the  many  who  had  none, 
with  a  belt  of  hybrids  like  himself  in  the  middle.  Jon 
appeared  to  have  speculation;  it  seemed  to  his  father  a  bad 
lookout. 

With  something  deeper,  therefore,  than  his  usual  smile, 
he  had  heard  the  boy  say,  a  fortnight  ago:  "  I  should  like 

27* 


826  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  try  farming,  Dad;  if  it  won't  cost  you  too  much.  It 
seems  to  be  about  the  only  sort  of  life  that  doesn't  hurt 
anybody;  except  art,  and  of  course  that's  out  of  the  question 
for  me." 

Jolyon  subdued  his  smile,  and  answered: 

"  All  right ;  you  shall  skip  back  to  where  we  were  under 
the  first  Jolyon  in  1760.  It'll  prove  the  cycle  theory,  and 
incidentally,  no  doubt,  you  may  grow  a  better  turnip  than 
he  did." 

A  little  dashed,  Jon  had  answered: 

"  But  don't  you  think  it's  a  good  scheme.  Dad  ?" 

"  'Twill  serve,  my  dear;  and  if  you  should  really  take  to 
it,  you'll  do  more  good  than  most  men,  which  is  little 
enough." 

To  himself,  however,  he  had  said:  "  But  he  won't  take  to 
it.     I  give  him  four  years.     Still,  it's  healthy,  and  harmless." 

After  turning  the  matter  over  and  consulting  with  Irene, 
he  wrote  to  his  daughter,  ■  Mrs.  Val  Dartie,  asking  if  they 
knew  of  a  farmer  near  them  on  the  Downs  who  would  take 
Jon  as  an  apprentice.  Holly's  answer  had  been  enthusiastic. 
There  was  an  excellent  man  quite  close;  she  and  Val  would 
love  Jon  to  live  with  them. 

The  boy  was  due  to  go  to-morrow. 

Sipping  weak  tea  with  lemon  in  it,  Jolyon  gazed  through 
the  leaves  of  the  old  oak-tree  at  that  view  which  had  appeared 
to  him  desirable  for  thirty-two  years.  The  tree  beneath 
which  he  sat  seemed  not  a  day  older  I  So  young,  the  little 
leaves  of  brownish  gold;  so  old,  the  whitey-grey-green  of  its 
thick  rough  trunk.  A  tree  of  memories,  which  would  live  on 
hundreds  of  years  yet,  unless  some  barbarian  cut  it  down — 
would  see  old  England  out  at  the  pace  things  were  going  ! 
He  remembered  a  night  three  years  before,  when,  looking 
from  his  window,  with  his  arm  close  round  Irene,  he  had 
watched    a    German   aeroplane   hovering,   it   seemed,  right 


TO  LET  827 

over  the  old  tree.  Next  day  they  had  found  a  bomb  hole 
in  a  field  on  Gage's  farm.  That  was  before  he  knew  that 
he  was  under  sentence  of  death.  He  could  almost  have 
wished  the  bomb  had  finished  him.  It  would  have  saved  a 
lot  of  hanging  about,  many  hours  of  cold  fear  in  the  pit  of 
his  stomach.  He  had  counted  on  living  to  the  normal 
Forsyte  age  of  eighty-five  or  more,  when  Irene  would  be 
seventy.  As  it  was,  she  would  miss  him.  Still  there  was 
Jon,  more  important  in  her  life  than  himself;  Jon,  who 
adored  his  mother. 

Under  that  tree,  where  old  Jolyon — waiting  for  Irene 
to  come  to  him  across  the  lawn — had  breathed  his  last, 
Jolyon  wondered,  whimsically,  whether,  having  put  every- 
thing in  such  perfect  order,  he  had  not  better  close  his  own 
eyes  and  drift  away.  There  was  something  undignified  in 
parasitically  clinging  on  to  the  effortless  close  of  a  life  wherein 
he  regretted  two  things  only — the  long  division  between 
his  father  and  himself  when  he  was  young,  and  the  lateness 
of  his  union  with  Irene. 

From  where  he  sat  he  could  see  a  cluster  of  apple-trees 
in  blossom.  Nothing  in  Nature  moved  him  so  much  as 
fruit-trees  in  blossom;  and  his  heart  ached  suddenly  because 
he  might  never  see  them  flower  again.  Spring  !  Decidedly 
no  man  ought  to  have  to  die  while  his  heart  was  still  young 
enough  to  love  beauty  !  Blackbirds  sang  recklessly  in  the 
shrubbery,  swallows  were  flying  high,  the  leaves  above  him 
glistened;  and  over  the  fields  was  every  imaginable  tint  of 
•early  foliage,  burnished  by  the  level  sunlight,  away  to  where 
the  distant  '  smoke-bush  '  blue  was  trailed  along  the 
horizon.  Irene's  flowers  in  their  narrow  beds  had  startling 
individuality  that  evening,  little  deep  assertions  of  gay  life. 
Only  Chinese  and  Japanese  painters,  and  perhaps  Leonardo, 
had  known  how  to  get  that  startling  little  ego  into  each 
painted  flower,  and  bird,  and  beast — the  ego,  yet  the  sense 


828  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  species,  the  universality  of  life  as  well.  They  were  the 
fellows  !  *  I've  made  nothing  that  will  live  !'  thought 
Jolyon;  '  I've  been  an  amateur — a  mere  lover,  not  a  creator. 
Still,  I  shall  leave  Jon  behind  me  when  I  go.'  What  luck 
that  the  boy  had  not  been  caught  by  that  ghastly  war  ! 
He  might  so  easily  have  been  killed,  like  poor  Jolly  twenty 
years  ago  out  In  the  Transvaal.  Jon  would  do  something 
some  day — If  the  Age  didn't  spoil  him — an  imaginative 
chap  !  His  whim  to  take  up  farming  was  but  a  bit  of 
sentiment,  and  about  as  likely  to  last.  And  just  then  he  saw 
them  coming  up  the  field:  Irene  and  the  boy,  walking  from 
the  station,  with  their  arms  linked.  And  getting  up,  he 
strolled  down  through  the  new  rose  garden  to  meet  them.  .  .  . 

Irene  came  into  his  room  that  night  and  sat  down  by  the 
window.     She  sat  there  without  speaking  till  he  said : 

"  What  is  it,  my  love  ?" 

"  We  had  an  encounter  to-day." 

"  With  whom  ?" 

"  Soames." 

Soames  !  He  had  kept  that  name  out  of  his  thoughts 
these  last  two  years;  conscious  that  it  was  bad  for  him.  And, 
now,  his  heart  moved  in  a  disconcerting  manner,  as  if  it  had 
side-slipped  within  his  chest. 

Irene  went  on  quietly: 

"  He  and  his  daughter  were  in  the  Gallery,  and  afterward 
at  the  confectioner's  where  we  had  tea." 

Jolyon  went  over  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  How  did  he  look  ?" 

"  Grey;  but  otherwise  much  the  same." 

"  And  the  daughter  ?" 

"  Pretty.     At  least,  Jon  thought  so." 

Jolyon's  heart  side-slipped  again.  His  wife's  face  had  a 
strained  and  puzzled  look. 


TO  LET  8^9 

"  You  didn't ?''  he  began. 

"  No;  but  Jon  knows  their  name.  The  girl  dropped  her 
handkerchief  and  he  picked  it  up." 

Jolyon  sat  down  on  his  bed.     An  evil  chance  ! 

"  June  was  with  you.     Did  she  put  her  foot  into  it  ?" 

"  No;  but  it  was  all  very  queer  and  strained,  and  Jon 
could  see  it  was." 

Jolyon  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said : 

"  I've  often  wondered  whether  we've  been  right  to  keep 
it  from  him.     He'll  find  out  some  day." 

*'  The  later  the  better,  Jolyon;  the  young  have  such  cheap, 
hard  judgment.  When  you  were  nineteen  what  would  you 
have  thought  of  your  mother  if  she  had  done  what  I  have  ?" 

Yes  !  There  it  was  !  Jon  worshipped  his  mother;  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  tragedies,  the  inexorable  necessities 
of  life,  nothing  of  the  prisoned  grief  in  an  unhappy  marriage, 
nothing  of  jealousy,  or  passion — knew  nothing  at  all,  as  yet  ! 

"  What  have  you  told  him  ?"  he  said  at  last. 

"That  they  were  relations,  but  we  didn't  know  them; 
that  you  had  never  cared  much  for  your  family,  or  they  for 
you.     I  expect  he  will  be  asking  yow." 

Jolyon  smiled.  "  This  promises  to  take  the  place  of 
air-raids,"  he  said.     "  After  all,  one  misses  them." 

Irene  looked  up  at  him. 

"  We've  known  it  would  come  some  day." 

He  answered  her  with  sudden  energy : 

"  I  could  never  stand  seeing  Jon  blame  you.  He  shan't 
do  that,  even  in  thought.  He  has  imagination;  and  he'll 
understand  if  it's  put  to  him  properly.  I  think  I  had  better 
tell  him  before  he  gets  to  know  otherwise." 

"  Not  yet,  Jolyon." 

That  was  like  her — she  had  no  foresight,  and  never  went 
to  meet  trouble.  Still — who  knew  ? — she  might  be  right. 
It  was  ill  going  against  a  mother's  instinct.     It  might  be 


830  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

well  to  let  the  boy  go  on,  if  possible,  till  experience  had  given 
him  some  touchstone  by  which  he  could  judge  the  values 
of  that  old  tragedy;  till  love,  jealousy,  longing,  had  deepened 
his  charity.  All  the  same,  one  must  take  precautions — 
every  precaution  possible  !  And,  long  after  Irene  had  left 
him,  he  lay  awake  turning  over  those  precautions.  He  must 
write  to  Holly,  teUing  her  that  Jon  knew  nothing  as  yet  of 
family  history.  Holly  was  discreet,  she  would  make  sure 
of  her  husband,  she  would  see  to  it  !  Jon  could  take  the 
letter  with  him  when  he  went  to-morrow. 

And  so  the  day  on  which  he  had  put  the  polish  on  his 
material  estate  died  out  with  the  chiming  of  the  stable 
clock;  and  another  began  for  Jolyon  in  the  shadow  of  a 
spiritual  disorder  which  could  not  be  so  rounded  off  and 
polished.  .  .  . 

But  Jon,  whose  room  had  once  been  his  day  nursery,  lay 
awake  too,  the  prey  of  a  sensation  disputed  by  those  who 
have  never  known  it,  "  love  at  first  sight  !"  He  had  felt 
it  beginning  in  him  with  the  glint  of  those  dark  eyes  gazing 
into  his  athwart  the  Juno — a  conviction  that  this  was  his 
*  dream  ' ;  so  that  what  followed  had  seemed  to  him  at 
once  natural  and  miraculous.  Fleur  !  Her  name  alone 
was  almost  enough  for  one  who  was  terribly  susceptible  to 
the  charm  of  words.  In  a  homoeopathic  age,  when  boys 
and  girls  were  co- educated,  and  mixed  up  in  early  life  till 
sex  was  almost  abolished,  Jon  was  singularly  old-fashioned. 
His  modern  school  took  boys  only,  and  his  holidays  had  been 
spent  at  Robin  Hill  with  boy  friends,  or  his  parents  alone. 
He  had  never,  therefore,  been  inoculated  against  the  germs 
of  love  by  small  doses  of  the  poison.  And  now  in  the  dark 
his  temperature  was  mounting  fast.  He  lay  awake,  featuring 
Fleur — as  they  called  it — recalling  her  words,  especially 
that  "  Au  revoir  /"  so  soft  and  sprightly. 


TO  LET  831 

He  was  still  so  wide  awake  at  dawn  that  he  got  up,  slipped 
on  tennis  shoes,  trousers,  and  a  sweater,  and  in  silence  crept 
downstairs  and  out  through  the  study  window.  It  was  just 
light;  there  was  a  smell  of  grass.  '  Fleur!'  he  thought; 
*  Fleur  !'  It  was  mysteriously  white  out  of  doors,  with 
nothing  awake  except  the  birds  just  beginning  to  chirp.  '  I'll 
go  down  into  the  coppice,'  he  thought.  He  ran  down 
through  the  fields,  reached  the  pond  just  as  the  sun  rose, 
and  passed  into  the  coppice.  Bluebells  carpeted  the  ground 
there;  among  the  larch -trees  there  was  mystery — the  air,  as 
it  were,  composed  of  that  romantic  quality.  Jon  sniffed  its 
freshness,  and  stared  at  the  bluebells  in  the  sharpening  light. 
Fleur  !  It  rhymed  with  her  !  And  she  lived  at  Maple- 
durham — a  jolly  name,  too,  on  the  river  somewhere.  He 
could  find  it  in  the  atlas  presently.  He  would  write  to  her. 
But  would  she  answer  ?  Oh  !  She  must.  She  had  said 
"  Au  revoir  I  "  Not  good-bye  !  What  luck  that  she  had 
dropped  her  handkerchief  !  He  would  never  have  known 
her  but  for  that.  And  the  more  he  thought  of  that 
handkerchief,  the  more  amazing  his  luck  seemed.  Fleur  ! 
It  certainly  rhymed  with  her  !  Rhythm  thronged  his  head; 
words  jostled  to  be  joined  together;  he  was  on  the  verge  of 
a  poem. 

Jon  remained  in  this  condition  for  more  than  half  an  hour, 
then  returned  to  the  house,  and  getting  a  ladder,  climbed  in 
at  his  bedroom  window  out  of  sheer  exhilaration.  Then, 
remembering  that  the  study  window  was  open,  he  went 
down  and  shut  it,  first  removing  the  ladder,  so  as  to  obliterate 
all  traces  of  his  feeling.  The  thing  was  too  deep  to  be 
revealed  to  mortal  soul — even  to  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE     MAUSOLEUM 

There  are  houses  whose  souls  have  passed  into  the  limbo 
of  Time,  leaving  their  bodies  in  the  limbo  of  London.  Such 
was  not  quite  the  condition  of  "  Timothy's  "  on  the  Bays- 
water  Road,  for  Timothy's  soul  still  had  one  foot  in  Timothy 
Forsyte's  body,  and  Smither  kept  the  atmosphere  unchang- 
ing, of  camphor  and  port  wine  and  house  whose  windows 
are  only  opened  to  air  it  twice  a  day. 

To  Forsyte  imagination  that  house  was  now  a  sort  of 
Chinese  pill -box,  a  series  of  layers  in  the  last  of  which  was 
Timothy.  One  did  not  reach  him,  or  so  it  was  reported 
by  members  of  the  family  who,  out  of  old-time  habit  or 
absent-mindedness,  would  drive  up  once  in  a  blue  moon 
and  ask  after  their  surviving  uncle.  Such  were  Francie, 
now  quite  emancipated  from  God  (she  frankly  avowed 
atheism),  Euphemia,  emancipated  from  old  Nicholas,  and 
Winifred  Dartie  from  her  "  man  of  the  world."  But,  after 
all,  everybody  was  emancipated  now,  or  said  they  were — 
perhaps  not  quite  the  same  thing  ! 

When  Soames,  therefore,  took  it  on  his  way  to  Paddington 
station  on  the  morning  after  that  encounter,  it  was  hardly 
with  the  expectation  of  seeing  Timothy  in  the  flesh.  His 
heart  made  a  faint  demonstration  within  him  while  he  stood 
in  full  south  sunlight  on  the  newly  whitened  doorstep  of 
that  little  house  where  four  Forsytes  had  once  lived,  and 
now  but  one  dwelt  on  like  a  winter  fly;  the  house  into  which 
Soames  had  come  and  out  of  which  he  had  gone  times  without 
number,  divested  of,  or  burdened  with,  fardels  of  family 

832 


TO  LET  833 

gossip;  the  house  of  the  "  old  people  "  of  another  century, 
another  age. 

The  sight  of  Smither — still  corseted  up  to  the  armpits 
because  the  new  fashion  which  came  in  as  they  were  going 
out  about  1903  had  never  been  considered  "  nice  "  by 
Aunts  Juley  and  Hester — brought  a  pale  friendliness  to 
Soames'  lips;  Smither,  still  faithfully  arranged  to  old  pattern 
in  every  detail,  an  invaluable  servant — none  such  left — 
smiling  back  at  him,  with  the  words :  "  Why  !  it's  Mr.  Soames, 
after  all  this  time  !  And  how  are  yow,  sir  ?  Mr.  Timothy 
will  be  so  pleased  to  know  you've  been." 

"  How  is  he  ?" 

"  Oh  !  he  keeps  fairly  bobbish  for  his  age,  sir ;  but  of  course 
he's  a  wonderful  man.  As  I  said  to  Mrs.  Dartie  when  she 
was  here  last :  It  would  pleaseMiss  Forsyte  and  Mrs.  Juley  and 
Miss  Hester  to  see  how  he  relishes  a  baked  apple  still.  But 
he's  quite  deaf.  And  a  mercy,  I  always  think.  For  what 
we  should  have  done  with  him  in  the  air-raids,  I  don't  know." 

"  Ah  I"  said  Soames.     "  What  did  you  do  with  him  ?" 

"  We  just  left  him  in  his  bed,  and  had  the  bell  run  down 
into  the  cellar,  so  that  Cook  and  I  could  hear  himi  if  he  rang. 
It  would  never  have  done  to  let  him  know  there  was  a  war 
on.  As  I  said  to  Cook,  '  If  Mr.  Timothy  rings,  they  may  do 
what  they  like — I'm  going  up.  My  dear  mistresses  would 
have  a  fit  if  they  could  see  him  ringing  and  nobody  going  to 
him.'  But  he  slept  through  them  all  beautiful.  And  the 
one  in  the  daytime  he  was  having  his  bath.  It  was  a  mercy, 
because  he  might  have  noticed  the  people  in  the  street  all 
looking  up — he  often  looks  out  of  the  window." 

"  Quite  !"  murmured  Soames.  Smither  was  getting 
garrulous  !  "  I  just  want  to  look  round  and  see  if  there's 
anything  to  be  done." 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  except  a  smell 
of  mice  in  the  dining-room  that  we  don't  know  how  to  get 


834  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

rid  of.  It's  funny  they  should  be  there,  and  not  a  crumb, 
since  Mr.  Timothy  took  to  not  coming  down,  just  before  the 
War.  But  they're  nasty  little  things;  you  never  know  where 
they'll  take  you  next." 

"  Does  he  leave  his  bed  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir;  he  takes  nice  exercise  between  his  bed  and 
the  window  in  the  morning,  not  to  risk  a  change  of  air. 
And  he's  quite  comfortable  in  himself;  has  his  Will  out  every 
day  regular.     It's  a  great  consolation  to  him — that." 

"  Well,  Smither,  I  want  to  see  him,  if  I  can;  in  case  he 
has  anything  to  say  to  me." 

Smither  coloured  up  above  her  corsets. 
"  It  will  be  an  occasion  !"  she  said.     "  Shall  I  take  you 
round  the  house,  sir,  while  I  send  Cook  to  break  it  to  him  ?" 
"  No,  you  go  to  him,"  said  Soames.     "  I  can  go  round  the 
house  by  myself." 

One  could  not  confess  to  sentiment  before  another,  and 
Soames  felt  that  he  was  going  to  be  sentimental  nosing 
round  those  rooms  so  saturated  with  the  past.  When 
Smither,  creaking  with  excitement,  had  left  him,  Soames 
entered  the  dining-room  and  sniffed.  In  his  opinion  it 
wasn't  mice,  but  incipient  wood-rot,  and  he  examined  the 
panelling.  Whether  it  was  worth  a  coat  of  paint,  at 
Timothy's  age,  he  was  not  sure.  The  room  had  always 
been  the  most  modern  in  the  house;  and  only  a  faint  smile 
curled  Soames'  lips  and  nostrils.  Walls  of  a  rich  green 
surmounted  the  oak  dado;  a  heavy  metal  chandelier  hung  by 
a  chain  from  a  ceiling  divided  by  imitation  beams.  The 
pictures  had  been  bought  by  Timothy,  a  bargain,  one  day 
at  Jobson's  sixty  years  ago — three  Snyder  "  still  lifes,"  two 
faintly  coloured  drawings  of  a  boy  and  a  girl,  rather  charming, 
which  bore  the  initials  "  J.  R." — Timothy  had  always 
believed  they  might  turn  out  to  be  Joshua  Reynolds,  but 
Soames,  who  admired  them,  had  discovered  that  they  were 


TO  LET  835 

only  John  Robinson;  and  a  doubtful  Morland  of  a  white 
pony  being  shod.  Deep-red  plush  curtains,  ten  high-backed 
dark  mahogany  chairs  with  deep -red  plush  seats,  a  Turkey 
carpet,  and  a  mahogany  dining-table  as  large  as  the  room 
was  small,  such  was  an  apartment  which  Soames  could 
remember  unchanged  in  soul  or  body  since  he  was  four 
years  old.  He  looked  especially  at  the  two  drawings,  and 
thought:  '  I  shall  buy  those  at  the  sale.' 

From  the  dining-room  he  passed  into  Timothy's  study. 
He  did  not  remember  ever  having  been  in  that  room.  It 
was  lined  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  volumes,  and  he  looked 
at  them  with  curiosity.  One  wall  seemed  devoted  to  educa- 
tional books,  which  Timothy's  firm  had  pubHshed  two 
generations  back — sometimes  as  many  as  twenty  copies  of 
one  book.  Soames  read  their  titles  and  shuddered.  The 
middle  wall  had  precisely  the  same  books  as  used  to  be  in  the 
library  at  his  own  father's  in  Park  Lane,  from  which  he 
deduced  the  fancy  that  James  and  his  youngest  brother 
had  gone  out  together  one  day  and  bought  a  brace  of  small 
libraries.  The  third  wall  he  approached  with  more  excite- 
ment. Here,  surely,  Timothy's  own  taste  would  be  found. 
It  was.  The  books  were  dummies.  The  fourth  wall  was 
all  heavily  curtained  window.  And  turned  toward  it  was  a 
large  chair  with  a  mahogany  reading-stand  attached,  on 
which  a  yellowish  and  folded  copy  of  The  Times,  dated 
July  6,  1 914,  the  day  Timothy  first  failed  to  come  down, 
as  if  in  preparation  for  the  War,  seemed  waiting  for  him  still. 
In  a  corner  stood  a  large  globe  of  that  world  never  visited 
by  Timothy,  deeply  convinced  of  the  unreality  of  every- 
thing but  England,  and  permanently  upset  by  the  sea,  on 
which  he  had  been  very  sick  one  Sunday  afternoon  in  1836, 
out  of  a  pleasure  boat  off  the  pier  at  Brighton,  with  Juley 
and  Hester,  Swithin  and  Hatty  Chessman;  all  due  to 
Swithin,  who  w^as  always  taking  things  into  his  head,  and 


836  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

who,  thank  goodness,  had  been  sick  too.  Soames  knew  all 
about  it,  having  heard  the  tale  fifty  times  at  least  from  one 
or  other  of  them.  He  went  up  to  the  globe,  and  gave  it  a 
spin;  it  emitted  a  faint  creak  and  moved  about  an  inch, 
bringing  into  his  purview  a  daddy-long-legs  which  had  died 
on  it  in  latitude  44. 

'  Mausoleum  !'  he  thought.  '  George  was  right  !'  And 
he  went  out  and  up  the  stairs.  On  the  half  landing  he 
stopped  before  the  case  of  stuffed  humming-birds  which  had 
delighted  his  childhood.  They  looked  not  a  day  older, 
suspended  on  wires  above  pampas-grass.  If  the  case  were 
opened  the  birds  would  not  begin  to  hum,  but  the  whole 
thing  would  crumble,  he  suspected.  It  wouldn't  be  worth 
putting  that  into  the  sale  !  And  suddenly  he  was  caught 
by  a  memory  of  Aunt  Ann — dear  old  Aunt  Ann — holding 
him  by  the  hand  in  front  of  that  case  and  saying:  "  Look, 
Soamey  !  Aren't  they  bright  and  pretty,  dear  little  hum- 
ming-birds I"  Soames  remembered  his  own  answer:  "  They 
don't  hum,  Auntie."  He  must  have  been  six,  in  a  black 
velveteen  suit  with  a  light-blue  collar — he  remembered  that 
suit  well  !  Aunt  Ann  with  her  ringlets,  and  her  spidery 
kind  hands,  and  her  grave  old  aquiUne  smile — a  fine  old  lady. 
Aunt  Ann  !  He  moved  on  up  to  the  drawing-room  door. 
There  on  each  side  of  it  were  the  groups  of  miniatures. 
Those  he  would  certainly  buy  in  !  The  miniatures  of  his 
four  aunts,  one  of  his  Uncle  Swithin  adolescent,  and  one 
of  his  Uncle  Nicholas  as  a  boy.  They  had  all  been  painted 
by  a  young  lady  friend  of  the  family  at  a  time,  1830,  about, 
when  miniatures  were  considered  very  genteel,  and  lasting 
too,  painted  as  they  were  on  ivory.  Many  a  time  had  he 
heard  the  tale  of  that  young  lady:  "  Very  talented,  my  dear; 
she  had  quite  a  weakness  for  Swithin,  and  very  soon  after 
she  went  into  a  consumption  and  died:  so  like  Keats — we 
often  spoke  of  it." 


TO  LET  837 

Well,  there  they  were  !  Ann,  Juley,  Hester,  Susan — quite 
a  small  child;  Swithin,  with  sky-blue  eyes,  pink  cheeks, 
yellow  curls,  white  waistcoat — large  as  life;  and  Nicholas, 
like  Cupid  with  an  eye  on  heaven.  Now  he  came  to  think 
of  it.  Uncle  Nick  had  always  been  rather  like  that — a  won- 
derful man  to  the  last.  Yes,  she  must  have  had  talent,  and 
miniatures  always  had  a  certain  back-watered  cachet  of  their 
own,  little  subject  to  the  currents  of  competition  on  aesthetic 
Change,  Soames  opened  the  drawing-room  door.  The 
room  was  dusted,  the  furniture  uncovered,  the  curtains 
drawn  back,  precisely  as  if  his  aunts  still  dwelt  there  patiently 
waiting.  And  a  thought  came  to  him :  When  Timothy  died 
— why  not  ?  Would  it  not  be  almost  a  duty  to  preserve 
this  house — hke  Carlyle's — and  put  up  a  tablet,  and  show 
it  ?  "  Specimen  of  mid-Victorian  abode — entrance,  one 
shilling,  with  catalogue."  After  all,  it  was  the  completest 
thing,  and  perhaps  the  deadest  in  the  London  of  to-day. 
Perfect  in  its  special  taste  and  culture,  if,  that  is,  he  took 
down  and  carried  over  to  his  own  collection  the  four  Barbizon 
pictures  he  had  given  them.  The  still  sky-blue  walls,  the 
green  curtains  patterned  with  red  flowers  and  ferns;  the 
crewel-worked  fire-screen  before  the  cast-iron  grate;  the 
mahogany  cupboard  with  glass  windows,  full  of  little  knick- 
knacks;  the  beaded  footstools;  Keats,  Shelley,  Southey, 
Cowper,  Coleridge,  Byron's  Corsair  (but  nothing  else), 
and  the  Victorian  poets  in  a  bookshelf  row;  the  marqueterie 
cabinet  lined  with  dim  red  plush,  full  of  family  relics: 
Hester's  first  fan;  the  buckles  of  their  mother's  father's 
shoes ;  three  bottled  scorpions ;  and  one  very  yellow  elephant's 
tusk,  sent  home  from  India  by  Great -uncle  Edgar  Forsyte, 
who  had  been  in  jute;  a  yellow  bit  of  paper  propped  up, 
with  spidery  writing  on  it,  recording  God  knew  what  ! 
And  the  pictures  crowding  on  the  walls — all  water-colours 
save  those  four  Barbizons  looking  like  the  foreigners  they 


838  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

were,  and  doubtful  customers  at  that — pictures  bright  and 
illustrative,  "Telling  the  Bees,"  "Hey  for  the  Ferry!" 
and  two  in  the  style  of  Frith,  all  thimblerig  and  crinolines, 
given  them  by  Swithin.  Oh  1  many,  many  pictures  at  which 
Soames  had  gazed  a  thousand  times  in  supercilious  fascina- 
tion; a  marvellous  collection  of  bright,  smooth  gilt  frames. 
And  the  boudoir-grand  piano,  beautifully  dusted,  her- 
metically sealed  as  ever;  and  Aunt  Juley's  album  of  pressed 
seaweed  on  it.  And  the  gilt -legged  chairs,  stronger  than 
they  looked.  And  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace  tne  sofa  of 
crimson  silk,  where  Aunt  Ann,  and  after  her  Aunt  Juley, 
had  been  wont  to  sit,  facing  the  light  and  bolt  upright. 
And  on  the  other  side  of  the  iire  the  one  really  easy  chair, 
back  to  the  light,  for  Aunt  Hester.  Soames  screwed  up 
his  eyes;  he  seemed  to  see  them  sitting  there.  Ah  !  and  the 
atmosphere — even  now,  of  too  many  stuffs  and  washed  lace 
curtains,  lavender  in  bags,  and  dried  bees'  wings.  *  No,'  he 
thought,  *  there's  nothing  like  it  left;  it  ought  to  be  pre- 
served.' And,  by  George,  they  might  laugh  at  it,  but  for  a 
standard  of  gentle  life  never  departed  from,  for  fastidiousness 
of  skin  and  eye  and  nose  and  feeling,  it  beat  to-day  hollow — 
to-day  with  its  Tubes  and  cars,  its  perpetual  smoking,  its 
crossed -legged,  bare-necked  girls  visible  up  to  the  knees  and 
down  to  the  waist  if  you  took  the  trouble  (agreeable  to  the 
satyr  within  each  Forsyte  but  hardly  his  idea  of  a  lady), 
with  their  feet,  too,  screwed  round  the  legs  of  their  chairs 
while  they  ate,  and  their  "So  longs,"  and  their  "Old  Beans," 
and  their  laughter — girls  who  gave  him  the  shudders  when- 
ever he  thought  of  Fleur  in  contact  with  them;  and  the 
hard -eyed,  capable,  older  women  who  managed  life  and  gave 
him  the  shudders  too.  No  !  his  old  aunts,  if  they  never 
opened  their  minds,  their  eyes,  or  very  much  their  windows, 
at  least  had  manners,  and  a  standard,  and  reverence  for 
past  and  future. 


TO  LET  839 

With  rather  a  choky  feeling  he  closed  the  door  and  went 
tiptoeing  up-stairs.  He  looked  in  at  a  place  on  the  way: 
H'm  !  in  perfect  order  of  the  eighties,  with  a 'sort  of  yellow 
oilskin  paper  on  the  walls.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs 
he  hesitated  between  four  doors.  Which  of  them  was 
Timothy's  ?  And  he  listened.  A  sound,  as  of  a  child  slowly 
dragging  a  hobby-horse  about,  came  to  his  ears.  That 
must  be  Timothy !  He  tapped,  and  a  door  was  opened  by 
Smither,  very  red  in  the  face. 

Mr.  Timothy  was  taking  his  walk,  and  she  had  not  been 
able  to  get  him  to  attend.  If  Mr.  Soames  would  come  into 
the  back-room,  he  could  see  him  through  the  door. 

Soames  went  into  the  back-room  and  stood  watching. 

The  last  of  the  old  Forsytes  was  on  his  feet,  moving  with 
the  most  impressive  slowness,  and  an  air  of  perfect  concen- 
tration on  his  own  affairs,  backward  and  forward  between  the 
foot  of  his  bed  and  the  window,  a  distance  of  some  twelve 
feet.  The  lower  part  of  his  square  face,  no  longer  clean- 
shaven, was  covered  with  snowy  beard  clipped  as  short  as 
it  could  be,  and  his  chin  looked  as  broad  as  his  brow  where 
the  hair  was  also  quite  white,  while  nose  and  cheeks  and  brow 
were  a  good  yellow.  One  hand  held  a  stout  stick,  and  the 
other  grasped  the  skirt  of  his  Jaeger  dressing-gown,  from 
under  which  could  be  seen  his  bed-socked  ankles  and  feet 
thrust  into  Jaeger  slippers.  The  expression  on  his  face 
was  that  of  a  crossed  child,  intent  on  something  that  he 
has  not  got.  Each  time  he  turned  he  stumped  the  stick, 
and  then  dragged  it,  as  if  to  show  that  he  could  do 
without  it. 

"  He  still  looks  strong,"  said  Soames  under  his  breath. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir.  You  should  see  him  take  his  bath — it's 
wonderful;  he  does  enjoy  it  so." 

Those  quite  loud  words  gave  Soames  an  insight.  Timothy 
had  resumed  his  babyhood. 


840  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Does  he  take  any  interest  in  things  generally  ?"  he  said, 
also  aloud. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir;  his  food  and  his  Will.  It's  quite  a  sight 
to  see  him  turn  it  over  and  over,  not  to  read  it,  of  course; 
and  every  now  and  then  he  asks  the  price  of  Consols,  and 
I  write  it  on  a  slate  for  him — very  large.  Of  course,  I 
always  write  the  same,  what  they  were  when  he  last  took 
notice,  in  1914.  We  got  the  doctor  to  forbid  him  to  read 
the  paper  when  the  war  broke  out.  Oh  !  he  did  take  on 
about  that  at  first.  But  he  soon  came  round,  because  he 
knew  it  tired  him;  and  he's  a  wonder  to  conserve  energy  as  he 
used  to  call  it  when  my  dear  mistresses  were  alive,  bless  their 
hearts  !  How  he  did  go  on  at  them  about  that;  they  were 
always  so  active,  if  you  remember,  Mr.  Soames." 

*'  What  would  happen  if  I  were  to  go  in  ?"  asked  Soames: 
"  Would  he  remember  me  ?  I  made  his  Will,  you  know, 
after  Miss  Hester  died  in  1907." 

"  Oh  !  that,  sir,"  repUed  Smither  doubtfully,  "  I  couldn't 
take  on  me  to  say.  I  think  he  might ;  he  really  is  a  wonderful 
man  for  his  age." 

Soames  moved  into  the  doorway,  and  waiting  for  Timothy 
to  turn,  said  in  a  loud  voice:  "  Uncle  Timothy  !" 

Timothy  trailed  back  half-way,  and  halted. 

"  Eh  ?"  he  said. 

"  Soames,"  cried  Soames  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  holding 
out  his  hand,  "  Soames  Forsyte  !" 

"  No  1"  said  Timothy,  and  stumping  his  stick  loudly  on 
the  floor,  he  continued  his  walk. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  work,"  said  Soames. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Smither,  rather  crestfallen;  "  you  see, 
he  hasn't  finished  his  walk.  It  always  was  one  thing  at  a 
time  with  him.  I  expect  he'll  ask  me  this  afternoon  if 
you  came  about  the  gas,  and  a  pretty  job  I  shall  have  to 
make  him  understand." 


TO  LET  841 

*'  Do  you  think  he  ought  to  have  a  man  about  him  ?" 

Smither  held  up  her  hands.  "  A  man  !  Oh  !  no.  Cook 
and  me  can  manage  perfectly.  A  strange  man  about  would 
send  him  crazy  in  no  time.  And  my  mistresses  wouldn't 
like  the  idea  of  a  man  in  the  house.  Besides,  we're  so  proud 
of  him." 

"  I  suppose  the  doctor  comes  ?" 

"  Every  morning.  He  makes  special  terms  for  such  a 
quantity,  and  Mr.  Timothy's  so  used,  he  doesn't  take  a  bit 
of  notice,  except  to  put  out  his  tongue." 

"  Well,"  said  Soames,  turning  away,  "  it's  rather  sad  and 
painful  to  me." 

"  Oh  !  sir,"  returned  Smither  anxiously,  "  you  mustn't 
think  that.  Now  that  he  can't  worry  about  things,  he  quite 
enjoys  his  life,  really  he  does.  As  I  say  to  Cook,  Mr. 
Timothy  is  more  of  a  man  than  he  ever  was.  You  see,  when 
he's  not  walkin',  or  takin'  his  bath,  he's  eatin',  and  when  he's 
not  eatin',  he's  sleepin';  and  there  it  is.  There  isn't  an 
ache  or  a  care  about  him  anywhere." 

"  Well,"  said  Soames,  "  there's  something  in  that.  I'll 
go  down.     By  the  way,  let  me  see  his  Will." 

"  I  should  have  to  take  my  time  about  that,  sir;  he  keeps 
it  under  his  pillow,  and  he'd  see  me,  while  he's  active." 

"  I  only  want  to  know  if  it's  the  one  I  made,"  said  Soames; 
"  you  take  a  look  at  its  date  some  time,  and  let  me  know." 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  I'm  sure  it's  the  same,  because  me  and  cook 
witnessed,  you  remember,  and  there's  our  names  on  it  still, 
and  we've  only  done  it  once." 

"  Quite,"  said  Soames.  He  did  remember.  Smither 
and  Jane  had  been  proper  witnesses,  having  been  left  nothing 
in  the  Will  that  they  might  have  no  interest  in  Timothy's 
death.  It  had  been — he  fully  admitted — an  almost  im- 
proper precaution,  but  Timothy  had  wished  it,  and,  after 
all  Aunt  Hester  had  provided  for  them  amply. 


842  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"Very  well,"  he  said;  "good-bye,  Smither.  Look 
after  him,  and  if  he  should  say  anything  at  any  time,  put  it 
down,  and  let  me  know." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  Mr.  Soames;  I'll  be  sure  to  do  that.  It's  been 
such  a  pleasant  change  to  see  you.  Cook  will  be  quite  excited 
when  I  tell  her." 

Soames  shook  her  hand  and  went  down-stairs.  He  stood 
for  fully  two  minutes  by  the  hat-stand  whereon  he  had 
hung  his  hat  so  many  times.  *  So  it  all  passes,'  he  was 
thinking;  '  passes  and  begins  again.  Poor  old  chap  !' 
And  he  listened,  if  perchance  the  sound  of  Timothy  trail- 
ing his  hobby-horse  might  come  down  the  well  of  the  stairs; 
or  some  ghost  of  an  old  face  show  over  the  banisters,  and  an 
old  voice  say:  "  Why,  it's  dear  Soames,  and  we  were  only 
saying  that  we  hadn't  seen  him  for  a  week  !" 

Nothing — nothing  !  Just  the  scent  of  camphor,  and  dust- 
motes  in  a  sunbeam  through  the  fanlight  over  the  door. 
The  little  old  house  !  A  mausoleum  !  And,  turning  on 
his  heel,  he  went  out,  and  caught  his  train. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    NATIVE    HEATH 

"  His  foot's  upon  his  native  heath. 
His  name's — Fal  Dartie.'' 

With  some  such  feeling  did  Val  Dartie,  in  the  fortieth  year 
of  his  age,  set  out  that  same  Thursday  morning  very  early 
from  the  old  manor-house  he  had  taken  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Sussex  Downs.  His  destination  was  Newmarket, 
and  he  had  not  been  there  since  the  autumn  of  1899,  when 
he  stole  over  from  Oxford  for  the  Cambridgeshire.  He 
paused  at  the  door  to  give  his  wife  a  kiss,  and  put  a  flask  of 
port  into  his  pocket. 

"  Don't  overtire  your  leg,  Val,  and  don't  bet  too  much." 
With  the  pressure  of  her  chest  against  his  own,  and  her 
eyes  looking  into  his,  Val  felt  both  leg  and  pocket  safe.  He 
should  be  moderate;  Holly  was  always  right — she  had  a 
natural  aptitude.  It  did  not  seem  so  remarkable  to  him, 
perhaps,  as  it  might  to  others,  that — half  Dartie  as  he  was — 
he  should  have  been  perfectly  faithful  to  his  young  first  cousin 
during  the  tw^enty  years  since  he  married  her  romantically 
out  in  the  Boer  War;  and  faithful  without  any  feeling  of 
sacrifice  or  boredom — she  was  so  quick,  so  slyly  always  a 
little  in  front  of  his  mood.  Being  cousins  they  had 
decided,  or  rather  Holly  had,  to  have  no  children;  and, 
though  a  little  sallower,  she  had  kept  her  looks,  her  slimness, 
and  the  colour  of  her  dark  hair.  Val  particularly  admired 
the  life  of  her  own  she  carried  on,  besides  carrying  on  his, 
and  riding  better  every  year.  She  kept  up  her  music,  she 
read  an  awful  lot — novels,  poetry,  all  sorts  of  stuff.     Out 

843 


844  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

on  their  farm  in  Cape  colony  she  had  looked  after  all  the 
"  nigger "  babies  and  women  in  a  miraculous  manner. 
She  was,  in  fact,  clever;  yet  made  no  fuss  about  it,  and  had 
no  "  side."  Though  not  remarkable  for  humility,  Val  had 
come  to  have  the  feeling  that  she  was  his  superior,  and  he 
did  not  grudge  it — a  great  tribute.  It  might  be  noted  that 
he  never  looked  at  Holly  without  her  knowing  of  it,  but  that 
she  looked  at  him  sometimes  unawares. 

He  had  kissed  her  in  the  porch  because  he  should  not 
be  doing  so  on  the  platform,  though  she  was  going  to  the 
station  with  him,  to  drive  the  car  back.  Tanned  and 
wrinkled  by  Colonial  weather  and  the  wiles  inseparable  from 
horses,  and  handicapped  by  the  leg  which,  weakened  in  the 
Boer  War,  had  probably  saved  his  life  in  the  War  just  past, 
Val  was  still  much  as  he  had  been  in  the  days  of  his  courtship; 
his  smile  as  wide  and  charming,  his  eyelashes,  if  anything, 
thicker  and  darker,  his  eyes  screwed  up  under  them,  as  bright 
a  grey,  his  freckles  rather  deeper,  his  hair  a  little  grizzled 
at  the  sides.  He  gave  the  impression  of  one  who  has  lived 
actively  with  horses  in  a  sunny  climate. 

Twisting  the  car  sharp  round  at  the  gate,  he  said : 

"  When  is  young  Jon  coming  ?" 

"  To-day." 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  for  him  ?  I  could  bring  it 
down  on  Saturday." 

"  No;  but  you  might  come  by  the  same  train  as  Fleur — 
one-forty." 

Val  gave  the  Ford  full  rein ;  he  still  drove  like  a  man  in  a 
new  country  on  bad  roads,  who  refuses  to  compromise, 
and  expects  heaven  at  every  hole. 

"  That's  a  young  woman  who  knows  her  way  about,"  he 
said.     "  I  say,  has  it  struck  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Holly. 

"  Uncle  Soames  and  your  Dad — bit  awkward,  isn't  it  ?" 


TO  LET  845 

"  She  won't  know,  and  he  won't  know,  and  nothing  must 
be  said,  of  course.     It's  only  for  five  days,  Val." 

"  Stable  secret  !  Righto  !"  If  Holly  thought  it  safe,  it 
was.  Glancing  slyly  round  at  him,  she  said :  "  Did  you 
notice  how  beautifully  she  asked  herself  ?" 

"  No  !" 

"  Well,  she  did.     What  do  you  think  of  her,  Val  ?" 

"  Pretty,  and  clever;  but  she  might  run  out  at  any  corner 
if  she  got  her  monkey  up,  I  should  say." 

"  I'm  wondering,"  Holly  murmured,  "  whether  she  is  the 
modern  young  woman.  One  feels  at  sea  coming  home  into 
all  this." 

"  You  ?     You  get  the  hang  of  things  so  quick." 

Holly  slid  her  hand  into  his  coat -pocket. 

"  You  keep  one  in  the  know,"  said  Val,  encouraged. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  that  Belgian  fellow,  Profond  ?" 

"  I  think  he's  rather  '  a  good  devil.'  " 

Val  grinned. 

"  He  seems  to  me  a  queer  fish  for  a  friend  of  our  family. 
In  fact,  our  family  is  in  pretty  queer  waters,  with  Uncle 
Soames  marrying  a  Frenchwoman,  and  your  Dad  marrying 
Soames's  first.     Our  grandfathers  would  have  had  fits  !" 

"  So  would  anybody's,  my  dear." 

"  This  car,"  Val  said  suddenly,  "  wants  rousing;  she  doesn't 
get  her  hind  legs  under  her  up-hill.  I  shall  have  to  give  her 
her  head  on  the  slope  if  I'm  to  catch  that  train." 

There  was  that  about  horses  which  had  prevented  him 
from  ever  really  sympathizing  with  a  car,  and  the  running 
of  the  Ford  under  his  guidance  compared  with  its  running 
under  that  of  Holly  was  always  noticeable.  He  caught 
the  train. 

"  Take  care  going  home;  she'll  throw  you  down  if  she  can. 
Good-bye,  darling." 

"  Good-bye,"  called  Holly,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

In  the  train,  after  quarter  of  an  hour's  indecision  between 


846  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

thoughts  of  Holly,  his  morning  paper,  the  look  of  the  bright 
day,  and  his  dim  memory  of  Newmarket,  Val  plunged  into 
the  recesses  of  a  small  square  book,  all  names,  pedigrees, 
tap-roots,  and  notes  about  the  make  and  shape  of  horses. 
The  Forsyte  in  him  was  bent  on  the  acquisition  of  a  certain 
strain  of  blood,  and  he  was  subduing  resolutely  as  yet  the 
Dartie  hankering  for  a  flutter.  On  getting  back  to  England, 
after  the  profitable  sale  of  his  South  African  farm  and  stud, 
and  observing  that  the  sun  seldom  shone,  Val  had  said  to 
himself:  "  I've  absolutely  got  to  have  an  interest  in  life, 
or  this  country  will  give  me  the  blues.  Hunting's  not 
enough,  I'll  breed  and  I'll  train."  With  just  that  extra 
pinch  of  shrewdness  and  decision  imparted  by  long  residence 
in  a  new  country,  Val  had  seen  the  weak  point  of  modern 
breeding.  They  were  all  hypnotized  by  fashion  and  high 
price.  He  should  buy  for  looks,  and  let  names  go  hang  ! 
And  here  he  was  already,  hypnotized  by  the  prestige  of  a 
certain  strain  of  blood  !  Half -consciously,  he  thought: 
'  There's  something  in  this  damned  climate  which  makes 
one  go  round  in  a  ring.  All  the  same,  I  must  have  a  strain 
of  Mayfly  blood.' 

In  this  mood  he  reached  the  Mecca  of  his  hopes.  It  was 
one  of  those  quiet  meetings  favourable  to  such  as  wish  to 
look  into  horses,  rather  than  into  the  mouths  of  bookmakers ; 
and  Val  clung  to  the  paddock.  His  twenty  years  of  Colonial 
life,  divesting  him  of  the  dandyism  in  which  he  had  been 
bred,  had  left  him  the  essential  neatness  of  the  horseman, 
and  given  him  a  queer  and  rather  blighting  eye  over  what  he 
called  "  the  silly  haw-haw  "  of  some  Englishmen,  the  "  flap- 
ping cockatoory  "  of  some  Englishwomen — Holly  had  none 
of  that  and  Holly  was  his  model.  Observant,  quick,  re- 
sourceful, Val  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  a  transaction, 
a  horse,  a  drink;  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a 
Mayfly  filly,  when  a  slow  voice  said  at  his  elbow: 

"  Mr.  Val  Dartie  ?     How's  Mrs.  Val  Dartie  ?     She's  well, 


TO  LET  847 

I  hope."  And  he  saw  beside  him  the  Belgian  he  had  met 
at  his  sister  Imogen's. 

"  Prosper  Profond — I  met  you  at  lunch,"  said  the  voice. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  murmured  Val. 

"  I'm  very  well,"  repHed  Monsieur  Profond,  smiling  with 
a  certain  inimitable  slowness.  "  A  good  devil  "  Holly  had 
called  him.  Well  !  He  looked  a  little  like  a  devil,  with  his 
dark,  clipped,  pointed  beard;  a  sleepy  one  though,  and 
good-humoured,  with  fine  eyes,  unexpectedly  intelligent. 

"  Here's  a  gentleman  wants  to  know  you — cousin  of 
yours — Mr.  George  Forsyde." 

Val  saw  a  large  form,  and  a  face  clean-shaven,  bull-like, 
a  little  lowering,  with  sardonic  humour  bubbhng  behind  a 
full  grey  eye;  he  remembered  it  dimly  from  old  days  when  he 
would  dine  with  his  father  at  the  Iseeum  Club. 

"  I  used  to  go  racing  with  your  father,"  George  was 
saying:  "  How's  the  stud  ?     Like  to  buy  one  of  my  screws  f" 

Val  grinned,  to  hide  the  sudden  feeling  that  the  bottom 
had  fallen  out  of  breeding.  They  believed  in  nothing  over 
here,  not  even  in  horses.  George  Forsyte,  Prosper  Profond  ! 
The  devil  himself  was  not  more  disillusioned  than  those  two. 

"  Didn't  know  you  were  a  racing  man,"  he  said  to 
Monsieur  Profond. 

"  I'm  not.  I  don'  care  for  it.  I'm  a  yachtin'  man. 
I  don'  care  for  yachtin'  either,  but  I  like  to  see  my  friends. 
I've  got  some  lunch,  Mr.  Val  Dartie,  just  a  small  lunch, 
if  you'd  like  to  'ave  some;  not  much — just  a  small  one — in 
my  car." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Val;  "  very  good  of  you.  I'll  come  along 
in  about  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Over  there.  Mr.  Forsyde's  comin',"  and  Monsieur 
Profond  "poinded"  with  a  yellow-gloved  finger;  "  smaD 
car,  with  a  small  lunch";  he  moved  on,  groomed,  sleepy, 
and  remote,  George  Forsyte  following,  neat,  huge,  and  with 
his  jesting  air. 


848  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Val  remained  gazing  at  the  Mayfly  filly.  George  Forsyte, 
of  course,  was  an  old  chap,  but  this  Profond  might  be  about 
his  own  age;  Val  felt  extremely  young,  as  if  the  Mayfly 
filly  were  a  toy  at  which  those  two  had  laughed.  The  animal 
had  lost  reaHty. 

"  That  '  small '  mare  " — he  seemed  to  hear  the  voice 
of  Monsieur  Profond — "  what  do  you  see  in  her  ? — we  must 
all  die  !" 

And  George  Forsyte,  crony  of  his  father,  racing  still  ! 
The  Mayfly  strain — was  it  any  better  than  any  other  ?  He 
might  just  as  well  have  a  flutter  with  his  money  instead. 

"  No,  by  gum  !"  he  muttered  suddenly,  "  if  it's  no  good 
breeding  horses,  it's  no  good  doing  anything.  What  did 
I  come  for  ?     I'll  buy  her." 

He  stood  back  and  watched  the  ebb  of  the  paddock  visitors 
toward  the  stand.  Natty  old  chips,  shrewd  portly  fellows, 
Jews,  trainers  looking  as  if  they  had  never  been  guilty  of 
seeing  a  horse  in  their  lives;  tall,  flapping,  languid  women, 
or  brisk,  loud-voiced  women;  young  men  with  an  air  as  if 
trying  to  take  it  seriously — two  or  three  of  them  with  only 
one  arm  ! 

'  Life  over  here's  a  game  !'  thought  Val.  '  Muffin  bell 
rings,  horses  run,  money  changes  hands;  ring  again,  run 
again,  money  changes  back.' 

But,  alarmed  at  his  own  philosophy,  he  went  to  the 
paddock  gate  to  watch  the  Mayfly  filly  canter  down.  She 
moved  well;  and  he  made  his  way  over  to  the  "  small  "  car. 
The  "  small  "  lunch  was  the  sort  a  man  dreams  of  but  seldom 
gets;  and  when  it  was  concluded  Monsieur  Profond  walked 
back  with  him  to  the  paddock. 

"  Your  wife's  a  nice  woman,"  was  his  surprising  remark. 
\h  *'  Nicest  woman  I  know,"  returned  Val  dryly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Monsieur  Profond;  "  she  has  a  nice  face.  I 
adm.ire  nice  women." 

Val  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  but  something  kindly  and 


TO  LET  849 

direct  in  the  heavy  diabolism  of  his  companion  disarmed  him 
for  the  moment. 

"  Any  time  you  hke  to  come  on  my  yacht,  I'll  give  her 
a  small  cruise." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Val,  in  arms  again,  "  she  hates  the  sea." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Monsieur  Profond. 

"  Then  why  do  you  yacht  ?" 

The  Belgian's  eyes  smiled.  "  Oh  !  I  don'  know.  I've 
done  everything;  it's  the  last  thing  I'm  doin'." 

"  It  must  be  d — d  expensive.  I  should  want  more 
reason  than  that." 

Monsieur  Prosper  Profond  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  puffed 
out  a  heavy  lower  lip. 

"  I'm  an  easy-goin'  man,"  he  said. 

"  Were  you  in  the  War  ?"  asked  Val. 

"  Ye-es.  I've  done  that  too.  I  was  gassed;  it  was  a 
small  bit  unpleasant."  He  smiled  with  a  deep  and  sleepy 
air  of  prosperity,  as  if  he  had  caught  it  from  his  name. 
Whether  his  saying  "  small  "  when  he  ought  to  have  said 
"  little  "  was  genuine  mistake  or  affectation  Val  could  not 
decide;  the  fellow  was  evidently  capable  of  anything. 
Among  the  ring  of  buyers  round  the  Mayfly  filly  who  had 
won  her  race,  Monsieur  Profond  said: 

^'  You  goin'  to  bid  ?" 

Val  nodded.  With  this  sleepy  Satan  at  his  elbow,  he  felt 
in  need  of  faith.  Though  placed  above  the  ultimate  blows 
of  Providence  by  the  forethought  of  a  grandfather  who  had 
tied  him  up  a  thousand  a  year  to  which  was  added  the 
thousand  a  year  tied  up  for  Holly  by  her  grandfather,  Val 
was  not  flush  of  capital  that  he  could  touch,  having  spent 
most  of  what  he  had  reaHzed  from  his  South  African  farm 
on  his  establishment  in  Sussex.  And  very  soon  he  was 
thinking:  '  Dash  it  !  she's  going  beyond  me  !'  His  Hmit — 
six  hundred — was  exceeded;  he  dropped  out  of  the  bidding. 
The  Mayfly  filly  passed  under  the  hammer  at  seven  hundred 

28 


850  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  fifty  guineas.  He  was  turning  away  vexed  when  the 
slow  voice  of  Monsieur  Profond  said  in  his  ear : 

"  Well,  I've  bought  that  small  filly,  but  I  don't  want  her; 
you  take  her  and  give  her  to  your  wife." 

Val  looked  at  the  fellow  with  renewed  suspicion,  but  the 
good  humour  in  his  eyes  was  such  that  he  really  could  not 
take  offence. 

"  I  made  a  small  lot  of  money  in  the  War,"  began  Monsieur 
Profond  in  answer  to  that  look.  "  I  'ad  armament  shares. 
I  like  to  give  it  away.  I'm  always  makin'  money.  I  want 
very  small  lot  myself.     I  like  my  friends  to  'ave  it." 

"  I'll  buy  her  of  you  at  the  price  you  gave,"  said  Val  with 
sudden  resolution. 

"  No,"  said  Monsieur  Profond.  "  You  take  her.  I  don't 
want  her." 

"  Hang  it  !  one  doesn't " 

"  Why  not  ?"  smiled  Monsieur  Profond.  "  I'm  a  friend 
of  your  family." 

"  Seven  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  is  not  a  box  of  cigars," 
said  Val  impatiently. 

"  All  right;  you  keep  her  for  me  till  I  want  her,  and  do 
what  you  Hke  with  her." 

"  So  long  as  she's  yours,"  said  Val.     "  I  don't  mind  that." 

"  That's  all  right,"  murmured  Monsieur  Profond,  and 
moved  away. 

Val  watched;  he  might  be  "  a  good  devil,"  but  then  again 
he  might  not.  He  saw  him  rejoin  George  Forsyte,  and 
thereafter  saw  him  no  more. 

He  spent  those  nights  after  racing  at  his  mother's  house 
in  Green  Street. 

Winifred  Dartie  at  sixty -two  was  marvellously  preserved, 
considering  the  three -and -thirty  years  during  which  she 
had  put  up  with  Montague  Dartie,  till  almost  happily  released 
by  a  French  staircase.  It  was  to  her  a  vehement  satisfaction 
to  have  her  favourite  son  back  from  South  Africa  after  all 


TO  LET  851 

this  time,  to  feel  him  so  Httle  changed,  and  to  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  his  wife.  Winifred,  who  in  the  late  seventies, 
before  her  marriage,  had  been  in  the  vanguard  of  freedom, 
pleasure,  and  fashion,  confessed  her  youth  outclassed  by 
the  donzellas  of  the  day.  They  seemed,  for  instance,  to 
regard  marriage  as  an  incident,  and  Winifred  sometimes 
regretted  that  she  had  not  done  the  same;  a  second,  third, 
fourth  incident  might  have  secured  her  a  partner  of  less 
dazzling  inebriety;  though,  after  all,  he  had  left  her  Val, 
Imogen,  Maud,  Benedict  (almost  a  colonel  and  unharmed 
by  the  war) — none  of  whom  had  been  divorced  as  yet.  The 
steadiness  of  her  children  often  amazed  one  who  remembered 
their  father;  but,  as  she  was  fond  of  believing,  they  were 
really  all  Forsytes,  favouring  herself,  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  Imogen.  Her  brother's  ''  little  girl "  Fleur 
frankly  puzzled  Winifred.  The  child  was  as  restless  as  any 
of  these  modern  young  women — "  She's  a  small  flame  in  a 
draught,"  Prosper  Profond  had  said  one  day  after  dinner — 
but  she  did  not  flop,  or  talk  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  The 
steady  Forsyteism  in  Winifred's  own  character  instinctively 
resented  the  feeling  in  the  air,  the  modern  girl's  habits  and 
her  motto :  "  All's  much  of  a  muchness  !  Spend,  to-morrow 
we  shall  be  poor  !"  She  found  it  a  saving  grace  in  Fleur 
that  having  set  her  heart  on  a  thing,  she  had  no  change  of 
heart  until  she  got  it — though  what  happened  after,  Fleur 
was,  of  course,  too  young  to  have  made  evident.  The  child 
was  a  "  very  pretty  little  thing,"  too,  and  quite  a  credit 
to  take  about,  with  her  mother's  French  taste  and  gift  for 
wearing  clothes;  everybody  turned  to  look  at  Fleur — great 
consideration  to  Winifred,  a  lover  of  the  style  and  distinction 
which  had  so  cruelly  deceived  her  in  the  case  of  Montague 
Dartie. 

In  discussing  her  with  Val,  at  breakfast  on  Saturday 
morning,  Winifred  dwelt  on  the  family  skeleton. 

"  That  little  affair  of  your  father-in-law  and  your  Aunt 


852  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Irene,  Val — it's  old  as  the  hills,  of  course,  Fleur  need  know 
nothing  about  it — making  a  fuss.  Your  Uncle  Soames  is 
very  particular  about  that.     So  you'll  be  careful." 

"  Yes  !  But  it's  dashed  awkward — Holly's  young  half- 
brother  is  coming  to  live  with  us  while  he  learns  farming. 
He's  there  already." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Winifred.  "  That  is  a  gaff  !  What  is  he 
like  ?" 

"  Only  saw  him  once — at  Robin  Hill,  when  we  were  home 
in  1909;  he  was  naked  and  painted  blue  and  yellow  in  stripes 
—a  jolly  little  chap." 

Winifred  thought  that  "  rather  nice,"  and  added  com- 
fortably: "  Well,  Holly's  sensible;  she'll  know  how  to  deal 
with  it.  I  shan't  tell  your  uncle.  It'll  only  bother  him. 
It's  a  great  comfort  to  have  you  back,  my  dear  boy,  now 
that  I'm  getting  on." 

"  Getting  on  !  Why  !  you're  as  young  as  ever.  That 
chap  Profond,  Mother,  is  he  all  right  ?" 

"  Prosper  Profond  !  Oh  !  the  most  amusing  man  I 
know." 

Val  grunted,  and  recounted  the  story  of  the  Mayfly  filly. 

*'  That's  so  like  him,"  murmured  Winifred.  "  He  does 
all  sorts  of  things." 

"  Well,"  said  Val  shrewdly,  "  our  family  haven't  been  too 
lucky  with  that  kind  of  cattle;  they're  too  light-hearted  for 
us." 

It  was  true,  and  Winifred's  blue  study  lasted  a  full  minute 
before  she  answered: 

"  Oh  !  well  !  He's  a  foreigner,  Val;  one  must  make 
allowances." 

"  All  right,  I'll  use  his  filly  and  make  it  up  to  him,  some-- 
how." 

And  soon  after  he  gave  her  his  blessing,  received  a  kiss, 
and  left  her  for  his  bookmaker's,  the  Iseeum  Club,  and 
Victoria  station. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JON 

Mrs.  Val  Dartie,  after  twenty  years  of  South  Africa,  had 
fallen  deeply  in  love,  fortunately  with  something  of  her  own, 
for  the  object  of  her  passion  was  the  prospect  in  front  of 
her  windows,  the  cool  clear  light  on  the  green  Downs.  It 
was  England  again,  at  last !  England  more  beautiful  than  she 
had  dreamed.  Chance  had,  in  fact,  guided  the  Val  Darties 
to  a  spot  where  the  South  Downs  had  real  charm  when  the 
sun  shone.  Holly  had  enough  of  her  father's  eye  to  appre- 
hend the  rare  quality  of  their  outHnes  and  chalky  radiance; 
to  go  up  there  by  the  ravine -like  lane  and  wander  along 
toward  Chanctonbury  or  Amberley,  was  still  a  delight  which 
she  hardly  attempted  to  share  with  Val,  whose  admiration 
of  Nature  was  confused  by  a  Forsyte's  instinct  for  getting 
something  out  of  it,  such  as  the  condition  of  the  turf  for  his 
horses'  exercise. 

Driving  the  Ford  home  with  a  certain  humouring  smooth- 
ness, she  promised  herself  that  the  first  use  she  would  make 
of  Jon  would  be  to  take  him  up  there,  and  show  him  "  the 
view  "  under  this  May -day  sky. 

She  was  looking  forward  to  her  young  half-brother  with 
a  motherliness  not  exhausted  by  Val.  A  three -day  visit 
to  Robin  Hill,  soon  after  their  arrival  home,  had  yielded 
no  sight  of  him — he  was  still  at  school;  so  that  her  recollec- 
tion, like  Val's,  was  of  a  little  sunny -haired  boy,  striped  blue 
and  yellow,  down  by  the  pond. 

Those  three  days  at  Robin  Hill  had  been  exciting,  sad, 
embarrassing.     Memories   of  her   dead    brother,    memories 

853 


854  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  Val's  courtship;  the  ageing  of  her  father,  not  seen- for 
twenty  years,  something  funereal  in  his  ironic  gentleness 
which  did  not  escape  one  who  had  much  subtle  instinct; 
above  all,  the  presence  of  her  stepmother,  whom  she  could 
still  vaguely  remember  as  the  "  lady  in  grey  "  of  days  when 
she  was  little  and  grandfather  alive  and  Mademoiselle  Beauce 
so  cross  because  that  intruder  gave  her  music  lessons — all 
these  confused  and  tantalized  a  spirit  which  had  longed 
to  find  Robin  Hill  untroubled.  But  Holly  was  adept  at 
keeping  things  to  herself,  and  all  had  seemed  to  go  quite  well. 

Her  father  had  kissed  her  when  she  left  him,  with  lips 
which  she  was  sure  had  trembled. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  the  War  hasn't  changed 
Robin  Hill,  has  it  ?  If  only  you  could  have  brought  Jolly 
back  with  you  !  I  say,  can  you  stand  this  spiritualistic 
racket  ?     When  the  oak-tree  dies,  it  dies,  I'm  afraid." 

From  the  warmth  of  her  embrace  he  probably  divined 
that  he  had  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  for  he  rode  off  at  once 
on  irony. 

"  Spiritualism — queer  word,  when  the  more  they  mani- 
fest the  more  they  prove  that  they've  got  hold  of 
matter." 

"  How  ?"  said  Holly. 

"  Why  !  Look  at  their  photographs  of  auric  presences. 
You  must  have  something  material  for  light  and  shade  to  fall 
on  before  you  can  take  a  photograph.  No,  it'll  end  in  our 
calling  all  matter  spirit,  or  all  spirit  matter — I  don't  know 
which." 

"  But  don't  you  believe  in  survival.  Dad  ?" 

Jolyon  had  looked  at  her,  and  the  sad  whimsicality  of  his 
face  impressed  her  deeply. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  should  like  to  get  something  out  of 
death.  I've  been  looking  into  it  a  bit.  But  for  the  life 
of  me  I  can't  find  anything  that  telepathy,  sub -consciousness, 


TO  LET  855 

and  emanation  from  the  storehouse  of  this  world  can't 
account  for  just  as  well.  Wish  I  could  !  Wishes  father 
thoughts  but  they  don't  breed  evidence." 

Holly  had  pressed  her  lips  again  to  his  forehead  with 
the  feeling  that  it  confirmed  his  theory  that  all  matter 
was  becoming  spirit — his  brow  felt,  somehow,  so  in- 
substantial. 

But  the  most  poignant  memory  of  that  little  visit  had  been 
watching,  unobserved,  her  stepmother  reading  to  herself 
a  letter  from  Jon.  It  w^as — she  decided — the  prettiest  sight 
she  had  ever  seen.  Irene,  lost  as  it  were  in  the  letter  of  her 
boy,  stood  at  a  window  where  the  light  fell  on  her  face  and 
her  fine  grey  hair;  her  lips  were  moving,  smiling,  her  dark 
eyes  laughing,  dancing,  and  the  hand  which  did  not  hold  the 
letter  was  pressed  against  her  breast.  Holly  withdrew  as 
from  a  vision  of  perfect  love,  convinced  that  Jon  must  be 
nice. 

When  she  saw  him  coming  out  of  the  station  with  a  kit- 
bag  in  either  hand,  she  was  confirmed  in  her  predisposition. 
He  was  a  little  like  Jolly,  that  long -lost  idol  of  her  childhood, 
but  eager -looking  and  less  formal,  with  deeper  eyes  and 
brighter-coloured  hair,  for  he  wore  no  hat;  altogether  a  very 
interesting  "  little  "  brother  ! 

His  tentative  politeness  charmed  one  who  was  accustomed 
to  assurance  in  the  youthful  manner;  he  was  disturbed  be- 
cause she  was  to  drive  him  home,  instead  of  his  driving  her. 
Shouldn't  he  have  a  shot  ?  They  hadn't  a  car  at  Robin  Hill 
since  the  War,  of  course,  and  he  had  only  driven  once,  and 
landed  up  a  bank,  so  she  oughtn't  to  mind  his  trying.  His 
laugh,  soft  and  infectious,  was  very  attractive,  though  that 
word,  she  had  heard,  was  now  quite  old-fashioned.  When 
they  reached  the  house  he  pulled  out  a  crumpled  letter 
which  she  read  while  he  was  washing — a  quite  short  letter, 
which  must  have  cost  her  father  many  a  pang  to  write. 


856  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  My  Dear, 

"  You  and  Val  will  not  forget,  I  trust,  that  Jon  knows 
nothing  of  family  history.  His  mother  and  I  think  he  is  too 
young  at  present.  The  boy  is  very  dear,  and  the  apple  of 
her  eye.     Verbum  sapientibus. 

"  Your  loving  father, 

"J.  F." 

That  was  all;  but  it  renewed  in  Holly  an  uneasy  regret 
that  Fleur  was  coming. 

After  tea  she  fulfilled  that  promise  to  herself  and  took 
Jon  up  the  hill.  They  had  a  long  talk,  sitting  above  an  old 
chalk -pit  grown  over  with  brambles  and  goosepenny. 
Milkwort  and  liverwort  starred  the  green  slope,  the  larks 
sang,  and  thrushes  in  the  brake,  and  now  and  then  a  gull 
flighting  inland  would  wheel  very  white  against  the  paling 
sky,  where  the  vague  moon  was  coming  up.  Delicious 
fragrance  came  to  them,  as  if  little  invisible  creatures  were 
running  and  treading  scent  out  of  the  blades  of  grass. 

Jon,  who  had  fallen  silent,  said  rather  suddenly: 

"  I  say,  this  is  wonderful  !  There's  no  fat  on  it  at  all. 
Gull's  flight  and  sheep -bells " 

" '  Gull's  flight  and  sheep  -bells ' !  You're  a  poet,  my  dear !" 

Jon  sighed. 

"  Oh,  Golly  !     No  go  !" 

"  Try  !     I  used  to  at  your  age." 

"  Did  you  ?  Mother  says  '  try  '  too;  but  I'm  so  rotten. 
Have  you  any  of  yours  for  me  to  see  ?" 

"  My  dear,"  Holly  murmured,  "  I've  been  married 
nineteen  years.     I  only  wrote  verses  when  I  wanted  to  be." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Jon,  and  turned  over  on  to  his  face:  the  one 
cheek  she  could  see  was  a  charming  colour.  Was  Jon 
"  touched  in  the  wind,"  then,  as  Val  would  have  called  it  ? 
Already  ?     But,  if  so,  all  the  better,  he  would  take  no  notice 


TO  LET  857 

of  young  Fleur.  Besides,  on  Monday  he  would  begin  his 
farming.  And  she  smiled.  Was  it  Burns  who  followed  the 
plough,  or  only  Piers  Plowman  ?  Nearly  every  young  man 
and  most  young  women  seemed  to  be  poets  nowadays, 
from  the  number  of  their  books  she  had  read  out  in  South 
Africa,  importing  them  from  Hatchus  and  Bumphards; 
and  quite  good — oh  !  quite;  much  better  than  she  had  been 
herself  !  But  then  poetry  had  only  really  come  in  since 
her  day — with  motor-cars.  Another  long  talk  after  dinner 
over  a  wood  fire  in  the  low  hall,  and  there  seemed  little  left 
to  know  about  Jon  except  anything  of  real  importance. 
Holly  parted  from  him  at  his  bedroom  door,  having  seen 
twice  over  that  he  had  everything,  with  the  conviction  that 
she  would  love  him,  and  Val  would  like  him.  He  was  eager, 
but  did  not  gush;  he  was  a  splendid  listener,  sympathetic, 
reticent  about  himself.  He  evidently  loved  their  father, 
and  adored  his  mother.  He  liked  riding,  rowing,  and  fencing 
better  than  games.  He  saved  moths  from  candles,  and 
couldn't  bear  spiders,  but  put  them  out  of  doors  in  screws 
of  paper  sooner  than  kill  them.  In  a  word,  he  was  amiable. 
She  went  to  sleep,  thinking  that  he  would  suffer  horribly 
if  anybody  hurt  him ;  but  who  would  hurt  him  ? 

Jon,  on  the  other  hand,  sat  awake  at  his  window  with  a 
bit  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  writing  his  first  "  real  poem  "  by 
the  light  of  a  candle  because  there  was  not  enough  moon 
to  see  by,  only  enough  to  make  the  night  seem  fluttery  and 
as  if  engraved  on  silver.  Just  the  night  for  Fleur  to  walk, 
and  turn  her  eyes,  and  lead  on — over  the  hills  and  far  away. 
And  Jon,  deeply  furrowed  in  his  ingenuous  brow,  made  marks 
on  the  paper  and  rubbed  them  out  and  wrote  them  in  again, 
and  did  all  that  was  necessary  for  the  completion  of  a  work 
of  art;  and  he  had  a  feeling  such  as  the  winds  of  Spring  must 
have, trying  their  first  songs  among  the  coming  blossom.   Jon 

28* 


858  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  one  of  those  boys  (not  many)  in  whom  a  home -trained 
love  of  beauty  had  survived  school  life.  He  had  had  to 
keep  it  to  himself,  of  course,  so  that  not  even  the  drawing- 
master  knew  of  it;  but  it  was  there,  fastidious  and  clean 
within  him.  And  his  poem  seemed  to  him  as  lame  and 
stilted  as  the  night  was  winged.  But  he  kept  it,  all  the  same. 
It  was  a  "  beast,"  but  better  than  nothing  as  an  expression 
of  the  inexpressible.  And  he  thought  with  a  sort  of  dis- 
comfiture: '  I  shan't  be  able  to  show  it  to  Mother.'  He 
slept  terribly  well,  when  he  did  sleep,  overwhelmed  by 
novelty. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FLEUR 

To  avoid  the  awkwardness  of  questions  which  could  not  be 
answered,  all  that  had  been  told  Jon  was : 

"  There's  a  girl  coming  down  with  Val  for  the  week- 
end." 

For  the  same  reason,  all  that  had  been  told  Fleur  was: 
"  We've  got  a  youngster  staying  with  us." 

The  two  yearlings,  as  Val  called  them  in  his  thoughts, 
met  therefore  in  a  manner  which  for  unpreparedness  left 
nothing  to  be  desired.     They  were  thus  introduced  by  Holly : 

"  This  is  Jon,  my  little  brother;  Fleur's  a  cousin  of  ours, 
Jon." 

Jon,  who  was  coming  in  through  a  French  window  out 
of  strong  sunlight,  was  so  confounded  by  the  providential 
nature  of  this  miracle,  that  he  had  time  to  hear  Fleur  say 
calmly:  "  Oh,  how  do  you  do  ?"  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
her,  and  to  understand  dimly  from  the  quickest  imaginable 
little  movement  of  her  head  that  he  never  had  seen  her.  He 
bowed  therefore  over  her  hand  in  an  intoxicated  manner, 
and  became  more  silent  than  the  grave.  He  knew  better 
than  to  speak.  Once  in  his  early  life,  surprised  reading  by 
a  night-light,  he  had  said  fatuously  "  I  was  just  turning  over 
the  leaves.  Mum,"  and  his  mother  had  replied:  "  Jon,  never 
tell  stories,  because  of  your  face — nobody  will  ever  believe 
them." 

The  saying  had  permanently  undermined  the  confidence 
necessary  to  the  success  of  spoken  untruth.  He  listened 
therefore  to  Fleur's  swift  and  rapt  allusions  to  the  joiJiness 

859 


86o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  everything,  plied  her  with  scones  and  jam,  and  got  away 
as  soon  as  might  be.  They  say  that  in  delirium  tremens 
you  see  a  fixed  object,  preferably  dark,  which  suddenly 
changes  shape  and  position.  Jon  saw  the  fixed  object;  it  had 
dark  eyes  and  passably  dark  hair,  and  changed  its  position, 
but  never  its  shape.  The  knowledge  that  between  him 
and  that  object  there  was  already  a  secret  understanding 
(however  impossible  to  understand)  thrilled  him  so  that  he 
waited  feverishly,  and  began  to  copy  out  his  poem — which 
of  course  he  would  never  dare  to  show  her — till  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs  roused  him,  and,  leaning  from  his  window,  he 
saw  her  riding  forth  with  Val.  It  was  clear  that  she  wasted 
no  time;  but  the  sight  filled  him  with  grief.  He  wasted  his. 
If  he  had  not  bolted,  in  his  fearful  ecstasy,  he  might  have 
been  asked  to  go  too.  And  from  his  window  he  sat  and 
watched  them  disappear,  appear  again  in  the  chine  of  the 
road,  vanish,  and  emerge  once  more  for  a  minute  clear  on 
the  outline  of  the  Down.  *  Silly  brute  !'  he  thought;  *  I 
always  miss  my  chances.' 

Why  couldn't  he  be  self-confident  and  ready  ?  And, 
leaning  his  chin  on  his  hands,  he  imagined  the  ride  he  might 
have  had  with  her.  A  week-end  was  but  a  week-end,  and 
he  had  missed  three  hours  of  it.  Did  he  know  any  one 
except  himself  who  would  have  been  such  a  flat  ?  He  did 
not. 

He  dressed  for  dinner  early,  and  was  first  down.  He 
would  miss  no  more.  But  he  missed  Fleur,  who  came  down 
last.  He  sat  opposite  her  at  dinner,  and  it  was  terrible — 
impossible  to  say  anything  for  fear  of  saying  the  wrong  thing, 
impossible  to  keep  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  in  the  only  natural 
way;  in  sum,  impossible  to  treat  normally  one  with  whom  in 
fancy  he  had  already  been  over  the  hills  and  far  away; 
conscious,  too,  all  the  time,  that  he  must  seem  to  her,  to 
all  of  them,  a  dumb  gawk.     Yes,  it  was  terrible  !     And  she 


TO  LET  86r 

was  talking  so  well — swooping  with  swift  wing  this  way  and 
that.  Wonderful  how  she  had  learned  an  art  which  he 
found  so  disgustingly  difficult.  She  must  think  him  hope- 
less indeed  ! 

His  sister's  eyes,  fixed  on  him  with  a  certain  astonishment, 
obliged  him  at  last  to  look  at  Fleur;  but  instantly  her  eyes, 
very  wide  and  eager,  seeming  to  say,  "  Oh  !  for  goodness' 
sake  !"  obliged  him  to  look  at  Val,  where  a  grin  obliged  him 
to  look  at  his  cutlet — that,  at  least,  had  no  eyes,  and  no  grin, 
and  he  ate  it  hastily. 

"  Jon  is  going  to  be  a  farmer,"  he  heard  Holly  say;  "  a 
farmer  and  a  poet." 

He  glanced  up  reproachfully,  caught  the  comic  lift  of 
her  eyebrow  just  like  their  father's,  laughed,  and  felt  better. 

Val  recounted  the  incident  of  Monsieur  Prosper  Profond; 
nothing  could  have  been  more  favourable,  for,  in  relating  it, 
he  regarded  Holly,  who  in  turn  regarded  him,  while  Fleur 
seemed  to  be  regarding  with  a  slight  frown  some  thought 
of  her  own,  and  Jon  was  really  free  to  look  at  her  at  last. 
She  had  on  a  white  frock,  very  simple  and  well  made;  her 
arms  were  bare,  and  her  hair  had  a  white  rose  in  it.  In 
just  that  swift  moment  of  free  vision,  after  such  intense 
discomfort,  Jon  saw  her  sublimated,  as  one  sees  in  the  dark 
a  slender  white  fruit-tree;  caught  her  like  a  verse  of  poetry 
flashed  before  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  or  a  tune  which  floats 
out  in  the  distance  and  dies. 

He  wondered  giddily  how  old  she  was — she  seemed  so 
much  more  self-possessed  and  experienced  than  himself. 
Why  mustn't  he  say  they  had  met  ?  He  remembered 
suddenly  his  mother's  face;  puzzled,  hurt -looking,  when  she 
answered:  "Yes,  they're  relations,  but  we  don't  know  them." 
Impossible  that  his  mother,  who  loved  beauty,  should  not 
admire  Fleur  if  she  did  know  her  ! 

Alone  with  Val  after  dinner,  he  sipped  port  deferentially 


862  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  answered  the  advances  of  this  new-found  brother-in-law. 
As  to  riding  (always  the  first  consideration  with  Val)  he 
could  have  the  young  chestnut,  saddle  and  unsaddle  it 
himself,  and  generally  look  after  it  when  he  brought  it  in. 
Jon  said  he  was  accustomed  to  all  that  at  home,  and  saw  that 
he  had  gone  up  one  in  his  host's  estimation. 

"  Fleur,"  said  Val,  "  can't  ride  much  yet,  but  she's  keen. 
Of  course,  her  father  doesn't  know  a  horse  from  a  cart-wheel. 
Does  your  dad  ride  ?" 

"  He  used  to;  but  now  he's — you  know,  he's "     He 

stopped,  so  hating  the  word  '*old."  His  father  was  old, 
and  yet  not  old;  no — never  ! 

"  Quite,"  muttered  Val.  "  I  used  to  know  your  brother 
up  at  Oxford,  ages  ago,  the  one  who  died  in  the  Boer  War. 
We  had  a  fight  in  New  College  Gardens.  That  was  a  queer 
business,"  he  added,  musing;  "  a  good  deal  came  out 
of  it." 

Jon's  eyes  opened  wide;  all  was  pushing  him  toward 
historical  research,  when  his  sister's  voice  said  gently  from 
the  doorway: 

"  Come  along,  you  two,"  and  he  rose,  his  heart  pushing 
him  toward  something  far  more  modern. 

Fleur  having  declared  that  it  was  "  simply  too  wonderful 
to  stay  indoors,"  they  all  went  out.  Moonlight  was  frosting 
the  dew,  and  an  old  sun-dial  threw  a  long  shadow.  Two 
box  hedges  at  right  angles,  dark  and  square,  barred  off  the 
orchard.     Fleur  turned  through  that  angled  opening. 

"  Come  on  !"  she  called.  Jon  glanced  at  the  others,  and 
followed.  She  was  running  among  the  trees  like  a  ghost. 
All  was  lovely  and  foamlike  above  her,  and  there  was  a  scent 
of  old  trunks,  and  of  nettles.  She  vanished.  He  thought 
he  had  lost  her,  then  almost  ran  into  her  standing  quite  still. 

"  Isn't  it  jolly  ?"  she  cried,  and  Jon  answered: 

"  Rather  1" 


TO  LET  863 

She  reached  up,  twisted  o5  a  blossom  and,  twirling  it  in 
her  fingers,  said : 

"  I  suppose  I  can  call  you  Jon  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so  just." 

"  All  right  !  But  you  know  there's  a  feud  between  our 
families  ?" 

Jon  stammered :  "  Feud  ?     Why  ?" 

"  It's  ever  so  romantic  and  silly  ?  That's  why  I  pretended 
we  hadn't  met.  Shall  we  get  up  early  to-morrow  morning 
and  go  for  a  walk  before  breakfast  and  have  it  out  ?  I  hate 
being  slow  about  things,  don't  you  ?" 

Jon  murmured  a  rapturous  assent. 

"  Six  o'clock,  then.     I  think  your  mother's  beautiful." 

Jon  said  fervently:  "  Yes,  she  is." 

"  I  love  all  kinds  of  beauty,"  went  on  Fleur,  "  when  it's 
exciting.     I  don't  like  Greek  things  a  bit." 

"  What !     Not  Euripides  ?" 

"  Euripides  ?  Oh  !  no,  I  can't  bear  Greek  plays ;  they're 
so  long.  I  think  beauty's  always  swift.  I  like  to  look  at 
one  picture,  for  instance,  and  then  run  off.  I  can't  bear  a 
lot  of  things  together.  Look  !"  She  held  up  her  blossom 
in  the  moonlight.  "  That's  better  than  all  the  orchard, 
I  think." 

And,  suddenly,  with  her  other  hand  she  caught  Jon's. 

"  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  don't  you  think  caution's 
the  most  awful  ?     Smell  the  moonlight  !" 

She  thrust  the  blossom  against  his  face;  Jon  agreed  giddily 
that  of  all  things  in  the  world  caution  was  the  worst,  and 
bending  over,  kissed  the  hand  which  held  his. 

"  That's    nice    and    old-fashioned,"    said    Fleur    calmly 
"  You're  frightfully  silent,  Jon.     Still  I  like  silence  when 
it's  swift."     She  let  go  his  hand.     "  Did  you  think  I  dropped 
my  handkerchief  on  purpose  ?" 

"  No  !"  cried  Jon,  intensely  shocked. 


864  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Well,  I  did,  of  course.  Let's  get  back,  or  they'll  think 
we're  doing  this  on  purpose  too."  And  again  she  ran  like 
a  ghost  among  the  trees.  Jon  followed,  with  love  in  his 
heart,  Spring  in  his  heart,  and  over  all  the  moonlit  white 
unearthly  blossom.  They  came  out  where  they  had  gone 
in,  Fleur  walking  demurely. 

"  It's  quite  wonderful  in  there,"  she  said  dreamily  to 
Holly. 

Jon  preserved  silence,  hoping  against  hope  that  she  might 
be  thinking  it  swift. 

She  bade  him  a  casual  and  demure  good -night,  which 
made  him  think  he  had  been  dreaming.   .   .   . 

In  her  bedroom  Fleur  had  flung  off  her  gown,  and, 
wrapped  in  a  shapeless  garment,  with  the  white  flower  still 
in  her  hair,  she  looked  like  a  mousme,  sitting  cross-legged  on 
her  bed,  writing  by  candlelight. 

"  Dearest  Cherry, 

"  I  believe  I'm  in  love.  I've  got  it  in  the  neck,  only 
the  feeling  is  really  lower  down.  He's  a  second  cousin — 
such  a  child,  about  six  months  older  and  ten  years  younger 
than  I  am.  Boys  always  fall  in  love  with  their  seniors,  and 
girls  with  their  juniors  or  with  old  men  of  forty.  Don't 
laugh,  but  his  eyes  are  the  truest  things  I  ever  saw;  and  he's 
quite  divinely  silent  !  We  had  a  most  romantic  first  meeting 
in  London  under  the  Vospovitch  Juno.  And  now  he's 
sleeping  in  the  next  room  and  the  moonlight's  on  the 
blossom;  and  to-morrow  morning,  before  anybody's  awake, 
we're  going  to  walk  off  into  Down  fairyland.  There's  a 
feud  between  our  families,  which  makes  it  really  exciting. 
Yes  !  and  I  may  have  to  use  subterfuge  and  come  on  you  for 
invitations — if  so,  you'll  know  why  !  My  father  doesn't 
want  us  to  know  each  other,  but  I  can't  help  that.  Life's 
too  short.     He's  got  the  most  beautiful  mother,  with  lovely 


TO  LET  865 

silvery  hair  and  a  young  face  with  dark  eyes.  I'm  staying 
with  his  sister — who  married  my  cousin;  it's  all  mixed  up, 
but  I  mean  to  pump  her  to-morrow.  We've  often  talked 
about  love  being  a  spoil-sport;  well,  that's  all  tosh,  it's  the 
beginning  of  sport,  and  the  sooner  you  feel  it,  my  dear,  the 
better  for  you. 

"  Jon  (not  simplified  spelling,  but  short  for  Jolyon,  which 
is  a  name  in  my  family,  they  say)  is  the  sort  that  lights  up 
and  goes  out ;  about  five  feet  ten,  still  growing,  and  I  believe 
he's  going  to  be  a  poet.  If  you  laugh  at  me  I've  done  with 
you  forever.  I  perceive  all  sorts  of  difficulties,  but  you  know 
when  I  really  want  a  thing  I  get  it.  One  of  the  chief  effects 
of  love  is  that  you  see  the  air  sort  of  inhabited,  like  seeing 
a  face  in  the  moon;  and  you  feel — you  feel  dancey  and  soft 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  funny  sensation — like  a  continual 
first  sniff  of  orange-blossom — just  above  your  stays.  This 
is  my  first,  and  I  feel  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  my  last,  which 
is  absurd,  of  course,  by  all  the  laws  of  Nature  and  morality. 
If  you  mock  me  I  will  smite  you,  and  if  you  tell  anybody 
I  will  never  forgive  you.  So  much  so,  that  I  almost  don't 
think  I'll  send  this  letter.  Anyway,  I'll  sleep  over  it.  So 
good -night,  my  Cherry-oh  ! 

c7iol    .  "Your 

"  Fleur." 


CHAPTER    VIII 

IDYLL    ON    GRASS 

When  those  two  young  Forsytes  emerged  from  the  chine 
lane,  and  set  their  faces  east  toward  the  sun,  there  was  not 
a  cloud  in  heaven,  and  the  Downs  were  dewy.  They  had 
come  at  a  good  bat  up  the  slope  and  were  a  little  out  of 
breath;  if  they  had  anything  to  say  they  did  not  say  it,  but 
marched  in  the  early  awkwardness  of  unbreakfasted  morning 
under  the  songs  of  the  larks.  The  stealing  out  had  been  fun, 
but  with  the  freedom  of  the  tops  the  sense  of  conspiracy 
ceased,  and  gave  place  to  dumbness. 

"  We've  made  one  blooming  error,"  said  Fleur,  when 
they  had  gone  half  a  mile.     "  I'm  hungry." 

Jon  produced  a  stick  of  chocolate.  They  shared  it  and 
their  tongues  were  loosened.  They  discussed  the  nature 
of  their  homes  and  previous  existences,  which  had  a  kind  of 
fascinating  unreality  up  on  that  lonely  height.  There 
remained  but  one  thing  solid  in  Jon's  past — his  mother; 
but  one  thing  solid  in  Fleur's — her  father;  and  of  these 
figures,  as  though  seen  in  the  distance  with  disapproving 
faces,  they  spoke  little. 

The  Down  dipped  and  rose  again  toward  Chanctonbury 
Ring;  a  sparkle  of  far  sea  came  into  view,  a  sparrow-hawk 
hovered  in  the  sun's  eye  so  that  the  blood -nourished  biown 
of  his  wings  gleamed  nearly  red.  Jon  had  a  passion  for  birds, 
and  an  aptitude  for  sitting  very  still  to  watch  them;  keen- 
sighted,  and  with  a  memory  for  what  interested  him,  on 
birds  he  was  almost  worth  listening  to.  But  in  Chancton- 
bury Ring  there  were  none — its   ^reat   beech   temple   was 

866 


TO  LET  867 

empty  of  life,  and  almost  chilly  at  this  early  hour ;  they  came 
out  willingly  again  into  the  sun  on  the  far  side.  It  was 
Fleur's  turn  now.  She  spoke  of  dogs,  and  the  way  people 
treated  them.  It  was  wicked  to  keep  them  on  chains  ! 
She  would  like  to  flog  people  who  did  that.  Jon  was 
astonished  to  find  her  so  humanitarian.  She  knew  a  dog, 
it  seemed,  which  some  farmer  near  her  home  kept  chained 
up  at  the  end  of  his  chicken  run,  in  all  weathers,  till  it  had 
almost  lost  its  voice  from  barking  ! 

"  And  the  misery  is,"  she  said  vehemently,  "  that  if  the 
poor  thing  didn't  bark  at  every  one  who  passes  it  wouldn't 
be  kept  there.  I  do  think  men  are  cunning  brutes.  I've 
let  it  go  twice,  on  the  sly;  it's  nearly  bitten  me  both  times, 
and  then  it  goes  simply  mad  with  joy;  but  it  always  runs 
back  home  at  last,  and  they  chain  it  up  again.  If  I  had  my 
way,  I'd  chain  that  man  up."  Jon  saw  her  teeth  and  her 
eyes  gleam.  "  I'd  brand  him  on  his  forehead  with  the 
word  '  Brute  ';  that  would  teach  him  !" 

Jon  agreed  that  it  would  be  a  good  remedy. 

"  It's  their  sense  of  property,"  he  said,  "  which  makes 
people  chain  things.  The  last  generation  thought  of 
nothing  but  property;  and  that's  why  there  was  the 
War." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Fleur,  "  I  never  thought  of  that.  Your 
people  and  mine  quarrelled  about  property.  And  anv- 
way  we've  all  got  it — at  least,  I  suppose  your  people 
have." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  luckily;  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  any  good  at 
making  money." 

"  If  you  were,  I  don't  believe  I  should  like  you." 

Jon  slipped  his  hand  tremulously  under  her  arm. 

Fleur  looked  straight  before  her  and  chanted: 

"Jon,  Jon,  the  farmer's  son, 
Stole  a  pig,  and  away  he  run  !" 


868  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Jon's  arm  crept  round  her  waist. 

"This  is  rather  sudden,"  said  Fleur  calmly;  "do  you 
often  do  it  ?" 

Jon  dropped  his  arm.  But  when  she  laughed,  his  arm 
stole  back  again;  and  Fleur  began  to  sing: 

"  O  who  will  o'er  the  downs  so   ree, 
O  who  will  with  me  ride  ? 
O  who  will  up  and  follow  me " 

"  Sing,  Jon  1" 

Jon  sang.  The  larks  joined  in,  sheep -bells,  and  an  early 
morning  church  far  away  over  in  Steyning.  They  went  on 
from  tune  to  tune,  till  Fleur  said: 

"  My  God  1     I  am  hungry  now  !" 

"  Oh  !     I  am  sorry  !" 

She  looked  round  into  his  face. 

"  Jon,  you're  rather  a  darling." 

And  she  pressed  his  hand  against  her  waist.  Jon  almost 
reeled  from  happiness.  A  yellow-and-white  dog  coursing 
a  hare  startled  them  apart.  They  watched  the  two  vanish 
down  the  slope,  till  Fleur  said  with  a  sigh:  "He'll  never 
catch  it,  thank  goodness  !  What's  the  time  ?  Mine's 
stopped.     I  never  wound  it." 

Jon  looked  at  his  watch.  "  By  Jove  !"  he  said,  "  mine's 
stopped,  too." 

They  walked  on  again,  but  only  hand  in  hand. 

"  If  the  grass  is  dry,"  said  Fleur,  "  let's  sit  down  for  half 
a  minute." 

Jon  took  off  his  coat,  and  they  shared  it. 

"  Smell  !     Actually  wild  thyme  !" 

With  his  arm  round  her  waist  again,  they  sat  some 
minutes  in  silence. 

"  We  are  goats  !"  cried  Fleur,  jumping  up;  "  we  shall  be 
most  fearfully  late,  and  look  so  silly,  and  put  them  on  their 


TO  LET  869 

guard.  Look  here,  Jon  !  We  only  came  out  to  get  an 
appetite  for  breakfast,  and  lost  our  way.     See  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jon. 

"  It's  serious;  there'll  be  a  stopper  put  on  us.  Are  you 
a  good  liar  ?" 

"  I  believe  not  very;  but  I  can  try." 

Fleur  frowned. 

'*  You  know,"  she  said,  "  I  realize  that  they  don't  mean 
us  to  be  friends." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  I  told  you  why." 

"  But  that's  silly." 

"  Yes;  but  you  don't  know  my  father  !" 

"  I  suppose  he's  fearfully  fond  of  you." 

"  You  see,  I'm  an  only  child.  And  so  are  you — of  your 
mother.  Isn't  it  a  bore  ?  There's  so  much  expected  of 
one.  By  the  time  they've  done  expecting,  one's  as  good  as 
dead." 

"  Yes,"  muttered  Jon,  "  life's  beastly  short.  One  wants 
to  live  forever,  and  know  everything." 

"  And  love  everybody  ?" 

"  No,"  cried  Jon;  "  I  only  want  to  love  once — you." 

"  Indeed  !  You're  coming  on  !  Oh  !  Look  !  There's 
the  chalk-pit;  we  can't  be  very  far  now.     Let's  run." 

Jon  followed,  wondering  fearfully  if  he  had  offended  her. 

The  chalk-pit  was  full  of  sunshine  and  the  murmuration 
of  bees.     Fleur  flung  back  her  hair. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  in  case  of  accidents,  you  may  give 
me  one  kiss,  Jon,"  and  she  pushed  her  cheek  forward.  With 
ecstasy  he  kissed  that  hot  soft  cheek. 

"  Now,  remember  !  W^e  lost  our  way;  and  leave  it  to  me 
as  much  as  you  can.  I'm  going  to  be  rather  beastly  to  you; 
it's  safer;  try  and  be  beastly  to  me  !" 

Jon  shook  his  head.     "  That's  impossible." 


870  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Just  to  please  me;  till  five  o'clock,  at  all  events." 

"  Anybody  will  be  able  to  see  through  it,"  said  Jon 
gloomily. 

"  Well,  do  your  best.  Look  !  There  they  are  !  Wave 
your  hat  !  Oh  !  you  haven't  got  one.  Well,  I'll  cooee  ! 
Get  a  little  away  from  me,  and  look  sulky." 

Five  minutes  later,  entering  the  house  and  doing  his 
utmost  to  look  sulky,  Jon  heard  her  clear  voice  in  the  dining- 
room: 

"  Oh  !  I'm  simply  ravenous  !  He's  going  to  be  a  farmer 
— and  he  loses  his  way.      The  boy's  an  idiot  !" 


CHAPTER  IX 

GOYA 

Lunch  was  over  and  Soames  mounted  to  the  picture-gallery 
in  his  house  near  Mapledurham.  He  had  what  Annette 
called  "  a  grief."  Fleur  was  not  yd  home.  She  had  been 
expected  on  Wednesday;  had  wired  that  it  would  be  Friday; 
and  again  on  Friday  that  it  would  be  Sunday  afternoon; 
and  here  were  her  aunt,  and  her  cousins  the  Cardigans,  and 
this  fellow  Profond,  and  everything  flat  as  a  pancake  for  the 
want  of  her.  He  stood  before  his  Gauguin — sorest  point 
of  his  collection.  He  had  bought  the  ugly  great  thing 
with  two  early  Matisses  before  the  War,  because  there  was 
such  a  fuss  about  those  Post -Impressionist  chaps.  He  was 
wondering  whether  Profond  would  take  them  off  his  hands — 
the  fellow  seemed  not  to  know  what  to  do  with  his  money — 
when  he  heard  his  sister's  voice  say:  "  I  think  that's  a  horrid 
thing,  Soames,"  and  saw  that  Winifred  had  followed  him  up. 

"  Oh  !  you  do  .^"  he  said  dryly;    "  I   gave   five  hundred 
for  it." 

"  Fancy  !     Women  aren't   made  like   that   even  if  they 
are  black." 

Soames  uttered  a  glum  laugh.     "  You  didn't   come  up 
to  tell  me  that." 

"  No.     Do  you  know  that  Jolyon's  boy  is  staying  with 
Val  and  his  wife  ?" 

Soames  spun  round. 

"  What  ?" 

"  Yes,"  drawled  Winifred;  "  he's  gone  to  live  with  them 
there  while  he  learns  farming." 

871 


872  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Soames  had  turned  away,  but  her  voice  pursued  him 
as  he  walked  up  and  down.  "  I  warned  Val  that  neither 
of  them  was  to  be  spoken  to  about  old  matters." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?" 

Winifred  shrugged  her  substantial  shoulders. 

"  Fleur  does  what  she  likes.  You've  always  spoiled  her. 
Besides,  my  dear  boy,  what's  the  harm  ?" 

"  The  harm  !"    muttered  Soames.     "  Why,  she "  he 

checked  himself.  The  Juno,  the  handkerchief,  Fleur's  eyes, 
her  questions,  and  now  this  delay  in  her  return — the 
symptoms  seemed  to  him  so  sinister  that,  faithful  to  his 
nature,  he  could  not  part  with  them. 

"  I  think  you  take  too  much  care,"  said  Winifred.  "  If 
I  were  you,  I  should  tell  her  of  that  old  matter.  It's  no 
good  thinking  that  girls  in  these  days  are  as  they  used  to  be. 
Where  they  pick  up  their  knowledge  I  can't  tell,  but  they 
seem  to  know  everything." 

Over  Soames'  face,  closely  composed,  passed  a  sort  of 
spasm,  and  Winifred  added  hastily: 

"  If  you  don't  like  to  speak  of  it,  I  could  for  you." 

Soames  shook  his  head.  Unless  there  was  absolute  neces- 
sity the  thought  that  his  adored  daughter  should  learn  of 
that  old  scandal  hurt  his  pride  too  much. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  not  yet.     Never  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.     Think  what  people  are  !" 

"  Twenty  years  is  a  long  time,"  muttered  Soames.  "  Out- 
side our  family,  who's  likely  to  remember  ?" 

Winifred  was  silenced.  She  inclined  more  and  more  to 
that  peace  and  quietness  of  which  Montague  Dartie  had 
deprived  her  in  her  youth.  And,  since  pictures  always 
depressed  her,  she  soon  went  down  again.    ■ 

Soames  passed  into  the  corner  where,  side  by  side,  hung 
his  real  Goya  and  the  copy  of  the  fresco  "  La  Vendimia." 
His  acquisition  of  the  real  Goya  rather  beautifully  illustrated 


TO  LET  873 

the  cobweb  of  vested  interests  and  passions  which  mesh  the 
bright -winged  fly  of  human  life.  The  real  Goya's  noble 
owner's  ancestor  had  come  into  possession  of  it  during  some 
Spanish  war — it  was  in  a  word  loot.  The  noble  owner  had 
remained  in  ignorance  of  its  value  until  in  the  nineties  an 
enterprising  critic  discovered  that  a  Spanish  painter  named 
Goya  was  a  genius.  It  was  only  a  fair  Goya,  but  almost 
unique  in  England,  and  the  noble  owner  became  a  marked 
man.  Having  many  possessions  and  that  aristocratic  culture 
which,  independent  of  mere  sensuous  enjoyment,  is  founded 
on  the  sounder  principle  that  one  must  know  everything 
and  be  fearfully  interested  in  life,  he  had  fully  intended  to 
keep  an  article  which  contributed  to  his  reputation  while  he 
was  alive,  and  to  leave  it  to  the  nation  after  he  was  dead. 
Fortunately  for  Soames,  the  House  of  Lords  was  violently 
attacked  in  1909,  and  the  noble  owner  became  alarmed  and 
angry.  "  If,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  they  think  they  can  have 
it  both  ways  they  are  very  much  mistaken.  So  long  as  they 
leave  me  in  quiet  enjoyment  the  nation  can  have  some  of 
my  pictures  at  my  death.  But  if  the  nation  is  going  to 
bait  me,  and  rob  me  like  this,  I'm  damned  if  I  won't  sell 

the  lot.     They  can't  have  my  private  property  and 

my  public  spirit — both."  He  brooded  in  this  fashion  for 
several  months  till  one  morning,  after  reading  the  speech 
of  a  certain  statesman,  he  telegraphed  to  his  agent  to  come 
down  and  bring  Bodkin.  On  going  over  the  collection 
Bodkin,  than  whose  opinion  on  market  values  none  was 
more  sought,  pronounced  that  with  a  free  hand  to  sell  to 
America,  Germany,  and  other  places  where  there  was  an 
interest  in  art,  a  lot  more  money  could  be  made  than  by 
selling  in  England.  The  noble  owner's  public  spirit — he 
said — was  well  known  but  the  pictures  were  unique.  The 
noble  owner  put  this  opinion  in  his  pipe  and  smoked  it  for 
a  year.      At  the  end  of  that  time  he  read  another  speech 


874  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

by  the  same  statesman,  and  telegraphed  to  his  agents: 
''  Give  Bodkin  a  free  hand."  It  was  at  this  juncture  that 
Bodkin  conceived  the  idea  which  salved  the  Goya  and  two 
other  unique  pictures  for  the  native  country  of  the  noble 
owner.  With  one  hand  Bodkin  proffered  the  pictures  to 
the  foreign  market,  with  the  other  he  formed  a  list  of  private 
British  collectors.  Having  obtained  what  he  considered  the 
highest  possible  bids  from  across  the  seas,  he  submitted 
pictures  and  bids  to  the  private  British  collectors,  and  invited 
them,  of  their  public  spirit,  to  outbid.  In  three  instances 
(including  the  Goya)  out  of  twenty-one  he  was  successful. 
And  why  ?  One  of  the  private  collectors  made  buttons — he 
had  made  so  many  that  he  desired  that  his  wife  should  be 
called  Lady  "  Buttons."  He  therefore  bought  a  unique 
picture  at  great  cost,  and  gave  it  to  the  nation.  It  was 
"part,"  his  friends  said,  "  of  his  general  game."  The  second 
of  the  private  collectors  was  an  Americophobe,  and  bought 
an  unique  picture  to  "spite  the  damned  Yanks."  The  third 
of  the  private  collectors  was  Soames,  who — more  sober  than 
either  of  the  others — bought  after  a  visit  to  Madrid,  because 
he  was  certain  that  Goya  was  still  on  the  up  grade.  Goya 
was  not  booming  at  the  moment,  but  he  would  come  again; 
and,  looking  at  that  portrait,  Hogarthian,  Manetesque  in  its 
directness,  but  with  its  own  queer  sharp  beauty  of  paint, 
he  was  perfectly  satisfied  still  that  he  had  made  no  error, 
heavy  though  the  price  had  been — heaviest  he  had  ever 
paid.  And  next  to  it  was  hanging  the  copy  of  "  La  Vendi- 
mia."  There  she  was — the  little  wretch — looking  back  at 
him  in  her  dreamy  mood,  the  mood  he  loved  best  because 
he  felt  so  much  safer  when  she  looked  like  that. 

He  was  still  gazing  when  the  scent  of  a  cigar  impinged 
on  his  nostrils,  and  a  voice  said : 

"  Well,  Mr.   Forsyde,  what  you  goin'  to  do  with  this 
small  lot  ?" 


TO  LET  875 

That  Belgian  chap,  whose  mother — as  if  Flemish  blood 
were  not  enough — had  been  Armenian  !  Subduing  a 
natural  irritation,  he  said: 

"  Are  you  a  judge  of  pictures  ?" 

"  Well,  I've  got  a  few  myself." 

"  Any  Post -Impressionists  ?" 

"  Ye-es,  I  rather  like  them." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?"  said  Soames,  pointing  to 
the  Gauguin. 

Monsieur  Profond  protruded  his  lower  lip  and  short 
pointed  beard. 

"  Rather  fine,  I  think,"  he  said;  "  do  you  want  to  sell  it  ?" 

Soames  checked  his  instinctive  "Not  particularly" — 
he  would  not  chaffer  with  this  alien. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  What  do  you  want  for  it  ?" 

"  What  I  gave." 

"  All  right,"  said  Monsieur  Profond.  "  I'll  be  glad 
to  take  that  small  picture.  Post -Impressionists — they're 
awful  dead,  but  they're  amusin'.  I  don'  care  for  pictures 
much,  but  I've  got  some,  just  a  small  lot." 

"  What  do  you  care  for  ?" 

Monsieur  Profond  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Life's  awful  like  a  lot  of  monkeys  scramblin'  for  empty 
nuts." 

"  You're  young,"  said  Soames.  If  the  fellow  must  make 
a  generalization,  he  needn't  suggest  that  the  forms  of  pro- 
perty lacked  solidity  ! 

"  I  don'  worry,"  replied  Monsieur  Profond  smiling; 
"  we're  born,  and  we  die.  Half  the  world's  starvin'.  I  feed 
a  small  lot  of  babies  out  in  my  mother's  country;  but  what's 
the  use  ?     Might  as  well  throw  my  money  in  the  river." 

Soames  looked  at  him,  and  turned  back  toward  his  Goya. 
He  didn't  know  what  the  fellow  wanted. 


876  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  What  shall  I  make  my  cheque  for  ?"  pursued  Monsieur 
Profond. 

"  Five  hundred,"  said  Soames  shortly;  "  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  take  it  if  you  don't  care  for  it  more  than  that." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Monsieur  Profond;  "I'll  be 
'appy  to  'ave  that  picture." 

He  wrote  a  cheque  with  a  fountain-pen  heavily  chased 
with  gold.  Soames  watched  the  process  uneasily.  How  on 
earth  had  the  fellow  known  that  he  wanted  to  sell  that 
picture  ?     Monsieur  Profond  held  out  the  cheque. 

"  The  English  are  awful  funny  about  pictures,"  he  said. 
"  So  are  the  French,  so  are  my  people.  They're  all  awful 
funny." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Soames  stiffly. 

"  It's  like  hats,"  said  Monsieur  Profond  enigmatically, 
"  small  or  large,  turnin'  up  or  down — just  the  fashion. 
Awful  funny."  And,  smiling,  he  drifted  out  of  the  gallery 
again,  blue  and  solid  like  the  smoke  of  his  excellent  cigar. 

Soames  had  taken  the  cheque,  feeling  as  if  the  intrinsic 
value  of  ownership  had  been  called  in  question.  '  He's 
a  cosmopolitan,'  he  thought,  watching  Profond  emerge  from 
under  the  verandah  with  Annette,  and  saunter  down  the 
lawn  toward  the  river.  What  his  wife  saw  in  the  fellow  he 
didn't  know,  unless  it  was  that  he  could  speak  her  language; 
and  there  passed  in  Soames  what  Monsieur  Profond  would 
have  called  a  "  small  doubt  "  whether  Annette  was  not  too 
handsome  to  be  walking  with  any  one  so  "  cosmopolitan." 
Even  at  that  distance  he  could  see  the  blue  fumes  from 
Profond's  cigar  wreath  out  in  the  quiet  sunlight;  and  his 
grey  buckskin  shoes,  and  his  grey  hat — the  fellow  was  a  dandy! 
And  he  could  see  the  quick  turn  of  his  wife's  head,  so  very 
straight  on  her  desirable  neck  and  shoulders.  That  turn 
of  her  neck  always  seemed  to  him  a  little  too  showy,  and  in 
the  "Queen  of  all  I  survey  "manner — not  quite  distinguished. 


TO  LET  877 

He  watched  them  walk  along  the  path  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.  A  young  man  in  flannels  joined  them  down  there 
— a  Sunday  caller  no  doubt,  from  up  the  river.  He  went 
back  to  his  Goya.  He  was  still  staring  at  that  replica  of 
Fleur,  and  worrying  over  Winifred's  news,  when  his  wife's 
voice  said: 

"  Mr.  Michael  Mont,  Soames.  You  invited  him  to  see 
your  pictures." 

There  was  the  cheerful  young  man  of  the  Gallery  oft 
Cork  Street  ! 

"Turned  up,  you  see,  sir;  I  live  only  four  miles  from 
Pangbourne.     Jolly  day,  isn't  it  ?" 

Confronted  with  the  results  of  his  expansiveness,  Soames 
scrutinized  his  visitor.  The  young  man's  mouth  was 
excessively  large  and  curly — he  seemed  always  grinning. 
Why  didn't  he  grow  the  rest  of  those  idiotic  little  moustaches, 
which  made  him  look  like  a  music-hall  buffoon  ?  What  on 
earth  were  young  men  about,  deliberately  lowering  their 
class  with  these  tooth-brushes,  or  little  slug  whiskers  ?  Ugh  ! 
Affected  young  idiots  !  In  other  respects  he  was  presentable, 
and  his  flannels  very  clean. 

"  Happy  to  see  you  !"  he  said. 

The  young  man,  who  had  been  turning  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  became  transfixed.  "  I  say  !"  he  said,  "  'some  ' 
picture  !" 

Soames  saw%  with  mixed  sensations,  that  he  had  addressed 
the  remark  to  the  Goya  copy. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  dryly,  "  that's  not  a  Goya.  It's  a  copy. 
I  had  it  painted  because  it  reminded  me  of  my  daughter." 

"  By  Jove  !   I  thought  I  knew  the  face,  sir.     Is  she  here  ?" 

The  frankness  of  his  interest  almost  disarmed  Soames. 

"  She'll  be  in  after  tea,"  he  said.  "  Shall  we  go  round 
the  pictures  ?" 

And   Soames  began  that  round  which  never  tired  him. 


8/8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  had  not  anticipated  much  intelligence  from  one  who  had 
mistaken  a  copy  for  an  original,  but  as  they  passed  from 
section  to  section,  period  to  period,  he  was  startled  by  the 
young  man's  frank  and  relevant  remarks.  Natively  shrewd 
himself,  and  even  sensuous  beneath  his  mask,  Soames  had 
not  spent  thirty -eight  years  over  his  one  hobby  without 
knowing  something  more  about  pictures  than  their  market 
values.  He  was,  as  it  were,  the  missing  link  between  the 
artist  and  the  commercial  public.  Art  for  art's  sake  and  all 
that,  of  course,  was  cant.  But  aesthetics  and  good  taste 
were  necessary.  The  appreciation  of  enough  persons  of 
good  taste  was  what  gave  a  work  of  art  its  permanent  market 
value,  or  in  other  words  made  it  "  a  work  of  art."  There 
was  no  real  cleavage.  And  he  was  sufficiently  accustomed 
to  sheep -like  and  unseeing  visitors,  to  be  intrigued  by  one 
who  did  not  hesitate  to  say  of  Mauve :  "  Good  old  haystacks !" 
or  of  James  Maris:  "  Didn't  he  just  paint  and  paper  'em  ! 
Mathew  was  the  real  swell,  sir;  you  could  dig  into  his 
surfaces  !"  It  was  after  the  young  man  had  whistled  before 
a  Whistler,  with  the  words,  "  D'you  think  he  ever  really 
saw  a  naked  woman,  sir  ?"  that  Soames  remarked: 

"  What  are  you,  Mr.  Mont,  if  I  may  ask  .?" 

'*  I,  sir  ?  I  was  going  to  be  a  painter,  but  the  War  knocked 
that.  Then  in  the  trenches,  you  know,  I  used  to  dream  of 
the  Stock  Exchange,  snug  and  warm  and  just  noisy  enough. 
But  the  Peace  knocked  that;  shares  seem  off,  don't  they? 
I've  only  been  demobbed  about  a  year.  What  do  you 
recommend,  sir  ?" 

"  Have  you  got  money  ?" 

"  Well,"  answered  the  young  man,  "  I've  got  a  father; 
I  kept  him  alive  during  the  War,  so  he's  bound  to  keep  me 
alive  now.  Though,  of  course,  there's  the  question  whether 
he  ought  to  be  allowed  to  hang  on  to  his  property.  What 
do  you  think  about  that,  sir  ?" 


TO  LET  879 

Soames,  pale  and  defensive,  smiled. 

"  The  old  man  has  fits  when  I  tell  him  he  may  have  to 
work  yet.     He's  got  land,  you  know;  it's  a  fatal  disease." 

"  This  is  my  real  Goya,"  said  Soames  dryly. 

"  By  George  !  He  zvas  a  swell.  I  saw  a  Goya  in  Munich 
once  that  bowled  me  middle  stump.  A  most  evil-looking 
old  woman  in  the  most  gorgeous  lace.  He  made  no  com- 
promise with  the  public  taste.  That  old  boy  was  *  some  ' 
explosive;  he  must  have  smashed  up  a  lot  of  convention 
in  his  day.  Couldn't  he  just  paint  !  He  makes  Velasquez 
stiff,  don't  you  think  ?" 

''  I  have  no  Velasquez,"  said  Soames. 

The  young  man  stared.  "  No,"  he  said;  ''  only  nations 
or  profiteers  can  afford  him,  I  suppose.  I  say,  why  shouldn't 
all  the  bankrupt  nations  sell  their  Velasquez  and  Titians 
and  other  swells  to  the  profiteers  by  force,  and  then  pass  a 
law  that  any  one  who  holds  a  picture  by  an  Old  Master — 
see  schedule — must  hang  it  in  a  public  gallery  ?  There 
seems  something  in  that." 

''  Shall  we  go  down  to  tea  ?"  said  Soames. 

The  young  man's  ears  seemed  to  droop  on  his  skull.  '  He's 
not  dense,'  thought  Soames,  following  him  off  the  premises. 

Goya,  with  his  satiric  and  surpassing  precision,  his  original 
"  line,"  and  the  daring  of  his  light  and  shade,  could  have 
reproduced  to  admiration  the  group  assembled  round 
Annette's  tea-tray  in  the  ingle-nook  below.  He  alone, 
perhaps,  of  painters  would  have  done  justice  to  the  sunlight 
filtering  through  a  screen  of  creeper,  to  the  lovely  pallor  of 
brass,  the  old  cut  glasses,  the  thin  slices  of  lemon  in  pale 
amber  tea;  justice  to  Annette  in  her  black  lacey  dress;  there 
was  something  of  the  fair  Spaniard  in  her  beauty,  though  it 
lacked  the  spirituality  of  that  rare  type;  to  Winifred's  grey- 
haired,  corseted  solidity;  to  Soames,  of  a  certain  grey  and 
flat -cheeked   distinction;   to  the   vivacious  Michael   Mont, 


88o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

pointed  in  ear  and  eye;  to  Imogen,  dark,  luscious  of  glance, 
growing  a  little  stout;  to  Prosper  Profond,  with  his  expres- 
sion as  who  should  say,  "  Well,  Mr.  Goya,  what's  the  use 
of  paintin'  this  small  party  ?"  finally,  to  Jack  Cardigan,  with 
his  shining  stare  and  tanned  sanguinity  betraying  the 
moving  principle:  "  I'm  English,  and  I  live  to  be  fit." 

Curious,  by  the  way,  that  Imogen,  who  as  a  girl  had 
declared  solemnly  one  day  at  Timothy's  that  she  would 
never  marry  a  good  man — they  were  so  dull — should  have 
married  Jack  Cardigan,  in  whom  health  had  so  destroyed 
all  traces  of  original  sin,  that  she  might  have  retired  to  rest 
with  ten  thousand  other  Englishmen  without  knowing  the 
difference  from  the  one  she  had  chosen  to  repose  beside. 
"  Oh  !"  she  would  say  of  him,  in  her  "  amusing  "  way, 
"  Jack  keeps  himself  so  fearfully  fit;  he's  never  had  a  day's 
illness  in  his  life.  He  went  right  through  the  War  without 
a  finger-ache.  You  really  can't  imagine  how  fit  he  is  !" 
Indeed,  he  was  so  "  fit  "  that  he  couldn't  see  when  she  was 
flirting,  which  was  such  a  comfort  in  a  way.  All  the  same 
she  was  quite  fond  of  him,  so  far  as  one  could  be  of  a  sports - 
machine,  and  of  the  two  little  Cardigans  made  after  his 
pattern.  Her  eyes  just  then  were  comparing  him  maliciously 
with  Prosper  Profond.  There  was  no  "  small  "  sport  or 
game  which  Monsieur  Profond  had  not  played  at  too,  it 
seemed,  from  skittles  to  tarpon-fishing,  and  worn  out  every 
one.  Imogen  would  sometimes  wish  that  they  had  worn  out 
Jack,  who  continued  to  play  at  them  and  talk  of  them  with 
the  simple  zeal  of  a  school-girl  learning  hockey;  at  the  age 
of  Great -uncle  Timothy  she  well  knew  that  Jack  would  be 
playing  carpet  golf  in  her  bedroom,  and  "wiping  somebody's 
eye." 

He  was  telling  them  now  how  he  had  "  pipped  the  pro — 
a  charmin'  fellow,  playin'  a  very  good  game,"  at  the  last 
hole  this  morning;  and  how  he  had  pulled  down  to  Caver- 


TO  LET  88i 

sham  since  lunch,  and  trying  to  incite  Prosper  Profond  to 
play  him  a  set  of  tennis  after  tea — do  him  good — "  keep 
him  fit." 

"  But  what's  the  use  of  keepin'  fit  ?"  said  Monsieur 
Profond. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  murmured  Michael  Mont,  "  what  do  you  keep 
fit  for  ?" 

"  Jack,"  cried  Imogen,  enchanted,  "  what  do  you  keep  fit 
for  ?" 

Jack  Cardigan  stared  with  all  his  health.  The  questions 
were  like  the  buzz  of  a  mosquito,  and  he  put  up  his  hand 
to  wipe  them  away.  During  the  War,  of  course,  he  had 
kept  fit  to  kill  Germans ;  now  that  it  was  over  he  either  did 
not  know,  or  shrank  in  delicacy  from  explanation  of  his 
moving  principle. 

"  But  he's  right,"  said  Monsieur  Profond  unexpectedly, 
"  there's  nothin'  left  but  keepin'  fit." 

The  saying,  too  deep  for  Sunday  afternoon,  would  have 
passed  unanswered,  but  for  the  mercurial  nature  of  young 
Mont. 

"  Good  !"  he  cried.  "  That's  the  great  discovery  of  the 
War.  We  all  thought  we  were  progressing — now  we  know 
we're  only  changing." 

"  For  the  worse,"  said  Monsieur  Profond  genially. 

"  How  you  are  cheerful,  Prosper  !"  murmured  Annette. 

"  You  come  and  play  tennis  !"  said  Jack  Cardigan;  "  you've 
got  the  hump.  We'll  soon  take  that  down.  D'you  play, 
Mr.  Mont  ?" 

"  I  hit  the  ball  about,  sir." 

At  this  juncture  Soames  rose,  ruffled  in  that  deep  instinct 
of  preparation  for  the  future  which  guided  his  existence. 

"  When  Fleur  comes "  he  heard  Jack  Cardigan  say. 

Ah  !  and  why  didn't  she  come  ?  He  passed  through 
drawing-room,  hall,  and  porch  out  on  to  the  drive,  and  stood 

29 


"882  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

there  listening  for  the  car.  All  was  still  and  Sundavned; 
the  lilacs  in  full  flower  scented  the  air.  There  were  white 
clouds,  like  the  feathers  of  ducks  gilded  by  the  sunlight. 
Memory  of  the  day  when  Fleur  was  born,  and  he  had  waited 
in  such  agony  with  her  life  and  her  mother's  balanced  in 
his  hands,  came  to  him  sharply.  He  had  saved  her  then, 
to  be  the  flower  of  his  life.  And  now  !  Was  she  going  to 
give  him  trouble — pain — give  him  trouble  ?  He  did  not 
like  the  look  of  things  !  A  blackbird  broke  in  on  his  reverie 
with  an  evening  song — a  great  big  fellow  up  in  that  acacia - 
tree.  Soames  had  taken  quite  an  interest  in  his  birds 
of  late  years ;  he  and  Fleur  would  walk  round  and  watch  them ; 
her  eyes  were  sharp  as  needles,  and  she  knew  every  nest. 
He  saw  her  dog,  a  retriever,  lying  on  the  drive  in  a  patch 
of  sunlight,  and  called  to  him.  "  Hallo,  old  fellow — waiting 
for  her  too  !"  The  dog  came  slowly  with  a  grudging  tail, 
and  Soames  mechanically  laid  a  pat  on  his  head.  The  dog, 
the  bird,  the  lilac  all  were  part  of  Fleur  for  him;  no  more, 
no  less.  '  Too  fond  of  her  !'  he  thought,  *  too  fond  !'  He 
was  like  a  man  uninsured,  with  his  ships  at  sea.  Uninsured 
again — as  in  that  other  time,  so  long  ago,  when  he  would 
wander  dumb  and  jealous  in  the  wilderness  of  London, 
longing  for  that  woman — his  first  wife — the  mother  of  this 
infernal  boy.  Ah  !  There  was  the  car  at  last  !  It  drew  up, 
it  had  luggage,  but  no  Fleur. 

"  Miss  Fleur  is  walking  up,  sir,  by  the  towing-path." 
Walking  all  those  miles  ?  Soames  stared.  The  man's 
face  had  the  beginning  of  a  smile  on  it.  What  was  he 
grinning  at  ?  And  very  quickly  he  turned,  saying,  "  All 
right,  Sims  !"  and  went  into  the  house.  He  mounted  to 
the  picture-gallery  once  more.  He  had  from  there  a  view 
of  the  river  bank,  and  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  it,  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  it  would  be  an  hour  at  least  before  her  figure 
showed    there.     Walking    up  1     And    that    fellow's    grin  i 


TO  LET  883 

The  boy !     He  turned  abruptly  from  the  window.     He 

couldn't  spy  on  her.  If  she  wanted  to  keep  things  from  him 
— she  must;  he  could  not  spy  on  her.  His  heart  felt  empty, 
and  bitterness  mounted  from  it  into  his  very  mouth.  The 
staccato  shouts  of  Jack  Cardigan  pursuing  the  ball,  the  laugh 
of  young  Mont  rose  in  the  stillness  and  came  in.  He  hoped 
they  were  making  that  chap  Profond  run.  And  the  girl 
in  "  La  Vendimia  "  stood  with  her  arm  akimbo  and  her 
dreamy  eyes  looking  past  him.  *  I've  done  all  I  could  for 
you,'  he  thought,  '  since  you  were  no  higher  than  my  knee. 
You  aren't  going  to — to — hurt  me,  are  you  ?' 

But  the  Goya  copy  answered  not,  brilliant  in  colour  just 
beginning  to  tone  down.  '  There's  no  real  Hfe  in  it,'  thought 
Soames.     *  Why  doesn't  she  come  ?' 


CHAPTER  X 

TRIO 

Among  those  four  Forsytes  of  the  third,  and,  as  one  might 
say,  fourth  generation,  at  Wansdon  under  the  Downs, 
a  week-end  prolonged  unto  the  ninth  day  had  stretched  the 
crossing  threads  of  tenacity  almost  to  snapping-point. 
Never  had  Fleur  been  so  "  fine,''''  Holly  so  watchful,  Val 
so  stable-secretive,  Jon  so  silent  and  disturbed.  What  he 
learned  of  farming  in  that  week  might  have  been  balanced 
on  the  point  of  a  penknife  and  puffed  off.  He,  whose 
nature  was  essentially  averse  from  intrigue,  and  whose 
adoration  of  Fleur  disposed  him  to  think  that  any  need  for 
concealing  it  was  "  skittles,"  chafed  and  fretted,  yet  obeyed, 
taking  what  relief  he  could  in  the  few  moments  when  they 
were  alone.  On  Thursday,  while  they  were  standing  in 
the  bay  window  of  the  drawing-room,  dressed  for  dinner, 
she  said  to  him: 

"  Jon,  I'm  going  home  on  Sunday  by  the  3.40  from  Pad- 
dington;  if  you  were  to  go  home  on  Saturday  you  could 
come  up  on  Sunday  and  take  me  down,  and  just  get  back 
here  by  the  last  train,  after.  You  were  going  home  anyway, 
weren't  you  ?" 

Jon  nodded. 

"  Anything  to  be  with  you,"  he  said;  "only  why  need  I 
pretend " 

Fleur  slipped  her  little  finger  into  his  palm: 

"You  have  no  instinct,  Jon;  you  must  leave  things  to 
me.  It's  serious  about  our  people.  We've  simply  got  to 
be  secret  at  present,  if  we  want  to  be  together."     The  door 


TO  LET  885 

was   opened,   and   she   added   loudly:   "  You   are   a   duffer, 
Jon/' 

Something  turned  over  within  Jon;  he  could  not  bear 
this  subterfuge  about  a  feeling  so  natural,  so  overwhelming, 
and  so  sweet. 

On  Friday  night  about  eleven  he  had  packed  his  bag,  and 
was  leaning  out  of  his  window,  half  miserable,  and  half  lost 
in  a  dream  of  Paddington  station,  when  he  heard  a  tiny 
sound,  as  of  a  finger-nail  tapping  on  his  door.  He  rushed 
to  it  and  listened.  Again  the  sound.  It  was  a  nail.  He 
opened.     Oh  !     What  a  lovely  thing  came  in  ! 

"  I  wanted  to  show  you  my  fancy  dress,"  it  said,  and 
struck  an  attitude  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 

Jon  drew  a  long  breath  and  leaned  against  the  door. 
The  apparition  wore  white  muslin  on  its  head,  a  fichu  round 
its  bare  neck  over  a  wine-coloured  dress,  fulled  out  below 
its  slender  waist.  It  held  one  arm  akimbo,  and  the  other 
raised,  right-angled,  holding  a  fan  which  touched  its  head. 

"  This  ought  to  be  a  basket  of  grapes,"  it  whispered, 
"  but  I  haven't  got  it  here.  It's  my  Goya  dress.  And  this 
is  the  attitude  in  the  picture.     Do  you  like  it  ?" 

"  It's  a  dream." 

The  apparition  pirouetted.     "  Touch  it,  and  see." 

Jon  knelt  down  and  took  the  skirt  reverently. 

"Grape  colour,"  came  the  whisper,  "  all  grapes — La. 
Vendimia — the  vintage." 

Jon's  fingers  scarcely  touched  each  side  of  the  waist;  he 
looked  up,  with  adoring  eyes. 

"Oh!  Jon,"  it  whispered;  bent,  kissed  his  forehead, 
pirouetted  again,  and,  gliding  out,  was  gone. 

Jon  stayed  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  fell  forward  against 
the  bed.  How  long  he  stayed  like  that  he  did  not  know. 
The  little  noises  of  the  tapping  nail,  the  feet,  the  skirts 
rustling — as  in  a  dream — went  on  about  him;  and  before 


886  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

his  closed  eyes  the  figure  stood  and  smiled  and  whispered, 
a  faint  perfume  of  narcissus  lingering  in  the  air.  And  his 
forehead  where  it  had  been  kissed  had  a  little  cool  place 
between  the  brows,  like  the  imprint  of  a  flower.  Love 
filled  his  soul,  that  love  of  boy  for  girl  which  knows  so  little, 
hopes  so  much,  would  not  brush  the  down  off  for  the  world, 
and  must  become  in  time  a  fragrant  memory — a  searing 
passion — a  humdrum  mateship — or,  once  in  many  times, 
vintage  full  and  sweet  with  sunset  colour  on  the  grapes. 

Enough  has  been  said  about  Jon  Forsyte  here  and  in 
another  place  to  show  what  long  marches  lay  between  him 
and  his  great -great -grandfather,  the  first  Jolyon,  in  Dorset 
down  by  the  sea.  Jon  was  sensitive  as  a  girl,  more  sensitive 
than  nine  out  of  ten  girls  of  the  day;  imaginative  as  one  of 
his  half-sister  June's  "lame  duck"  painters;  affectionate 
as  a  son  of  his  father  and  his  mother  naturally  would  be. 
And  yet,  in  his  inner  tissue,  there  was  something  of  the  old 
founder  of  his  family,  a  secret  tenacity  of  soul,  a  dread  of 
showing  his  feelings,  a  determination  not  to  know  when  he 
was  beaten.  Sensitive,  imaginative,  affectionate  boys  get 
a  bad  time  at  school,  but  Jon  had  instinctively  kept  his 
nature  dark,  and  been  but  normally  unhappy  there.  Only 
with  his  mother  had  he,  up  till  then,  been  absolutely  frank 
and  natural;  and  when  he  went  home  to  Robin  Hill  that 
Saturday  his  heart  was  heavy  because  Fleur  had  said  that 
he  must  not  be  frank  and  natural  with  her  from  whom 
he  had  never  yet  kept  anything,  must  not  even  tell  her  that 
they  had  met  again,  unless  he  found  that  she  knew  already. 
So  intolerable  did  this  seem  to  him  that  he  was  very  near  to 
telegraphing  an  excuse  and  staying  up  in  London.  And 
the  first  thing  his  mother  said  to  him  was : 

'*  So  you've  had  our  little  friend  of  the  confectioner's 
there,  Jon.     What  is  she  like  on  second  thoughts  ?" 

With  relief,  and  a  high  colour,  Jon  answered : 


TO  LET  887 

''  Oh  1  awfully  jolly,  Mum." 

Her  arm  pressed  his. 

Jon  had  never  loved  her  so  much  as  in  that  minute  which 
seemed  to  falsify  Fleur's  fears  and  to  release  his  soul.  He 
turned  to  look  at  her,  but  something  in  her  smiling  face — 
something  which  only  he  perhaps  would  have  caught — 
stopped  the  words  bubbling  up  in  him.  Could  fear  go 
with  a  smile  ?  If  so,  there  was  fear  in  her  face.  And  out 
of  Jon  tumbled  quite  other  words,  about  farming,  Holly, 
and  the  Downs.  Talking  fast,  he  waited  for  her  to  come 
back  to  Fleur.  But  she  did  not.  Nor  did  his  father 
mention  her,  though  of  course  he,  too,  must  know.  What 
deprivation,  and  killing  of  reality  was  in  this  silence  about 
Fleur — when  he  was  so  full  of  her;  when  his  mother  was 
so  full  of  Jon,  and  his  father  so  full  of  his  mother  !  And 
so  the  trio  spent  the  evening  of  that  Saturday. 

After  dinner  his  mother  played;  she  seemed  to  play  all 
the  things  he  liked  best,  and  he  sat  with  one  knee  clasped, 
and  his  hair  standing  up  where  his  fingers  had  run  through 
it.  He  gazed  at  his  mother  while  she  played,  but  he  saw 
Fleur — Fleur  in  the  moonlit  orchard,  Fleur  in  the  sunlit 
gravel-pit,  Fleur  in  that  fancy  dress,  swaying,  whispering, 
stooping,  kissing  his  forehead.  Once,  while  he  listened, 
he  forgot  himself  and  glanced  at  his  father  in  that  other 
easy  chair.  What  was  Dad  looking  like  that  for  ?  The 
expression  on  his  face  was  so  sad  and  puzzling.  It  filled 
him  with  a  sort  of  remorse,  so  that  he  got  up  and  went  and 
sat  on  the  arm  of  his  father's  chair.  From  there  he  could 
not  see  his  face;  and  again  he  saw  Fleur — in  his  mother's 
hands,  slim  and  white  on  the  keys,  in  the  profile  of  her 
face  and  her  powdery  hair;  and  down  the  long  room  in  the 
open  window  v/here  the  May  night  walked  outside. 

When  he  went  up  to  bed  his  mother  came  into  his  room. 
She  stood  at  the  window,  and  said : 


888  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Those  cypresses  your  grandfather  planted  down  there 
have  done  wonderfully.  I  always  think  they  look  beautiful 
under  a  dropping  moon.  I  wish  you  had  known  your 
grandfather,  Jon." 

"  Were  you  married  to  father  when  he  was  alive  ?"  asked 
Jon  suddenly. 

"No,  dear;  he  died  in  '92 — very  old — eighty -five,  I 
think." 

"  Is  Father  like  him  ?" 

"  A  little,  but  more  subtle,  and  not  quite  so  solid." 

"  I  know,  from  grandfather's  portrait;  who  painted 
that  ?" 

"  One  of  June's  '  lame  ducks.'     But  it's  quite  good." 

Jon  slipped  his  hand  through  his  mother's  arm.  "  Tell 
me  about  the  family  quarrel.  Mum." 

He  felt  her  arm  quivering.  "  No,  dear;  that's  for  your 
Father  some  day,  if  he  thinks  fit." 

"  Then  it  was  serious,"  said  Jon,  with  a  catch  in  his 
breath. 

"  Yes."  And  there  was  a  silence,  during  which  neither 
knew  whether  the  arm  or  the  hand  within  it  were  quivering 
most. 

"  Some  people,"  said  Irene  softly,  "  think  the  moon  on 
her  back  is  evil;  to  me  she's  always  lovely.  Look  at  those 
cypress  shadows  !  Jon,  Father  says  we  may  go  to  Italy, 
you  and  I,  for  two  months.     Would  you  like  ?" 

Jon  took  his  hand  from  under  her  arm :  his  sensation  was 
so  sharp  and  so  confused.  Italy  with  his  mother !  A 
fortnight  ago  it  w^ould  have  been  perfection;  now  it  filled 
him  with  dismay;  he  felt  that  the  sudden  suggestion  had 
to  do  with  Fleur.     He  stammered  out: 

"Oh!   yes;   only — I   don't  know.     Ought   I — now  I've 
just  begun  ?     I'd  like  to  think  it  over." 
Her  voice  answered,  cool  and  gentle: 


TO  LET  889 

"Yes,  dear;  think  it  over.     But  better  now  than  when 

you've  begun  farming  seriously.     Italy  with  you !     It 

would  be  nice  !" 

Jon  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  stiU  slim  and  firm  as  a 
girl's. 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  leave  Father  ?"  he  said 
feebly,  feeling  very  mean. 

"Father  suggested  it;  he  thinks  you  ought  to  see  Italy 
at  least  before  you  settle  down  to  anything." 

The  sense  of  meanness  died  in  Jon;  he  knew,  yes — he 
knew — that  his  father  and  his  mother  were  not  speaking 
frankly,  no  more  than  he  himself.  They  wanted  to  keep 
him  from  Fleur.  His  heart  hardened.  And,  as  if  she  felt 
that  process  going  on,  his  mother  said : 

"  Good-night,  darling.  Have  a  good  sleep  and  think  it 
over.     But  it  would  be  lovely  !" 

She  pressed  him  to  her  so  quickly  that  he  did  not  see  her 
face.  Jon  stood  feeling  exactly  as  he  used  to  when  he  was  a 
naughty  little  boy;  sore  because  he  was  not  loving,  and 
because  he  was  justified  in  his  own  eyes. 

But  Irene,  after  she  had  stood  a  moment  in  her  own  room, 
passed  through  the  dressing-room  between  it  and  her 
husband's. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  He  will  think  it  over,  Jolyon." 

Watching  her  lips  that  wore  a  little  drawn  smile,  Jolyon 
said  quietly: 

"  You  had  better  let  me  tell  him,  and  have  done  with  it. 
After  all,  Jon  has  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman.  He  has  only 
to  understand " 

"  Only  !     He  can't  understand;  that's  impossible." 

"  I  believe  I  could  have  at  his  age." 

Irene  caught  his  hand.  "  You  were  always  more  of  a 
realist  than  Jon;  and  never  so  innocent." 

29* 


890  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  That's  true,"  said  Jolyon.  "  It's  queer,  isn't  it  ?  You 
and  I  would  tell  our  stories  to  the  world  without  a  particle 
of  shame;  but  our  own  boy  stumps  us." 

"  We've  never  cared  whether  the  world  approves  or 
not." 

"  Jon  would  not  disapprove  of  us  /" 

"  Oh  !  Jolyon,  yes.  He's  in  love,  I  feel  he's  in  love. 
And  he'd  say:  'My  mother  once  married  without  love  I 
How  could  she  have  !'  It'll  seem  to  him.  a  crime  !  And 
so  it  was  !" 

Jolyon  took  her  hand,  and  said  with  a  wry  smile : 

"  xAh  !  why  on  earth  are  we  born  young  ?  Now,  if  only 
we  were  born  old  and  grew  younger  year  by  year,  we  should 
understand  how  things  happen,  and  drop  all  our  cursed 
intolerance.  But  you  know  if  the  boy  is  really  in  love,  he 
won't  forget,  even  if  he  goes  to  Italy.  We're  a  tenacious 
breed;  and  he'll  know  by  instinct  why  he's  being  sent. 
Nothing  will  really  cure  him  but  the  shock  of  being  told." 

"  Let  me  try,  anyway." 

Jolyon  stood  a  moment  without  speaking.  Between 
this  devil  and  this  deep  sea — the  pain  of  a  dreaded  dis- 
closure and  the  grief  of  losing  his  wife  for  two  months — 
he  secretly  hoped  for  the  devil;  yet  if  she  wished  for  the 
deep  sea  he  must  put  up  with  it.  After  all,  it  would  be 
training  for  that  departure  from  which  there  would  be  no 
return.  And,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  eyes, 
and  said: 

"  As  you  will,  my  love." 


CHAPTER   XI 

DUET 

That  "  small "  emotion,  love,  grows  amazingly  when 
threatened  with  extinction.  Jon  reached  Paddington 
station  half  an  hour  before  his  time  and  a  full  week  after, 
as  it  seemed  to  him.  He  stood  at  the  appointed  book-stall, 
amid  a  crowd  of  Sunday  travellers,  in  a  Harris  tweed  suit 
exhaling,  as  it  were,  the  emotion  of  his  thumping  heart. 
He  read  the  names  of  the  novels  on  the  book -stall,  and 
bought  one  at  last,  to  avoid  being  regarded  with  suspicion 
by  the  book-stall  clerk.  It  was  called  "  The  Heart  of  the 
Trail  1"  which  must  mean  something,  though  it  did  not 
seem  to.  He  also  bought  "  The  Lady's  Mirror  "  and  "  The 
Landsman."  Every  minute  was  an  hour  long,  and  full  of 
horrid  imaginings.  After  nineteen  had  passed,  he  saw 
her  with  a  bag  and  a  porter  wheeling  her  luggage.  She 
came  swiftly;  she  came  cool.  She  greeted  him  as  if  he  were 
a  brother. 

"First  class,"  she  said  to  the  porter,  "corner  seats; 
opposite." 

Jon  admired  her  frightful  self-possession. 

"  Can't  we  get  a  carriage  to  ourselves  ?"  he  whispered. 

"No  good;  it's  a  stopping  train.  After  Maidenhead 
perhaps.     Look  natural,  Jon." 

Jon  screwed  his  features  into  a  scowl.  They  got  in — 
with  two  other  beasts  ! — oh  !  heaven  !  He  tipped  the 
porter  unnaturally,  in  his  confusion.  The  brute  deserved 
nothing  for  putting  them  in  there,  and  looking  as  if  he  knew 
all  about  it  into  the  bargain. 

891 


892  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Fleur  hid  herself  behind  "The  Lady's  Mirror."  Jon 
imitated  her  behind  "  The  Landsman."  The  train  started. 
Fleur  let  "  The  Lady's  Mirror  "  fall  and  leaned  forward. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said. 

"  It's  seemed  about  fifteen  days." 

She  nodded,  and  Jon's  face  lighted  up  at  once. 

"  Look  natural,"  murmured  Fleur,  and  went  off  into  a 
bubble  of  laughter.  It  hurt  him.  How  could  he  look 
natural  with  Italy  hanging  over  him  ?  He  had  meant  to 
break  it  to  her  gently,  but  now  he  blurted  it  out. 

"  They  want  me  to  go  to  Italy  with  Mother  for  two 
months." 

Fleur  drooped  her  eyelids;  turned  a  little  pale,  and  bit 
her  lips. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said.     It  was  all,  but  it  was  much. 

That  "  Oh  !"  was  like  the  quick  drawback  of  the  wrist 
in  fencing  ready  for  riposte.     It  came. 

"  You  must  go  !" 

"  Go  ?"  said  Jon  in  a  strangled  voice. 

"  Of  course." 

"  But — two  months — it's  ghastly." 

"  No,"  said  Fleur,  "  six  weeks.  You'll  have  forgotten 
me  by  then.  We'll  meet  in  the  National  Gallery  the  day 
after  you  get  back." 

Jon  laughed. 

'*  But  suppose  you've  forgotten  w^,"  he  muttered  into 
the  noise  of  the  train. 

Fleur  shook  her  head. 

"  Some  other  beast "  murmured  Jon. 

Her  foot  touched  his. 

"  No  other  beast,"  she  said,  lifting  the  "  Lady's  Mirror." 

The  train  stopped;  two  passengers  got  out,  and  one 
got  in. 

*  I  shall  die,'  thought  Jon,  '  if  we're  not  alone  at  all.' 


TO  LET  893 

The  train  went  on;  and  again  Fleur  leaned  forward. 

*'  I  never  let  go,"  she  said;  "  do  you  ?" 

Jon  shook  his  head  vehemently. 

"  Never  1"  he  said.     "  Will  you  write  to  me  ?" 

"  No;  but  you  can — to  my  Club." 

She  had  a  Club;  she  was  wonderful  ! 

"  Did  you  pump  Holly  ?"  he  muttered. 

"  Yes,  but  I  got  nothing.     I  didn't  dare  pump  hard." 

"  What  can  it  be  ?"  cried  Jon. 

*'  I  shall  find  out  all  right." 

A  long  silence  followed  till  Fleur  said:  "  This  is  Maiden- 
head; stand  by,  Jon  !" 

The  train  stopped.  The  remaining  passenger  got  out. 
Fleur  drew  down  her  blind. 

"  Quick  !"  she  cried.  "  Hang  out  !  Look  as  much  of  a 
beast  as  you  can." 

Jon  blew  his  nose,  and  scowled;  never  in  all  his  life 
had  he  scowled  like  that  !  An  old  lady  recoiled,  a  young 
one  tried  the  handle.  It  turned,  but  the  door  would  not 
open.  The  train  moved,  the  young  lady  darted  to  another 
carriage. 

"  What  luck  !"  cried  Jon.     "  It  jammed." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fleur;  "  I  was  holding  it." 

The  train  moved  out,  and  Jon  fell  on  his  knees. 

"Look  out  for  the  corridor,"  she  whispered;  "and — 
quick  !" 

Her  lips  met  his.  And  though  their  kiss  only  lasted 
perhaps  ten  seconds  Jon's  soul  left  his  body  and  went 
so  far  beyond,  that,  when  he  was  again  sitting  opposite 
that  demure  figure,  he  was  pale  as  death.  He  heard  her 
sigh,  and  the  sound  seemed  to  him  the  most  precious  he 
had  ever  heard — an  exquisite  declaration  that  he  meant 
something  to  her. 

"  Sii  weeks  isn't  really  long,"  she  said;  "and  you  can 


894  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

easily  make  it  six  if  you  keep  your  head  out  there,  and  never 
seem  to  think  of  me." 

Jon  gasped. 

"  This  is  just  what's  really  wanted,  Jon,  to  convince  them, 
don't  you  see  ?  If  we're  just  as  bad  when  you  come  back 
they'll  stop  being  ridiculous  about  it.  Only,  I'm  sorry  it's 
not  Spain;  there's  a  girl  in  a  Goya  picture  at  Madrid  who's 
like  me,  Father  says.  Only  she  isn't — we've  got  a  copy  of 
her." 

It  w^as  to  Jon  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  piercing  through  a  fog. 
"  I'll  make  it  Spain,"  he  said,  "  Mother  won't  mind;  she's 
never  been  there.     And  my  Father  thinks  a  lot  of  Goya." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  he's  a  painter — isn't  he  ?" 

"  Only  water-colour,"  said  Jon,  with  honesty. 

"  When  we  come  to  Reading,  Jon,  get  out  first  and  go 
down  to  Caversham  lock  and  wait  for  me.  I'll  send  the  car 
home  and  we'll  walk  by  the  towing-path." 

Jon  seized  her  hand  in  gratitude,  and  they  sat  silent,  with 
the  world  well  lost,  and  one  eye  on  the  corridor.  But  the 
train  seemed  to  run  twice  as  fast  now,  and  its  sound  was 
almost  lost  in  that  of  Jon's  sighing. 

"We're  getting  near,"  said  Fleur;  "the  towing-path's 
awfully  exposed.     One  more  !     Oh  !  Jon,  don't  forget  me." 

Jon  answered  with  his  kiss.  And  very  soon,  a  flushed, 
distracted -looking  youth  could  have  been  seen — as  they  say 
— leaping  from  the  train  and  hurrying  along  the  platform, 
searching  his  pockets  for  his  ticket. 

When  at  last  she  rejoined  him  on  the  towing-path  a 
little  beyond  Caversham  lock  he  had  made  an  effort,  and 
regained  some  measure  of  equanimity.  If  they  had  to  part, 
he  would  not  make  a  scene  !  A  breeze  by  the  bright  river 
threw  the  white  side  of  the  willow  leaves  up  into  the  sun- 
light, and  followed  those  two  with  its  faint  rustle. 

"  I  told  our  chauffeur  that  I  was  train -giddy,"  said  Fleur. 
"  Did  you  look  pretty  natural  as  you  went  out  ?" 


TO  LET  895 

"  I  don't  know.     What  is  natural  ?" 

"  It's  natural  to  you  to  look  seriously  happy.  When  I 
first  saw  you  I  thought  you  weren't  a  bit  like  other  people." 

"  Exactly  what  I  thought  when  I  saw  you.  I  knew  at 
once  I  should  never  love  anybody  else." 

Fleur  laughed. 

"  We're  absurdly  young.  And  love's  young  dream  is 
out  of  date,  Jon.  Besides,  it's  awfully  wasteful.  Think 
of  all  the  fun  you  might  have.  You  haven't  begun,  even; 
it's  a  shame,  really.     And  there's  me.     I  wonder  !" 

Confusion  came  on  Jon's  spirit.  How  could  she  say 
such  things  just  as  they  were  going  to  part  ? 

"  If  you  feel  like  that,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  go.  I  shall  tell 
Mother  that  I  ought  to  try  and  work.  There's  aWays  the 
condition  of  the  world  !" 

"  The  condition  of  the  world  1" 

Jon  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets. 

"  But  there  is,"  he  said;  "  think  of  the  people  starving  !" 

Fleur  shook  her  head.  "  No,  no,  I  never,  never  will  make 
myself  miserable  for  nothing." 

"  Nothing  !  But  there's  an  awful  state  of  things,  and  of 
course  one  ought  to  help." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  know  all  that.  But  you  can't  help  people, 
Jon;  they're  hopeless.  When  you  pull  them  out  they  only 
get  into  another  hole.  Look  at  them,  still  fighting  and 
plotting  and  struggling,  though  they're  dying  in  heaps  all 
the  time.     Idiots  !" 

"  Aren't  you  sorry  for  them  ?" 

"  Oh  !  sorry — yes,  but  I'm  not  going  to  make  myself 
unhappy  about  it;  that's  no  good." 

And  they  were  silent,  disturbed  by  this  first  glimpse  of 
each  other's  natures. 

"  I  think  people  are  brutes  and  idiots,"  said  Fleur  stub- 
bornly. 

*'  I  think  they're  poor  wretches,"  said  Jon.      It  was  as  if 


896  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

they  had  quarrelled — and  at  this  supreme  and  awful  moment, 
with  parting  visible  out  there  in  that  last  gap  of  the  willows  ! 

"  Well,  go  and  help  your  poor  wretches,  and  don't  think 
of  me." 

Jon  stood  still.  Sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead,  and 
his  limbs  trembled.  Fleur  too  had  stopped  and  was 
frowning  at  the  river. 

"  I  must  believe  in  things,"  said  Jon  with  a  sort  of  agony; 
"  we're  all  meant  to  enjoy  life." 

Fleur  laughed.  "Yes;  and  that's  what  you  won't  do, 
if  you  don't  take  care.  But  perhaps  your  idea  of  enjoyment 
is  to  make  yourself  wretched.  There  are  lots  of  people  like 
that,  of  course." 

She  was  pale,  her  eyes  had  darkened,  her  lips  had  thinned. 
Was  it  Fleur  thus  staring  at  the  water  ?  Jon  had  an  unreal 
feeling  as  if  he  were  passing  through  the  scene  in  a  book 
where  the  lover  has  to  choose  between  love  and  duty.  But 
just  then  she  looked  round  at  him.  Never  was  anything  so 
intoxicating  as  that  vivacious  look.  It  acted  on  him  exactly 
as  the  tug  of  a  chain  acts  on  a  dog — brought  him  up  to  her 
with  his  tail  wagging  and  his  tongue  out. 

"  Don't  let's  be  silly,"  she  said,  "  time's  too  short.  Look, 
Jon,  you  can  just  see  where  I've  got  to  cross  the  river.  There, 
round  the  bend,  where  the  woods  begin." 

Jon  saw  a  gable,  a  chimney  or  two,  a  patch  of  wall  through 
the  trees — and  felt  his  heart  sink. 

*'  I  mustn't  dawdle  any  more.  It's  no  good  going  beyond 
the  next  hedge,  it  gets  all  open.  Let's  get  on  to  it  and  say 
good-bye." 

They  went  side  by  side,  hand  in  hand,  silently  toward  the 
hedge,  where  the  may -flower,  both  pink  and  white,  was  in 
full  bloom. 

"My  Club's  the  '  Talisman,'  Stratton  Street,  Piccadilly. 
Letters  there  will  be  quite  safe,  and  I'm  almost  always  up 
once  a  week." 


TO  LET  897 

Jon  nodded.  His  face  had  become  extremely  set,  his 
eyes  stared  straight  before  him. 

"  To-day's  the  twenty-third  of  May,"  said  Fleur;  "  on 
the  ninth  of  July  I  shall  be  in  front  of  the  '  Bacchus  and 
Ariadne  '  at  three  o'clock  ;  will  you  ?" 

"  I  will." 

"  If  you  feel  as  bad  as  I  it's  all  right.  Let  those  people 
pass  !" 

A  man  and  woman  airing  their  children  went  by  strung 
out  in  Sunday  fashion. 

The  last  of  them  passed  the  wicket  gate. 

"  Domesticity  !"  said  Fleur,  and  blotted  herself  against 
the  hawthorn  hedge.  The  blossom  sprayed  out  above  her 
head,  and  one  pink  cluster  brushed  her  cheek.  Jon  put  up 
his  hand  jealously  to  keep  it  off. 

"  Good-bye,  Jon."  For  a  second  they  stood  with  hands 
hard  clasped.  Then  their  lips  met  for  the  third  time,  and 
when  they  parted  Fleur  broke  away  and  fled  through  the 
wicket  gate.  Jon  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  with  his 
forehead  against  that  pink  cluster.  Gone  !  For  an 
eternity — for  seven  weeks  all  but  two  days  !  And  here  he 
was,  wasting  the  last  sight  of  her  !  He  rushed  to  the 
gate.  She  was  walking  swiftly  on  the  heels  of  the  straggling 
children.  She  turned  her  head,  he  saw  her  hand  make  a 
little  flitting  gesture;  then  she  sped  on,  and  the  trailing 
family  blotted  her  out  from  his  view. 

The  words  of  a  comic  song — 

"  Paddington  groan — worst  ever  known — 
He  gave  a  sepulchral  Paddington  groan — " 

came  into  his  head,  and  he  sped  incontinently  back  to  Reading 
station.  All  the  way  up  to  London  and  down  to  Wansdon 
he  sat  with  the  "  Heart  of  the  Trail  "  open  on  his  knee, 
knitting  in  his  head  a  poem  so  full  of  feeling  that  it  would 
not  rhyme. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CAPRICE 

Fleur  sped  on.  She  had  need  of  rapid  motion;  she  was 
late,  and  wanted  all  her  wits  about  her  when  she  got  in. 
She  passed  the  islands,  the  station,  and  hotel,  and  was  about 
to  take  the  ferry,  when  she  saw  a  skiff  with  a  young  man 
standing  up  in  it,  and  holding  to  the  bushes. 

"  Miss  Forsyte,"  he  said;  "  let  me  put  you  across.  I've 
come  on  purpose." 

She  looked  at  him  in  blank  amazement. 

"  It's  all  right,  I've  been  having  tea  with  your  people, 
I  thought  I'd  save  you  the  last  bit.  It's  on  my  way,  I'm 
just  off  back  to  Pangbourne.  My  name's  Mont.  I  saw  you 
at  the  picture-gallery — you  remember — when  your  father 
invited  me  to  see  his  pictures." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Fleur;  "  yes— the  handkerchief." 

To  this  young  man  she  owed  Jon;  and,  taking  his  hand, 
she  stepped  down  into  the  skiff.  Still  emotional,  and  a 
little  out  of  breath,  she  sat  silent;  not  so  the  young  man. 
She  had  never  heard  any  one  say  so  much  in  so  short  a  time. 
He  told  her  his  age,  twenty -four;  his  weight,  ten  stone 
eleven;  his  place  of  residence,  not  far  away;  described  his 
sensations  under  fire,  and  what  it  felt  like  to  be  gassed; 
criticized  the  Juno,  mentioned  his  own  conception  of  that 
goddess;  commented  on  the  Goya  copy,  said  Fleur  was  not 
too  awfully  like  it;  sketched  in  rapidly  the  condition  of 
England ;  spoke  of  Monsieur  Profond — or  whatever  his  name 
was — as  "an  awful  sport";  thought  her  father  had  some 
"  ripping  "  pictures  and  some  rather  "  dug-up  ";  hoped  he 

898 


TO  LET  899 

might  row  down  again  and  take  her  on  the  river  because  he 
was  quite  trustworthy;  inquired  her  opinion  of  Tchekov, 
gave  her  his  own;  wished  they  could  go  to  the  Russian  ballet 
together  some  time — considered  the  name  Fleur  Forsyte 
simply  topping;  cursed  his  people  for  giving  him  the  name 
of  Michael  on  the  top  of  Mont;  outHned  his  father,  and  said 
that  if  she  wanted  a  good  book  she  should  read  "Job"; 
his  father  was  rather  like  Job  while  Job  still  had  land. 

"  But  Job  didn't  have  land,"  Fleur  murmured;  "  he  only 
had  flocks  and  herds  and  moved  on." 

"  Ah  !"  answered  Michael  Mont,  "  I  wish  my  gov'nor 
would  move  on.  Not  that  I  want  his  land.  Land's  an 
awful  bore  in  these  days,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"  We  never  have  it  in  my  family,"  said  Fleur.  "  We  have 
everything  else.  I  believe  one  of  my  great-uncles  once  had 
a  sentimental  farm  in  Dorset,  because  we  came  from  there 
originally,  but  it  cost  him  more  than  it  made  him  happy." 

"  Did  he  sell  it  ?" 

"No;  he  kept  it." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  nobody  would  buy  it." 

"  Good  for  the  old  boy  !" 

"  No,  it  wasn't  good  for  him.  Father  says  it  soured 
him.     His  name  was  Swithin." 

"  What  a  corking  name  !" 

"  Do  you  know  that  we're  getting  farther  off,  not 
nearer  ?     This  river  flows." 

"  Splendid  !"  cried  Mont,  dipping  his  sculls  vaguely; 
"  it's  good  to  meet  a  girl  who's  got  wit." 

"  But  better  to  meet  a  young  man  who's  got  it  in  the 
plural." 

Young  Mont  raised  a  hand  to  tear  his  hair. 

"  Look  out  !"  cried  Fleur.     "  Your  scull  !" 

"  All  right  !     It's  thick  enough  to  bear  a  scratch." 


900 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


"  Do  you  mind  sculling F'^  said  Fleur  severely.  "  I  want 
to  get  in." 

"Ah  !"  said  Mont;  "  but  when  you  get  in,  you  see,  I 
shan't  see  you  any  more  to-day.  Fini,  as  the  French  girl 
said  when  she  jumped  on  her  bed  after  saying  her  prayers. 
Don't  you  bless  the  day  that  gave  you  a  French  mother, 
and  a  name  like  yours  ?" 

"  I  like  my  name,  but  Father  gave  it  me.  Mother  wanted 
me  called  Marguerite." 

"  Which  is  absurd.    Do  you  mind  calling  me  M.  M.  and 
letting  me  call  you  F.  F.  ?     It's  in  the  spirit  of  the  age." 
"  I  don't  mind  anything,  so  long  as  I  get  in." 
Mont  caught  a  little  crab,  and  answered:  "That  was  a 
nasty  one  !" 
"  Please  row." 

"  I  am."     And  he  did  for  several  strokes,  looking  at  her 
with  rueful  eagerness.     "  Of  course,  you  know,"  he  ejacu- 
lated, pausing,  "  that  I  came  to  see  you,  not  your  father's 
pictures." 
Fleur  rose. 

"  If  you  don't  row,  I  shall  get  out  and  swim." 
"  Really  and  truly  ?     Then  I  could  come  in  after  you." 
"  Mr.  Mont,  I'm  late  and  tired;   please  put  me  on  shore 
at  once." 

When  she  stepped  out  on  to  the  garden  landing-stage 
he  rose,  and  grasping  his  hair  with  both  hands,  looked  at  her. 
Fleur  smiled. 

"  Don't  !"  cried  the  irrepressible  Mont.  "  I  know  you're 
going  to  say:  '  Out,  damned  hair  I'  " 

Fleur  whisked  round,  threw  him  a  wave  of  her  hand. 
"  Good-bye,  Mr.  M.  M.  !"  she  called,  and  was  gone  among 
the  rose-trees.  She  looked  at  her  wrist -watch  and  the 
windows  of  the  house.  It  struck  her  as  curiously  uninhabited. 
Past  six  !     The  pigeons  were  just  gathering  to  roost,  and 


TO  LET  901 

sunlight  slanted  on  the  dove-cot,  on  their  snowy  feathers, 
and  beyond  in  a  shower  on  the  top  boughs  of  the  woods. 
The  click  of  billiard-balls  came  from  the  ingle-nook — Jack 
Cardigan,  no  doubt;  a  faint  rustling,  too,  from  an  eucalyptus - 
tree,  startling  Southerner  in  this  old  English  garden.  She 
reached  the  verandah  and  was  passing  in,  but  stopped  at 
the  sound  of  voices  from  the  drawing-room  to  her  left. 
Mother  !  Monsieur  Profond  !  From  behind  the  verandah 
screen  which  fenced  the  ingle-nook  she  heard  these  words  ! 

"  I  don't,  Annette." 

Did  Father  know  that  he  called  her  mother  "  Annette  "  ? 
Always  on  the  side  of  her  Father — as  children  are  ever  on 
one  side  or  the  other  in  houses  where  relations  are  a  little 
strained — she  stood,  uncertain.  Her  mother  was  speaking 
in  her  low,  pleasing,  slightly  metallic  voice — one  word  she 
caught:  '^  Demainy  And  Profond's  answer:  "All  right.'* 
Fleur  frowned.  A  little  sound  came  out  into  the  stillness. 
Then  Profond's  voice:  "  I'm  takin'  a  small  stroll." 

Fleur  darted  through  the  window  into  the  morning -room. 
There  he  came — from  the  drawing-room,  crossing  the 
verandah,  down  the  lawn;  and  the  click  of  billiard-balls 
which,  in  listening  for  other  sounds,  she  had  ceased  to  hear, 
began  again.  She  shook  herself,  passed  into  the  hall,  and 
opened  the  drawing-room  door.  Her  mother  was  sitting 
on  the  sofa  between  the  windows,  her  knees  crossed,  her 
head  resting  on  a  cushion,  her  lips  half  parted,  her  eyes  half 
closed.     She  looked  extraordinarily  handsome. 

"  Ah  !  Here  you  are,  Fleur  !  Your  father  is  beginning 
to  fuss." 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  In  the  picture-gallery.     Go  up  !" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-morrow.  Mother  ?" 

**  To-morrow  ?     I   go   up   to   London   with  your   aunt. 


902  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I  thought  you  might  be.  Will  you  get  me  a  quite  plain 
parasol ?" 

"  What  colour  r" 

"  Green.     They're  all  going  back,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  all;  you  will  console  your  father.     Kiss 'me,  then." 

Fleur  crossed  the  room,  stooped,  received  a  kiss  on  her 
forehead,  and  went  out  past  the  impress  of  a  form  on  the 
sofa-cushions  in  the  other  corner.     She  ran  up -stairs. 

Fleur  was  by  no  means  the  old-fashioned  daughter  who 
demands  the  regulation  of  her  parents'  lives  in  accordance 
with  the  standard  imposed  upon  herself.  She  claimed  to 
regulate  her  own  life,  not  those  of  others;  besides,  an  un- 
erring instinct  for  what  was  likely  to  advantage  her  own  case 
was  already  at  work.  In  a  disturbed  domestic  atmosphere 
the  heart  she  had  set  on  Jon  would  have  a  better  chance. 
None  the  less  was  she  offended,  as  a  flower  by  a  crisping  wind. 
If  that  man  had  really  been  kissing  her  mother  it  was — 
serious,  and  her  father  ought  to  know.  "  Demain  ./"  "  All 
right  !"  And  her  mother  going  up  to  Town  !  She  turned 
into  her  bedroom  and  hung  out  of  the  window  to  cool  her 
face,  which  had  suddenly  grown  very  hot.  Jon  must  be 
at  the  station  by  now  !  W^hat  did  her  father  know  about 
Jon  ?     Probably  everything — pretty  nearly  ! 

She  changed  her  dress,  so  as  to  look  as  if  she  had  been  in 
some  time,  and  ran  up  to  the  gallery. 

Soames  was  standing  stubbornly  still  before  his  Alfred 
Stevens — the  picture  he  loved  best.  He  did  not  turn  at 
the  sound  of  the  door,  but  she  knew  he  had  heard,  and  she 
knew  he  was  hurt.  She  came  up  softly  behind  him,  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  poked  her  face  over  his  shoulder 
till  her  cheek  lay  against  his.  It  was  an  advance  which  had 
never  yet  failed,  but  it  failed  her  now,  and  she  augured  the 
worst. 

"  Well,"  he  said  stonily,  "  so  you've  come  !" 


TO  LET  903 

"  Is  that  all,"  murmured  Fleur,  "  from  a  bad  parent  ?" 
And  she  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his. 

Soames  shook  his  head  so  far  as  that  was  possible. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  me  on  tenterhooks  like  this,  putting 
me  off  and  off  ?" 

"  Darling,  it  was  very  harmless." 

"  Harmless  !  Much  you  know  what's  harmless  and  what 
isn't." 

Fleur  dropped  her  arms. 

"  Well,  then,  dear,  suppose  you  tell  me;  and  be  quite 
frank  about  it." 

And  she  went  over  to  the  window-seat. 

Her  father  had  turned  from  his  picture,  and  was  staring 
at  his  feet.  He  looked  very  grey.  '  He  has  nice  small 
feet,'  she  thought,  catching  his  eye,  at  once  averted  from 
her. 

"  You're  my  only  comfort,"  said  Soames  suddenly,  "  and 
you  go  on  like  this." 

Fleur's  heart  began  to  beat. 

"  Like  what,  dear  ?" 

Again  Soames  gave  her  a  look  which,  but  for  the  affection 
in  it,  might  have  been  called  furtive. 

"  You  know  what  I  told  you,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  choose 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  that  branch  of  our  family." 

"  Yes,  ducky,  but  I  don't  know  why  /  shouldn't." 

Soames  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  I'm  not  going  into  the  reasons,"  he  said;  "you  ought 
to  trust  me,  Fleur  !" 

The  way  he  spoke  those  words  affected  Fleur,  but  she 
thought  of  Jon,  and  was  silent,  tapping  her  foot  against  the 
wainscot.  Unconsciously  she  had  assumed  a  modern 
attitude,  with  one  leg  twisted  in  and  out  of  the  other,  with 
her  chin  on  one  bent  wrist,  her  other  arm  across  her  chest, 
and  its  hand  hugging  her  elbow;  there  was  not  a  line  of  her 


904  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

that  was  not  involuted,  and  yet — in  spite  of  all — she  re- 
tained a  certain  grace. 

"  You  knew  my  wishes,"  Soames  went  on,  "  and  yet  you 
stayed  on  there  four  days.  And  I  suppose  that  boy  came 
with  you  to-day." 

Fleur  kept  her  eyes  on  him. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  anything,"  said  Soames;  "  I  make  no 
inquisition  where  you're  concerned." 

Fleur  suddenly  stood  up,  leaning  out  at  the  window  with 
her  chin  on  her  hands.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind  trees, 
the  pigeons  were  perched,  quite  still,  on  the  edge  of  the 
dove-cot;  the  click  of  the  billiard-balls  mounted,  and  a 
faint  radiance  shone  out  below  where  Jack  Cardigan  had 
turned  the  light  up. 

"  Will  it  make  you  any  happier,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  if 
I  promise  you  not  to  see  him  for  say — the  next  six  weeks  ?'* 
She  was  not  prepared  for  a  sort  of  tremble  in  the  blankness 
of  his  voice. 

"  Six  weeks  ?  Six  years — sixty  years  more  like.  Don't 
delude  yourself,  Fleur;  don't  delude  yourself  !" 

Fleur  turned  in  alarm. 

"  Father,  what  is  it  ?" 

Soames  came  close  enough  to  see  her  face. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  that  you're  foolish  enough 
to  have  any  feeling  beyond  caprice.  That  would  be  too 
much  !"     And  he  laughed. 

Fleur,  who  had  never  heard  him  laugh  like  that,  thought : 
'  Then  it  is  deep  !  Oh  !  what  is  it  ?'  And  putting  her 
hand  through  his  arm  she  said  lightly: 

"  No,  of  course;  caprice.  Only,  I  like  my  caprices  and 
I  don't  like  yours,  dear." 

"  Mine  !"  said  Soames  bitterly,  and  turned  away. 

The  light  outside  had  chilled,  and  threw  a  chalky  white- 
ness on  the  river.      The  trees  had  lost  all  gaiety  of  colour. 


TO  LET  905 

She  felt  a  sudden  hunger  for  Jon's  face,  for  his  hands, 
and  the  feel  of  his  lips  again  on  hers.  And  pressing  her 
arms  tight  across  her  breast  she  forced  out  a  little  Ught 
laugh. 

"  O  la  I  la  I  What  a  small  fuss  !  as  Profond  would  say. 
Father,  I  don't  like  that  man." 

She  saw  him  stop,  and  take  something  out  of  his  breast 
pocket. 

"  You  don't  ?"  he  said.     "  Why  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  murmured  Fleur;  "  just  caprice  !" 

"  No,"  said  Soames;  "  not  caprice  !"  And  he  tore  what 
was  in  his  hands  across.  "  You're  right.  /  don't  like  him 
either  !" 

"  Look  !"  said  Fleur  softly.  "  There  he  goes  !  I  hate 
his  shoes:  they  don't  make  any  noise." 

Down  in  the  failing  light  Prosper  Profond  moved,  his 
hands  in  his  side  pockets,  whistling  softly  in  his  beard;  he 
stopped,  and  glanced  up  at  the  sky,  as  if  saying:  "  I  don't 
think  much  of  that  small  moon." 

Fleur  drew  back.  "  Isn't  he  a  great  cat  ?"  she  whispered; 
and  the  sharp  click  of  the  billiard-balls  rose,  as  if  Jack 
Cardigan  had  capped  the  cat,  the  moon,  caprice,  and  tragedy 
with:  "In  off  the  red!" 

Monsieur  Profond  had  resumed  his  strolling,  to  a  teasing 
little  tune  in  his  beard.  What  was  it  ?  Oh  !  yes,  from 
"Rigoletto":  '''Donna  e  mobile.^^  Just  what  he  would 
think  !     She  squeezed  her  father's  arm. 

"  Prowling  !"  she  muttered,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of 
the  house.  It  was  past  that  disillusioned  moment  which 
divides  the  day  and  night — still  and  lingering  and  warm, 
with  hawthorn  scent  and  lilac  scent  clinging  on  the  riverside 
air.  A  blackbird  suddenly  burst  out.  Jon  would  be  in 
London  by  now;  in  the  Park  perhaps,  crossing  the  Serpen- 
tine, thinking  of  her  !     A  Uttle  sound  beside  her  made  her 


9o6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

turn  her  eyes;  her  father  was  again  tearing  the  paper  in  his 
hands.     Fleur  saw  it  was  a  cheque, 

"  I  shan't  sell  him  my  Gauguin,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
what  your  aunt  and  Imogen  see  in  him." 

"  Or  Mother." 

"  Your  mother  !"  said  Soames. 

'  Poor  Father  !'  she  thought.  *  He  never  looks  happy — 
not  really  happy.  I  don't  want  to  make  him  worse,  but  of 
course  I  shall  have  to,  when  Jon  comes  back.  Oh  !  well, 
sufficient  unto  the  night  !' 

"  I'm  going  to  dress,"  she  said. 

In  her  room  she  had  a  fancy  to  put  on  her  "  freak  " 
dress.  It  was  of  gold  tissue  with  little  trousers  of  the  same, 
tightly  drawn  in  at  the  ankles,  a  page's  cape  slung  from  the 
shoulders,  little  gold  shoes,  and  a  gold -winged  Mercury 
helmet;  and  all  over  her  were  tiny  gold  bells,  especially 
on  the  helmet;  so  that  if  she  shook  her  head  she  pealed. 
When  she  was  dressed  she  felt  quite  sick  because  Jon  could 
not  see  her;  it  even  seemed  a  pity  that  the  sprightly  young 
man  Michael  Mont  would  not  have  a  view.  But  the  gong 
had  sounded,  and  she  went  down. 

She  made  a  sensation  in  the  drawing-room.  Winifred 
thought  it  "  Most  amusing."  Imogen  was  enraptured. 
Jack  Cardigan  called  it  "  stunning,"  "  ripping,"  "  topping," 
and  "  corking."  Monsieur  Profond,  smiling  with  his  eyes, 
said:  "That's  a  nice  small  dress!"  Her  mother,  very 
handsome  in  black,  sat  looking  at  her,  and  said  nothing. 
It  remained  for  her  father  to  apply  the  test  of  common 
sense.  "  What  did  you  put  on  that  thing  for  ?  You're  not 
going  to  dance." 

Fleur  spun  round,  and  the  bells  pealed. 
"  Caprice  !" 

Soames  stared  at  her,  and,  turning  away,  gave  his  arm  to 
Winifred.     Jack  Cardigan  took  her  mother.     Prosper  Pro- 


TO  LET  907 

fond  took  Imogen.  Fleur  went  in  by  herself,  with  her 
bells  jingling.   .   .  . 

The  "  small  "  moon  had  soon  dropped  down,  and  May 
night  had  fallen  soft  and  warm,  enwrapping  with  its  grape- 
bloom  colour  and  its  scents  the  billion  caprices,  intrigues, 
passions,  longings,  and  regrets  of  men  and  women.  Happy 
was  Jack  Cardigan  who  snored  into  Imogen's  white  shoulder, 
fit  as  a  flea;  or  Timothy  in  his  "  mausoleum,"  too  old  for 
anything  but  baby's  slumber.  For  so  many  lay  awake,  or 
dreamed,  teased  by  the  criss-cross  of  the  world. 

The  dew  fell  and  the  flowers  closed;  cattle  grazed  on  in 
the  river  meadows,  feeling  with  their  tongues  for  the  grass 
they  could  not  see;  and  the  sheep  on  the  Downs  lay  quiet 
as  stones.  Pheasants  in  the  tall  trees  of  the  Pangbourne 
woods,  larks  on  their  grassy  nests  above  the  gravel-pit  at 
Wansdon,  swallows  in  the  eaves  at  Robin  Hill,  and  the 
sparrows  of  Mayfair,  all  made  a  dreamless  night  of  it,, 
soothed  by  the  lack  of  wind.  The  Mayfly  filly,  hardly 
accustomed  to  her  new  quarters,  scraped  at  her  straw  a  little; 
and  the  few  night -flitting  things — bats,  moths,  owls — were 
vigorous  in  the  warm  darkness;  but  the  peace  of  night  lay 
in  the  brain  of  all  day-time  Nature,  colourless  and  still. 
Men  and  women,  alone,  riding  the  hobby-horses  of  anxiety 
or  love,  burned  their  wavering  tapers  of  dream  and  thought 
into  the  lonely  hours. 

Fleur,  leaning  out  of  her  window,  heard  the  haU  clock's 
muffled  chime  of  twelve,  the  tiny  splash  of  a  fish,  the  sudden 
shaking  of  an  aspen's  leaves  in  the  puffs  of  breeze  that  rose 
along  the  river,  the  distant  rumble  of  a  night  train,  and  time 
and  again  the  sounds  which  none  can  put  a  name  to  in  the 
darkness,  soft  obscure  expressions  of  uncatalogued  emotions 
from  man  and  beast,  bird  and  machine,  or,  maybe,  from 
departed  Forsytes,  Darties,  Cardigans,  taking  night  strolls 
back  into  a  world  which  had   once  suited  their  embodied 


9o8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

spirits.  But  Fleur  heeded  not  these  sounds;  her  spirit,  far 
from  disembodied,  fled  with  swift  wing  from  railway -carriage 
to  flowery  hedge,  straining  after  Jon,  tenacious  of  his  for- 
bidden image,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  which  was  taboo. 
And  she  crinkled  her  nose,  retrieving  from  the  perfume  of 
the  riverside  night  that  moment  when  his  hand  slipped 
between  the  mayflowers  and  her  cheek.  Long  she  leaned 
out  in  her  freak  dress,  keen  to  burn  her  wings  at  life's  candle ; 
while  the  moths  brushed  her  cheeks  on  their  pilgrimage 
to  the  lamp  on  her  dressing-table,  ignorant  that  in  a  Forsyte's 
house  there  is  no  open  flame.  But  at  last  even  she  felt 
sleepy,  and,  forgetting  her  bells,  drew  quickly  in. 

Through  the  open  window  of  his  room,  alongside  Annette's, 
Soames,  wakeful  too,  heard  their  thin  faint  tinkle,  as  it  might 
be  shaken  from  stars,  or  the  dewdrops  falling  from  a  flower, 
if  one  could  hear  such  sounds. 

'  Caprice  !'  he  thought.  *  I  can't  tell.  She's  wilful. 
What  shall  I  do  ?     Fleur  !' 

And  long  into  the  "  small  "  night  he  brooded. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

MOTHER    AND    SON 

To  say  that  Jon  Forsyte  accompanied  his  mother  to  Spain 
unwillingly  would  scarcely  have  been  adequate.  He  went 
as  a  well-natured  dog  goes  for  a  walk  with  its  mistress,  leaving 
a  choice  mutton -bone  on  the  lawn.  He  went  looking  back 
at  it.  Forsytes  deprived  of  their  mutton-bones  are  wont  to 
sulk.  But  Jon  had  little  sulkiness  in  his  composition.  He 
gdored  his  mother,  and  it  was  his  first  travel.  Spain  had 
become  Italy  by  his  simply  saying:  "  I'd  rather  go  to  Spain, 
Mum;  you've  been  to  Italy  so  many  times;  I'd  like  it  new 
to  both  of  us." 

The  fellow  was  subtle  besides  being  naive.  He  never 
forgot  that  he  was  going  to  shorten  the  proposed  two  months 
into  six  weeks,  and  must  therefore  show  no  sign  of  wishing 
to  do  so.  For  one  with  so  enticing  a  mutton -bone  and  so 
fixed  an  idea,  he  made  a  good  enough  travelling  companion, 
indifferent  to  where  or  when  he  arrived,  superior  to  food, 
and  thoroughly  appreciative  of  a  country  strange  to  the  most 
travelled  Englishman.  Fleur's  wisdom  in  refusing  to  write 
to  him  was  profound,  for  he  reached  each  new  place  entirely 
without  hope  or  fever,  and  could  concentrate  immediate 
attention  on  the  donkeys  and  tumbling  bells,  the  priests, 
patios,  beggars,  children,  crowing  cocks,  sombreros,  cactus 
hedges,  old  high  white  villages,  goats,  olive-trees,  greening 
plains,  singing  birds  in  tiny  cages,  water-sellers,  sunsets, 
melons,  mules,  great  churches,  pictures,  and  swimming 
grey-brown  mountains  of  a  fascinating  land. 

It  was  already  hot,  and  they  enjoyed  an  absence  of  their 

911 


912  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

compatriots.  Jon,  who,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had  no  blood  in 
him  which  was  not  English,  was  often  innately  unhappy 
in  the  presence  of  his  own  countrymen.  He  felt  they  had 
no  nonsense  about  them,  and  took  a  more  practical  view 
of  things  than  himself.  He  confided  to  his  mother  that  he 
must  be  an  unsociable  beast — it  was  jolly  to  be  away  from 
everybody  who  could  talk  about  the  things  people  did  talk 
about.     To  which  Irene  had  replied  simply: 

"  Yes,  Jon,  I  know." 

In  this  isolation  he  had  unparalleled  opportunities  of 
appreciating  what  few  sons  can  apprehend,  the  whole- 
heartedness  of  a  mother's  love.  Knowledge  of  something 
kept  from  her  made  him,  no  doubt,  unduly  sensitive;  and  a 
Southern  people  stimulated  his  admiration  for  her  type  of 
beauty,  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  called 
Spanish,  but  which  he  now  perceived  to  be  no  such  thing. 
Her  beauty  was  neither  English,  French,  Spanish,  nor 
Italian — it  was  special !  He  appreciated,  too,  as  never 
before,  his  mother's  subtlety  of  instinct.  He  could  not  tell, 
for  instance,  whether  she  had  noticed  his  absorption  in  that 
Goya  picture,  "  La  Vendimia,"  or  whether  she  knew  that 
he  had  slipped  back  there  after  lunch  and  again  next  morning, 
to  stand  before  it  full  half  an  hour,  a  second  and  third  time. 
It  was  not  Fleur,  of  course,  but  like  enough  to  give  him 
heartache — so  dear  to  lovers — remembering  her  standing 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed  with  her  hand  held  above  her  head. 
To  keep  a  postcard  reproduction  of  this  picture  in  his  pocket 
and  slip  it  out  to  look  at  became  for  Jon  one  of  those  bad 
habits  which  soon  or  late  disclose  themselves  to  eyes  sharpened 
by  love,  fear,  or  jealousy.  And  his  mother's  were  sharpened 
by  all  three.  In  Granada  he  was  fairly  caught,  sitting  on 
a  sun-warmed  stone  bench  in  a  little  battlemented  garden 
on  the  Alhambra  hill,  whence  he  ought  to  have  been  looking 
at  the  view.     His  mother,  he  had  thought,  was  examining 


TO  LET  913 

the  potted  stocks  between  the  polled  acacias,  when  her  voice 
said: 

"  Is  that  your  favourite  Goya,  Jon  ?" 

He  checked,  too  late,  a  movement  such  as  he  might  have 
made  at  school  to  conceal  some  surreptitious  document, 
and  answered:  "  Yes." 

"  It  certainly  is  most  charming;  but  I  think  I  prefer 
the  '  Quitasol.'  Your  father  would  go  crazy  about 
Goya;  I  don't  believe  he  saw  them  when  he  was  in  Spain 
in  '92." 

In  '92 — nine  years  before  he  had  been  born  !  What  had 
been  the  previous  existences  of  his  father  and  his  mother  ? 
If  they  had  a  right  to  share  in  his  future,  surely  he  had  a  right 
to  share  in  their  pasts.  He  looked  up  at  her.  But  some- 
thing in  her  face — a  look  of  life  hard -lived,  the  mysterious 
impress  of  emotions,  experience,  and  suffering — seemed, 
with  its  incalculable  depth,  its  purchased  sanctity,  to  make 
curiosity  impertinent.  His  mother  must  have  had  a  wonder- 
fully interesting  life;  she  was  so  beautiful,  and  so — so — but 
he  could  not  frame  what  he  felt  about  her.  He  got  up,  and 
stood  gazing  down  at  the  town,  at  the  plain  all  green  with 
crops,  and  the  ring  of  mountains  glamorous  in  sinking  sun- 
light. Her  life  was  like  the  past  of  this  old  Moorish  city, 
full,  deep,  remote — his  own  life  as  yet  such  a  baby  of  a  thing, 
hopelessly  ignorant  and  innocent  !  They  said  that  in  those 
mountains  to  the  West,  which  rose  sheer  from  the  blue -green 
plain,  as  if  out  of  a  sea,  Phoenicians  had  dwelt — a  dark, 
strange,  secret  race,  above  the  land  !  His  mother's  life 
was  as  unknown  to  him,  as  secret,  as  that  Phoenician  past  was 
to  the  town  down  there,  whose  cocks  crowed  and  whose 
children  played  and  clamoured  so  gaily,  day  in,  day  out. 
He  felt  aggrieved  that  she  should  know  all  about  him  and  he 
nothing  about  her  except  that  she  loved  him  and  his  father, 
and  was  beautiful.     His  callow  ignorance — he  had  not  even 

30 


914  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  the  adrj-nra^e  of  tiie  ^^'11.  like  nearly  even-body  eke  I 
— ^made  him  small  in  his  own  eyes. 

That  night,  from  the  balcony  of  his  bedroom,  he  eazed 
do^.vn  on  the  roof  of  the  town — as  if  inlaid  with  honeycomb 
of  jet,  ivory,  and  gold:  and,  long  after,  he  lay  awake,  listening 
to  the  crv  of  the  sentry  as  the  hours  struck,  and  forming  in 
his  head  these  hnes: 

•  •  Voice  ia  the  night  crying,  down  in  the  old  sleeping 
Soanish  dtv  darkened  under  her  white  stars  ! 

What  savs  the  roice — its  clear — Angering  anguish  ? 

Just  the  watchman,  telling  his  dateless  tale  of  safety? 
Just  a  road-man,  flinging  to  the  moon  his  song? 

Xo  t     'Tis  one  deprived,  whose  lover's  heart  is  weeping. 
Just  his  cry  :  •  How  long  r" "" 

The  word  "  deprived  *'  seemed  to  him  cold  and  unsatis- 
factorv,  but  '*  bereaved  ''  was  too  tinaL  and  no  other  word 
of  two  svUables  short -long  came  to  him.  which  would  enable 
him  to  keep  '*'  whose  lover's  heart  is  weeping."  It  was  past 
two  bv  the  time  he  had  finished  it.  and  past  three  before  he 
went  to  sleep,  having  said  it  over  to  himself  at  least  twenty- 
four  times.  Next  day  he  wrote  it  out  and  enclosed  it  in 
one  of  those  letters  to  Fleur  which  he  always  finished  before 
he  went  down,  so  as  to  have  his  mind  free  and  companionable. 

About  noon  that  same  day,  on  the  tUed  terrace  of  their 
hotel,  he  felt  a  sudden  dull  pain  in  the  back  of  his  head,  a 
Queer  sensation  in  the  eyes,  and  sickness.  The  sun  had 
touched  him  too  afiectionately.  The  next  three  days  were 
passed  in  semi -darkness,  and  a  dulled,  aching  indifierence 
to  all  except  the  feel  of  ice  on  his  forehead  and  his  mother's 
smile.  She  never  moved  from  his  room,  never  relaxed 
her  noiseless  vigilance,  which  seemed  to  Jon  angehc.  But 
there  were  moments  when  he  was  extremely  sorry  for  himself, 
and  wished  terribly  that  Fleur  could  see  him.  Several 
times  he  took  a  roienant  imaeinarv  leave  of  her  and  of  the 


TO  LET  915 

earth,  tears  oc'zing  out  of  Lis  eTts.  He  eTszi  rreDared 
the  meisacfc  ne  vrould  send  to  nei  or  ids  mother — ^wLo 
woaid  regret  to  Ler  dying  day  that  she  had  ever  soueLt 
to  separate  rLem — his  poor  mother  :  He  was  not  slow, 
howerer,  in  perceiving  that  he  ha.i  n: vr  nis  ez:Mfe  for 
going  home. 

Toward  Lali-past  six  eacn  evening  came  a  "  o'S^iracLa  '" 
of  bells — a  cascade  of  rambling  chimes,  mounting  from  the 
city  below  and  falling  back  chime  on  chime.  After  listening 
to  them  on  the  fonrth  day  he  said  suddenly : 

"  I'd  like  to  be  back  in  England,  Mum.  the  s;in"s  :ck)  hot." 
"  Very  well,  darling.     As  soon  as  you're  £t  to  mveh" 
And  at  once  he  felt  better,  and — meaner. 

They  had  been  out  nve  weeks  when  they  :_rned  ic.vaid 
home.  Jon's  head  was  restored  to  its  pristine  clarity,  but 
he  was  confined  to  a  hat  lined  by  his  mother  with  manv 
layers  of  orange  and  green  silk  and  he  still  walked  from  choice 
in  the  shade.  As  the  lone  straegle  of  discretion  between 
them  drew  to  its  close,  he  wondered  more  and  more  whether 
she  could  see  his  eagerness  to  get  back  to  that  which  she  haa 
brought  him  away  from.  Condemned  by  Spanish  Providence 
to  spend  a  day  in  Madrid  between  their  trains,  it  was  but 
natural  to  go  again  to  the  Prado.  Jon  was  elaborately  casual 
this  time  before  his  Goya  girl.  Xow  that  he  was  going  back 
to  her,  he  could  anord  a  lesser  scrutiny.  It  was  his  mother 
who  lingered  before  the  picture,  saying: 

"  The  face  and  the  ligure  of  the  giri  are  exquisite.'* 
Jon  heard  her  uneasUy.  Did  she  understand  :  But  he 
felt  once  more  that  he  was  no  match  for  her  in  seL- centre i 
and  subtlety.  She  could,  in  some  supersensitive  way,  ol 
which  he  had  not  the  secret,  feel  the  pulse  of  his  thoughts: 
she  knew  by  instinct  what  he  hoped  and  feired  ind  wished. 
It  made  him  terriblv  uncomfortable  and  guilty,  having, 
beyond  most  boys,  a  conscience.     He  \vished  she  would  be 


9i6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

frank  with  him,  he  almost  hoped  for  an  open  struggle.  But 
none  came,  and  steadily,  silently,  they  travelled  north. 
Thus  did  he  first  learn  how  much  better  than  men  women 
play  a  waiting  game.  In  Paris  they  had  again  to  pause  for 
a  day.  Jon  was  grieved  because  it  lasted  two,  owing  to 
certain  matters  in  connection  with  a  dressmaker;  as  if  his 
mother,  who  looked  beautiful  in  anything,  had  any  need  of 
dresses  !  The  happiest  moment  of  his  travel  was  that 
when  he  stepped  on  to  the  Folkestone  boat. 

Standing  by  the  bulwark  rail,  with  her  arm  in  his,  she  said : 

"  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  enjoyed  it  much,  Jon.  But 
you've  been  very  sweet  to  me." 

Jon  squeezed  her  arm. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I've  enjoyed  it  awfully — except  for  my  head 
lately." 

And  now  that  the  end  had  come,  he  really  had,  feeling 
a  sort  of  glamour  over  the  past  weeks — a  kind  of  painful 
pleasure,  such  as  he  had  tried  to  screw  into  those  lines  about 
the  voice  in  the  night  crying ;  a  feeling  such  as  he  had  known 
as  a  small  boy  listening  avidly  to  Chopin,  yet  wanting  to  cry. 
And  he  wondered  why  it  was  that  he  couldn't  say  to  her 
quite  simply  what  she  had  said  to  him: 

"  You  were  very  sweet  to  me."  Odd — one  never  could 
be  nice  and  natural  like  that  !  He  substituted  the  words : 
"  I  expect  we  shall  be  sick." 

They  were,  and  reached  London  somewhat  attenuated, 
having  been  away  six  weeks  and  two  days,  without  a  single 
allusion  to  the  subject  which  had  hardly  ever  ceased  to 
occupy  their  minds. 


CHAPTER  II 

FATHERS    AND    DAUGHTERS 

Deprived  of  his  wife  and  son  by  the  Spanish  adventure, 
Jolyon  found  the  soHtude  at  Robin  Hill  intolerable.  A 
philosopher  when  he  has  all  that  he  wants  is  different  from 
a  philosopher  when  he  has  not.  Accustomed,  however, 
to  the  idea,  if  not  to  the  reality  of  resignation,  he  would 
perhaps  have  faced  it  out  but  for  his  daughter  June.  He  was 
a  "  lame  duck "  now,  and  on  her  conscience.  Having 
achieved — momentarily — the  rescue  of  an  etcher  in  low 
circumstances,  which  she  happened  to  have  in  hand,  she 
appeared  at  Robin  Hill  a  fortnight  after  Irene  and  Jon  had 
gone.  The  little  lady  was  living  now  in  a  tiny  house  with 
a  big  studio  at  Chiswick.  A  Forsyte  of  the  best  period, 
so  far  as  the  lack  of  responsibility  was  concerned,  she  had 
overcome  the  difficulty  of  a  reduced  income  in  a  manner 
satisfactory  to  herself  and  her  father.  The  rent  of  the 
Gallery  off  Cork  Street  which  he  had  bought  for  her  and 
her  increased  income  tax  happening  to  balance,  it  had  been 
quite  simple — she  no  longer  paid  him  the  rent.  The  Gallery 
might  be  expected  now  at  any  time,  after  eighteen  years 
of  barren  usufruct,  to  pay  its  way,  so  that  she  was  sure  her 
father  would  not  feel  it.  Through  this  device  she  still  had 
twelve  hundred  a  year,  and  by  reducing  what  she  ate,  and, 
in  place  of  two  Belgians  in  a  poor  way,  employing  one 
Austrian  in  a  poorer,  practically  the  same  surplus  for  the 
relief  of  genius.  After  three  days  at  Robin  Hill  she  carried 
her  father  back  with  her  to  Town.  In  those  three  days  she 
had  stumbled  on  the  secret  he  had  kept  for  two  years,  and 

917 


91 8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  instantly  decided  to  cure  him.  She  knew,  in  fact,  the 
very  man.  He  had  done  wonders  with  Paul  Post — that 
painter  a  little  in  advance  of  Futurism;  and  she  was  im- 
patient with  her  father  because  his  eyebrows  would  go  up, 
and  because  he  had  heard  of  neither.  Of  course,  if  he 
hadn't  "  faith  "  he  would  never  get  well  !  It  was  absurd 
not  to  have  faith  in  the  man  who  had  healed  Paul  Post  so 
that  he  had  only  just  relapsed,  from  having  overworked, 
or  overHved,  himself  again.  The  great  thing  about  this 
healer  was  that  he  relied  on  Nature.  He  had  made  a 
special  study  of  the  symptoms  of  Nature — when  his  patient 
failed  in  any  natural  symptom  he  supplied  the  poison  which 
caused  it — and  there  you  were  !  She  was  extremely  hope- 
ful. Her  father  had  clearly  not  been  living  a  natural  life 
at  Robin  Hill,  and  she  intended  to  provide  the  symptoms. 
He  was — she  felt — out  of  touch  with  the  times,  which  was 
not  natural;  his  heart  wanted  stimulating.  In  the  little 
Chiswick  house  she  and  the  Austrian — a  grateful  soul,  so 
devoted  to  June  for  rescuing  her  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
decease  from  overwork — stimulated  Jolyon  in  all  sorts  of 
ways,  preparing  him  for  his  cure.  But  they  could  not  keep 
his  eyebrows  dow^n;  as,  for  example,  when  the  Austrian 
woke  him  at  eight  o'clock  just  as  he  was  going  to  sleep,  or 
June  took  Tkf  Times  away  from  him,  because  it  was  un- 
natural to  read  "  that  stuff  "  when  he  ought  to  be  taking 
an  interest  in  "  life."  He  never  failed,  indeed,  to  be 
astonished  at  her  resource,  especially  in  the  evenings.  For 
his  benefit,  as  she  declared,  though  he  suspected  that  she 
also  got  something  out  of  it,  she  assembled  the  Age  so  far  as 
it  was  satellite  to  genius;  and  with  some  solemnity  it  would 
move  up  and  down  the  studio  before  him  in  the  Fox-trot, 
and  that  more  mental  form  of  dancing — the  One-step — 
which  so  pulled  against  the  music,  that  Jolyon's  eyebrows 
would  be  almost  lost  in  his  hair  from  wonder  at  the  strain 


TO  LET  919 

it  must  impose  on  the  dancers'  will-power.  Aware  that, 
hung  on  the  line  in  the  Water  Colour  Society,  he  was  a 
back  number  to  those  with  any  pretension  to  be  called 
artists,  he  would  sit  in  the  darkest  corner  he  could  find,  and 
wonder  about  rhythm,  on  which  so  long  ago  he  had  been 
raised.  And  when  June  brought  some  girl  or  young  man  up 
to  him,  he  would  rise  humbly  to  their  level  so  far  as  that  was 
possible,  and  think :  '  Dear  me  !  This  is  very  dull  for  them  !' 
Having  his  father's  perennial  sympathy  with  Youth,  he  used 
to  get  very  tired  from  entering  into  their  points  of  view. 
But  it  was  all  stimulating,  and  he  never  failed  in  admiration 
of  his  daughter's  indomitable  spirit.  Even  genius  itself 
attended  these  gatherings  now  and  then,  with  its  nose  on 
one  side;  and  June  always  introduced  it  to  her  father. 
This,  she  felt,  was  exceptionally  good  for  him,  for  genius 
was  a  natural  symptom  he  had  never  had — fond  as  she  was 
of  him. 

Certain  as  a  man  can  be  that  she  was  his  own  daughter, 
he  often  wondered  whence  she  got  herself — her  red -gold 
hair,  now  greyed  into  a  special  colour;  her  direct,  spirited 
face,  so  different  from  his  own  rather  folded  and  subtihzed 
countenance,  her  little  light  figure,  when  he  and  most  of 
the  Forsytes  were  tall.  And  he  would  dwell  on  the  origin 
of  species,  and  debate  whether  she  might  be  Danish  or 
Celtic.  Celtic,  he  thought,  from  her  pugnacity,  and  her 
taste  in  fillets  and  djibbahs.  It  was  not  too  much  to  say- 
that  he  preferred  her  to  the  Age  with  which  she  was  sur- 
rounded, youthful  though,  for  the  greater  part,  it  was. 
She  took,  however,  too  much  interest  in  his  teeth,  for  he 
still  had  some  of  those  natural  symptoms.  Her  dentist 
at  once  found  "  Staphylococcus  aureus  present  in  pure 
culture  "  (which  might  cause  boils,  of  course),  and  wanted 
to  take  out  all  the  teeth  he  had  and  supply  him  with  two 
complete    sets    of    unnatural    symptoms.     Jolyon's    native 


920  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tenacity  was  roused,  and  in  the  studio  that  evening  he 
developed  his  objections.  He  had  never  had  any  boils,  and 
his  own  teeth  would  last  his  time.  Of  course — ^June  ad- 
mitted— they  would  last  his  time  if  he  didn't  have  them 
out  !  But  if  he  had  more  teeth  he  would  have  a  better 
heart  and  his  time  would  be  longer.  His  recalcitrance — 
she  said — was  a  symptom  of  his  whole  attitude;  he  was 
taking  it  lying  down.  He  ought  to  be  fighting.  When 
was  he  going  to  see  the  man  who  had  cured  Paul  Post  ? 
Jolyon  was  very  sorry,  but  the  fact  was  he  was  not  going  to 
see  him.  June  chafed.  Pondridge — she  said — the  healer, 
was  such  a  fine  man,  and  he  had  such  difficulty  in  making 
two  ends  meet,  and  getting  his  theories  recognized.  It  was 
just  such  indifference  and  prejudice  as  her  father  mani- 
fested which  was  keeping  him  back.  It  would  be  so  splendid 
for  both  of  them  ! 

"  I  perceive,"  said  Jolyon,  "  that  you  are  trying  to  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone." 

"  To  cure,  you  mean  !"  cried  June. 

"  My  dear,  it's  the  same  thing." 

June  protested.  It  was  unfair  to  say  that  without 
a  trial. 

Jolyon  thought  he  might  not  have  the  chance  of  saying 
it  after. 

"  Dad  !"  cried  June,  "  you're  hopeless." 

"  That,"  said  Jolyon,  "  is  a  fact,  but  I  wish  to  remain 
hopeless  as  long  as  possible.  I  shall  let  sleeping  dogs  lie, 
my  child.     They  are  quiet  at  present." 

"  That's  not  giving  science  a  chance,"  cried  June. 
"  You've  no  idea  how  devoted  Pondridge  is.  He  puts  his 
science  before  everything." 

"  Just,"  replied  Jolyon,  puffing  the  mild  cigarette  to 
which  he  was  reduced,  "  as  Mr.  Paul  Post  puts  his  art,  eh  ? 
Art  for  Art's  sake — Science  for  the  sake  of  Science.     I  know 


TO  LET  921 

those  enthusiastic  egomaniac  gentry.  They  vivisect  you 
without  blinking.  I'm  enough  of  a  Forsyte  to  give  them 
the  go-by,  June." 

"  Dad,"  said  June,  "  if  you  only  knew  how  old-fashioned 
that  sounds  !  Nobody  can  afford  to  be  half-hearted  nowa- 
days." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  murmured  Jolyon,  with  his  smile,  "  that's 
the  only  natural  symptom  with  which  Mr.  Pondridge  need 
not  supply  me.  We  are  born  to  be  extreme  or  to  be 
moderate,  my  dear;  though,  if  you'll  forgive  my  saying  so, 
half  the  people  nowadays  who  believe  they're  extreme  are 
really  very  moderate.  I'm  getting  on  as  well  as  I  can  expect, 
and  I  must  leave  it  at  that." 

June  was  silent,  having  experienced  in  her  time  the 
inexorable  character  of  her  father's  amiable  obstinacy  so 
far  as  his  own  freedom  of  action  was  concerned. 

How  he  came  to  let  her  know  why  Irene  had  taken  Jon 
to  Spain  puzzled  Jolyon,  for  he  had  little  confidence  in  her 
discretion.  After  she  had  brooded  on  the  news,  it  brought 
a  rather  sharp  discussion,  during  which  he  perceived  to 
the  fuU  the  fundamental  opposition  between  her  active 
temperament  and  his  wife's  passivity.  He  even  gathered 
that  a  little  soreness  still  remained  from  that  generation -old 
struggle  between  them  over  the  body  of  Philip  Bosinney, 
in  which  the  passive  had  so  signally  triumphed  over  the 
active  principle. 

According  to  June,  it  was  fooHsh  and  even  cowardly  to 
hide  the  past  from  Jon.     Sheer  opportunism,  she  called  it. 

"  Which,"  Jolyon  put  in  mildly,  "  is  the  working  prin- 
ciple of  real  life,  my  dear." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  June,  "  you  don't  really  defend  her  for  not 
telling  Jon,  Dad.     If  it  were  left  to  you,  you  would." 

'*  I  might,  but  simply  because  I  know  he  must  find  out, 
which  will  be  worse  than  if  we  told  him." 

30* 


922  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Then  why  dont  you  tell  him  ?  It's  just  sleeping  dogs 
again." 

"  My  dear/'  said  Jolyon,  "  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  go 
against  Irene's  instinct.     He's  her  boy." 

"  Yours  too,"  cried  June. 

"  What  is  a  man's  instinct  compared  with  a  mother's  ?" 

"  Well,  I  think  it's  very  weak  of  you." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Jolyon,  "  I  dare  say." 

And  that  was  all  she  got  from  him;  but  the  matter 
rankled  in  her  brain.  She  could  not  bear  sleeping  dogs. 
And  there  stirred  in  her  a  tortuous  impulse  to  push  the 
matter  toward  decision.  Jon  ought  to  be  told,  so  that  either 
his  feeling  might  be  nipped  in  the  bud,  or,  flowering  in 
spite  of  the  past,  come  to  fruition.  And  she  determined 
to  see  Fleur,  and  judge  for  herself.  When  June  determined 
on  anything,  delicacy  became  a  somewhat  minor  considera- 
tion. After  all,  she  was  Soames'  cousin,  and  they  were 
both  interested  in  pictures.  She  would  go  and  tell  him 
that  he  ought  to  buy  a  Paul  Post,  or  perhaps  a  piece  of 
sculpture  by  Boris  Strumolowski,  and  of  course  she  would 
say  nothing  to  her  father.  She  went  on  the  following 
Sunday,  looking  so  determined  that  she  had  some  difficulty 
in  getting  a  cab  at  Reading  station.  The  river  country 
was  lovely  in  those  days  of  her  own  month,  and  June  ached 
at  its  loveliness.  She  who  had  passed  through  this  life 
without  knowing  what  union  was  had  a  love  of  natural 
beauty  which  was  almost  madness.  And  when  she  came 
to  that  choice  spot  where  Soames  had  pitched  his  tent, 
she  dismissed  her  cab,  because,  business  over,  she  wanted 
to  revel  in  the  bright  water  and  the  woods.  She  appeared 
at  his  front  door,  therefore,  as  a  mere  pedestrian,  and  sent 
in  her  card.  It  was  in  June's  character  to  know  that  when 
her  nerves  were  fluttering  she  was  doing  something  worth 
while.     If  one's  nerves  did  not  flutter,  she  was  taking  the 


TO  LET  923 

line  of  least  resistance,  and  knew  that  nobleness  was  not 
obliging  her.  She  was  conducted  to  a  drawing-room,  which, 
though  not  in  her  style,  showed  every  mark  of  fastidious 
elegance.  Thinking,  '  Too  much  taste — too  many  knick- 
knacks,'  she  saw  in  an  old  lacquer-framed  mirror  the  figure 
of  a  girl  coming  in  from  the  verandah.  Clothed  in  white, 
and  holding  some  white  roses  in  her  hand,  she  had,  reflected 
in  that  silvery-grey  pool  of  glass,  a  vision-like  appearance, 
as  if  a  pretty  ghost  had  come  out  of  the  green  garden. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  said  June,  turning  round.  "  I'm 
a  cousin  of  your  father's." 

^*  Oh,  yes;  I  saw  you  in  that  confectioner's." 

"  With  my  young  stepbrother.     Is  your  father  in  ?" 

"  He  will  be  directly.     He's  only  gone  for  a  little  walk." 

June  slightly  narrowed  her  blue  eyes,  and  lifted  her 
decided  chin. 

"  Your  name's  Fleur,  isn't  it  ?  I've  heard  of  you  from 
Holly.     What  do  you  think  of  Jon  ?" 

The  girl  lifted  the  roses  in  her  hand,  looked  at  them, 
and  answered  calmly: 

"  He's  quite  a  nice  boy." 

"  Not  a  bit  like  Holly  or  me,  is  he  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit." 

*  She's  cool,'  thought  June. 

And  suddenly  the  girl  said :  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  why 
our  families  don't  get  on  ?" 

Confronted  with  the  question  she  had  advised  her  father 
to  answer,  June  was  silent;  whether  because  this  girl  was 
trying  to  get  something  out  of  her,  or  simply  because  what 
one  would  do  theoretically  is  not  always  what  one  will  do 
when  it  comes  to  the  point. 

"  You  know,"  said  the  girl,  "  the  surest  way  to  make 
people  find  out  the  worst  is  to  keep  them  ignorant.  My 
father's  told  me  it  was  a  quarrel  about  property.     But  I 


924  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

don't  believe  it;  we've  both  got  heaps.  They  wouldn't 
have  been  so  bourgeois  as  all  that." 

June  flushed.  The  word  applied  to  her  grandfather  and 
father  offended  her. 

"  My  grandfather,"  she  said,  "  was  very  generous,  and 
my  father  is,  too ;  neither  of  them  was  in  the  least  bourgeois.^' 

"  Well,  what  was  it  then  ?"  repeated  the  girl.  Conscious 
that  this  young  Forsyte  meant  having  what  she  wanted, 
June  at  once  determined  to  prevent  her,  and  to  get  some- 
thing for  herself  instead. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

The  girl  smelled  at  her  roses.  "  I  only  want  to  know 
because  they  won't  tell  me." 

"  Well,  it  was  about  property,  but  there's  more  than  one 
kind." 

"  That  makes  it  worse.     Now  I  really  must  know." 

June's  small  and  resolute  face  quivered.  She  was  wearing 
a  round  cap,  and  her  hair  had  fluffed  out  under  it.  She 
looked  quite  young  at  that  moment,  rejuvenated  by  en- 
counter. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  you  drop  your  handker- 
chief. Is  there  anything  between  you  and  Jon  ?  Because, 
if  so,  you'd  better  drop  that  too." 

The  girl  grew  paler,  but  she  smiled. 

"  If  there  were,  that  isn't  the  way  to  make  me." 

At  the  gallantry  of  that  reply,  June  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  like  you;  but  I  don't  like  your  father;  I  never  have. 
We  may  as  well  be  frank." 

"  Did  you  come  down  to  tell  him  that  ?" 

June  laughed.     "  No;  I  came  down  to  see  yow." 

"  How  delightful  of  you  !" 

This  girl  could  fence. 

"  I'm  two  and  a  half  times  your  age,"  said  June,  "  but 
I  quite  sympathize.    It's  horrid  not  to  have  one's  own  way.'* 


TO  LET  925 

The  girl  smiled  again.  "  I  really  think  you  might  tell 
me. 

How  the  child  stuck  to  her  point  ! 

"  It's  not  my  secret.  But  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,  because 
I  think  both  you  and  Jon  ought  to  be  told.  And  now  I'll 
say  good-bye." 

"  Won't  you  wait  and  see  Father  ?" 

June  shook  her  head.  "  How  can  I  get  over  to  the  other 
side  ?" 

"  I'll  row  you  across." 

"  Look  !"  said  June  impulsively,  "  next  time  you're  in 
London,  come  and  see  me.  This  is  where  I  live.  I  gener- 
ally have  young  people  in  the  evening.  But  I  shouldn't 
tell  your  father  that  you're  coming." 

The  girl  nodded. 

Watching  her  scull  the  skiff  across,  June  thought :  '  She's 
awfully  pretty  and  well  made.  I  never  thought  Soames 
would  have  a  daughter  as  pretty  as  this.  She  and  Jon 
would  make  a  lovely  couple.' 

The  instinct  to  couple,  starved  within  herself,  was  always 
at  work  in  June.  She  stood  watching  Fleur  row  back;  the 
girl  took  her  hand  off  a  scull  to  wave  farewell,  and  June 
walked  languidly  on  between  the  meadows  and  the  river, 
with  an  ache  in  her  heart.  Youth  to  youth,  like  the  dragon - 
flies  chasing  each  other,  and  love  Hke  the  sun  warming  them 
through  and  through.     Her  youth  !    So  long  ago — when  Phil 

and    she And  since  ?      Nothing — no  one  had   been 

quite  what  she  had  wanted.  And  so  she  had  missed  it  all. 
But  what  a  coil  was  round  those  two  young  things,  if  they 
really  were  in  love,  as  Holly  would  have  it — as  her  father, 
and  Irene,  and  Soames  himself  seemed  to  dread.  What  a 
coil,  and  what  a  barrier  !  And  the  itch  for  the  future,  the 
contempt,  as  it  were,  for  what  was  overpast,  which  forms  the 
active  principle,  moved  in  the  heart  of  one  who  ever  believed 


926  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

that  what  one  wanted  was  more  important  than  what  other 
people  did  not  want.  From  the  bank,  awhile,  in  the  warm 
summer  stillness,  she  watched  the  water -lily  plants  and 
willow  leaves^  the  fishes  rising;  sniffed  the  scent  of  grass 
and  meadow-sweet,  wondering  how  she  could  force  every- 
body to  be  happy.  Jon  and  Fleur  !  Two  little  lame  ducks 
— ^charming  callow  yellow  little  ducks  !  A  great  pity  ! 
Surely  something  could  be  done  !  One  must  not  take  such 
situations  lying  down.  She  walked  on,  and  reached  a 
station,  hot  and  cross. 

That  evening,  faithful  to  the  impulse  toward  direct  action, 
which  made  many  people  avoid  her,  she  said  to  her  father : 

"  Dad,  I've  been  down  to  see  young  Fleur.  I  think  she's 
very  attractive.  It's  no  good  hiding  our  heads  under  our 
wings,  is  it  ?" 

The  startled  Jolyon  set  down  his  barley-water,  and  began 
crumbling  his  bread. 

"  It's  what  you  appear  to  be  doing,"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
realize  whose  daughter  she  is  ?" 

"  Can't  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ?" 

Jolyon  rose. 

"  Certain  things  can  never  be  buried." 

"  I  disagree,"  said  June.  "  It's  that  which  stands  in  the 
way  of  all  happiness  and  progress.  You  don't  understand 
the  Age,  Dad.  It's  got  no  use  for  outgrown  things.  Why 
do  you  think  it  matters  so  terribly  that  Jon  should  know 
about  his  mother  ?  Who  pays  any  attention  to  that  sort 
of  thing  now  ?  The  marriage  laws  are  just  as  they  were 
when  Soames  and  Irene  couldn't  get  a  divorce,  and  you  had 
to  come  in.  We've  moved,  and  they  haven't.  So  nobody 
cares.  Marriage  without  a  decent  chance  of  relief  is  only 
a  sort  of  slave -owning;  people  oughtn't  to  own  each  other. 
Everybody  sees  that  now.  If  Irene  broke  such  laws,  what 
does  it  matter  ?" 


TO  LET  927 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  disagree  there,"  said  Jolyon;  "  but 
that's  all  quite  beside  the  mark.  This  is  a  matter  of  human 
feeling." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  cried  June,  "  the  human  feeling  of 
those  two  young  things." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Jolyon  with  gentle  exasperation,  "  you're 
talking  nonsense," 

"  I'm  not.  If  they  prove  to  be  really  fond  of  each  other, 
why  should  they  be  made  unhappy  because  of  the  past  ?" 

"  Ton  haven't  lived  that  past.  I  have — through  the 
feelings  of  my  wife;  through  my  own  nerves  and  my  imagina- 
tion, as  only  one  who  is  devoted  can." 

June,  too,  rose,  and  began  to  wander  restlessly. 

"  If,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  she  were  the  daughter  of 
Phil  Bosinney,  I  could  understand  you  better.  Irene 
loved  him,  she  never  loved  Soames." 

Jolyon  uttered  a  deep  sound — the  sort  of  noise  an  Itahan 
peasant  woman  utters  to  her  mule.  His  heart  had  begun 
beating  furiously,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  it,  quite 
carried  away  by  his  feelings. 

"  That  shows  how  little  you  understand.  Neither  I 
nor  Jon,  if  I  know  him,  would  mind  a  love-past.  It's  the 
brutality  of  a  union  without  love.  This  girl  is  the  daughter 
of  the  man  who  once  owned  Jon's  mother  as  a  negro-slave 
was  owned.  You  can't  lay  that  ghost;  don't  try  to,  June  1 
It's  asking  us  to  see  Jon  joined  to  the  flesh  and  blood  of  the 
man  who  possessed  Jon's  mother  against  her  will.  It's  no 
good  mincing  words ;  I  want  it  clear  once  for  all.  And  now 
I  mustn't  talk  any  more,  or  I  shall  have  to  sit  up  with  this 
all  night."  And,  putting  his  hand  over  his  heart,  Jolyon 
turned  his  back  on  his  daughter  and  stood  looking  at  the  river 
Thames. 

June,  who  by  nature  never  saw  a  hornet's  nest  until  she 
had  put  her  head  into  it,  was  seriously  alarmed.     She  came 


c:S  Z'ril  IJRSYTE  SAGA 

and  ^::^»^ei  he:  ir~  tiircu^i:  iiis.  N::  co-ri-cei  ihi:  he 
¥rii  rirr.:.  i~i  she  herself  vrroz^.  reciuie  ih^:  v,'2^  not 
n£r_Lr2_  lo  her.  she  w^  yei  profonnhiy  impressed  by  the 
obvions  fir:  thit  the  subject -was  very  bid  for  him.  She 
r::zrr.;  ...::..       .    .:;f:  his  shoulder,  mi  siid  nothing. 


Afier  Tiihr.r  her  eiderhr  cousin  across,  Fleur  did  not  land 
i:   :r.  :e.   ri:  nilled  in  £.n2one  the  reeds,  into  the  sunshine. 

7-e  ztmziL  heiury   ::  the  iftemc^on  sedticed  for  a  lirtle 

watched  iht  rriss  cascading  orer  md  behind  the  hrht 
ndieels  witj.  :i::::.idon — ^it  looked  so  cool  and  fresh.  The 
cEck  and  i  -i:.  z'.tz^i^  vrith  the  mstle  of  the  vdllows  and 
the  ritlirs.  md  tne  ct'ii'r  •::  i  ~:  :d-r:g-eon.  in  a  tr::e  rirer 
scnr.  Along-sitt  -t  :ht  fttt  irten  Tviter.  vreeds.  like  yeiiow 
snaies.  vrere  ~:_-.r.:r.^-  ir. i  r. i.-ing-  '^.zh  the  current:  pied 
tittle  :n  the  firther  site  £:::d  in  the  shide  lazily  swishing 
their  tiids.  It  vr2S  an  afternoon  to  dieam.  And  she  :ocI- 
c~:  Jt"'s  letters — not  nowery  ernsions,  but  hannted  in  tlteir 
rerltal  of  things  seen  md  dene  by  a  longing  re—  igreeible 
::  her.  mi  ih  ending  "Your  deroted  J."  Plet::  "  ;.:  'Ot 
stn:LnLen:il.  her  desires  were  ever  concrete  and  con;t-::i:ed, 
bt.t  ~hit  ncetry  there  was  in  the  dii^hter  of  Soames  and 
At-.t::t  hm  ittTiinlr  in  those  vreeks  of  waiting  gathered 
:  .  ,  1  : :  n  t  n :  nes  of  Jon.  They  all  belonged  to  grass 
ir  :  mt.  dovrers  and  mnning  water.     She  enjoyed  him 

:  -  :     ibsorhed  by  her  crinkling  nose.     The  stars 

: .  _- 1  t  ^::  -lit  her  that  she  was  standing  beside  him  in  the 
centre  tf  the  mm  of  Spain;  and  of  an  early  morning  the 
it''—   :::-'eh':.   the  hazy  sparkle  and  promise  of  the  a^j 
t:"n  in  ::.e  ruden.  were  Jon  personined  to  her. 
T-'^'-'j    vhtt  s  ^ms    :ime  majestically  by,  while  she   was 


TO  Lh.  929 

reading  his  letters,  followed  by  tiieir  brood  of  sir  young 
swans  in  a  line,  with  just  so  much  water  between  each  tail 
and  head,  a  liotilLa  of  grej  destroTers.  Fleur  rhruii  her 
letters  bacL  got  out  her  sculls,  and  pulled  up  to  -jlc  ^zLziiig- 
stage.  Crossing  the  lawn,  she  wondered  whether  she  should 
tell  her  father  of  June's  visit.  If  he  learned  of  it  from,  the 
butler,  he  might  think  it  odd  if  she  did  not.  It  gave  her, 
too,  another  chance  to  startle  out  of  hTm  the  reason  of  the 
feud.     She  went,  there:: re.  "it*  the  road  to  meet  him. 

Soames  had  go::r  ::  .:  :^  .:  *  ntch  of  ground  on  which 
the  Local  Authorities  were  proposing  to  erect  a  Sanato- 
rium for  people  with  weak  lungs.  Faithful  to  his  ns-tive 
individualism,  he  took  no  part  in  local  aiairs,  contez:  to 
pay  the  rates  which  were  always  soing  up.  He  could  not, 
however,  remain  indinerent  to  this  new  and  dangerous 
scheme.  The  site  was  not  half  a  mile  from  his  own  house. 
He  was  quite  of  opinion  that  the  country  should  stamp  out 
tuberculosis  :  but  rhi^  was  not  the  riace.  It  should  be  done 
farther  away.  He  took,  indeed,  m  attitude  c:  — ~:-  :3 
all  true  Forsytes,  that  disability  of  any  sort  in  other  people 
was  not  his  anair,  and  the  State  should  do  its  business 
without  prejudicing  in  anv  way  the  nir-Lral  advantages 
which  he  had  acquired  or  inherited-  Frande,  the  most 
free -spirited  Forsyte  of  his  generation  (except  perhaps  that 
fellow  Jolyon)  had  once  asked  him  in  her  malicious  way: 
"  Did  you  ever  see  the  name  Forsyte  in  a  subscription  list, 
Soames  :'*  That  was  as  it  might  be.  but  a  Sanatoriuni 
would  depreciate  the  neighbourhood,  and  he  should  certainly 
sign  the  petition  which  was  being  got  up  against  it.  Re- 
turning with  this  decision  fresh  within  him.  he  saw  Fleur 
coming. 

She  was  showing  him  more  anection  of  late,  and  the 
quiet  time  down  here  with  her  in  this  summer  weather  had 
been  making  Him  feel  quite  voun?:  Annette  was  alwavs 
running  up  to  Town  for  one  thing  :r  incther.  so  th^t  he 


930  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  Fleur  to  himself  almost  as  much  as  he  could  wish.  To 
be  sure,  young  Mont  had  formed  a  habit  of  appearing  on 
his  motor-cycle  almost  every  other  day.  Thank  goodness, 
the  young  fellow  had  shaved  off  his  half-toothbrushes,  and 
no  longer  looked  like  a  mountebank  !  With  a  girl  friend 
of  Fleur's  who  was  staying  in  the  house,  and  a  neighbouring 
youth  or  so,  they  made  two  couples  after  dinner,  in  the  hall, 
to  the  music  of  the  electric  pianola,  which  performed  Fox- 
trots unassisted,  with  a  surprised  shine  on  its  expressive 
surface,  Annette,  even,  now  and  then  passed  gracefully 
up  and  down  in  the  arms  of  one  or  other  of  the  young  men. 
And  Soames,  coming  to  the  drawing-room  door,  would 
lift  his  nose  a  little  sideways,  and  watch  them,  waiting  to 
catch  a  smile  from  Fleur;  then  move  back  to  his  chair  by 
the  drawing-room  hearth,  to  peruse  The  Times  or  some 
other  collector's  price  list.  To  his  ever-anxious  eyes  Fleur 
showed  no  signs  of  remembering  that  caprice  of  hers. 

When  she  reached  him  on  the  dusty  road,  he  slipped  his 
hand  within  her  arm. 

"  Who,  do  you  think,  has   been  to  see  you,  Dad  ?     She 
couldn't  wait  !     Guess  !" 

"  I  never  guess,"  said  Soames  uneasily.     "  Who  ?" 

"  Your  cousin,  June  Forsyte." 

Quite  unconsciously  Soames  gripped  her  arm.     "  What 
did  she  want  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     But  it  was  rather  breaking  through  the 
feud,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  Feud  ?     What  feud  ?" 

"  The  one  that  exists  in  your  imagination,  dear." 

Soames  dropped  her  arm.     Was  she  mocking,  or  trying 
to  draw  him  on  ? 

"  I  suppose  she  wanted  me  to  buy  a  picture,"  he  said 
at  last. 
.  "  I  don't  think  so.     Perhaps  it  was  just  family  affection.'* 


TO  LET  931 

"  She's  only  a  first  cousin  once  removed/'  muttered 
Soames. 

"  And  the  daughter  of  your  enemy." 

"  What  d'you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  dear;  I  thought  he  was." 

"  Enemy  !"  repeated  Soames.  "  It's  ancient  history. 
I  don't  know  where  you  get  your  notions." 

"  From  June  Forsyte." 

It  had  come  to  her  as  an  inspiration  that  if  he  thought 
she  knew,  or  were  on  the  edge  of  knowledge,  he  would  tell 
her. 

Soames  was  startled,  but  she  had  underrated  his  caution 
and  tenacity. 

"  If  you  know,"  he  said  coldly,  "  why  do  you  plague  me  ?" 

Fleur  saw  that  she  had  overreached  herself. 

"  I  don't  want  to  plague  you,  darhng.  As  you  say, 
why  want  to  know  more  ?  Why  want  to  know  anything 
of  that  '  small '  mystery — "Je  nCen  fiche,  as  Profond  says  ?" 

"  That  chap  !"  said  Soames  profoundly. 

That  chap,  indeed,  played  a  considerable,  if  invisible, 
part  this  summer — for  he  had  not  turned  up  again.  Ever 
since  the  Sunday  when  Fleur  had  drawn  attention  to  him 
prowling  on  the  lawn,  Soames  had  thought  of  him  a  good 
deal,  and  always  in  connection  with  Annette,  for  no  reason, 
except  that  she  was  looking  handsomer  than  for  some  time 
past.  His  possessive  instinct,  subtler,  less  formal,  more 
elastic  since  the  War,  kept  all  misgiving  underground.  As 
one  looks  on  some  American  river,  quiet  and  pleasant, 
knowing  that  an  alligator  perhaps  is  lying  in  the  mud  with 
his  snout  just  raised  and  indistinguishable  from  a  snag  of 
wood — so  Soames  looked  on  the  river  of  his  own  existence, 
subconscious  of  Monsieur  Profond,  refusing  to  see  more 
than  the  suspicion  of  his  snout.  He  had  at  this  epoch  in 
his  life  practically  all  he  wanted,  and  was  as  nearly  happy 


932  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

as  his  nature  would  permit.  His  senses  were  at  rest;  his 
affections  found  all  the  vent  they  needed  in  his  daughter; 
his  collection  was  well  known,  his  money  well  invested; 
his  health  excellent,  save  for  a  touch  of  liver  now  and  again; 
he  had  not  yet  begun  to  worry  seriously  about  what  would 
happen  after  death,  inclining  to  think  that  nothing  would 
happen.  He  resembled  one  of  his  own  gilt-edged  securities, 
and  to  knock  the  gilt  off  by  seeing  anything  he  could  avoid 
seeing  would  be,  he  felt  instinctively,  perverse  and  retro- 
gressive. Those  two  crumpled  rose-leaves,  Fleur's  caprice 
and  Monsieur  Profond's  snout,  would  level  away  if  he  lay 
on  them  industriously. 

That  evening  Chance,  which  visits  the  lives  of  even  the 
best -invested  Forsytes,  put  a  clue  into  Fleur's  hands.  Her 
father  came  down  to  dinner  without  a  handkerchief,  and 
had  occasion  to  blow  his  nose. 

"  I'll  get  you  one,  dear,"  she  had  said,  and  ran  upstairs. 
In  the  sachet  where  she  sought  for  it — an  old  sachet  of 
very  faded  silk — there  were  two  compartments:  one  held 
handkerchiefs;  the  other  was  buttoned,  and  contained 
something  flat  and  hard.  By  some  childish  impulse  Fleur 
unbuttoned  it.  There  was  a  frame  and  in  it  a  photograph 
of  herself  as  a  little  girl.  She  gazed  at  it,  fascinated,  as  one 
is  by  one's  own  presentment.  It  slipped  under  her  fidgeting 
thumb,  and  she  saw  that  another  photograph  was  behind. 
She  pressed  her  own  down  further,  and  perceived  a  face, 
which  she  seemed  to  know,  of  a  young  woman,  very  good- 
looking,  in  a  very  old  style  of  evening  dress.  Slipping  her 
own  photograph  up  over  it  again,  she  took  out  a  handker- 
chief and  went  down.  Only  on  the  stairs  did  she  identify 
that  face.  Surely — surely  Jon's  mother  !  The  conviction 
came  as  a  shock.  And  she  stood  still  in  a  flurry  of  thought. 
Why,  of  course  !  Jon's  father  had  married  the  woman 
her  father  had  wanted  to  marry,  had  cheated  him  out  of 


TO  LET  933 

her,  perhaps.  Then,  afraid  of  showing  by  her  manner  that 
she  had  Hghted  on  his  secret,  she  refused  to  think  further, 
and,  shaking  out  the  silk  handkerchief,  entered  the  dining- 
room. 

"  I  chose  the  softest.  Father." 

"  H'm  !"  said  Soames;  "I  only  use  those  after  a  cold. 
Never  mind  !" 

That  evening  passed  for  Fleur  in  putting  two  and  two 
together;  recalling  the  look  on  her  father's  face  in  the  con- 
fectioner's shop — a  look  strange  and  coldly  intimate,  a 
queer  look.  He  must  have  loved  that  woman  very  much 
to  have  kept  her  photograph  all  this  time,  in  spite  of  having 
lost  her.  Unsparing  and  matter-of-fact,  her  mind  darted 
to  his  relations  with  her  own  mother.  Had  he  ever  really 
loved  hgr  ?  She  thought  not.  Jon  was  the  son  of  the 
woman  he  had  really  loved.  Surely,  then,  he  ought  not  to 
mind  his  daughter  loving  him;  it  only  wanted  getting  used 
to.  And  a  sigh  of  sheer  rehef  was  caught  in  the  folds  of 
her  nightgown  slipping  over  her  head. 


CHAPTER  III 

MEETINGS 

Youth  only  recognizes  Age  by  fits  and  starts.  Jon,  for 
one,  had  never  really  seen  his  father's  age  till  he  came  back 
from  Spain.  The  face  of  the  fourth  Jolyon,  worn  by  waiting, 
gave  him  quite  a  shock — it  looked  so  wan  and  old.  His 
father's  mask  had  been  forced  awry  by  the  emotion  of  the 
meeting,  so  that  the  boy  suddenly  realized  how  much  he 
must  have  felt  their  absence.  He  summoned  to  his  aid 
the  thought:  '  Well,  I  didn't  want  to  go  !'  It  was  out  of 
date  for  Youth  to  defer  to  Age.  But  Jon  was  by  no  means 
typically  modern.  His  father  had  always  been  "  so  jolly  " 
to  him,  and  to  feel  that  one  meant  to  begin  again  at  once 
the  conduct  which  his  father  had  suffered  six  weeks'  loneli- 
ness to  cure  was  not  agreeable. 

At  the  question,  "  Well,  old  man,  how  did  the  great  Goya 
strike  you  ?"  his  conscience  pricked  him  badly.  The  great 
Goya  only  existed  because  he  had  created  a  face  which 
resembled  Fleur's. 

On  the  night  of  their  return,  he  went  to  bed  full  of  com- 
punction; but  awoke  full  of  anticipation.  It  was  only  the 
fifth  of  July,  and  no  meeting  was  fixed  with  Fleur  until  the 
ninth.  He  was  to  have  three  days  at  home  before  going 
back  to  farm.     Somehow  he  must  contrive  to  see  her  ! 

In  the  lives  of  men  an  inexorable  rhythm,  caused  by  the 
need  for  trousers,  not  even  the  fondest  parents  can  deny. 
On  the  second  day,  therefore,  Jon  went  to  Town,  and 
having  satisfied  his  conscience  by  ordering  what  was  indis- 
pensable in  Conduit  Street,  turned  his  face  toward  Picca- 

934 


TO  LET  935 

diJly.  Stratton  Street,  where  her  Club  was,  adjoined 
Devonshire  House.  It  would  be  the  merest  chance  that 
she  should  be  at  her  Club.  But  he  dawdled  down  Bond 
Street  with  a  beating  heart,  noticing  the  superiority  of 
all  other  young  men  to  himself.  They  wore  their  clothes 
with  such  an  air;  they  had  assurance;  they  were  old.  He  was 
suddenly  overwhelmed  by  the  conviction  that  Fleur  must 
have  forgotten  him.  Absorbed  in  his  own  feeling  for  her  all 
these  weeks,  he  had  mislaid  that  possibility.  The  corners 
of  his  mouth  drooped,  his  hands  felt  clammy.  Fleur  with 
the  pick  of  youth  at  the  beck  of  her  smile — Fleur  incom- 
parable !  It  was  an  evil  moment.  Jon,  however,  had  a 
great  idea  that  one  must  be  able  to  face  anything.  And 
he  braced  imself  with  that  dour  reflection  in  front  of  a 
bric-a-brac  shop.  At  this  high -water  mark  of  what  was 
once  the  London  season,  there  was  nothing  to  mark  it  out 
from  any  other  except  a  grey  top  hat  or  two,  and  the  sun. 
Jon  moved  on,  and  turning  the  corner  into  Piccadilly,  ran 
into  Val  Dartie  moving  toward  the  Iseeum  Club,  to  which 
he  had  just  been  elected. 

"  Hallo  !  young  man  !     Where  are  you  off  to  ?" 
Jon  flushed.     "  I've  just  been  to  my  tailor's." 
Val  looked   him   up    and    down.     "  That's   good  !     I'm 
going  in  here    to   order   some   cigarettes;    then   come   and 
have  some  lunch." 

Jon  thanked  him.     He  might  get  news  of  her  from  Val  ! 
The  condition  of  England,   that  nightmare  of  its  Press 
and  Public  men,   was  seen  in  different  perspective  within 
the  tobacconist's  which  they  now  entered. 

'^  Yes,  sir;  precisely  the  cigarette  I  used  to  supply  your 
father  with.  Bless  me  !  Mr.  Montague  Dartie  was  a 
customer  here  from — let  me  see — the  year  Melton  won  the 
Derby.  One  of  my  very  best  customers  he  was."  A 
faint  smile  illumined  the  tobacconist's  face.     "  Many's  the 


936  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tip  he's  given  me,  to  be  sure  !  I  suppose  he  took  a  couple 
of  hundred  of  these  every  week,  year  in,  year  out,  and  never 
changed  his  cigarette.  Very  affable  gentleman,  brought 
me  a  lot  of  custom.  I  was  sorry  he  met  with  that  accident. 
One  misses  an  old  customer  like  him." 

Val  smiled.  His  father's  decease  had  closed  an  account 
which  had  been  running  longer,  probably,  than  any  other; 
and  in  a  ring  of  smoke  puffed  out  from  that  time-honoured 
cigarette  he  seemed  to  see  again  his  father's  face,  dark, 
good-looking,  moustachioed,  a  little  puffy,  in  the  only  halo 
it  had  earned.  His  father  had  his  fame  here,  anyway — 
a  man  who  smoked  two  hundred  cigarettes  a  week,  who 
could  give  tips,  and  run  accounts  for  ever  !  To  his 
tobacconist  a  hero  !  Even  that  was  some  distinction  to 
inherit  ! 

"  I  pay  cash,"  he  said;  "  how  much  r" 

"  To  his  son,  sir,  and  cash — ten  and  six.  I  shall  never 
forget  Mr.  Montague  Dartie.  I've  known  him  stand 
talkin'  to  me  half  an  hour.  We  don't  get  many  like  him 
now,  with  everybody  in  such  a  hurry.  The  War  was  bad 
for  manners,  sir — it  was  bad  for  manners.  You  were  in 
it,  I  see." 

"  No,"  said  Val,  tapping  his  knee,  "  I  got  this  in  the  war 
before.  Saved  my  life,  I  expect.  Do  you  want  any 
cigarettes,  Jon  ?" 

Rather  ashamed,  Jon  murmured,  "  I  don't  smoke,  you 
know,"  and  saw  the  tobacconist's  lips  twisted,  as  if  uncertain 
whether  to  say  "  Good  God  !"  or  "  Now's  your  chance, 
sir  !" 

''That's  right,"  said  Val;  "keep  off  it  while  you  can. 
You'll  want  it  when  you  take  a  knock.  This  is  really  the 
same  tobacco,  then  ?" 

"  Identical,  sir;  a  little  dearer,  that's  all.  Wonderful 
staying  power — the  British  Empire,  I  always  say." 


TO  LET  937 

"  Send  me  down  a  hundred  a  week  to  this  address,  and 
invoice  it  monthly.     Come  on,  Jon." 

Jon  entered  the  Iseeum  with  curiosity.  Except  to  lunch 
now  and  then  at  the  Hotch-Potch  with  his  father,  he  had 
never  been  in  a  London  Club.  The  Iseeum,  comfortable 
and  unpretentious,  did  not  move,  could  not,  so  long  as 
George  Forsyte  sat  on  its  Committee,  where  his  culinary 
acumen  was  almost  the  controlling  force.  The  Club  had 
made  a  stand  against  the  newly  rich,  and  it  had  taken  all 
George  Forsyte's  prestige,  and  praise  of  him  as  a  "  good 
sportsman,"  to  bring  in  Prosper  Profond. 

The  two  were  lunching  together  when  the  half-brothers - 
in-law  entered  the  dining-room,  and  attracted  by  George's 
forefinger,  sat  down  at  their  table,  Val  with  his  shrewd  eyes 
and  charming  smile,  Jon  with  solemn  lips  and  an  attractive 
shyness  in  his  glance.  There  was  an  air  of  privilege  around 
that  corner  table,  as  though  past  masters  were  eating  there. 
Jon  was  fascinated  by  the  hypnotic  atmosphere.  The 
waiter,  lean  in  the  chaps,  pervaded  with  such  freemasonical 
deference.  He  seemed  to  hang  on  George  Forsyte's  lips, 
to  watch  the  gloat  in  his  eye  with  a  kind  of  sympathy,  to 
follow  the  movements  of  the  heavy  club -marked  silver 
fondly.  His  liveried  arm  and  confidential  voice  alarmed 
Jon,  they  came  so  secretly  over  his  shoulder. 

Except  for  George's,  "  Your  grandfather  tipped  me  once; 
he  was  a  deuced  good  judge  of  a  cigar  !"  neither  he  nor 
the  other  past  master  took  any  notice  of  him,  and  he  was 
grateful  for  this.  The  talk  was  all  about  the  breeding, 
points,  and  prices  of  horses,  and  he  listened  to  it  vaguely 
at  first,  wondering  how  it  was  possible  to  retain  so  much 
knowledge  in  a  head.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  the 
dark  past  master — what  he  said  was  so  deliberate  and  dis- 
couraging— such  heavy,  queer,  smiled -out  words.  Jon 
was  thinking  of  butterflies,  when  he  heard  him  say: 


938  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*'  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Soames  Forsyde  take  an  interest 
in  'orses." 

"  Old  Soames  !     He's  too  dry  a  file  !" 

With  all  his  might  Jon  tried  not  to  grow  red,  while  the 
dark  past  master  went  on. 

"  His  daughter's  an  attractive  small  girl.  Mr.  Soames 
Forsyde  is  a  bit  old-fashioned.  I  want  to  see  him  have  a 
pleasure  some  day." 

George  Forsyte  grinned. 

"  Don't  you  worry;  he's  not  so  miserable  as  he  looks. 
He'll  never  show  he's  enjoying  anything — they  might  try 
and  take  it  from  him.  Old  Soames  !  Once  bit,  twice 
shy  !" 

"  Well,  Jon,"  said  Val  hastily,  "  if  you've  finished,  we'll 
go  and  have  coffee." 

"  Who  were  those  ?"  Jon  asked,  on  the  stairs.  "  I  didn't 
quite " 

"  Old  George  Forsyte  is  a  first  cousin  of  your  father's 
and  of  my  Uncle  Soames.  He's  always  been  here.  The 
other  chap,  Profond,  is  a  queer  fish.  I  think  he's  hanging 
round  Soames'  wife,  if  you  ask  me  !" 

Jon  looked  at  him,  startled.  "  But  that's  awful,"  he 
said:  "  I  mean — for  Fleur." 

"  Don't  suppose  Fleur  cares  very  much;  she's  very  up-to- 
date." 

"  Her  mother  !" 

"  You're  very  green,  Jon." 

Jon  grew  red.  "  Mothers,"  he  stammered  angrily,  "  are 
different." 

"You're  right,"  said  Val  suddenly;  "but  things  aren't 
what  they  were  when  I  was  your  age.  There's  a  *  To- 
morrow we  die  '  feeling.  That's  what  old  George  meant 
about  my  Uncle  Soames.  He  doesn't  mean  to  die  to- 
morrow." 


TO  LET  939 

Jon  said,  quickly:  "  What's  the  matter  between  him  and 
my  father  ?" 

"  Stable  secret,  Jon.  Take  my  advice,  and  bottle  up. 
You'll  do  no  good  by  knowing.     Have  a  liqueur  ?" 

Jon  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hate  the  way  people  keep  things  from  one,"  he 
muttered,  "  and  then  sneer  at  one  for  being  green." 

"  Well,  you  can  ask  Holly.  If  she  won't  tell  you,  you'll 
believe  it's  for  your  own  good,  I  suppose." 

Jon  got  up.  "  I  must  go  now;  thanks  awfully  for  the 
lunch." 

Val  smiled  up  at  him  half -sorry,  and  yet  amused.  The 
boy  looked  so  upset. 

"  All  right  !     See  you  on  Friday." 

"  I  don't  know,"  murmured  Jon. 

And  he  did  not.  This  conspiracy  of  silence  made  him 
desperate.  It  was  humiliating  to  be  treated  like  a  child  ! 
He  retraced  his  moody  steps  to  Stratton  Street.  But  he 
would  go  to  her  Club  now,  and  find  out  the  worst  !  To 
his  enquiry  the  reply  was  that  Miss  Forsyte  was  not  in  the 
Club.  She  might  be  in  perhaps  later.  She  was  often  in 
on  Monday — they  could  not  say.  Jon  said  he  would  call 
again,  and,  crossing  into  the  Green  Park,  flung  himself 
down  under  a  tree.  The  sun  was  bright,  and  a  breeze 
fluttered  the  leaves  of  the  young  lime-tree  beneath  which 
he  lay;  but  his  heart  ached.  Such  darkness  seemed  gathered 
round  his  happiness.  He  heard  Big  Ben  chime  "  Three  " 
above  the  traffic.  The  sound  moved  something  in  him, 
and,  taking  out  a  piece  of  paper,  he  began  to  scribble  on  it 
with  a  pencil.  He  had  jotted  a  stanza,  and  was  searching 
the  grass  for  another  verse,  when  something  hard  touched 
his  shoulder — a  green  parasol.  There  above  him  stood 
Fleur  1 

"  They  told  me  you'd  been,  and  were  coming  back.     So 


940  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

I  thought  you  might  be  out  here;  and  you  are — it's  rather 
wonderful  1" 

"  Oh,  Fleur  1  I  thought  you'd  have  forgotten  me." 

"  When  I  told  you  that  I  shouldn't  !" 

Jon  seized  her  arm. 

"  It's  too  much  luck  !  Let's  get  away  from  this  side." 
He  almost  dragged  her  on  through  that  too  thoughtfully 
regulated  Park,  to  find  some  cover  where  they  could  sit  and 
hold  each  other's  hands. 

"  Hasn't  anybody  cut  in  ?"  he  said,  gazing  round  at  her 
lashes,  in  suspense  above  her  cheeks. 

"  There  is  a  young  idiot,  but  he  doesn't  count." 

Jon  felt  a  twitch  of  compassion  for  the — young  idiot. 

"  You  know  I've  had  sunstroke;  I  didn't  tell  you." 

"  Really  !     Was  it  interesting  ?" 

"  No.  Mother  was  an  angel.  Has  anything  happened 
to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing.  Except  that  I  think  I've  found  out  what's 
wrong  between  our  families,  Jon." 

His  heart  began  beating  very  fast. 

"  I  beHeve  my  father  wanted  to  marry  your  mother, 
and  your  father  got  her  instead." 

"  Oh  1" 

"  I  came  on  a  photo  of  her;  it  was  in  a  frame  behind  a 
photo  of  me.  Of  course,  if  he  was  very  fond  of  her,  that 
would  have  made  him  pretty  mad,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

Jon  thought  for  a  minute.  "  Not  if  she  loved  my  father 
best." 

"  But  suppose  they  were  engaged  ?" 

"  If  we  were  engaged,  and  you  found  you  loved  some- 
body better,  I  might  go  cracked,  but  I  shouldn't  grudge 
it  you." 

"  I  should.     You  mustn't  ever  do  that  with  me,  Jon." 

"  My  God  !     Not  much  !" 


TO  LET  941 

'*  I  don't  believe  that  he's  ever  really  cared  for  my 
mother." 

Jon  was  silent.  Val's  words,  the  two  past  masters  in  the 
Club! 

"  You  see,  we  don't  know,"  went  on  Fleur;  "  it  may  have 
been  a  great  shock.  She  may  have  behaved  badly  to  him. 
People  do." 

"  My  mother  wouldn't." 

Fleur  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I  don't  think  we  know 
much  about  our  fathers  and  mothers.  We  just  see  them 
in  the  light  of  the  way  they  treat  us  ;  but  they've  treated 
other  people,  you  know,  before  we  were  born — plenty, 
I  expect.  You  see,  they're  both  old.  Look  at  your 
father,  with  three  separate  families  !" 

"  Isn't  there  any  place,"  cried  Jon,  "  in  all  this  beastly 
London  where  we  can  be  alone  ?" 

"  Only  a  taxi." 

"  Let's  get  one,  then." 

When  they  were  installed,  Fleur  asked  suddenly:  "  Are 
you  going  back  to  Robin  Hill  ?  I  should  like  to  see  where 
you  live,  Jon.  I'm  staying  with  my  aunt  for  the  night, 
but  I  could  get  back  in  time  for  dinner.  I  wouldn't  come 
to  the  house,  of  course." 

Jon  gazed  at  her  enraptured. 

"  Splendid  !  I  can  show  it  you  from  the  copse,  we  shan't 
meet  anybody.     There's  a  train  at  four." 

The  god  of  property  and  his  Forsytes  great  and  small, 
leisured,  official,  commercial,  or  professional,  like  the  working 
classes,  still  worked  their  seven  hours  a  day,  so  that  those 
two  of  the  fourth  generation  travelled  down  to  Robin  Hill 
in  an  empty  first -class  carriage,  dusty  and  sun -warmed,  of 
that  too  early  train.  They  travelled  in  blissful  silence, 
holding  each  other's  hands. 

At  the  station  they  saw  no  one  except  porters,  and  a 


942  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

villa -ger  or  two  unknown  to  Jon,  and  walked  out  up  the 
lane,  which  smelled  of  dust  and  honeysuckle. 

For  Jon — sure  of  her  now,  and  without  separation  before 
him — it  was  a  miraculous  dawdle,  more  wonderful  than 
those  on  the  Downs,  or  along  the  river  Thames.  It  was 
love-in-a-mist — one  of  those  illumined  pages  of  Life,  where 
every  word  and  smile,  and  every  light  touch  they  gave  each 
other  were  as  little  gold  and  red  and  blue  butterflies  and 
flowers  and  birds  scrolled  in  among  the  text — a  happy 
communing,  without  afterthought,  which  lasted  thirty- 
seven  minutes.  They  reached  the  coppice  at  the  milking 
hour.  Jon  would  not  take  her  as  far  as  the  farmyard;  only 
to  where  she  could  see  the  field  leading  up  to  the  gardens, 
and  the  house  beyond.  They  turned  in  among  the  larches, 
and  suddenly,  at  the  winding  of  the  path,  came  on  Irene, 
sitting  on  an  old  log  seat. 

There  are  various  kinds  of  shocks:  to  the  vertebrae;  to 
the  nerves;  to  moral  sensibility;  and,  more  potent  and  per- 
manent, to  personal  dignity.  This  last  was  the  shock  Jon 
received,  coming  thus  on  his  mother.  He  became  suddenly 
conscious  that  he  was  doing  an  indelicate  thing.  To  have 
brought  Fleur  down  openly — yes  !  But  to  sneak  her  in 
like  this  !  Consumed  with  shame,  he  put  on  a  front  as 
brazen  as  his  nature  would  permit. 

Fleur  was  smiling,  a  little  defiantly;  his  mother's  startled 
face  was  changing  quickly  to  the  impersonal  and  gracious. 
It  was  she  who  uttered  the  first  words: 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  It  was  nice  of  Jon  to  think 
of  bringing  you  down  to  us." 

"  We  weren't  coming  to  the  house,"  Jon  blurted  out. 
"  I  just  wanted  Fleur  to  see  where  I  lived." 

His  mother  said  quietly: 

"  Won't  you  come  up  and  have  tea  ?" 

Feeling  that  he  had  but  aggravated  his  breach  of  breeding, 
he  heard  Fleur  answer : 


TO  LET  943 

"Thanks  very  much;  I  have  to  get  back  to  dinner.  I 
met  Jon  by  accident,  and  we  thought  it  would  be  rather 
jolly  just  to  see  his  home." 

How  self-possessed  she  was  ! 

"  Of  course;  but  you  must  have  tea.  We'll  send  you 
down  to  the  station.     My  husband  will  enjoy  seeing  you." 

The  expression  of  his  mother's  eyes,  resting  on  him  for 
a  moment,  cast  Jon  down  level  with  the  ground — a  true 
worm.  Then  she  led  on,  and  Fleur  followed  her.  He 
felt  like  a  child,  trailing  after  those  two,  who  were  talking 
so  easily  about  Spain  and  Wansdon,  and  the  house  up  there 
beyond  the  trees  and  the  grassy  slope.  He  watched  the 
fencing  of  their  eyes,  taking  each  other  in — the  two  beings 
he  loved  most  in  the  world. 

He  could  see  his  father  sitting  under  the  oak-tree;  and 
suffered  in  advance  all  the  loss  of  caste  he  must  go  through 
in  the  eyes  of  that  tranquil  figure,  with  his  knees  crossed, 
thin,  old,  and  elegant;  already  he  could  feel  the  faint  irony 
which  would  come  into  his  voice  and  smile. 

"  This  is  Fleur  Forsyte,  Jolyon ;  Jon  brought  her  down 
to  see  the  house.  Let's  have  tea  at  once — she  has  to  catch 
a  train.  Jon,  tell  them,  dear,  and  telephone  to  the  Dragon 
for  a  car." 

To  leave  her  alone  with  them  was  strange,  and  yet,  as  no 
doubt  his  mother  had  foreseen,  the  least  of  evils  at  the 
moment ;  so  he  ran  up  into  the  house.  Now  he  would  not 
see  Fleur  alone  again — not  for  a  minute,  and  they  had 
arranged  no  further  meeting  !  When  he  returned  under 
cover  of  the  maids  and  teapots,  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
awkwardness  beneath  the  tree;  it  was  all  within  himself, 
but  not  the  less  for  that.  They  were  talking  of  the  Gallery 
off  Cork  Street. 

"  We  back  numbers,"  his  father  was  saying,  "  are  awfully 
anxious  to  find  out  why  we  can't  appreciate  the  new  stuff; 
you  and  Jon  must  tell  us." 


944  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  It's  supposed  to  be  satiric,  isn't  it  f"  said  Fleur. 

He  saw  his  father's  smile. 

"  Satiric  ?  Oh  !  I  think  it's  more  than  that.  What  do 
you  say,  Jon  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  at  all,"  stammered  Jon.  His  father's 
face  had  a  sudden  grimness. 

"  The  young  are  tired  of  us,  our  gods  and  our  ideals. 
Off  with  their  heads,  they  say — smash  their  idols  !  And 
let's  get  back  to — nothing  !  And,  by  Jove,  they've  done 
it  1  Jon's  a  poet.  He'll  be  going  in,  too,  and  stamping  on 
what's  left  of  us.  Property,  beauty,  sentiment — all  smoke. 
We  mustn't  own  anything  nowadays,  not  even  our  feelings. 
They  stand  in  the  way  of — Nothing." 

Jon  listened,  bewildered,  almost  outraged  by  his  father's 
words,  behind  which  he  felt  a  meaning  that  he  could  not 
reach.     He  didn't  want  to  stamp  on  anything  ! 

"Nothing's  the  god  of  to-day,"  continued  Jolyon; 
"  we're  back  where  the  Russians  were  sixty  years  ago,  when 
they  started  Nihilism." 

"  No,  Dad,"  cried  Jon  suddenly,  "  we  only  want  to 
live,  and  we  don't  know  how,  because  of  the  Past — that's 
alll" 

"  By  George  !"  said  Jolyon,  "  that's  profound,  Jon.  Is 
it  your  own  ?  The  Past  !  Old  ownerships,  old  passions, 
and  their  aftermath.     Let's  have  cigarettes." 

Conscious  that  his  mother  had  lifted  her  hand  to  her 
lips,  quickly,  as  if  to  hush  something,  Jon  handed  the 
cigarettes.  He  lighted  his  father's  and  Fleur's,  then  one 
for  himself.  Had  he  taken  the  knock  that  Val  had  spoken 
of  ?  The  smoke  was  blue  when  he  had  not  puffed,  grey 
when  he  had;  he  liked  the  sensation  in  his  nose,  and  the 
sense  of  equality  it  gave  him.  He  was  glad  no  one  said: 
"  So  you've  begun  1"     He  felt  less  young. 

Fleur  looked  at  her  watch,  and  rose.     His  mother  went 


TO  LET  945 

with  her  into  the  house.  Jon  stayed  with  his  father,  puffing 
at  the  cigarette. 

"  See  her  into  the  car,  old  man,"  said  Jolyon;  "  and  when 
she's  gone,  ask  your  mother  to  come  back  to  me." 

Jon  went.  He  waited  in  the  hall.  He  saw  her  into  the 
car.  There  was  no  chance  for  any  word;  hardly  for  a 
pressure  of  the  hand.  He  waited  all  that  evening  for  some- 
thing to  be  said  to  him.  Nothing  was  said.  Nothing 
might  have  happened.  He  went  up  to  bed,  and  in  the 
mirror  on  his  dressing-table  met  himself.  He  did  not 
speak,  nor  did  the  image;  but  both  looked  as  if  they  thought 
the  more. 


31 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  GRZZN   iTRZET 


U>"Ci?.T.u>'.  whether  the  iztrression  that  Prosrer  Proiond 
was  daneerov.f  :..:.-£  re  traced  to  his  attempt  to  give 
Val  the  May£y  hh.  .  t:  i  remark  of  Fletir's:  "  He's  like^the 
hosts  of  Midii^ — he  rri^ls  and  prowls  arotmd";  to  his 
preposterous  inquinr  of  Jack  Cardigan:  "What's  the  use 
of  keepin'  nt  r"  or,  more  simply,  to  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  foreigner,  or  alien  as  it  was  now  called.  Certain,  that 
Annette  was  looking  particularly  handsome,  and  that  Soames 
had  sold  hiTn  a  Gaugnin  and  then  torn  up  the  cheque,  so 
that  Monsieur  Profond  himself  had  said :  "  I  didn't  get  that 
small  picture  I  bought  from  Mr.  Fbrsyde." 

However  suspiciously  regarded,  he  still  frequented 
Winifred's  evergreen  little  hotise  in  Green  Street,  with  a 
gooi-r.^:-:ti  :  tttLsezess  which  no  one  mistook  for  naivete, 
a  vr::t  r.iri^;  irrhcable  to  Monsieur  Prosper  Profond. 
Winlh-ti  itih  : luzi  him  "  amusing,"  and  would  write  him 
little  notes  saying :  "  Come  and  have  a  *  joUy  '  \^ith  us  " — 
it  was  breath  of  life  to  her  to  keep  up  with  the  phrases  of 
the  day. 

The  mystery,  with  which  all  felt  him  to  be  surrounded, 
was  due  to  his  having  done,  seen,  heard,  and  known  every- 
thing, and  found  nothing  in  it — which  was  unnaturaL 
The  English  type  of  disilltisionment  was  familiar  enough  to 
Winifred,  who  had  always  moved  in  fashionable  circles. 
It  ?ave  a  certain  cachet  or  distinction,  so  that  one  got  some  • 
thing  out  of  It.  But  to  see  nothing  in  anything,  not  as  a 
pcKe,  but  because  there  vt^j  nothing  in  anything,  was  nor 

946 


TO  LET  ^7 

Englisli;  and  that  which  was  not  English  one  could  not  iielp 
secretly  feeling  dangerous,  if  not  precisely  bad  form.  It 
was  Hke  having  the  mood  which  the  War  had  left,  seated 
— dark,  heavy,  smiling,  inditterent — in  your  Empire  chair; 
it  was  hke  listening  to  that  mood  talidng  through  thick  pink 
lips  above  a  little  diabolic  beard.  It  was,  as  Jack  Cardigan 
expressed  it — for  the  English  character  at  kr?e — '"  a  bit  too 
thick  *' — for  if  nothing  -^is  reaUv  worth  getting  eidted 
about,  there  were  alwavs  games,  and  one  could  make  it  so  ! 
Even  Winifred,  ever  a  Forsyte  at  heart,  felt  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  had  out  of  such  a  mood  of  disillusionment, 
so  that  it  reaUy  ought  not  to  be  there.  Monsieur  Profond, 
in  fact,  made  the  mood  too  plain  in  a  country  which 
decently  veiled  such  realities. 

When  Fleur,  after  her  hurried  rerzm  from  Robin  HilL 
came  down  to  dinner  that  evening,  the  mood  was  standing 
at  the  window  of  Winifred's  Uttle  drawing-room,  looking 
out  into  Green  Street,  with  an  lIz  :f  seeing  nothing  in  it. 
And  Fleur  gazed  promptly  in::-  :jie  frerlace  with  an  air 
of  seeing  a  hie  which  was  not  there. 

Monsieur  Profond  came  from  the  window.  He  was  in 
full  ng,  with  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  white  Sower  in  his 
buttonhole. 

"  Well,  Miss  Forsyde/"  he  said,  "  Fm  a7vf;il  pleased  to 
see  you.  Mr.  Forsyde  well  r  I  was  sayin"  to-day  I  want 
to  see  him  have  some  pleasure.     He  worries.*' 

**  You  think  so  V  said  Fleur  shortly. 

"  Worries,"  repeated  ^lonsieur  Profond,  burring  ibe  rs. 

Fleur  spun  round.  "  Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  what 
would  give  him  pleasure  ?''  But  the  words,  '*  To  hear 
that  you  had  cleared  out,"  died  at  the  expression  on  his 
face.     All  his  fine  white  teeth  were  showing. 

"  I  was  hearin'  at  the  Club  to-day  about  his  old  trouble." 

Fleur  opened  her  eyes.     "  V^liat  do  you  mean  r" 


948  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Monsieur  Profond  moved  his  sleek  head  as  if  to  minimize 
his  statement. 

"  Before  you  were  born,"  he  said;  "  that  small  business.'* 

Though  conscious  that  he  had  cleverly  diverted  her  from 
his  own  share  in  her  father's  worry,  Fleur  was  unable  to 
withstand  a  rush  of  nervous  curiosity.  "  Tell  me  what 
you  heard." 

"  Why  !"  murmured  Monsieur  Profond,  "  you  know  all 
that." 

"  I  expect  I  do.  But  I  should  like  to  know  that  you 
haven't  heard  it  all  wrong." 

"  His  first  wife,"  murmured  Monsieur  Profond. 

Choking  back  the  words,  "  He  was  never  married  before," 
she  said:  "  Well,  what  about  her  ?" 

"  Mr.  George  Forsyde  was  tellin'  me  about  your  father's 
first  wife  marryin'  his  cousin  Jolyon  afterward.  It  was  a 
small  bit  unpleasant,  I  should  think.  I  saw  their  boy — 
nice  boy  1" 

Fleur  looked  up.  Monsieur  Profond  was  swimming, 
heavily  diabolical,  before  her.  That — the  reason  !  With 
the  most  heroic  effort  of  her  life  so  far,  she  managed  to 
arrest  that  swimming  figure.  She  could  not  tell  whether 
he  had  noticed.     And  just  then  Winifred  came  in. 

"  Oh  !  here  you  both  are  already  !  Imogen  and  I  have 
had  the  most  amusing  afternoon  at  the  Babies'  bazaar." 

"  What  babies  ?"  said  Fleur  mechanically. 

"  The  *  Save  the  Babies.'  I  got  such  a  bargain,  my  dear. 
A  piece  of  old  Armenian  work — from  before  the  Flood. 
I  want  your  opinion  on  it.  Prosper." 

"  Auntie,"  whispered  Fleur  suddenly. 

At  the  tone  in  the  girl's  voice  Winifred  closed  in  on  her. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?     Aren't  you  well  ?" 

Monsieur  Profond  had  withdrawn  into  the  window, 
where  he  was  practically  out  of  hearing. 


TO  LET  949 

"  Auntie,  he — he  told  me  that  father  has  been  married 
before.  Is  it  true  that  he  divorced  her,  and  she  married 
Jon  Forsyte's  father  ?" 

Never  in  all  the  life  of  the  mother  of  four  little  Darties 
had  Winifred  felt  more  seriously  embarrassed.  Her  niece's 
face  was  so  pale,  her  eyes  so  dark,  her  voice  so  whispery 
and  strained. 

"  Your  father  didn't  wish  you  to  hear,"  she  said,  with  all 
the  aplomb  she  could  muster.  "  These  things  will  happen. 
I've  often  told  him  he  ought  to  let  you  know." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Fleur,  and  that  was  all,  but  it  made  Winifred 
pat  her  shoulder — a  firm  little  shoulder,  nice  and  white  ! 
She  never  could  help  an  appraising  eye  and  touch  in  the 
matter  of  her  niece,  who  would  have  to  be  married,  of 
course — though  not  to  that  boy  Jon. 

"  We've  forgotten  all  about  it  years  and  years  ago,"  she 
said  comfortably.     "  Come  and  have  dinner  !" 

"  No,  Auntie.  I  don't  feel  very  well.  May  I  go  up- 
stairs ?" 

"  My  dear  !"  murmured  Winifred,  concerned,  "  you're 
not  taking  this  to  heart  ?  Why,  you  haven't  properly  come 
out  yet  !     That  boy's  a  child  !" 

"  What  boy  ?  I  've  only  got  a  headache.  But  I  can't 
stand  that  man  to-night." 

"WeU,  well,"  said  Winifred,  "go  and  lie  down.  I'll 
send  you  some  bromide,  and  I  shall  talk  to  Prosper  Profond. 
What  business  had  he  to  gossip  ?  Though  I  must  say  I 
think  it's  much  better  you  should  know." 

Fleur  smiled.    "  Yes,"  she  said,  and  slipped  from  the  room. 

She  went  up  with  her  head  whirling,  a  dry  sensation  in 
her  throat,  a  fluttered,  frightened  feeling  in  her  breast. 
Never  in  her  life  as  yet  had  she  suffered  from  even  momen- 
tary fear  that  she  would  not  get  what  she  had  set  her  heart 
on.      The  sensations  of  the  afternoon  had  been  full  and 


950  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

poignant,  and  this  gruesome  discovery  coming  on  the  top 
of  them  had  really  made  her  head  ache.  No  wonder  her 
father  had  hidden  that  photograph  so  secretly  behind  her 
own — ashamed  of  having  kept  it  !  But  could  he  hate 
Jon's  mother  and  yet  keep  her  photograph  ?  She  pressed 
her  hands  over  her  forehead,  trying  to  see  things  clearly. 
Had  they  told  Jon — had  her  visit  to  Robin  Hill  forced  them 
to  tell  him  ?  Everything  now  turned  on  that  !  She  knew, 
they  all  knew,  except — perhaps — Jon  ! 

She  walked  up  and  down,  biting  her  lip  and  thinking 
desperately  hard.  Jon  loved  his  mother.  If  they  had  told 
him,  what  would  he  do  ?  She  could  not  tell.  But  if  they 
had  not  told  him,  should  she  not — could  she  not  get  him 
for  herself — get  married  to  him,  before  he  knew  r  She 
searched  her  memories  of  Robin  Hill.  His  mother's  face 
so  passive — with  its  dark  eyes  and  us  if  powdered  hair,  its 
reserve,  its  smile — baffled  her;  and  his  father's — kindly, 
sunken,  ironic.  Instinctively  she  felt  they  would  shrink 
from  telling  Jon,  even  now,  shrink  from  hurting  him — for 
of  course  it  would  hurt  him  awfully  to  know  ! 

Her  aunt  must  be  made  not  to  tell  her  father  that  she 
knew.  So  long  as  neither  she  herself  nor  Jon  were  supposed 
to  know,  there  was  still  a  chance — freedom  to  cover  one's 
tracks,  and  get  what  her  heart  was  set  on.  But  she  was 
almost  overwhelmed  by  her  isolation.  Every  one's  hand 
was  against  her — every  one's  !  It  was  as  Jon  had  said — 
he  and  she  just  wanted  to  live  and  the  past  was  in  their 
way,  a  past  they  hadn't  shared  in,  and  didn't  understand  ! 
Oh  1  What  a  shame  !  And  suddenly  she  thought  of  June. 
Would  she  help  them  ?  For  somehow  June  had  left  on  her 
the  impression  that  she  would  be  sympathetic  with  their 
love,  impatient  of  obstacle.  Then,  instinctively,  she 
thought:  '  I  won't  give  anything  away,  though,  even  to  her. 
I  daren't  !     I  mean  to  have  Jon;  against  them  all.' 


TO  LET  951 

Soup  was  brought  up  to  her,  and  one  of  \^'inifred's  pet 
headache  cachets.  She  swallowed  both.  Then  Winifred 
herself  appeared.  Flour  opened  her  campaign  with  the 
words : 

"  You  know,  Auntie,  I  do  wish  people  wouldn't  think  I'm 
in  love  wdth  that  hoy.     Why,  I've  hardly  seen  him  !" 

Winifred,  though  experienced,  was  not  "  ;?;//?."  She  ac- 
cepted the  remark  with  considerable  relief.  Of  course,  it 
was  not  pleasant  for  the  girl  to  hear  of  the  family  scandal, 
and  she  set  herself  to  minimize  the  matter,  a  task  for  which 
she  was  eminently  quahfied,  "  raised  "  fashionably  under 
a  comfortable  mother  and  a  father  w^hose  nerves  might  not 
be  shaken,  and  for  many  years  the  wife  of  Montague  Dartie. 
Her  description  was  a  masterpiece  of  understatement. 
Fleur's  father's  first  wife  had  been  very  foolish.  There  had 
been  a  young  man  who  had  got  run  over,  and  she  had  left 
Fleur's  father.  Then,  years  after,  when  it  might  aU  have 
come  right  again,  she  had  taken  up  with  their  cousin  Jolyon; 
and,  of  course,  her  father  had  been  obliged  to  have  a  divorce. 
Nobody  remembered  anything  of  it  now^  except  just  the 
family.  And,  perhaps,  it  had  all  turned  out  for  the  best; 
her  father  had  Fleur;  and  Jolyon  and  Irene  had  been  quite 
happy,  they  said,  and  their  boy  was  a  nice  boy.  "  Val 
having  Holly,  too,  is  a  sort  of  plaster,  don't  you  know  ?" 
With  these  soothing  words,  Winifred  patted  her  niece's 
shoulder;  thought:  'She's  a  nice,  plump  little  thing!' 
and  went  back  to  Prosper  Profond,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
indiscretion,  was  very  "  amusing  "  this  evening. 

For  some  minutes  after  her  aunt  had  gone  Fleur  remained 
under  influence  of  bromide  material  and  spiritual.  But 
then  reality  came  back.  Her  aunt  had  left  out  all  that 
mattered — all  the  feeling,  the  hate,  the  love, the  unforgiving- 
ness  of  passionate  hearts.  She,  who  knew  so  little  of  life 
and  had  touched  only  the  fringe  of  love,  was  yet  aware  by 


952  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

instinct  that  words  have  as  little  relation  to  fact  and  feeling 
as  coin  to  the  bread  it  buys.  '  Poor  Father  !'  she  thought. 
'  Poor  me  !  Poor  Jon  !  But  I  don't  care,  I  mean  to  have 
him  !'  From  the  window  of  her  darkened  room  she  saw 
"  that  man  "  issue  from  the  door  below  and  "  prowl " 
away.  If  he  and  her  mother — how  would  that  affect  her 
chance  ?  Surely  it  must  make  her  father  cling  to  her  more 
closely,  so  that  he  would  consent  in  the  end  to  anything  she 
wanted,  or  become  reconciled  the  sooner  to  what  she  did 
without  his  knowledge. 

She  took  some  earth  from  the  flower-box  in  the  window, 
and  with  all  her  might  flung  it  after  that  disappearing 
figure.     It  fell  short,  but  the  action  did  her  good. 

And  a  little  puff  of  air  came  up  from  Green  Street, 
smelhng  of  petrol,  not  sweet. 


CHAPTER  V 

PURELY  FORSYTE  AFFAIRS 

SoAMEs,  coming  up  to  the  City,  with  the  intention  of  calling 
in  at  Green  Street  at  the  end  of  his  day  and  taking  Fleur 
back  home  with  him,  suffered  from  rumination.  Sleeping 
partner  that  he  was,  he  seldom  visited  the  City  now,  but  he 
still  had  a  room  of  his  own  at  Cuthcott  Kingson  and  For- 
syte's, and  one  special  clerk  and  a  half  assigned  to  the  manage- 
ment of  purely  Forsyte  affairs.  They  were  somewhat  in 
flux  just  now — an  auspicious  moment  for  the  disposal  of 
house  property.  And  Soames  was  unloading  the  estates 
of  his  father  and  Uncle  Roger,  and  to  some  extent  of  his 
Uncle  Nicholas.  His  shrewd  and  matter-of-course  probity 
in  all  money  concerns  had  made  him  something  of  an 
autocrat  in  connection  with  these  trusts.  If  Soames 
thought  this  or  thought  that,  one  had  better  save  oneself 
the  bother  of  thinking  too.  He  guaranteed,  as  it  were, 
irresponsibility  to  numerous  Forsytes  of  the  third  and  fourth 
generations.  His  fellow  trustees,  such  as  his  cousins  Roger 
or  Nicholas,  his  cousins-in-law  Tweetyman  and  Spender, 
or  his  sister  Cicely's  husband,  all  trusted  him;  he  signed 
first,  and  where  he  signed  first  they  signed  after,  and  nobody 
was  a  penny  the  worse.  Just  now  they  were  all  a  good  many 
pennies  the  better,  and  Soames  was  beginning  to  see  the 
close  of  certain  trusts,  except  for  distribution  of  the  income 
from  securities  as  gilt-edged  as  was  compatible  with  the 
period. 

Passing  the  more  feverish  parts  of  the  City  toward  the 
most  perfect  backwater  in  London,  he  ruminated.     Money 

953  31* 


954  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  extraordinarily  tight;  and  morality  extraordinarily 
loose  !  The  War  had  done  it.  Banks  were  not  lending; 
people  breaking  contracts  all  over  the  place.  There  was  a 
feeling  in  the  air  and  a  look  on  faces  that  he  did  not  like. 
The  country  seemed  in  for  a  spell  of  gambling  and  bank- 
ruptcies. There  was  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  neither 
he  nor  his  trusts  had  an  investment  which  could  be  affected 
by  anything  less  maniacal  than  national  repudiation  or  a 
levy  on  capital.  If  Soames  had  faith,  it  was  in  what  he 
called  "  English  common  sense  " — or  the  power  to  have 
things,  if  not  one  way  then  another.  He  might — like  his 
father  James  before  him — say  he  didn't  know  what  things 
were  coming  to,  but  he  never  in  his  heart  believed  they  were. 
If  it  rested  with  him,  they  wouldn't — and,  after  all,  he  was 
only  an  Englishman  like  any  other,  so  quietly  tenacious  of 
what  he  had  that  he  knew  he  w^ould  never  really  part  with 
it  without  something  more  or  less  equivalent  in  exchange. 
His  mind  was  essentially  equilibristic  in  material  matters, 
and  his  way  of  putting  the  national  situation  difficult  to 
refute  in  a  world  composed  of  human  beings.  Take  his 
own  case,  for  example  !  He  was  well  off.  Did  that  do 
anybody  harm  ?  He  did  not  eat  ten  meals  a  day;  he  ate 
no  more  than,  perhaps  not  so  much  as,  a  poor  man.  He 
spent  no  money  on  vice;  breathed  no  more  air,  used  no 
more  water  to  speak  of  than  the  mechanic  or  the  porter. 
He  certainly  had  pretty  things  about  him,  but  they  had 
given  employment  in  the  making,  and  somebody  must  use 
them.  He  bought  pictures,  but  Art  must  be  encouraged. 
He  was,  in  fact,  an  accidental  channel  through  which  money 
flowed,  employing  labour.  What  was  there  objectionable 
in  that  ?  In  his  charge  money  was  in  quicker  and  more 
useful  flux  than  it  would  be  in  charge  of  the  State  and  a 
lot  of  slow -fly  money-sucking  officials.  And  as  to  what  he 
saved  each  year — it  was  just  as  much  in  flux  as  what  he 


TO  LET  955 

didn't  save,  going  into  Water  Board  or  Council  Stocks,  or 
something  sound  and  useful.  The  State  paid  him  no 
salary  for  being  trustee  of  his  own  or  other  people's  money — 
he  did  all  that  for  nothing.  Therein  lay  the  whole  case 
against  nationalization — owners  of  private  property  were 
unpaid,  and  yet  had  every  incentive  to  quicken  up  the  flux. 
Under  nationalization — just  the  opposite  !  In  a  country 
smarting  from  officialism  he  felt  that  he  had  a  strong 
case. 

It  particularly  annoyed  him,  entering  that  backwater  of 
perfect  peace,  to  think  that  a  lot  of  unscrupulous  Trusts  and 
Combinations  had  been  cornering  the  market  in  goods  of 
all  kinds,  and  keeping  prices  at  an  artificial  height.  Such 
abusers  of  the  individualistic  system  were  the  ruffians  who 
caused  all  the  trouble,  and  it  was  some  satisfaction  to  see 
them  getting  into  a  stew  at  last  lest  the  whole  thing  might 
come  down  with  a  run — and  land  them  in  the  soup. 

The  offices  of  Cuthcott  Kingson  and  Forsyte  occupied 
the  ground  and  first  floors  of  a  house  on  the  right-hand  side; 
and,  ascending  to  his  room,  Soames  thought :  *  Time  we  had 
a  coat  of  paint.' 

His  old  clerk  Gradman  was  seated,  where  he  always  was, 
at  a  huge  bureau  with  countless  pigeonholes.  Half-the- 
clerk  stood  beside  him,  with  a  broker's  note  recording 
investment  of  the  proceeds  from  sale  of  the  Bryanston 
Square  house,  in  Roger  Forsyte's  estate.  Soames  took  it, 
and  said : 

"  Vancouver  City  Stock.     H'm.     It's  down  to-day  !" 

With  a  sort  of  grating  ingratiation  old  Gradman 
answered  him: 

"Ye-es;  but  everything's  down,  Mr.  Soames."  And 
half-the-clerk  withdrew. 

Soames  skewered  the  document  on  to  a  number  of  other 
papers  and  hung  up  his  hat. 


956  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I  want  to  look  at  my  Will  and  Marriage  Settlement, 
Gradman." 

Old  Gradman,  moving  to  the  limit  of  his  swivel  chair> 
drew  out  two  drafts  from  the  bottom  left-hand  drawer. 
Recovering  his  body,  he  raised  his  grizzle -haired  face,  very 
red  from  stooping. 

"  Copies,  sir." 

Soames  took  them.  It  struck  him  suddenly  how  like 
Gradman  was  to  the  stout  brindled  yard  dog  they  had  been 
wont  to  keep  on  his  chain  at  The  Shelter,  till  one  day  Fleur 
had  come  and  insisted  it  should  be  let  loose,  so  that  it  had  at 
once  bitten  the  cook  and  been  destroyed.  If  you  let  Grad- 
man off  his  chain,  would  he  bite  the  cook  ? 

Checking  this  frivolous  fancy,  Soames  unfolded  his 
Marriage  Settlement.  He  had  not  looked  at  it  for  over 
eighteen  years,  not  since  he  remade  his  Will  when  his  father 
died  and  Fleur  was  born.  He  wanted  to  see  whether  the 
words  "  during  coverture  "  were  in.  Yes,  they  were — 
odd  expression,  when  you  thought  of  it,  and  derived  perhaps 
from  horse-breeding  !  Interest  on  fifteen  thousand  pounds 
(w^hich  he  paid  her  without  deducting  income  tax)  so  long 
as  she  remained  his  wife,  and  afterward  during  widowhood 
*'  dum  casta  " — old-fashioned  and  rather  pointed  words, 
put  in  to  insure  the  conduct  of  Fleur's  mother.  His  Will 
made  it  up  to  an  annuity  of  a  thousand  under  the  same  con- 
ditions. All  right  !  He  returned  the  copies  to  Gradman, 
who  took  them  without  looking  up,  swung  the  chair,  re- 
stored the  papers  to  their  drawer,  and  went  on  casting  up. 

"  Gradman  !  I  don't  like  the  condition  of  the  country; 
there  are  a  lot  of  people  about  without  any  common  sense. 
I  want  to  find  a  way  by  which  I  can  safeguard  Miss  Fleur 
against  anything  which  might  arise." 

Gradman  wrote  the  figure  "  2  "  on  his  blotting-paper. 

"  Ye-es,"  he  said;  "  there's  a  nahsty  spirit." 


TO  LET  957 

"  The  ordinary  restraint  against  anticipation  doesn't  meet 
the  case." 

"  Nao,"  said  Gradman. 

"  Suppose  those  Labour  fellows  come  in,  or  worse  ! 
It's  these  people  with  fixed  ideas  who  are  the  danger.  Look 
at  Ireland  !" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Gradman. 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  make  a  settlement  on  her  at  once 
with  myself  as  beneficiary  for  life,  they  couldn't  take  any- 
thing but  the  interest  from  me,  unless  of  course  they  alter 
the  law." 

Gradman  moved  his  head  and  smiled. 

"  Aoh  !"  he  said,  "  they  wouldn't  do  tha-at  !" 

"I  don't  know,"  muttered  Soames;  "I  don't  trust 
them." 

"  It'll  take  two  years,  sir,  to  be  valid  against  death  duties." 

Soames  sniffed.     Two  years  !     He  was  only  sixty -five  ! 

"  That's  not  the  point.  Draw  a  form  of  settlement  that 
passes  all  my  property  to  Miss  Fleur's  children  in  equal 
shares,  with  antecedent  life -interests  first  to  myself  and  then 
to  her  without  power  of  anticipation,  and  add  a  clause  that 
in  the  event  of  anything  happening  to  divert  her  life-interest, 
that  interest  passes  to  the  trustees,  to  apply  for  her  benefit, 
in  their  absolute  discretion." 

Gradman  grated:  "  Rather  extreme  at  your  age,  sir; 
you  lose  control." 

"  That's  my  business,"  said  Soames,  sharply. 

Gradman  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper:  "  Life -inter  est — 
anticipation — divert  interest — absolute  discretion  .  .  ." 
and  said: 

"What  trustees?  There's  young  Mr.  Kingson;  he's  a 
nice  steady  young  fellow." 

"  Yes,  he  might  do  for  one.  I  must  have  three.  There 
isn't  a  Forsyte  now  who  appeals  to  me." 


958  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Not  young  Mr.  Nicholas  ?  He's  at  the  Bar.  WeVe 
given  'im  briefs." 

"  He'll  never  set  the  Thames  on  fire,"  said  Soames. 

A  smile  oozed  out  on  Gradman's  face,  greasy  with  count- 
less mutton-chops,  the  smile  of  a  man  who  sits  all  day. 

"  You  can't  expect  it,  at  his  age,  Mr.  Soames." 

"  Why  ?     What  is  he  ?     Forty  ?" 

"  Ye-es,  quite  a  young  fellow." 

"  Well,  put  him  in ;  but  I  want  somebody  who'll  take  a 
personal  interest.     There's  no  one  that  I  can  see." 

''  What  about  Mr.  Valerius,  now  he's  come  home  ?" 

"  Val  Dartie  ?     With  that  father  ?" 

"  We-ell,"  murmured  Gradman,  "  he's  been  dead  seven 
years — the  Statute  runs  against  him." 

"  No,"  said  Soames.  "  I  don't  like  the  connection." 
He  rose.     Gradman  said  suddenly: 

"  If  they  were  makin'  a  levy  on  capital,  they  could  come 
on  the  trustees,  sir.  So  there  you'd  be  just  the  same.  I'd 
think  it  over,  if  I  were  you." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Soames,  "  I  will.  What  have  you 
done  about  that  dilapidation  notice  in  Vere  Street  ?" 

"  I  'aven't  served  it  yet.  The  party's  very  old.  She 
won't  want  to  go  out  at  her  age." 

"  I  don't  know.     This  spirit  of  unrest  touches  every  one." 

"  Still,  I'm  lookin'  at  things  broadly,  sir.  She's  eighty- 
one." 

"  Better  serve  it,"  said  Soames,  "  and  see  what  she  says. 
Oh  !  and  Mr.  Timothy  ?  Is  everything  in  order  in  case 
of " 

"  I've  got  the  inventory  of  his  estate  all  ready;  had  the 
furniture  and  pictures  valued  so  that  we  know  what  reserves 
to  put  on.  I  shall  be  sorry  when  he  goes,  though.  Dear 
me  !     It  is  a  time  since  I  first  saw  Mr.  Timothy  !" 

"  We  can't  live  for  ever,"  said  Soames,  taking  down  his 
hat. 


TO  LET  959 

"  Nao,"  said  Gradman;  "  but  it'll  be  a  pity— the  last  of 
the  old  family  !  Shall  I  take  up  the  matter  of  that  nuisance 
in  Old  Compton  Street  ?  Those  organs — they're  nahsty 
things." 

*'  Do.  I  must  call  for  Miss  Fleur  and  catch  the  four 
o'clock.     Good-day,  Gradman." 

"  Good -day,  Mr.  Soames.     I  hope  Miss  Fleur " 

"  Well  enough,  but  gads  about  too  much." 
"  Ye-es,"  grated  Gradman;  "  she's  young." 
Soames  went  out,  musing:  "  Old  Gradman  !     If  he  were 
younger  I'd  put  him  in  the  trust.     There's  nobody  I  can 
depend  on  to  take  a  real  interest." 

Leaving  the  bihous  and  mathematical  exactitude,  the 
preposterous  peace  of  that  backwater,  he  thought  suddenly: 
'  During  coverture  !  Why  can't  they  exclude  fellows  like 
Profond,  instead  of  a  lot  of  hard-working  Germans  ?'  and 
was  surprised  at  the  depth  of  uneasiness  which  could  provoke 
so  unpatriotic  a  thought.  But  there  it  was  !  One  never 
got  a  moment  of  real  peace.  There  was  always  something 
at  the  back  of  everything  !  And  he  made  his  way  toward 
Green  Street. 

Two  hours  later  by  his  watch,  Thomas  Gradman,  stirring 
in  his  svv^ivel  chair,  closed  the  last  drawer  of  his  bureau,  and 
putting  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  bunch  of  keys  so  fat  that 
they  gave  him  a  protuberance  on  the  liver  side,  brushed  his 
old  top  hat  round  with  his  sleeve,  took  his  umbrella,  and 
descended.  Thick,  short,  and  buttoned  closely  into  his. 
old  frock  coat,  he  walked  toward  Covent  Garden  market. 
He  never  missed  that  daily  promenade  to  the  Tube  for 
Highgate,  and  seldom  some  critical  transaction  on  the  way 
in  connection  with  vegetables  and  fruit.  Generations 
might  be  born,  and  hats  might  change,  wars  be  fought,  and 
Forsytes  fade  away,  but  Thomas  Gradman,  faithful  and 
grey,  would  take  his  daily  walk  and  buy  his  daily  vegetable,, 
Times  were  not  what  they  were,  and  his  son  had  lost  a  leg 


960  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  they  never  gave  him  those  nice  little  plaited  baskets  to 
carry  the  stuff  in  now^,  and  these  Tubes  were  convenient 
things — still  he  mustn't  complain;  his  health  was  good  con- 
sidering his  time  of  life,  and  after  fifty-four  years  in  the  Law 
he  was  getting  a  round  eight  hundred  a  year  and  a  little 
worried  of  late,  because  it  was  mostly  collector's  commission 
on  the  rents,  and  with  all  this  conversion  of  Forsyte  property 
going  on,  it  looked  Uke  drying  up,  and  the  price  of  living 
still  so  high;  but  it  was  no  good  worrying — "  The  good  God 
made  us  all  " — as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying;  still,  house 
property  in  London — he  didn't  know  what  Mr.  Roger  or 
Mr.  James  would  say  if  they  could  see  it  being  sold  like  this — 
seemed  to  show  a  lack  of  faith;  but  Mr.  Soames — he  worried. 
Life  and  lives  in  being  and  twenty-one  years  after — beyond 
that  you  couldn't  go ;  still,  he  kept  his  health  wonderfully — 
and  Miss  Fleur  was  a  pretty  little  thing — she  was;  she'd 
marry;  but  lots  of  people  had  no  children  nowadays — he  had 
had  his  first  child  at  twenty-two;  and  Mr.  Jolyon,  married 
while  he  was  at  Cambridge,  had  his  child  the  same  year — 
gracious  Peter  !  That  was  back  in  '70,  a  long  time  before 
old  Mr.  Jolyon — fine  judge  of  property — had  taken  his  Will 
away  from  Mr.  James — dear,  yes  !  Those  were  the  days 
when  they  were  buyin'  property  right  and  left,  and  none  of 
this  khaki  and  falHn'  over  one  another  to  get  out  of  things; 
and  cucumbers  at  twopence;  and  a  melon — the  old  melons, 
that  made  your  mouth  water  !  Fifty  years  since  he  went 
into  Mr.  James'  office,  and  Mr.  James  had  said  to  him: 
"  Now,  Gradman,  you're  only  a  shaver — you  pay  attention, 
and  you'll  make  your  five  hundred  a  year  before  you've 
done."  And  he  had,  and  feared  God,  and  served  the 
Forsytes,  and  kept  a  vegetable  diet  at  night.  And,  buying 
a  copy  of  John  Bull — not  that  he  approved  of  it,  an  extra- 
vagant affair — he  entered  the  Tube  elevator  with  his  mere 
brown -paper  parcel,  and  was  borne  down  into  the  bowels 
of  the  earth. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SOAMES'    PRIVATE    LIFE 

On  his  way  to  Green  Street  it  occurred  to  Soames  that  he 
ought  to  go  into  Dumetrius'  in  Suffolk  Street  about  the 
possibility  of  the  Bolderby  Old  Crome.  Almost  worth 
while  to  have  fought  the  war  to  have  the  Bolderby  Old 
Crome,  as  it  were,  in  flux  !  Old  Bolderby  had  died,  his  son 
and  grandson  had  been  killed — a  cousin  was  coming  into 
the  estate,  who  meant  to  sell  it,  some  said  because  of  the 
condition  of  England,  others  said  because  he  had  asthma. 

If  Dumetrius  once  got  hold  of  it  the  price  would  become 
prohibitive;  it  was  necessary  for  Soames  to  find  out  whether 
Dumetrius  had  got  it,  before  he  tried  to  get  it  himself. 
He  therefore  confined  himself  to  discussing  with  Dumetrius 
whether  Monticellis  would  come  again  now  that  it  was  the 
fashion  for  a  picture  to  be  anything  except  a  picture;  and 
the  future  of  Johns,  with  a  side-slip  into  Buxton  Knights. 
It  was  only  when  leaving  that  he  added:  "  So  they're  not 
selling  the  Bolderby  Old  Crome,  after  all  ?"  In  sheer  pride 
of  racial  superiority,  as  he  had  calculated  would  be  the  case, 
Dumetrius  replied: 

"  Oh  !     I  shall  get  it,  Mr.  Forsyte,  sir  !" 

The  flutter  of  his  eyelid  fortified  Soames  in  a  resolution 
to  write  direct  to  the  new  Bolderby,  suggesting  that  the 
only  dignified  way  of  dealing  with  an  Old  Crome  was  to 
avoid  dealers.  He  therefore  said,  "  Well,  good -day !" 
and  went,  leaving  Dumetrius  the  wiser. 

At  Green  Street  he  found  that  Fleur  was  out  and  would 
be  all  the  evening ;  she  was  staying  one  more  night  in  London. 
He  cabbed  on  dejectedly,  and  caught  his  train. 

961 


962  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  reached  his  house  about  six  o'clock.  The  air  was 
heavy,  midges  biting,  thunder  about.  Taking  his  letters 
he  went  up  to  his  dressing-room  to  cleanse  himself  of 
London. 

An  uninteresting  post.  A  receipt,  a  bill  for  purchases 
on  behalf  of  Fleur.  A  circular  about  an  exhibition  of 
etchings.     A  letter  beginning: 

"  Sir, 

"  I  feel  it  my  duty " 


That  would  be  an  appeal  or  something  unpleasant.  He 
looked  at  once  for  the  signature.  There  was  none  !  In- 
credulously he  turned  the  page  over  and  examined  each 
corner.  Not  being  a  public  man,  Soames  had  never  yet 
had  an  anonymous  letter,  and  his  first  impulse  was  to  tear 
it  up,  as  a  dangerous  thing;  his  second  to  read  it,  as  a  thing 
still  more  dangerous. 

"  Sir, 

"  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  having  no 
interest  in  the  matter  your  lady  is  carrying  on  with  a 
foreigner " 

Reaching  that  word  Soames  stopped  mechanically  and 
examined  the  postmark.  So  far  as  he  could  pierce  the 
impenetrable  disguise  in  which  the  Post  Office  had  wrapped 
it,  there  was  something  with  a  "  sea  "  at  the  end  and  a  "  t  " 
in  it.     Chelsea  ?     No  !     Battersea  ?    Perhaps  !     He  read  on. 

"  These  foreigners  are  all  the  same.  Sack  the  lot. 
This  one  meets  your  lady  twdce  a  week.  I  know  it  of  my 
own  knowledge — and  to  see  an  Englishman  put  on  goes 
against  the  grain.  You  watch  it  and  see  if  what  I  say  isn't 
true.  I  shouldn't  meddle  if  it  wasn't  a  dirty  foreigner  that's 
in  it.     Yours  obedient." 


TO  LET  963 

The  sensation  with  which  Soames  dropped  the  letter  was 
similar  to  that  he  would  have  had  entering  his  bedroom  and 
finding  it  full  of  black-beetles.  The  meanness  of  anony- 
mity gave  a  shuddering  obscenity  to  the  moment.  And 
the  worst  of  it  was  that  this  shadow  had  been  at  the  back 
of  his  mind  ever  since  the  Sunday  evening  when  Fleur  had 
pointed  down  at  Prosper  Profond  strolling  on  the  lawn, 
and  said:  "Prowling  cat!"  Had  he  not  in  connection 
therewith,  this  very  day,  perused  his  Will  and  Marriage 
Settlement  ?  And  now  this  anonymous  ruffian,  with 
nothing  to  gain,  apparently,  save  the  venting  of  his  spite 
against  foreigners,  had  wrenched  it  out  of  the  obscurity 
in  which  he  had  hoped  and  wished  it  would  remain.  To 
have  such  knowledge  forced  on  him,  at  his  time  of  life, 
about  Fleur's  mother  !  He  picked  the  letter  up  from  the 
carpet,  tore  it  across,  and  then,  when  it  hung  together  by 
just  the  fold  at  the  back,  stopped  tearing,  and  re-read  it. 
He  was  taking  at  that  moment  one  of  the  decisive  resolutions 
of  his  life.  He  would  not  be  forced  into  another  scandal. 
No  !  However  he  decided  to  deal  with  this  matter — and 
it  required  the  most  far-sighted  and  careful  consideration — 
he  would  do  nothing  that  might  injure  Fleur.  That  reso- 
lution taken,  his  mind  answered  the  helm  again,  and  he 
made  his  ablutions.  His  hands  trembled  as  he  dried  them. 
Scandal  he  would  not  have,  but  something  must  be  done 
to  stop  this  sort  of  thing  !  He  went  into  his  wife's  room  and 
stood  looking  round  him.  The  idea  of  searching  for  any- 
thing which  would  incriminate,  and  entitle  him  to  hold  a 
menace  over  her,  did  not  even  come  to  him.  There  would 
be  nothing — she  was  much  too  practical.  The  idea  of 
having  her  watched  had  been  dismissed  before  it  came — 
too  well  he  remembered  his  previous  experience  of  that. 
No  !  He  had  nothing  but  this  torn-up  letter  from  some 
anonymous    ruffian,    whose     impudent    intrusion    into    his 


964  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

private  life  he  so  violently  resented.  It  was  repugnant  to 
him  to  make  use  of  it,  but  he  might  have  to.  What  a  mercy 
Fleur  was  not  at  home  to-night  !  A  tap  on  the  door  broke 
up  his  painful  cogitations. 

"  Mr.  Michael  Mont,  sir,  is  in  the  drawing-room.  Will 
you  see  him  ?'* 

"  No,"  said  Soames;  "  yes.     I'll  come  down." 

Anything  that  would  take  his  mind  off  for  a  few  minutes  ! 

Michael  Mont  in  flannels  stood  on  the  verandah  smoking 
a  cigarette.  He  threw  it  away  as  Soames  came  up,  and  ran 
his  hand  through  his  hair. 

Soames'  feeling  toward  this  young  man  was  singular. 
He  was  no  doubt  a  rackety,  irresponsible  young  fellow 
according  to  old  standards,  yet  somehow  likeable,  with 
his  extraordinarily  cheerful  way  of  blurting  out  his  opinions. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said;  "  have  you  had  tea  ?" 

Mont  came  in. 

"  I  thought  Fleur  would  have  been  back,  sir;  but  I'm 
glad  she  isn't.  The  fact  is,  I — I'm  fearfully  gone  on  her; 
so  fearfully  gone  that  I  thought  you'd  better  know.  It's 
old-fashioned,  of  course,  coming  to  fathers  first,  but  I 
thought  you'd  forgive  that.  I  went  to  my  own  Dad,  and  he 
says  if  I  settle  down  he'll  see  me  through.  He  rather 
cottons  to  the  idea,  in  fact.     I  told  him  about  your  Goya." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Soames,  inexpressibly  dry.  "  He  rather 
cottons  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  do  you  ?" 

Soames  smiled  faintly. 

"  You  see,"  resumed  Mont,  twiddling  his  straw  hat, 
while  his  hair,  ears,  eyebrows,  all  seemed  to  stand  up  from 
excitement,  "  when  you've  been  through  the  War  you  can't 
help  being  in  a  hurry." 

"To  get  married;  and  unmarried  afterward,"  said 
Soames  slowly. 


TO  LET  965 

"  Not  from  Fleur,  sir.     Imagine,  if  you  were  me  !" 

Soames  cleared  his  throat.  That  way  of  putting  it  was 
forcible  enough. 

"  Fleur's  too  young,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  !  no,  sir.  We're  awfully  old  nowadays.  My  Dad 
seems  to  me  a  perfect  babe;  his  thinking  apparatus  hasn't 
turned  a  hair.  But  he's  a  Baronight,  of  course;  that  keeps 
him  back." 

"Baronight,"  repeated  Soames;  "what  may  that 
be?" 

"  Bart,  sir.  I  shall  be  a  Bart  some  day.  But  I  shall  live 
it  down,  you  know." 

"  Go  away  and  live  this  down,"  said  Soames. 

Young  Mont  said  imploringly:  "  Oh  !  no,  sir.  I  simply 
must  hang  around,  or  I  shouldn't  have  a  dog's  chance. 
You'll  let  Fleur  do  what  she  likes,  I  suppose,  anyway. 
Madame  passes  me." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Soames  frigidly. 

"  You  don't  really  bar  me,  do  you  ?"  and  the  young  man 
looked  so  doleful  that  Soames  smiled. 

"You  may  think  you're  very  old,"  he  said:  "but  you 
strike  me  as  extremely  young.  To  rattle  ahead  of  every- 
thing is  not  a  proof  of  maturity." 

"  All  right,  sir;  I  give  you  in  our  age.  But  to  show  you 
I  mean  business — I've  got  a  job." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it." 

"Joined  a  publisher;  my  governor  is  putting  up  the 
stakes." 

Soames  put  his  hand  over  his  mouth — he  had  so  very 
nearly  said:  "God  help  the  publisher!"  His  grey  eyes 
scrutinized  the  agitated  young  man. 

"  I  don't  dislike  you,  Mr.  Mont,  but  Fleur  is  everything 
to  me.     Everything — do  you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  know;  but  so  she  is  to  me." 


966  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

**  Thii's  s^  may  be.  I'm  glad  you've  told  mt,  howcrer. 
And  now  I  rnir.V  mere's  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

*"  I  know  ii  rests  uith  her,  sir." 

'*  I:  will  rest  with  her  a  long  time.  I  hope/* 

"  You  aren't  cheering,'*  said  Mont  suddenly. 

"  No,"  said  Soames,  **  mv  experience  of  life  has  not  made 
me  anxious  to  couple  people  in  a  hurry.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Mont.     I  shan't  tell  Fleur  what  you've  said.'' 

•'  Oh  ;"'  murmured  Mont  blankly:  ''  I  really  could  knock 
ziv  briins  ou:  for  .va-t  of  her.  She  kno'.vs  that  perfectly 
welL" 

"  I  dire  5ay."  .And  Soames  held  out  his  hand.  A 
cistractei  scueeze.  a  nearr  si^n,  and  soon  alter  sounds 
froni  the  voung  man's  motor -cycle  called  up  visions  of  ilying 
dost  and  broken  bones. 

*  The  vounger  generation  I'  he  thought  heavily,  ana.  went 
out  on  to  the  lawn.  The  gardeners  had  been  mowing,  and 
there  was  still  the  smeU  of  fresh-cut  grass — the  thtmdery 
air  kept  all  scents  close  to  earth.  The  sky  was  of  a  purplish 
hue — the  popla.:^  black  Two  or  three  boats  passed  on  the 
riTcr,  scuttling,  as  it  were,  for  shelter  before  the  storm. 
'  Three  days*  nne  weather,'  thought  Soames,  '  and  then  a 
storm  ?  \Miere  was  Annette :  With  that  chap,  for  all 
he  knew — she  was  a  young  woman  !  Impressed  with 
the  queer  charity  of  that  thought,  he  entered  the  summer- 
house  and  sat  down.  The  fact  was — and  he  admitted  it 
— Fleur  was  so  much  to  him  that  his  wife  was  very  little — 
very  little;  French — ^had  never  been  much  more  than  a 
mistress,  and  he  was  getting  indinerent  to  that  side  of  things  ! 
It  was  odd  how,  with  all  this  ingrained  care  for  moderarion 
and  secure  investment,  Soames  ever  put  his  emotional 
eggs  into  one  basket.  First  Irene — now  Fleur.  He  was 
dimly  conscious  of  it,  sitting  there,  conscious  of  its  odd 
dangerousness.     It  had  brought  him  to  wreck  and  scandal 


TO  LET  967 

once,   but  now — now  it  should  save  him  I     He  cared  sd 

much  for  Fleur  that  he  would  have  no  further  scandal 
If  only  he  could  get  at  that  anonymous  letter -writer,  he 
would  teach  him  not  to  meddle  and  stir  up  mud  at  the 
bottom  of  water  which  he  wished  shpuld  remain  stagnant ! 
...  A  distant  flash,  a  low  rumble,  and  large  drops  of 
rain  spattered  on  the  thatch  above  him.  He  remained 
indifferent,  tracing  a  pattern  with  his  nnger  on  the  dusrv 
surface  of  a  Httle  rustic  table.  Fleur's  future  I  '  I  want 
fair  sailing  for  her,'  he  thought.  '  Noihizg  else  matters 
at  my  time  of  life.'  A  lonely  business — life  !  What  you 
had  you  never  could  keep  to  yourself  I  As  you  warned 
one  o5,  you  let  another  in.  One  could  make  sure  of  nothing  ! 
He  reached  up  and  pulled  a  red  rambler  rose  from  a  cluster 
which  blocked  the  window.  Flowers  grew  and  dropped — 
Nature  was  a  queer  thing  !  The  thunder  rumbled  and 
crashed,  cravelling  east  along  the  river,  the  paling  flashes 
flicked  his  eyes;  the  poplar  tops  showed  sharp  and  dense 
against  the  sky,  a  heavy  shower  rustled  and  rattled  and  veiled 
in  the  Httle  house  wherein  he  sat,  indifferent,  thinking. 

\Mien  the  storm  was  over,  he  left  his  retreat  and  went 
down  the  wet  path  to  the  river  bank. 

Two  swans  had  come,  sheltering  in  among  the  reeds.  He 
knew  the  birds  well,  and  stood  watching  the  dignity  in  the 
curve  of  those  white  necks  and  formidable  snake-like  heads. 
'  Not  dignified — what  I  have  to  do  I'  he  thought.  And  yet 
it  must  be  tackled,  lest  worse  befell.  Annette  must  be  back 
by  now  from  wherever  she  had  gone,  for  it  was  nearly  dinner- 
time, and  as  the  moment  for  seeing  her  approached,  the 
difficulty  of  knowing  what  to  say  and  how  to  say  ii  had 
increased.  A  new  and  scaring  thought  occurred  to  him. 
Suppose  she  wanted  her  H&erty  to  marry  this  fellow  I  Well, 
if  she  did,  she  co^jddn't  have  it.  He  had  not  married  her 
for  that.     The  ima^e  of  Prosrer   Prcfcnd  dawdled  before 


968  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

him  reassuringly.  Not  a  marrying  man  !  No,  no  !  Anger 
replaced  that  momentary  scare.     '  He  had  better  not  come 

my  way,'  he  thought.     The  mongrel  represented !     But 

what  did  Prosper  Profond  represent  ?  Nothing  that 
mattered  surely.  And  yet  something  real  enough  in  the 
world — unmorality  let  off  its  chain,  disillusionment  on  the 
prowl !  That  expression  Annette  had  caught  from  him: 
"  Je  rrCen  fiche  .'"  A  fatalistic  chap  !  A  continental — 
a  cosmopolitan — a  product  of  the  age  !  If  there  were 
condemnation  more  complete,  Soames  felt  that  he  did  not 
know  it. 

The  swans  had  turned  their  heads,  and  were  looking  past 
him  into  some  distance  of  their  own.  One  of  them  uttered 
a  little  hiss,  wagged  its  tail,  turned  as  if  answering  to  a  rudder, 
and  swam  away.  The  other  followed.  Their  white  bodies, 
their  stately  necks,  passed  out  of  his  sight,  and  he  went 
toward  the  house. 

Annette  was  in  the  drawing-room,  dressed  for  dinner, 
and  he  thought  as  he  went  up -stairs :  '  Handsome  is  as  hand- 
some does.'  Handsome  !  Except  for  remarks  about  the 
curtains  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  storm,  there  was 
practically  no  conversation  during  a  meal  distinguished  by 
exactitude  of  quantity  and  perfection  of  quality.  Soames 
drank  nothing.  He  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room 
afterward,  and  found  her  smoking  a  cigarette  on  the  sofa 
between  the  two  French  windows.  She  was  leaning  back, 
almost  upright,  in  a  low  black  frock,  with  her  knees  crossed 
and  her  blue  eyes  half-closed;  grey-blue  smoke  issued  from 
her  red,  rather  full  lips,  a  fillet  bound  her  chestnut  hair, 
she  wore  the  thinnest  silk  stockings,  and  shoes  with  very 
high  heels  showing  off  her  instep.  A  fine  piece  in  any  room  ! 
Soames,  who  held  that  torn  letter  in  a  hand  thrust  deep  into 
the  side-pocket  of  his  dinner-jacket,  said: 

"  I'm  going  to  shut  the  window;  the  damp's  lifting  in." 


TO  LET  969 

He  did  so,  and  stood  looking  at  a  David  Cox  adorning 
the  cream -panelled  wall  close  hy. 

What  was  she  thinking  of  ?  He  had  never  understood  a 
woman  in  his  life — except  Fleur — and  Fleur  not  always  ! 
His  heart  beat  fast.  But  if  he  meant  to  do  it,  now  was  the 
moment.  Turning  from  the  David  Cox,  he  took  out  the 
torn  letter. 

"  I've  had  this." 

Her  eyes  widened,  stared  at  him,  and  hardened. 

Soames  handed  her  the  letter. 

"  It's  torn,  but  you  can  read  it."  And  he  turned  back 
to  the  David  Cox — a  sea-piece,  of  good  tone — but  without 
movement  enough.  '  I  wonder  what  that  chap's  doing  at 
this  moment  ?'  he  thought.  *  I'll  astonish  him  yet.'  Out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  Annette  holding  the  letter 
rigidly;  her  eyes  moved  from  side  to  side  under  her  darkened 
lashes  and  frowning  darkened  eyebrows.  She  dropped  the 
letter,  gave  a  little  shiver,  smiled,  and  said: 

"  Dirrty  !" 

"I  quite  agree,"  said  Soames;  "degrading.  Is  it 
true  ?" 

A  tooth  fastened  on  her  red  lower  lip.  "  And  what  if  it 
were  ?" 

She  was  brazen  ! 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?" 

"  No." 

"  WeU,  speak  out  1" 

"  What  is  the  good  of  talking  ?" 

Soames  said  icily:  "  So  you  admit  it  ?" 

"  I  admit  nothing.  You  are  a  fool  to  ask.  A  man  like 
you  should  not  ask.     It  is  dangerous." 

Soames  made  a  tour  of  the  room,  to  subdue  his  rising 
anger. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  halting  in  front  of  her, 


970  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*'  what  you  were  when  I  married  you  ?     Working  at  accounts 
in  a  restaurant." 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  was  not  half  your  age  ?" 

Soames  broke  off  the  hard  encounter  of  their  eyes,  and 
went  back  to  the  David  Cox. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  bandy  words.  I  require  you  to  give 
up  this — friendship.  I  think  of  the  matter  entirely  as  it 
affects  Fleur." 

"  Ah  !— Fleur  !" 

"Yes,"  said  Soames  stubbornly;  "Fleur.  She  is  your 
child  as  well  as  mine." 

"  It  is  kind  to  admit  that  !" 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  what  I  say  ?" 

"  I  refuse  to  tell  you." 
'Then  I  must  make  you." 

Annette  smiled. 

"  No,  Soames,"  she  said.  "  You  are  helpless.  Do  not 
say  things  that  you  will  regret." 

Anger  swelled  the  veins  on  his  forehead.  He  opened  his 
mouth  to  vent  that  emotion,  and — could  not.  Annette 
went  on: 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  such  letters,  I  promise  you. 
That  is  enough." 

Soames  writhed.  He  had  a  sense  of  being  treated  like 
a  child  by  this  woman  who  had  deserved  he  did  not  know 
what. 

"  When  two  people  have  married,  and  lived  like  us,  Soames, 
they  had  better  be  quiet  about  each  other.  There  are  things 
one  does  not  drag  up  into  the  light  for  people  to  laugh  at. 
You  will  be  quiet,  then;  not  for  my  sake — for  your  own. 
You  are  getting  old;  I  am  not,  yet.  You  have  made  me 
ver-ry  practical." 

Soames,  who  had  passed  through  all  the  sensations  of 
being  choked,  repeated  dully: 


TO  LET  971  . 

'*  I  require  you  to  give  up  this  friendship.'* 

"  And  if  I  do  not  ?" 

"  Then — then  I  will  cut  you  out  of  my  Will." 

Somehow  it  did  not  seem  to  meet  the  case.  Annette 
laughed. 

"  You  will  live  a  long  time,  Soames." 

"  You — you  are  a  bad  woman,"  said  Soames  suddenly. 

Annette  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  Living  with  you  has  killed  things 
in  me,  it  is  true ;  but  I  am  not  a  bad  woman.  I  am  sensible 
— that  is  all.  And  so  will  you  be  when  you  have  thought 
it  over." 

"  I  shall  see  this  man,"  said  Soames  sullenly,  "  and  warn 
him  off." 

"  Mon  cher,  you  are  funny.  You  do  not  want  me,  you 
have  as  much  of  me  as  you  want;  and  you  wish  the  rest  of 
me  to  be  dead.  I  admit  nothing,  but  I  am  not  going  to  be 
dead,  Soames,  at  my  age;  so  you  had  better  be  quiet,  I  tell 
you.  I  myself  will  make  no  scandal;  none.  Now,  I  am 
not  saying  any  more,  whatever  you  do." 

She  reached  out,  took  a  French  novel  off  a  little  table, 
and  opened  it.  Soames  watched  her,  silenced  by  the  tumult 
of  his  feelings.  The  thought  of  that  man  was  almost  making 
him  want  her,  and  this  was  a  revelation  of  their  relationship, 
startling  to  one  little  given  to  introspective  philosophy. 
Without  saying  another  word  he  went  out  and  up  to  the 
picture-gallery.  This  came  of  marrying  a  Frenchwoman  ! 
And  yet,  without  her  there  would  have  been  no  Fleur  ! 
She  had  served  her  purpose. 

'  She's  right,'  he  thought ;  '  I  can  do  nothing.  I  don't 
even  know  that  there's  anything  in  it.'  The  instinct  of 
self-preservation  warned  him  to  batten  down  his  hatches, 
to  smother  the  fire  with  want  of  air.  LTnless  one  believed 
there  was  something  in  a  thing,  there  wasn't. 


972  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

That  night  he  went  into  her  room.  She  received  him 
in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way,  as  if  there  had  been  no  scene 
between  them.  And  he  returned  to  his  own  room  with  a 
curious  sense  of  peace.  If  one  didn't  choose  to  see,  one 
needn't.  And  he  did  not  choose — in  future  he  did  not 
choose.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  hy  it — nothing  ! 
Opening  the  drawer  he  took  from  the  sachet  a  handkerchief, 
and  the  framed  photograph  of  Fleur.  When  he  had  looked 
at  it  a  little  he  slipped  it  down,  and  there  was  that  other  one 
— that  old  one  of  Irene.  An  owl  hooted  while  he  stood  in 
his  window  gazing  at  it.  The  owl  hooted,  the  red  climbing 
roses  seemed  to  deepen  in  colour,  there  came  a  scent  of  lime- 
blossom.  God  !  That  had  been  a  different  thing  ! 
Passion — Memory  !     Dust  ! 


CHAPTER  VII 

JUNE    TAKES    A    HAND 

One  who  was  a  sculptor,  a  Slav,  a  sometime  resident  in  New 
York,  an  egoist,  and  impecunious,  was  to  be  found  of  an 
evening  in  June  Forsyte's  studio  on  the  bank  of  the  Thames 
at  Chiswick.  On  the  evening  of  July  6,  Boris  Strumo- 
lowski — several  of  whose  works  were  on  show  there  because 
they  were  as  yet  too  advanced  to  be  on  show  anywhere  else — 
had  begun  well,  with  that  aloof  and  rather  Christ -like  silence 
which  admirably  suited  his  youthful,  round,  broad  cheek- 
boned  countenance  framed  in  bright  hair  banged  like  a 
girPs.  June  had  known  him  three  weeks,  and  he  still  seemed 
to  her  the  principal  embodiment  of  genius,  and  hope  of 
the  future;  a  sort  of  Star  of  the  East  which  had  strayed 
into  an  unappreciative  West.  Until  that  evening  he  had 
conversationally  confined  himself  to  recording  his  im- 
pressions of  the  United  States,  whose  dust  he  had  just 
shaken  from  off  his  feet — a  country,  in  his  opinion,  so 
barbarous  in  every  way  that  he  had  sold  practically 
nothing  there,  and  become  an  object  of  suspicion  to  the 
police;  a  country,  as  he  said,  without  a  race  of  its  own, 
without  liberty,  equality,  or  fraternity,  without  principles, 
traditions,  taste,  without — in  a  word — a  soul.  He  had 
left  it  for  his  own  good,  and  come  to  the  only  other  country 
where  he  could  live  well.  June  had  dwelt  unhappily  on 
him  in  her  lonely  moments,  standing  before  his  creations — 
frightening,  but  powerful  and  symbolic  once  they  had  been 
explained  !  That  he,  haloed  by  bright  hair  like  an  early 
Italian  painting,  and  absorbed  in  his  genius  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  else — the  only  sign  of  course  by  which  real  genius 

973 


974  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

could  be  told — should  still  be  a  "  lame  duck  "  agitated  her 
warm  heart  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  Paul  Post.  And  she 
had  begun  to  take  steps  to  clear  her  Gallery,  in  order  to 
fill  it  with  Strumolowski  masterpieces.  She  had  at  once 
encountered  trouble.  Paul  Post  had  kicked;  Vospovitch 
had  stung.  With  all  the  emphasis  of  a  genius  which  she 
did  not  as  yet  deny  them,  they  had  demanded  another  six 
weeks  at  least  of  her  Gallery.  The  American  stream,  still 
flowing  in,  would  soon  be  flowing  out.  The  American 
stream  was  their  right,  their  only  hope,  their  salvation — 
since  nobody  in  this  "  beastly  "  country  cared  for  Art.  June 
had  yielded  to  the  demonstration.  After  all  Boris  would 
not  mind  their  having  the  full  benefit  of  an  American  stream, 
which  he  himself  so  violently  despised. 

This  evening  she  had  put  that  to  Boris  with  nobody  else 
present,  except  Hannah  Hobdey,  the  mediaeval  black-and- 
whitist,  and  Jimmy  Portugal,  editor  of  the  Neo- Artist. 
She  had  put  it  to  him  with  that  sudden  confidence  which 
continual  contact  with  the  neo -artistic  world  had  never 
been  able  to  dry  up  in  her  warm  and  generous  nature. 
He  had  not  broken  his  Christ -like  silence,  however,  for  more 
than  two  minutes  before  she  began  to  move  her  blue  eyes 
from  side  to  side,  as  a  cat  moves  its  tail.  This — he  said — 
was  characteristic  of  England,  the  most  selfish  country  in 
the  world;  the  country  which  sucked  the  blood  of  other 
countries;  destroyed  the  brains  and  hearts  of  Irishmen, 
Hindus,  Egyptians,  Boers,  and  Burmese,  all  the  finest  races 
in  the  world;  bullying,  hypocritical  England  !  This  was 
what  he  had  expected,  coming  to  such  a  country,  where 
the  climate  was  all  fog,  and  the  people  all  tradesmen  per- 
fectly blind  to  Art,  and  sunk  in  profiteering  and  the  grossest 
materialism.  Conscious  that  Hannah  Hobdey  was  mur- 
muring, *'  Hear,  hear  !"  and  Jimmy  Portugal  sniggering, 
June  grew  crimson,  and  suddenly  rapped  out : 


TO  LET  975 

"  Then  why  did  you  ever  come  ?     We  didn't  ask  you." 

The  remark  was  so  singularly  at  variance  with  all  that  she 
had  led  him  to  expect  from  her,  that  Strumolowski  stretched 
out  his  hand  and  took  a  cigarette. 

"  England  never  wants  an  idealist,"  he  said. 

But  in  June  something  primitively  English  was  thoroughly 
upset ;  old  Jolyon's  sense  of  justice  had  risen,  as  it  were,  from 
bed.  "  You  come  and  sponge  on  us,"  she  said,  "  and  then 
abuse  us.     If  you  think  that's  playing  the  game,  I  don't." 

She  now  discovered  that  which  others  had  discovered 
before  her — the  thickness  of  hide  beneath  which  the  sen- 
sibility of  genius  is  sometimes  veiled.  Strumolowski's 
young  and  ingenuous  face  became  the  incarnation  of  a 
sneer. 

"  Sponge,  one  does  not  sponge,  one  takes  what  is  owing — 
a  tenth  part  of  what  is  owing.  You  will  repent  to  say  that, 
Miss  Forsyte." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  June,  "  I  shan't." 

"  Ah  !  We  know  very  well,  we  artists — you  take  us  to 
get  what  you  can  out  of  us.  I  want  nothing  from  you  " — 
and  he  blew  out  a  cloud  of  June's  smoke. 

Decision  rose  in  an  icy  puff  from  the  turmoil  of  insulted 
shame  within  her.  "  Very  well,  then,  you  can  take  your 
things  away." 

And,  almost  in  the  same  moment,  she  thought :  '  Poor 
boy  !  He's  only  got  a  garret,  and  probably  not  a  taxi  fare. 
In  front  of  these  people,  too;  it's  positively  disgusting  !' 

Young  Strumolowski  shook  his  head  violently;  his  hair, 
thick,  smooth,  close  as  a  golden  plate,  did  not  fall  off. 

"  I  can  live  on  nothing,"  he  said  shrilly;  "'  I  have  often 
had  to  for  the  sake  of  my  Art.  It  is  you  bourgeois  who  force 
us  to  spend  money." 

The  words  hit  June  like  a  pebble,  in  the  ribs.  After  all 
she  had  done  for  Art,  all  her  identification  with  its  troubles 


976  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  lame  ducks.  She  was  struggling  for  adequate  words 
when  the  door  was  opened,  and  her  Austrian  murmured : 

"  A  young  lady,  gnadiges  Fr'dulein.'*^ 

"  Where  ?" 

"  In  the  little  meal-room." 

With  a  glance  at  Boris  Strumolowski,  at  Hannah  Hobdey, 
at  Jimmy  Portugal,  June  said  nothing,  and  went  out,  devoid 
of  equanimity.  Entering  the  "  little  meal-room,"  she  per- 
ceived the  young  lady  to  be  Fleur — looking  very  pretty,  if 
pale.  At  this  disenchanted  moment  a  little  lame  duck  of 
her  own  breed  was  welcome  to  June,  so  homoeopathic  by 
instinct. 

The  girl  must  have  come,  of  course,  because  of  Jon;  or, 
if  not,  at  least  to  get  something  out  of  her.  And  June  felt 
just  then  that  to  assist  somebody  was  the  only  bearable 
thing. 

"  So  you've  remembered  to  come,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  What  a  jolly  little  duck  of  a  house  !  But  please 
don't  let  me  bother  you,  if  you've  got  people." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  June.  "  I  want  to  let  them  stew  in 
their  own  juice  for  a  bit.     Have  you  come  about  Jon  ?" 

"  You  said  you  thought  we  ought  to  be  told.  Well,  I've 
found  out." 

"  Oh  1"  said  June  blankly.     "  Not  nice,  is  it  ?" 

They  were  standing  one  on  each  side  of  the  little  bare 
table  at  which  June  took  her  meals.  A  vase  on  it  was  full 
of  Iceland  poppies;  the  girl  raised  her  hand  and  touched 
them  with  a  gloved  finger.  To  her  new-fangled  dress, 
frilly  about  the  hips  and  tight  below  the  knees,  June  took 
a  sudden  liking — a  charming  colour,  flax-blue. 

'  She  makes  a  picture,'  thought  June.  Her  little  room, 
with  its  whitewashed  walls,  its  floor  and  hearth  of  old  pink 
brick,  its  black  paint,  and  latticed  window  athwart  which  the 
last  of  the  sunlight  was  shining,  had  never  looked  so  charm- 


TO  LET  977 

ing,  set  off  by  this  young  figure,  with  the  creamy,  slightly 
frowning  face.  She  remembered  with  sudden  vividness 
how  nice  she  herself  had  looked  in  those  old  days  when  hgr 
heart  was  set  on  Philip  Bosinney,  that  dead  lover,  who  had 
broken  from  her  to  destroy  for  ever  Irene's  allegiance  to 
this  girl's  father.     Did  Fleur  know  of  that,  too  ? 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

It  was  some  seconds  before  Fleur  answered. 

"  I  don't  want  Jon  to  suffer.  I  must  see  him  once  more 
to  put  an  end  to  it." 

"  You're  going  to  put  an  end  to  it  !" 

"  What  else  is  there  to  do  ?" 

The  girl  seemed  to  June,  suddenly,  intolerably  spiritless. 

"  I  suppose  you're  right,"  she  muttered.  "  I  know  my 
father  thinks  so;  but — I  should  never  have  done  it  myself. 
I  can't  take  things  lying  down." 

How  poised  and  watchful  that  girl  looked;  how  unemo- 
tional her  voice  sounded  ! 

"  People  will  assume  that  I'm  in  love." 

"  Well,  aren't  you  ?" 

Fleur  shrugged  her  shoulders.  '  I  might  have  known  it,' 
thought  June;  'she's  Soames'  daughter— fish  !  And  yet 
—he!' 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  then  ?"  she  said  with  a  sort 
of  disgust. 

"  Could  I  see  Jon  here  to-morrow  on  his  way  down  to 
Holly's  ?  He'd  come  if  you  sent  him  a  line  to-night.  And 
perhaps  afterward  you'd  let  them  know  quietly  at  Robin  Hill 
that  it's  all  over,  and  that  they  needn't  tell  Jon  about  his 
mother." 

"  All  right  !"  said  June  abruptly.  "  I'll  write  now,  and 
you  can  post  it.  Half -past  two  to-morrow.  I  shan't  be 
in,  myself." 

She  sat  down  at  the  tiny  bureau  which  filled  one  corner. 

32 


978  THE  ;FORSYTE  SAGA 

When  she  looked  round  with  the  finished  note  Fleur  was 
still  touching  the  poppies  with  her  gloved  finger. 

June  licked  a  stamp.  "  Well,  here  it  is.  If  you're  not 
in  love,  of  course,  there's  no  more  to  be  said.     Jon's  lucky." 

Fleur  took  the  note.     "  Thanks  awfully  !" 

'  Cold-blooded  little  baggage  !'  thought  June.  Jon, 
son  of  her  father,  to  love,  and  not  to  be  loved  by  the 
daughter  of — Soames  !     It  was  humiliating  ! 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

Fleur  nodded;  her  frills  shook  and  trembled  as  she  swayed 
toward  the  door. 

"  Good-bye  !" 

"  Good-bye  !  .  .  .  Little  piece  of  fashion  !"  muttered 
June,  closing  the  door.  "  That  family  !"  And  she  marched 
back  toward  her  studio.  Boris  Strumolowski  had  regained 
his  Christ -like  silence,  and  Jimmy  Portugal  was  damning 
everybody,  except  the  group  in  whose  behalf  he  ran  the 
Neo- Artist.  Among  the  condemned  were  Eric  Cobbley, 
and  several  other  "  lame -duck  "  genii  who  at  one  time  or 
another  had  held  first  place  in  the  repertoire  of  June's  aid 
and  adoration.  She  experienced  a  sense  of  futility  and 
disgust,  and  went  to  the  window  to  let  the  river -wind  blow 
those  squeaky  words  away. 

But  when  at  length  Jimmy  Portugal  had  finished,  and 
gone  with  Hannah  Hobdey,  she  sat  down  and  mothered 
young  Strumolowski  for  half  an  hour,  promising  him  a 
month,  at  least,  of  the  American  stream;  so  that  he  went 
away  with  his  halo  in  perfect  order.  *  In  spite  of  all,'  June 
thought,  *  Boris  is  wonderful.' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    BIT    BETWEEN    THE    TEETH 

To  know  that  your  hand  is  against  every  one's  is — for  some 
natures — to  experience  a  sense  of  moral  release.  Fleur  felt 
no  remorse  when  she  left  June's  house.  Reading  condemna- 
tory resentment  in  her  little  kinswoman's  blue  eyes — she 
was  glad  that  she  had  fooled  her,  despising  June  because 
that  elderly  idealist  had  not  seen  what  she  was  after. 

End  it,  forsooth  !  She  would  soon  show  them  all  that 
she  was  only  just  beginning.  And  she  smiled  to  herself  on 
the  top  of  the  bus  which  carried  her  back  to  Mayfair.  But 
the  smile  died,  squeezed  out  by  spasms  of  anticipation  and 
anxiety.  Would  she  be  able  to  manage  Jon  ?  She  had 
taken  the  bit  between  her  teeth,  but  could  she  make  him 
take  it  too  ?  She  knew  the  truth  and  the  real  danger  of 
delay — he  knew  neither;  therein  lay  all  the  difference  in 
the  world. 

'  Suppose  I  tell  him,'  she  thought;  *  wouldn't  it  really  be 
safer  ?'  This  hideous  luck  had  no  right  to  spoil  their  love; 
he  must  see  that  !  They  could  not  let  it  !  People  always 
accepted  an  accomplished  fact  in  time  !  From  that  piece 
of  philosophy — profound  enough  at  her  age — she  passed  to 
another  consideration  less  philosophic.  If  she  persuaded 
Jon  to  a  quick  and  secret  marriage,  and  he  found  out  after- 
ward that  she  had  known  the  truth.  What  then  ?  Jon 
hated  subterfuge.  Again,  then,  would  it  not  be  better 
to  tell  him  ?  But  the  memory  of  his  mother's  face  kept 
intruding  on  that  impulse.  Fleur  was  afraid.  His  mother 
had  power  over  him;  more  power  perhaps  than  she  herself. 
Who  could  tell?     It  was  too  great  a  risk.     Deep-sunk  in 

979 


98o  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

these  instinctive  calculations  she  was  carried  on  past  Green 
Street  as  far  as  the  Ritz  Hotel.  She  got  down  there,  and 
walked  back  on  the  Green  Park  side.  The  storm  had  washed 
every  tree;  they  still  dripped.  Heavy  drops  fell  on  to  her 
frills,  and  to  avoid  them  she  crossed  over  under  the  eyes  of 
the  Iseeum  Club.  Chancing  to  look  up  she  saw  Monsieur 
Profond  with  a  tall  stout  man  in  the  bay  window.  Turning 
into  Green  Street  she  heard  her  name  called,  and  saw  "  that 
prowler  "  coming  up.  He  took  off  his  hat — a  glossy  "  bow- 
ler "  such  as  she  particularly  detested. 

"  Good    evenin'  !    Miss    Forsyde.     Isn't    there    a    small 
thing  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  pass  by  on  the  other  side." 

"  I  say  !     Why  do  you  dislike  me  ?" 

"  Do  I  ?" 

"  It  looks  like  it." 

"  Well,  then,  because  you  make  me  feel  life  isn't  worth 
living." 

Alonsieur  Profond  smiled. 

"  Look  here.   Miss   Forsyde,    don't   worry.     It'll   be   all 
right.     Nothing  lasts." 

"Things   do   last,"    cried   Fleur;    "with   me   anyhow — 
especially  likes  and  dislikes." 

"  Well,  that  makes  me  a  bit  un'appy." 

"  I  should  have  thought  nothing  could  ever  make  you 
happy  or  unhappy." 

"  I  don't  like  to  annoy  other  people.     I'm  goin'  on  my 
yacht." 

Fleur  looked  at  him,  startled. 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Small  voyage  to  the  South  Seas  or  somewhere,"  said 
Monsieur  Profond. 

Fleur   suffered   relief  and  a   sense   of  insult.     Clearly  he 
meant  to  convey  that  he  was  breaking  with  her  mother. 


TO  LET  981 

How  dared  he  have  anything  to  break,  and  yet  how  dared 
he  break  it  ? 

"  Good -night,  Miss  Forsyde  !  Remember  me  to  Mrs. 
Dartie.  I'm  not  so  bad  really.  Good-night  !"  Fleur 
left  him  standing  there  with  his  hat  raised.  Stealing  a  look 
round,  she  saw  him  stroll — immaculate  and  heavy — back 
toward  his  Club. 

'  He    can't    even    love    with    conviction,'    she    thought 
*WhatwiU  Mother  do?' 

Her  dreams  that  night  were  endless  and  uneasy;  she  rose 
heavy  and  unrested,  and  went  at  once  to  the  study  of 
Whitaker's  Almanac.  A  Forsyte  is  instinctively  aware  that 
facts  are  the  real  crux  of  any  situation.  She  might  conquer 
Jon's  prejudice,  but  without  exact  machinery  to  complete 
their  desperate  resolve,  nothing  would  happen.  From  the 
invaluable  tome  she  learned  that  they  must  each  be  twenty- 
one;  or  some  one's  consent  vrould  be  necessary,  which  of 
course  w^as  unobtainable;  then  she  became  lost  in  directions 
concerning  licences,  certificates,  notices,  districts,  coming 
finally  to  the  word  "  perjury."  But  that  was  nonsense  ! 
Who  would  really  mind  their  giving  wrong  ages  in  order  to 
be  married  for  love  !  She  ate  hardly  any  breakfast,  and  went 
back  to  Whitaker.  The  more  she  studied  the  less  sure  she 
became;  till,  idly  turning  the  pages,  she  came  to  Scotland. 
People  could  be  married  there  without  any  of  this  nonsense. 
She  had  only  to  go  and  stay  there  twenty -one  days,  then 
Jon  could  come,  and  in  front  of  two  people  they  could 
declare  themselves  married.  And  what  w^as  more — they 
would  be  !  It  was  far  the  best  way;  and  at  once  she  ran 
over  her  schoolfellows.  There  was  Mar\^  Lambe  who  lived 
in  Edinburgh  and  was  "  quite  a  sport  !"  She  had  a  brother 
too.  She  could  stay  with  Mary  Lambe,  who  with  her 
brother  would  serve  for  witnesses.  She  well  knew  that  some 
girls  would  think  all  this  unnecessary,  and  that  all  she  and 


982  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Jon  need  do  was  to  go  away  together  for  a  week-end  and  then 
say  to  their  people :  "  We  are  married  by  Nature,  we  must 
now  be  married  by  Law."  But  Fleur  was  Forsyte  enough 
to  feel  such  a  proceeding  dubious,  and  to  dread  her  father's 
face  when  he  heard  of  it.  Besides,  she  did  not  believe  that 
Jon  would  do  it ;  he  had  an  opinion  of  her  such  as  she  could 
not  bear  to  diminish.  No  !  Mary  Lambe  was  preferable, 
and  it  was  just  the  time  of  year  to  go  to  Scotland.  More 
at  ease  now,  she  packed,  avoided  her  aunt,  and  took  a  bus 
to  Chiswick.  She  w^as  too  early,  and  went  on  to  Kew 
Gardens.  She  found  no  peace  among  its  flower-beds, 
labelled  trees,  and  broad  green  spaces,  and  having  lunched 
off  anchovy-paste  sandwiches  and  coffee,  returned  to 
Chiswick  and  rang  June's  bell.  The  Austrian  admitted  her 
to  the  "  little  meal-room."  Now  that  she  knew  what  she 
and  Jon  were  up  against,  her  longing  for  him  had  increased 
tenfold,  as  if  he  were  a  toy  with  sharp  edges  or  dangerous 
paint  such  as  they  had  tried  to  take  from  her  as  a  child. 
If  she  could  not  have  her  way,  and  get  Jon  for  good  and  all, 
she  felt  like  dying  of  privation.  By  hook  or  crook  she  must 
and  would  get  him  !  A  round  dim  mirror  of  very  old  glass 
hung  over  the  pink  brick  hearth.  She  stood  looking  at 
herself  reflected  in  it,  pale,  and  rather  dark  under  the  eyes; 
little  shudders  kept  passing  through  her  nerves.  Then  she 
heard  the  bell  ring,  and,  steaHng  to  the  window,  saw  him 
standing  on  the  doorstep  smoothing  his  hair  and  lips,  as  if 
he  too  were  trying  to  subdue  the  fluttering  of  his  nerves. 

She  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  two  rush-seated  chairs, 
with  her  back  to  the  door,  when  he  came  in,  and  she  said 
at  once: 

"  Sit  down,  Jon,  I  want  to  talk  seriously." 

Jon  sat  on  the  table  by  her  side,  and  without  looking  at 
him  she  went  on: 

"  If  you  don't  want  to  lose  me,  we  must  get  married." 


TO  LET  983 

Jon  gasped. 

*'  Why  ?     Is  there  anything  new  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  felt  it  at  Robin  Hill,  and  among  my  people." 

"  But — "  stammered  Jon,  "  at  Robin  Hill — it  was  all 
smooth — and  they've  said  nothing  to  me." 

"  But  they  mean  to  stop  us.  Your  mother's  face  was 
enough.     And  my  father's." 

''  Have  you  seen  him  since  ?" 

Fleur  nodded.     What  mattered  a  few  supplementary  lies  ? 

"  But,"  said  Jon  eagerly,  "  I  can't  see  how  they  can  feel 
like  that  after  all  these  years." 

Fleur  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  love  me  enough." 

"  Not  love  you  enough  !     Why — I " 

'*  Then  make  sure  of  me." 

"  Without  telhng  them  ?" 

"  Not  till  after." 

Jon  was  silent.  How  much  older  he  looked  than  on  that 
day,  barely  two  months  ago,  when  she  first  saw  him — quite 
two  years  older  ! 

"  It  would  hurt  Mother  awfully,"  he  said. 

Fleur  drew  her  hand  away. 

"  You've  got  to  choose." 

Jon  slid  off  the  table  on  to  his  knees. 

"  But  why  not  tell  them  ?  They  can't  really  stop  us, 
Fleur  !" 

"  They  can  !     I  tell  you,  they  can." 

"  How  ?" 

"  We're  utterly  dependent — by  putting  money  pressure, 
and  all  sorts  of  other  pressure.     I'm  not  patient,  Jon." 

"  But  it's  deceiving  them." 

Fleur  got  up. 

"  You  can't  really  love  me,  or  you  wouldn't  hesitate. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much 1'  " 


984  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Lifting  his  hands  to  her  waist,  Jon  forced  her  to  sit  down 
again.     She  hurried  on : 

"  I've  planned  it  all  out.  We've  only  to  go  to  Scotland. 
When  we're  married  they'll  soon  come  round.  People 
always  come  round  to  facts.     Don't  you  see^  Jon  ?" 

"  But  to  hurt  them  so  awfully  !" 

So  he  would  rather  hurt  her  than  those  people  of  his  ! 
"  All  right,  then;  let  me  go  !" 

Jon  got  up  and  put  his  back  against  the  door. 

"  I  expect  you're  right,"  he  said  slowly;  "  but  I  want  to 
think  it  over." 

She  could  see  that  he  was  seething  with  feelings  he  wanted 
to  express;  but  she  did  not  mean  to  help  him.  She  hated 
herself  at  this  moment,  and  almost  hated  him.  Why  had 
she  to  do  all  the  work  to  secure  their  love  ?  It  wasn't  fair. 
And  then  she  saw  his  eyes,  adoring  and  distressed. 

"  Don't  look  like  that  !  I  only  don't  want  to  lose  you, 
Jon." 

"  You  can't  lose  me  so  long  as  you  want  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can." 

Jon  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"  Fleur,  do  you  know  anything  you  haven't  told  me  ?" 

It  was  the  point-blank  question  she  had  dreaded.  She 
looked  straight  at  him,  and  answered :  "  No."  She  had  burnt 
her  boats ;  but  what  did  it  matter,  if  she  got  him  ?  He  would 
forgive  her.  And  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck,  she 
kissed  him  on  the  lips.  She  was  winning  !  She  felt  it  in 
the  beating  of  his  heart  against  her,  in  the  closing  of  his  eyes. 
*'  I  want  to  make  sure  !  I  want  to  make  sure  !"  she  whispered. 
"  Promise  !" 

Jon  did  not  answer.  His  face  had  the  stillness  of  extreme 
trouble.     At  last  he  said: 

"  It's  like  hitting  them.  I  must  think  a  little,  Fleur. 
I  really  must." 

Fleur  shpped  out  of  his  arms. 


TO  LET  985 

*'  Oh  !  Very  well !"  And  suddenly  she  burst  into  tears 
of  disappointment,  shame,  and  overstrain.  Followed  five 
minutes  of  acute  misery.  Jon's  remorse  and  tenderness 
knew  no  bounds;  but  he  did  not  promise.  Despite  her  will 
to  cry,  "  Very  well,  then,  if  you  don't  love  me  enough — 
good-bye  !"  she  dared  not.  From  birth  accustomed  to  her 
own  way,  this  check  from  one  so  young,  so  tender,  so  devoted, 
baffled  and  surprised  her.  She  wanted  to  push  him  away 
from  her,  to  try  what  anger  and  coldness  would  do,  and  again 
she  dared  not.  The  knowledge  that  she  was  scheming  to 
rush  him  blindfold  into  the  irrevocable  weakened  everything 
— weakened  the  sincerity  of  pique,  and  the  sincerity  of 
passion;  even  her  kisses  had  not  the  lure  she  wished  for  them. 
That  stormy  little  meeting  ended  inconclusively. 

"  Will  you  some  tea,  gnddiges  Fr'dulein  f" 

Pushing  Jon  from  her,  she  cried  out : 

"  No — no,  thank  you  1     I'm  just  going." 

And  before  he  could  prevent  her  she  was  gone. 

She  went  stealthily,  mopping  her  flushed,  stained  cheeks, 
frightened,  angry,  very  miserable.  She  had  stirred  Jon  up 
so  fearfully,  yet  nothing  definite  was  promised  or  arranged  ! 
But  the  more  uncertain  and  hazardous  the  future,  the  more 
"  the  will  to  have  "  worked  its  tentacles  into  the  flesh  of  her 
heart — like  some  burrowing  tick  ! 

No  one  was  at  Green  Street.  Winifred  had  gone  with 
Imogen  to  see  a  play  which  some  said  was  allegorical,  and 
others  "  very  exciting,  don't  you  know."  It  was  because 
of  what  others  said  that  Winifred  and  Imogen  had  gone. 
Fleur  went  on  to  Paddington.  Through  the  carriage  the  air 
from  the  brick-kilns  of  West  Drayton  and  the  late  hay-fields 
fanned  her  still  flushed  cheeks.  Flowers  had  seemed  to  be 
had  for  the  picking;  now  they  were  all  thorned  and  prickled. 
But  the  golden  flower  within  the  crown  of  spikes  seemed 
to  her  tenacious  spirit  all  the  fairer  and  more  desirable. 

32* 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    FAT    IN    THE    FIRE 

On  reaching  home  Fleur  found  an  atmosphere  so  peculiar 
that  it  penetrated  even  the  perplexed  aura  of  her  own  private 
life.  Her  mother  was  inaccessibly  entrenched  in  a  brown 
study;  her  father  contemplating  fate  in  the  vinery.  Neither 
of  them  had  a  word  to  throw  to  a  dog.  *  Is  it  because  of 
me  ?'  thought  Fleur.  *  Or  because  of  Profond  V  To  her 
mother  she  said : 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Father  ?" 

Her  mother  answered  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

To  her  father : 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Mother  ?" 

Her  father  answered: 

"  Matter  ?  What  should  be  the  matter  ?"  and  gave  her 
a  sharp  look. 

"  By  the  way,"  murmured  Fleur,  "  Monsieur  Profond  is 
going  a  *  small '  voyage  on  his  yacht,  to  the  South  Seas." 

Soames  examined  a  branch  on  which  no  grapes  were 
growing. 

"  This  vine's  a  failure,"  he  said.  "  I've  had  young  Mont 
here.     He  asked  me  something  about  you." 

"  Oh  !     How  do  you  like  him,  Father  ?" 

"  He — he's  a  product — like  all  these  young  people." 

"  What  were  you  at  his  age,  dear  ?" 

Soames  smiled  grimly. 

"  We  went  to  work,  and  didn't  play  about — flying  and 
motoring,  and  making  love." 

"  Didn't  you  ever  make  love  ?" 

She  avoided  looking  at  him  while  she  said  that,  but  she 

986 


TO  LET  987 

saw  him  well  enough.  His  pale  face  had  reddened,  his  eye- 
brows, where  darkness  was  still  mingled  with  the  grey,  had 
come  close  together. 

''  I  had  no  time  or  inclination  to  philander." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  a  grand  passion." 

Soames  looked  at  her  intently. 

*'  Yes — if  you  want  to  know — and  much  good  it  did  me." 
He  moved  away,  along  by  the  hot -water  pipes.  Fleur 
tiptoed  silently  after  him. 

"  Tell  me  about  it.  Father  !" 

Soames  became  very  still. 

"  What  should  you  want  to  know  about  such  things,  at 
your  age  ?" 

"  Is  she  alive  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"  And  married  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  Jon  Forsyte's  mother,  isn't  it  ?  And  she  was  your 
wife  first." 

It  was  said  in  a  flash  of  intuition.  Surely  his  opposition 
came  from  his  anxiety  that  she  should  not  know  of  that  old 
wound  to  his  pride.  But  she  was  startled.  To  see  some 
one  so  old  and  calm  wince  as  if  struck,  to  hear  so  sharp  a 
note  of  pain  in  his  voice  ! 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?     If  your  aunt !     I  can't  bear 

the  aifair  talked  of." 

"  But,  darling,"  said  Fleur,  softly,  "  it's  so  long  ago." 

"  Long  ago  or  not,  I " 

Fleur  stood  stroking  his  arm. 

"  I've  tried  to  forget,"  he  said  suddenly;  "  I  don't  wish 
to  be  reminded."  And  then,  as  if  venting  some  long  and 
secret  irritation,  he  added:  "In  these  days  people  don't 
understand.  Grand  passion,  indeed  !  No  one  knows  what 
it  is." 


988  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I  do,"  said  Fleur,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Soames,  who  had  turned  his  back  on  her,  spun  round. 

"  What  are  you  talking  of — a  child  like  you  !" 

"  Perhaps  I've  inherited  it,  Father." 

"  What  ?" 

"  For  her  son,  you  see." 

He  was  pale  as  a  sheet,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  as  bad. 
They  stood  staring  at  each  other  in  the  steamy  heat,  redo- 
lent of  the  mushy  scent  of  earth,  of  potted  geranium,  and  of 
vines  coming  along  fast. 

"  This  is  crazy,"  said  Soames  at  last,  between  dry  lips. 

Scarcely  moving  her  own,  she  murmured : 

"  Don't  be  angry.  Father.     I  can't  help  it." 

But  she  could  see  he  wasn't  angry;  only  scared,  deeply 
scared. 

"  I  thought  that  foolishness,"  he  stammered,  "  was  ail 
forgotten." 

"  Oh,  no  !     It's  ten  times  what  it  was." 

Soames  kicked  at  the  hot -water  pipe.  The  hapless  move- 
ment touched  her,  who  had  no  fear  of  her  father — none. 

"  Dearest  !"  she  said.    "  What  must  be,  must,  you  know." 

"  Must  !"  repeated  Soames.  "  You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  of.     Has  that  boy  been  told  ?" 

The  blood  rushed  into  her  cheeks. 

"  Not  yet." 

He  had  turned  from  her  again,  and,  with  one  shoulder  a 
little  raised,  stood  staring  fiiedly  at  a  joint  in  the  pipes. 

"  It's  most  distasteful  to  me,"  he  said  suddenly;  "  nothing 
could  be  more  so.    Son  of  that  fellow  !   It's — it's — perverse  !" 

She  had  noted,  almost  unconsciously,  that  he  did  not  say 
"  son  of  that  woman,"  and  again  her  intuition  began  working. 

Did  the  ghost  of  that  grand  passion  linger  in  some  corner 
of  his  heart  ? 

She  slipped  her  hand  under  his  arm. 


TO  LET  989 

"  Jon's  father  is  quite  ill  and  old;  I  saw  him." 

"  You ?" 

"  Yes,  I  went  there  with  Jon;  I  saw  them  both." 

"  Well,  and  what  did  they  say  to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing.     They  were  very  polite." 

"  They  would  be."  He  resumed  his  contemplation  of 
the  pipe -joint,  and  then  said  suddenly: 

"  I  must  think  this  over — I'll  speak  to  you  again  to-night." 

She  knew  this  was  final  for  the  moment,  and  stole  away, 
leaving  him  still  looking  at  the  pipe -joint.  She  wandered  into 
the  fruit -garden,  among  the  raspberry  and  currant  bushes, 
without  impetus  to  pick  and  eat.  Two  months  ago — she 
was  light-hearted  !  Even  two  days  ago — light-hearted, 
before  Prosper  Profond  told  her.  Now  she  felt  tangled  in 
a  web — of  passions,  vested  rights,  oppressions  and  revolts, 
the  ties  of  love  and  hate.  At  this  dark  moment  of  dis- 
couragement there  seemed,  even  to  her  hold -fast  nature, 
no  way  out.  How  deal  with  it — how  sway  and  bend  things 
to  her  will,  and  get  her  heart's  desire  ?  And,  suddenly, 
round  the  corner  of  the  high  box  hedge,  she  came  plump 
on  her  mother,  walking  swiftly,  with  an  open  letter  in  her 
hand.  Her  bosom  was  heaving,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  cheeks 
flushed.  Instantly  Fleur  thought :  '  The  yacht  !  Poor 
Mother  !' 

Annette  gave  her  a  wide  startled  look,  and  said : 

"  J^ai  la  migraine.''^ 

"  I'm  av^^ully  sorry.  Mother." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  you  and  your  father — sorry  !" 

"  But,  Mother — I  am.     I  know  what  it  feels  like." 

Annette's  startled  eyes  grew  wide,  till  the  whites  showed 
above  them.     "  Poor  innocent  !"  she  said. 

Her  mother — so  self-possessed,  and  commonsensical — to 
look  and  speak  like  this  I  It  w^as  all  frightening  !  Her 
father,  her   mother,  herself  !     And  only  two  months   back 


990  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

they  had  seemed  to  have  everything  they  wanted  in  this 
world. 

Annette  crumpled  the  letter  in  her  hand.  Fleur  knew 
that  she  must  ignore  the  sight. 

"  Can't  I  do  anything  for  your  head,  Mother  ?" 

Annette  shook  that  head  and  walked  on,  swaying  her  hips. 

*  It's  cruel,'  thought  Fleur,  *  and  I  was  glad  !  That 
man  !  What  do  men  come  prowling  for,  disturbing  every- 
thing !  I  suppose  he's  tired  of  her.  What  business  has 
he  to  be  tired  of  my  mother  ?  What  business  !'  And  at 
that  thought,  so  natural  and  so  peculiar,  she  uttered  a  little 
choked  laugh. 

She  ought,  of  course,  to  be  delighted,  but  what  was  there 
to  be  delighted  at  ?  Her  father  didn't  really  care  !  Her 
mother  did,  perhaps  ?  She  entered  the  orchard,  and  sat 
down  under  a  cherry-tree.  A  breeze  sighed  in  the  higher 
boughs;  the  sky  seen  through  their  green  was  very  blue  and 
very  white  in  cloud — those  heavy  white  clouds  almost 
always  present  in  river  landscape.  Bees,  sheltering  out  of 
the  wind,  hummed  softly,  and  over  the  lush  grass  fell  the 
thick  shade  from  those  fruit-trees  planted  by  her  father 
five -and -twenty  years  ago.  Birds  were  almost  silent,  the 
cuckoos  had  ceased  to  sing,  but  wood -pigeons  were  cooing. 
The  breath  and  drone  and  cooing  of  high  summer  were  not 
for  long  a  sedative  to  her  excited  nerves.  Crouched  over 
her  knees  she  began  to  scheme.  Her  father  must  be  made 
to  back  her  up.  Why  should  he  mind  so  long  as  she  was 
happy  f  She  had  not  lived  for  nearly  nineteen  years  with- 
out knowing  that  her  future  was  all  he  really  cared  about. 
She  had,  then,  only  to  convince  him  that  her  future  could 
not  be  happy  without  Jon.  He  thought  it  a  mad  fancy. 
How  foolish  the  old  were,  thinking  they  could  tell  what  the 
young  felt  !  Had  not  he  confessed  that  he — when  young — 
had  loved  with  a  grand  passion  ?     He  ought  to  understand  ! 


TO  LET  991 

*  He  piles  up  his  money  for  me,'  she  thought ;  *  but  what's 
the  use,  if  I'm  not  going  to  be  happy  ?'  Money,  and  all  it 
bought,  did  not  bring  happiness.  Love  only  brought  that. 
The  ox-eyed  daisies  in  this  orchard,  which  gave  it  such  a 
moony  look  sometimes,  grew  wild  and  happy,  and  had  their 
hour.     '  They  oughtn't  to  have  called  me  Fleur,'  she  mused, 

*  if  they  didn't  mean  me  to  have  my  hour,  and  be  happy 
while  it  lasts.'  Nothing  real  stood  in  the  way,  like  poverty, 
or  disease — sentiment  only,  a  ghost  from  the  unhappy  past  ! 
Jon  was  right.  They  wouldn't  let  you  live,  these  old  people  ! 
They  made  mistakes,  committed  crimes,  and  wanted  their 
children  to  go  on  paying  !  The  breeze  died  away;  midges 
began  to  bite.  She  got  up,  plucked  a  piece  of  honeysuckle, 
and  went  in. 

It  was  hot  that  night.  Both  she  and  her  mother  had  put 
on  thin,  pale  low  frocks.  The  dinner  flowers  were  pale. 
Fleur  was  struck  with  the  pale  look  of  everything;  her 
father's  face,  her  mother's  shoulders ;  the  pale  panelled  walls, 
the  pale  grey  velvety  carpet,  the  lamp-shade,  even  the  soup 
was  pale.  There  was  not  one  spot  of  colour  in  the  room, 
not  even  wine  in  the  pale  glasses,  for  no  one  drank  it.  What 
was  not  pale  was  black — her  father's  clothes,  the  butler's 
clothes,  her  retriever  stretched  out  exhausted  in  the  window, 
the  curtains  black  with  a  cream  pattern.  A  moth  came  in, 
and  that  was  pale.  And  silent  was  that  half -mourning 
dinner  in  the  heat. 

Her  father  called  her  back  as  she  was  following  her  mother 
out. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  at  the  table,  and,  unpinning  the 
pale  honeysuckle,  put  it  to  her  nose. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  dear  ?" 

"  It's  extremely  painful  for  me  to  talk,  but  there's  no 
help  for  it.     I  don't  know  if  you  understand  how  much  you 


992  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

are   to   me — I've    never    spoken   of   it,    I   didn't   think    it 

necessary;  but — but  you're  everything.     Your  mother " 

he  paused,  staring  at  his  finger-bowl  of  Venetian  glass. 

"  Yes  ?" 

"  I've  only  you  to  look  to.  I've  never  had — never 
wanted  anything  else,  since  you  were  born." 

"  I  know,"  Fleur  murmured. 

Soames  moistened  his  lips. 

"  You  may  think  this  a  matter  I  can  smooth  over  and 
arrange  for  you.     You're  mistaken.     I — I'm  helpless." 

Fleur  did  not  speak. 

"  Quite  apart  from  my  own  feelings,"  went  on  Soames 
with  more  resolution,  "  those  two  are  not  amenable  to 
anything  I  can  say.  They — they  hate  me,  as  people  always 
hate  those  whom  they  have  injured." 

"  But  he— Jon " 

"  He's  their  flesh  and  blood,  her  only  child.  Probably 
he  means  to  her  what  you  mean  to  me.     It's  a  deadlock." 

"  No,"  cried  Fleur,  "  no.  Father  !" 

Soames  leaned  back,  the  image  of  pale  patience,  as  if 
resolved  on  the  betrayal  of  no  emotion. 

"  Listen  !"  he  said.  "  You're  putting  the  feelings  of 
two  months — two  months — against  the  feelings  of  thirty- 
five  years  !  What  chance  do  you  think  you  have  ?  Two 
months — your  very  first  love  affair,  a  matter  of  half  a  dozen 
meetings,  a  few  walks  and  talks,  a  few  kisses — against,  against 
what  you  can't  imagine,  what  no  one  could  who  hasn't  been 
through  it.  Come,  be  reasonable,  Fleur  !  It's  midsummer 
madness  !" 

Fleur  tore  the  honeysuckle  into  little,  slow  bits. 

"  The  madness  is  in  letting  the  past  spoil  it  all.  What 
do  we  care  about  the  past  ?     It's  our  lives,  not  yours." 

Soames  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  where  suddenly 
she  saw  moisture  shining. 


TO  LET  993 

"  Whose  child  are  you  ?"  he  said.  "  Whose  child  is  he  ? 
The  present  is  linked  with  the  past,  the  future  with  both. 
There's  no  getting  away  from  that." 

She  had  never  heard  philosophy  pass  those  lips  before. 
Impressed  even  in  her  agitation,  she  leaned  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  her  chin  on  her  hands. 

"  But,  Father,  consider  it  practically.  We  want  each 
other.  There's  ever  so  much  money,  and  nothing  whatever 
in  the  way  but  sentiment.     Let's  bury  the  past,  Father." 

His  answer  was  a  sigh. 

"  Besides,"  said  Fleur  gently,  "  you  can't  prevent  us." 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  said  Soames,  "  that  if  left  to  myself 
I  should  try  to  prevent  you;  I  must  put  up  with  things, 
I  know,  to  keep  your  affection.  But  it's  not  I  who  control 
this  matter.  That's  what  I  want  you  to  realize  before  it's 
too  late.  If  you  go  on  thinking  you  can  get  your  way, 
and  encourage  this  feeling,  the  blow  will  be  much  heavier 
when  you  find  you  can't." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Fleur,  "  help  me.  Father;  you  can  help  me, 
you  know." 

Soames  made  a  startled  movement  of  negation. 

"  I  ?"  he  said  bitterly.  "  Help  ?  I  am  the  impediment— 
the  just  cause  and  impediment — isn't  that  the  jargon  ? 
You  have  my  blood  in  your  veins." 

He  rose. 

"  Well,  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  If  you  persist  in  your  wil- 
fulness you'll  have  yourself  to  blame.  Come  !  Don't  be 
foolish,  my  child — my  only  child  !" 

Fleur  laid  her  forehead  against  his  shoulder. 

All  was  in  such  turmoil  within  her.  But  no  good  to  show 
it  !  No  good  at  all  !  She  broke  away  from  him,  and  went 
out  into  the  twilight,  distraught,  but  unconvinced.  All  was 
indeterminate  and  vague  within  her,  like  the  shapes  and 
shadows  in  the  garden,  except — her  will  to  have.     A  poplar 


994  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

pierced  up  into  the  dark-blue  sky  and  touched  a  white  star 
there.  The  dew  wetted  her  shoes,  and  chilled  her  bare 
shoulders.  She  went  down  to  the  river  bank,  and  stood 
gazing  at  a  moonstreak  on  the  darkening  water.  Suddenly 
she  smelled  tobacco  smoke,  and  a  white  figure  emerged 
as  if  created  by  the  moon.  It  was  young  Mont  in  flannels, 
standing  in  his  boat.  She  heard  the  tiny  hiss  of  his  cigarette 
extinguished  in  the  water. 

**  Fleur,"  came  his  voice,  "  don't  be  hard  on  a  poor  devil  [ 
I've  been  waiting  hours." 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  Come  in  my  boat  !" 

*'  Not  I." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  I'm  not  a  water-nymph." 

"  Haven't  you  any  romance  in  you  ?  Don't  be  modern,. 
Fleur  !" 

He  appeared  on  the  path  within  a  yard  of  her. 

"  Go  away  !" 

"  Fleur,  I  love  you.     Fleur  !" 

Fleur  uttered  a  short  laugh. 

"  Come  again,"  she  said,  "  when  I  haven't  got  my  wish." 

"  What  is  your  wish  ?" 

"  Ask  another." 

"  Fleur,"  said  Mont,  and  his  voice  sounded  strange, 
"  don't  mock  me  !  Even  vivisected  dogs  are  worth  decent 
treatment  before  they're  cut  up  for  good." 

Fleur  shook  her  head;  but  her  lips  were  trembling. 

"  Well,  you  shouldn't  make  me  jump.  Give  me  a 
cigarette." 

Mont  gave  her  one,  lighted  it,  and  another  for  himself. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  rot,"  he  said,  "  but  please  imagine 
all  the  rot  that  all  the  lovers  that  ever  were  have  talked,  and 
all  my  special  rot  throv/n  in." 


TO  LET  995 

"  Thank  you,  I  have  imagined  it.     Good -night  !" 

They  stood  for  a  moment  facing  each  other  in  the  shadow 
of  an  acacia -tree  with  very  moonlit  blossoms,  and  the  smoke 
from  their  cigarettes  mingled  in  the  air  between  them. 

"Also  ran:  *  Michael  Mont'?"  he  said.  Fleur  turned 
abruptly  toward  the  house.  On  the  lawn  she  stopped  to 
look  back.  Michael  Mont  was  whirling  his  arms  above  him ; 
she  could  see  them  dashing  at  his  head;  then  waving  at  the 
moonlit  blossoms  of  the  acacia.  His  voice  just  reached  her. 
"  JoUy -jolly !"  Fleur  shook  herself  She  couldn't  help 
him,  she  had  too  much  trouble  of  her  own  !  On  the 
verandah  she  stopped  very  suddenly  again.  Her  mother 
was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  at  her  writing  bureau,  quite 
alone.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  expression 
of  her  face  except  its  utter  immobility.  But  she  looked 
desolate  !  Fleur  went  upstairs.  At  the  door  of  her  room 
she  paused.  She  could  hear  her  father  walking  up  and  down,, 
up  and  down  the  picture-gallery. 

'  Yes,'  she  thought,  '  jolly  !     Oh,  Jon  !' 


CHAPTER  X 

DECISION 

When  Fleur  left  him  Jon  stared  at  the  Austrian.  She  was 
a  thin  woman  with  a  dark  face  and  the  concerned  expression 
of  one  who  has  watched  every  little  good  that  life  once  had 
slip  from  her,  one  by  one. 

"  No  tea  ?"  she  said. 

Susceptible  to  the  disappointment  in  her  voice,  Jon 
murmured : 

"No,  really;  thanks." 

"  A  lil  cup — it  ready.     A  lil  cup  and  cigarette." 

Fleur  was  gone  !  Hours  of  remorse  and  indecision  lay 
before  him  !  And  with  a  heavy  sense  of  disproportion  he 
smiled,  and  said: 

"  WeU— thank  you  !" 

She  brought  in  a  little  pot  of  tea  with  two  little  cups, 
and  a  silver  box  of  cigarettes  on  a  little  tray. 

"  Sugar  ?  Miss  Forsyte  has  much  sugar — she  buy  my 
sugar,  my  friend's  sugar  also.  Miss  Forsyte  is  a  veree  kind 
lady.     I  am  happy  to  serve  her.     You  her  brother  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jon,  beginning  to  puff  the  second  cigarette 
of  his  life. 

"  Very  young  brother,"  said  the  Austrian,  with  a  little 
anxious  smile,  which  reminded  him  of  the  wag  of  a  dog's  tail. 

"  May  I  give  you  some  ?"  he  said.  "  And  won't  you  sit 
down,  please  ?" 

The  Austrian  shook  her  head. 

"Your  father  a  very  nice  old  man — the  most  nice  old 

man  I  ever  see.     Miss  Forsyte  tell  me  all  about  him.     Is  he 

better  ?" 

996 


TO  LET  997 

Her  words  fell  on  Jon  like  a  reproach.  "  Oh  !  Yes,  I 
think  he's  all  right." 

"  I  like  to  see  him  again,"  said  the  Austrian,  putting  a 
hand  on  her  heart;  "  he  have  veree  kind  heart." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jon.  And  again  her  words  seemed  to  him 
a  reproach. 

"  He  never  give  no  trouble  to  no  one,  and  smile  so  gentle." 

"  Yes,  doesn't  he  r" 

"  He  look  at  Miss  Forsyte  so  funny  sometimes.  I  tell 
him  all  my  story;  he  so  sympatisch.  Your  mother — she 
nice  and  well  ?" 

''  Yes,  very." 

"  He  have  her  photograph  on  his  dressing-table.  Veree 
beautiful." 

Jon  gulped  down  his  tea.  This  woman,  with  her  con- 
cerned face  and  her  reminding  words,  was  like  the  first  and 
second  murderers. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said:  "I  must  go  now.  May— may 
I  leave  this  with  you  ?" 

He  put  a  ten -shilling  note  on  the  tray  with  a  doubting 
hand  and  gained  the  door.  He  heard  the  Austrian  gasp, 
and  hurried  out.  He  had  just  time  to  catch  his  train,  and 
all  the  way  to  Victoria  looked  at  every  face  that  passed,  aa 
lovers  will,  hoping  against  hope.  On  reaching  Worthing 
he  put  his  luggage  into  the  local  train,  and  set  out  across 
the  Downs  for  Wansdon,  trying  to  walk  off  his  aching  irre- 
solution. So  long  as  he  went  full  bat,  he  could  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  those  green  slopes,  stopping  now  and  again  to 
sprawl  on  the  grass,  admire  the  perfection  of  a  wild  rose 
or  listen  to  a  lark's  song.  But  the  war  of  motives  within 
him  was  but  postponed— the  longing  for  Fleur,  and  the 
hatred  of  deception.  He  came  to  the  old  chalk-pit  above 
Wansdon  with  his  mind  no  more  made  up  than  when  he 
started.     To  see  both  sides  of  a  question  vigorously  was  at 


998  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

once  Jon's  strength  and  weakness.  He  tramped  in,  just 
as  the  first  dinner-bell  rang.  His  things  had  already  been 
brought  up.  He  had  a  hurried  bath  and  came  down  to 
find  Holly  alone — Val  had  gone  to  Town  and  would  not  be 
back  till  the  last  train. 

Since  Val's  advice  to  him  to  ask  his  sister  what  was  the 
matter  between  the  two  families,  so  much  had  happened — 
Fleur's  disclosure  in  the  Green  Park,  her  visit  to  Robin  Hill, 
to-day's  meeting — that  there  seemed  nothing  to  ask.  He 
talked  of  Spain,  his  sunstroke,  VaPs  horses,  their  father's 
health.  Holly  startled  him  by  saying  that  she  thought 
their  father  not  at  all  well.  She  had  been  twice  to  Robin 
Hill  for  the  week-end.  He  had  seemed  fearfully  languid, 
sometimes  even  in  pain,  but  had  always  refused  to  talk  about 
himself. 

"  He's  awfully  dear  and  unselfish — don't  you  think,  Jon  ?" 

Feeling  far  from  dear  and  unselfish  himself,  Jon  answered : 
"  Rather  !" 

"  I  think,  he's  been  a  simply  perfect  father,  so  long  as  I 
can  remember." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Jon,  very  subdued. 

"  He's  never  interfered,  and  he's  always  seemed  to  under- 
stand. I  shall  never  forget  his  letting  me  go  to  South  Africa 
in  the  Boer  War  when  I  was  in  love  with  Val." 

"  That  was  before  he  married  Mother,  wasn't  it  ?"  said 
Jon  suddenly. 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing.  Only,  wasn't  she  engaged  to  Fleur's 
father  first  ?" 

Holly  put  down  the  spoon  she  was  using,  and  raised  her 
eyes.  Her  stare  was  circumspect.  What  did  the  boy  know  ? 
Enough  to  make  it  better  to  tell  him  ?  She  could  not  decide. 
He  looked  strained  and  worried,  altogether  older,  but  that 
might  be  the  sunstroke. 


TO  LET  999 

'*  There  tvas  something,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  we  were 
out  there,  and  got  no  news  of  anything."  She  could 
not  take  the  risk.  It  was  not  her  secret.  Besides,  she  was 
in  the  dark  about  his  feelings  now.  Before  Spain  she  had 
made  sure  he  was  in  love;  but  boys  were  boys;  that  was 
seven  weeks  ago,  and  all  Spain  between. 

She  saw  that  he  knew  she  was  putting  him  off,  and  added : 
"  Have  you  heard  anything  of  Fleur  ?" 
"  Yes." 

His  face  told  her,  then,  more  than  the  most  elaborate 
explanations.     So  he  had  not  forgotten  ! 

She  said  very  quietly:  "  Fleur  is  awfully  attractive,  Jon, 
but  you  know — Val  and  I  don't  really  like  her  very  much." 
"  Why  ?" 

"  We  think  she's  got  rather  a  '  having  '  nature." 
"  '  Having  '  ?     I    don't    know    what    you   mean.     She — 

she "   he   pushed   his   dessert   plate   away,  got    up,  and 

went  to  the  window. 

Holly,  too,  got  up,  and  put  her  arm  round  his  waist. 
"  Don't  be  angry,  Jon  dear.  We  can't  all  see  people  in 
the  same  light,  can  we  ?  You  know,  I  believe  each  of  us 
only  has  about  one  or  two  people  who  can  see  the  best  that's 
in  us,  and  bring  it  out.  For  you  I  think  it's  your  mother. 
I  once  saw  her  looking  at  a  letter  of  yours;  it  was  wonderful 
to  see  her  face.  I  think  she's  the  most  beautiful  wom.an 
I  ever  saw — Age  doesn't  seem  to  touch  her." 

Jon's  face  softened;  then  again  became  tense.  Every- 
body— everybody  was  against  him  and  Fleur  !  It  all 
strengthened  the  appeal  of  her  words :  "  Make  sure  of  me — 
marry  me,  Jon  !" 

Here,  where  he  had  passed  that  wonderful  week  with  her 
— the  tug  of  her  enchantment,  the  ache  in  his  heart  increased 
with  every  minute  that  she  was  not  there  to  make  the  room, 
the  garden,  the  very  air  magical.     Would  he  ever  be  able 


1000  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

to  live  down  here,  not  seeing  her  ?  And  he  closed  up 
utterly,  going  early  to  bed.  It  would  not  make  him  healthy, 
wealthy,  and  wise,  but  it  closeted  him  with  memory  of 
Fleur  in  her  fancy  frock.  He  heard  Val's  arrival — the  Ford 
discharging  cargo,  then  the  stillness  of  the  summer  night 
stole  back — with  only  the  bleating  of  very  distant  sheep,  and 
a  night -jar's  harsh  purring.  He  leaned  far  out.  Cold 
moon — warm  air — the  Downs  like  silver  !  Small  wings, 
a  stream  bubbling,  the  rambler  roses  !  God — how  empty 
all  of  it  without  her  !  In  the  Bible  it  was  written :  Thou 
shalt  leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave  to — Fleur  ! 

Let  him  have  pluck,  and  go  and  tell  them  !  They 
couldn't  stop  him  marrying  her — they  wouldn't  want  to 
stop  him  when  they  knew  how  he  felt.  Yes  !  He  would 
go  !     Bold  and  open — Fleur  was  wrong  ! 

The  night -jar  ceased,  the  sheep  were  silent;  the  only 
sound  in  the  darkness  was  the  bubbling  of  the  stream.  And 
Jon  in  his  bed  slept,  freed  from  the  worst  of  life's  evils — 
indecision. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TIMOTHY    PROPHESIES 

On  the  day  of  the  cancelled  meeting  at  the  National  Gallery 
began  the  second  anniversary  of  the  resurrection  of  England's 
pride  and  glory — or,  more  shortly,  the  top  hat.  "  Lord's  " 
— that  festival  which  the  War  had  driven  from  the  field — 
raised  its  light  and  dark  blue  flags  for  the  second  time, 
displaying  almost  every  feature  of  a  glorious  past.  Here, 
in  the  luncheon  interval,  were  all  species  of  female  and  one 
species  of  male  hat,  protecting  the  multiple  types  of  face 
associated  with  "  the  classes."  The  observing  Forsyte 
might  discern  in  the  free  or  unconsidered  seats  a  certain 
number  of  the  squash -hatted,  but  they  hardly  ventured 
on  the  grass;  the  old  school — or  schools — could  still  rejoice 
that  the  proletariat  was  not  yet  paying  the  necessary  half- 
crown.  Here  was  still  a  close  borough,  the  only  one  left 
on  a  large  scale — for  the  papers  were  about  to  estimate  the 
attendance  at  ten  thousand.  And  the  ten  thousand,  all 
animated  by  one  hope,  were  asking  each  other  one  question: 
"  Where  are  you  lunching  ? ' '  Something  wonderfully  uplifting 
and  reassuring  in  that  query  and  the  sight  of  so  many  people 
like  themselves  voicing  it  !  What  reserve  power  in  the 
British  realm — enough  pigeons,  lobsters,  lamb,  salmon 
mayonnaise,  strawberries,  and  bottles  of  champagne  to  feed 
the  lot  !  No  miracle  in  prospect — no  case  of  seven  loaves 
and  a  few  fishes — faith  rested  on  surer  foundations.  Six 
thousand  top  hats,  four  thousand  parasols  would  be  doflted 
and  furled,  ten  thousand  mouths  all  speaking  the  same 
English  would  be  filled.     There  was  life  in  the  old  dog  yet  I 


1002  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Tradition  !  And  again  Tradition  !  How  strong  and  how 
elastic  !  Wars  might  rage,  taxation  prey,  Trades  Unions 
take  toll,  and  Europe  perish  of  starvation;  but  the  ten  thou- 
sand would  be  fed;  and,  within  their  ring  fence,  stroll  upon 
green  turf,  wear  their  top  hats,  and  meet — themselves. 
The  heart  was  sound,  the  pulse  still  regular.  E-ton  ! 
E-ton  !     Har-r-o-o-o-w  ! 

Among  the  many  Forsytes,  present  on  a  hunting-ground 
theirs,  by  personal  prescriptive  right,  or  proxy,  was 
Soames  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  He  had  not  been  at 
either  school,  he  took  no  interest  in  cricket,  but  he  wanted 
Fleur  to  show  her  frock,  and  he  wanted  to  wear  his  top  hat — 
parade  it  again  in  peace  and  plenty  among  his  peers.  He 
walked  sedately  with  Fleur  between  him  and  Annette. 
No  women  equalled  them,  so  far  as  he  could  see.  They 
could  walk,  and  hold  themselves  up;  there  was  substance 
in  their  good  looks;  the  modern  woman  had  no  build,  no 
chest,  no  anything  !  He  remembered  suddenly  with  what 
intoxication  of  pride  he  had  walked  round  with  Irene  in 
the  first  years  of  his  first  marriage.  And  how  they  used 
to  lunch  on  the  drag  which  his  mother  would  make  his  father 
have,  because  it  was  so  "  chic  " — all  drags  and  carriages  in 
those  days,  not  these  lumbering  great  Stands  !  And  how 
consistently  Montague  Dartie  had  drunk  too  much.  He 
supposed  that  people  drank  too  much  still,  but  there  was 
not  the  scope  for  it  there  used  to  be.  He  remembered 
George  Forsyte — whose  brothers  Roger  and  Eustace  had 
been  at  Harrow  and  Eton — towering  up  on  the  top  of  the 
drag  waving  a  light -blue  flag  with  one  hand  and  a  dark-blue 
flag  with  the  other,  and  shouting,  "  Etroow — Harrton  !" 
just  when  everybody  was  silent,  like  the  buffoon  he  had 
always  been;  and  Eustace  got  up  to  the  nines  below,  too 
dandified  to  wear  any  colour  or  take  any  notice.  H'm  ! 
Old  days,  and  Irene  in  grey  silk  shot  with  palest  green.    He 


TO  LET  1003 

looked,  sideways,  at  Fleur's  face.  Rather  colourless — no 
light,  no  eagerness  !  That  love  affair  was  preying  on  her — 
a  bad  business  !  He  looked  beyond,  at  his  wife's  face,  rather 
more  touched  up  than  usual,  a  Httle  disdainful — not  that 
she  had  any  business  to  disdain,  so  far  as  he  could  see.  She 
was  taking  Profond's  defection  with  curious  quietude;  or  was 
his  "  small "  voyage  just  a  blind  ?  If  so,  he  should  refuse 
to  see  it  !  Having  promenaded  round  the  pitch  and  in 
front  of  the  pavilion,  they  sought  Winifred's  table  in  the 
Bedouin  Club  tent.  This  Club — a  new  "  cock  and  hen  " — 
had  been  founded  in  the  interests  of  travel,  and  of  a  gentle- 
man with  an  old  Scottish  name,  whose  father  had  somewhat 
strangely  been  called  Levi.  Winifred  had  joined,  not  because 
she  had  travelled,  but  because  instinct  told  her  that  a  Club 
with  such  a  name  and  such  a  founder  was  bound  to  go  far; 
if  one  didn't  join  at  once  one  might  never  have  the  chance. 
Its  tent,  with  a  text  from  the  Koran  on  an  orange  ground, 
and  a  small  green  camel  embroidered  over  the  entrance, 
was  the  most  striking  on  the  ground.  Outside  it  they  found 
Jack  Cardigan  in  a  dark  blue  tie  (he  had  once  played  for 
Harrow),  batting  with  a  Malacca  cane  to  show  how  that 
fellow  ought  to  have  hit  that  ball.  He  piloted  them  in. 
Assembled  in  Winifred's  corner  were  Imogen,  Benedict 
with  his  young  wife,  Val  Dartie  without  Holly,  Maud  and 
her  husband,  and,  after  Soames  and  his  two  were  seated, 
one  empty  place. 

"  I'm  expecting  Prosper,"  said  Winifred,  "  but  he's  so 
busy  with  his  yacht." 

Soames  stole  a  glance.  No  movement  in  his  wife's  face  ! 
Whether  that  fellow  were  coming  or  not,  she  evidently  knew 
all  about  it.  It  did  not  escape  him  that  Fleur,  too,  looked  at 
her  mother.  If  Annette  didn't  respect  his  feelings,  she  might 
think  of  Fleur's  !  The  conversation,  very  desultory,  was 
syncopated    by    Jack    Cardigan    talking    about    "  mid -off." 


1004  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  cited  all  the  "  great  mid-offs  "  from  the  beginning  of 
time,  as  if  they  had  been  a  definite  racial  entity  in  the  com- 
position of  the  British  people.  Soames  had  finished  his 
lobster,  and  was  beginning  on  pigeon -pie,  when  he  heard 
the  words,  "  I'm  a  small  bit  late,  Mrs.  Dartie,"  and  saw  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  empty  place.  That  fellow  was 
sitting  between  Annette  and  Imogen.  Soames  ate  steadily 
on,  with  an  occasional  word  to  Maud  and  Winifred.  Con- 
versation buzzed  around  him.  He  heard  the  voice  of 
Profond  say: 

"I  think  you're  mistaken,  Mrs.  Forsyde;  I'll — I'll  bet 
Miss  Forsyde  agrees  with  me." 

"  In  what  ?"  came  Fleur's  clear  voice  across  the  table. 

''  I  was  sa\qn',  young  gurls  are  much  the  same  as  they 
always  were — there's  very  small  difference." 

"  Do  you  know  so  much  about  them  ?" 

That  sharp  reply  caught  the  ears  of  all,  and  Soames 
moved  uneasily  on  his  thin  green  chair. 

"  \^^ell,  I  don't  know,  I  think  they  want  their  own  small 
way,  and  I  think  they  always  did." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  Oh,  but — Prosper,"  Winifred  interjected  comfortably, 
"  the  girls  in  the  streets — the  girls  who've  been  in  munitions, 
the  little  flappers  in  the  shops;  their  manners  now  reaUy 
quite  hit  you  in  the  eye." 

At  the  word  "  hit  "  Jack  Cardigan  stopped  his  disquisition; 
and  in  the  silence  Monsieur  Profond  said: 

"  It  was  inside  before,  now  it's  outside;  that's  all." 

"  But  their  morals  !"  cried  Imogen. 

"  Just  as  moral  as  they  ever  were,  Mrs.  Cardigan,  but 
they've  got  more  opportunity." 

The  saying,  so  cryptically  cynical,  received  a  little  laugh 
from  Imogen,  a  slight  opening  of  Jack  Cardigan's  mouth,  and 
a  creak  from  Soames'  chair. 


TO  LET  loos 

Winifred  said :  "  That's  too  bad,  Prosper." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  Forsyde;  don't  you  think  human 
nature's  always  the  same  .'" 

Soames  subdued  a  sudden  longing  to  get  up  and  kick  the 
fellow.     He  heard  his  wife  reply: 

"  Human  nature  is  not  the  same  in  England  as  anywhere 
else."     That  was  her  confounded  mockery  ! 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  this  small  country  " — 
*  No,  thank  God  !'  thought  Soames — "  but  I  should  say 
the  pot  was  boilin'  under  the  lid  everywhere.  We  all  want 
pleasure,  and  we  always  did." 

Damn  the  fellow  !     His  cynicism  was — was  outrageous  ! 

When  lunch  was  over  they  broke  up  into  couples  for  the 
digestive  promenade.  Too  proud  to  notice,  Soames  knew 
perfectly  that  Annette  and  that  fellow  had  gone  prowling 
round  together.  Fleur  was  with  Val;  she  had  chosen  him, 
no  doubt,  because  he  knew  that  boy.  He  himself  had  \^"iiii- 
fred  for  partner.  They  walked  in  the  bright,  circHng 
stream,  a  Httle  flushed  and  sated,  for  some  minutes,  till 
Winifred  sighed : 

"  I  wish  we  were  back  forty  years,  old  boy  !" 

Before  the  eyes  of  her  spirit  an  interminable  procession 
of  her  own  "  Lord's  "  frocks  was  passing,  paid  for  with  the 
money  of  her  father,  to  save  a  recurrent  crisis.  "  It's  been 
very  amusing,  after  all.  Sometimes  I  even  wish  Monty 
was  back.  What  do  you  think  of  people  nowadays, 
Soames  ?" 

"  Precious  little  style.  The  thing  began  to  go  to  pieces 
with  bicycles  and  motor-cars;  the  War  has  finished  it." 

"  I  wonder  what's  coming  r"  said  Winifred  in  a  voice 
dreamy  from  pigeon-pie.  "  I'm  not  at  all  sure  we  shan't 
go  back  to  crinolines  and  pegtops.     Look  at  that  dress  !" 

Soames  shook  his  head. 

"  There's  money,  but  no  faith  in  things.     We  don't  lay 


ioo6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

by  for  the  future.  These  youngsters — it's  all  a  short  life 
and  a  merry  one  with  them." 

"  There's  a  hat  !"  said  Winifred.  "  I  don't  know- 
when  you  come  to  think  of  the  people  killed  and  all  that  in 
the  War,  it's  rather  wonderful,  I  think.  There's  no  other 
country — Prosper  says  the  rest  are  all  bankrupt,  except 
America;  and  of  course  her  men  always  took  their  style  in 
dress  from  us." 

"  Is  that  chap,"  said  Soames,  "  really  going  to  the  South 
Seas  ?" 

"  Oh  !  one  never  knows  where  Prosper's  going  !" 

"//^'ja  sign  of  the  times," muttered  Soames,  "if  you  like." 

Winifred's  hand  gripped  his  arm. 

"  Don't  turn  your  head,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  but 
look  to  your  right  in  the  front  row  of  the  Stand." 

Soames  looked  as  best  he  could  under  that  limitation. 
A  man  in  a  grey  top  hat,  grey-bearded,  with  thin  brown, 
folded  cheeks,  and  a  certain  elegance  of  posture,  sat  there 
with  a  woman  in  a  lawn -coloured  frock,  whose  dark  eyes 
were  fixed  on  himself.  Soames  looked  quickly  at  his  feet. 
How  funnily  feet  moved,  one  after  the  other  like  that  ! 
Winifred's  voice  said  in  his  ear : 

"  Jolyon  looks  very  ill,  but  he  always  had  style.  Shg 
doesn't  change — except  her  hair." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  Fleur  about  that  business  ?" 

"  I  didn't ;  she  picked  it  up.     I  always  knew  she  would." 

"  Well,  it's  a  mess.     She's  set  her  heart  upon  their  boy." 

"  The  little  wretch,"  murmured  Winifred  "  She  tried 
to  take  me  in  about  that.     What  shall  you  do,  Soames  ?" 

"  Be  guided  by  events." 

They  moved  on,  silent,  in  the  almost  solid  crowd. 

"Really,"  said  Winifred  suddenly;  "it  almost  seems  like 
Fate.  Only  that's  so  old-fashioned.  Look  !  There  are 
George  and  Eustace  !" 


TO  LET  1007 

George  Forsyte's  lofty  bulk  had  halted  before  them. 

"  Hallo,  Soames  !"  he  said.  "  Just  met  Profond  and 
your  wife.  You'll  catch  'em  if  you  put  on  pace.  Did  you 
ever  go  to  see  old  Timothy  ?" 

Soames  nodded,  and  the  streams  forced  them  apart. 

"  I  always  liked  old  George,"  said  Winifred.  "  He's 
so  droU." 

"  I  never  did,"  said  Soames.  "  Where's  your  seat  ?  I 
shall  go  to  mine.     Fleur  may  be  back  there." 

Having  seen  Winifred  to  her  seat,  he  regained  his  own, 
conscious  of  small,  white,  distant  figures  running,  the  click 
of  the  bat,  the  cheers  and  counter-cheers.  No  Fleur,  and 
no  Annette  !  You  could  expect  nothing  of  women  nowa- 
days !  They  had  the  vote.  They  were  "  emancipated," 
and  much  good  it  was  doing  them  !  So  Winifred  would 
go  back,  would  she,  and  put  up  with  Dartie  all  over  again  ? 
To  have  the  past  once  more — to  be  sitting  here  as  he  had  sat 
in  '83  and  '84,  before  he  was  certain  that  his  marriage  with 
Irene  had  gone  all  wrong,  before  her  antagonism  had  become 
so  glaring  that  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  he  could  not 
overlook  it.  The  sight  of  her  with  that  fellow  had  brought 
all  memory  back.  Even  now  he  could  not  understand 
why  she  had  been  so  impracticable.  She  could  love  other 
men;  she  had  it  in  her  !  To  himself,  the  one  person  she 
ought  to  have  loved,  she  had  chosen  to  refuse  her  heart. 
It  seemed  to  him,  fantastically,  as  he  looked  back,  that  all 
this  modern  relaxation  of  marriage — though  its  forms  and 
laws  were  the  same  as  when  he  married  her — that  all  this 
modern  looseness  had  come  out  of  her  revolt ;  it  seemed  to 
him,  fantastically,  that  she  had  started  it,  till  all  decent 
ownership  of  anything  had  gone,  or  was  on  the  point  of 
going.  All  came  from  her  !  And  now — a  pretty  state 
of  things  !  Homes  !  How  could  you  have  them  without 
mutual  ownership  ?     Not  that  he  had  ever  had  a  real  home  ! 


iccS  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

But  h.ad  that  been  iiis  fault  ?  He  had  done  ids  best.  .\nd 
his  rewards  were — those  two  sitting  in  that  Stand,  and  this 
anair  of  Fleur's  i 

And  overcome  by  loneliness  he  thought :  '  Shan't  wait 
anv  longer  !  They  must  find  their  o^^"n  way  back  to  the 
hotel — if  they  mean  to  come  T  Hailing  a  cab  outside  the 
ground,  he  said: 

"  Drive  me  to  the  Bayswater  Road."  His  old  aunts 
had  never  failed  him.  To  them  he  had  meant  an  ever- 
welcome  visitor.  Though  they  were  gone,  there,  still,  was 
Timothy  ! 

Smither  was  standing  in  the  open  doorway. 

"  Mr.  Soames  I  I  was  just  taking  the  air.  Cook  will  be 
so  pleased.'' 

"How  is  Mr.  Timothy:" 

"  Not  himself  at  all  these  last  few  days,  sir;  he's  been 
talking  a  great  deal.  Only  this  morning  he  was  saving: 
'  Mv  brother  James,  he's  getting  old.'  His  mind  wanders, 
Mr.  Soames,  and  then  he  will  talk  of  them.  He  troubles 
about  their  investments.  The  other  day  he  said:  '  There's 
my  brother  Jolyon  won't  look  at  Consols' — he  seemed  quite 
down  about  it.  Come  in,  Mr.  Soames,  come  in  I  It's 
such  a  pleasant  change  1" 

"  Well,"  said  Soames,  '*  just  for  a  few  minutes." 

'*  No,"  murmured  Smither  in  the  hall,  where  the  air  had 
the  singular  freshness  of  the  outside  day,  "  we  haven't  been 
vert-  satisfied  \mh  him,  not  all  this  v.-eek.  He's  always  been 
one  to  leave  a  titbit  to  the  end;  but  ever  since  Monday  he's 
been  eating  it  first.  If  you  notice  a  dog,  Mr.  Soames,  at 
its  dinner,  it  eats  the  meat  first.  We've  always  thought  it 
such  a  good  sign  of  Mr.  Timothy  at  his  age  to  leave  it  to  the 
last,  but  now  he  seems  to  have  lost  all  his  self-control;  and, 
of  course,  it  makes  him  leave  the  rest.  The  doctor  doesn't 
make  anything  of  it,  but  " —  Smither  shook  her  head — "  he 


TO  LET  1009 

seems  to  think  he's  got  to  eat  it  first,  in  case  he  shouldn't 
get  to  it.     That  and  his  talking  makes  us  anxious." 

"  Has  he  said  anj-thing  important :" 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  say  that,  Mr.  Soames;  but  he's  turned 
against  his  Will.  He  gets  quite  pettish — and  after  haying 
had  it  out  every  morning  for  years,  it  does  seem  funny. 
He  said  the  other  day:  *  They  want  my  money.'  It  gave  me 
such  a  turn,  because,  as  I  said  to  him,  nobody  wants  his 
money,  I'm  sure.  And  it  does  seem  a  pity  he  should  be 
thinking  about  money  at  his  time  of  life.  I  took  my  courage 
in  my  'ands.  '  You  know,  Mr.  Timothy,'  I  said,  '  my  dear 
mistress  ' — that's  Miss  Forsyte,  Mr.  Soames,  Miss  Ann  that 
trained  me — *  she  never  thought  about  money,'  I  said, 
*  it  was  all  character  with  her.'  He  looked  at  me,  I  can't 
tell  you  how  funny,  and  he  said  quite  dry :  *  Xobody  wants 
my  character.'  Think  of  his  saying  a  thing  like  that  !  But 
sometimes  he'U  say  something  as  sharp  and  sensible  as 
anything." 

Soames,  who  had  been  staring  at  an  old  print  by  the  hat  - 
rack,  thinking,  '  That's  got  value  I'  mtirmured  :  **'  I'U  go 
up  and  see  him,  Smither." 

"  GdoFs  with  him,"  answered  Smither  above  her  corsets ; 
"  she  will  be  pleased  to  see  you." 

He  mounted  slowly,  with  the  thought:  *  Shan't  care  to 
Hve  to  be  that  age.' 

On  the  second  floor,  he  paused,  and  tapped.  The  door 
was  opened,  and  he  saw  the  round  homely  face  of  a  woman 
about  sixty. 

"  Mr.  Soames  !"  she  said:  *'  \^liy  I     :Mr.  Soames  !" 

Soames  nodded.     *'  All  right.  Cook  !"  and  entered. 

Timothy  was  propped  up  in  bed,  with  his  hands  joined 
before  his  chest,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  where  a 
fly  was  standing  upside  down.  Soames  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  facing  him. 

53 


loio  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Uncle  Timothy,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "  Uncle 
Timothy  !" 

Timothy's  eyes  left  the  fly,  and  levelled  themselves  on 
his  visitor.  Soames  could  see  his  pale  tongue  passing  over 
his  darkish  lips. 

"  Uncle  Timothy,"  he  said  again,  "  is  there  anything 
I  can  do  for  you  ?     Is  there  anything  you'd  Hke  to  say  ?" 

"  Ha  !"  said  Timothy. 

"  I've  come  to  look  you  up  and  see  that  everything's  aU 
right." 

Timothy  nodded.  He  seemed  trying  to  get  used  to  the 
apparition  before  him. 

"  Have  you  got  everything  you  want  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Timothy. 

"  Can  I  get  you  anything  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Timothy. 

"I'm  Soames,  you  know;  your  nephew,  Soames  Forsyte. 
Your  brother  James'  son." 

Timothy  nodded. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  anything  I  can  for  you." 

Timothy  beckoned.     Soames  went  close  to  him. 

"  You — "  said  Timothy  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  have 
outlived  tone,  "  you  tell  them  all  from  me — you  tell  them 
all — "  and  his  finger  tapped  on  Soames'  arm,  "  to  hold  on 
— ^hold  on — Consols  are  goin'  up,"  and  he  nodded  thrice. 

"  All  right  !"  said  Soames;  "  I  will." 

"  Yes,"  said  Timothy,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  again  on  the 
ceiHng,  he  added:  "  That  fly  !" 

Strangely  moved,  Soames  looked  at  the  Cook's  pleasant 
fattish  face,  all  little  puckers  from  staring  at  fires. 

"  That'll  do  him  a  world  of  good,  sir,"  she  said. 

A  mutter  came  from  Timothy,  but  he  was  clearly  speaking 
to  himself,  and  Soames  went  out  with  the  cook. 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  you  a  pink  cream,  Mr.  Soames, 


TO  LET  ion 

like  in  old  days;  you  did  so  relish  them.  Good-bye,  sir;  it 
has  been  a  pleasure." 

"  Take  care  of  him,  Cook,  he  is  old." 

And,  shaking  her  crumpled  hand,  he  went  down -stairs. 
Smither  was  still  taking  the  air  in  the  doorway. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him,  Mr.  Soames  ?" 

**  H'm  !"  Soames  murmured:  "  He's  lost  touch." 

"  Yes,"  said  Smither,  "  I  was  afraid  you'd  think  that 
coming  fresh  out  of  the  world  to  see  him  like." 

"  Smither,"  said  Soames,  "  we're  all  indebted  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Soames,  don't  say  that  !  It's  a  pleasure — 
he's  such  a  wonderful  man." 

"  Well,  good-bye  !"  said  Soames,  and  got  into  his  taxi. 

'  Going  up  !'  he  thought;  '  going  up  !' 

Reachmg  the  hotel  at  Knightsbridge  he  went  to  their 
sitting-room,  and  rang  for  tea.  Neither  of  them  were  in. 
And  again  that  sense  of  loneliness  came  over  him.  These 
hotels  !  What  monstrous  great  places  they  were  now ! 
He  could  remember  when  there  was  nothing  bigger  than 
Long's  or  Brown's,  Morley's  or  the  Tavistock,  and  the  heads 
that  were  shaken  over  the  Langham  and  the  Grand.  Hotels 
and  Clubs — Clubs  and  Hotels;  no  end  to  them  now  !  And 
Soames,  who  had  just  been  watching  at  Lord's  a  miracle 
of  tradition  and  continuity,  fell  into  reverie  over  the  changes 
in  that  London  where  he  had  been  born  five -and -sixty  years 
before.  Whether  Consols  were  going  up  or  not,  London 
had  become  a  terrific  property.  No  such  property  in  the 
world,  unless  it  were  New  York  !  There  was  a  lot  of 
hysteria  in  the  papers  nowadays;  but  any  one  who,  like 
himself,  could  remember  London  sixty  years  ago,  and  see 
it  now,  reahzed  the  fecundity  and  elasticity  of  wealth. 
They  had  only  to  keep  their  heads,  and  go  at  it  steadily. 
Why  1  he  remembered  cobblestones,  and  stinking  straw  on 
the  floor  of  your  cab.     And  old  Timothy — what  could  he 


I0I2  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

not  tell  them,  if  he  had  kept  his  memory  !  Things  were 
unsettled,  people  in  a  funk  or  in  a  hurry,  but  here  were 
London  and  the  Thames,  and  out  there  the  British  Empire, 
and  the  ends  of  the  earth.  "  Consols  are  goin'  up  !"  He 
shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised.  It  was  the  breed  that  counted. 
And  all  that  was  bull-dogged  in  Soames  stared  for  a  moment 
out  of  his  grey  eyes,  till  diverted  by  the  print  of  a  Victorian 
picture  on  the  walls.  The  hotel  had  bought  three  dozen 
of  that  little  lot  !  The  old  hunting  or  **  Rake's  Progress  " 
prints  in  the  old  inns  were  worth  looking  at — but  this 
sentimental  stuff — well,  Victorianism  had  gone  !  "  Tell 
them  to  hold  on  !"  old  Timothy  had  said.  But  to  what 
were  they  to  hold  on  in  this  modern  welter  of  the  "  demo- 
cratic principle  "  ?  Why,  even  privacy  was  threatened  ! 
And  at  the  thought  that  privacy  might  perish,  Soames 
pushed  back  his  teacup  and  went  to  the  window.  Fancy 
owning  no  more  of  Nature  than  the  crowd  out  there  owned 
of  the  flowers  and  trees  and  waters  of  Hyde  Park  !  No,  no  ! 
Private  possession  underlay  everything  worth  having.  The 
world  had  slipped  its  sanity  a  bit,  as  dogs  now  and  again 
at  full  moon  slipped  theirs  and  went  off  for  a  night's  rabbit- 
ing; but  the  world,  like  the  dog,  knew  where  its  bread  was 
buttered  and  its  bed  warm,  and  would  come  back  sure  enough 
to  the  only  home  worth  having — to  private  ownership. 
The  world  was  in  its  second  childhood  for  the  moment, 
like  old  Timothy — eating  its  titbit  first  ! 

He  heard  a  sound  behind  him,  and  saw  that  his  wife  and 
daughter  had  come  in. 

"  So  you're  back  !"  he  said. 

Fleur  did  not  answer;  she  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
at  him  and  her  mother,  then  passed  into  her  bedroom. 
Annette  poured  herself  out  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  I  am  going  to  Paris,  to  my  mother,  Soames." 

"Oh!     To  your  mother?" 


TO  LET  1013 

"  Yes." 

"  For  how  long  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  And  when  are  you  going  ?" 

"  On  Monday." 

Was  she  really  going  to  her  mother  ?  Odd,  how  in- 
different he  felt  !  Odd,  how  clearly  she  had  perceived  the 
indifference  he  would  feel  so  long  as  there  was  no  scandal. 
And  suddenly  between  her  and  himself  he  saw  distinctly 
the  face  he  had  seen  that  afternoon — Irene's. 

"  Will  you  want  money  ?" 

"  Thank  you;  I  have  enough." 

"  Very  well.     Let  us  know  when  you  are  coming  back." 

Annette  put  down  the  cake  she  was  fingering,  and,  looking 
up  through  darkened  lashes,  said : 

"  Shall  I  give  Maman  any  message  ?" 

"  My  regards." 

Annette  stretched  herself,  her  hands  on  her  waist,  and 
said  in  French : 

"  What  luck  that  you  have  never  loved  me,  Soames  !" 
Then  rising,  she  too  left  the  room.  Soames  was  glad  she 
had  spoken  it  in  French — it  seemed  to  require  no  dealing 
with.  Again  that  other  face — pale,  dark -eyed,  beautiful 
still !  And  there  stirred  far  down  within  him  the  ghost 
of  warmth,  as  from  sparks  lingering  beneath  a  mound  of 
flaky  ash.  And  Fleur  infatuated  with  her  boy  !  Queer 
chance  !  Yet,  was  there  such  a  thing  as  chance  ?  A  man 
went  down  a  street,  a  brick  fell  on  his  head.  Ah  !  that  was 
chance,  no  doubt.  But  this  !  "  Inherited,"  his  girl  had 
said.     She — she  was  "  holding  on  "  ! 


PAUT  m 


CHAPTER  I 

OLD    JOLYON    WALKS 

Tv/OFOLD  impulse  had  made  Jolyon  say  to  his  wife  at  break- 
fast :  "  Let's  go  up  to  Lord's  !" 

"  Wanted  " — something  to  abate  the  anxiety  in  which 
those  two  had  Hved  during  the  sixty  hours  since  Jon  had 
brought  Fleur  down.  "  Wanted  " — too,  that  which  might 
assuage  the  pangs  of  memory  in  one  who  knew  he  might  lose 
them  any  day  ! 

Fifty-eight  years  ago  Jolyon  had  become  an  Eton  boy,  for 
old  Jolyon's  whim  had  been  that  he  should  be  canonized 
at  the  greatest  possible  expense.  Year  after  year  he  had  gone 
to  Lord's  from  Stanhope  Gate  with  a  father  whose  youth 
in  the  eighteen-twenties  had  been  passed  without  polish 
in  the  game  of  cricket.  Old  Jolyon  would  speak  quite  openly 
of  swipes,  full  tosses,  half  and  three  -quarter  balls ;  and  young 
Jolyon  with  the  guileless  snobbery  of  youth  had  trembled 
lest  his  sire  should  be  overheard.  Only  in  this  supreme 
matter  of  cricket  he  had  been  nervous,  for  his  father — in 
Crimean  whiskers  then — had  ever  impressed  him  as  the  beau 
ideal.  Though  never  canonized  himself.  Old  Jolyon's 
natural  fastidiousness  and  balance  had  saved  him  from  the 
errors  of  the  vulgar.  How  delicious,  after  howling  in  a  top 
hat  and  a  sweltering  heat,  to  go  home  with  his  father  in  a 
hansom  cab,  bathe,  dress,  and  forth  to  the  "  Disunion  " 
Club,  to  dine  off  whitebait,  cutlets,  and  a  tart,  and  go — 
two  '*  swells,"  old  and  young,  in  lavender  kid  gloves — to  the 
opera  or  play.  And  on  Sunday,  when  the  match  was  over, 
and  his  top  hat  duly  broken,  down  with  his  father  in  a  special 

1017  33* 


ioi8  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hansom  to  the  "  Crown  and  Sceptre,"  and  the  terrace  above 
the  river — the  golden  sixties  when  the  world  was  simple, 
dandies  glamorous,  Democracy  not  born,  and  the  books  of 
Whyte  Melville  coming  thick  and  fast. 

A  generation  later,  with  his  own  boy.  Jolly,  Harrow-button- 
holed with  corn-flowers — by  old  Jolyon's  whim  his  grandson 
had  been  canonized  at  a  trifle  less  expense — again  Jolyon 
had  experienced  the  heat  and  counter-passions  of  the  day, 
and  come  back  to  the  cool  and  the  strawberry  beds  of  Robin 
Hill,  and  billiards  after  dinner,  his  boy  making  the  most 
heart-breaking  flukes  and  trying  to  seem  languid  and  grown- 
up. Those  two  days  each  year  he  and  his  son  had  been  alone 
together  in  the  world,  one  on  each  side — and  Democracy 
just  born  ! 

And  so,  he  had  unearthed  a  grey  top  hat,  borrowed  a  tiny 
bit  of  light -blue  ribbon  from  Irene,  and  gingerly,  keeping 
cool,  by  car  and  train  and  taxi,  had  reached  Lord's  Ground. 
There,  beside  her  in  a  lawn-coloured  frock  with  narrow 
black  edges,  he  had  watched  the  game,  and  felt  the  old  thrill 
stir  within  him. 

When  Soames  passed,  the  day  was  spoiled.  Irene's  face 
was  distorted  by  compression  of  the  lips.  No  good  to  go 
on  sitting  here  with  Soames  or  perhaps  his  daughter  recurring 
in  front  of  them,  like  decimals.     And  he  said: 

"  Well,  dear,  if  you've  had  enough — let's  go  !" 

That  evening  Jolyon  felt  exhausted.  Not  wanting  her 
to  see  him  thus,  he  waited  till  she  had  begun  to  play,  and 
stole  off  to  the  little  study.  He  opened  the  long  window 
for  air,  and  the  door,  that  he  might  still  hear  her  music 
drifting  in;  and,  settled  in  his  father's  old  armchair,  closed 
his  eyes,  with  his  head  against  the  worn  brown  leather. 
Like  that  passage  of  the  Cesar  Franck  Sonata — so  had  been 
his  life  with  her,  a  divine  third  movement.  And  now  this 
business  of  Jon's — this  bad  business  !     Drifted  to  the  edge 


TO  LET  1019 

of  consciousness,  he  hardly  knew  if  it  were  in  sleep  that  he 
smelled  the  scent  of  a  cigar,  and  seemed  to  see  his  father 
in  the  blackness  before  his  closed  eyes.  That  shape  formed, 
went,  and  formed  again;  as  if  in  the  very  chair  where  he 
himself  was  sitting,  he  saw  his  father,  black-coated,  with 
knees  crossed,  glasses  balanced  between  thumb  and  finger; 
saw  the  big  white  moustaches,  and  the  deep  eyes  looking  up 
below  a  dome  of  forehead  and  seeming  to  search  his  own, 
seeming  to  speak.  "  Are  you  facing  it,  Jo  ?  It's  for  you 
to  decide.  She's  only  a  woman  1"  Ah  !  how  well  he  knew 
his  father  in  that  phrase ;  how  all  the  Victorian  Age  came  up 
with  it  !  And  his  answer  "  No,  I've  funked  it — funked 
hurting  her  and  Jon  and  myself.  I've  got  a  heart;  I've 
funked  it."  But  the  old  eyes,  so  much  older,  so  much 
younger  than  his  own,  kept  at  it :  "  It's  your  wife,  your  son ; 
your  past.  Tackle  it,  my  boy  !"  Was  it  a  message  from 
walking  spirit;  or  but  the  instinct  of  his  sire  living  on 
within  him  ?  And  again  came  that  scent  of  cigar  smoke — 
from  the  old  saturated  leather.  Well !  he  would  tackle  it, 
write  to  Jon,  and  put  the  whole  thing  down  in  black  and 
white  1  And  suddenly  he  breathed  with  difficulty,  with  a 
sense  of  suffocation,  as  if  his  heart  were  swollen.  He  got  up 
and  went  out  into  the  air.  The  stars  were  very  bright. 
He  passed  along  the  terrace  round  the  corner  of  the  house, 
tiU,  through  the  window  of  the  music -room,  he  could  see 
Irene  at  the  piano,  with  lamp -light  falling  on  her  powdery 
hair;  withdrawn  into  herself  she  seemed,  her  dark  eyes 
staring  straight  before  her,  her  hands  idle.  Jolyon  saw  her 
raise  those  hands  and  clasp  them  over  her  breast.  '  It's 
Jon,  with  her,'  he  thought ;  '  all  Jon  !  I'm  dving  out  of  her 
— it's  natural !' 

And,  careful  not  to  be  seen,  he  stole  back. 

Next  day, .  after  a  bad  night,  he  sat  down  to  his  task. 
He  wrote  with  difficulty  and  many  erasures. 


1020  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*'  My  dearest  boy, 

"  You  are  old  enough  to  understand  how  very  difficult 
it  is  for  elders  to  give  themselves  away  to  their  young. 
Especially  when — Hke  your  mother  and  myself,  though  I 
shall  never  think  of  her  as  anything  but  young — their  hearts 
are  altogether  set  on  him  to  whom  they  must  confess.  I 
cannot  say  we  are  conscious  of  having  sinned  exactly — people 
in  real  life  very  seldom  are,  I  believe — but  most  persons 
would  say  we  had,  and  at  all  events  our  conduct,  righteous 
or  not,  has  found  us  out.  The  truth  is,  my  dear,  we  both 
have  pasts,  which  it  is  now  my  task  to  make  known  to  you, 
because  they  so  grievously  and  deeply  affect  your  future. 
Many,  very  many  years  ago,  as  far  back  indeed  as  1883,  when 
she  was  only  twenty,  your  mother  had  the  great  and 
lasting  misfortune  to  make  an  unhappy  marriage — no,  not 
with  me,  Jon.  Without  money  of  her  own,  and  with  only 
a  stepmother — closely  related  to  Jezebel — she  was  very 
unhappy  in  her  home  life.  It  was  Fleur's  father  that  she 
married,  m^  cousin  Soames  Forsyte.  He  had  pursued  her 
very  tenaciously  and  to  do  him  justice  was  deeply  in  love 
with  her.  Within  a  week  she  knew  the  fearful  mistake  she 
had  made.  It  was  not  his  fault ;  it  was  her  error  of  judgment 
— her  misfortune." 

So  far  Jolyon  had  kept  some  semblance  of  irony,  but  now 
his  subject  carried  him  away. 

"  Jon,  I  want  to  explain  to  you  if  I  can — and  it's  very 
hard — how  it  is  that  an  unhappy  marriage  such  as  this  can 
so  easily  come  about.  You  will  of  course  say:  *  If  she  didn't 
really  love  him  how  could  she  ever  have  married  him  ?' 
You  would  be  right  if  it  were  not  for  one  or  two  rather 
terrible  considerations.  From  this  initial  mistake  of  hers 
all  the  subsequent  trouble,  sorrow,  and  tragedy  have  come, 
and  so  I  must  make  it  clear  to  you  if  I  can.     You  see,  Jon, 


TO  LET  I02I 

in  those  davs  and  even  to  this  day — indeed,  I  don't  see,  fur 
all  the  talk  of  enlightenment,  how  it  can  well  be  otherwise — 
most  girls  are  married  ignorant  of  the  sexual  side  of  life. 
Even  if  they  know  what  it  means  they  have  not  ex-perienced 
it.  That's  the  cruz.  It  is  this  actual  lack  of  experience, 
whatever  verbal  knowledge  they  have,  which  makes  all  the 
difference  and  all  the  trouble.  In  a  vast  number  of  marriages 
— and  your  mother's  was  one — girls  are  not  and  cannot 
be  certain  whether  they  love  the  man  they  marry  or  not; 
they  do  not  know  until  after  that  act  of  union  which  makes 
the  reality  of  marriage.  Now,  in  many,  perhaps  in  most 
doubtful  cases,  this  act  cements  and  strengthens  the  attach- 
ment, but  in  other  cases,  and  your  mother's  was  one,  it  is  a 
revelation  of  mistake,  a  destruction  of  such  attraction  as 
there  was.  There  is  nothing  more  tragic  in  a  woman's  life 
than  such  a  revelation,  growing  daily,  nightly  clearer. 
Coarse-grained  and  unthinking  people  are  apt  to  laugh  at 
such  a  mistake,  and  say,  '  Wnat  a  fuss  about  nothing  i' 
Narrow  and  self-righteous  people,  only  capable  of  judging 
the  lives  of  others  by  their  own,  are  apt  to  condemn  those 
who  make  this  tragic  error,  to  condemn  them  for  Hfe  to 
the  dungeons  they  have  made  for  themselves.  You  know 
the  expression:  '  She  has  made  her  bed,  she  must  he  on  it  !' 
It  is  a  hard-mouthed  sajdng,  quite  unworthy  of  a  gentleman 
or  lady  in  the  best  sense  of  those  words;  and  I  can  use  no 
stronger  condemnation.  I  have  not  been  what  is  called 
a  moral  man,  but  I  wish  to  use  no  words  to  you,  my  dear. 
which  will  make  you  think  lightly  of  ties  or  contracts  into 
which  you  enter.  Heaven  forbid  !  But  with  the  experience 
of  a  life  behind  me  I  do  say  that  those  who  condemn  the 
victims  of  these  tragic  mistakes,  condemn  them  and  hold 
out  no  hands  to  help  them,  are  inhuman,  or  rather  they 
would  be  if  they  had  the  understanding  to  know  what 
they  are  doing.     But  they  haven't  1     Let  them  go  !     They 


1022  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

are  as  much  anathema  to  me  as  I,  no  doubt,  am  to 
them.  I  have  had  to  say  all  this,  because  I  am  going  to 
put  you  into  a  position  to  judge  your  mother,  and  you  are 
very  young,  without  experience  of  what  life  is.  To  go  on 
with  the  story.  After  three  years  of  effort  to  subdue  her 
shrinking — I  was  going  to  say  her  loathing  and  it's  not  too 
strong  a  word,  for  shrinking  soon  becomes  loathing  under 
such  circumstances — three  years  of  what  to  a  sensitive, 
beauty-loving  nature  like  your  mother's,  Jon,  was  torment, 
she  met  a  young  man  who  fell  in  love  with  her.  He  was  the 
architect  of  this  very  house  that  we  Hve  in  now,  he  was 
building  it  for  her  and  Fleur's  father  to  live  in,  a  new  prison 
to  hold  her,  in  place  of  the  one  she  inhabited  with  him  in 
London.  Perhaps  that  fact  played  some  part  in  what  came 
of  it.  But  in  any  case  she,  too,  fell  in  love  with  him.  I 
know  it's  not  necessary  to  explain  to  you  that  one  does  not 
precisely  choose  with  whom  one  will  fall  in  love.  It  comes. 
Very  well  !  It  came.  I  can  imagine — though  she  never 
said  much  to  me  about  it^ — the  struggle  that  then  took  place 
in  her,  because,  Jon,  she  was  brought  up  strictly  and  was 
not  light  in  her  ideas — not  at  all.  However,  this  was  an 
overwhelming  feeling,  and  it  came  to  pass  that  they  loved 
in  deed  as  well  as  in  thought.  Then  came  a  fearful  tragedy. 
I  must  tell  you  of  it  because  if  1  don't  you  will  never  under- 
stand the  real  situation  that  you  have  now  to  face.  The 
man  whom  she  had  married — Soames  Forsyte,  the  father 
of  Fleur — one  night,  at  the  height  of  her  passion  for  this 
young  man,  forcibly  reasserted  his  rights  over  her.  The 
next  day  she  met  her  lover  and  told  him  of  it.  Whether 
he  committed  suicide  or  whether  he  was  accidentally  run 
over  in  his  distraction,  we  never  knew;  but  so  it  was.  Think 
of  your  mother  as  she  was  that  evening  v^hen  she  heard  of 
his  death.  I  happened  to  see  her.  Your  grandfather 
sent  me  to  help  her  if  I  could.     I  only  just  saw  her,  before 


TO  LET  1023 

the  door  was  shut  against  me  by  her  husband.  But  I  have 
never  forgotten  her  face,  I  can  see  it  now.  I  was  not  in  love 
with  her  then,  not  for  twelve  years  after,  but  I  have  never 
forgotten.  My  dear  boy — it  is  not  easy  to  write  like  this. 
But  you  see,  I  must.  Your  mother  is  wrapped  up  in  you, 
utterly,  devotedly.  I  don't  wish  to  write  harshly  of  Soames 
Forsyte.  I  don't  think  harshly  of  him.  I  have  long  been 
sorry  for  him;  perhaps  I  was  sorry  even  then.  As  the 
world  judges  she  was  in  error,  he  within  his  rights.  He 
loved  her — in  his  way.  She  was  his  fro-perty.  That  is  the 
view  he  holds  of  life — of  human  feelings  and  hearts — property. 
It's  not  his  fault — so  was  he  born.  To  me  it  is  a  view  that 
has  always  been  abhorrent — so  was  I  born  !  Knowing  you 
as  I  do,  I  feel  it  cannot  be  otherwise  than  abhorrent  to  you. 
Let  me  go  on  with  the  story.  Your  mother  fled  from  his 
house  that  night ;  for  twelve  years  she  lived  quietly  alone  with- 
out companionship  of  any  sort,  until  in  1899  her  husband — 
you  see,  he  was  still  her  husband,  for  he  did  not  attempt  to 
divorce  her,  and  she  of  course  had  no  right  to  divorce  him 
— became  conscious,  it  seems,  of  the  want  of  children,  and 
commenced  a  long  attempt  to  induce  her  to  go  back  to  him 
and  give  him  a  child.  I  was  her  trustee  then,  under  your 
Grandfather's  Will,  and  I  watched  this  going  on.  While 
watching,  I  became  attached  to  her,  devotedly  attached. 
His  pressure  increased,  till  one  day  she  came  to  me  here 
and  practically  put  herself  under  my  protection.  Her 
husband,  who  was  kept  informed  of  all  her  movements, 
attempted  to  force  us  apart  by  bringing  a  divorce  suit,  or 
possibly  he  really  meant  it,  I  don't  know;  but  anyway  our 
names  were  publicly  joined.  That  decided  us,  and  we 
became  united  in  fact.  She  was  divorced,  married  me,  and 
you  were  born.  We  have  lived  in  perfect  happiness,  at 
least  I  have,  and  I  believe  your  mother  also.  Soames,  soon 
after  the  divorce,  married  Fleur's  mother,  and  she  was  born. 


1024  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

That  is  the  story,  jon.     I  have  told  it  you,  because  by  the 

affection   which   we   see   you   have   formed   for   this   man's 

daughter  you  are  bUndly  moving  toward  what  must  utterly 

destroy  your  mother's  happiness,  if  not  your  own.     I  don't 

wish  to  speak  of  myself,  because  at  my  age  there's  no  use 

supposing  I  shall  cumber  the  ground  much  longer,  besides, 

what  I  should  suffer  would  be  mainly  on  her  account,  and 

on  yours.     But  what  I  want  you  to  realize  is  that  feelings 

of  horror  and  aversion  such  as  those  can  never  be  buried 

or  forgotten.     They  are  alive  in  her  to-day.     Only  yesterday 

at  Lord's  we  happened  to  see  Soames  Forsyte.     Her  face, 

if  you  had  seen  it,  would  have  convinced  you.     The  idea 

that  you  should  marry  his  daughter  is  a  nightmare  to  her, 

Jon.     I  have  nothing  to  say  against  Fleur  save  that  she  is 

his  daughter.     But  your  children,  if  you  married  her,  would 

be  the  grandchildren  of  Soames,  as  much  as  of  your  mother, 

of  a  man  who  once  owned  your  mother  as  a  man  might  own 

a  slave.     Think  what  that  would  mean.     By  such  a  marriage 

you  enter  the  camp  which  held  your  mother  prisoner  and 

wherein  she  ate  her  heart  out.     You  are  just  on  the  threshold 

of  life,  you  have  only  known  this  girl  two  months,   and 

however  deeply  you  think  you  love  her,  I  appeal  to  you  to 

break  it  off  at  once.     Don't  give  your  mother  this  rankling 

pain  and  humiliation  during  the  rest  of  her  life.     Young 

though   she   will   always   seem   to    me,    she    is    fifty-seven. 

Except  for  us  two  she  has  no  one  in  the  world.     She  will 

soon  have  only  you.     Pluck  up  your  spirit,  Jon,  and  break 

away.     Don't    put    this    cloud    and    barrier    between   you. 

Don't  break  her  heart  !     Bless  you,  my  dear  boy,  and  again 

forgive  me  for  all  the  pain  this  letter  must  bring  you — we 

tried  to  spare  it  you,  but  Spain — it  seems — was  no  good. 

"  Ever  your  devoted  father 

"JoLYON  Forsyte.*' 


TO  LET  1025 

Having  finished  his  confession,  Jolyon  sat  with  a  thin 
cheek  on  his  hand,  re-reading.  There  were  things  in  it 
which  hurt  him  so  much,  when  he  thought  of  Jon  reading 
them,  that  he  nearly  tore  the  letter  up.  To  speak  of  such 
things  at  all  to  a  bov — his  own  boy — to  speak  of  them  in 
relation  to  his  own  wife  and  the  boy's  own  mother,  seemed 
dreadful  to  the  reticence  of  his  Forsyte  soul.  And  vet 
without  speaking  of  them  how  make  Jon  understand  the 
reahty,  the  deep  cleavage,  the  ineffaceable  scar  r  Without 
them,  how  justify  this  stifling  of  the  boy's  love  :  He  might 
just  as  well  not  write  at  all ! 

He  folded  the  confession,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  It 
was — thank  Heaven! — Saturday;  he  had  till  Sunday  even- 
ing to  think  it  over;  for  even  if  posted  now  it  could  not 
reach  Jon  till  Monday.  He  felt  a  curious  rehef  at  this 
delay,  and  at  the  fact  that,  whether  sent  or  not,  it  was 
written. 

In  the  rose  garden,  which  had  taken  the  place  of  the  old 
fernery,  he  could  see  Irene  snipping  and  pruning,  with  a 
Httle  basket  on  her  arm.  She  was  never  idle,  it  seemed  to 
him,  and  he  envied  her  now  that  he  himself  was  idle  nearly 
all  his  time.  He  went  down  to  her.  She  held  up  a  stained 
glove  and  smiled.  A  piece  of  lace  tied  under  her  chin 
concealed  her  hair,  and  her  oval  face  with  its  still  dark 
brows  looked  very  young. 

"  The  green  fly  are  awful  this  year,  and  yet  it's  cold. 
You  look  tired,  Jolyon." 

Jolyon  took  the  confession  from  his  pocket.  '*  I've  been 
writing  this.     I  think  you  ought  to  see  it  ?" 

"  To  Jon  ?"  Her  whole  face  had  changed,  in  that  instant, 
becoming  almost  haggard. 

"  Yes;  the  murder's  out." 

He  gave  it  to  her,  and  walked  away  among  the  roses. 
Presently,   seeing  that   she   had   finished   reading  and   was 


102  6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

standing  quite  still  with  the  sheets  of  the  letter  against  her 
skirt,  he  came  back  to  her. 

"Well?" 

"  It's  wonderfully  put.  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be  put 
better.     Thank  you,  dear." 

"  Is  there  anything  you  would  like  left  out  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No;  he  must  know  all,  if  he's  to  understand." 

"  That's  what  I  thought,  but — I  hate  it  !" 

He  had  the  feeling  that  he  hated  it  more  than  she — to 
him  sex  was  so  much  easier  to  mention  between  man  and 
woman  than  between  man  and  man;  and  she  had  always 
been  more  natural  and  frank,  not  deeply  secretive  like  his 
Forsyte  self. 

*'  I  wonder  if  he  will  understand,  even  now,  Jolyon  ? 
He's  so  young;  and  he  shrinks  from  the  physical." 

"  He  gets  that  shrinking  from  my  father,  he  was  as 
fastidious  as  a  girl  in  all  such  matters.  Would  it  be  better 
to  rewrite  the  whole  thing,  and  just  say  you  hated  Soames  ?" 

Irene  shook  her  head. 

*'  Hate's  only  a  word.  It  conveys  nothing.  No,  better 
as  it  is." 

"  Very  well.     It  shall  go  to-morrow." 

She  raised  her  face  to  his,  and  in  sight  of  the  big  house's 
many  creepered  windows,  he  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

CONFESSION 

Late  that  same  afternoon,  Jolyon  had  a  nap  in  the  old 
armchair.  Face  down  on  his  knee  was  La  Rotisserie  de  la 
Rgine  Pedauque^  and  just  before  he  fell  asleep  he  had  been 
thinking:  '  As  a  people  shall  we  ever  really  like  the  French  ? 
Will  they  ever  really  like  us  !'  He  himself  had  always  liked 
the  French,  feeling  at  home  with  their  wit,  their  taste, 
their  cooking.  Irene  and  he  had  paid  many  visits  to  France 
before  the  War,  when  Jon  had  been  at  his  private  school. 
His  romance  with  her  had  begun  in  Paris — his  last  and  most 
enduring  romance.  But  the  French — no  Englishman  could 
like  them  who  could  not  see  them  in  some  sort  with  the  de- 
tached aesthetic  eye  !  And  with  that  melancholy  conclusion 
he  had  nodded  off. 

When  he  woke  he  saw  Jon  standing  between  him  and  the 
window.  The  boy  had  evidently  come  in  from  the  garden 
and  was  waiting  for  him  to  wake.  Jolyon  smiled,  still  half 
asleep.  How  nice  the  chap  looked — sensitive,  affectionate, 
straight  !  Then  his  heart  gave  a  nasty  jump ;  and  a  quaking 
sensation  overcame  him.  Jon  !  That  confession  !  He 
controlled  himself  with  an  effort.  "  Why,  Jon,  where  did 
you  spring  from  ?" 

Jon  bent  over  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

Only  then  he  noticed  the  look  on  the  boy's  face. 

"  I  came  home  to  tell  you  something.  Dad." 

With  all  his  might  Jolyon  tried  to  get  the  better  of  the 
jumping,  gurgling  sensations  within  his  chest. 

"  Well,  sit  down,  old  man.     Have  you  seen  your  mother  ?" 

1027 


1028  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"No."  The  boy's  flushed  look  gave  place  to  pallor;  he 
sat  down  on  the  arm  of  the  old  chair,  as,  in  old  days,  Jolyon 
himself  used  to  sit  beside  his  own  father,  installed  in  its 
recesses.  Right  up  to  the  time  of  the  rupture  in  their 
relations  he  had  been  wont  to  perch  there — had  he  now 
reached  such  a  moment  with  his  own  son  ?  All  his  life  he  had 
hated  scenes  like  poison,  avoided  rows,  gone  on  his  own  way 
quietly  and  let  others  go  on  theirs.  But  now — it  seemed — 
at  the  very  end  of  things,  he  had  a  scene  before  him  more 
painful  than  any  he  had  avoided.  He  drew  a  visor  down 
over  his  emotion,  and  waited  for  his  son  to  speak. 

"  Father,"  said  Jon  slowly,  "  Fleur  and  I  are  engaged." 

*  Exactly  !'  thought  Jolyon,  breathing  with  difHculty. 

"  I  know  that  you  and  Mother  don't  like  the  idea.  Fleur 
says  that  Mother  was  engaged  to  her  father  before  you 
married  her.  Of  course  I  don't  know  what  happened,  but 
it  must  be  ages  ago.  I'm  devoted  to  her.  Dad,  and  she 
says  she  is  to  me." 

Jolyon  uttered  a  queer  sound,  half  laugh,  half  groan. 

"  You  are  nineteen,  Jon,  and  I  am  seventy -two.  How 
are  we  to  understand  each  other  in  a  matter  like  this,  eh  ?" 

"  You  love  Mother,  Dad;  you  must  know  what  we  feel. 
It  isn't  fair  to  us  to  let  old  things  spoil  our  happiness,  is  it  ?" 

Brought  face  to  face  with  his  confession,  Jolyon  resolved 
to  do  without  it  if  by  any  means  he  could.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  boy's  arm. 

"  Look,  Jon  I  I  might  put  you  off  with  talk  about  your 
both  being  too  young  and  not  knowing  your  own  minds,  and 
aU  that,  but  you  wouldn't  listen,  besides,  it  doesn't  meet 
the  case — Youth,  unfortunately,  cures  itself.  You  talk 
lightly  about  '  old  things  like  that,'  knowing  nothing — as 
you  say  truly — of  what  happened.  Now,  have  I  ever  given 
you  reason  to  doubt  my  love  for  you,  or  my  word  ?" 

At  a  less  anxious  moment  he  might  have  been  amused 


TO  LET  1029 

by  the  conflict  his  words  aroused — the  boy's  eager  clasp, 
to  reassure  him  on  these  points,  the  dread  on  his  face  of 
what  that  reassurance  would  bring  forth;  but  he  could  only 
feel  grateful  for  the  squeeze. 

"  Very  well,  you  can  believe  what  I  tell  you.  If  you 
don't  give  up  this  love  affair,  you  will  make  Mother  wretched 
to  the  end  of  her  days.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  the  past, 
whatever  it  was,  can't  be  buried — It  can't  indeed." 

Jon  got  off  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

'  The  girl ' — thought  Jolyon — '  there  she  goes — starting 
up  before  him — life  itself — eager,  pretty,  loving  !' 

"  I  can't,  Father;  how  can  I — just  because  you  say  that  ? 
Of  course  I  can't  !" 

"  Jon,  if  you  knew  the  story  you  would  give  this  up 
without  hesitation ;  you  would  have  to  !  Can't  you  believe 
me  ?" 

"  How  can  you  tell  what  I  should  think  ?  Father,  I 
love  her  better  than  anjahing  in  the  world." 

Jolyon's  face  twitched,  and  he  said  with  painful  slowness : 

"  Better  than  your  mother,  Jon  ?" 

From  the  boy's  face,  and  his  clenched  fists  Jolyon  realized 
the  stress  and  struggle  he  was  going  through. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  burst  out,  "  I  don't  know  !  But  to 
give  Fleur  up  for  nothing — for  something  I  don't  under- 
stand, for  something  that  I  don't  beheve  can  really  matter 
half  so  much,  will  make  me — make  me " 

"  Make  you  feel  us  unjust,  put  a  barrier — yes.  But  that's 
better  than  going  on  with  this." 

"  I  can't.  Fleur  loves  me,  and  I  love  her.  You  want 
me  to  trust  you;  why  don't  you  trust  me.  Father?  We 
wouldn't  want  to  know  anything — we  wouldn't  let  it  make 
any  difference.  It'll  only  make  us  both  love  you  and  Mother 
all  the  more." 

Jolyon  put  his  hand  into  his  breast  pocket,  but  brought 


1030  I'HE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

it  out  again  empty,  and  sat,  clucking  his  tongue  against  his 
teeth. 

"  Think  what  your  mother's  been  to  you,  Jon  !  She  has 
nothing  but  you;  I  shan't  last  much  longer." 

"  Why  not  ?     It  isn't  fair  to Why  not  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Jolyon,  rather  coldly,  "  because  the  doctors 
tell  me  I  shan't;  that's  all." 

"  Oh  !  Dad  !"  cried  Jon,  and  burst  into  tears. 

This  downbreak  of  his  son,  whom  he  had  not  seen  cry 
since  he  was  ten,  moved  Jolyon  terribly.  He  recognized 
to  the  full  how  fearfully  soft  the  boy's  heart  was,  how  much 
he  would  suffer  in  this  business,  and  in  life  generally.  And 
he  reached  out  his  hand  helplessly — not  wishing,  indeed 
not  daring  to  get  up. 

"  Dear  man,"  he  said,  "  don't — or  you'll  make  me  !" 

Jon  smothered  down  his  paroxysm,  and  stood  with  face 
averted,  very  still. 

*  What  now  ?'  thought  Jolyon.  *  What  can  I  say  to 
move  him  ?' 

"  By  the  way,  don't  speak  of  that  to  Mother,"  he  said; 
"  she  has  enough  to  frighten  her  with  this  affair  of  yours. 
I  know  how  you  feel.  But,  Jon,  you  know  her  and  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  we  wouldn't  wish  to  spoil  your  happiness 
lightly.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  we  don't  care  for  anything 
but  your  happiness — at  least,  with  me  it's  just  yours  and 
Mother's  and  with  her  just  yours.  It's  all  the  future  for 
you  both  that's  at  stake." 

Jon  turned.  His  face  was  deadly  pale;  his  eyes,  deep 
in  his  head,  seemed  to  burn. 

"  What  is  it  ?     What  is  it  ?     Don't  keep  me  like  this  !" 

Jolyon,  who  knew  that  he  was  beaten,  thrust  his  hand 
again  into  his  breast  pocket,  and  sat  for  a  full  minute, 
breathing  with  difficulty,  his  eyes  closed.  The  thought 
passed  through  his  mind :  *  I've  had  a  good  long  innings — 


TO  LET  103 1 

some  pretty  bitter  moments — this  is  the  worst  !'  Then  he 
brought  his  hand  out  with  the  letter,  and  said  with  a  sort 
of  fatigue:  "Well,  Jon,  if  you  hadn't  come  to-day,  I  was 
going  to  send  you  this.  I  wanted  to  spare  you — I  wanted 
to  spare  your  mother  and  myself,  but  I  see  it's  no  good. 
Read  it,  and  I  think  I'll  go  into  the  garden."  He  reached 
forward  to  get  up. 

Jon,  who  had  taken  the  letter,  said  quickly,  "  No,  I'll 
go  " ;  and  was  gone. 

Jolyon  sank  back  in  his  chair.  A  blue -bottle  chose  that 
moment  to  come  buzzing  round  him  with  a  sort  of  fury; 
the  sound  was  homely,  better  than  nothing.  .  .  .  Where 
had  the  boy  gone  to  read  his  letter  ?  The  wretched  letter — 
the  wretched  story  !  A  cruel  business — cruel  to  her — to 
Soames — to  those  two  children — to  himself  1  .  .  .  His 
heart  thumped  and  pained  him.  Life — its  loves — its  work — 
its  beauty — its  aching,  and — its  end  !  A  good  time;  a 
fine  time  in  spite  of  all;  until — you  regretted  that  you  had 
ever  been  born.  Life — it  wore  you  down,  yet  did  not  make 
you  want  to  die — that  was  the  cunning  evil !  Mistake  to 
have  a  heart  !  Again  the  blue -bottle  came  buzzing — bring- 
ing in  all  the  heat  and  hum  and  scent  of  summer — yes,  even 
the  scent — as  of  ripe  fruits,  dried  grasses,  sappy  shrubs, 
and  the  vanilla  breath  of  cows.  And  out  there  somewhere 
in  tl>e  fragrance  Jon  would  be  reading  that  letter,  turning 
and  twisting  its  pages  in  his  trouble,  his  bewilderment  and 
trouble — breaking  his  heart  about  it  !  The  thought  made 
Jolyon  acutely  miserable.  Jon  was  such  a  tender-hearted 
chap,  affectionate  to  his  bones,  and  conscientious,  too — 
it  was  so  unfair,  so  damned  unfair  1  He  remembered  Irene 
saying  to  him  once :  "  Never  was  any  one  born  more  loving 
and  lovable  than  Jon."  Poor  little  Jon  !  His  world  gone 
up  the  spout,  all  of  a  summer  afternoon  !  Youth  took  things 
so  hard  !     And  stirred,  tormented  by  that  vision  of  Youth 


1032  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

taking  things  hard,  Jolyon  got  out  of  his  chair,  and  went  to 
the  window.  The  boy  was  nowhere  visible.  And  he 
passed  out.  If  one  could  take  any  help  to  him  now — one 
must  ! 

He    traversed    the    shrubbery,    glanced    into    the    walled 
garden — no  Jon  !     Nor  where  the  peaches  and  the  apricots 
were  beginning  to  swell  and  colour.     He  passed  the  Cupressus 
trees,  dark  and  spiral,  into  the  meadow.     Where  had  the 
boy  got  to  ?     Had  he  rushed  down  to  the  coppice — his  old 
hunting-ground  ?     Jolyon  crossed  the  rows  of  hay.     They 
would   cock  it  on  Monday  and   be   carrying  the  day  after, 
if  rain  held  off.     Often  they  had  crossed  this  field  together — 
hand  in  hand,  when  Jon  was  a  little  chap.     Dash  it  !     The 
golden  age  was  over  by  the  time  one  was  ten  !     He  came  to 
the  pond,  where  flies  and  gnats  were  dancing  over  a  bright 
reedy  surface;  and  on  into  the  coppice.     It  was  cool  there, 
fragrant  of  larches.     Still  no  Jon  !     He  called.     No  answer  ! 
On  the  log  seat  he  sat  down,  nervous,  anxious,  forgetting  his 
own  physical  sensations.     He  had  been  wrong  to  let  the  boy 
get  away  with  that  letter ;  he  ought  to  have  kept  him  under 
his  eye  from  the  start  !     Greatly  troubled,  he  got  up  to 
retrace  his  steps.     At  the  farm -buildings  he  called  again, 
and  looked  into  the  dark  cow-house.     There  in  the  cool, 
and  the  scent  of  vanilla  and  ammonia,  away  from  flies,  the 
three  Alderneys  were  chewing  the  quiet  cud;  just  milked, 
waiting  for  evening,  to  be  turned  out  again  into  the  lower 
field.     One  turned  a  lazy  head,  a  lustrous  eye;  Jolyon  could 
see  the  slobber  on  its  grey  lower  lip.     He  saw  everything 
with  passionate  clearness,  in  the  agitation  of  his  nerves — 
all  that  in  his  time  he  had  adored  and  tried  to  paint — wonder 
of  light  and  shade  and  colour.     No  wonder  the  legend  put 
Christ  into  a  manger — what  more  devotional  than  the  eyes 
and  moonwhite  horns  of  a  chewing  cow  in  the  warm  dusk  ! 
He  called  again.     No  answer  !     And  he  hurried  away  out 


TO  LET  1033 

of  the  coppice,  past  the  pond,  up  the  hill.  Oddly  ironical — 
now  he  came  to  think  of  it — if  Jon  had  taken  the  gruel  of 
his  discovery  down  in  the  coppice  where  his  mother  and 
Bosinney  in  those  old  days  had  made  the  plunge  of  acknow- 
ledging their  love.  Where  he  himself,  on  the  log  seat  the 
Sunday  morning  he  came  back  from  Paris,  had  realized  to 
the  full  that  Irene  had  become  the  world  to  him.  That 
would  have  been  the  place  for  Irony  to  tear  the  veil  from 
before  the  eyes  of  Irene's  boy  !  But  he  was  not  here  ! 
Where  had  he  got  to  ?     One  must  find  the  poor  chap  ! 

A  gleam  of  sun  had  come,  sharpening  to  his  hurrying 
senses  all  the  beauty  of  the  afternoon,  of  the  tall  trees  and 
lengthening  shadows,  of  the  blue,  and  the  white  clouds, 
the  scent  of  the  hay,  and  the  cooing  of  the  pigeons ;  and  the 
flower  shapes  standing  tall.  He  came  to  the  rosery,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  roses  in  that  sudden  sunlight  seemed  to  him 
unearthly.  "  Rose,  you  Spaniard  !"  Wonderful  three 
words  !  There  she  had  stood  by  that  bush  of  dark  red  roses ; 
had  stood  to  read  and  decide  that  Jon  must  know  it  all  ! 
He  knew  all  now  !  Had  she  chosen  wrong  ?  He  bent  and 
sniffed  a  rose,  its  petals  brushed  his  nose  and  trembling  lips; 
nothing  so  soft  as  a  rose-leaf's  velvet,  except  her  neck — 
Irene  !  On  across  the  lawn  he  went,  up  the  slope,  to  the 
oak-tree.  Its  top  alone  was  glistening,  for  the  sudden  sun  was 
away  over  the  house;  the  lower  shade  was  thick,  blessedly 
cool — he  was  greatly  overheated.  He  paused  a  minute 
with  his  hand  on  the  rope  of  the  swing — Jolly,  Holly — Jon  ! 
The  old  swing  !  And  suddenly,  he  felt  horribly — deadly 
ill.  *  I've  overdone  it  !'  he  thought:  '  by  Jove!  I've  over- 
done it — after  all !'  He  staggered  up  toward  the  terrace, 
dragged  himself  up  the  steps,  and  fell  against  the  wall  of 
the  house.  He  leaned  there  gasping,  his  face  buried  in  the 
honeysuckle  that  he  and  she  had  taken  such  trouble  with  that 
it  might  sweeten  the  air  which  drifted  in.     Its  fragrance 


1034  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

mingled  with  awful  pain.  *  My  love  !'  he  thought ;  *  the 
boy  !'  And  with  a  great  effort  he  tottered  in  through  the 
long  window,  and  sank  into  old  Jolyon's  chair.  The  book 
was  there,  a  pencil  in  it ;  he  caught  it  up,  scribbled  a  word  on 
the  open  page.  .  .  .  His  hand  dropped.  ...  So  it  was 
like  this — was  it  ?  .  .  . 

There  was  a  great  wrench;  and  darkness.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  III 

IRENE    ! 

When  Jon  rushed  away  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  ran 
along  the  terrace  and  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  in  fear 
and  confusion.  Leaning  against  the  creepered  wall  he  tore 
open  the  letter.  It  was  long — very  long  !  This  added  to 
his  fear,  and  he  began  reading.  When  he  came  to  the 
words :  "  It  was  Fleur's  father  that  she  married,"  everything 
seemed  to  spin  before  him.  He  was  close  to  a  window, 
and  entering  by  it,  he  passed,  through  music -room  and  hall, 
up  to  his  bedroom.  Dipping  his  face  in  cold  water,  he  sat 
on  his  bed,  and  went  on  reading,  dropping  each  finished  page 
on  the  bed  beside  him.  His  father's  writing  was  easy  to  read 
— he  knew  it  so  well,  though  he  had  never  had  a  letter  from 
him  one  quarter  so  long.  He  read  with  a  dull  feeling — 
imagination  only  half  at  work.  He  best  grasped,  on  that 
first  reading,  the  pain  his  father  must  have  had  in  writing 
such  a  letter.  He  let  the  last  sheet  fall,  and  in  a  sort  of 
mental,  moral  helplessness  began  to  read  the  first  again. 
It  all  seemed  to  him  disgusting — dead  and  disgusting.  Then, 
suddenly,  a  hot  wave  of  horrified  emotion  tingled  through 
him.  He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  His  mother  !  Fleur's 
father  !  He  took  up  the  letter  again,  and  read  on  mechani- 
cally. And  again  came  the  feeling  that  it  was  all  dead  and 
disgusting;  his  own  love  so  different  !  This  letter  said  his 
mother — and  her  father  !     An  awful  letter  ! 

Property  !  Could  there  be  men  who  looked  on  women 
as  their  property  ?  Faces  seen  in  street  and  countryside 
came  thronging  up  before  him — red,  stock-fish  faces;  hard, 

1035 


1036  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

dull  faces;  prim,  dry  faces;  violent  faces;  hundreds,  thousands 
of  them  !  How  could  he  know  what  men  who  had  such 
faces  thought  and  did  ?  He  held  his  head  in  his  hands  and 
groaned.  His  mother  !  He  caught  up  the  letter  and  read 
on  again:  "horror  and  aversion — alive  in  her  to-day  .  .  . 
your  children  .  .  .  grandchildren  ...  of  a  man  who 
once  owned  your  mother  as  a  man  might  own  a  slave.  .  .  ." 
He  got  up  from  his  bed.  This  cruel  shadowy  past,  lurking 
there  to  murder  his  love  and  Fleur's,  was  true,  or  his  father 
could  never  have  written  it.  '  Why  didn't  they  tell  me  the 
first  thing,'  he  thought,  '  the  day  I  first  saw  Fleur  f  They 
knew  I'd  seen  her.  They  were  afraid,  and — now — I've — 
got  it  !'  Overcome  by  misery  too  acute  for  thought  or 
reason,  he  crept  into  a  dusky  corner  of  the  room  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor.  He  sat  there,  like  some  unhappy  little 
animal.  There  was  comfort  in  dusk,  and  the  floor — as  if 
he  were  back  in  those  days  when  he  played  his  battles  sprawl- 
ing all  over  it.  He  sat  there  huddled,  his  hair  ruffled,  his 
hands  clasped  round  his  knees,  for  how  long  he  did  not  know. 
He  was  wrenched  from  his  blank  wretchedness  by  the  sound 
of  the  door  opening  from  his  mother's  room.  The  blinds 
were  down  over  the  windows  of  his  room,  shut  up  in  his 
absence,  and  from  where  he  sat  he  could  only  hear  a  rustle, 
her  footsteps  crossing,  till  beyond  the  bed  he  saw  her  standing 
before  his  dressing-table.  She  had  something  in  her  hand. 
He  hardly  breathed,  hoping  she  would  not  see  him,  and  go 
away.  He  saw  her  touch  things  on  the  table  as  if  they  had 
some  virtue  in  them,  then  face  the  window — grey  from  head 
to  foot  like  a  ghost.  The  least  turn  of  her  head,  and  she 
must  see  him!  Her  lips  moved:  "Oh!  Jon!"  She  was 
speaking  to  herself;  the  tone  of  her  voice  troubled  Jon's 
heart.  He  saw  in  her  hand  a  little  photograph.  She  held 
it  toward  the  light,  looking  at  it — very  small.  He  knew  it — 
one  of  himself  as  a  tiny  boy,  which  she  always  kept  in  her 


TO  LET  1037 

bag.  His  heart  beat  fast.  And,  suddenly  as  if  she  had 
heard  it,  she  turned  her  eyes  and  saw  him.  At  the  gasp 
she  gave,  and  the  movement  of  her  hands  pressing  the 
photograph  against  her  breast,  he  said : 

"  Yes,  it's  me." 

She  moved  over  to  the  bed,  and  sat  down  on  it,  quite 
close  to  him,  her  hands  still  clasping  her  breast,  her  feet 
among  the  sheets  of  the  letter  which  had  slipped  to  the  floor. 
She  saw  them,  and  her  hands  grasped  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
She  sat  very  upright,  her  dark  eyes  fixed  on  him.  At  last 
she  spoke. 

"  Well,  Jon,  you  know,  I  see." 

"  Yes." 

"  You've  seen  Father  ?" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  till  she  said : 

"  Oh  !  my  darling  !" 

"  It's  all  right."  The  emotions  in  him  were  so  violent 
and  so  mixed  that  he  dared  not  move — resentment,  despair, 
and  yet  a  strange  yearning  for  the  comfort  of  her  hand  on 
his  forehead. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

There  was  another  long  silence,  then  she  sot  up.  She 
stood  a  moment,  very  still,  made  a  little  movement  with  her 
hand,  and  said :  "  My  darling  boy,  my  most  darling  boy, 
don't  think  of  me — think  of  yourself,"  and,  passing  round 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  went  back  into  her  room. 

Jon  turned — curled  into  a  sort  of  ball,  as  might  a  hedgehog 
— into  the  corner  made  by  the  tw^o  walls. 

He  must  have  been  twenty  minutes  there  before  a  cry 
roused  him.  It  came  from  the  terrace  below.  He  got  up, 
scared.  Again  came  the  cry:  ''Jon!"  His  mother  was 
calling  !     He  ran  out   and   down  the   stairs,   through   the 


1038  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

empty  dining-room  into  the  study.  She  was  kneeling  before 
the  old  armchair,  and  his  father  was  lying  back  quite  white, 
his  head  on  his  breast,  one  of  his  hands  resting  on  an  open 
book,  with  a  pencil  clutched  in  it — more  strangely  still  than 
anything  he  had  ever  seen.  She  looked  round  wildly,  and 
said: 

"  Oh  !  Jon— he's  dead— he's  dead  !" 

Jon  flung  himself  down,  and  reaching  over  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  where  he  had  lately  been  sitting,  put  his  lips  to  the 
forehead.    Icy  cold  !    How  could — how  could  Dad  be  dead, 

when  only  an  hour  ago !   His  mother's  arms  were  round 

the  knees;  pressing  her  breast  against  them.  "  Why — why 
wasn't  I  with  him  ?"  he  heard  her  whisper.  Then  he  saw 
the  tottering  word  "  Irene  "  pencilled  on  the  open  page, 
and  broke  down  himself.  It  was  his  first  sight  of  human 
death,  and  its  unutterable  stillness  blotted  from  him  all 
other  emotion;  all  else,  then,  was  but  preliminary  to  this  ! 
All  love  and  life,  and  joy,  anxiety,  and  sorrow,  all  movement, 
light  and  beauty,  but  a  beginning  to  this  terrible  white 
stillness.  It  made  a  dreadful  mark  on  him;  all  seemed 
suddenly  little,  futile,  short.  He  mastered  himself  at  last, 
got  up,  and  raised  her. 

"  Mother  !  don't  cry— Mother  !" 

Some  hours  later,  when  all  was  done  that  had  to  be,  and 
his  mother  was  lying  down,  he  saw  his  father  alone,  on  the 
bed,  covered  with  a  white  sheet.  He  stood  for  a  long  time 
gazing  at  that  face  which  had  never  looked  angry — always 
whimsical,  and  kind.  "  To  be  kind  and  keep  your  end  up — 
there's  nothing  else  in  it,"  he  had  once  heard  his  father  say. 
How  wonderfully  Dad  had  acted  up  to  that  philosophy  ! 
He  understood  now  that  his  father  had  known  for  a  long 
time  past  that  this  would  come  suddenly — known,  and  not 
said  a  word.  He  gazed  with  an  awed  and  passionate 
reverence.     The  loneliness  of  it — just  to  spare  his  mother 


TO  LET  1039 

and  himself  !     His  own  trouble  seemed  small  while  he  was 
looking  at  that   face.     The  word  scribbled  on  the  page  ! 
The   farewell  word  !     Now  his   mother  had   no   one    but 
himself  !     He  went  up  close  to  the  dead  face — not  changed 
at   all,   and  yet   completely   changed.     He   had   heard   his 
father  say  once  that  he  did  not   beheve  in  consciousness 
surviving  death,  or  that  if  it  did  it  might  be  just  survival 
till  the  natural  age  Hmit  of  the  body  had  been  reached — 
the  natural  term  of  its  inherent  vitaHty;  so  that  if  the  body 
were  broken  by  accident,  excess,  violent  disease,  conscious- 
ness might  still  persist  till,  in  the  course  of  Nature  uninter- 
fered   with,   it   would   naturally  have   faded   out.     It   had 
struck  him  because  he  had  never  heard  any  one  else  suggest 
it.     When  the  heart  failed  like  this — surely  it  was  not  quite 
natural  !     Perhaps    his    father's    consciousness    was    in    the 
room   with  him.     Above   the   bed  hung  a  picture   of  his 
father's   father.     Perhaps   his  consciousness,   too,   was   still 
alive;  and  his  brother's — his  half-brother,  who  had  died  in 
the  Transvaal.     Were  they  all  gathered  round  this  bed  ? 
Jon  kissed  the  forehead,  and  stole  back  to  his  own  room. 
The  door  between  it  and  his  mother's  was  ajar;  she  had 
evidently   been   in — everything   was   ready   for   him,   even 
some  biscuits  and  hot  milk,  and  the  letter  no  longer  on  the 
floor.     He  ate  and  drank,  watching  the  last  light  fade.     He 
did  not  try  to  see  into  the  future — just  stared  at  the  dark 
branches  of  the  oak-tree,  level  with  his  window,  and  felt  as 
if  Hfe  had  stopped.     Once  in  the  night,  turning  in  his  heavy 
sleep,  he  was  conscious  of  something  white  and  still,  beside 
his  bed,  and  started  up. 
His  mother's  voice  said: 

"  It*s  only  I,  Jon  dear  !"     Her  hand  pressed  his  forehead 
gently  back;  her  white  figure  disappeared. 

Alone  !     He  fell  heavily  asleep  again,  and  dreamed   he 
saw  his  mother's  name  crawling  on  his  bed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOAMES    COGITATES 

The  announcement  in  ^he  ^imes  of  his  cousin  Jolyons' 
death  affected  Soames  quite  simply.  So  that  chap  was  gone  ! 
There  had  never  been  a  time  in  their  two  lives  when  love 
had  not  been  lost  between  them.  That  quick-blooded 
sentiment  hatred  had  run  its  course  long  since  in  Soames' 
heart,  and  he  had  refused  to  allow  any  recrudescence,  but 
he  considered  this  early  decease  a  piece  of  poetic  justice. 
For  twenty  years  the  fellow  had  enjoyed  the  reversion  of 
his  wife  and  house,  and — he  was  dead  !  The  obituary 
notice,  which  appeared  a  little  later,  paid  Jolyon — he  thought 
— too  much  attention.  It  spoke  of  that  "  diligent  and 
agreeable  painter  whose  work  we  have  come  to  look  on  as 
typical  of  the  best  late -Victorian  water-colour  art."  Soames, 
who  had  almost  mechanically  preferred  Mole,  Morpin, 
and  Caswell  Baye,  and  had  always  sniffed  quite  audibly 
when  he  came  to  one  of  his  cousin's  on  the  line,  turned 
The  Times  with  a  crackle. 

He  had  to  go  up  to  Town  that  morning  on  Forsyte  affairs, 
and  was  fully  conscious  of  Gradman's  glance  sidelong  over 
his  spectacles.  The  old  clerk  had  about  him  an  aura  of 
regretful  congratulation.  He  smelled,  as  it  were,  of  old 
days.  One  could  almost  hear  him  thinking:  "  Mr.  Jolyon, 
ye-es — just  my  age,  and  gone — dear,  dear  !  I  dare  say  she 
feels  it.  She  was  a  naice-lookin'  woman.  Flesh  is  flesh  ! 
They've  given  'im  a  notice  in  the  papers.  Fancy  !"  His 
atmosphere  in  fact  caused  Soames  to  handle  certain  leases 
and  conversions  with  exceptional  swiftness. 

X040 


TO  LET  1 04 1 

"  About  that  settlement  on  Miss  Fleur,  Mr.  Soames  ?" 

"  I've  thought  better  of  that,"  answered  Soames  shortly. 

"  Aoh  !  I'm  glad  of  that.  I  thought  you  were  a  little 
hasty.     The  times  do  change." 

How  this  death  would  affect  Fleur  had  begun  to  trouble 
Soames.  He  was  not  certain  that  she  knew  of  it — she 
seldom  looked  at  the  paper,  never  at  the  births,  marriages, 
and  deaths. 

He  pressed  matters  on,  and  made  his  way  to  Green  Street 
for  lunch.  Winifred  was  almost  doleful,  jack  Cardigan 
had  broken  a  splashboard,  so  far  as  one  could  make  out, 
and  would  not  be  "  fit  "  for  some  time.  She  could  not  get 
used  to  the  idea. 

"  Did  Profond  ever  get  off  ?"  he  said  suddenly. 

"  He  got  off,"  replied  Winifred,  "  but  where — I  don't 
know." 

Yes,  there  it  was — impossible  to  tell  anything  !  Not 
that  he  wanted  to  know.  Letters  from  x\nnette  were  coming 
from  Dieppe,  where  she  and  her  mother  were  staying. 

**  You  saw  that  fellow's  death,  I  suppose  ?" 

'*  Yes,"  said  Winifred.  "  I'm  sorry  for — for  his  children. 
He  was  very  amiable,"  Soames  uttered  a  rather  queer  sound. 
A  suspicion  of  the  old  deep  truth — that  men  were  judged 
in  this  world  rather  by  what  they  were^  than  by  what  they 
iid — crept  and  knocked  resentfully  at  the  back  doors  of  his 
mind. 

"  I  know  there  was  a  superstition  to  that  effect,"  he 
muttered. 

"  One  must  do  him  justice  now  he'?  dead." 

*'  I  should  like  to  have  done  him  justice  before,"  said 
Soames;  "  but  I  never  had  the  chance.  Have  you  got  a 
*  Baronetage  '  here  r" 

'*  Yes;  in  that  bottom  row." 

Soames  took  out  a  fat  red  book,  and  ran  over  the  leaves. 

34 


1042  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Mont — Sir  Lawrence,  9th  Bt.,  cr.  1620,  e.  s.  of  Geoffrey, 
8th  Bt.,  and  Lavinia,  daur.  of  Sir  Charles  Muskham,  Bt.,  of 
Muskham  Hall,  Shrops:  marr.  1890  Emily,  daur.  of  Conway 
Charwell,  Esq.,  of  Condaford  Grange,  co.  Oxon;  i  son,  heir 
Michael  Conway,  b.  1895,  2  daurs.  Residence:  Lippinghall 
Manor,  Folwell,  Bucks.  Clubs:  Snooks':  Coffee  House: 
Aeroplane.     See  Bidlicott." 

"  H'm  !"  he  said.     "  Did  you  ever  know  a  publisher  ?" 
"  Uncle  Timothy." 
"  Alive,  I  mean." 

"  Monty  knew  one  at  his  Club.     He  brought  him  here 
to  dinner  once.     Monty  was  always  thinking  of  writing  a 
book,  you  know,  about  how  to  make  money  on  the  turf. 
He  tried  to  interest  that  man." 
"  Well  ?" 

"  He  put  him  on  to  a  horse — for  the  Two  Thousand. 
We  didn't  see  him  again.  He  was  rather  smart,  if  I  re- 
member." 

"  Did  it  win  ?" 

"  No;  it  ran  last,  I  think.  You  know  Monty  really  was 
quite  clever  in  his  way." 

"  Was  he  ?"  said  Soames.  "  Can  you  see  any  connection 
between  a  sucking  baronet  and  publishing?" 

**  People  do  all  sorts  of  things  nowadays,"  replied 
Winifred.  "  The  great  stunt  seems  not  to  be  idle — so 
different  from  our  time.  To  do  nothing  was  the  thing 
then.     But  I  suppose  it'll  come  again." 

"  This  young  Mont  that  I'm  speaking  of  is  very  sweet  on 
Fleur.  If  it  would  put  an  end  to  that  other  affair  I  might 
encourage  it." 

"  Has  he  got  style  ?"  asked  Winifred. 

"He's  no  beauty;  pleasant  enough,  with  some  scattered 
brains.  There's  a  good  deal  of  land,  I  believe.  He  seems 
genuinely  attached.     But  I  don't  know." 


TO  LET  1043 

"  No,"  murmured  Winifred ;  "  it's  very  difficult.  I  always 
found  it  best  to  do  nothing.  It  is  such  a  bore  about  Jack; 
now  we  shan't  get  away  till  after  Bank  Holiday.  Well,  the 
people  are  always  amusing,  I  shall  go  into  the  Park  and 
watch  them." 

"  If  I  were  you,"  said  Soames,  "  I  should  have  a  country 
cottage,  and  be  out  of  the  way  of  holidays  and  strikes  when 
you  want." 

"  The  country  bores  me,"  answered  Winifred,  "  and  I 
found  the  railway  strike  quite  exciting." 

Winifred  had  always  been  noted  for  sang-froid. 

Soames  took  his  leave.  All  the  way  down  to  Reading 
he  debated  whether  he  should  tell  Fleur  of  that  boy's  father's 
death.  It  did  not  alter  the  situation  except  that  he  would 
be  independent  now,  and  only  have  his  mother's  opposition 
to  encounter.  He  would  come  into  a  lot  of  money,  no 
doubt,  and  perhaps  the  house — the  house  built  for  Irene 
and  himself — the  house  whose  architect  had  wrought  his 
domestic  ruin.  His  daughter — mistress  of  that  house  ! 
That  would  be  poetic  justice  !  Soames  uttered  a  little 
mirthless  laugh.  He  had  designed  that  house  to  re-establish 
his  failing  union,  meant  it  for  the  seat  of  his  descendants, 
if  he  could  have  induced  Irene  to  give  him  one  !  Her  son 
and  Fleur  !  Their  children  would  b«,  in  some  sort,  offspring 
of  the  union  between  himself  and  her  ! 

The  theatricality  in  that  thought  was  repulsive  to  his 
sober  sense.  And  yet — it  would  be  the  easiest  and  wealthiest 
way  out  of  the  impasse,  now  that  Jolyon  was  gone.  The 
juncture  of  two  Forsyte  fortunes  had  a  kind  of  conservative 
charm.  And  she — Irene — would  be  linked  to  him  once  more. 
Nonsense  !     Absurd  !     He  put  the  notion  from  his  head. 

On  arriving  home  he  heard  the  click  of  billiard-balls, 
and  through  the  window  saw  young  Mont  sprawling  over 
the  table.     Fleur,  with  her  cue  akimbo,  was  watching  with 


1044  ^^HE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

a  smile.  How  pretty  she  looked  !  No  wonder  that  young 
fellow  was  out  of  his  mind  about  her.  A  title — land  !  There 
was  little  enough  in  land,  these  days;  perhaps  less  in  a  title. 
The  old  Forsytes  had  always  had  a  kind  of  contempt  for 
thles,  rather  remote  and  artificial  things — not  worth  the 
money  they  cost,  and  having  to  do  with  the  Court.  They 
had  all  had  that  feehng  in  difiering  measure — Soames  re- 
membered. Swithin,  indeed,  in  his  most  expansive  days 
had  once  attended  a  Levee.  He  had  come  away  saying 
he  shouldn't  go  again — "  all  that  small  fry."  It  was 
suspected  that  he  had  looked  too  big  in  knee-breeches. 
Soames  remembered  how  his  own  mother  had  wished  to 
be  presented  because  of  the  fashionable  nature  of  the  per- 
formance, and  how  his  father  had  put  his  foot  down  with 
unwonted  decision.  What  did  she  want  with  that  peacock- 
ing— wasting  time  and  money;  there  was  nothing  in  it  ! 

The  instinct  which  had  made  and  kept  the  British  Com- 
mons the  chief  power  in  the  State,  a  feeling  that  their  own 
world  was  good  enough  and  a  little  better  than  any  other 
because  it  was  their  world,  had  kept  the  old  Forsytes  singu- 
larly free  of  "  flummery,"  as  Nicholas  had  been  wont  to  call 
it  when  he  had  the  gout.  Soames'  generation,  more  self- 
conscious  and  ironical,  had  been  saved  by  a  sense  of  Swithin 
in  knee-breeches.  While  the  third  and  the  fourth  genera- 
tion, as  it  seemed  to  him,  laughed  at  everything. 

However,  there  was  no  harm  in  the  young  fellow's  being 
heir  to  a  title  and  estate — a  thing  one  couldn't  help.  He 
entered  quietly,  as  Mont  missed  his  shot.  He  noted  the 
young  man's  eyes,  fixed  on  Fleur  bending  over  in  her  turn; 
and  the  adoration  in  them  almost  touched  him. 

She  paused  with  the  cue  poised  on  the  bridge  of  her  slim 
hand,  and  shook  her  crop  of  short  dark  chestnut  hair. 

"  I  shall  never  do  it." 

"  *  Nothing  venture.'  " 


TO  LET  1045 

"  All  right."     The  cue  struck,  the  ball  rolled.     "  There  !" 

"  Bad  luck  !     Never  mind  !" 

Then  they  saw  him,  and  Soames  said: 

"  I'll  mark  for  you." 

He  sat  down  on  the  raised  seat  beneath  the  marker,  trim 
and  tired,  furtively  studying  those  two  young  faces.  When 
the  game  was  over  Mont  came  up  to  him. 

"  I've  started  in,  sir.  Rum  game,  business,  isn't  it  ? 
I  suppose  you  saw  a  lot  of  human  nature  as  a  solicitor." 

"  I  did." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I've  noticed:  People  are  quite 
on  the  wrong  tack  in  offering  less  than  they  can  aiford  to  give ; 
they  ought  to  offer  more,  and  work  backward." 

Soames  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  Suppose  the  more  is  accepted  ?" 

"That  doesn't  matter  a  little  bit,"  said  Mont;  "it's 
much  more  paying  to  abate  a  price  than  to  increase  it.  For 
instance,  say  we  offer  an  author  good  terms — he  naturally 
takes  them.  Then  we  go  into  it,  find  we  can't  publish  at 
a  decent  profit  and  tell  him  so.  He's  got  confidence  in  us 
because  we've  been  generous  to  him,  and  he  comes  down 
like  a  lamb,  and  bears  us  no  malice.  But  if  we  offer  him  poor 
terms  at  the  start,  he  doesn't  take  them,  so  we  have  to 
advance  them  to  get  him,  and  he  thinks  us  damned  screws 
into  the  bargain." 

"Try  buying  pictures  on  that  system,"  said  Soames; 
"  an  offer  accepted  is  a  contract — haven't  you  learned  that  ?" 

Young  Mont  turned  his  head  to  where  Fleur  was  standing 
in  the  window. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  I  had.  Then  there's  another 
thing.  Always  let  a  man  off  a  bargain  if  he  wants  to  be 
let  off." 

"  As  adve:;  'st     ent  ?"  said  Soames  dryly. 
"  Of  cci;ioc  it  ;j  ;  but  I  meant  on  principle." 


1046  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Does  your  firm  work  on  those  lines  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mont,  "  but  it'll  come." 

"  And  they  will  go." 

"  No,  really,  sir.  Pm  making  any  number  of  observations, 
and  they  all  confirm  my  theory.  Human  nature  is  con- 
sistently underrated  in  business,  people  do  themselves  out 
of  an  awful  lot  of  pleasure  and  profit  by  that.  Of  course, 
you  must  be  perfectly  genuine  and  open,  but  that's  easy 
if  you  feel  it.  The  more  human  and  generous  you  are  the 
better  chance  you've  got  in  business." 

Soames  rose. 

"  Are  you  a  partner  ?" 

"  Not  for  six  months,  yet." 

"  The  rest  of  the  firm  had  better  make  haste  and  retire.'* 

Mont  laughed. 

"  You'll  see,"  he  said.  "  There's  going  to  be  a  big  change. 
The  possessive  principle  has  got  its  shutters  up." 

"  What  ?"  said  Soames. 

"The  house  is  to  let  !     Good-bye,  sir;  I'm  off  now." 

Soames  watched  his  daughter  give  her  hand,  saw  her  wince 
at  the  squeeze  it  received,  and  distinctly  heard  the  young 
man's  sigh  as  he  passed  out.  Then  she  came  from  the 
window,  trailing  her  finger  along  the  mahogany  edge  of  the 
billiard-table.  Watching  her,  Soames  knew  that  she  was 
going  to  ask  him  something.  Her  finger  felt  round  the  last 
pocket,  and  she  looked  up. 

"  Have  you  done  anything  to  stop  Jon  writing  to  me, 
Father  ?" 

Soames  shook  his  head. 

"  You  haven't  seen,  then  f"  he  said.  "  His  father  died 
just  a  week  ago  to-day." 

"  Oh  !" 

In  her  startled,  frowning  face  he  saw  the  instant  struggle 
to  apprehend  what  this  would  mean. 


TO  LET  1047 

"  Poor  Jon  !     Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Father  ?" 

"  I  never  know  !"  said  Soames  slowly;  "  you  don't  confide 
in  me." 

"  I  would,  if  you'd  help  me,  dear." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

Fleur  clasped  her  hands.  "  Oh  !  darling — when  one  wants 
a  thing  fearfully,  one  doesn't  think  of  other  people.  Don't 
be  angry  with  me." 

Soames  put  out  his  hand,  as  if  pushing  away  an  aspersion. 

*'  I'm  cogitating,"  he  said.  What  on  earth  had  made 
him  use  a  word  like  that  !  "  Has  young  Mont  been  bother- 
ing you  again  ?" 

Fleur  smiled.  "  Oh  !  Michael  !  He's  always  bothering; 
but  he's  such  a  good  sort — I  don't  mind  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Soames,  "  I'm  tired;  I  shall  go  and  have  a 
nap  before  dinner." 

He  went  up  to  his  picture-gallery,  lay  down  on  the  couch 
there,  and  closed  his  eyes.  A  terrible  responsibility  this 
girl  of  his — whose  mother  was — ah  !  what  was  she  ?  A 
terrible  responsibility  !  Help  her — how  could  he  help  her  ? 
He  could  not  alter  the  fact  that  he  was  her  father.  Or  that 
Irene !  What  was  it  young  Mont  had  said — some  non- 
sense about  the  possessive  instinct — shutters  up To  let  ? 

Silly! 

The  sultry  air,  charged  with  a  scent  of  meadow-sweet, 
of  river  and  roses,  closed  on  his  senses,  drowsing  them. 


CHAPTER   V 


THE    FIXED    IDEA 


"  The  fixed  idea,"  which  has  outrun  more  constables  than 
any  other  form  of  human  disorder,  has  never  more  speed 
and  stamdna  than  when  it  takes  the  avid  guise  of  love.  To 
hedges  and  ditches,  and  doors,  to  humans  without  ideas 
fixed  or  otherwise,  to  perambulators  and  the  contents 
sucking  their  fixed  ideas,  even  to  the  other  sufferers  from 
this  fast  malady — the  fixed  idea  of  love  pays  no  attention. 
It  runs  with  eyes  turned  inward  to  its  own  light,  oblivious 
of  all  other  stars.  Those  with  the  fixed  ideas  that  human 
happiness  depends  on  their  art,  on  vivisecting  dogs,  on  hating 
foreigners,  on  paying  supertax,  on  remaining  Ministers, 
on  making  wheels  go  round,  on  preventing  their  neighbours 
from  being  divorced,  on  conscientious  objection,  Greek 
roots,  Church  dogma,  paradox  and  superiority  to  everybody 
else,  with  other  forms  of  ego -mania — all  are  unstable  com- 
pared with  him  or  her  whose  fixed  idea  is  the  possession 
of  some  her  or  him.  And  though  Fleur,  those  chilly  summer 
days,  pursued  the  scattered  life  of  a  Httle  Forsyte  whose 
frocks  are  paid  for,  and  whose  business  is  pleasure,  she  was — 
as  Winifred  would  have  said  in  the  latest  fashion  of  speech — 
"  honest  to  God  "  indifi^erent  to  it  all.  She  wished  and 
wished  for  the  moon,  which  sailed  in  cold  skies  above  the 
river  or  the  Green  Park  when  she  went  to  Town.  She  even 
kept  Jon's  letters,  covered  with  pink  silk,  on  her  heart,  than 
which  in  days  when  corsets  were  so  low,  sentiment  so 
despised,  and  chests  so  out  of  fashion,  there  could,  perhaps, 
have  been  no  greater  proof  of  the  fixity  of  her  idea. 

1048 


TO  LET  1049 

After  hearing  of  his  father's  death,  she  wrote  to  Jon, 
and  received  his  answer  three  days  later  on  her  return  from 
a  river  picnic.  It  was  his  first  letter  since  their  meeting 
at  June's.  She  opened  it  with  misgiving,  and  read  it  with 
dismay. 

'*  Since  I  saw  you  I've  heard  everything  about  the  past. 
I  won't  tell  it  you — I  think  you  knew  when  we  met  at  June's. 
She  says  you  did.  If  you  did,  Fleur,  you  ought  to  have  told 
me.  I  expect  you  only  heard  your  father's  side  of  it.  I 
have  heard  my  mother's.  It's  dreadful.  Now^  that  she's 
so  sad  I  can't  do  anything  to  hurt  her  more.  Of  course, 
I  long  for  you  all  day,  but  I  don't  believe  now  that  we  shall 
ever  come  together — there's  something  too  strong  pulling 
us  apart." 

So  !  Her  deception  had  found  her  out.  But  Jon — she 
felt — had  forgiven  that.  It  was  w^hat  he  said  of  his  mother 
which  caused  the  fluttering  in  her  heart  and  the  weak  sensa- 
tion in  her  legs. 

Her  first  impulse  w^as  to  reply — her  second,  not  to  reply. 
These  impulses  were  constantly  renewed  in  the  days  which 
followed,  while  desperation  grew  within  her.  She  was  not 
her  father's  child  for  nothing.  The  tenacity  w^hich  had 
at  once  made  and  undone  Soames  w'as  her  backbone,  too, 
frilled  and  embroidered  by  French  grace  and  quickness. 
Instinctively  she  conjugated  the  verb  "  to  have  "  always 
with  the  pronoun  "  I."  She  concealed,  however,  all  signs 
of  her  growing  desperation,  and  pursued  such  river  pleasures 
as  the  winds  and  rain  of  a  disagreeable  July  permitted,  as 
if  she  had  no  care  in  the  world ;  nor  did  any  "  sucking  baronet  " 
ever  neglect  the  business  of  a  publisher  more  consistently 
than  her  attendant  spirit,  Michael  Mont. 

To  Soames  she  was  a  puzzle.  He  was  almost  deceived 
by  this  careless  gaiety.  Almost— because  he  did  not  fail 
to  mark  her  eyes  often  fixed  on  nothing,  and  the  film  of 

34* 


1050  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

light  shining  from  her  bedroom  window  late  at  night.  What 
was  she  thinking  and  brooding  over  into  small  hours  when 
she  ought  to  have  been  asleep  ?  But  he  dared  not  ask  what 
was  in  her  mind;  and, since  that  one  little  talk  in  the  billiard- 
room,  she  said  nothing  to  him. 

In  this  taciturn  condition  of  affairs  it  chanced  that  Winifred 
invited  them  to  lunch  and  to  go  afterward  to  "  a  most 
amusing  little  play,  '  The  Beggar's  Opera  '  "  and  would 
they  bring  a  man  to  make  four  ?  Soames,  whose  attitude 
toward  theatres  was  to  go  to  nothing,  accepted,  because 
Fleur's  attitude  was  to  go  to  everything.  They  motored 
up,  taking  Michael  Mont,  who,  being  in  his  seventh  heaven, 
was  found  by  Winifred  "  very  amusing."  "  The  Beggar's 
Opera  "  puzzled  Soames.  The  people  were  very  unpleasant, 
the  whole  thing  very  cynical.  Winifred  was  "  intrigued  " — 
by  the  dresses.  The  music,  too,  did  not  displease  her.  At 
the  Opera,  the  night  before,  she  had  arrived  too  early  for 
the  Russian  Ballet,  and  found  the  stage  occupied  by  singers, 
for  a  whole  hour  pale  or  apoplectic  from  terror  lest  by  some 
dreadful  inadvertence  they  might  drop  into  a  tune.  Michael 
Mont  was  enraptured  with  the  whole  thing.  And  all  three 
wondered  what  Fleur  was  thinking  of  it.  But  Fleur  was 
not  thinking  of  it.  Her  fixed  idea  stood  on  the  stage  and 
sang  with  Polly  Peachum,  mimed  with  Filch,  danced  with 
Jenny  Diver,  postured  with  Lucy  Lockit,  kissed,  trolled,  and 
cuddled  with  Macheath.  Her  lips  might  smile,  her  hands 
applaud,  but  the  comic  old  masterpiece  made  no  more 
impression  on  her  than  if  it  had  been  pathetic,  like  a  modern 
"  Revue."  When  they  embarked  in  the  car  to  return,  she 
ached  because  Jon  was  not  sitting  next  her  instead  of  Michael 
Mont.  When,  at  some  jolt,  the  young  man's  arm  touched 
hers  as  if  by  accident,  she  only  thought :  '  If  that  were  Jon's 
arm  !'  When  his  cheerful  voice,  tempered  by  her  proxim- 
ity, murmured  above  the  sound  of  the  car's  progress,  she 


TO  LET  105 1 

smiled  and  answered,  thinking:  '  If  that  were  Jon's  voice  !' 
and  when  once  he  said,  "  Fleur,  you  look  a  perfect  angel 
in  that  dress  !"  she  answered,  "  Oh,  do  you  like  it  ?"  thinking, 
*  If  only  Jon  could  see  it  !' 

During  this  drive  she  took  a  resolution.  She  would  go 
to  Robin  Hill  and  see  him — alone;  she  would  take  the  car, 
without  word  beforehand  to  him  or  to  her  father.  It  was 
nine  days  since  his  letter,  and  she  could  wait  no  longer. 
On  Monday  she  would  go  !  The  decision  made  her  well 
disposed  toward  young  Mont.  With  something  to  look 
forward  to  she  could  afford  to  tolerate  and  respond.  He 
might  stay  to  dinner;  propose  to  her  as  usual;  dance  with 
her,  press  her  hand,  sigh — do  what  he  liked.  He  was  only 
a  nuisance  when  he  interfered  with  her  fixed  idea.  She  was 
even  sorry  for  him  so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  be  sorry  for 
anybody  but  herself  just  now.  At  dinner  he  seemed  to 
talk  more  wildly  than  usual  about  what  he  called  "  the  death 
of  the  close  borough  " — she  paid  little  attention,  but  her 
father  seemed  paying  a  good  deal,  with  the  smile  on  his  face 
which  meant  opposition,  if  not  anger. 

"The  younger  generation  doesn't  think  as  you  do,  sir; 
does  it,  Fleur  ?" 

Fleur  shrugged  her  shoulders — the  younger  genera- 
tion was  just  Jon,  and  she  did  not  know  what  he  was 
thinking. 

"  Young  people  will  think  as  I  do  when  they're  my  age, 
Mr.  Mont.     Human  nature  doesn't  change." 

"  I  admit  that,  sir;  but  the  forms  of  thought  change  with 
the  times.  The  pursuit  of  self-interest  is  a  form  of  thought 
that's  going  out." 

"  Indeed  !  To  mind  one's  own  business  is  not  a  form 
of  thought,  Mr.  Mont,  it's  an  instinct." 

Yes,  when  Jon  was  the  business  ! 

"  But    what    is   one's    business,   sir  ?      That's   the   point. 


1052  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Everybody^ s  business  is  going  to  be  one's  business.  Isn't  it, 
Fleur .?" 

Fleur  only  smiled. 

"  If  not,"  added  young  Mont,  "  there'll  be  blood." 

"  People  have  talked  like  that  from  time  immemorial." 

"  But  you'll  admit,  sir,  that  the  sense  of  property  is 
dying  out  ?" 

"  r  should  say  increasing  among  those  who  have  none. 

"  Well,  look  at  me  !  I'm  heir  to  an  entailed  estate.  I 
don't  want  the  thing;  I'd  cut  the  entail  to-morrow." 

"  You're  not  married,  and  you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about." 

Fleur  saw  the  young  man's  eyes  turn  rather  piteously 
upon  her. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  marriage ?"  he  began. 

"  Society  is  built  on  marriage,"  came  from  between  her 
father's  close  lips;  "  marriage  and  its  consequences.  Do  you 
want  to  do  away  with  it  ?" 

Young  Mont  made  a  distracted  gesture.  Silence  brooded 
over  the  dinner  table,  covered  with  spoons  bearing  the 
Forsyte  crest — a  pheasant  proper — under  the  electric  light 
in  an  alabaster  globe.  And  outside,  the  river  evening 
darkened,  charged  with  heavy  moisture  and  sweet  scents. 

*  Monday,'  thought  Fleur ;  '  Monday  !' 


CHAPTER   VI 

DESPERATE 

The  weeks  which  followed  the  death  of  his  father  were  sad 
and  empty  to  the  only  Jolyon  Forsyte  left.  The  necessary 
forms  and  ceremonies — the  reading  of  the  Will,  valuation 
of  the  estate,  distribution  of  the  legacies — were  enacted 
over  the  head,  as  it  were,  of  one  not  yet  of  age.  Jolyon  was 
cremated.  By  his  special  wish  no  one  attended  that  cere- 
mony, or  wore  black  for  him.  The  succession  of  his  property, 
controlled  to  some  extent  by  old  Jolyon's  Will,  left  his  widow 
in  possession  of  Robin  Hill,  with  two  thousand  five  hundred 
pounds  a  year  for  life.  Apart  from  this  the  two  Wills  worked 
together  in  some  complicated  way  to  insure  that  each  of 
Jolyon's  three  children  should  have  an  equal  share  in  their 
grandfather's  and  father's  property  in  the  future  as  in  the 
present,  save  only  that  Jon,  by  virtue  of  his  sex,  would  have 
control  of  his  capital  when  he  was  twenty-one,  while  June 
and  Holly  would  only  have  the  spirit  of  theirs,  in  order 
that  their  children  might  have  the  body  after  them.  If  they 
had  no  children,  it  would  all  come  to  Jon  if  he  outlived  them; 
and  since  June  was  fifty,  and  Holly  nearly  forty,  it  was 
considered  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  that  but  for  the  cruelty 
of  income  tax,  young  Jon  would  be  as  warm  a  man  as  his 
grandfather  when  he  died.  All  this  was  nothing  to  Jon, 
and  little  enough  to  his  mother.  It  was  June  who  did 
everything  needful  for  one  who  had  left  his  affairs  in  perfect 
order.  When  she  had  gone,  and  those  two  were  alone  again 
in  the  great  house,  alone  with  death  drawing  them  together, 
and  love  driving  them  apart,  Jon  passed  very  painful  days 

1053 


1054  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

secretly  disgusted  and  disappointed  with  himself.  His 
mother  would  look  at  him  with  such  a  patient  sadness  which 
yet  had  in  it  an  instinctive  pride,  as  if  she  were  reserving 
her  defence.  If  she  smiled  he  was  angry  that  his  answering 
smile  should  be  so  grudging  and  unnatural.  He  did  not 
judge  or  condemn  her;  that  was  all  too  remote — indeed, 
the  idea  of  doing  so  had  never  come  to  him.  No  !  he  was 
grudging  and  unnatural  because  he  couldn't  have  what  he 
wanted  because  of  her.  There  was  one  alleviation — much 
to  do  in  connection  with  his  father's  career,  which  could  not 
be  safely  entrusted  to  June,  though  she  had  offered  to  under- 
take it.  Both  Jon  and  his  mother  had  felt  that  if  she  took 
his  portfolios,  unexhibited  drawings  and  unfinished  matter, 
away  with  her,  the  work  would  encounter  such  icy  blasts 
from  Paul  Post  and  other  frequenters  of  her  studio,  that  it 
would  soon  be  frozen  out  even  of  her  warm  heart.  On  its 
old-fashioned  plane  and  of  its  kind  the  work  was  good,  and 
they  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  its  subjection  to  ridicule. 
A  one-man  exhibition  of  his  work  was  the  least  testimony 
they  could  pay  to  one  they  had  loved;  and  on  preparation 
for  this  they  spent  many  hours  together.  Jon  came  to  have 
a  curiously  increased  respect  for  his  father.  The  quiet 
tenacity  with  which  he  had  converted  a  mediocre  talent 
into  something  really  individual  was  disclosed  by  these 
researches.  There  was  a  great  mass  of  work  with  a  rare 
continuity  of  growth  in  depth  and  reach  of  vision.  Nothing 
certainly  went  very  deep,  or  reached  very  high — but  such 
as  the  work  was,  it  was  thorough,  conscientious,  and  com- 
plete. And,  remembering  his  father's  utter  absence  of 
"  side  "  or  self-assertion,  the  chaffing  humility  with  which 
he  had  always  spoken  of  his  own  efforts,  ever  calling  himself 
"  an  amateur,"  Jon  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  had  never 
really  known  his  father.  To  take  himself  seriously,  yet 
never   bore  others  by  letting  them  know  that  he  did  so, 


TO  LET  1055 

seemed  to  have  been  his  ruHng  principle.  There  was  some- 
thing in  this  which  appealed  to  the  hoy,  and  made  him 
heartily  endorse  his  mother's  comment:  "He  had  true  re- 
finement; he  couldn't  help  thinking  of  others,  whatever  he 
did.  And  when  he  took  a  resolution  which  went  counter, 
he  did  it  with  the  minimum  of  defiance — not  like  the  Age, 
is  it  ?  Twice  in  his  life  he  had  to  go  against  everything; 
and  yet  it  never  made  him  bitter."  Jon  saw  tears  running 
down  her  face,  which  she  at  once  turned  away  from  him. 
She  was  so  quiet  about  her  loss  that  sometimes  he  had 
thought  she  didn't  feel  it  much.  Now,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  he  felt  how  far  he  fell  short  of  the  reserve  power 
and  dignity  in  both  his  father  and  his  mother.  And, 
stealing  up  to  her,  he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist.  She 
kissed  him  swiftly,  but  with  a  sort  of  passion,  and  went  out 
of  the  room. 

The  studio,  where  they  had  been  sorting  and  labelling, 
had  once  been  Holly's  schoolroom,  devoted  to  her  silkworms, 
dried  lavender,  music,  and  other  forms  of  instruction.  Now, 
at  the  end  of  July,  despite  its  northern  and  eastern  aspects, 
a  warm  and  slumberous  air  came  in  between  the  long-faded 
lilac  linen  curtains.  To  redeem  a  little  the  departed  glory, 
as  of  a  field  that  is  golden  and  gone,  clinging  to  a  room  which 
its  master  has  left,  Irene  had  placed  on  the  paint -stained 
table  a  bowl  of  red  roses.  This,  and  Jolyon's  favourite  cat,, 
who  still  clung  to  the  deserted  habitat,  were  the  pleasant 
spots  in  that  dishevelled,  sad  workroom.  Jon,  at  the  north 
window,  snifhng  air  mysteriously  scented  with  warm  straw- 
berries, heard  a  car  drive  up.  The  lawyers  again  about  some 
nonsense  !  Why  did  that  scent  so  make  one  ache  ?  And 
where  did  it  come  from — there  were  no  strawberry  beds  on 
this  side  of  the  house.  Instinctively  he  took  a  crumpled 
sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  wrote  down  some  broken 
words.     A  warmth  began  spreading  in  his  chest;  he  rubbed 


1056  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  palms  of  his  hands  together.     Presently  he  had  jotted 
this  : 

'  It  I  could  make  a  little  song — 
A  little  song  to  soothe  my  heart ! 
I'd  make  it  all  of  little  things — 
The  plash  of  water,  rub  of  wings, 
The  puffing-otf  of  dandie's  crown, 
The  hiss  of  raindrop  spilling  down, 
The  purr  of  cat,  the  trill  of  bird. 
And  ev'r}-  whispering  I've  heard 
From  willy  \Aind  in  leaves  and  grass, 
And  all  the  distant  drones  that  pass. 
A  song  as  tender  and  as  light 
As  flower,  or  butterfly  in  flight  ; 
And   when  I  saw  it  opening, 
I'd  let  it  fly  and  sing!" 

He  was  still  muttering  it  over  to  himself  at  the  window, 
when  he  heard  his  name  called,  and,  turning  round,  saw 
Fleur.  At  that  amazing  apparition,  he  made  at  first  no 
movement  and  no  sound,  while  her  clear  vivid  glance 
ravished  his  heart.  Then  he  went  forward  to  the  table, 
saying,  "How  nice  of  you  to  come  !"  and  saw  her  flinch 
as  if  he  had  thrown  something  at  her. 

"  I  asked  for  you,"  she  said,  "  and  they  showed  me  up 
here.     But  I  can  go  away  again." 

Jon  clutched  the  paint -stained  table.  Her  face  and 
figure  in  its  frilly  frock  photographed  itself  with  such  startling 
vividness  upon  his  eyes,  that  if  she  had  sunk  through  the 
floor  he  must  still  have  seen  her. 

"  I  know  I  told  you  a  lie,  Jon.  But  I  told  it  out 
of  love." 

"  Yes,  oh  !  yes  !     That's  nothing  !" 

"  I  didn't  answer  your  letter  What  was  the  use — there 
wasn't  anything  to  answer.  I  wanted  to  see  you  instead." 
She  held  out  both  her  hands,  and  Jon  grasped  them 
across  the  table.  He  tried  to  say  something,  but  all  his 
attention    was    given    to    tr^'ing    not    to    hurt    her    hands. 


TO  LET  1057 

His  own  felt  so  hard  and  hers  so  soft.  She  said  almost 
defiantly : 

"  That  old  story — was  it  so  very  dreadful  ?" 

"  Yes."  In  his  voice,  too,  there  was  a  note  of  de- 
fiance. 

She  dragged  her  hands  away.  "  I  didn't  think  in  these 
days  boys  were  tied  to  their  mothers'  apron-strings." 

Jon's  chin  went  up  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  mean  it,  Jon.  What  a  horrible  thing  to 
say!"  Swiftly  she  came  close  to  him.  "Jon,  dear;  I 
didn't  mean  it." 

"  All  right." 

She  had  put  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulder,  and  her 
forehead  down  on  them;  the  brim  of  her  hat  touched  his 
neck,  and  he  felt  it  quivering.  But,  in  a  sort  of  paralysis, 
he  made  no  response.  She  let  go  of  his  shoulder  and  drew 
away. 

"  Well,  I'll  go,  if  you  don't  want  me.  But  I  never  thought 
you'd  have  given  me  up." 

"  I  haven't,^''  cried  Jon,  coming  suddenly  to  life.  "  I 
can't.     I'll  try  again." 

Her  eyes  gleamed,  she  swayed  toward  him.  "  Jon — 
I  love  you  !  Don't  give  me  up  !  If  you  do,  I  don't  know 
what — I  feel  so  desperate.  What  does  it  matter — all  that 
past — compared  with  this  .^" 

She  clung  to  him.  He  kissed  her  eyes,  her  cheeks,  her 
lips.  But  while  he  kissed  her  he  saw  the  sheets  of  that 
letter  fallen  down  on  the  floor  of  his  bedroom — his  father's 
white  dead  face — his  mother  kneeling  before  it.  Fleur's 
whisper,  "  Make  her  !  Promise  !  Oh  !  Jon,  try  !"  seemed 
childish  in  his  ear.     He  felt  curiously  old. 

"  I  promise  !"  he  muttered.  "  Only,  you  don't  under- 
stand." 

"  She  wants  to  spoil  our  lives,  just  because " 


1058  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Yes,  of  what  r" 

Again  that  challenge  in  his  voice,  and  she  did  not  answer. 
Her  arms  tightened  round  him,  and  he  returned  her  kisses; 
but  even  while  he  yielded,  the  poison  worked  in  him,  the 
poison  of  the  letter.  Fleur  did  not  know,  she  did  not  under- 
stand— she  misjudged  his  mother;  she  came  from  the 
enemy's  camp  !  So  lovely,  and  he  loved  her  so — yet,  even 
in  her  embrace,  he  could  not  help  the  memory  of  Holly's 
words :  "  I  think  she  has  a  '  having  '  nature,"  and  his  mother's 
"  My  darling  boy,  don't  think  of  me — think  of  yourself  !" 

When  she  was  gone  like  a  passionate  dream,  leaving  her 
image  on  his  eyes,  her  kisses  on  his  lips,  such  an  ache  in  his 
heart,  Jon  leaned  in  the  window,  listening  to  the  car  bearing 
her  away.  Still  the  scent  as  of  warm  strawberries,  still  the  little 
summer  sounds  that  should  make  his  song;  still  all  the  promise 
of  youth  and  happiness  in  sighing,  floating,  fluttering  July — 
and  his  heart  torn ;  yearning  strong  in  him;  hope  high  in  him 
yet  with  its  eyes  cast  down,  as  if  ashamed.  The  miserable 
task  before  him  !  If  Fleur  was  desperate,  so  was  he — 
watching  the  poplars  swaying,  the  white  clouds  passing, 
the  sunlight  on  the  grass. 

He  waited  till  evening,  till  after  their  almost  silent  dinner, 
till  his  mother  had  played  to  him— and  still  he  waited,  feeling 
that  she  knew  what  he  was  waiting  to  say.  She  kissed  him 
and  went  up -stairs,  and  still  he  lingered,  watching  the  moon- 
light and  the  moths,  and  that  unreality  of  colouring  which 
steals  along  and  stains  a  summer  night.  And  he  would 
have  given  anything  to  be  back  again  in  the  past — barely 
three  months  back;  or  away  forward,  years,  in  the  future. 
The  present  with  this  dark  cruelty  of  a  decision,  one  way 
or  the  other,  seemed  impossible.  He  realized  now  so  much 
more  keenly  what  his  mother  felt  than  he  had  at  first;  as 
if  the  story  in  that  letter  had  been  a  poisonous  germ  pro- 
ducing a   kind  of  fever  of  partisanship,   so  that  he   really 


TO  LET  1059 

felt  there  were  two  camps,  his  mother's  and  his — Fleur's 
and  her  father's.  It  might  be  a  dead  thing,  that  old  tragic 
ownership  and  enmity,  but  dead  things  were  poisonous 
till  time  had  cleaned  them  away.  Even  his  love  felt  tainted, 
less  illusioned,  more  of  the  earth,  and  with  a  treacherous 
lurking  doubt  lest  Fleur,  like  her  father,  might  want  to  own  ; 
not  articulate,  just  a  stealing  haunt,  horribly  unworthy, 
which  crept  in  and  about  the  ardour  of  his  memories, 
touched  with  its  tarnishing  breath  the  vividness  and  grace 
of  that  charmed  face  and  figure — a  doubt,  not  real  enough 
to  convince  him  of  its  presence,  just  real  enough  to  deflower 
a  perfect  faith.  And  perfect  faith,  to  Jon,  not  yet  twenty, 
was  essential.  He  still  had  Youth's  eagerness  to  give  with 
both  hands,  to  take  with  neither — to  give  lovingly  to  one 
who  had  his  own  impulsive  generosity.  Surely  she  had  ! 
He  got  up  from  the  window-seat  and  roamed  in  the  big 
grey  ghostly  room,  whose  walls  were  hung  with  silvered 
canvas.  This  house — his  father  said  in  that  death -bed 
letter — had  been  built  for  his  mother  to  live  in — with  Fleur's 
father  !  He  put  out  his  hand  in  the  half -dark,  as  if  to  grasp 
the  shadowy  hand  of  the  dead.  He  clenched,  trying  to 
feel  the  thin  vanished  fingers  of  his  father;  to  squeeze  them, 
and  reassure  him  that  he — he  was  on  his  father's  side. 
Tears,  prisoned  within  him,  made  his  eyes  feel  dry  and  hot. 
He  went  back  to  the  window.  It  was  warmer,  not  so 
eerie,  more  comforting  outside,  where  the  moon  hung  golden, 
three  days  off  full;  the  freedom  of  the  night  was  comforting. 
If  only  Fleur  and  he  had  met  on  some  desert  island  without 
a  past — and  Nature  for  their  house  !  Jon  had  still  his  high 
regard  for  desert  islands,  where  breadfruit  grew,  and  the 
water  was  blue  above  the  coral.  The  night  was  deep,  was 
free — there  was  enticement  in  it;  a  lure,  a  promise,  a 
refuge  from  entanglement,  and  love  !  Milksop  tied  to  his 
mother's !     His  cheeks  burned.     He  shut  the  window^ 


io6d  the  FORSYTE  SAGA 

drew  curtains  over  it,  switched  oiJ  the  lighted  sconce,  and 
went  up -stairs. 

The  door  of  his  room  was  open,  the  light  turned  up; 
his  mother,  still  in  her  evening  gown,  was  standing  at  the 
window.     She  turned  and  said: 

•'  Sit  down,  Jon ;  let's  talk."  She  sat  down  on  the  window- 
seat,  Jon  on  his  bed.  She  had  her  profile  turned  to  him, 
and  the  beauty  and  grace  of  her  figure,  the  delicate  Hne  of 
the  brow,  the  nose,  the  neck,  the  strange  and  as  it  were 
remote  refinement  of  her,  moved  him.  His  mother  never 
belonged  to  her  surroundings.  She  came  into  them  from 
somewhere — as  it  were  !  Wliat  was  she  going  to  say  to  him, 
who  had  in  his  heart  such  things  to  say  to  her  ? 

"  I  know  Fleur  came  to-day.  I'm  not  surprised."  It  was 
as  though  she  had  added:  "  She  is  her  father's  daughter  !" 
And  Jon's  heart  hardened.     Irene  went  on  quietly: 

'*  I  have  Father's  letter.  I  picked  it  up  that  night  and 
kept  it.     Would  you  like  it  back,  dear  :" 

Jon  shook  his  head. 

"  I  had  read  it,  of  course,  before  he  gave  it  to  you.  It 
didn't  quite  do  justice  to  my  crimdnality." 

"  Mother  1"  burst  from  Jon's  lips. 

"  He  put  it  very  sweetly,  but  I  know  that  in  marrnng 
Fleur's  father  without  love  I  did  a  dreadful  thing.  An 
unhappy  marriage,  Jon,  can  play  such  havoc  with  other  lives 
besides  one's  own.  You  are  fearfully  young,  my  darling, 
and  fearfully  loving.  Do  you  think  you  can  possibly  be 
happy  with  this  girl  ?" 

Staring  at  her  dark  eyes,  darker  now  from  pain,  Jon 
answered : 

"  Yes;  oh  I  yes — if  you  could  be." 

Irene  smiled. 

"  Admiration  of  beauty  and  longing  for  possession  are 
not  love.     If  yours  were  another  case  like  mine,  Jon — v/here 


TO  LET  1061 

the  deepest  things  are  stifled;  the  flesh  joined,  and  the 
spirit  at  war  !" 

"  Why  should  it,  Mother  ?  You  think  she  must  be  like 
her  father,  but  she's  not.     I've  seen  him." 

Again  the  smile  came  on  Irene's  lips,  and  in  Jon  som.ething 
wavered;  there  was  such  irony  and  experience  in  that  smile. 

"  You  are  a  giver,  Jon;  she  is  a  taker." 

That  unworthy  doubt,  that  haunting  uncertainty  again  ! 
He  said  with  vehemence : 

"  She  isn't — she  isn't.     It's  only  because  I  can't   bear  to 

make  you    unhappy.   Mother,  now  that    Father "     He 

thrust  his  fists  against  his  forehead. 

Irene  got  up. 

"  I  told  you  that  night,  dear,  not  to  mind  me.  I  meant  it. 
Think  of  yourself  and  your  own  happiness  i  I  can  stand 
what's  left — I've  brought  it  on  myself." 

Again  the  word  "  Mother  !"  burst  from  Jon's  lips. 

She  came  over  to  him  and  put  her  hands  over  his. 

*'  Do  you  feel  your  head,  darling  :" 

Jon  shook  it.  What  he  felt  was  in  his  chest — a  sort  of 
tearing  asunder  of  the  tissue  there,  by  the  two  loves. 

•'  I  shall  always  love  you  the  same,  Jon,  whatever  you  do. 
You  won't  lose  anything."  She  smoothed  his  hair  gently, 
and  walked  away. 

He  heard  the  door  shut ;  and,  rolling  over  on  the  bed,  lay, 
stifling  his  breath,  with  an  awful  held -up  feeling  within  him. 


CHAPTER   VII 

EMBASSY 

Enquiring  for  her  at  tea  time  Soames  learned  that  Fleur 
had  been  out  in  the  car  since  two.  Three  hours  !  Where 
had  she  gone  ?  Up  to  London  without  a  word  to  him  ? 
He  had  never  become  quite  reconciled  with  cars.  He  had 
embraced  them  in  principle — like  the  born  empiricist, 
or  Forsyte,  that  he  was — adopting  each  symptom  of  progress 
as  it  came  along  with :  '*  Well,  we  couldn't  do  without  them 
now."  But  in  fact  he  found  them  tearing,  great,  smelly 
things.  Obliged  by  Annette  to  have  one — a  Rollhard  with 
pearl-grey  cushions,  electric  light,  little  mirrors,  trays  for 
the  ashes  of  cigarettes,  flower  vases — all  smelling  of  petrol 
and  stephanotis — he  regarded  it  much  as  he  used  to  regard 
his  brother-in-law,  Montague  Dartie.  The  thing  typified 
all  that  was  fast,  insecure,  and  subcutaneously  oily  in 
modern  life.  As  modern  life  became  faster,  looser,  younger, 
Soames  was  becoming  older,  slower,  tighter,  more  and  more 
in  thought  and  language  like  his  father  James  before  him. 
He  was  almost  aware  of  it  himself.  Pace  and  progress 
pleased  him  less  and  less ;  there  was  an  ostentation,  too,  about 
a  car  which  he  considered  provocative  in  the  prevailing 
mood  of  Labour.  On  one  occasion  that  fellow  Sims  had 
driven  over  the  only  vested  interest  of  a  working  man. 
Soames  had  not  forgotten  the  behaviour  of  its  master,  when 
not  many  people  would  have  stopped  to  put  up  with  it. 
He  had  been  sorry  for  the  dog,  and  quite  prepared  to  take 
its  part  against  the  car,  if  that  ruffian  hadn't  been  so  out- 
rageous. With  four  hours  fast  becoming  five,  and  still 
no  Fleur,  all  the  old  car -wise  feelings  he  had  experienced 

1062 


TO  LET  1063 

in  person  and  by  proxy  balled  within  him,  and  sinking 
sensations  troubled  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  At  seven  he 
telephoned  to  Winifred  by  trunk  call.  No  !  Fleur  had 
not  been  to  Green  Street.  Then  where  was  she  ?  Visions 
of  his  beloved  daughter  rolled  up  in  her  pretty  frills,  all 
blood  and  dust -stained,  in  some  hideous  catastrophe,  began 
to  haunt  him.  He  went  to  her  room  and  spied  among  her 
things.  She  had  taken  nothing — no  dressing-case,  no 
jewellery.  And  this,  a  relief  in  one  sense,  increased  his  fears 
of  an  accident.  Terrible  to  be  hf/lpless  when  his  loved 
one  was  missing,  especially  when  he  couldn't  bear  fuss  or 
publicity  of  any  kind  !  What  should  he  do  if  she  were  not 
back  by  nightfall  ? 

At  a  quarter  to  eight  he  heard  the  car.  A  great  weight 
lifted  from  off  his  heart;  he  hurried  down.  She  was  get- 
ting out — pale  and  tired -looking,  but  nothing  wrong.  He 
met  her  in  the  hall. 

"  You've  frightened  me.     Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  To  Robin  Hill.  I'm  sorry,  dear.  I  had  to  go;  I'll  tell 
you  afterward."     And,  with  a  flying  kiss,  she  ran  up -stairs. 

Soames  waited  in  the  drawing-room.  To  Robin  Hill  ! 
What  did  that  portend  ? 

It  was  not  a  subject  they  could  discuss  at  dinner — 
consecrated  to  the  susceptibilities  of  the  butler.  The  agony 
of  nerves  Soames  had  been  through,  the  relief  he  felt  at  her 
safety,  softened  his  power  to  condemn  what  she  had  done, 
or  resist  what  she  was  going  to  do;  he  waited  in  a  relaxed 
stupor  for  her  revelation.  Life  was  a  queer  business. 
There  he  was  at  sixty -five  and  no  more  in  command  of  things 
than  if  he  had  not  spent  forty  years  in  building  up  security 
— always  something  one  couldn't  get  on  terms  with  !  In 
the  pocket  of  his  dinner-jacket  was  a  letter  from  Annette. 
She  was  coming  back  in  a  fortnight.  He  knew  nothing 
of  what  she  had  been  doing  out  there.  And  he  was  glad 
that  he  did  not.     Her  absence  had  been  a  relief.     Out  of 


1064  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

sight  was  out  of  mind  !  And  now  she  was  coming  back. 
Another  worry  !  And  the  Bolderby  Old  Crome  was  gone — 
Dumetrius  had  got  it — all  because  that  anonymous  letter 
had  put  it  out  of  his  thoughts.  He  furtively  remarked  the 
strained  look  on  his  daughter's  face,  as  if  she  too  were  gazing 
at  a  picture  that  she  couldn't  buy.  He  almost  wished  the 
War  back.  Worries  didn't  seem,  then,  quite  so  worrying. 
From  the  caress  in  her  voice,  the  look  on  her  face,  he  became 
certain  that  she  wanted  something  from  him,  uncertain 
whether  it  would  be  wise  of  him  to  give  it  her.  He  pushed 
his  savoury  away  uneaten,  and  even  joined  her  in  a  cigarette. 

After  dinner  she  set  the  electric  piano-player  going. 
And  he  augured  the  worst  when  she  sat  down  on  a  cushion 
footstool  at  his  knee,  and  put  her  hand  on  his. 

"  Darling,  be  nice  to  me.  I  had  to  see  Jon — he  wrote 
to  me.  He's  going  to  try  what  he  can  do  with  his  mother. 
But  I've  been  thinking.  It's  really  in  your  hands,  Father. 
If  you'd  persuade  her  that  it  doesn't  mean  renewing  the 
past  in  any  way  !  That  I  shall  stay  yours,  and  Jon  will 
stay  hers;  that  you  need  never  see  him  or  her,  and  she  need 
never  see  you  or  me  !  Only  you  could  persuade  her,  dear, 
because  only  you  could  promise.  One  can't  promise  for 
other  people.  Surely  it  wouldn't  be  too  awkward  for  you 
to  see  her  just  this  once — now  that  Jon's  father  is  dead  ?" 

"  Too  awkward  ?"  Soames  repeated.  "  The  whole  thing's 
preposterous." 

"  You  know,"  said  Fleur,  without  looking  up,  "  you 
wouldn't  mind  seeing  her,  really." 

Soames  was  silent.  Her  words  had  expressed  a  truth  too 
deep  for  him  to  admit.  She  slipped  her  fingers  between 
his  own — hot,  slim,  eager,  they  clung  there.  This  child 
of  his  would  corkscrew  her  way  into  a  brick  wall  ! 

"  What  am  I  to  do  if  you  won't.  Father  ?"  she  said  very  softly. 

"  I'll  do  anything  for  your  happiness,"  said  Soames; 
"  but  this  isn't  for  your  happiness." 


TO  LET  1065 

"Oh  litis;  it  is!" 

"  It'll  only  stir  things  up,"  he  said  grimly. 

"  But  they  are  stirred  up.  The  thing  is  to  quiet  them.  To 
make  her  feel  that  this  is  just  our  lives,  and  has  nothing  to  do 
with  yours  or  hers.     You  can  do  it,  Father,  I  know  you  can." 

"  You  know  a  great  deal,  then,"  was  Soames'  glum 
answer. 

"  If  you  will,  Jon  and  I  will  wait  a  year — two  years  if  you 
like." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  murmured  Soames,  "  that  you  care 
nothing  about  what  /  feel." 

Fleur  pressed  his  hand  against  her  cheek. 

"  I  do,  darling.  But  you  wouldn't  like  me  to  be  awfully 
miserable."  How  she  wheedled  to  get  her  ends  !  And 
trying  with  all  his  might  to  think  she  reaUy  cared  for  him 
— he  was  not  sure — not  sure.  All  she  cared  for  was  this 
boy  !  Why  should  he  help  her  to  get  this  boy,  who  was 
killing  her  affection  for  himself  .?  Why  should  he  f  By  the 
laws  of  the  Forsytes  it  was  foolish  !  There  was  nothing 
to  be  had  out  of  it — nothing  !  To  give  her  to  that  boy  1 
To  pass  her  into  the  enemy's  camp,  under  the  influence  of  the 
woman  who  had  injured  him  so  deeply  !  Slowly — inevitably 
— he  would  lose  this  flower  of  his  life  !  And  suddenly  he 
was  conscious  that  his  hand  was  wet.  His  heart  gave  a  little 
painful  jump.  He  couldn't  bear  her  to  cry.  He  put  his 
other  hand  quickly  over  hers,  and  a  tear  dropped  on  that,  too. 
He  couldn't  go  on  like  this  !  "  WeU,  well,"  he  said,  "  I'll 
think  it  over,  and  do  what  I  can.  Come,  come  !"  If  she 
must  have  it  for  her  happiness — she  must;  he  couldn't 
refuse  to  help  her.  And  lest  she  should  begin  to  thank  him 
he  got  out  of  his  chair  and  went  up  to  the  piano-player — 
making  that  noise  !  It  ran  down,  as  he  reached  it,  with  a 
faint  buzz.  That  musical  box  of  his  nursery  days:  "The 
Harmonious    Blacksmith,"    "  Glorious    Port  " — the    thing 


io66  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

had  always  made  him  miserable  when  his  mother  set  it 
going  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Here  it  was  again — the  same 
thing,  only  larger,  more  expensive,  and  now  it  played 
"The  Wild  Wild  Women,"  and  "The  Policeman's  Holiday," 
and  he  was  no  longer  in  black  velvet  with  a  sky  blue  collar. 
*  Profond's  right,'  he  thought,  '  there's  nothing  in  it  !  We're 
all  progressing  to  the  grave  !'  And  with  that  surprising 
mental  comment  he  walked  out. 

He  did  not  see  Fleur  again  that  night.  But,  at  breakfast, 
her  eyes  followed  him  about  with  an  appeal  he  could  not 
escape — not  that  he  intended  to  try.  No  !  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  the  nerve-racking  business.  He  would  go 
to  Robin  Hill — to  that  house  of  memories.  Pleasant 
memory — the  last  !  Of  going  down  to  keep  that  boy's 
father  and  Irene  apart  by  threatening  divorce.  He  had  often 
thought,  since,  that  it  had  clinched  their  union.  And,  now, 
he  was  going  to  clinch  the  union  of  that  boy  with  his  girl. 
'  I  don't  know  what  I've  done,'  he  thought,  '  to  have  such 
things  thrust  on  me  !'  He  went  up  by  train  and  down  by 
train,  and  from  the  station  walked  by  the  long  rising  lane, 
still  very  much  as  he  remembered  it  over  thirty  years  ago. 
Funny — so  near  London  !  Some  one  evidently  was  holding 
on  to  the  land  there.  This  speculation  soothed  him, 
moving  between  the  high  hedges  slowly,  so  as  not  to  get 
overheated,  though  the  day  was  chill  enough.  After  all 
was  said  and  done  there  was  something  real  about  land,  it 
didn't  shift.  Land,  and  good  pictures  !  The  values  might 
fluctuate  a  bit,  but  on  the  whole  they  were  always  going  up — 
worth  holding  on  to,  in  a  world  where  there  was  such  a  lot 
of  unreality,  cheap  building,  changing  fashions,  such  a 
"  Here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow  "  spirit.  The  French 
were  right,  perhaps,  with  their  peasant  proprietorship, 
though  he  had  no  opinion  of  the  French.  One's  bit  of 
land  !  Something  solid  in  it  !  He  had  heard  peasant 
proprietors  described  as  a  pig-headed  lot;  had  heard  young 


TO  LET  1067 

Mont  call  his  father  a  pig-headed  Morning  Poster — dis- 
respectful young  devil.  Well,  there  were  worse  things 
than  being  pig-headed  or  reading  the  Morning  Post.  There 
was  Profond  and  his  tribe,  and  all  these  Labour  chaps, 
and  loud -mouthed  politicians,  and  *  wild,  wild  women  '  ! 
A  lot  of  worse  things  !  And,  suddenly,  Soames  became 
conscious  of  feeling  weak,  and  hot,  and  shaky.  Sheer  nerves 
at  the  meeting  before  him  !  As  Aunt  Juley  might  have 
said — quoting  "  Superior  Dosset  " — his  nerves  were  "  in 
a  proper  fantigue."  He  could  see  the  house  now  among 
its  trees,  the  house  he  had  watched  being  built,  intend- 
ing it  for  himself  and  this  woman,  who,  by  such  strange 
fate,  had  lived  in  it  with  another  after  all !  He  began  to 
think  of  Dumetrius,  Local  Loans,  and  other  forms  of  in- 
vestment. He  could  not  afford  to  meet  her  with  his  nerves 
all  shaking;  he  who  represented  the  Day  of  Judgment  for 
her  on  earth  as  it  was  in  heaven;  he,  legal  ownership,  personi- 
fied, meeting  lawless  beauty,  incarnate.  His  dignity  de- 
manded impassivity  during  this  embassy  designed  to  link 
their  offspring,  who,  if  she  had  behaved  herself,  would  have 
been  brother  and  sister.  That  wretched  tune,  "  The 
Wild,  Wild  Women,"  kept  running  in  his  head,  perversely, 
for  tunes  did  not  run  there  as  a  rule.  Passing  the  poplars 
in  front  of  the  house,  he  thought:  *  How  they've  grown; 
I  had  them  planted  !' 

A  maid  answered  his  ring. 

"  Will  you  say — Mr.  Forsyte,  on  a  very  special  matter." 

If  she  realized  who  he  was,  quite  probably  she  would  not 
see  him.  '  By  George  !'  he  thought,  hardening  as  the  tug 
came.     *  It's  a  topsy-turvy  affair  !' 

The  maid  came  back.  "  Would  the  gentleman  state  his 
business,  please  ?" 

"  Say  it  concerns  Mr.  Jon,"  said  Soames. 

And  once  more  he  was  alone  in  that  hall  with  the  pool 
of  grey -white  marble  designed  by  her  first  lover.     Ah  !  she 


ir^S  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Lii  been  i  b^i  Ic: — h^i  loved  r»vo  men,  and  not  him- 
self !  He  zi.:5:  remember  that  when  he  came  face  to  face 
with  her  once  more.  And  snddenlv  he  saw  her  in  the 
openine  chink  be:'.veen  ihe  long  heavy  purple  cnrtains, 
swaving.  as  if  in  hesitation ;  the  old  perfect  poise  and  line, 
the  old  startled  dark -eyed  gravity,  the  old  calm  defensive 
voice:  "  ^^111  you  come  in,  please  :"' 

He  ri55ei  through  that  openi^r.  A?  :?.  the  picture- 
eallerv  and  the  confectioners  shop,  she  seemed  to  him  still 
beautifTil.  And  this  was  the  first  time — the  very  first — 
since  he  married  her  six-and- thirty  yea.rs  ago,  that  he  was 
speakine  to  her  vrlthc-t  the  legal  right  to  call  her  his.  She 
was  not  wearing  hli:k — ^^rne  of  that  fellow's  radical  notions, 
he  supposed. 

"I  apologize  :::  c:~i"g."  he  said  glumly;  "but  this 
business  must  be  settled  one  way  or  the  other/' 

"  Won't  you  sit  do^vn  :'* 

"  No,  thank  you/' 

Aneer  at  his  false  position,  impatience  of  ceremony 
between  them.  m^=terei  hizi.  3.r.d  ^ords  came  rumbling 
out: 

"It's  ar.  izferzal  mischi-ce;  I've  done  iry  best  to  dis- 
courage it.  I  consider  my  daughter  crazy,  but  I've  got  into 
the  hsbit  :f  indulging  her;  thar's  why  I'm  here.  I  suppose 
vou:  r  : :  1. 1  3f  your  son." 

"  Devotedly.'* 

"Well?" 

"  It  rests  with  him." 

He  had  a  itr.it  ::  beinr  ~et  ^ni  bi5ed.  Always — always 
she  had  earned  nirri;  even  in  tnose  oia  nrst  married  days. 

*'  Ir*s  a  mad  notion,"  he  said. 

"  It  b." 

"  If     ":u     had     onlv !      Well — they     might     have 

been '"   he   did  not  finish  that  sentence  '*'  brother  and 

«iste'   and  all   this   savei."  but  he  sa%v  her  shudder  as  if  he 


TO  LET  1069 

had,  and  stung  bv  the  sh-r.t  he  creased  over  to  tie 
window.  Out  there  the  trees  hi.i  not  grown — they 
couldn't,  they  were  eld  \ 

"  So  far  as  I'm  ccncemed,"  he  said,  "  ron  ina.v  m^e  rcnr 
mind  easy.  I  desire  to  see  neitner  yon  nor  touT  son  if  this 
marriage  comes  abont.  Young  people  in  these  days  are — 
are  unaccoim table.  But  I  can't  cear  to  see  my  daughter 
unhappy.     What  am  I  to  say  to  her  when  I  go  back :" 

•'  Please  say  to  her  as  I  said  to  you,  that  it  rests  with  Jon." 

"  You  don't  oppose  it :" 

"  With  all  my  heart;  not  with  my  lips." 

Soames  stood,  biting  his  £nger. 

*'  I  remember  an  evening "'  he  said  suddenly:  and  was 

silent.  Wliat  was  there — ^what  was  there  in  this  woman 
that  would  not  fit  into  the  four  comers  of  his  hate  or  con- 
demnation r     "  Where  is  he — your  son  r" 

"  Up  in  his  fathers  studio,  I  thinL" 

"  Perhaps  you'd  have  him  down." 

He  watched  her  ring  the  beli,  he  watched  the  maid 
come  in. 

"  Please  tell  Mr.  Jon  that  I  want  him." 

"  If  it  rests  with  him,"  said  Soames  hurriedly,  when  the 
maid  was  gone,  "  I  suppose  I  may  take  it  for  granted  that 
this  unnatural  marriage  will  take  place;  in  that  case  there'll 
be  formalities.     Whom  do  I  deal  with — Herring's :" 

Irene  nodded. 

"  You  don't  propose  to  live  with  them :" 

Irene  shook  her  head. 

"  What  happens  to  this  house  r" 

"  It  will  be  as  Jon  wishes." 

"  This  house,"  said  Soames  suddenly:  **  I  had  hopes  when 
I  began  it.  If  they  lire  in  it — their  children  !  They  say 
there's  such  a  thing  as  Nemesis.     Do  you  believe  in  it  /" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  !     You  do  :" 


1070  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  had  come  back  from  the  window,  and  was  standing 
close  to  her,  who,  in  the  curve  of  her  grand  piano,  was,  as 
it  were,  embayed. 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  see  you  again,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Will 
you  shake  hands  " — his  lip  quivered,  the  words  came  out 
jerkily — "  and  let  the  past  die."  He  held  out  his  hand. 
Her  pale  face  grew  paler,  her  eyes  so  dark,  rested  immovably 
on  his,  her  hands  remained  clasped  in  front  of  her.  He 
heard  a  sound  and  turned.  That  boy  was  standing  in  the 
opening  of  the  curtains.  Very  queer  he  looked,  hardly 
recognizable  as  the  young  fellow  he  had  seen  in  the  Gallery 
ofi  Cork  Street — very  queer;  much  older,  no  youth  in  the 
face  at  all — haggard,  rigid,  his  hair  ruffled,  his  eyes  deep  in 
his  head.  Soames  made  an  effort,  and  said  with  a  lift  of 
his  lip,  not  quite  a  smile  nor  quite  a  sneer: 

"  Well,  young  man  !  I'm  here  for  my  daughter;  it  rests 
w'ith  you,  it  seems — this  matter.  Your  mother  leaves  it 
in  your  hands." 

The  boy  continued  staring  at  his  mother's  face,  and 
made  no  answer. 

"  For  my  daughter's  sake  I've  brought  myself  to  come," 
said  Soames.     "  What  am  I  to  say  to  her  when  I  go  back  ?" 

Still  looking  at  his  mother,  the  boy  said,  quietly: 

"Tell  Fleur  that  it's  no  good,  please;  I  must  do  as  my 
father  wished  before  he  died." 

"Jon!" 

"  It's  all  right.  Mother." 

In  a  kind  of  stupefaction  Soames  looked  from  one  to  the 
other;  then,  taking  up  hat  and  umbrella  which  he  had  put 
down  on  a  chair,  he  walked  toward  the  curtains.  The  boy 
stood  aside  for  him  to  go  by.  He  passed  through  and 
heard  the  grate  of  the  rings  as  the  curtains  were  drawn 
behind  him.     The  sound  liberated  something  in  his  chest. 

'  So  that's  that  !'  he  thought,  and  passed  out  of  the  front 
door. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE    DARK    TUNE 

As  Soames  walked  away  from  the  house  at  Robin  Hill  the 
sun  broke  through  the  grev  of  that  chill  afternoon,  in  smoky 
radiance.  So  absorbed  in  landscape  painting  that  he  seldom 
looked  seriously  for  effects  of  Nature  out  of  doors — he  was 
struck  by  that  moody  effulgence — it  mourned  with  a  triumph 
suited  to  his  own  feehng.  Victory  in  defeat  !  His  embassy 
had  come  to  naught.  But  he  was  rid  of  those  people,  had 
regained  his  daughter  at  the  expense  of — her  happiness 
What  would  Fleur  say  to  him  ?  Would  she  beheve  he  had 
done  his  best  ?  And  under  that  sunhght  flaring  on  the  elms, 
hazels,  holHes  of  the  lane  and  those  unexploited  fields, 
Soames  felt  dread.  She  would  be  terribly  upset  !  He  must 
appeal  to  her  pride.  That  boy  had  given  her  up,  declared 
part  and  lot  with  the  woman  who  so  long  ago  had  given  her 
father  up  !  Soames  clenched  his  hands.  Given  him  up, 
and  why  ?  What  had  been  wrong  with  him  ?  And  once 
more  he  felt  the  malaise  of  one  who  contemplates  himself 
as  seen  by  another — like  a  dog  who  chances  on  his  reflection 
in  a  mirror  and  is  intrigued  and  anxious  at  the  unseizable 
thing. 

Not  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  he  dined  in  town  at  the 
Connoisseurs.  While  eating  a  pear  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  him  that,  if  he  had  not  gone  down  to  Robin  Hill,  the  bov 
might  not  have  so  decided.  He  remembered  the  expression 
on  his  face  while  his  mother  was  refusing  the  hand  he  had 
held  out.  A  strange,  an  awkward  thought  !  Had  Fleur 
cooked  her  own  goose  by  trying  to  make  too  sure  ? 

1071 


1072  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

He  reached  home  at  half-past  nine.  While  the  car  was 
passing  in  at  one  drive  gate  he  heard  the  grinding  sputter 
of  a  motor -cycle  passing  out  by  the  other.  Young  Mont, 
no  doubt,  so  Fleur  had  not  been  lonely.  But  he  went  in 
with  a  sinking  heart.  In  the  cream -panelled  drawing-room 
she  was  sitting  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin 
on  her  clasped  hands,  in  front  of  a  white  camellia  plant 
which  filled  the  fireplace.  That  glance  at  her  before  she 
saw  him  renewed  his  dread.  What  was  she  seeing  among 
those  white  camellias  ? 
"  Well,  Father  !" 

Soames  shook  his  head.  His  tongue  failed  him.  This 
was  murderous  work  !  He  saw  her  eyes  dilate,  her  lips 
quivering. 

"  What  ?     What  ?     Quick,  Father  !" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Soames,   "  I — I  did  my  best,  but " 

And  again  he  shook  his  head. 

Fleur  ran  to  him,  and  put  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders. 
"  She  ?" 

"  No,"  muttered  Soames ;  "  he.     I  was  to  tell  you  that 

it  was  no  use;  he  must  do  what  his  father  wished  before  he 

died."     He  caught  her  by  the  waist.     "  Come,  child,  don't 

let  them  hurt  you.     They're  not  worth  your  little  finger." 

Fleur  tore  herself  from  his  grasp. 

"  You  didn't — you  couldn't  have  tried.  You — you 
betrayed  me,  Father  !" 

Bitterly  wounded,  Soames  gazed  at  her  passionate  figure 
writhing  there  in  front  of  him. 

"  You   didn't   try — you   didn't — I   was   a   fool — I   won't 

be H eve  he  could — he  ever  could  !     Only  yesterday  he ! 

Oh  !  why  did  I  ask  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Soames,  quietly,  "  why  did  you  ?  I  swallowed 
my  feelings ;  I  did  my  best  for  you,  against  my  judgment — 
and  this  is  my  reward.     Good-night  !" 


TO  LET  1073 

With  every  nerve  in  his  body  twitching  he  went  toward 
the  door. 

Fleur  darted  after  him. 

"  He  gives  me  up  ?     You  mean  that  ?     Father  I" 

Soames  turned  and  forced  himself  to  answer: 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Fleur.  ''  What  did  you — what  could  you 
have  done  in  those  old  days  ?" 

The  breathless  sense  of  really  monstrous  injustice  cut  the 
power  of  speech  in  Soames'  throat.  What  had  he  done  ! 
What  had  they  done  to  him  !  And  with  quite  unconscious 
dignity  he  put  his  hand  on  his  breast,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  It's  a  shame  !"  cried  Fleur  passionately. 

Soames  went  out.  He  mounted,  slow  and  icy,  to  his 
picture  gallery,  and  paced  among  his  treasures.  Outrageous  ! 
Oh  !  Outrageous  !  She  was  spoiled  !  Ah  !  and  who  had 
spoiled  her  ?  He  stood  still  before  the  Goya  copy.  Accus- 
tomed to  her  own  way  in  everything.  Flower  of  his  life  ! 
And  now  that  she  couldn't  have  it  !  He  turned  to  the 
window  for  some  air.  Daylight  was  dying,  the  moon 
rising,  gold  behind  the  poplars  !  What  sound  was  that  ? 
Why  !  That  piano  thing  !  A  dark  tune,  with  a  thrum 
and  a  throb  !  She  had  set  it  going — what  comfort  could 
she  get  from  that  ?  His  eyes  caught  movement  down  there 
beyond  the  lawn,  under  the  trellis  of  rambler  roses  and  young 
acacia-trees,  where  the  moonlight  fell.  There  she  was, 
roaming  up  and  down.  His  heart  gave  a  little  sickening 
jump.  What  would  she  do  under  this  blow  ?  How  could 
he  tell  ?  What  did  he  know  of  her — he  had  only  loved  her 
all  his  life— looked  on  her  as  the  apple  of  his  eye  !  He  knew 
nothing — had  no  notion.  There  she  was — and  that  dark 
tune — and  the  river  gleaming  in  the  moonlight  ! 

'  I  must  go  out,'  he  thought. 

He  hastened  down  to  the  drawing-room,  lighted  just  as, 

35 


1074  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

he  had  left  ic,  with  the  piano  thrumming  out  that  waltz, 
or  fox-trot,  or  whatever  they  called  it  in  these  days,  and 
passed  through  on  to  the  verandah. 

Where  could  he  watch,  without  her  seeing  him  ?  And 
he  stole  down  through  the  fruit  garden  to  the  boat-house. 
He  was  between  her  and  the  river  now,  and  his  heart  felt 
lighter.  She  was  his  daughter,  and  Annette's — she  wouldn't 
do  anything  foolish ;  but  there  it  was — he  didn't  know  1 
From  the  boat-house  window  he  could  see  the  last  acacia 
and  the  spin  of  her  skirt  when  she  turned  in  her  restless 
march.  That  tune  had  run  down  at  last — thank  goodness  ! 
He  crossed  the  floor  and  looked  through  the  farther  window 
at  the  water  slow-flowing  past  the  lilies.  It  made  little 
bubbles  against  them,  bright  where  a  moon -streak  fell.  He 
remembered  suddenly  that  early  morning  when  he  had  slept 
on  the  house -boat  after  his  father  died,  and  she  had  just 
been  born — nearly  nineteen  years  ago  !  Even  now  he 
recalled  the  unaccustomed  world  when  he  woke  up,  the 
strange  feeling  it  had  given  him.  That  day  the  second 
passion  of  his  life  began — for  this  girl  of  his,  roaming  under 
the  acacias.  What  a  comfort  she  had  been  to  him  !  And 
all  the  soreness  and  sense  of  outrage  left  him.  If  he  could 
make  her  happy  again,  he  didn't  care  !  An  owl  flew,  queek- 
ing,  queeking;  a  bat  flitted  by;  the  moonlight  brightened 
and  broadened  on  the  water.  How  long  was  she  going  to 
roam  about  like  this  !  He  went  back  to  the  window,  and 
suddenly  saw  her  coming  down  to  the  bank.  ■  She  stood 
quite  close,  on  the  landing-stage.  And  Soames  watched, 
clenching  his  hands.  Should  he  speak  to  her  ?  His  excite- 
ment was  intense.  The  stillness  of  her  figure,  its  youth, 
its  absorption  in  despair,  in  longing,  in — itself.  He  would 
always  remember  it,  moonlit  like  that;  and  the  faint  sweet 
reek  of  the  river  and  the  shivering  of  the  willow  leaves. 
She  had  everything  in  the  world  that  he  could  give  her. 


TO  LET  1075 

except  the  one  thing  that  she  could  not  have  because  of 
him  !  The  perversity  of  things  hurt  him  at  that  moment, 
as  might  a  fish-bone  in  his  throat. 

Then,  with  an  infinite  reh'ef,  he  saw  her  turn  back  toward 
the  house.  What  could  he  give  her  to  make  amends  ? 
Pearls,  travel,  horses,  other  young  men — anything  she 
wanted — that  he  might  lose  the  memory  of  her  young 
figure  lonely  by  the  water  !  There  !  She  had  set  that  tune 
going  again  !  Why — it  was  a  mania  !  Dark,  thrumming, 
faint,  travelling  from  the  house.  It  was  as  though  she  had 
said:  "  If  I  can't  have  something  to  keep  me  going,  I  shall 
die  of  this  !"  Soames  dimly  understood.  Well,  if  it  helped 
her,  let  her  keep  it  thrumming  on  all  night  !  And,  mousing 
back  through  the  fruit  garden,  he  regained  the  verandah. 
Though  he  meant  to  go  in  and  speak  to  her  now,  he  still 
hesitated,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  trying  hard  to  recall 
how  it  felt  to  be  thwarted  in  love.  He  ought  to  know, 
ought  to  remember — and  he  could  not  !  Gone — all  real 
recollection;  except  that  it  had  hurt  him  horribly.  In 
this  blankness  he  stood  passing  his  handkerchief  over  hands 
and  lips,  which  were  very  dry.  By  craning  his  head  he 
could  just  see  Fleur,  standing  with  her  back  to  that  piano 
still  grinding  out  its  tune,  her  arms  tight  crossed  on  her 
breast,  a  lighted  cigarette  between  her  lips,  whose  smoke 
half  veiled  her  face.  The  expression  on  it  was  strange  to 
Soames,  the  eyes  shone  and  stared,  and  every  feature  was 
alive  with  a  sort  of  wretched  scorn  and  anger.  Once  or 
twice  he  had  seen  Annette  look  like  that — the  face  was  too 
vivid,  too  naked,  not  his  daughter's  at  that  moment.  And 
he  dared  not  go  in,  realizing  the  futility  of  any  attempt 
at  consolation.  He  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  ingle- 
nook. 

Monstrous  trick,  that  Fate  had  played  him  !  Nemesis  ! 
That  old  unhappy  marriage  1     And  in  God's  name — why  ? 


1076  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

How  was  he  to  know,  when  he  wanted  Irene  so  violently, 
and  she  consented  to  be  his,  that  she  would  never  love  him  ? 
The  tune  died  and  was  renewed,  and  died  again,  and  still 
Soames  sat  in  the  shadow,  waiting  for  he  knew  not  what. 
The  fag  of  Fleur's  cigarette,  flung  through  the  window,  fell 
on  the  grass;  he  watched  it  glowing,  burning  itself  out. 
The  moon  had  freed  herself  above  the  poplars,  and  poured 
her  unreality  on  the  garden.  Comfortless  light,  mysterious, 
withdrawn — like  the  beauty  of  that  woman  who  had  never 
loved  him — dappling  the  nemesias  and  the  stocks  with  a 
vesture  not  of  earth.  Flowers  !  And  his  flower  so  unhappy  ! 
Ah!  Why  could  one  not  put  happiness  into  Local  Loans,  gild 
its  edges,  insure  it  against  going  down  ? 

Light  had  ceased  to  flow  out  now  from  the  drawing-room 
window.  All  was  silent  and  dark  in  there.  Had  she  gone 
up  ?  He  rose,  and,  tiptoeing,  peered  in.  It  seemed  so  ! 
He  entered.  The  verandah  kept  the  moonlight  out;  and 
at  first  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  outlines  of  furniture 
blacker  than  the  darkness.  He  groped  toward  the  farther 
window  to  shut  it.  His  foot  struck  a  chair,  and  he  heard 
a  gasp.  There  she  was,  curled  and  crushed  into  the  corner 
of  the  sofa  !  His  hand  hovered.  Did  she  want  his  con- 
solation ?  He  stood,  gazing  at  that  ball  of  crushed  frills 
and  hair  and  graceful  youth,  trying  to  burrow  its  way  out  of 
sorrow.  How  leave  her  there  ?  At  last  he  touched  her 
hair,  and  said: 

*'  Come,  darling,  better  go  to  bed.  I'll  make  it  up  to 
you,  somehow."  How  fatuous  !  But  what  could  he  have 
said  ? 


CHAPTER    IX 

UNDER    THE    OAK-TREE 

When  their  visitor  had  disappeared  Jon  and  his  mother 
stood  without  speaking,  till  he  said  suddenly: 

"  I  ought  to  have  seen  him  out." 

But  Soames  was  already  walking  down  the  drive,  and 
Jon  went  upstairs  to  his  father's  studio,  not  trusting  himself 
to  go  back. 

The  expression  on  his  mother's  face  confronting  the  man 
she  had  once  been  married  to,  had  sealed  a  resolution 
growing  within  him  ever  since  she  left  him  the  night  before. 
It  had  put  the  finishing  touch  of  reality.  To  marry  Fleur 
would  be  to  hit  his  mother  in  the  face;  to  betray  his  dead 
father  !  It  was  no  good  !  Jon  had  the  least  resentful  of 
natures.  He  bore  his  parents  no  grudge  in  this  hour  of 
his  distress.  For  one  so  young  there  was  a  rather  strange 
power  in  him  of  seeing  things  in  some  sort  of  proportion. 
It  was  worse  for  Fleur,  worse  for  his  mother  even,  than  it  was 
for  him.  Harder  than  to  give  up  was  to  be  given  up.  or 
to  be  the  cause  of  some  one  you  loved  giving  up  for  you.  He 
must  not,  would  not  behave  grudgingly  !  While  he  stood 
watching  the  tardy  sunlight,  he  had  again  that  sudden  vision 
of  the  world  which  had  come  to  him  the  night  before.  Sea 
on  sea,  country  on  country,  milHons  on  millions  of  people, 
all  with  their  own  lives,  energies,  joys,  griefs,  and  suffering — 
all  with  things  they  had  to  give  up,  and  separate  struggles 
for  existence.  Even  though  he  might  be  willing  to  give  up 
all  else  for  the  one  thing  he  couldn't  have,  he  would  be  a 
fool  to  think  his  feelings  mattered  much  in  so  vast  a  world, 

1077 


1078  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  to  behave  like  a  cry-baby  or  a  cad.  He  pictured  the 
people  who  had  nothing — the  millions  who  had  given  up 
life  in  the  War,  the  millions  whom  the  War  had  left  wdth  Hfe 
and  little  else;  the  hungry  children  he  had  read  of,  the 
shattered  men;  people  in  prison,  every  kind  of  unfortunate. 
And — they  did  not  help  him  much.  If  one  had  to  miss  a 
meal,  what  comfort  in  the  knowledge  that  many  others  had 
to  miss  it  too  ?  There  was  more  distraction  in  the  thought 
of  getting  away  out  into  this  vast  world  of  which  he  knew 
nothing  yet.  He  could  not  go  on  staying  here,  walled  in 
and  sheltered,  with  everything  so  slick  and  comfortable,  and 
nothing  to  do  but  brood  and  think  what  might  have  been. 
He  could  not  go  back  to  Wansdon,  and  the  memories  of 
Fleur.  If  he  saw  her  again  he  could  not  trust  himself; 
and  if  he  stayed  here  or  went  back  there,  he  would  surely 
see  her.  While  they  were  within  reach  of  each  other  that 
must  happen.  To  go  far  away  and  quickly  was  the  only 
thing  to  do.  But,  however  much  he  loved  his  mother, 
he  did  not  want  to  go  away  with  her.  Then  feeling  that 
was  brutal,  he  made  up  his  mind  desperately  to  propose 
that  they  should  go  to  Italy.  For  two  hours  in  that  melan- 
choly room  he  tried  to  master  himself,  then  dressed  solemnly 
for  dinner. 

His  mother  had  done  the  same.  They  ate  little,  at  some 
length,  and  talked  of  his  father's  catalogue.  The  show 
was  arranged  for  October,  and  beyond  clerical  detail  there 
was  nothing  more  to  do. 

After  dinner  she  put  on  a  cloak  and  they  went  out ;  walked 
a  little,  talked  a  little,  till  they  were  standing  silent  at  last 
beneath  the  oak-tree.  Ruled  by  the  thought:  *  If  I  show 
anything,  I  show  all,'  Jon  put  his  arm  through  hers  and  said 
quite  casually: 

"  Mother,  let's  go  to  Italy." 

Irene  pressed  his  arm,  and  said  as  casually: 


TO  LET  ^  1079 

"  It  would  be  very  nice;  but  I've  been  thinking  you  ought 
to  see  and  do  more  than  you  would  if  I  were  with  you." 

"  But  then  you'd  be  alone." 

"  I  was  once  alone  for  more  than  twelve  years.  Besides, 
I  should  like  to  be  here  for  the  opening  of  Father's  show." 

Jon's  grip  tightened  round  her  arm;  he  was  not  deceived. 

"  You  couldn't  stay  here  all  by  yourself;  it's  too  big," 

"  Not  here,  perhaps.  In  London,  and  I  might  go  to 
Paris,  after  the  show  opens.  You  ought  to  have  a  year  at 
least,  Jon,  and  see  the  world." 

"  Yes,  I'd  like  to  see  the  world  and  rough  it.  But  I  don't 
want  to  leave  you  all  alone." 

'*  My  dear,  I  owe  you  that  at  least.  If  it's  for  your  good, 
i  t'll  be  for  mine.  Why  not  start  to-morrow  ?  You've 
got  your  passport." 

"  Yes;  if  I'm  going  it  had  better  be  at  once.  Only — 
Mother — if — if  I  wanted  to  stay  out  somewhere — America 
or  anywhere,  would  you  mind  coming  presently  ?" 

"  Wherever  and  whenever  you  send  for  me.  But  don't 
send  until  you  really  want  me." 

Jon  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  I  feel  England's  choky." 

They  stood  a  few  mmutes  longer  under  the  oak-tree — 
looking  out  to  where  the  grand  stand  at  Epsom  was  veiled 
in  evening.  The  branches  kept  the  moonlight  from  them, 
so  that  it  only  fell  everywhere  else — over  the  fields  and  far 
away,  and  on  the  windows  of  the  creepered  house  behind, 
which  soon  would  be  to  let. 


CHAPTER  X 

fleur's  wedding 

The  October  paragraphs  describing  the  wedding  of  Fleur 
Forsyte  to  Michael  Mont  hardly  conveyed  the  symbolic 
significance  of  this  event.  In  the  union  of  the  great-grand- 
daughter of  "  Superior  Dosset  "  with  the  heir  of  a  ninth 
baronet  was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  that  merger 
of  class  in  class  which  buttresses  the  political  stability  of  a 
realm.  The  time  had  come  when  the  Forsytes  might  resign 
their  natural  resentment  against  a  "  flummery  "  not  theirs 
by  birth,  and  accept  it  as  the  still  more  natural  due  of  their 
possessive  instincts.  Besides,  they  had  to  mount  to  make 
room  for  all  those  so  much  more  newly  rich.  In  that  quiet 
but  tasteful  ceremony  in  Hanover  Square,  and  afterward 
among  the  furniture  in  Green  Street,  it  had  been  impossible 
for  those  not  in  the  know  to  distinguish  the  Forsyte  troop 
from  the  Mont  contingent — so  far  away  was  "  Superior 
Dosset  "  now.  Was  there,  in  the  crease  of  his  trousers,  the 
expression  of  his  moustache,  his  accent,  or  the  shine  on  his 
top -hat,  a  pin  to  choose  between  Soames  and  the  ninth 
baronet  himself  ?  Was  not  Fleur  as  self-possessed,  quick, 
glancing,  pretty,  and  hard  as  the  likeliest  Muskham,  Mont, 
or  Charwell  filly  present.  If  anything,  the  Forsytes  had 
it  in  dress  and  looks  and  manners.  They  had  become 
"  upper  class  "  and  now  their  name  would  be  formally 
recorded  in  the  Stud  Book,  their  money  joined  to  land. 
Whether  this  was  a  little  late  in  the  day,  and  those  rewards 
of  the  possessive  instinct,  lands  and  money  destined  for  the 
melting-pot — was  still  a  question  so  moot  that  it  was  not 

1080 


TO  LET  1081 

mooted.  After  all,  Timothy  had  said  Consols  were  goin'  up. 
Timothy,  the  last,  the  missing  link;  Timothy,  in  extremis 
on  the  Bayswater  Road — so  Francie  had  reported.  It 
was  whispered,  too,  that  this  young  Mont  was  a  sort  of 
socialist — strangely  wise  of  him,  and  in  the  nature  of  in- 
surance, considering  the  days  they  lived  in.  There  was  no 
uneasiness  on  that  score.  The  landed  classes  produced  that 
sort  of  amiable  foolishness  at  times,  turned  to  safe  uses  and 
confined  to  theory.  As  George  remarked  to  his  sister 
Francie :  "  They'll  soon  be  having  puppies — that'll  give  him 
pause." 

The  church  with  white  flowers  and  something  blue  in 
the  middle  of  the  East  window  looked  extremely  chaste, 
as  though  endeavouring  to  counteract  the  somewhat  lurid 
phraseology  of  a  Service  calculated  to  keep  the  thoughts 
of  all  on  puppies.  Forsytes,  Haymans,  Tweetymans,  sat 
in  the  left  aisle;  Monts,  Charwells,  Muskhams  in  the  right; 
while  a  sprinkling  of  Fleur's  fellow-sufferers  at  school,  and 
of  Mont's  fellow-sufferers  in  the  War,  gaped  indiscriminately 
from  either  side,  and  three  maiden  ladies,  who  had  dropped 
in  on  their  way  from  Skyward's,  brought  up  the  rear, 
together  with  two  Mont  retainers  and  Fleur's  old  nurse. 
In  the  unsettled  state  of  the  country  as  full  a  house  as 
could  be  expected. 

Mrs.  Val  Dartie,  who  sat  with  her  husband  in  the  third 
row,  squeezed  his  hand  more  than  once  during  the  perform- 
ance. To  her,  who  knew  the  plot  of  this  tragi -comedy,  its 
most  dramatic  moment  was  wellnigh  painful.  *  I  wonder 
if  Jon  knows  by  instinct,'  she  thought — Jon,  out  in  British 
Columbia.  She  had  received  a  letter  from  him  only  that 
morning  which  had  made  her  smile  and  say: 

"  Jon's  in  British  Columbia,  Val,  because  he  wants  to  be 
in  California.     He  thinks  it's  too  nice  there." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Val,  "  so  he's  beginning  to  see  a  joke  again." 

35* 


io82  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  He's  bought  some  land  and  sent  for  his  mother." 

"  What  on  earth  will  she  do  out  there  ?" 

"  All  she  cares  about  is  Jon.  Do  you  still  think  it  a  happy 
release  ?" 

Val's  shrewd  eyes  narrowed  to  grey  pin-points  between 
their  dark  lashes. 

"  Fleur  wouldn't  have  suited  him  a  bit.  She's  not  bred 
right." 

"  Poor  little  Fleur  1"  sighed  Holly.  Ah  !  it  was  strange — 
this  marriage.  The  young  man,  Mont,  had  caught  her  on 
the  rebound,  of  course,  in  the  reckless  mood  of  one  whose 
ship  has  just  gone  down.  Such  a  plunge  could  not  but  be — 
as  Val  put  it — an  outside  chance.  There  was  little  to  be  told 
from  the  back  view  of  her  young  cousin's  veil,  and  Holly's 
eyes  reviewed  the  general  aspect  of  this  Christian  wedding. 
She,  who  had  made  a  love-match  which  had  been  successful, 
had  a  horror  of  unhappy  marriages.  This  might  not  be  one 
in  the  end — but  it  was  clearly  a  toss-up;  and  to  consecrate  a 
toss-up  in  this  fashion  with  manufactured  unction  before  a 
crowd  of  fashionable  free-thinkers — for  who  thought  other- 
wise than  freely,  or  not  at  all,  when  they  were  "  dolled  "  up — 
seemed  to  her  as  near  a  sin  as  one  could  find  in  an  age  which 
had  abolished  them.  Her  eyes  wandered  from  the  prelate 
in  his  robes  (a  Charwell — the  Forsytes  had  not  as  yet  pro- 
duced a  prelate)  to  Val,  beside  her,  thinking — she  was 
certain — of  the  Mayfly  filly  at  fifteen  to  one  for  the  Cam- 
bridgeshire. They  passed  on  and  caught  the  profile  of  the 
ninth  baronet,  in  counterfeitment  of  the  kneeling  process. 
She  could  just  see  the  neat  ruck  above  his  knees  where  he  had 
pulled  his  trousers  up,  and  thought :  *  Val's  forgotten  to  pull 
up  his  !'  Her  eyes  passed  to  the  pew  in  front  of  her,  where 
Winifred's  substantial  form  was  gowned  with  passion,  and 
on  again  to  Soames  and  Annette  kneeling  side  by  side.  A 
little  smile  came  on  her  lips — Prosper  Profond,  biack  from 


TO  LET  1083 

the  South  Seas  of  the  Channel,  would  be  kneeling  too,  about 
six  rows  behind.  Yes  !  This  was  a  funny  "  small  "  business, 
however  it  turned  out;  still  it  was  in  a  proper  church  and 
would  be  in  the  proper  papers  to-morrow  morning. 

They  had  begun  a  hymn;  she  could  hear  the  ninth  baronet 
across  the  aisle,  singing  of  the  hosts  of  Midian.  Her  little 
finger  touched  Val's  thumb — they  were  holding  the  same 
hymn-book — and  a  tiny  thrill  passed  through  her,  preserved 
from  twenty  years  ago.     He  stooped  and  whispered: 

"  I  say,  d'you  remember  the  rat  ?"  The  rat  at  their 
wedding  in  Cape  Colony,  which  had  cleaned  its  whiskers 
behind  the  table  at  the  Registrar's  !  And  between  her  little 
and  third  finger  she  squeezed  his  thumb  hard. 

The  hymn  was  over,  the  prelate  had  begun  to  deliver  his 
discourse.  He  told  them  of  the  dangerous  times  they  lived 
in,  and  the  awful  conduct  of  the  House  of  Lords  in  connec- 
tion with  divorce.  They  were  all  soldiers — he  said — in  the 
trenches  under  the  poisonous  gas  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness, 
and  must  be  manful.  The  purpose  of  marriage  was  children, 
not  mere  sinful  happiness. 

An  imp  danced  in  Holly's  eyes — Val's  eyelashes  were 
meeting.  Whatever  happened,  he  must  not  snore.  Her 
finger  and  thumb  closed  on  his  thigh  till  he  stirred  uneasily. 

The  discourse  was  over,  the  danger  past.  They  were 
signing  in  the  vestry;   and  general  relaxation  had  set  in. 

A  voice  behind  her  said: 

"  Will  she  stay  the  course  ?" 

"  Who's  that  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  Old  George  Forsyte  !" 

Holly  demurely  scrutinized  one  of  whom  she  had  often 
heard.  Fresh  from  South  Africa,  and  ignorant  of  her  kith 
and  kin,  she  never  saw  one  without  an  almost  childish 
curiosity.  He  was  very  big,  and  very  dapper;  his  eyes  gave 
her  a  funny  feeling  of  having  no  particular  clothes. 


io84  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  They're  off  !"  she  heard  him  say. 

They  came,  stepping  from  the  chancel.  Holly  looked 
first  in  young  Mont's  face.  His  lips  and  ears  were  twitching, 
his  eyes,  shifting  from  his  feet  to  the  hand  within  his  arm, 
stared  suddenly  before  them  as  if  to  face  a  firing  party. 
He  gave  Holly  the  feeling  that  he  was  spiritually  intoxicated. 
But  Fleur !  Ah  !  That  was  different.  The  girl  was 
perfectly  composed,  prettier  than  ever,  in  her  white  robes 
and  veil  over  her  banged  dark  chestnut  hair;  her  eyelids 
hovered  demure  over  her  dark  hazel  eyes.  Outwardly, 
she  seemed  all  there.  But  inwardly,  where  was  she  ?  As 
those  two  passed,  Fleur  raised  her  eyelids — the  restless  glint 
of  those  clear  whites  remained  on  Holly's  vision  as  might 
the  flutter  of  a  caged  bird's  wings. 

In  Green  Street  Winifred  stood  to  receive,  just  a  little 
less  composed  than  usual.  Soames'  request  for  the  use  of 
her  house  had  come  on  her  at  a  deeply  psychological 
moment.  Under  the  influence  of  a  remark  of  Prosper 
Profond,  she  had  begun  to  exchange  her  Empire  for  Ex- 
pressionistic  furniture.  There  were  the  most  amusing 
arrangements,  with  violet,  green,  and  orange  blobs  and 
scriggles,  to  be  had  at  Mealard's.  Another  month  and  the 
change  would  have  been  complete.  Just  now,  the  very  "  in- 
triguing "  recruits  she  had  enlisted,  did  not  march  too  well 
with  the  old  guard.  It  was  as  if  her  regiment  were  half  in 
khaki,  half  in  scarlet  and  bearskins.  But  her  strong  and 
comfortable  character  made  the  best  of  it  in  a  drawing-room 
which  typified,  perhaps,  more  perfectly  than  she  imagined, 
the  semi-bolshevized  imperialism  of  her  country.  After 
all,  this  was  a  day  of  merger,  and  you  couldn't  have  too  much 
of  it  !  Her  eyes  travelled  indulgently  among  her  guests. 
Soames  had  gripped  the  back  of  a  buhl  chair;  young  Mont 
was    behind    that    "  awfully   amusing "   screen,   which    no 


TO  LET  1085 

one  as  yet  had  been  able  to  explain  to  her.  The  ninth 
baronet  had  shied  violently  at  a  round  scarlet  table,  inlaid 
under  glass  with  blue  Australian  butterflies'  wings,  and  was 
cUnging  to  her  Louis -Quinze  cabinet;  Francie  Forsyte  had 
seized  the  new  mantel-board,  finely  carved  with  little  purple 
grotesques  on  an  ebony  ground;  George,  over  by  the  old 
spinet,  was  holding  a  little  sky-blue  book  as  if  about  to  enter 
bets;  Prosper  Profond  was  twiddling  the  knob  of  the  open 
door,  black  with  peacock -blue  panels;  and  Annette's  hands, 
close  by,  were  grasping  her  own  waist ;  two  Muskhams  clung 
to  the  balcony  among  the  plants,  as  if  feeling  ill;  Lady  Mont, 
thin  and  brave -looking,  had  taken  up  her  long -handled 
glasses  and  was  gazing  at  the  central  light  shade,  of  ivory  and 
orange  dashed  with  deep  magenta,  as  if  the  heavens  had 
opened.  Everybody,  in  fact,  seemed  holding  on  to  some- 
thing. Only  Fleur,  still  in  her  bridal  dress,  was  detached 
from  all  support,  flinging  her  words  and  glances  to  left  and 
right. 

The  room  was  full  of  the  bubble  and  the  squeak  of  conversa- 
tion. Nobody  could  hear  anything  that  anybody  said ;  which 
seemed  of  little  consequence,  since  no  one  waited  for  any- 
thing so  slow  as  an  answer.  Modern  conversation  seemed 
to  Winifred  so  different  from  the  days  of  her  prime,  when 
a  drawl  was  all  the  vogue.  Still  it  was  "  amusing,"  which, 
of  course,  was  all  that  mattered.  Even  the  Forsytes  were 
talking  with  extreme  rapidity — Fleur  and  Christopher,  and 
Imogen,  and  young  Nicholas's  youngest,  Patrick.  Soames, 
of  course,  was  silent;  but  George,  by  the  spinet,  kept  up 
a  running  commentary,  and  Francie,  by  her  mantel-shelf. 
Winifred  drew  nearer  to  the  ninth  baronet.  He  seemed 
to  promise  a  certain  repose;  his  nose  was  fine  and  drooped 
a  little,  his  grey  moustaches  too;  and  she  said,  drawling 
through  her  smile: 

"  It's  rather  nice,  isn't  it  ?" 


io86  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

His  reply  shot  out  of  his  smile  like  a  snipped  bread  pellet: 

"  D'you  remember,  in  Frazer,  the  tribe  that  buries  the 
bride  up  to  the  waist  ?" 

He  spoke  as  fast  as  anybody  !  He  had  dark  lively  little 
eyes,  too,  all  crinkled  round  like  a  Catholic  priest's.  Winifred 
felt  suddenly  he  might  say  things  she  would  regret. 

"  They're  always  so  amusing — weddings,"  she  murmured, 
and  moved  on  to  Soames.  He  was  curiously  still,  and 
Winifred  saw  at  once  what  was  dictating  his  immobility. 
To  his  right  was  George  Forsyte,  to  his  left  Annette  and 
Prosper  Profond.  He  could  not  move  without  either  seeing 
those  two  together,  or  the  reflection  of  them  in  George 
Forsyte's  japing  eyes.  He  was  quite  right  not  to  be  taking 
notice. 

"  They  say  Timothy's  sinking,"  he  said  glumly. 

"  Where  v/ill  you  put  him,  Soames  ?" 

"  Highgate."  He  counted  on  his  fingers.  "  It'll  make 
twelve  of  them  there,  including  wives.  How  do  you  think 
Fleur  looks  ?" 

"  Remarkably  well." 

Soames  nodded.  He  had  never  seen  her  look  prettier,  yet 
he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  impression  that  this  business 
was  unnatural — remembering  still  that  crushed  figure 
burrowing  into  the  corner  of  the  sofa.  From  that  night 
to  this  day  he  had  received  from  her  no  confidences.  He 
knew  from  his  chauffeur  that  she  had  made  one  more  attempt 
on  Robin  Hill  and  drawn  blank — an  empty  house,  no  one 
at  home.  He  knew  that  she  had  received  a  letter,  but  not 
what  was  in  it,  except  that  it  had  made  her  hide  herself 
and  cry.  He  had  remarked  that  she  looked  at  him  sometimes 
when  she  thought  he  wasn't  noticing,  as  if  she  were  wondering 
still  what  he  had  done — forsooth — to  make  those  people 
hate  him  so.  Well,  there  it  was  !  Annette  had  come  back, 
and  things  had  worn  on  through  the  summer — very  miserable, 


TO  LET  1087 

till  suddenly  Fleur  had  said  she  was  going  to  marry  young 
IVIont.  She  had  shown  him  a  little  more  affection  when 
she  told  him  that.  And  he  had  yielded — what  was  the  good 
of  opposing  it  ?  God  knew  that  he  had  never  wished  to 
thwart  her  in  anything  !  And  the  young  man  seemed 
quite  delirious  about  her.  No  doubt  she  was  in  a  reckless 
mood,  and  she  was  young,  absurdly  young.  But  if  he 
opposed  her,  he  didn't  know  what  she  would  do;  for  all  he 
could  tell  she  might  want  to  take  up  a  profession,  become 
a  doctor  or  solicitor,  some  nonsense.  She  had  no  aptitude 
for  painting,  writing,  music,  in  his  view  the  legitimate 
occupations  of  unmarried  women,  if  they  must  do  something 
in  these  days.  On  the  whole,  she  was  safer  married,  for  he 
could  see  too  well  how  feverish  and  restless  she  was  at  home. 
Annette,  too,  had  been  in  favour  of  it — Annette,  from 
behind  the  veil  of  his  refusal  to  know  what  she  was  about, 
if  she  was  about  anything.  Annette  had  said :  "  Let  her 
m^arry  this  young  man.  He  is  a  nice  boy — not  so  highty- 
ilighty  as  he  seems."  Where  she  got  her  expressions,  he 
didn't  know — but  her  opinion  soothed  his  doubts.  His 
wife,  whatever  her  conduct,  had  clear  eyes  and  an  almost 
depressing  amount  of  common  sense.  He  had  settled  fifty 
thousand  on  Fleur,  taking  care  that  there  was  no  cross  settle- 
ment in  case  it  didn't  turn  out  well.  Could  it  turn  out  well  ? 
She  had  not  got  over  that  other  boy — he  knew.  They  were 
to  go  to  Spain  for  the  honeymoon.  He  would  be  even 
lonelier  when  she  was  gone.  But  later,  perhaps,  she  would 
forget,  and  turn  to  him  again  ! 

Winifred's  voice  broke  on  his  reverie. 

"  Why  !     Of  all  wonders— June  !" 

There,  in  a  djibbah — what  things  she  wore  ! — with  her 
hair  straying  from  under  a  fillet,  Soames  saw  his  cousin,  and 
Fleur  going  forward  to  greet  her.  The  two  passed  from 
their  view  out  on  to  the  stairway. 


io88  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Really,"  said  Winifred,  "  she  does  the  most  impossible 
things  !     Fancy  her  coming  !" 

*'  What  made  you  ask  her  ?"  muttered  Soames. 

"  Because  I  thought  she  wouldn't  accept,  of  course." 

Winifred  had  forgotten  that  behind  conduct  lies  the  main 
trend  of  character;  or,  in  other  words,  omitted  to  remember 
that  Fleur  was  now  a  "  lame  duck." 

On  receiving  her  invitation,  June  had  first  thought, 
*  I  wouldn't  go  near  them  for  the  world  !'  and  then,  one 
morning,  had  awakened  from  a  dream  of  Fleur  waving  to 
her  from  a  boat  with  a  wild  unhappy  gesture.  And  she  had 
changed  her  mind. 

When  Fleur  came  forward  and  said  to  her,  "  Do  come  up 
w^hile  I'm  changing  my  dress,"  she  had  followed  up  the 
stairs.  The  girl  led  the  way  into  Imogen's  old  bedroom, 
set  ready  for  her  toilet. 

June  sat  down  on  the  bed,  thin  and  upright,  like  a  little 
spirit  in  the  sear  and  yellow.     Fleur  locked  the  door. 

The  girl  stood  before  her  divested  of  her  wedding-dress. 
What  a  pretty  thing  she  was  ! 

"  I  suppose  you  think  me  a  fool,"  she  said,  with  quivering 
lips,  "  when  it  was  to  have  been  Jon.  But  what  does  it 
matter  ?  Michael  wants  me,  and  I  don't  care.  It'll  get 
me  away  from  home."  Diving  her  hand  into  the  frills  on 
her  breast,  she  brought  out  a  letter.     "  Jon  wrote  me  this." 

June  read:  *' Lake  Okanagen,  British  Columbia.  I'm 
not  coming  back  to  England.     Bless  you  always. — Jon." 

"  She's  made  safe,  you  see,"  said  Fleur. 

June  handed  back  the  letter. 

"That's  not  fair  to  Irene,"  she  said;  "she  always  told 
Jon  he  could  do  as  he  wished." 

Fleur  smiled  bitterly.  "  Tell  me,  didn't  she  spoil  your 
life  too  ?" 


TO  LET  1089 

June  looked  up.  "  Nobody  can  spoil  a  life,  my  dear. 
That's  nonsense.     Things  happen,  but  we  bob  up." 

With  a  sort  of  terror  she  saw  the  girl  sink  on  her  knees 
and  bury  her  face  in  the  djibbah.  A  strangled  sob  mounted 
to  June's  ears. 

"  It's  all  right— all  right,"  she  murmured.  -'  Don't  ! 
There,  there  !" 

But  the  point  of  the  girl's  chin  was  pressed  ever  closer  into 
her  thigh,  and  the  sound  was  dreadful  of  her  sobbing. 

Well,  well  !  It  had  to  come.  She  would  feel  better 
afterward  !  June  stroked  the  short  hair  of  that  shapely 
head;  and  all  the  scattered  mother-sense  in  her  focussed 
itself  and  passed  through  the  tips  of  her  fingers  into  the 
girl's  brain. 

"  Don't  sit  down  under  it,  my  dear,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  We  can't  control  life,  but  we  can  fight  it.  Make  the  best 
of  things.  I've  had  to.  I  held  on,  like  you;  and  I  cried, 
as  you're  crying  now.     And  look  at  me  !" 

Fleur  raised  her  head;  a  sob  merged  suddenly  into  a  little 
choked  laugh.  In  truth  it  was  a  thin  and  rather  wild  and 
wasted  spirit  she  was  looking  at,  but  it  had  brave  eyes. 

"  All  right  !"  she  said.  "  I'm  sorry.  I  shall  forget  him, 
I  suppose,  if  I  fly  fast  and  far  enough." 

And,  scrambling  to  her  feet,  she  went  over  to  the  wash- 
stand. 

June  watched  her  removing  with  cold  water  the  traces 
of  emotion.  Save  for  a  little  becoming  pinkness  there  was 
nothing  left  when  she  stood  before  the  mirror.  June  got 
off  the  bed  and  took  a  pin -cushion  in  her  hand.  To  put  two 
pins  into  the  wrong  places  was  all  the  vent  she  found  for 
sympathy. 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,"  she  said  when  Fleur  was  ready,  and  dug 
her  chin  into  the  girl's  warm  cheek. 

"  I  want  a  whiff,"  said  Fleur;  "  don't  wait.  " 


1090  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

June  left  her,  sitting  on  the  bed  with  a  cigarette  between 
her  lips  and  her  eyes  half  closed,  and  went  down -stairs. 
In  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room  stood  Soames  as  if 
unquiet  at  his  daughter's  tardiness.  June  tossed  her  head 
and  passed  down  on  to  the  half-landing.  Her  cousin 
Francie  was  standing  there. 

"  Look  !"  said  June,  pointing  with  her  chin  at  Soames. 
''  That  man's  fatal  !" 

"  How  do  you  mean,"  said  Francie,  "  Fatal  "  ? 

June  did  not  answer  her.  "  I  shan't  wait  to  see  them  off," 
she  said.     "  Good-bye  !" 

"  Good-bye  !"  said  Francie,  and  her  eyes,  of  a  Celtic  grey, 
goggled.     That  old  feud  !     Really,  it  was  quite  romantic  ! 

Soames,  moving  to  the  w^ell  of  the  staircase,  saw  June  go, 
and  drew  a  breath  of  satisfaction.  Why  didn't  Fleur  come  ^ 
They  would  miss  their  train.  That  train  would  bear  her 
away  from  him,  yet  he  could  not  help  fidgeting  at  the 
thought  that  they  would  lose  it.  And  then  she  did  come, 
running  down  in  her  tan -coloured  frock  and  black  velvet 
cap,  and  passed  him  into  the  drawing-room.  He  saw  her 
ki?s  her  mother,  her  aunt,  Val's  wife,  Imogen,  and  then  come 
forth,  quick  and  pretty  as  ever.  How  would  she  treat  him 
at  this  last  moment  of  her  girlhood  ?  He  couldn't  hope 
for  much  ! 

Her  lips  pressed  the  middle  of  his  cheek, 

"  Daddy  1"  she  said,  and  was  past  and  gone.  Daddy  ! 
She  hadn't  called  him  that  for  years.  He  drew  a  long  breath 
and  followed  slowlv  down.  There  was  all  the  follv  with 
that  confetti  stuff  and  the  rest  of  it  to  go  through  with,  yet. 
But  he  would  like  just  to  catch  her  smile,  if  she  leaned  out, 
though  they  would  hit  her  in  the  eye  with  the  shoe,  if  they 
didn't  take  care.  Young  Mont's  voice  said  fervently  in  his 
ear: 

"  Good-bye,  sir;  and  thank  you  !     I'm.  so  fearfully  bucked." 


TO  LET  1 09 1 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said;  "  don't  miss  your  train." 
He  stood  on  the  bottom  step  but  three,  whence  he  could 
see  above  the  heads — the  silly  hats  and  heads.  They  were 
in  the  car  now;  and  there  was  that  stuff,  showering,  and  there 
went  the  shoe.  A  flood  of  something  welled  up  in  Soames, 
and — he  didn't  know — he  couldn't  see  ! 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    LAST    OF    THE    OLD    FORSYTES 

When  they  came  to  prepare  that  terrific  symbol  Timothy 
Forsyte — the  one  pure  individualist  left,  the  only  man  who 
hadn't  heard  of  the  Great  War — they  found  him  wonderful 
— not  even  death  had  undermined  his  soundness. 

To  Smither  and  Cook  that  preparation  came  like  final 
evidence  of  what  they  had  never  believed  possible — the  end 
of  the  old  Forsyte  family  on  earth.  Poor  Mr.  Timothy 
must  now  take  a  harp  and  sing  in  the  company  of  Miss 
Forsyte,  Mrs.  Julia,  Miss  Hester;  with  Mr.  Jolyon,  Mr. 
Swithin,  Mr.  James,  Mr.  Roger  and  Mr.  Nicholas  of  the 
party.  Whether  Mrs.  Hayman  would  be  there  was  more 
doubtful,  seeing  that  she  had  been  cremated.  Secretly 
Cook  thought  that  Mr.  Timothy  would  be  upset — he  had 
always  been  so  set  against  barrel  organs.  How  many  times 
had  she  not  said :  "  Drat  the  thing  !  There  it  is  again  ! 
Smither,  you'd  better  run  up  and  see  what  you  can  do." 
And  in  her  heart  she  would  so  have  enjoyed  the  tunes,  if 
she  hadn't  known  that  Mr.  Timothy  would  ring  the  bell  in 
a  minute  and  say:  "  Here,  take  him  a  halfpenny  and  tell  him 
to  move  on."  Often  they  had  been  obliged  to  add  three- 
pence of  their  own  before  the  man  would  go — Timothy 
had  ever  underrated  the  value  of  emotion.  Luckily  he  had 
taken  the  organs  for  blue -bottles  in  his  last  years,  which 
had  been  a  comfort,  and  they  had  been  able  to  enjoy  the 
tunes.  But  a  harp  !  Cook  wondered.  It  was  a  change  ! 
And  Mr.  Timothy  had  never  liked  change.  But  she  did 
not  speak  of  this  to  Smither,  who  did  so  take  a  line  of  her 

1092 


TO  LET  1093 

own  in  regard  to  heaven  that  it  quite  put  one  about  some- 
times. 

She  cried  while  Timothy  was  being  prepared,  and  they  all 
had  sherry  afterward  out  of  the  yearly  Christmas  bottle, 
which  would  not  be  needed  now.  Ah  !  dear  !  She  had 
been  there  five -and -forty  years  and  Smither  three -and -forty  ! 
And  now  they  would  be  going  to  a  tiny  house  in  Tooting, 
to  live  on  their  savings  and  what  Miss  Hester  had  so  kindly 
left  them — for  to  take  fresh  service  after  the  glorious  past — 
No  !  But  they  would  like  just  to  see  Mr.  Soames  again,  and 
Mrs.  Dartie,  and  Miss  Francie,  and  Miss  Euphemia.  And 
even  if  they  had  to  take  their  own  cab,  they  felt  they  must 
go  to  the  funeral.  For  six  years  Mr.  Timothy  had  been 
their  baby,  getting  younger  and  younger  every  day,  till  at 
last  he  had  been  too  young  to  live. 

They  spent  the  regulation  hours  of  waiting  in  polishing 
and  dusting,  in  catching  the  one  mouse  left,  and  asphyxiating 
the  last  beetle  so  as  to  leave  it  nice,  discussing  with  each 
other  what  they  would  buy  at  the  sale.  Miss  Ann's  work- 
box;  Miss  Juley's  (that  is  Mrs.  Julia's)  seaweed  album;  the 
fire-screen  Miss  Hester  had  crewelled;  and  Mr.  Timothy's 
hair — little  golden  curls,  glued  into  a  black  frame.  Oh  ! 
they  must  have  those — only  the  price  of  things  had  gone 
up  so  ! 

It  fell  to  Soames  to  issue  invitations  for  the  funeral.  He 
had  them  drawn  up  by  Gradman  in  his  office — only  blood 
relations,  and  no  flowers.  Six  carriages  were  ordered. 
The  Will  would  be  read  afterward  at  the  house^ 

He  arrived  at  eleven  o'clock  to  see  that  all  was  ready. 
At  a  quarter  past  old  Gradman  came  in  black  gloves  and  crape 
on  his  hat.  He  and  Soames  stood  in  the  drawing-room 
waiting.  At  half -past  eleven  the  carriages  drew  up  in  a  long 
row.     But  no  one  else  appeared.     Gradman  said ; 

"  It  surprises  me,  Mr.  Soames.     I  posted  them  myself." 


1094  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Soames;  "  he'd  lost  touch  with  the 
family." 

Soames  had  often  noticed  in  old  days  how  much  more 
neighbourly  his  family  were  to  the  dead  than  to  the  living. 
But,  now,  the  way  they  had  flocked  to  Fleur's  wedding  and 
abstained  from  Timothy's  funeral,  seemed  to  show  some  vital 
change.  There  might,  of  course,  be  another  reason;  for 
Soames  felt  that  if  he  had  not  known  the  contents  of 
Timothy's  Will,  he  might  have  stayed  away  himself  through 
delicacy.  Timothy  had  left  a  lot  of  money,  with  nobody  in 
particular  to  leave  it  to.  They  mightn't  like  to  seem  to 
expect  some  thing. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  procession  left  the  door;  Timothy 
alone  in  the  first  carriage  under  glass.  Then  Soames  alone; 
then  Gradman  alone;  then  Cook  and  Smither  together. 
They  started  at  a  walk,  but  were  soon  trotting  under  a 
bright  sky.  At  the  entrance  to  Highgate  Cemetery  they 
were  delayed  by  service  in  the  Chapel.  Soames  would  have 
liked  to  stay  outside  in  the  sunshine.  He  didn't  believe  a 
word  of  it;  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  form  of  insurance 
which  could  not  safely  be  neglected,  in  case  there  might  be 
something  in  it  after  all. 

They  walked  up  two  and  two — he  and  Gradman,  Cook 
and  Smither — to  the  family  vault.  It  was  not  very  dis- 
tinguished for  the  funeral  of  the  last  old  Forsyte. 

He  took  Gradman  into  his  carriage  on  the  way  back  to 
the  Bayswater  Road  vnth  a  certain  glow  in  his  heart.  He 
had  a  surprise  in  pickle  for  the  old  chap  who  had  served 
the  Forsytes  four -and -fifty  years — a  treat  that  was  entirely 
his  doing.  How  well  he  remembered  saying  to  Timothy 
the  day  after  Aunt  Hester's  funeral:  "Well,  Uncle  Timothy, 
there's  Gradman.  He's  taken  a  lot  of  trouble  for  the  family. 
What  do  you  say  to  leaving  him  five  thousand  ?"  and  his 
surprise,   seeing  the   difficulty   there  had   been   in   getting 


TO  LET  1095 

Timothy  to  leave  anything,  when  Timothy  had  nodded. 
And  now  the  old  chap  would  be  as  pleased  as  Punch,  for 
Mrs.  Gradman,  he  knew,  had  a  weak  heart,  and  their  son 
had  lost  a  leg  in  the  War.  It  was  extraordinarily  gratifying 
to  Soames  to  have  left  him  five  thousand  pounds  of  Timothy's 
money.  They  sat  down  together  in  the  little  drawing-room, 
whose  walls — like  a  vision  of  heaven — were  sky-blue  and  gold 
with  every  picture -frame  unnaturally  bright,  and  every 
speck  of  dust  removed  from  every  piece  of  furniture,  to  read 
that  little  masterpiece — the  Will  of  Timothy.  With  his 
back  to  the  light  in  Aunt  Hester's  chair,  Soames  faced  Grad- 
man with  his  face  to  the  light  on  Aunt  Ann's  sofa;  and, 
crossing  his  legs,  began : 

"  This  is  the  last  Will  and  Testament  of  me  Timothy 
Forsyte  of  The  Bower  Bayswater  Road  London  I  appoint 
my  nephew  Soames  Forsyte  of  The  Shelter  Mapledurham 
and  Thomas  Gradman  of  159  Folly  Road  Highgate  (herein- 
after called  my  Trustees)  to  be  the  trustees  and  executors 
of  this  my  Will  To  the  said  Soames  Forsyte  I  leave  the 
sum  of  one  thousand  pounds  free  of  legacy  duty  and  to  the 
said  Thomas  Gradman  I  leave  the  sum  of  five  thousand 
pounds  free  of  legacy  duty." 

Soames  paused.  Old  Gradman  was  leaning  forward, 
convulsively  gripping  a  stout  black  knee  with  each  of  his 
thick  hands;  his  mouth  had  fallen  open  so  that  the  gold 
fillings  of  three  teeth  gleamed;  his  eyes  were  blinking,  two 
tears  rolled  slowly  out  of  them.     Soames  read  hastily  on. 

"  All  the  rest  of  my  property  of  whatsoever  description 
I  bequeath  to  my  Trustees  upon  Trust  to  convert  and  hold 
the  same  upon  the  following  trusts  namely  To  pay  there- 
out all  my  debts  funeral  expenses  and  outgoings  of  any 
kind  in  connection  with  my  Will  and  to  hold  the  residue 
thereof  in  trust  for  that  male  lineal  descendant  of  my  father 
Jolyon  Forsyte  by  his  marriage  with  Ann  Pierce  who  after 


1096  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

the  decease  of  all  lineal  descendants  whether  male  or  female 
of  my  said  father  by  his  said  marriage  in  being  at  the  time 
of  my  death  shall  last  attain  the  age  of  twenty-one  years 
absolutely  it  being  my  desire  that  my  property  shall  be  nursed 
to  the  extreme  limit  permitted  by  the  laws  of  England  for 
the  benefit  of  such  male  lineal  descendant  as  aforesaid." 

Soames  read  the  investment  and  attestation  clauses,  and, 
ceasing,  looked  at  Gradman.  The  old  fellow  was  wiping 
his  brow  with  a  large  handkerchief,  whose  brilliant  colour 
supplied  a  sudden  festive  tinge  to  the  proceedings. 

"  My  word,  Mr.  Soames  !"  he  said,  and  it  was  clear  that 
the  lawyer  in  him  had  utterly  wiped  out  the  man:  "My 
w^ord  !  Why,  there  are  two  babies  now,  and  some  quite 
young  children — if  one  of  them  lives  to  be  eighty — it's  not 
a  great  age — and  add  twenty-one — that's  a  hundred  years; 
and  Mr.  Timothy  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pound 
nett  if  he's  worth  a  penny.  Compound  interest  at  five  per 
cent,  doubles  you  in  fourteen  years.  In  fourteen  years  three 
hundred  thousand — six  hundred  thousand  in  twenty-eight — 
twelve  hundred  thousand  in  forty-two — twenty -four  hundred 
thousand  in  fifty -six — four  million  eight  hundred  thousand 
in  seventy — nine  million  six  hundred  thousand  in  eighty- 
four Why,  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  be  twenty  million  ! 

And  we  shan't  live  to  see  it  !     It  is  a  Will !" 

Soames  said  dryly:  "  Anything  may  happen.  The  State 
might  take  the  lot;  they're  capable  of  anything  in  these 
days." 

"  And  carry  five,"  said  Gradman  to  himself.  "  I  forgot — 
Mr.  Timothy's  in  Consols;  we  shan't  get  more  than  two 
per  cent,  with  this  income  tax.  To  be  on  the  safe  side,  say 
eight  millions.     Still,  that's  a  pretty  penny." 

Soames  rose  and  handed  him  the  Will.  "  You're  going 
into  the  City.  Take  care  of  that,  and  do  what's  necessary. 
Advertise;  but  there  are  no  debts.     When's  the  sale  ?" 


TO  LET  1097 

"  Tuesday  week,"  said  Gradman.  "  Life  or  lives  in  bein* 
and  twenty-one  years  afterward — it's  a  long  way  off.  But 
Pm  glad  he's  left  it  in  the  family.   .  .  ." 

The  sale — not  at  Jobson's,  in  view  of  the  Victorian  nature 
of  the  effects — was  far  more  freely  attended  than  the 
funeral,  though  not  by  Cook  and  Smither,  for  Soames  had 
taken  it  on  himself  to  give  them  their  heart's  desires.  Wini- 
fred was  present,  Euphemia,  and  Francie,  and  Eustace  had 
come  in  his  car.  The  miniatures,  Barbizons,  and  J.  R. 
drawings  had  been  bought  in  by  Soames;  and  relics  of  no 
marketable  value  were  set  aside  in  an  off -room  for  members 
of  the  family  who  cared  to  have  mementoes.  These  were  the 
only  restrictions  upon  bidding  characterized  by  an  almost 
tragic  languor.  Not  one  piece  of  furniture,  no  picture  or 
porcelain  figure  appealed  to  modern  taste.  The  humming- 
birds had  fallen  like  autumn  leaves  when  taken  from  where 
they  had  not  hummed  for  sixty  years.  It  was  painful  to 
Soames  to  see  the  chairs  his  aunts  had  sat  on,  the  little  grand 
piano  they  had  practically  never  played,  the  books  whose 
outsides  they  had  gazed  at,  the  china  they  had  dusted,  the 
curtains  they  had  drawn,  the  hearth-rug  which  had  warmed 
their  feet;  above  all,  the  beds  they  had  lain  and  died  in — 
sold  to  little  dealers,  and  the  housewives  of  Fulham. 
And  yet — what  could  one  do  ?  Buy  them  and  stick  them 
in  a  lumber-room  ?  No;  they  had  to  go  the  way  of  all  flesh 
and  furniture,  and  be  worn  out.  But  when  they  put  up 
Aunt  Ann's  sofa  and  were  going  to  knock  it  down  for  thirty 
shillings,  he  cried  out,  suddenly:  "  Five  pounds  !"  The 
sensation  was  considerable,  and  the  sofa  his. 

When  that  little  sale  was  over  in  the  fusty  sale-room,  and 
those  Victorian  ashes  scattered,  he  went  out  into  the  misty 
October  sunshine  feeling  as  if  cosiness  had  died  out  of  the 
world, and  the  board  "To  Let"  was  up,  indeed.  Revolutions 
on  the  horizon;  Fleur  in  Spain,   no  comfort  in  Annette; 


1098  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

no  Timothy's  on  the  Bayswater  Road.  In  the  irritable 
desolation  of  his  soul  he  went  into  the  Goupenor  Gallery. 
That  chap  Jolyon's  water-colours  were  on  view  there.  He 
went  in  to  look  down  his  nose  at  them — it  might  give  him 
some  faint  satisfaction.  The  news  had  trickled  through 
from  June  to  Val's  wife,  from  her  to  Val,  from  Val  to  his 
mother,  from  her  to  Soames,  that  the  house — the  fatal  house 
at  Robin  Hill — was  for  sale,  and  Irene  going  to  join  her  boy 
out  in  British  Columbia,  or  some  such  place.  For  one  wild 
moment  the  thought  had  come  to  Soames :  '  Why  shouldn't 

I  buy  it  back  ?     I  meant  it  for  my !'     No  sooner  come 

than  gone.  Too  lugubrious  a  triumph;  with  too  many 
humiliating  memories  for  himself  and  Fleur.  She  would 
never  live  there  after  what  had  happened.  No,  the  place 
must  go  its  way  to  some  peer  or  profiteer.  It  had  been  a 
bone  of  contention  from  the  first,  the  shell  of  the  feud; 
and  with  the  woman  gone,  it  was  an  empty  shell.  "  For 
Sale  or  To  Let."  With  his  mind's  eye  he  could  see  that 
board  raised  high  above  the  ivied  wall  which  he  had  built. 

He  passed  through  the  first  of  the  two  rooms  in  the 
Gallery.  There  was  certainly  a  body  of  work  !  And  now 
that  the  fellow  was  dead  it  did  not  seem  so  trivial.  The 
drawings  were  pleasing  enough,  with  quite  a  sense  of  atmo- 
sphere, and  something  individual  in  the  brush  work.  '  His 
father  and  my  father;  he  and  I ;  his  child  and  mine  !'  thought 
Soames.  So  it  had  gone  on  !  And  all  about  that  woman  ! 
Softened  by  the  events  of  the  past  week,  affected  by  the 
melancholy  beauty  of  the  autumn  day,  Soames  came  nearer 
than  he  had  ever  been  to  realization  of  that  truth — passing 
the  understanding  of  a  Forsyte  pure — that  the  body  of 
Beauty  has  a  spiritual  essence,  uncapturable  save  by  a  devo- 
tion which  thinks  not  of  self.  After  all,  he  was  near  that 
truth  in  his  devotion  to  his  daughter;  perhaps  that  made  him 
understand  a  little  how  he  had  missed  the  prize.     And  there, 


TO  LET  1099 

among  the  drawings  of  his  kinsman,  who  had  attained  to 
that  which  he  had  found  beyond  his  reach,  he  thought  of 
him  and  her  with  a  tolerance  which  surprised  him.  But 
he  did  not  buy  a  drawing. 

Just  as  he  passed  the  seat  of  custom  on  his  return  to  the 
outer  air  he  met  with  a  contingency  which  had  not  been 
entirely  absent  from  his  mind  when  he  went  into  the  Gallery 
— Irene,  herself,  coming  in.  So  she  had  not  gone  yet,  and 
was  still  paying  farewell  visits  to  that  fellow's  remains  ! 
He  subdued  the  little  involuntary  leap  of  his  subconsciousness, 
the  mechanical  reaction  of  his  senses  to  the  charm  of  this 
once-owned  woman,  and  passed  her  with  averted  eyes. 
But  when  he  had  gone  by  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him 
help  looking  back.  This,  then,  was  finality — the  heat  and 
stress  of  his  life,  the  madness  and  the  longing  thereof,  the 
only  defeat  he  had  known,  would  be  over  when  she  faded 
from  his  view  this  time;  even  such  memories  had  their  own 
queer  aching  value.  She,  too,  was  looking  back.  Suddenly 
she  lifted  her  gloved  hand,  her  lips  smiled  faintly,  her  dark 
eyes  seemed  to  speak.  It  was  the  turn  of  Soames  to  make 
no  answer  to  that  smile  and  that  little  farewell  wave;  he 
went  out  into  the  fashionable  street  quivering  from  head  to 
foot.  He  knew  what  she  had  meant  to  say:  "  Now  that  I 
am  going  for  ever  out  of  the  reach  of  you  and  yours — forgive 
me;  I  wish  you  well."  That  was  the  meaning;  last  sign 
of  that  terrible  reality — passing  morality,  duty,  common 
sense — her  aversion  from  him  who  had  owned  her  body, 
but  had  never  touched  her  spirit  or  her  heart.  It  hurt; 
yes — more  than  if  she  had  kept  her  mask  unmoved,  her  hand 
unlifted. 

Three  days  later,  in  that  fast -yellowing  October,  Soames 

took  a  taxi-cab  to  Highgate  Cenietery  and  mounted  through 

i  ts  white  forest  to  the  Forsyte  vault.     Close  to  the  cedar. 


1 100  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

above  catacombs  and  columbaria,  tall,  ugly,  and  individual, 
it  looked  like  an  apex  of  the  competitive  system.  He  could 
remember  a  discussion  w^herein  Swithin  had  advocated  the 
addition  to  its  face  of  the  pheasant  proper.  The  proposal 
had  been  rejected  in  favour  of  a  wreath  in  stone,  above  the 
stark  w^ords:  "The  family  vault  of  Jolyon  Forsyte:  1850." 
It  was  in  good  order.  All  trace  of  the  recent  interment 
had  been  removed,  and  its  sober  grey  gloomed  reposefuUy 
in  the  sunshine.  The  whole  family  lay  there  now,  except 
old  Jolyon's  wife,  who  had  gone  back  under  a  contract  to 
her  own  family  vault  in  Suffolk;  old  Jolyon  himself  lying  at 
Robin  Hill;  and  Susan  Hayman,  cremated  so  that  none 
knew  where  she  might  be.  Soames  gazed  at  it  with  satis- 
faction— massive,  needing  little  attention;  and  this  was 
important,  for  he  was  well  aware  that  no  one  would  attend 
to  it  when  he  himself  was  gone,  and  he  would  have  to  be 
looking  out  for  lodgings  soon.  He  might  have  twenty  years 
before  him,  but  one  never  knew.  Twenty  years  without  an 
aunt  or  uncle,  with  a  wife  of  whom  one  had  better  not 
know  anything,  with  a  daughter  gone  from  home.  His 
mood  inclined  to  melancholy  and  retrospection. 

This  cemetery  was  full,  they  said — of  people  with  extra- 
ordinary names,  buried  in  extraordinary  taste.  Still,  they 
had  a  fine  view  up  here,  right  over  London.  Annette  had 
once  given  him  a  story  to  read  by  that  Frenchman,  Maupas- 
sant— a  most  lugubrious  concern,  where  all  the  skeletons 
emerged  from  their  graves  one  night,  and  all  the  pious  in- 
scriptions on  the  stones  were  altered  to  descriptions  of  their 
sins.  Not  a  true  story  at  all.  He  didn't  know  about  the 
French,  but  there  was  not  much  real  harm  in  English  people 
except  their  teeth  and  their  taste,  which  were  certainly 
deplorable.  "The  family  vault  of  Jolyon  Forsyte:  1850." 
A  lot  of  people  had  been  buried  here  since  then — a  lot  of 
English  life  crumbled  to  mould  and  dust  !     The  boom  of  an 


TO  LET  iioi 

airplane  passing  under  the  gold -tinted  clouds  caused  him 
to  lift  his  eyes.  The  deuce  of  a  lot  of  expansion  had  gone 
on.  But  it  all  came  back  to  a  cemetery — to  a  name  and  a 
date  on  a  tomb.  And  he  thought  with  a  curious  pride  that 
he  and  his  family  had  done  little  or  nothing  to  help  this 
feverish  expansion.  Good  soHd  middlemen,  they  had  gone 
to  work  with  dignity  to  manage  and  possess.  "  Superior 
Dosset,"  indeed,  had  built  in  a  dreadful,  and  Jolyon 
painted  in  a  doubtful,  period,  but  so  far  as  he  remembered 
not  another  of  them  all  had  soiled  his  hands  by  creating 
anything — unless  you  counted  Val  Dartie  and  his  horse- 
breeding.  Collectors,  solicitors,  barristers,  merchants,  pub- 
lishers, accountants,  directors,  land  agents,  even  soldiers 
— there  they  had  been  !  The  country  had  expanded,  as  it 
were,  in  spite  of  them.  They  had  checked,  controlled, 
defended,  and  taken  advantage  of  the  process — and  when  you 
considered  how  "  Superior  Dosset  "  had  begun  life  with 
next  to  nothing,  and  his  lineal  descendants  already  owned 
what  old  Gradman  estimated  at  between  a  million  and  a 
million  and  a  half,  it  was  not  so  bad  !  And  yet  he  sometimes 
felt  as  if  the  family  bolt  was  shot,  their  possessive  instinct 
dying  out.  They  seemed  unable  to  make  money — this 
fourth  generation;  they  were  going  into  art,  literature, 
farming,  or  the  army;  or  just  living  on  what  was  left  them — 
they  had  no  push  and  no  tenacity.  They  would  die  out 
if  they  didn't  take  care. 

Soames  turned  from  the  vault  and  faced  toward  the  breeze. 
The  air  up  here  would  be  delicious  if  only  he  could  rid  his 
nerves  of  the  feeling  that  mortahty  was  in  it.  He  gazed 
restlessly  at  the  crosses  and  the  urns,  the  angels,  the  "  immor- 
telles," the  flowers,  gaudy  or  withering;  and  suddenly  he 
noticed  a  spot  which  seemed  so  different  from  anything 
else  up  there  that  he  was  obliged  to  walk  the  few  necessary 
yards  and  look  at  it.     A  sober  corner,  with  a  massive  queer- 


1 102  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

shaped  cross  of  grey  rough-hewn  granite,  guarded  by  four 
dark  yew-trees.  The  spot  was  free  from  the  pressure  of  the 
other  graves,  having  a  little  box-hedged  garden  on  the  far 
side,  and  in  front  a  goldening  birch-tree.  This  oasis' in  the 
desert  of  conventional  graves  appealed  to  the  aesthetic  sense 
of  Soames,  and  he  sat  down  there  in  the  sunshine.  Through 
those  trembling  gold  birch  leaves  he  gazed  out  at  London, 
and  yielded  to  the  waves  of  memory.  He  thought  of  Irene 
in  Montpellier  Square,  when  her  hair  was  rusty  golden  and 
her  white  shoulders  his — Irene,  the  prize  of  his  love-passion, 
resistant  to  his  ownership.  He  saw  Bosinney's  body  lying 
in  that  white  mortuary,  and  Irene  sitting  on  the  sofa  looking 
at  space  with  the  eyes  of  a  dying  bird.  Again  he  thought 
of  her  by  the  little  green  Niobe  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
once  more  rejecting  him.  His  fancy  took  him  on  beside 
his  drifting  river  on  the  November  day  when  Fleur  was  to  be 
born,  took  him  to  the  dead  leaves  floating  on  the  green-tinged 
water  and  the  snake-headed  weed  for  ever  swaying  and  nosing, 
sinuous,  blind,  tethered.  And  on  again  to  the  window 
opened  to  the  cold  starry  night  above  Hyde  Park,  with  his 
father  lying  dead.  His  fancy  darted  to  that  picture  of  "  the 
future  town,"  to  that  boy's  and  Fleur's  first  meeting;  to 
the  bluish  trail  of  Prosper  Profond's  cigar,  and  Fleur  in 
the  window  pointing  down  to  where  the  fellow  prowled. 
To  the  sight  of  Irene  and  that  dead  fellow  sitting  side  by 
side  in  the  stand  at  Lord's.  To  her  and  that  boy  at  Robin 
Hill.  To  the  sofa,  where  Fleur  lay  crushed  up  in  the  corner ; 
to  her  lips  pressed  into  his  cheek,  and  her  farewell  "  Daddy." 
And  suddenly  he  saw  again  Irene's  grey-gloved  hand  waving 
its  last  gesture  of  release. 

He  sat  there  a  long  time  dreaming  his  career,  faithful 
to  the  scut  of  his  possessive  instinct,  warming  himself  even 
with  its  failures. 

"  To  Let  " — the  Forsyte  age  and  way  of  life,  when  a  man 


TO  LET  1 103 

owned  his  soul,  his  investments,  and  his  woman,  without 
check  or  question.  And  now  the  State  had,  or  would 
have,  his  investments,  his  woman  had  herself,  and  God 
knew  who  had  his  soul.  "  To  Let  " — that  sane  and 
simple  creed  ! 

The  waters  of  change  were  foaming  in,  carrying  the 
promise  of  new  forms  only  when  their  destructive  flood 
should  have  passed  its  full.  He  sat  there,  subconscious 
of  them,  but  with  his  thoughts  resolutely  set  on  the  past — 
as  a  man  might  ride  into  a  wild  night  with  his  face  to  the 
tail  of  his  galloping  horse.  Athwart  the  Victorian  dykes 
the  waters  were  rolling  on  property,  manners,  and  morals, 
on  melody  and  the  old  forms  of  art — waters  bringing  to  his 
mouth  a  salt  taste  as  of  blood,  lapping  to  the  foot  of  this 
Highgate  Hill  where  Mctorianism  lay  buried.  And  sitting 
there,  high  up  on  its  most  individual  spot,  Soames — like 
a  figure  of  Investment — refused  their  restless  sounds. 
Instinctively  he  would  not  fight  them — there  was  in  him 
too  much  primeval  wisdom,  of  Man  the  possessive  animal. 
They  would  quiet  down  when  they  had  fulfilled  their  tidal 
fever  of  dispossessing  and  destroying;  when  the  creations 
and  the  properties  of  others  were  sufficiently  broken  and 
dejected — they  would  lapse  and  ebb,  and  fresh  forms  w^ould 
rise  based  on  an  instinct  older  than  the  fever  of  change — 
the  instinct  of  Home. 

"  Je  ni'en  fiche,''  said  Prosper  Profond.  Soames  did  not 
say  "  Js  nCen  fiche  " — it  was  French,  and  the  fellow  was 
a  thorn  in  his  side — but  deep  down  he  knew  that  change 
was  only  the  interval  of  death  between  two  forms  of  life, 
destruction  necessary  to  make  room  for  fresher  property. 
What  though  the  board  was  up,  and  cosiness  to  let  ? — some 
one  would  come  along  and  take  it  again  some  day. 

And  only  one  thing  really  troubled  him,  sitting  there — 
the  melancholy  craving  in  his  heart — because  the  sun  was 


1 104  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

like  enchantment  on  his  face  and  on  the  clouds  and  on  the 
golden  birch  leaves,  and  the  wind's  rustle  was  so  gentle,  and 
the  yew-tree  green  so  dark,  and  the  sickle  of  a  moon  pale  in 
the  sky. 

He  might  wish  and  wish  and  never  get  it — the  beauty 
and  the  loving  in  the  world  ! 


THE    END 


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BILLING    AND    SONS,    LTD.,    GUILDFORD    AND    ESHER 


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