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The  Forsyte  saga 


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THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


THE  WORKS  OF 
JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

NOVELS 

VILLA  EUBEIN:  AND  OTHER  STORIES 

THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 

THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE  PATRICIAN 

THE  DARK  FLOWER 

THE  FREELANDS 

BEYOND 

FIVE  TALES 

SAINT'S  PROGRESS 

IN  CHANCERY 

TO  LET 

THE  BURNING  SPEAR 

THE  WHITE  MONKEY 

THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

SHORT  STORIES  AND  STUDIES 

A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

THE  LITTLE  MAN 

A  SHEAF 

ANOTHER  SHEAF 

TATTERDEMALION 

CAPTURES 

POEMS 
MOODS,  SONGS  AND  DOGGERELS 

MEMORIES  (Illusteated) 

AWAKENING   ai-LDSTHATED) 

ADDRESSES  IN  AMERICA 


PLAYS 
FiEST  Sehibs:     The  Silver  Box 

Joy 

Strife 
Second  Series:  The  Eldest  Son 

The  Little  Dream 

Justice 
Third  Series:    The  Fdgitive 

The  Pigeon 

The  Mod 
Fourth  Series:  A  Bit  o'  Love 

Foundations 

The  Skin  Game 
Fifth  Series:     A  Familt  Man 

Loyalties 

Windows 
SIX  SHORT  PLAYS: 
The  Forest 


THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
-iLB    19S4      , 


CoPTKlGHT,  1918,  1920,  1981,  1928,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNEE'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Copyright,  1906,  by  WitLlAM  HlXNEUAinl 

Copyright,  1918, 1920,  by  The  Intebnationai.  Magazine  Co, 

Published  Maich,  1922 


3  so 


To 
MY  WIFE 


I  DEDICATE  THE  FOBSTTE  SAGA  IN  ITS  ENTIBETT, 
BEIilEVDIG  IT  TO  BE  OF  ALL  IrTT  WORK  THE  LEAST 
TTNWORTHT  OF  ONE  WITHOUT  WHOSE  ENCOURAGE- 
MENT, SYMPATHY  AND  CRITICISM  I  COULD  NEVER 
HAVE    BECOME    EVEN    SUCH    A    WRITER    AS    I    AM 


PREFACE 

'  The  Forsyte  Saga '  was  the  title  originally  destined  for  that  part 
of  it  which  is  called  'The  Man  of  Property';  and  to  adopt  it  for 
the  collected  chronicles  of  the  Forsyte  family  has  indulged  the 
Forsytean  tenacity  that  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  Sagas  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  were,  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  an  imagined  species. 
Manners  change  and  modes  evolve,  and  'Timothy's  on  the  Bays- 
water  Road'  becomes  a  nest  of  the  unbelievable  in  all  except  essen- 
tials; we  shall  not  look  upon  its  like  again,  nor  perhaps  on  such  a 
one  as  James  or  Old  Jolyon.  And  yet  the  figures  of  Insurance 
Societies  and  the  utterances  of  Judges  reassure  us  daily  that  our 
earthly  paradise  is  still  a  rich  preserve,  where  the  wild  raiders. 
Beauty  and  Passion,  come  stealing  in,  filching  security  from  be- 
neath our  noses.  As  surely  as  a  dog  will  bark  at  a  brass  band,  so 
will  the  essential  Soames  in  human  nature  ever  rise  up  uneasily 


viii  PREFACE 

against  the  dissolution  which  hovers  round  the  folds  of  owner- 
ship. 

'Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead'  would  be  a  better  saying  if  the 
Past  ever  died.  The  persistence  of  the  Past  is  one  of  those  tragi- 
comic blessings  which  each  new  age  denies,  coming  cock-sure  on  to 
the  stage  to  mouth  its  claim  to  a  perfect  novelty.  But  no  Age  is 
so  new  as  that !  Human  Nature,  under  its  changing  pretensions 
and  clothes,  is  and  ever  will  be  very  much  of  a  Forsyte,  and  might, 
after  all,  be  a  much  worse  animal. 

Looking  back  on  the  Victorian  era,  whose  ripeness,  decline,  and 
'fall-off'  is  in  some  sort  pictured  in  'The  Forsyte  Saga,'  we  see  now 
that  we  have  but  jumped  out  of  a  frying-pan  into  a  fire.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  substantiate  a  claim  that  the  case  of  England  was 
better  in  1913  than  it  was  in  1886,  when  the  Forsytes  assembled 
at  Old  Jolyon's  to  celebrate  the  engagement  of  June  to  Philip 
Bosinney.  And  in  1920,  when  again  the  clan  gathered  to  bless  the 
marriage  of  Fleur  with  Michael  Mont,  the  state  of  England  is  as 
surely  too  molten  and  bankrupt  as  in  the  eighties  it  was  too  con- 
gealed and  low-percented.  If  these  chronicles  had  been  a  really 
scientific  study  of  transition  one  would  have,  dwelt  probably  on 
such  factors  as  the  invention  of  bicycle,  motor-car,  and  flying- 
machine;  the  arrival  of  a  cheap  Press;  the  decline  of  country  Ufe  and 
increase  of  the  towns;  the  birth  of  the  Cinema.  Men  are,  in  fact, 
quite  unable  to  control  their  own  inventions;  they  at  best  develop 
adaptability  to  the  new  conditions  those  inventions  create. 

But  this  long  tale  is  no  scientific  study  of  a  period;  it  is  rather  an 
intimate  incarnation  of  the  disturbance  that  Beauty  effects  in  the 
lives  of  men. 

The  figure  of  Irene,  never,  as  the  reader  may  possibly  have  no- 
ticed, present,  except  through  the  senses  of  other  characters,  is  a 
concretion  of  disturbing  Beauty  impinging  on  a  possessive  world. 

One  has  noticed  that  readers,  as  they  wade  on  through  the  salt 
waters  of  the  Saga,  are  inclined  more  and  more  to  pity  Soames,  and 
to  think  that  in  doing  so  they  are  in  revolt  against  the  mood  of  his 
creator.  Far  from  itl  He,  too,  pities  Soames,  the  tragedy  of 
whose  life  is  the  very  simple,  uncontrollable  tragedy  of  being 
unlovable,  without  quite  a  thick  enough  skin  to  be  thoroughly  un- 
conscious of  the  fact.  Not  even  Fleur  loves  Soames  as  he  feels  he 
ought  to  be  loved.     But  in  pitying  Soames  readers  incline,  perhaps. 


PREFACE  ix 

to  animus  against  Irene.  After  all,  they  think,  he  wasn't  a  bad 
fellow,  it  wasn't  his  fault;  she  ought  to  have  forgiven  him,  and  so 
on !  And,  taking  sides,  they  lose  perception  of  the  simple  truth, 
which  underlies  the  whole  story,  that  where  sex  attraction  is  utterly 
and  definitely  lacking  in  one  partner  to  a  union,  no  amount  of 
pity,  or  reason,  or  duty,  or  what  not,  can  overcome  a  repulsion 
implicit  in  Nature.  Whether  it  ought  to,  or  no,  is  beside  the  point; 
because  in  fact  it  never  does.  And  where  Irene  seems  hard  and 
cruel,  as  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  or  the  Goupenor  Gallery,  she  is 
but  wisely  realistic — ^knowing  that  the  least  concession  is  the  inch 
which  precedes  the  impossible,  the  repulsive  ell. 

A  criticism  one  might  pass  on  the  last  phase  of  the  Saga  is  the 
•complaint  that  Irene  and  Jolyon — those  rebels  against  property — 
■claim  spiritual  property  in  their  son  Jon.  But  it  would  be  hyper- 
•criticism  as  the  tale  is  told.  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,  can  realise  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  Free- 
dom 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  endeav- 
oured 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.  Here  it  rests,  preserved  in  its  own  juice:  The  Sense  of 
Property. 

John  Galsworthy. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 

Paht  I 

CHAPTEB  PAOB 

I.    'at  home'  at  oij)  jolyon's 3 

II.      OLD  JOLTON  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 20 

III.  DINNEB  AT  SWITHIN's 34 

IV.  PROJECTION  OF  THE  HOUSE 48 

V.      A  FORSYTE  MENAGE             57 

VI.      JAMES  AT  LARGE     .        .               . 63 

VII.     OLD  jolyon's  peccadillo 72 

VIII.      PLANS  OF  THE  HOUSE                 80 

IX.      DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANN                  .        .                88 

Part  II 

I.      PROGRESS  OF  THE  HOUSE                 97 

II.    June's  treat 105 

-  III.      DRIVE  WITH  SWITHIN 112 

IV.      JAMES  GOES  TO  SEE  FOR  HIMSELF 122 

xi 


xu 

CEAPTBB 


CONTENTS 


V.  SOAMES  AND  BOSINNEY  CORRESPOND 

VI.  OLD  JOLYON  AT  THE  ZOO 

VII.  AFTERNOON  AT  TIMOTHY's 

VIII.  DANCE  AT  EOGEr's 

IX.  EVENING  AT  RICHMOND      . 

X.  DIAGNOSIS  OF  A  FORSYTE 

XI.  BOSINNEY  ON  PAROLE 

XII.  JUNE  PAYS  SOME  CALLS     . 

XIII.  PERFECTION  OF  THE  HOUSE 

XIV.  SOAMES  SITS  ON  THE  STAIRS 


PAGE 

132 
146 
152 
164 
172 
183 
192 
197 
205 
213 


Part  III 

I.      MRS.  MacANDER's  EVIDENCE 217 

11.      NIGHT  IN  THE  PARK  228 

III.  MEETING  AT  THE  BOTANICAL 232 

IV.  VOYAGE  INTO  THE  INFERNO 245 

V.      THE  TRIAL  .  255 

VI.      SOAMES  BREAKS  THE  NEWS 263 

VII.    June's  victory 273 

VIII.      BOSINNEY's  DEPARTURE 281 

IX.    Irene's  return    ...  290 

Interlude 

indian  summer  of  a  forsyte 297 


CONTENTS  xiii 

BOOK  II 

IN  CHANCERY 

Part  I 

•CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    AT  timothy's  .           343 

II.     exit  a  man  of  the  world 352 

III.  SOAMES  prepares  TO  TAKE  STEPS 363 

IV.  soHo                          368 

V.      JAMES  SEES  VISIONS     .                374 

VI.      NO-LONGER-TOUNG  JOLYON  AT  HOME              ....  380 

VII.      THE  COLT  AND  THE  FILLY        .                                       ...  389 

Till.      JOLYON  PROSECUTES  TRUSTEESHIP                                   .  394 

IX.      VAL  HEARS  THE  NEWS                        401 

X.      SOAMES  ENTERTAINS  THE  FUTURE 409 

XI.      AND  VISITS  THE  PAST 413 

XII.      ON -FORSYTE  'CHANGE 418 

XHI.      JOLYON  FINDS  OUT  WHERE  HE  IS 429 

XIV.      SOAMES  DISCOVERS  WHAT  HE  WANTS 435 

Part  II 

I.      THE  THIRD  GENERATION           439 

II.      SOAMES  PUTS  IT  TO  THE  TOUCH 448 

III.  VISIT  TO  IRENE 456 

IV.  WHERE  FORSYTES  FEAR  TO  TREAD     ...                .        .  462 


xiv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

V.      JOLLY  SITS  IN  JUDGMENT 469 

VI.      JOLYON  IN  TWO  MINDS 477 

VII.      DARTIE  VERSUS  DAKTIE 481 

VIII.      THE  CHALLENGE 491 

IX.  DINNER  AT  JAMES' 496 

X.      DEATH  OF  THE  DOG  BALTHASAR 502 

XI.      TIMOTHY  STAYS  THE  EOT 506 

XII.      PROGRESS  OF  THE  CHASE 512 

XIII.  'here  WE  ARE  again!' 517 

XIV.  OUTLANDISH  NIGHT              526 

Part  III 

I.      SOAMES  IN  PARIS 529 

II.      IN  THE  WEB 535 

III.  RICHMOND  PARK 539 

IV.  OVER  THE  RIVER            ■      .  545 

V.      SOAMES  ACTS 547 

VI.      A  SUMMER  DAY 550 

VII.      A  SUMMER  NIGHT 556 

VIII.      JAMES  IN  WAITING 559 

IX.      OUT  OF  THE  WEB 563. 

X.  PASSING  OF  AN  AGE 571 

XI.      SUSPENDED  ANIMATION 581 

XII.      BIRTH  OF  A  FORSYTE 58S 


CONTENTS  XV 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  JAMES  IS  TOLD 594 

XIV.  HIS 698 

Inteklxtoe 

awakening 603 


BOOK  III 
TO  LET 

PaktI 

i.    encounter 627 

ii.    fine  fleue  forsyte 642 

iii.    at  robin  hill 649 

iv.    the  mausoleum 656 

v.    the  native  heath 665 

VI.      JON 673 

VII.      FLEUE 678 

VIII.      IDYLL  ON  GRASS 684 

IX.      GOYA 688 

X.    TRIO 698 

XI.      DUET 704 

XII.      CAPRICE 710 

Part  II 

I.      MOTHER  AND  SON 719 

II.      FATHERS  AND  DAUGHTERS 724 


xvi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

III.  MEETINGS    .       .^ 737 

IV.  IN  GREEN  STREET 746 

V.  PURELY  FORSYTE  AFEAIES 751 

VI.  SOAMES'S  PRIVATE  LIFE  758 

VII.  JUNE  TAKES  A  HAND 767 

VIII.  THE  BIT  BETWEEN  THE  TEETH 772 

IX.  THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIRE 778 

X.  DECISION 786 

XI.  TIMOTHY  PROPHESIES 790 

•      •     •         Part  III 

I.  OLD  JOLYON  WALKS 801 

II.  confession'    .' 809 

III.  IRENE     .        .'      .' 815 

IV.  soAMES  cogitates 819 

V.  THE  FIXED  IDEA 825 

VI.  DESPERATE  '  829 

VII.  EMBASSY 83G 

VIII.  THE  DARK  TUNE 844 

IX.  UNDER  THE  OAK-TREE 849 

X.  FLEUr's  WEDDING 852 

XI.  THE  LAST  OF  THE  OLD  FORSYTES 861 


BOOK  I 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 


"  .  .  .  .  You  will  answer 
ITie  slaves  are  ours.  ..." 
— Merchant  of  Venice, 


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  whosoever  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  repro- 
duction 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  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,  eighteen  eighty-six,  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  engage- 
ment of  Miss  June  Forsyte,  old  Jolyon's  granddaughter,  to 
Mr.  Philip  Bosinney.  In  the  bravery  of  light  gloves,  buff  waist- 
coats, 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 

3 


4  riiii  nUKiSXl-bJ  SAGA 

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  posses- 
siveness  of  the  family  idea. 

When  a  Forsyte  was  engaged,  married,  or  bom,  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  snifp 
■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  moment  of  the  family 
history,  made  it  the  prelude  of  their  drama. 

The  Forsytes  were  resentful  of  something,  not  individually, 
'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  fundamental  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  of  bulk  and  stature  was  wearing 
two  waistcoats  on  his  wide  chest,  two  waistco&ts  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  grey  eyes  had  an  air  of 
fixed  absorption  in  some  secret  worry,  laroken  at  intervals  by  a 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  5 

rapid,  shifting  scrutiny  of  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.  Behind  him  his 
cousin,  the  tall  George,  son  of  the  fifth  Forsyte,  Eoger,  had  a 
Quilpish  look  on  his  fleshy  face,  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  constitution.  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  Eoad.  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 
himself  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  pre- 
scriptive 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  Eoger,  there  was  much  differ- 
ence, 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  fivo 
faces  could  be  marked  a  certain  steadfastness  of  chin,  under- 
lying surface  distinctions,  marking  a  racial  stamp,  too  prehis- 


6  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

toric  to  trace,  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  something  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  acquaint- 
ance 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  altogether  for  this 
reason,  therefore,  that  the  minds  of  the  Forsytes  misgave  them. 
They  could  not  have  explained  the  origin  of  a  misgiving  ob- 
scured 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  whole  matter;  for 
each  had  asked  himself :  '  Come,  now,  should  I  have  paid  that 
visit  in  that  hat  ?'  and  each  had  answered  *  No !'  and  some,  with 
more  imagination  than  others,  had  added:  'It  would  never 
have  come  into  my  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,  '  the  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. 


THE  MAF  OP  PROPERTY  7 

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!' 

Ko  one  had  credited  an  answer  so  outrageous.  A  man  not 
know  what  he  had  on?    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  sufiScient 
reason  for  wearing  such  a  hat.  Kone  of  the  Forsytes  happened 
to  be  architects,  but  one  of  them  knew  two  architects  who  would 
never  have  worn  such  a  hat  upon  a  call  of  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  dis- 
trust, did  not  prevent  the  Forsytes  from  gathering  to  old  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. 

Fever  had  there  been  so  full  an  assembly,  for,  mysteriously 
united  in  spite  of  all  their  differences,  they  had  taken  arms 
against  a  common  peril.  Like  cattle  when  a  dog  comes  into 
the  iield,  they  stood  head  to  head  and  shoulder  to  shoulder,  pre- 
pared 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  ques- 
tion 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 
A.unts  Ann,  Juley,  and  Hester. 

The  uneasiness  of  the  Forsyte  family  has  been  justified  by 
the  simple  mention., of  the  hat.     How  impossible  and  wrong 


S  THE  FOKSYTB  SAGA 

■H^ould  it  have  been  for  any  family,  with  the  regard  for  appear- 
:ances  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 
ihough  he  found  what  was  going  on  around  him  unusual.  He 
Tiad  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 
laucfcaneer ! ' 

This  '  very  singular-looking  man,'  as  Mrs.  Small  afterwards 
called  him,  was  of  medium  height  and  strong  build,  with  a  pale, 
brown  face,  a  dust-coloured  moustache,  very  prominent  cheek- 
bones, 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 
remarked  to  the  butler: 

'  I  dunno  what  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  look- 
ing at  these  two  with  a  shadowy  smile. 

Her  hands,  gloved  in  French  gray,  were  crossed  one  over  the 
mother,  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  fioft.  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 
ito  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 
a^ed.  Iber  name. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPERTY  9 

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  appearing  from 
behind  the  woman  with  the  beautiful  figure,  who  was  his  wife, 
said: 

'  Ah !  introduce  me  too !' 

He  was  seldom,  indeed,  far  from  Irene's  side  at  public  func- 
tions, and  even  when  separated  by  the  exigencies  of  social  inter- 
course, 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. 

'  1  wonder  at  Jolyon's  allowing  this  engagement,'  he  said  to 
Aunt  Ann.  '  They  tell  me  there's  no  chance  of  their  gettting 
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  extin- 
guished 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. 

'Well,'  he  said,  'I  couldn't  help  Irene's  having  no  money. 
Soames  was  in  such  a  hurry;  he  got  quite  thin  dancing  attend- 
ance on  her.' 

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

'  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  utterance. 
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: 


10  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

'  No,  he  had  not  thought  it  wise,  with  so  much  of  this  diph- 
theria 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  con- 
tempt, 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  busi- 
ness 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  con- 
spicuous proceeds  in  three  per  cent,  consols.  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  undermined  a  spirit  perhaps  bet- 
ter than  commonly  endowed  with  caution.  He  had  become 
almost  a  myth — a  kind  of  incarnation  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. 

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  I  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  neighbours — 
tliej  quailed  before  her  incorruptible  figure,  and,  when  oppor- 
tunities 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  existence  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  awaj  vnth  that  foreign  governess.     'Well,'  he  resumed 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  11 

hastily,  *  if  he  likes  to  do  these  things,  I  s'pose  he  can  afford  to. 
Now,  whafs  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,  and  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  was  a 
director),  placed  within  that  cold  palm  the  tips  of  his  still 
colder  fingers  and  hastily  withdrew  them. 

'I'm  bad,'  he  said,  pouting — 'been  bad  aU  the  week;  don't 
sleep  at  night.  The  doctor  can't  teU  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 ; '  I've 
had  all  the  doctors  in  London  for  one  or  another  of  us.  There's 
no  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  themj  they'll  tell  you  anything. 
There's  Swithin,  now.  What  good  have  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  ?'  he  said  in  his  dandified  way,  aspirating 
the  'h'  strongly  (this  difficult  letter  was  almost  absolutely  safe 
in  his  keeping) — 'ho  ware  you?' 

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 
hearing. 

'Thinner?  I'm  in  good  case,'  he  said,  leaning  a  little  for- 
ward, '  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.    Wonderful  woman !    Eighty-six 


12  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

if  a  day ;  might  live  another  ten  years,  and  had  never  been  strong. 
Swithin  and  James,  the  twins,  were  only  seventy-five,  Nicholas 
a  mere  baby  of  seventy  or  so.  All  were  strong,  and  the  infer-ence 
was  comforting.  Of  all  forms  of  property  their  respective 
healths  naturally  concerned  them  most. 

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

'Bath!'  said  Nicholas.  'I've  tried  Harrogate.  That's  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  of  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  me  anything.' 

Swithin  fixed  him  with  a  stare,  and  asked: 

'What  do  you  do  for  a  pain  there?' 

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?'  he  said,  brooding  over  her.  '  So  you're  going 
to  Wales  to-morrow  to  visit  your  young  man's  aunts?  You'll 
have  a  lot  of  rain  there.  This  isn't  real  old  Worcester.'  He 
tapped  the  bowl.  '  Now,  that  set  I  gave  your  mother  when  she 
married  was  the  genuine  thing,' 

June  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  13 

a  film  like  a  bird's  was  beginning  to  come,  followed  her  wist- 
fully 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  recharging  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  cer- 
tainly 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- 
importance,  without  which  none  of  us  can  bear  to  live;  and  to 
this  she  dung  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  promising  young  fellow!  The  thought  rankled 
with  the  bitterness  of  a  long-inflicted  injury  in  her  tenacious 
old  heart.  A  little  water  stood  in  her  eyes.  With  a  handker- 
chief of  the  finest  lawn  she  wiped  them  stealthily. 

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

Soames  Forsyte,  flat-shouldered,   clean-shaven,   flat-cheeked. 


14  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  recognized  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. 

'  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,  v?ho 
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,  where  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  teU  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  withl  Montpellier 
Square,  they  say ;  close  to  Soames !  They  never  told  me — Irene 
never  tells  me  anything !' 

'  Capital  position,  not  two  minutes  from  me,'  said  the  voice  of 
Swithin,  '  and  from  my  rooms  I  can  drive  to  the  Club  in  eight.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PKOPERTY  15 

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

Their  father,  of  farming  stock,  had  come  from  Dorsetshire 
near  the  beginning  of  the  century. 

'  Superior  Dosset  Forsyte,'  as  he  was  called  by  his  intimates, 
had  been  a  stonemason  by  trade,  and  risen  to  the  position  of 
a  master-builder.  Towards  the  end  of  his  life  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  family  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?  ISTo-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  Ms  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. 

Whether  or  no  James  had  cherished  hopes  of  an  inheritance, 
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.' 


16  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  institutions  as  might  be 
beneficial  to  their  sick  domestics.  From  their  father,  the 
builder,  they  inherited  a  talent  for  bricks  and  mortar.  Origi- 
nally, perhaps,  members  of  some  primitive  sect,  they  were  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  fashionable  churches  of  the  Metrop- 
olis. 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,  not 
he ! — the  Soameses  in  their  nest  off  Knightsbridge ;  the  Eogers 
in  Prince's  Gardens  (Eoger  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;  'I  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  giraffe,  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  Eoad,  where  Ann,  and  Juley,  and  Hester,  lived  under 
his  protection. 

But  all  this  time  James  was  musing,  and  now  he  enquired  of 
his  host  and  brother  what  he  had  given  for  that  house  in 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  17 

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'U 
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,  having 
already  forgotten  his  spleen — Mrs.  James  facing  the  horses,  tall 
and  majestic  with  auburn  hair;  on  her  left,  Irene — the  two 
husbands,  father  and  son,  sitting  forward,  as  though  they  ex- 
pected 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  Eoger,  walked  away  together,  directing 
their  steps  alongside  Hyde  Park  towards  the  Praed  Street  Sta- 
tion of  the  Underground.  Like  all  other  Forsytes  of  a  certain 
age  they  kept  carriages  of  their  own,  and  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  td  notice 
phenomena,  which  contributed,  nevertheless,  to  the  jauntiness 
of  promenade  and  conversation. 

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

This  brother  had  a  high  forehead,  and  the  freshest  colour 


18  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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

'What  was  her  father?' 

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

Eoger  shook  his  head. 

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

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

Eoger's  face  brightened. 

'But  he  went  bankrupt,'  went  on  Nicholas. 

'  Ah !'  exclaimed  Eoger,  '  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  ?'  asked  Eoger  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  Eoger  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,  'hut  her  figure's  capital!' 

Eoger  made  no  reply. 

'  I  call  her  distinguished-looking,'  he  said  at  last — ^it  was  the 
highest  praise  in  the  Forsyte  vocabulary.  *  That  young  Bosin- 
ney  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!  I  should  like 
to  hear  what  Timothy  would  say  to  it.' 

They  entered  the  station. 

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

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


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  19 

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

'Always  a  stubborn  beggar,  Nick!' 

And  as  Nicholas  expressed  it  to  himself: 

'Cantankerous  chap  Eoger  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  byi  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.  Prom  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  the 
Japanese  cabinet  in  the  corner,  and  the  room  now  had  its 
revenge. 

His  temples,  curving  like  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  recollected 
with  satisfaction  that  he  had  bought  that  house  over  James's 

20 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  21 

head.  Serve  him  right  for  sticking  at  the  price ;  the  only  thing 
the  fellow  thought  of  was  money.     Had  he  given  too  much, 

though  ?  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  Bosinney  at  the  house  of  Baynes — Baynes  and 
Bildeboy,  the  architects.  He  believed  that  Baynes,  whom  ho 
knew — a  bit  of  an  old  woman — was  the  young  man's  uncle  by 
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  money,  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  day  in  her  slap-dash  way  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  I' 

'  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  got  such  a  grip  of  his  heart. 
He  knew  more  about  '  swims'  than  his  granddaughter.  But  she, 
h.iving  clasped  her  hands  on  hisi  knees,  rubbed  her  chin  against 
him,  making  a  sound  like  a  purring  eat.  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;  I  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. 

'J  shan't  be  able  to  give  you  very  much,'  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  accord- 


22  THE  rOESYTB  SAGA 

ing  to  their  cloth.  He  would  not  give  way  till  he  saw  yonug 
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!  Like  his  father,  he 
was  always  nosing  out  bargains,  a  cold-blooded  young  beggar! 

He  rose,  and,  going  to  th^  cabinet,  began  methodically  stock- 
ing his  cigar-case  from  a  bundle  fresh  in.  They  were  not  bad 
at  the  price,  but  you  couldn't  get  a  good  cigar  nowadays,  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  Traquair — dead  of  that 
wife  of  his,  a  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  stUl !  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  Hampstead  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  live,  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, 
i»ow  sweet  his  cigars  were  then ! 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  33 

Cigars!  He  had  not  even  succeeded  m  outliving  his  palate 
— ^the  famous  palate  that  in  the  fifties  men  swore  by,  and  speak- 
ing of  him,  said :  '  Forsyte — ^the  best  palate  in  London !'  The 
palate  that  in  a  sense  had  made  his  fortune — the  fortune  of  the 
celebrated  tea  men,  Forsyte  and  Treffry,  virhose  tea,  like  no  other 
man's  tea,  had  a  romantic  aroma,  the  charm  of  a  quite  singular 
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  bannister. 
The  house  was  too  big.  After  June  was  married,  if  she  ever 
did  marry  this  fellow,  as  he  supposed  she  would,  he  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.' 


24  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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.' 

'  I'll  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  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  followed  their  customs,  social  and  otherwise,  and 
secretly  he  thought  them  '  a  common  lot.' 

Years  and  philosophy,  of  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  of  Clubs.  He 
would  have  been  a  member  all  these  years  himself,  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 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  25 

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 !'  he  thought.  '  The  dining- 
room  is  good.' 

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

He  ordered  dinner,  and  sat  down  in  the  very  corner,  at  the 
very  table  perhaps  (things  did  not  progress  much  at  the  '  Dis- 
union,' a  Club  of  almost  Eadical  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  recalled  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  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  Danae  Thorn- 
worthy,  now  Danae  Pellew,  Anthony  Thornworthy'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,  impos- 
sible; 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  busi- 
ness 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 
plaything  and  beloved  resort  of  tiny  helpless  things.  With  char- 
acteristic 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 


26  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  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  'Pidelio.' 

Mercifully  not  one  of  those  new-fangled  German  pantomimes 
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  Eussia  leather,  from  habitual  prox- 
imity 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! 

Put  from  that  he  began  indulging  in  one  of  those  strange 
impersonal  speculations,  so  uneharacteristia  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  Forsyte! 
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  Treffry— you  used 
to  have  six  or  seven  stalls  here  regular  every  season.  And  how 
are  you,  sir  ?    We  don't  get  younger !' 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPBETY  27 

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  hattle. 

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  he  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  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), 


28  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

who  bears  our  Christian  and,  by  courtesy,  our  surname,  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  Deak  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   Foestte/ 

And  every  year  on  the  1st  of  January  he  had  added  a  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  correspondence  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  affairs,  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  JoUy  (considering  the  circumstances  the  name  struck 
him   as    cynical,    and  old   Jolyon    both    feared    and    disliked 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  29 

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  pic- 
tures, too — water-colours.  Old  Jolyon  knew  this,  for  he  had  sur- 
reptitiously 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. 

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,  teach- 
ing 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  man- 
ner which  old  Jolyon  knew  was  only  to  be  obtained  at  such 
places  and  at  great  expense ;  but  he  had  always  been  companion- 
able. 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  par- 
take. .  .  .  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  nowadays ! 

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  la,y  through  PaU  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  used 


30  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  fireplace. 

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  amiabil- 
ity 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  obliged  to  look  into  himself 
a  good  deal  in  the  course  of  those  fifteen  years. 

To  young  Jolyon  the  first  sight  of  his  father  was  undoubtedly 
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. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  31 

'  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  oflE  to-day 
on  a  visit.  I  suppose  you  know  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  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 
eat  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  diuing-table.  Old  Jolyon  '  shoo'd' 
hep  off  at  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  tiie  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  unfortunately 
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 


32  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  admir- 
ation. 

'  Not  bad  looking — a  regular  Porsyte  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. 

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

'  Do  with  myself  ?'  repeated  old  Jolyon  with  an  angry  break 
in  his  voice.    '  It'U  be  miserable  work  living  here  alone.    I  don't 

know  how  it's  to  end.     I  wish  to  goodness '     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  of  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  of  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  moderation,  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  processes  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  33 

lonely,  and  grow  older  and  older,  yearning  for  a  soul  to  speak  to ! 

In  his  turn  old  Jolyon  looked  back  at  his  son.  He  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  Company,  of 
which  he  had  so  long  been  chairman;  his  disgust  at  the  steady 
fall  in  American  Golgothas,  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  influ- 
ence, however,  of  a  cup  of  tea,  which  he  seemed  to  stir  indefin- 
itely, 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  was  his  great  quality. 
He  kept  his  ej'es  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  worn  and  hollow  again;  the  eyes  were 
steadily  averted. 

*  Good-bye,  my  boy ;  take  care  of  j-ourself .' 

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. 


CHAPTEE  III 

DINNEK  AT  SWITHIN'S 

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- 
frajOied  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  mate  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  deplor- 
able in  his  estimation,  especially  as  to  its  auctioneering  depart- 
ment, he  had  abandoned  himself  to  naturally  aristocratic  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  that  he  had  made 
his  own  way  and  his  own  fortune,  and  a  sense  that  a  man  of 
his  distinction  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  under- 
chin  remained  immovable.    His  eyes  roved  from  bottle  to  bottle. 

34 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  35 

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  some- 
thing 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  wTio  is  just  going  to  purr  stole  over  his  old  face: 
Mrs.  Soames !  She  mightn't  take  much,  but  she  would  appre- 
ciate what  she  drank ;  it  was  a  pleasure  to  give  her  good  wine  I 
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  charming  manners,  quite  distinguished 
— a  pleasure  to  entertain  her.  Between  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  instruc- 
tions: 

'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  immobility.  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. 


36  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  pro- 
claimed : 

'  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  eased  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 !' 

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  of  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  anima- 
tion for  hours  together,  relating,  with  epic  monotony,  the  in- 
numerable 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  per- 
sons, and  she  could  never  divest  herself  of  the  feeling  that  the 
world  was  the  most  ungrateful  place  anybody  could  live  in. 
Sunday  after  Sunday  she  sat  at  the  feet  of  that  extremely  witty 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPERTY  37 

preacher,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Scoles,  who  exercised  a  great  influ- 
ence 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  anybody  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!' 

Swithin  put  his  thumbs  within  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat, 
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  difficulties — ^he  was  justly  pleased.  It  would 
double  the  output  of  his  mines,  and,  as  he  had  often  forcibly 
argued,  all  experience  tended  to  show  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,  was 
surely  of  little  consequence,  provided  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.' 


38  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 !' 

Swithin  drew  his  heels  together,  his  deportment  ever 
admirable. 

'  Well,  James,  well  Emily  I  How  are  you,  Soames  ?  How  do 
you  dof 

His  hand  enclosed  Irene's,  and  his  eyes  swelled.  She  was  a 
pretty  woman — a  little  too  pale,  but  her  iigure,  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  strangeness. 

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  uncon- 
trollable 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  I' 

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  iive- 
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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  39 

bulged  as  though  he  might  suddenly  have  been  afiBicted  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  Forsyte!  .  .  .  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  entertained 
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.  Mcholas,  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. 
There  are,  for  instance,  no  hors  d'oeuvre.  The  reason  for  this 
is  unknown.  Theory  among  the  younger  members  traces  it  to 
the  disgraceful  price  of  oysters;  it  is  more  probably  due  to  a 
desire  to  come  to  the  point,  to  a  good  practical  sense  deciding 
at  once  that  hors  d'osuvre  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?  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  sometimes 
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  nourish- 
ing and — ^tasty;  the  sort  of  thing  a  man  remembers  eating.    It 


40  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

has  a  past  and  a  future,  like  a  deposit  paid  into  a  bank ;  aQ'd  it 
is  something  that  can  be  argued  about.  i 

Each  branch  of  the  family  tenaciously  held  to  a  particular 
locality — old  Jolyon  swearing  by  Dartmoor,  James  by  Welsih, 
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  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  occa- 
sion that  old  Jolyon,  turning  to  June,  had  said  in  one  of  hia 
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  of  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  with- 
out 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  cor- 
rupted 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  Tewkes- 
bury 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  conversation. 

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  his 
purpose ;  he  looked  clever,  as  he  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
moodily  making  little  ramparts  with  bread-crumbs.     Soames 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  41 

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  property?"' 
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!'  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- 
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  Bosinney  watch- 
ing 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  sardonically — 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 : 


42  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

*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.  '  You  wouldn't  know  any- 
thing about  the  price  of  land  about  there  P 

'  Yes,'  said  June ;  '  I  made  enquiries.'  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 !' 

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  something 
eligible  in  danger  of  passing  into  other  hands.  But  she  refused 
to  see  the  disappearance  of  her  chance,  and  continued  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. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  43 

James  wiped  Ms  napkin  all  over  his  month. 

'TTou  don't  know  the  valne  of  money/  he  said,  avoiding  her 
eye. 

*  No !  and  I  hope  I  never  shall !'  and,  biting  her  lip  with  inex- 
pressible nwrtification,  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  naive  dogmatism  which  is  so  pathetic,  and  sometimes 
achieves  such  great  results.  Bosinney,  to  whom  she  turned  in 
her  discomfiture,  was  talking  to  Irene,  and  a  chiU  fell  on  June's 
spirit.  Her  eyes  grew  steady  with  anger,  like  old  Jolyon's  when 
his  wiU  was  crossed. 

James,  too,  was  much  disturbed.  He  felt  as  though  someone 
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  negotiations  on 
the  principle  of  securing  the  utmost  possible  out  of  other  people 
compatible  with  safety  to  his  clients  and  himself,  in  calcula- 
tions 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  TeaUy  unable  to  see,  really  not  cognizant  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  thoughts  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 


44  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

priced.  It  was  known  on  Forsyte  'Change  that  Irene  regretted 
Iier  marriage.  Her  regret  was  disapproved  of.  She  ought  to 
have  known  her  own  mind;  no  dependable  woman  made  these 
mistakes. 

James  reileeted  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  every- 
thing for  himself.  Again  he  looked  furtively  at  Irene,  and 
across  from  her  to  Soames.  The  latter,  listening  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  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  unfortunate, 
had  dragged  from  Irene  a  confession,  and,  in  return,  had' 
preached  the  necessity  of  facing  the  evil,  by  separation,  if  need 
be.  But  m  the  face  of  these  exhortations,  Irene  had  kept  a 
brooding  silence,  as  though  she  found  terrible  the  thought  of 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  45 

this  struggle  carried  through  in  cold  blood.  He  would  never 
give  her  up,  she  had  said  to  June. 

'  Who  cares  ?'  June  cried ;  '  let  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  Soames — ^would  have  to  put  him  on  his 
guard;  they  could  not  go  on  like  this,  now  that  such  a  con- 
tingency had  occurred  to  him.  And  he  noticed  with  sour  dis- 
favour that  June  had  left  her  wine-glasses  full  of  wine. 

'  That  little  thing's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,'  he  mused ; '  Trene'd 
never  have  thought  of  it  herself.'  James  was  a  man  of  imagin- 
ation. 

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.' 

'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  evenings 

Old  Jolyon  spoke;  it  was  he  who  had  started  the  discussion. 

'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 — 


46  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hundred — pounds,  of  English  money;  not  a  farthing  less.  I 
don't  regret  it.  It's  not  common  English — it's  genuine  modern 
Italian !' 

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  well  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  wonder  to  me  how  they  live.  Now,  there's 
young  Flageoletti,  that  Fanny  and  the  girls  are  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,  '/  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  jeuj  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  anything 
about  a  statue.    You've  got  your  pictures,  and'  that's  all !' 

Old  Jolyon  walked  back  to  his  seat,  puffing  his  cigar.  It 
was  not  likely  that  he  was  going  to  be  drawn  into  an  argument 
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. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  47 

It  was  James  who  saved  the  situation. 

'Now,  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Bosinney?  You're  an  architect; 
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: 

*  Yes,  Bosinney,  what  do  you  say  ?' 

Bosinney  replied  coolly: 

'  The  work  is  a  remarkable  one.' 

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

'Eemarkable  for  what?' 

'For  its  naivete.' 

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


CHAPTEK  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  stay 
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  without  his  seeing  how 
all  the  men  were  attracted  by  her ;  their  looks,  manners,  voices, 
betrayed  it ;  her  behaviour  under  this  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, 

48 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  49 

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  sud- 
denly one  day  she  had  yielded,  and  said  that  she  would  many 
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  than  they  were.  '  I  can 
manage  eight  thousand  easily  enough,'  he  thought,  'without 
calling  in  either  Eobertson's  or  NichoU's.' 

He  had  stopped  to  look  in  at  a  picture  shop,  for.  Soames  was 
an  'amateur'  of  pictures,  and  had  a  little  room  in  ISTo.  62, 
MontpeUier  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  -fpre- 
ground,  a  sign  of  some  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 


50  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

some  wifely  duty.  She  was  not  asked  to  look  at  the  pictures, 
and  she  never  did.  To  Soames  this  was  another  grievance.  Ho 
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  imperturbable,  enforced 
composure;  but  his  eyes,  cold,  gray,  strained-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  vrithout  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  Eobin  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  opporlunities  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 !  June  disliked  him.  He  returned  the  senti- 
ment.   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  decor- 
ation, 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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  51 

you  were  with  those  fellows;  if  they  had  a  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?' 

■  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  keep- 
ing 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  dis- 
playing his  talents,  for  this  house  must  be  no  common  edifice. 

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

Bosinne3r'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  mar- 
riage 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  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  de- 
frauding 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  Lud- 
gate  Hill. 

Thus  he  fulfilled  the  inscrutable  laws  of  his  great  class — of 
human  nature  itself — ^when  he  reflected,  with  a  sense  of  com- 
fort, 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, 


52  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

that  old  dome,  and  not  once,  but  twice  or  three  times  a  week,, 
would  he  halt  in  his  daily  pilgrimage  to  enter  beneath  and  stop 
in  the  side  aisles  for  five  or  ten  minutes,  scrutinizing  the  names 
and  epitaphs  on  the  monuments.  The  attraction  for  him  of  this 
great  church  was  inexplicable,  unless  it  enabled  him  to  concen- 
trate his  thoughts  on  the  business  of  the  day.  If  any  affair  of 
peculiar  m,oment,  or  demanding  peculiar  acuteness,  was  weigh- 
ing on  his  mind,  he  invariably  went  in,  to  wander  with  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  somiething  which  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  buy. 

He  went  in  this  morning,  but,  instead  of  stealing  from  monu- 
ment 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  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  oil  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  Eobin  Hill,  and  give  me  your  opinion  on  a  building  site.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  build  ?' 

'  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,'  ha  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  conversation. 
Soames  noted  a  hollow  in  each  cheek,  made  as  it  were  by  suction. 

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

'  Fifty  too  much,'  replied  Bosinney. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  53 

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  Eobin 
Hill,  they  found  no  cab,  and  started  to  walk  the  mile  and  a 
half  to  the  site. 

It  was  the  1st  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  car- 
ried a  querr-looking  stick.  Soames  noted  these  and  other  pe- 
culiarities. 

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  sat- 
isfaction 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 
tliey'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 !' 

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 
car-track  led  at  right-angles  to  a  gravel  pit,  beyond  which  the 
chimneys  of  a  cottage  rose  amongst  a  clump  of  trees  at  the  bor- 
der of  a  thick  wood.     Tussocks  of  feathery  grass  covered  the 


54  THE  POESYTB  SAGA 

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  stopged.  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  dis- 
cussing the  NichoU  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 


think 
-  —  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  off!'  With  these  words,  taking  up 
his  umbrella,  he  put  his  chilly  hand  into  the  agent's,  with- 
drew it  without  the  faintest  pressure,  and  went  out  into  the  sun 

He  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  site  in  deep  thought. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  55 

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  knowl- 
edge 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  fuU'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  .opening 
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  advanc- 
ing to  the  civilization  of  this  wilderness,  feltliis  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  iip. 

'  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  over  this  prospect.  Thistledown  iioated 
round  them,  enraptured  by  the  serenity  of  the  ether.  The  heat 
danced  over  the  corn,  and,  pervading  all,  was  a  soft,  insensible 


56  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  ta  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  Bosin- 
ney,  whose  eyes,  the  eyes  of  the  coachman's  '  half -tame  leopard,' 
seemed  running  wild  over  the  landscape.  The  sunlight  had 
caught  the  promontories  of  the  fellow's  face,  the  bumpy  cheek- 
bones, the  point  of  his  chin, -the  vertical  ridges  above  his  brow; 
and  Soaines  watched  this  rugged,  enthusiastic,  careless  face  with 
an  unpleasant  feeling. 

A  long,  soft  ripple  of  wind  flowed  over  the  corn,  and  brought 
a  puflE  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,  '  I've  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. 


CHAPTEK  V 

A  FOESYTE  MfiNAGE 

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  individual  design, 
windows  which  had  been  altered  to  open  outwards,  hanging 
flower  boxes  filled  with  fuchsias,  and  at  the  back  (a  great  fea- 
ture) a  little  court  tiled  with  jade-green  tiles,  and  surrounded  by 
pink  hydrangeas  in  peacock-blue  tubs.  Here,  under  a  parch- 
ment-coloured Japanese  sunshade  covering  the  whole  end,  inhab- 
itants 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  Marlborough  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 

57 


58  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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-mid- 
dle class  Englishman  in  London  with  any  pretensions  to  taste; 
and  though  the  decoration  be  different,  the  phrase  is  just. 

On  the  evening  of  August  8,  a  week  after  the  expedition  to 
Robin  Hill,  in  the  dining-room  of  this  house — '  quite  individual, 
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  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  impossible 
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 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  59 

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. 

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  experi- 
enced 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  col- 
lected, 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  warn- 
ing 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  pos- 
session, 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'  sentimental. 
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 


60  THE  POESYTB  SAGA 

he  had  imbibed  the  beKef  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  time, 
in  the  end  the  husband  always  gained  the  affection  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  poignant 
regrets  on  her  lips,  or  if  it  were  the  husband_  who  died — un- 
pleasant 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  han- 
som, 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 
tp  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  dids^e  want?'  It  was  an  axiom  with  the  Forsytes 
that  people  did  not  go  anywhere  unless  they  wanted  something. 
'  Came  to  talk  about  her  lover,  I  suppose  ?' 

Irene  made  no  reply. 

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

'  Why  not  ?    Anybody  can  see  it.' 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  61 

'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  wondered 
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: 

'  If s  a  fine  thing  for  Bosinney ;  it'll  be  the  making  of  him. 
I  suppose  she's  told  you  aU  about  it?' 

'  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  con- 
tented here.' 

'  Have  my  wishes  anything  to  do  with  it  ?' 

She  took  the  vase  of  roses  and  left  the  room.  Soames  re- 
mained seated.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had  signed  that  con- 
tract? 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  something  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 


62  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  Eobin  Hill,  of  course.  What?  Don't 
you  know?' 

Irene  did  not  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  praying  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  inter- 
ested in  her  friend's  position;  the  hours  she  spent  with  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  pavement,  and  Irene  was  still  stand- 
ing 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  ilutter  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  frovra,  like  a  cloud  presaging 
a  rainy  morrow,  crossed  her  face. 

While  she  was  lying  there  so  many  days  the  process  of  recharg- 
ing 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  girl- 
hood, and  was  spoken  of  as  '  Smither — a  good  girl — but  so 
slow!' — the  maid  Smither  performed  every  morning  with  ex- 
treme punctiliousness  the  crowning  ceremony  of  that  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  building  Soamss 
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  Wigmore  Street,  where  the 
tenant  had  lost  all  his  money  and  treated  him  so  badly;  above 

63 


64  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

aU,  about  Soames;  was  Irene  still— still  asking  for  a  separate 
room?  And  every  morning  Smither  was  told:  I  shall  be  com- 
ing down  this  afternoon,  Smither,  about  two  o  clock.  I  shall 
want  your  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,  supposing,  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. 

'  Kobody,'  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  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  sur- 
prised if  Irene  had  put  her  oar  in.    I  shall  speak  to ' 

'  Soames,'  interposed  Aunt  Juley,  '  told  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  very  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  Eow 
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. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  65 

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

One  of  his  tenants  had  lately  shown  a  disposition  to  be  be- 
hind-hand in  his  rent,  and  it  had  become  a  grave  question 
whether  he  had  not  better  turn  him  out  at  once,  and  so  run 
the  risk  of  not  re-letting  before  Christmas.  Swithin  had  just 
been  let  in  very  badly,  but  it  had  served  him  right — he  had  held, 
on  too  long. 

He  pondered  this  as  he  walked  steadily,  holding  his  umbreHa-. 
carefully  by  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  mechanical  precision,  this  passage" 
through  the  Park,  where  the  sun  shone  with  a  clear  flame  om 
so  much  idleness — on  so  many  human  evidences  of  the  remorse- 
less battle  of  Property  raging  beyond  its  ring — was  like  the. 
flight  of  some  land  bird  across  the  sea. 

He  felt  a  touch  on  the  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  office,  hadi^ 
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  Porsytean,  but  for  all 
that  the  two  were  by  no  means  unattached.  Perhaps  they  re- 
garded one  another  as  an  investment;  certainly  they  were  solici- 
tous of  each  other's  welfare,  glad  of  each  other's  company. 
They  had  never  exchanged  two  words  upon  the  more  intimate 
problems  of  life,  or  revealed  in  each  other's  presence  the  exist- 
ence of  any  deep  feeling. 

Something  beyond  the  power  of  word-analysis  bound  thera 
together,  something  hidden  deep  in  the  fibre  of  nations  and 
families — for  blood,  they  say,  is  thicker  than  water — and  neither 


C6  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

,1 

of  them  was  a  cold-blooded  man.  Indeed,  in  James  love  of 
his  children  was  now  the  prime  motive  of  his  existence.  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-iive,  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  all  his  'Jonah-isms,' 
there  was  no  saner  man  (if  the  leading  symptom  of  sanity,  as 
we  are  told,  is  ^elf-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  oppor- 
tunities. 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  sufferer  from 
ability — and  Soger,  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  likely  to  live 
for  ever. 

To  James,  more  than  to  any  of  the  others,  was  'the  family' 
significant  and  dear.  There  had  always  been  something  primi- 
tive and  cosy  in  his  attitude  towards  life;  he  loved  the  family 
hearth,  he  loved  gossip,  and  he  loved  grumbling.  All  his  de- 
cisions were  formed  of  a  cream  which  he  skimmed  ofE  the  family 
mind ;  and,  through  that  family,  off  the  minds  of  thousands  of 
other  families  of  similar  fibre.  Year  after  year,  week  after 
week,  he  went  to  Tifiiothy'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  sim- 
mer, the  cream  rising  to  the  top;  and  he  would  go  away  shel- 
tered, refreshed,  comforted,  with  an  indefinable  sense  of  comfort. 

Beneath  the  adamant  of  his  self-preserving  instinct  there  was 
much  real  softness  in  James;  a  visit  to  Timothy's  was  like  aJi 
hour  spent  in  the  lap  of  a  mother ;  and  the  deep  craving  he  him- 
self 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  e:?posed  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPBKTY  67 

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  worrying 
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  he  had 
an  earache  he  thought  he  was  dying,  he  regarded  the  occasional 
ailments  of  his  wife  and  children  as  in  the  nature  of  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?  I 
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  Eachel 
gadding  about  in  the  country;  he  got  no  sympathy  from  any- 
body; and  Ann,  she  was  ill — he  did  not  believe  she  would  last 
through  the  summer ;  he  had  called  there  three  times  now  with- 
out 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  intentions 
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?'  he  said  in  an  aggravated 
voice.  'I  never  see  Eachel  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  defer- 
ence, of  the  faint  seductive  perfume  exhaling  from  her.  No 
self-respecting  Forsyte  surrendered  at  a  blow;  so  he  merely 


68  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  ceuld  not  get  that  feeling  at  home;  he 
did  not  know  when  he  had  enjoyed  a  glass  of  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  wall  opposite,  which  he  himself  had  given  them: 

'  I'd  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  I  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,  be- 
took 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 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPERTY  69 

from  the  hips,  swaying  when  she  moved,  as  though  giving  to 
the  arms  of  a  lover.  Her  lips  were  smiling,  her  eyes  half- 
closed. 

It  may  have  been  a  recognition  of  danger  in  the  very  charm 
of  her  attitude,  or  a  twang  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. 

l^ow  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  het 
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,  evi- 
dently trying  to  smooth  things  over. 

'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. 


^-0  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

' That's  it,'  he  said,  '  you  young  people,  you  all  stick  together; 
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  provo- 
cation. 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. 

'Well,  t  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- 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  71 

she  wanted  a  little  gaiety,  well,  he  would  drive  her  down  to 
Eichmond  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's ; 
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  in- 
stantly began  to  snore. 

In  Montpellier  Square  Soames,  who  had  come  from  the  pic- 
ture 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. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

OLD  JOLYON'S  PECCADILLO 

Old  Jolton  came  out  of  Lord's  cricket  ground  that  same  after- 
noon 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,  therefore,  to  take  him  into  the  City.  June 
had  wanted  him  to  go  away ;  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.  Eoger  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 
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  disapproval  and  secret 
•curiosity. 

His  cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  house  of  that  peculiar 

72 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  73 

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  ex- 
actly 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  waUs, 
distempered  rather  a  long  time  ago,  were  decorated  with  water- 
colour  sketches;  across  the  ceiling  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  Bal- 
thasar,  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  ges- 
ture 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  neg- 
lect of  everything  else,  they  typified  the  essential  individualism, 


74  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

born  in  the  Briton  from  the  natural  isolation  of  his  country's 
life. 

The  dog  Balthasar  snifEed  round  the  edges  of  his  trousers; 
this  friendly  and  cynical  mongrel — offspring  of  a  liaison  be- 
tween 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.  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  stub- 
born 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  Jolyon,  and,  oscillating  a 
tail  curled  by  Nature  tightly  over  his  back,  was  staring  up  with 
fiyes  that  did  not  bUnk. 

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  pos- 
sessions, and  was  anxious  that  his  unknown  friend  with  ex- 
tremely large  moustaches,  and  hands   all  covered  with  blue 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  75 

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 
mention  of  the  thing  at  the  moment  dearest  to  his  heart — a 
camp  of  soldiers  in  a  shop-window,  which  his  father  had  prom- 
ised to  buy.  No  doubt  it  seemed  to  him  too  precious ;  a  tempt- 
ing of  Pio-vidence  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  patehily,  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,  mes- 
merized 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. 

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 


76  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 !'  Without 
a  word  he  left  the  room,  and  went  back  to  the  lawn. 

Old  Jolyon  had  little  Holly  on  his  knee;  she  had  taken  pos- 
session 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  he  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  I 
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. 

Young  Jolyon  poured  out  the  tea. 

'  My  wife's  not  the  thing  today,'  he  said,  but  he  knew  well 
enough  that  his  father  had  penetrated  the  cause  of  that  sudden 
withdrawal,  and  almost  hated  the  old  nian  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  V 
Young  Jolyon  nodded. 

'I  don't  like  the  neighbourhood,'  said  old  Jolyon;  'a  ram- 
shackle 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. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  77 

In  the  next  house  someone  was  playing  over  and  over  again: 
'La  Donna  e  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  yellow  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,  ahd  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. 

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

He  walked  towards  the  Edgware  Eoad,  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  iackanapes — ^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  unfortunate  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  fol- 
lowed Society's  behaviour  for  fifteen  years — ^had  only  today  been 
false  to  it ! 

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  there- 
fore nothing  to  do. 

The  room  faced  the  backwater  of  traffic,  and  was  very  silent. 


78  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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'ceuvre  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  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  move- 
ments. This  bearded  man  also  wore  a  moustache,  which  had 
given  rise  to  grave  doubts  in  the  mind's  of  many  members  of 
the  family — especially  those  who,  like  Soames,  had  been  to  public 
schools,  and  were  accustomed  to  nieeness  in  such  matters.  Could 
he  really  be  considered  a  butler  ?  Playful  spirits  alluded  to  him 
as :  '  Uncle  Jolyon's  Nonconformist ' ;  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. 

Eelentless  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  Tie  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  decanters,  which  he  carried 
carefully  and  rather  higli,  letting  his  beard  droop  over  them  pro- 
teetingly.  When  he  had  finished,  he  stood  for  over  a  minute 
watchmg  his  master,  and  in  his  greenish  eyes  there  was  a  look 
of  contempt : 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  79 

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. 


CHAPTBE  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  of  circumstance, 
property,  acquaintances,  and  wives,  which  seem  to  move  along 
with  them  in  their  passage  through  a  world  composed  of  thou- 
sands 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  Tiis  name,  '  Philip  Baynes  Bosinney,  Architect,' 
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  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  reas- 
suring. It  appeared  that  he  had  been  a  Lincolnshire  country 
doctor  of  Cornish  extraction,  striking  appearance,  and  Byronic 

80 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  81 

tendencies — a  well-known  figure,  in  fact,  in  his  county.  Bosin- 
ney's  uncle  by  marriage,  Baynes,  of  Baynes  and  Bildeboy,  a  For-- 
syte  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  ec- 
centric man!  He  would  say  to  Phil:  "Whether  you  live  like 
a  gentleman  or  not,  m^r  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  cer- 
tain compassion :  '  He's  got  a  streak  of  his  father's  Byronis'm. 
Why,  look  at  the  way  he  threw  up  his  chances  when  he  left  my 
office;  going  off  like  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 !  N"ow  this  engagement  is  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened — ^keep  him  steady;  he's 
one  of  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  Lowndes  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  I  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  arrange- 
ment, in  the  little  study,  to  wait  for  her  departure. 

'My  dear,'  said  Aunt  Juley,  'how  thin  he  is!    I've  often 


82  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  opportunity  of 
longing  to  be  stouter. 

'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  m  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  doesnt  concern  him!' 

A^nt  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.  ^^ 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  83 

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

Aunt  Juley,  unable  to  think  of  anj'thing  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  concerned,  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  plans  were  spread  on  the  oak  table  in  the  architect's 
room;  and  pale,  imperturbable,  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  quad- 
rangle round  a  covered-in  court.     This  court,  encircled  by  a 


84  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

gallery  on  the  upper  floor,  was  roofed  with  a  glass  roof,  sup- 
ported 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  cer- 
tainly 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;  this  end  wall  is  all  window; 
you've  a  southeast  light  from  that,  a  north  light  from  the  court. 
The  rest  of  your  pictures  you  can  hang  round  the  gallery 
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  get  no 
self-respect  without  regularity.  Fellows  tell  you  that's  old  fash- 
ioned. 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  yout^ 
^^^9M  ^^h^  few  strongTTnesr~Tt'e  whole  thingls  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  un- 
shaven too,  and  his  dress  not  remarkable  for  order.  Architecture 
appeared  to  have  exhausted  his  regularity. 

'  Won't  it  look  like  a  barrack  ?'  he  inquired. 

He  did  not  at  once  receive  a  reply. 

'I  can  see  what  it  is,'  said  Bosinney,  'you  want  one  of  Little- 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPEETY  85 

master'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  instinc- 
tive. 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.' 

He  had  such  a  private  distrust  and  even  dislike  of  the  word 
*  original'  that  he  felt  he  had  not  really  given  himself  away  by 
this  remark. 

Bosinney  seemed  pleased.  It  was  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  gen- 
eral 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  wife?  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  cas- 
ings; 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?' 

The  architect  took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket : 

'  The  house,  of  course,  should  be  built  entirely  of  stone,  but, 


86  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  thou- 
sand five  hundred.' 

'Eight  thousand  five  hundred?'  said  Soames.  'Why,  I  gave 
you  an  outside  limit  of  eight!'    . 

'  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 
into  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  siending  across  the  Park  to  fetch  June. 

'  No,  no,'  said  Soames,  '  we've  stiU  got  business  to  talk  over  I' 

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  ex- 
pressed it,  nineteen  to  the  dozen. 

Unobserved  in  the  doorway,  he  congratulated  himself  that 
things  were  taking  the  right  turn.  It  was  lucky  she  and  Bosin- 
ney 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 
BO  purely  a  matter  which  Bosinney  could  remedy  if  he  liked; 
there  must  be  a  dozen  ways  in  which  he  could  chnapen  the  pro- 
duction of  a  house  without  spoiling  the  effect. 

He  awaited,  therefore,  his  opportunity  till  Irene  was  handing 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  87 

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  deep- 
ened Bosinny'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  unintelli- 
gible point  of  personal  vanity. 

'Well,'  he  agreed,  with  sulky  resignation;  'you  m\ist  have 
it  your  own  way,  I  suppose.' 

A  few  minutes  later  Bosinney  rose  to  go,  and  Soames  rose 
too,  to  see  him  ofE  the  premises.  The  architect  seemed  in  ab- 
surdly high  spirits.  After  watching  him  walk  away  at  a  swing- 
ing pace,  Soames  returned  moodily  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
Irene  was  putting  away  the  music,  and,  moved  by  an  uncon- 
trollable spasm  of  curiosity,  he  asked: 

•Well,  what  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  mock- 
ing him. 

'Yes,'  she  answered;  'very.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEATH  OP  AUNT  ANN 

There  came  a  morning  at  the  end  of  September  when  Aunt 
Ann  was  unable  to  take  from  Smither's  hatnds  the  insignia  of 
personal  dignity.  After  one  look  at  the  old  face,  the  doctor, 
hurriedly  sent  for,  announced  that  Miss  Porsyte  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  Porsyte  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.  If  only  it  could  be  kept  from  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. 
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  mterregnum  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. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  89 

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  conservation  of  energy, 
did  not  abandon  her  in  sorrow.  She  sat,  slim,  motionless,  study- 
ing 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  Eoger  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  wae  the  good  of  arguing ;  some  people  were  never  satisfied. 

She  sent  up  to  tell  her  sister  that  the  brothers  were  there. 
Mrs.  Small  came  down  at  once.  She  had  bathed  her  face,  which 
was  stiU  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  sem- 
blance of  their  life-long  inflexibility;  the  coif  banding  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 


90  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 
went  downstairs  shaking  the  whole  house,  and,  seizing  his  hat, 
clambered  into  his  brougham,  without  giving  any  directions  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  all !  His  face  did  not 
move,  his  gaze  seemed  travelling  from  very  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  real- 
ization. 

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  mov- 
ing 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  lefiy  by  the  bedside ;  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 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  91 

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  funeral.  He  supposed  she  hadn't 
isuch  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  prop- 
erty 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  


'  Your  presence  is  requested  at  the  funeral  of  Miss  Ann 
Forsyte,  in  Highgate  Cemetery,  at  noon  of  Oct.  1st.    Car- 
riages will   meet  at  "The  Bower,"  Bayswater  Road,  at 
10.45.    No  flowers  by  request. 
'R.S.V.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  personality  of  the  shaver,  being  espe- 
cially 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  any- 
one who  cared  to  come  back.  The  next  to  arrive  was  Eoger,  still 
limping  from  the  gout,  and  encircled  by  three  of  his  sons — 
young  Eoger,  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. 

They  disliked  each  other. 

Then  came  two  Haymans — Giles  and  Jesse — perfectly  silent, 


93  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  fol- 
lowed 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 
Jplyor. 

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  ii) 
that  blackness  and  in  the  colour  of  their  gloves — a  sort  of  exag- 
geration of  the  feelings;  and  many  cast  shocked  looks  of  secret 
envy  at  'the  Buccaneer,'  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  there- 
by 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. 

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  Eoger ;  Soames,  young  Nicholas,  George,  and  Bosin- 
ney followed  m  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  Bays- 
water  Eoad,  it  retained  the  foot's  pace,  but,  turning  int©  less 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  93 

important  thoroughfares,  it  soon  broke  into  a  trot,  and  so  pro- 
ceeded, 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  somewhere. 
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  strok- 
ing a  long  chin,  didn't  think  his  father  would  like  tiiat  theory; 
he  had  made  a  lot  of  money  since  he  was  sixty.  Well,  seventy 
was  the  outside  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  mut- 
tered abstractedly  'Hear,  hear!'  and,  George  yawning,  the 
conversation  dropped. 

Upon  arriving,  the  coffin  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  voca- 
tions, pleasures,  duties,  its  terrible  hardness,  its  terrible  call  to 
individualism. 

The  family  had  gathered  to  triumph  over  aU  this,  to  give  a 
show  of  tenacious  unity,  to  illustrate  gloriously  that  law  of  prop- 
erty 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 


94  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  of  a  girl  to  a  woman  strong 
and  grown,  from  a  woman  grown  to  a  woman  old,  angular,  feeble, 
almost  witch-like,  with  individuality  all  sharpened  and  sharp- 
ened, 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. 

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  im- 
passively 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  fiocks  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. 


THE  MAN  OF  PKOPEETY  95 

Eound  the  vault,  trustees  of  that  passing,  the  five  brothers 
stood,  with  white  heads  bowed;  they  would  see  that  Ann  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: 

SACEED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

ANN  FOESYTE, 

THE    DAUGHTER    OF    THE    ABOVE 

JOLTOIT  AND  AnN  FORSYTE, 

VnrO   DEPARTED  THIS   LIFE  THE   27TH  DAY  OF 

SEPTEMBER,    1886, 

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  some- 
how, 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  Eoger  followed  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 


96  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

building  of  the  house;  they  then  proceeded  to  the  tram-line, 
and  came  as  far  as  the  Marble  Arch,  where  Bosinney  went  ofE 
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  satis- 
factory day.  If  only  it  hadn't  been  for  poor  Aimt  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 

CHAPTEE  I 

PEOGEESS  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  Eobin  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 
you'll  get  them  down.  They  stick  you  with  everything  if  you 
don't  look  sharp.  Take  ten  per  cent,  off  all  round.  I  shan't 
mind  it's  coming  out  a  hundred  or  so  over  the  mark  !* 

Bosinney  shook  his  head: 

'  I've  taken  oflf  every  farthing  I  can !' 

Soames  pushed  back  the  table  with  a  movement  of  anger, 
which  sent  the  account  sheets  fluttering  to  the  ground. 

97 


98  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

*  Then  all  I  can  say  is/  lie  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  objected 
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  incon- 
siderable discrepancy.  On  the  one  hand,  the  architect's  devo- 
tion to  his  idea,  to  the  image  of  a  house  which  he  had  created 
and  believed  in — ^had  made  him  nervous  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  I'd  never  undertaken  your  house,'  said  Bosinney  sud- 
denly. 'You  come  down  here  worrying  me  out  of  my  life. 
You  want  double  the  value  for  your  money  anybody  else  would, 
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 !' 

Soames  regained  his  composure.  Knowing  that  Bosinney 
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  mean- 
time there  was  Irene  to  be  thought  of!  She  had  been  very 
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.  All  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  I  am.' 

'  Look  here !'  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,  you'd  have  had  to 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPEETY  99 

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!' 

Soames  saw  that  he  really  meant  what  he  said,  and,  angry 
though  he  was,  the  consequences  of  a  row  rose  before  him  too 
vividly.  He  saw  his  house  unfinished,  his  wife  rebellious,  him- 
self 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  take  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  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  ineffable 
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  invi- 
tation, 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 :  '  Nonsense  1 
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  I 

And  memories  crowded  on  him  with  the  fresh,  sweet  savour 
of  the  spring  wind — memories  of  his  courtship. 


100  THE  FOESYT^E  SAGA 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1881  he  was  visiting  his  old  school- 
fellow 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  neces- 
sary to  the  scheme  in  Soames's  hands.  Mrs.  Liversedge,  with  a 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  had  given  a  musical  tea  in  his 
honour.  Later  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  dre.ssed  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  msn  have  felt  at 
one  time  or  another  went  stealing  through  him — a  peculiar  sat- 
isfaction 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  wait- 
ing 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  of  walking 
there  from  twelve  to  one  of  a  forenoon.  Soames  made  this 
lady's  acquaintance  with  alacrity,  nor  was  it  long  before  he  per- 
ceived 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  stepmother  more  than  the  fifty  pounds  a  year  she  brought 
her ;  it  also  told  him  that  Mrs.  Heron,  a  woman  yet  in  the  prime 
of  life,  desired  to  be  married  again.  The  strange  ripening  beauty 
of  her  stepdaughter  stood  in  the  way  of  this  desirable  consum- 
mation.   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, 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  101 

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  resist- 
ance ;  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  pas- 
sionately 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  mar- 
ried he  asked  her,  'What  made  you  refuse  me  so  often?' 
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  looked  at  him  waiting 
there.  What  was  the  matter  with  the  fellow  that  he  looked  so 
happy?  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  stuff,  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. 


102  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

•You  should  have  a  clump  of  iris  plants  in  the  centre  of 
that  court.' 

Soames  smiled  superciliously. 

•  I'll  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  saying: 
'If  you  want  to  discuss  her  you  can  do  it  with  someone  else!' 

And  the  slow,  sulky  anger  Soames  had  felt  all  the  afternoon 
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.' 

Soames  nodded.  '  But  you  quite  understand,'  he  said,  '  that 
the  house  is  costing  me  a  lot  beyond  what  I  contemplated.  I 
may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  should  have  thrown  it  up,  only  I'm 
not  in  the  habit  of  giving  up  what  I've  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.  Bosinney 
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. 

'AH  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  sUm,  imper- 
ious 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 


THE  MAIsr  OP  PEOPEETY  103 

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  Bosinney'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 ' 

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  blos- 
soms. 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. 

'  I've  promised  to  gs  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;  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  I' 

Her  eyes,  so  angry  and  direct,  swept  both  their  faces. 

'Were  you  talking  about  the  house?  I  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. 

'Uncle  Swithin!  What  does  he  matter?  You  can  throw 
him  over!' 


104  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  throwing  people  over !' 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  and  June  saw  Soames  standing 

]ust  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  TEEAT 

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 !'  N"o  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  blackbird  ?' 

Bosinney  answered:  'Bather — ^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. 
Bosinney,  glass  of  sherry  with  your  sweet  ?  June,  you're  drink- 
ing nothing !' 

June  said :  '  You  know  I  never  do.    "Wine's  such  horrid  stuff !' 

An  apple  charlotte  came  upon  a  silver  dish.  And  smilingly 
Irene  said :  '  The  azaleas  are  so  wonderful  this  year !' 

To  this  Bosinney  murmured:  'Wonderful!  The  scent's  ex- 
traordinary !' 

June  said:  'How  can  you  like  the  scent?  Sugar,  please, 
Bilson.' 

105 


106  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Sugar  was  handed  her,  and  Soames  remarked:  'This  char- 
lotte's good!' 

The  charlotte  was  removed.  Long  silence  followed.  Irene, 
beckoning,  said :  *  Take  out  the  azalea,  Bilson.  Miss  June  can^ 
bear  the  scent.' 

'  No ;  let  it  stay,'  said  June. 

Olives  from  France,  with  Eussian  caviare,  were  placed  on  little 
plates.  And  Soamea  remarked :  '  Why  can't  we  have  the  Span- 
ish?'   But  no  one  answered. 

The  olives  were  removed.  Lifting  her  tumbler  June  de- 
manded :  '  Give  me  some  water,  please.'  Water  was  given  her. 
A  silver  tray  was  brought,  with  German  plums.  There  was  a 
lengthy  pause.     In  perfect  harmony  all  were  eating  them. 

Bosinney  counted  up  the  stones:  'This  year — next  year — 
some  time ' 

Irene  finished  softly:  'Never.  There  was  such  a  glorious 
sunset.    The  sky's  all  ruby  still — so  beautiful!' 

He  answered :  'Underneath  the  dark.' 

Their  eyes  had  met,  and  June  cried  scornfully :  '  A  London 
sunset !' 

Egyptian  cigarettes  were  handed  in  a  silver  box.  Soames, 
taking  one,  remarked :  '  What  time's  your  play  begin  ?' 

Ko  one  replied,  and  Turkish  coffee  followed  in  enamelled 
cups. 

Irene,  smiling  quietly,  said:  'If  only ' 

'  Only  what  ?'  said  June. 

'If  only  it  could  always  be  the  spring!' 

Brandy  was  handed;  it  was  pale  and  old. 

Soames  said:  'Bosinney,  better  take  some  brandy.' 

Bosinney  took  a  glass;  they  all  arose. 

'You  want  a  cab?'  asked  Soames. 

June  answered :  '  No.  My  doak,  please,  Bilson.'  Her  cloak 
was  brought. 

Irene,  from  the  window,  murmured:  'Such  a  lovely  night! 
The  stars  are  coming  out!' 

Soames  added:  'Well,  I  hope  you'll  both  enjoy  yourselves.' 

From  the  door  June  answered:  'Thanks.     Come,  Phil.' 

Bosinney  cried :  '  I'm  coming.' 

Soames  smiled  a  sneering  smile,  and  said :    *  I  wish  you  luck !' 

And  at  the  door  Irene  watched  them  go. 

Bosinney  called : '  Good  night !' 

'  Good  night !'  she  answered  softly.  .    .    . 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPEETY  107 

June  made  her  lover  take  her  on  the  top  of  a  'bus,  saying  she 
wanted  air,  and  there  sat  silent,  with  her  face  to  the  breeze. 

The  driver  turned  once  or  twice,  with  the  intention  of  ven- 
turing 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  letting  steam  escape,  and  clucked  his  tongue,  flourishing 
his  whip,  wheeling  his  horses,  and  even  they,  poor  things,  had 
smelled  the  spring,  and  for  a  brief  half-hour  spurned  the  pave- 
ment with  happy  hoofs. 

The  whole  town  was  alive;  the  boughs,  curled  upward  with 
their  decking  of  young  leaves,  awaited  some  gift  the  breeze  could 
bring.  N"ew-lighted  lamps  were  gaining  mastery,  and  the  faces 
of  the  crowd  showed  pale  under  that  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,  revealed  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  grandfather 
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. 


108  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

with  a  red-gold  head — ^they  would  sit  through  every  kind  of 
play,  and  on  the  way  home  old  Jolyon  would  say  of  the  prin- 
cipal actor :  '  Oh,  he's  a  poor  stick !  You  should  have  seen 
little  Bobson !' 

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  some- 
thing 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. 

X  6S  • 

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  everything 
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. 
Should  she  put  everything  to  the  proof?  Should  she  challenge 
directly  that  influence,  that  attraction  which  was  drawing  him 
away  from  her  ?  It  was  her  nature  to  challenge,  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  109 

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  engagement.' 

'  You  are  going  to  take ' 

His  eyes  grew  angry;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  an- 
swered: '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  im- 
mune 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  nowadays 
with  young  people!' 

Well — not  exactly.     In  the Anyway,  that  engagement 

wouldn't  last  long.  They  had  never  seen  anyone  look  so  thunder 
and  lightningy  as  that  little  June !  With  tears  of  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  smell- 
ing-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  break- 
ing 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 


110  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  break- 
down to  care  what  she  told  him. 

'We  dined  at  Soames's.' 

'  H'm !  the  man  of  property !    His  wife  there — and  Bosinney  ?' 

'Yes.' 

Old  Jolyon's  glance  was  fixed  on  her  with  the  penetrating 
gaze  from  which  it  was  difficult  to  hide ;  but  she  was  not  looking 
at  him,  and  when  she  turned  her  face,  he  dropped  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  111 

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 — 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  perchance 
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. 


CHAPTEE  III 

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  in  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 
opopomax  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 
as  a  gift;  they  wanted  the  stomach  of  a  horse!  .    .    . 

'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 

112 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  113 

— ^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  eat  the  whole  time,  and  so  put  him  out  of  patience 
that,  as  he  dropped  her  in  the  Bayswater  Eoad,  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  coachman 
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  '  Pour-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,  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  became  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, 


114  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  mani- 
fested a  languid  but  permanent  excitement  at  any  mention  of 
dress. 

'Made  of?'  returned  Swithin;  'now  how  should  I  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  Swithin  received  the 
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,  and  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  off.  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  man  he  had  had  rooms  at  Richmond 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  115 

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  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  Eobin  Hill,  however,  the  unaccus- 
tomed 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 ! 
They  would  want  some  statuary  about!  He  came  to  a  stand- 
still between  the  columns  of  the  doorway  into  the  inner  court, 
and  held  out  his  cane  inquiringly. 

What  was  this  to  be — this  vestibule,  or  whatever  they  called 
it?    But  gazing  at  the  skylight,  inspiration  came  to  him. 


116  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'  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  knob  of  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  starej 
very  blank,  fixed  on  the  landscape. 

He  nodded  to  them  as  they  went  ofE  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  heat  in  the  sun; 
the  prospect  a  flne  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  ancestors, 
wont  of  a  Sunday  to  stand  akimbo  surveying  their  little  plots 
of  land,  their  gray  unmoving  eyes  hiding  their  instinct  with 


THE  MAN"  OF  PKOPEETY  117 

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  what  they  were  doing  down  there  in 
the  copse — in  the  copse  where  the  Spring  was  running  riot 
with  the  scent  of  sap  and  bursting  buds,  the  song  of  birds  in- 
numerable, 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 ;  watch- 
ing over  Irene's  bent  head,  and  the  soft  look  of  her  pitying  eyes ; 
and  over  that  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  were 
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  undis- 
covered 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,  ilapping  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 ! 

S within  awoke;  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him.  He  had  a  taste 
in  his  mouth.    Where  was  he? 

Damme !    He  had  been  asleep ! 


118  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

He  had  dreamed  something  about  a  new  soup,  with  a  tasto 
of  mint  in  it. 

Those  young  people — where  had  they  got  to?  His  left  leg 
had  pins  and  needles. 

'  Adolf !'  The  rascal  was  not  there ;  the  rascal  was  asleep 
somewhere. 

He  stood  up,  tall,  square,-  bulky  in  his  fur,  looking  anxiously 
down  over  the  fields,  and  presently  he  saw  them  coming. 

Irene  was  in  front;  that  young  fellow — ^what  had  they  nick- 
named him — '  The  Buccaneer  ?' — looked  precious  hangdog  there 
behind  her;  had  got  a  ilea  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  spas- 
modically 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,  point- 
ing 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  extrava- 
gant 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  cheekbones 
and  chin,  or  something  hungry  in  his  face,  which  quarrelled 
with  Swithin's  conception  of  the  calm  satiety  that  should  char- 
acterize the  perfect  gentleman. 

He  brightened  up  at  the  mention  of  tea.  He  had  a  contempt 
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. 

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  Bosinney,  said :  '  Why,  you're  quite  a  Monte  Cristo !'     This 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  119 

celebrated  novel — one  of  the  half-dozen  he  had  read — ^had  pro- 
duced 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,  ho 
took  a  sip. 

'  A  very  nice  wine,'  he  said  at  last,  passing  it  before  his  nose ; 
'not  the  equal  of  my  Heidsieek!' 

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  perfume  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  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  himself,  he 


120  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  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  ruifian'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  eostermonger,  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-oart  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  fright- 
ened 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  swoUen  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 : 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  121 

'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  ra  the  midst  of  all  his  terrible  efforts,  he  was  surprised  to 
hear  her  answer  in  a  voice  not  like  her  own : 

'  I  don't  care  if  I  never  get  home!' 

The  carriage  giving  a  terrific  lurch,  Swithin'g  exclamation 
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  fin- 
ickin'  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  wan- 
dering 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  vdth  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. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

JAMES  GOBS  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,  with  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  ?' 

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.  EecoUections  of  Euphemia's 
account  of  the  visit  to  the  theatre — Mr.  Bosinney  always  at 
Soam«s's  ?  Oh,  indeed !  Yes,  of  course,  he  would  be — about  the 
house!  Nothing  open.  Only  upon  the  greatest,  the  most  im- 
portant provocation  was  it  necessary  to  say  anything  open  on 
Forsyte  'Change.  This  machine  was  too  nicely  adjusted ;  a 
hint,  the  merest  trifling  expression  of  regret  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  feel- 
ing 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  accord- 
ance with  the  customs  of  Society,  thereby  conferring  a  real 

122 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  133 

benefit  upon  the  sufferers,  and  affording  consolation  to  the  sound, 
•Vfho  felt  pleasantly  that  someone  at  all  events  was  suffering  from 
that  from  which  they  themselves  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,    ^his  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  Eoger)  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  Eoger. 

And,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  wrong-doers  who  suffered;  as, 
for  instance,  George,  when  he  lost  all  that  money  playing  bil- 
liards ;  or  young  Eoger  himself,  when  he  was  so  dreadfully  near 
to  marrying  the  girl  to  whom,  it  was  whispered,  he  was  already 
married  by  the  laws  of  Nature ;  or  again  Irene,  who  was  thought, 
rather  than  said,  to  be  in  danger. 

AU  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 
themselves,  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.  Eumours  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 


124  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

whether  Timothy's  heart  yearned,  it  is  indubitable  that  at  the 
arrival  of  each  fresh  Forsyte  child  he  was  quite  upset. 

Useless  for  young  Eoger  to  say,  '  Old  cat !' — for  Euphemia  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  outside  wc 
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  recog- 
nised by  Forsytes  that,  where  this  wild  plant  springs,  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  position  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  pur- 
lieus 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  got  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,  irresistible  attraction 
that  had  drawn  him  on,  till  he  felt  he  must  die  if  he  could  not 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  125 

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 
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  pal- 
pable, straightforward  appearances  of  things,  unreal,  unintel- 
ligible 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  construction,  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  consid- 
erable 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. 

A  scandal !     A  possible  scandal ! 

To  repeat  this  word  to  himself  thus  was  the  only  way  in  which 
lie  could  focus  or  make  it  thinkable.  He  had  forgotten  the 
sensations  necessary  for  understanding  the  progress,  fate,  or 


126  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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,  what- 
ever 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  something  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  busi- 
ness of  making  up  his  mind  did  not  even  rest  with  himself,  and 
this  was  one  of  them. 

What  could  he  do  ?  Talk  it  over  with  Soames  ?  That  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPBETY  137 

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  inexplicable  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  han- 
som to  the  station  and  proceeded  by  train  to  Eobin  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 — 
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  re- 
peated 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  white- 
ness of  a  whitewashed  ceiling.  There  was  no  freshness  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  vnthout  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  knockings,  the 
scraping  of  metal,  the  sawing  of  wood,  with  the  rumble  of  wheel- 


128  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

barrows  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  mirthless  under 
the  gray-white  sl^.  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;  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  tifice;  it 
was  easy  to  see  from  that  anxious  rapt  expression,  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  wab 
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!' 

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. 


THE  MAN  OF  PKOPEETY  129 

'What  should  you  think?'  inquired  Bosinney. 

'How  should  I  know?'  replied  James  somewhat  non-plussed; 
'  two  or  three  hundred,  I  dare  say !' 

'The  exact  sum!' 

James  gave  him  a  sharp  look,  but  the  architect  appeared  un- 
conscious, 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  \yith  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  impressed  by  thfr 
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,  whenever  he  came 
to  anything  of  which  he  desired  to  know  the  cost,  he  stifled  that 
curiosity. 

Bosinney  appeared  determined  that  he  should  see  everything, 
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 


130  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 '  appearance 
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  description  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;  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  ?' 

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  ! 

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  un- 
comfortable 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  sup^)oser' 

Bosinney  smilingly  replied :  '  Oh,  no !' 

'What,  did  she  come  down  alone?' 

'Oh,  no!' 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  131 

'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 
incomjjrehensible. 

'  Why !'  he  stammered,  '  you  know  that '  but  he  stopped, 

suddenly  perceiving  his  danger. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  '  if  you  don't  want  to  teU  me,  I  suppose  you 
won't !    Nobody  tells  me  anything.' 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise  Bosinney  asked  him  a  question. 

'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!' 

'Aiy  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  Bosin- 
ney following  him  slowly — '  slinking  along  the  wall '  as  he  put 
it  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  COREESPOND 

James  said  nothing  to  his  son  of  this  visit  to  the  house;  but, 
having  occasion  to  go  to  Timothy's  one  morning  on  a  matter 
connected  with  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  made  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  Eev.  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.  Bosinney 
were  having  a  nice  little  chat  in  the  Groceries.' 

It  was  thus,  simplj',  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  ad- 
mirable 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. 

Passing  through  the  Groceries  her  eye  was  unpleasantly  at- 
tracted 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. 

132 


THE  MAK  OF  PEOPERTY  133 

It  was  then  that  she  saw  with  whom  she  had  to  deal;  the 
lady  was  undoubtedly  Mrs.  Soames,  the  young  man  Mr.  Bosin- 
ney.  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  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  distinguished-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's  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.  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  Prancie  (Eoger'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 
80  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 


134  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

defence.    The  latter  greeted  his  father  with  a  curt  good-morn- 
ing, and,  taking  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  said: 

'  It  may  interest  you  to  look  through  this.' 

James  read  as  follows: 

'  309d,  Sloane  Street, 
'May  15. 

'Dear  Poestte, 

'  The  construction  of  your  house  being  now  completed,  my 
duties  as  architect  have  come  to  an  end.  If  I  am  to  go  on  with 
the  business  of  decoration,  which  at  your  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,  with- 
out interference  of  any  sort. 

'  If  I  do  the  thing,  I  will  do  it  thoroughly,  but  I  must  have 
a  free  hand. 

'Yours  truly, 

'Philip  Bosinnet.' 

The  exact  and  immediate  cause  of  this  letter  cannot,  of  course, 
be  told,  though  it  is  not  iniprobable  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,  on  the  back  of  the  most  indispensa- 
hle  of  modern  appliances,  in  a  sentence  comparable  to  the  very 
finest  in  Tacitus: 

ThOS.    T.     SoRROVSr, 

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. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEKTY  135 

A  client  of  his,  having  put  some  buildings  on  a  piece  of 
ground  that  did  not  belong  to  him,  had  been  suddenly  and  most 
irritatingly  warned  to  take  them  off  again.  After  carefully 
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  to — 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,  in- 
herited aptitude,  native  caution,  all  joined  to  form  a  solid  pro- 
fessional 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  circumstances  which  render  a 
fall  possible — a  man  cannot  fall  off  the  iloor ! 

And  those  countless  Forsytes,  who,  in  the  course  of  innumera- 
ble 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,  combined  with  an  air  of 
mousing  amongst  precedents,  was  in  his  favour  too — a  man  would 
not  be  supercilious  unless  he  knew !  , 

He  was  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. 

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  some 
time  past.  He  tried  to  think  it  physical — a  condition  of  his 
liver — but  knew  that  it  was  not. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  due 
at  the  General  Meeting  of  the  New  Colliery  Company — one  of 
Uncle  Jolyon's  concerns;  he  should  see  Uncle  Jolyon  there,  and 


136  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

say  something  to  him  about  Bosinney — he  had  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 
w^ould  be  back  at  half-past  two,  stepped  into  the  Poultry. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  Offices  of  the  New  Colliery  Company  in 
Ironmonger  Lane,  where,  and  not  at  the  Cannon  Street  Hotel, 
in  accordance  with  the  more  ambitious  practice  of  other  com- 
panies, the  General  Meeting  was  always  held.  Old  Jolyon  had 
from  the  first  set  his  face  against  the  Press.  Wliat  business — 
he  said — ^had  the  Public  with  his  concerns! 

Soames  arrived  on  the  stroke  of  time,  and  took  his  seat  along- 
side 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  lean- 
ing 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  sad- 
ness beaming  in  his  fine  eyes ;  his  iron-gray  beard,  in  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  Shareholders,  who  would  of  course  be 
put  into  possession  of  all  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  recollected 
a  little  unpleasantness.  His  uncle  had  looked  up  sharply  and 
eaad:  'Don't  talk  nonsense,  Hemmings!    You  mean  that  what 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  137 

they  do  know  isn't  worth  knowing!'  Old  Jolyon  detested 
humbug. 

Hammings,  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 
will  have  his  joke!' 

The  next  time  he  had  seen  Soames  he  had  taken  the  oppor- 
tunity 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  Meeting 
look;  he  (Soames)  should  certainly  speak  to  him  about 
Bosinney. 

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  con- 
scious virtue — as  well  he  might,  knowing  that  the  brown-paper 
parcel  he  always  brought  to  the  Board-room  was  concealed  be- 
hind 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  consid- 
ered better  thi-  he  should  do  so,  in  case  'anything  should  arise!' 
He  glanced  r6u-id  with  his  close,  supercilious  air  at  the  walls  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  efiigy  of  the  direc- 
tors' pet,  but  dead,  lamb. 

And  now  old  Jolyon  rose,  to  present  the  report  and  accounts. 

Veiling  under  a  Jove-like  serenity  that  perpetual  antagonism 
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,  who 
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  Eev. 


138  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Mr.  Boms,  who  always  proposed  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  chair- 
man, 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  Imperialistic  tendencies  of  his  cloth).  It  was  his 
salutary  custom  to  buttonhole  a  director  afterwards,  and  ask 
him  whether  he  thought  the  coming  year  would  be  good  or  bad; 
and,  according  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  audi- 
tor, and  who  sometimes  caused  serious  consternation  by  taking 
toasts — proposals  rather — out  of  the  hands  of  persons  who  had 
been  flattered  with  little  slips  of  paper,  entrusting  the  said  pro- 
posals 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  re- 
port and  accounts  fall,  and  stood  twisting  his  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  £5,000  in  the  accounts.  "  To  the  widow  and 
family"'  (he  looked  sourly  round),  '"of  our  late  superinten- 
dent," who  so— er— ill-advisedly  (I  say— ill-advisedly)  com- 
mitted suicide,  at  a  time  when  his  services  were  of  the  utmost 
value  to  this  Company.     You  have  stated  that  the  agreement 


THE  MAN"  OP  PEOPEETY  139 

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  services,  which  we  all  know — 
you  as  well  as  any  of  us — to  have  been  of  vital  value.' 

'  Then,  sir,  aU  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  should  hope,  to  be  charitable. 
But  I  feel  sure'  (he  looked  severely  at  the  late  Superintendent's 
brother-in-law)  'that  he  will  in  some  way,  by  some  written  ex- 
pression, 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  say  so — our  interests  so  impera- 
tively demanded  its  continuance.  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  Super- 
intendent'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 


140  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  flut- 
tered, his  attention  tweaked  away  at  last  from  contemplation 
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  consideration  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.  May  I  ask  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who 
has  given  us  that  striking  piece  of  information?  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. 

*  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  senti- 
mental humanitarianism.  The  country  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  was  speaking.  The  speech  awoke  an  echo  in  all  hearts, 
voicing,  as  it  did,  the  worship  of  strong  men,  the  movement 
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  temper  and  tenacity.    He,  too. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPERTY  141 

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  finger  and  thumb 
quivered  slightly  with  a  suggestion  of  menace. 

He  addressed  the  strong,  silent  shareholder. 

'  Knowing,  as  you  do,  the  efforts  of  our  late  Superintendent 
upon  the  occasion  of  the  explosion  at  the  mines,  do  you  seriously 
wish  me  to  put  that  amendment,  sir  ?' 

'I  do.' 

Old  Jolyon  put  the  amendment. 

'Does  anyone  second  this?'  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.  Look- 
ing 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  nerves 
were  not  strong  enough.  That  nonsense  of  the  separate  room 
had  cropped  up  again ! 

The  meeting  was  breaking  up  now.  Underneath  the  photo- 
graph of  the  lost  shaft  Hemmings  was  button-holed  by  the  Eev. 
Mr.  Boms.  Little  Mr.  Booker,  his  bristling  eyebrows  wreathed 
in  angry  smiles,  was  having  a  parting  turn-up  with  old  Scrub- 
sole.  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  Scrub- 
sole's  head.  Soames  had  heard  that  from  Hemmings,  who  liked 
a  gossip,  more  especially  about  his  Directors,  except,  indeed, 
old  Jolyon,  of  whom  he  was  afraid. 


143  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  ?' 

It  is  uncertain  what  Soames  expected  to  get  out  of  this  inter- 
view. 

Apart  from  that  somewhat  mysterious  awe  in  which  Forsytes 
in  general  held  old  Jolyon,  due  to  his  philosophic  twist,  or  per- 
haps— 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  re- 
spects, 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  suc- 
cess, while  his  own  son ! 

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  disturbing  rumour 
about  Bosinney,  and  his  pride  was  wounded  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  143 

outlook,  that  it  was  not  unlikely;  there  was  something  very 
attractive  about  Irene ! 

He  had  a  presentiment  on  the  subject  of  Soames's  communi- 
cation as  they  left  the  Board  Eoom  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?' 

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  consciousness. 

'  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!'  said  old  Jolyon;  'I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
You  come  worrying  me  about  a  thing  like  this.  I  don't  want 
to  hear  about  your  affairs;  you  must  manage  them  yourself!' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Soames  immovably,  '  I  will !' 


144  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

*  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. 

The  evening  post  carried  the  following  reply  to  Bosinney: 

*  FoESTTE,  Bustard  and  Forsyte, 
'Commissioners  for  Oaths, 

'2001,  Branch  Lane,  Poultry,  B.C., 
'May  17,  1887. 
'  Dear  Bosinney, 

'  I  have  received  your  letter,  the  terms  of  which  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  thousand  pounds — £12,000.  This  gives  you 
an  ample  margin,  and,  as  you  know,  is  far  more  than  I  origi- 
nally 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  18. 

*  Dear  Forsyte, 

*  If  you  think  that  in  such  a  delicate  matter  as  decoration 
I  can  bind  myself  to  the  exact  pound,  I  am  afraid  you  are  mis- 
taken.   I  can  see  that  you  are  tired  of  the  arrangement,  and  of 
me,  and  I  had  better,  therefore,  resign. 
'Yours  faithfully, 

'Philip  Baynes  Bosinney.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEKTY  145 

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,  MONTPELLIEE  SQUAEE,  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  difficidt  to  be  absolutely  exact. 

'Yours  truly, 

'Soames  Foesttb.' 

Bosinney's  answer,  which  came  in  the  course  of  the  next  day, 
tras: 

'May  30. 
*Deab  Fobstte, 
'  Very  well. 

Ph.  Bosinney.' 


CHAPTER  VI 

OLD  JOLYON  AT  THE  ZOO 

Old  Jolton  disposed  of  his  second  Meeting — an  ordinary 
Board — summarily.  He  was  so  dictatorial  that  his  fellow  Di- 
rectors were  left  in  cabal  over  the  increasing  domineeringness  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  increasing 
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  extinct  between  his  lips.  She  had  been 
such  a  companion  to  him  ever  since  she  was  three  years  old  I 
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  con- 
trol threw  their  shadows  on  his  head.  The  irritation  of  one 
accustomed  to  have  his  way  was  roused  against  he  knew  not 
what. 

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 

146 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  147 

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  complete  sur- 
render 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 
Eutland  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  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.  Ee- 
marks  kept  falling  on  his  ears:  'That's  a  nasty-looking  brute, 
that  tiger!'  'Oh,  what  a  love!  Look  at  his  little  mouth!' 
'  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 !' 


148  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  animals  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-sick- 
ness 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  creatures  in  a 
state  of  captivity  far  outweighed  the  inconvenience  of  imprison- 
ment to  beasts  whom  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  suppose, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPEKTY  149 

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  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  Bay 
your  sympathy's  with  him — shouldn't  be  surprised ;  but  I  think 
he's  behaving  precious  badly,  and  if  he  comes  my  way  I  shall 
tell  him  so.'    He  dropped  the  subject. 

Jt  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 ! 

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  per- 
ceptive 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. 

'  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 


150  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

of  all  descriptions  from  the  Zoo.  The  harness,  the  liveries,  the 
gloss  on  the  horses'  coats,  shone  and  glittered  in  the  May  sun- 
light, 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  sud- 
denly, on  the  back  seat,  he  recognised  his  Uncle  James,  unmis- 
takable in  spite  of  the  increased  whiteness  of  his  whiskers;  oppo- 
site, their  backs  defended  by  sunshades,  Eachel  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  dis- 
tinguish it  from  all  the  others,  as  though  by  some  happy  extrava- 
gance— like  that  which  marks  out  the  real  'work  of  art'  from 
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.  Th« 
shield-like  rounds  of  the  parasols  grew  smaller  and  smaller, 
and  vanished. 

Young  Jolyon  saw  that  he  had  been  recognised,  even  by  Wini- 
fred, 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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  151 

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? 
H'mph  1  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  won't  believe 
a  word  of  it !'  he  would  more  truthfully  have  expressed  his 
Bentiments. 

The  notion  that  James  and  his  womankind  had  seen  him  in 
the  company  of  his  son  had  awakened  in  him  not  only  the  im- 
patience 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  tliemselves ;  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  sagacity,  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.  Erom  the  moment  when  James  had 
the  impertinence  to  pry  into  his  affairs — as  he  put  it — old 
Jolyon  no  longer  chose  to  credit  this  story  about  Bosinney. 
His  grand-daughter  slighted  through  a  member  of  'that  fel- 
low's' family!  He  made  up  his  mind  that  Bosinney  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 ! 

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, 

152 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  153 

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 — cackling  about 
having  seen  him,  he  dared  say  I  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  mistaken  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  tradition  of  their 
generation,  considered  that  a  room  was  not  quite  'nice'  unless 
it  was  'properl/  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,  Eachel,  Winifred,  Euphemia, 
who  had  come  in  again  to  return  'Passion  and  Paregoric'  which 
she  had  read  at  lunch,  and  her  chum  Frances,  Eoger'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  Tiniothy  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  flirta- 


154  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

tion — 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  appreciatign  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  situation 
— 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  '  yeo- 
men' and  'very  small  beer'  used  in  connection  with  his  origin, 
did  he  believe  them? 

No!  he  cherished,  hugging  it  pathetically  to  his  bosom,  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 
Piste'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  ofP  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  under- 
writer at  Lloyd's ;  they  said  he  even  painted  pictures — pictures ! 
Damme !  he  might  have  ended  as  Sir  Jolyon  Forsyte,  Bart.,  with 
a  seat  in  Parliament,  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  Porsites  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  '  Por 
Porsite,'  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,  partlv 
because,  not  having  paid  for  them,  he  thought  it  would  look 
pstentatious  to  put  them  on  his  carriage,  and  he  hated  ostenta- 
tion, and  partly  because  he,  like  any  practical  man  all  over  the 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  155 

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.' 

He  never  forgot,  however,  their  having  told  him  that  if  he 
paid  for  them  he  would  be  entitled  to  use  them,  and  it  strength- 
ened 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,  how- 
ever, 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 
Eussians  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  cr'^st.   .    .    . 

'  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  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 


156  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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,  ^re  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  'Kensing- 
ton Coil,'  was  almost  national  to  Kensington,  having  a  sweet 
dip  in  it.    Thus : 


a»: 


rr^-^^ 


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,  spark- 
ling and  pathetic.  We  ourselves  were  moved  to  tears  and 
laughter.    Miss  Forsyte  should  go  far.' 

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  fascinations,  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  imiversally  respected. 

Once,  at  a  time  when  her  emotions  were  whipped  by  an  attach- 
ment— for  the  tenor  of  Eoger's  life,  with  its  whole-hearted  col- 
lection 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. 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  157 

Eoger,  who  liked  having  a  clever  daughter  well  enough,  and 
often  alluded  to  the  amount  of  pocket-money  she  made  for  her- 
self, was  upset  by  this  violin  sonata. 

'  Eubbish  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  Eoger  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  common  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 
reaUy  had  read  something.  Still,  it  was  nice  for  Francie  to 
have  something  to  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  pretending 
not  to,  for  these  young  people  talked  so  fast  and  mumbled  so, 
he  never  could  catch  what  thejj  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  laugh- 
ing 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 


158  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  I" 

'But  was  she  all  alone  in  London?' 

'  Oh,  no;  there  was  Mr.  Bosinney  with  her.  She  was  perfectly 
dressed.' 

But  Swithin,  hearing  the  name  Irene,  looked  severely  at 
Euphemia,  who,  it  is  true,  never  did  look  well  in  a  dress,  what- 
ever she  may  have  done  on  other  occasions,  and  said : 

'Dressed  like  a  lady,  I've  no  doubt.  Ifs  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  ap- 
pointment 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  unfor- 
tunately, 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  isola- 
tion 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 


THE  MAN"  OP  PKOPBKTY  159 

business  over  the  oil  shares,  which  was  no  fault  of  his,  to  risk  a 
row  with  Winifred. 

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-col- 
oured 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  dilBculty.     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  involuntarily), 
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  hetting.  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  Bucca- 
neer 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  commencements 
of  side  whiskers;  and  concernedly  he  felt  the  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  obvi- 
ously put  a  stop  to  the  conversation,  decided  awkwardness  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 


160  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

been  here  for  a  long  time;  but  we  mustn't  be  surprised.  You're 
busy,  of  course?  James  was  just  saying  what  a  busy  time  of 
year ' 

'Was  he?'  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 
Boft,  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. 

A  feeling  of  its  being  too  dangerous  to  take  a  step  in  any 
direction,  or  hazard  any  remark,  had  fallen  on  them  all.  Some- 
thing of  the  sense  of  the  impending,  that  comes  over  the  spec- 
tator of  a  Greek  tragedy,  had  entered  that  upholstered  room, 
filled  with  those  white-haired,  frock-coated  old  men,  and  fash- 
ionably 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!'  Then,  turning  to  Erancie,  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 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEKTY  161 

still  for  a  second,  with  glassy  eyes,  as  though  waiting  to  catch 
up  with  the  significance  of  what  he  himself  had  said;  then,  sud- 
denly 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  overwhelming 
importance,  as  the  only  official — so  to  speak — news  in  connec- 
tion 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.' 

Mrs.  Small,  to  reassure  her  and  smooth  over  any  little  awk- 
wardness 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 !' 
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  he,  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 


162  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  adieus,  he  marched  out. 

Once  again  in  his  cab,  his  anger  evaporated,  for  so  it  ever 
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  knowledge 
that  the  rumour  he  had  been  resolved  not  to  believe  was  true. 
June  was  abandoned,  and  for  the  wife  of  that  fellow's  son !  He 
felt  it  was  true,  and  hardened  himself  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  occur- 
rence, for  though  each  one  of  them  knew  for  a  fact  that  he  or 
she  never  talked  scandal,  each  one  of  therii  also  knew  that  the 
other  six  did ;  all  were  therefore  angry  and  at  a  loss.  James  only 
was  siknt,  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  were  left  once  more 
alone,  the  sound  of  a  door  closing  in  the  distance  announced 
the  approach  of  Timothy. 

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, 


THE  MAN"  OF  PROPERTY  163 

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 
Sentimus  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  supplement- 
ing the  piano  by  a  young  man  who  played  the  cornet,  and  she 
so  arranged  with  palms  that  anyone  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  man  would 
only  put  his  soul  into  it. 

In  the  more  cultivated  American  tongue,  she  was  'through' 
at  last — ^through  that  tortuous  labyrinth  of  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 

164 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  165 

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?  Eoger, 
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  the  musicians  and  tell  them 
to  play  '  God  Save  the  Queen,'  and  go  away. 

Franeie  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,  omit- 
ting all  mention  of  Aunt  Hester,  who,  at  the  last  miniate,  hiid 
said  she  could  not  be  bothered.  Franeie  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.  ISTone  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  punc- 
tual— 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 


166  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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,  suave ; 
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  along 
the  wall  facing  the  entrance,  the  volatile  element  swelling  th« 
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,  I  know  you  are  not  coming  up  to  me.  I 
can  hardly  expect  that!'  And  Prancie  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  I* 
and  she  would  bring  him  up,  and  say :  *  Miss  Pink — Mr.  Gather- 
cole.  Can  you  spare  him  a  dance?'  Then  Miss  Pink,  smiling 
her  forced  smile,  colouring  a  little,  answered :  *  Oh  I  I  think  so  P 
and  screening  her  empty  card,  wrote  on  it  the  name  of  Gather- 
cole,  spelling  it  passionately  in  the  district  that  he  proposed, 
ebout  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  Gather- 
cole  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 
unequal  chances,  its  conceit,  self-forgetfulness,  and  patience, 
were  presented  on  the  battle-field  of  this  Kensington  ball-room. 

Here  and  there,  too,  lovers— not  lovers  like  Francie's,  a  pecu- 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  167 

liar  breed,  but  simply  lovers— trembling,  blushing,  silent,  sought 
each  other  by  flying  glances,  sought  to  meet  and  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  Jameses — 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  d^but;  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  show- 
ing 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  suffocatingly  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,  finding  that 
which  they  sought,  would  fix  themselves  on  a  point  in  the  shift- 
ing 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  beautifully  your 
wife  dances,  Mr.  Forsyte — it's  quite  a  pleasure  to  watch  herl' 
Tired  of  answering  them  with  his  sidelong  glance:  'You 
think  so  ?' 

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  1  He  wished 
that  he  had  not  come !    He  had  asked  Irene  whether  she  wanted 


168  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  Quil- 
pish  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 !' 

Soamgs  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 :  "Wliy  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  innumerable  reflection 
of  countless  lamps;  a  dome  woven  over  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 


THE  MAN"  OP  PEOPEETY  169 

Bosinney's  arm,  coining  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. 

Soames  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  bal- 
cony, 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. 

Very  white,  he  turned  back  to  the  balcony,  and  leaning  on 
it,  gazed  down  on  the  Square;  the  figures  were  still  there  look- 
ing 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  Eoger'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  breakfast. 

June  went  out  early,  and  wandered  restlessly  about  in  the 


iro  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

heat.  Her  little  light  figure  that  lately  had  moved  so  lan- 
guidly 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  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  sob- 
bing. 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. 

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 


THE  MAN"  OF  PROPBETY  171 

might  not  see  him  after  all,  and  by  that  dogged  resolve — some- 
how, 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  conserva- 
tory, 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  tery  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  feverishly, 
ehe  lay  back  in  her  corner,  her  face  muffled  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. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

EVENING  AT  RICHMOND 

Other  eyes  besides  the  eyes  of  June  and  of  Soames  had  seen 
'those  two'  (as  Euphemia  had  already  begun  to  call  them) 
coming  from  the  conservatory;  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  ordinary  moods — violent  spring 
flashing  white  on  almond-blossom  through  the  purple  clouds;  a 
snowy,  moonlit  peak,  with  its  single  star,  soaring  up  to  the  pas- 
sionate blue;  or  against  the  flames  of  sunset,  an  old  yew-tree 
standing  dark  guardian  of  some  fiery  secret. 

There  are  moments,  too,  when,  in  a  picture-gallery,  a  work, 
noted  by  the  casual  spectator  as  '  *  *  *  Titian — remarkably 
fine,'  breaks  through  the  defences  of  some  Forsyte  better  lunched 
perhaps  than  his  fellows,  and  holds  him  spellbound  in  a  kind^ 
of  ecstasy.  There  are  things,  he  feels — there  are  things  here 
which — ^well,  which  are  things.  Something  unreasoning,  un- 
reasonable, 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  stats 
of  his  catalogue.  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,  shadowy  and 

172 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  173 

enticing.  It  brought  home  to  onlookers  the  consciousness 
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.  They  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  For- 
syte to  drink  Madeira  had  left  his  descendants  undoubtedly 
accessible. 

So  June  went  to  the  sea.  The  family  awaited  developments; 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

But  how  far — how  far  had  '  those  two'  gone  ?  How  far  were 
they  going  to  go  ?  Could  they  really  be  going  at  all  ?  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  fashion- 
able 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  main- 
tained that  he  was  very  cMc. 

This  dictum — that  Bosinney  was  chic — caused  quite  a  sensa- 
tion. 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 


174  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

hats  chic  was  only  another  instance  of  Winifred's  extravagant 
way  of  running  after  something  new. 

It  was  that  famous  summer  when  extravagance  was  fashion- 
able, 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  swarming  stars  the  nights  had  hardly  space;  when  every 
dayi  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,  Eichmond,  Kew,  and  Hampton  Court.  Al- 
most every  family  with  any  pretensions  to  be  of  the  carriage- 
class  paid  one  visit  that  year  to  the  horse-chestnuts  at  Bushey, 
or  took  one  drive  amongst  the  Spanish  chestnuts  of  Eichmond 
Park.  Bowling  smoothly,  if  dustily,  along,  in  a  cloud  of  their 
own  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  of 
the  branches. 

Some  vague  sympathy  evoked  by  the  scent  of  the  limes,  some 
sisterly  desire  to  see  for  herself,  some  idea  of  demonstrating  the 
soundness  of  her  dictum  that  there  was  '  nothing  in  it ' ;  or 
merely  the  craving  to  drive  down  to  Eichmond,  irresistible  that 
summer,  moved  the  mother  of  the  little  Darties  (of  little  Pub- 
lius,  of  Imogen,  Maud,  and  Benedict)  to  write  the  following 
note  to  her  sister-in-law: 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  175 

'June  30. 
*  Deak  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  a  little 
party  and  drove  down  to  Eichmond.  Will  you  ask  Mr.  Bosinney, 
and  I  will  get  young  Elippard. 

'  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 
eo  benevolent  a  scheme  deserved.  In  the  first  place  young 
Plippard  wrote: 

'  Dear  Mrs.  Dartie, 

'Awfully  sorry.     Engaged  two  deep. 

'  Yours, 

'  Augustus  Flippard.* 

It  was  late  to  send  into  the  byways  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. 

Visions  of  James  haunted  him  day  and  night.  Black  thoughts 
about  Soames  mingled  with  the  faintest  hopes.    On  the  Friday 


176  THE  rOKSYTE  SAGA 

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  Eoger  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  MontpeUier  Square,  and  swop  hansoms 
there  ? 

Informed  that  the  meet  was  at  the  Crown  and  Sceptre,  and 
that  he  would  have  to  drive  with  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? 


THE  MAN  OF  PKOPEETY  177 

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  Haversnake. 
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  ap- 
pear to  be  making  much  running,  standing  there  close  together, 
without  a  word.  Bosinney  was  a  hungry-looking  creature — ^not 
much  go  about  Mm! 

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  for  him 
to  eat;  and  he  will  eat  it.  His  drink,  too,  will  need  to  be  care- 
fully 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  consider- 
able 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  Dartiea 
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,  accord- 
ing 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  hinaself  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 


178  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  remarkably  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, 
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  proposed  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  quaff,  and  drink  brown  sherry  T 

And  suddenly  the  moon  appeared,  young  and  tender,  floating 
up  on  her  back  from  behind  a  tree;  and  as  though  she  had 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPBRTY  179 

breathed,  the  air  was  cooler,  but  down  that  cooler  air  came 
always  the  warm  odour  of  the, limes. 

Over  his  cigar  Dartie  peered  round  at  Bosinney,  who  was  sit- 
ting 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, 
hungry-looking  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  insulation  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  his  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 


180  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  ia  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 !  Suddenly  he  received  a  push  which  nearly  over- 
turned 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  fatammered.  'What?  Not  a  bit!  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  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 
Almighty;  nor  was  it  until  they  reached  Barnes  that  he  ceased 
a  Jeremiad,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  abused  her,  her  father, 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  181 

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  pleading 
— that  pleading  which  the  man  of  the  world's  conduct  had  let 
loose  like  a  ilood;  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. 
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  impossible  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  ?    Pine  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  wanderings;  to  see 
him  return  and  stand  against  the  rails  of  the  Square  garden. 


182  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

back  from  th-s  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  hifi  own  heart. 


CHAPTEE  X 

DIAGNOSIS  OF  A  FOESYTE 

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  minia- 
ture 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. 

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: 

183 


184  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'Sheldeake  House, 
'  Broadstaies, 
'July  1. 
*  Mt  Deae  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  in- 
different, and  I  don't  see  what  is  to  come  of  it.  She  says  noth- 
ing, 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 
BO  self-willed  that  she  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  come  up 
at  any  moment.  The  fact  is  someone  ought  to  speak  to  Bosin- 
ney  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  situation  is  very  distressing  to  me,  I  worry 
about  it  at  night.    With  my  love  to  Jolly  and  Holly. 

'I  am, 

'Your  affect,  father, 

'JOLTOK    FOESTTE.' 

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  trans- 
parency 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  unfathomable  looks. 

He  started  for  the  Club  in  the  afternoon  with  the  letter  in 
his  pocket,  and  without  having  made  up  his  mind. 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPERTY  185 

To  sound  a  man  as  to  '  hia  intentions'  was  peculiarly  unplieas- 
ant  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  won- 
der 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  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  o£E,  and  began  nervously  to 
reconsider  his  position.  He  looked  covertly  at  Bosinney  sitting 
there  imconscious.  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  himself,  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  nickname.  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  appearance  of  ill-health,  for  he  was  strongly  built, 
with  curly  hair  that  seemed  to  show  all  the  vitality  of  a  fine 
constitution. 

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. 


186  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'  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  week.' 

'I  congratulate  you!' 

'Thanks — I  don't  know  that  it's  much  of  a  subject  for  con- 
gratulation.' 

'No?'  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  my  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?' 

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  mis- 
taking 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  lextreme,  while  you  have  practically  none.  With- 
out me  in  between,  you  would  seem  like  a  different  species. 
I'm  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPEETY  187 

thing,  and  his  grip  on  property — it  doesn't  matter  whether  it 
be  wives,  houses,  money,  or  reputation — is  his  hall-mark.' 

*  Ah !'  murmured  Posinney.     '  You  should  patent  the  word/ 

'  I  should  like,'  said  young  Jolyon,  '  to  lecture  on  it :  "  Prop- 
erties 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  dis- 
posed to  myopia,  he  recognises  only  the  persons  and  habitats  of 
his  own  species,  amongst  which  he  passes  an  existence  of  com- 
petitive 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  every- 
thing 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;  every- 
thing that  is  admirable!' 

'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  many  Forsytes 
who  make  a  commercial  use  of  them.  At  a  low  estimate,  three- 
fourths  of  our  Eoyal  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, 


188  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

and  they  have  their  own  private  peculiarities,  like  every  other 
family,  but  they  possess  in  a  remarkable  degree  those  two  qual- 
ities 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'll  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  f 0'  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  disre- 
gard them !' 

'  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  scrapmg  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,  deli- 
cious agony  of  that  season  came  back  to  him  with  its  old'poig- 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  189 

nancy.  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  consideration  of 
honour,  no  principle,  no  interest  could  withstand;  from  which 
the  only  escape  was  flight. 

Flight!  But  why  should  Bosinney  ily?  A  man  fled  when 
he  was  in  danger  of  destroying  hearth  and  home,  when  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  indefin- 
able malaise,  that  terrible  blight  which  killed  all  sweetness  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,  ssm  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  inspiration  necessary 
to  break  up  this  life  ?  It  was  a  question  of  imagination,  of  pro- 
jecting 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  go  round !  And  sweet  Heaven,  what  a  difference 
between  theorj  and  practice ;  many  a  man,  perhaps  even  Soames, 
held  chivalrous  views  on  such  matters,  who  when  the  shoe 
pinched  found  a  distinguishing  factor  that  made  of  himself  an 
exception. 


190  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Then,  too,  he  distrusted  his  judgment.  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  suffered 
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  was  a  case  for  com- 
promise. 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 
home,  respected.  Half  the  marriages  of  the  upper  classes  were 
conducted  on  these  lines:  Do  not  offend  the  susceptibilities  of 
Society;  do  not  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  the  Church.  To 
avoid  offending  these  is  worth  the  sacrifice  of  any  private  feel- 
ings. The  advantages  of  the  stable  home  are  visible,  tangible, 
so  many  pieces  of  property ;  there  is  no  risk  in  the  status  quo. 
To  break  up  a  home  is  at  the  best  a  dangerous  experiment,  and 
selfish  into  the  bargain. 

This  was  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  way.  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  prop- 
erty. And  yet  I  imagine  all  these  people  are  followers  of  One 
who  never  owned  anything.    It  is  curious !' 

And  again  young  Jolyon  sighed. 

'  Am  I  going  on  my  way  home  to  ask  any  poor  devils  I  meet 
to  share  my  dinner,  which  will  then  be  too  little  for  myself,  or, 
at  all  events,  for  my  wife,  who  is  necessary  to  my  health  and' 
happiness  ?  It  may  be  that  after  all  Soames  does  well  to  exercise 
his  rights  and  support  by  his  practice  the  sacred  principle  of 
property  which  benefits  us  all,  with  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. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPBETY  191 

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  himself  in  with  his  key,  and  called  his  wife's  name. 
But  she  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. 


CHAPTEE  XI 

BOSINNEY  OlSr  PAEOLE 

The  day  after  the  evening  at  Eichmond  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  spy 
on  her  actions,  but  there  was  no  harm  in  thus  unexpectedly  sur- 
veying 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  some- 
body?' 

'Yes — that  is,  not  particularly.' 

'Who?' 

'  Mr.  Bosinney  said  he  might  come.' 

'Bosinney.     fie  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.' 

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  dutv  is.   I  never  have  known !' 

He  had  not  expected  her  to  reply,  but  she  did. 

192 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  193 

*  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  ?'    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  ?' 

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  coma 
and  sit  in  the  Park.' 

'Then,  you  won't  let  me  go?' 

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  managis  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 !' 

She  did  not  move. 

*I  suppose,'  said  Soames,  'you  don't  want  to  miss  Bosinney 
if  he  comes !' 

Irene  got  ap  slowly  and  left  the  room.  She  came  down  with, 
her  hat  on. 

They  went  out. 

In  the  Park,  the  motley  hour  of  mid-afternoon,  when  foreign- 
ers and  other  pathetic  folk  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  two  seasons 
of  his  married  life,  when  to  feel  himself  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. 


194  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  movement. 

^  Hallo !'  ha  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. 

But  she  made  no  sign. 

Bosinney  reached  the  end  of  the  rails,  and  came  walking  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  off  his  hat. 

Bosinney  came  up,  looking  exhausted,  like  a  man  after  hard 
physical  exercise;  the  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  his  brow,  and 
Soames's  smile  seemed  to  say :  '  You've  had  a  trying  time,  my 
friend!  .  .  .  What  are  you  doing  in  the  Park?'  he  asked. 
'We  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.' 

Somebody  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 
between  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPBETY  195 

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  he  went  down,  purposely  shutting  the 
door  loudly  to  show  that  he  was  coming.  He  found  them 
standing  by  the  hearth,  perhaps  talking,  perhaps  not;  he  could 
not  say. 

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  stran- 
ger pathos;  but  his  hand  was  as  cold  as  ice. 

Loyal  to  his  resolution,  he  turned  away  from  their  parting, 
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  ia 
love  with  his  wife. 

The  summer  night  was  hot,  so  hot  and  still  that  through  every 
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  into 
his  dressing-room,  leaned  by  the  open  window. 

He  could  hardly  breathe. 

A  night  four  years  .igo  came  back  to  him — ^the  night  but  one 
before  his  marriage ;  as  hot  and  stifling  as  this. 

He  remembered  how  lie  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  ap- 
proached through  the  strange-seeming,  useless  lamp-light;  he 
seemed  to  hear  again  its  rumble,  nearer  and  nearer,  till  it  passed 
and  slowly  died  away. 

He  leaned  far  out  of  the  dressing-room  window  over  the  little 


196  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

court  below,  and  saw  the  first  light  spread.  The  outlines  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  hur- 
ried on  his  clothes  and  gone  down  into  the  street,  down  past 
houses  and  squares,  to  the  street  where  she  was  stajring,  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  mind,  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 — ^prowling  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,  stealthily 
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 !    Soames  shut  the  window,  shuddering. 

Then  he  thought:  'Ah!  it's  only  the  peacocks,  across  the 
water.' 


CHAPTER  XII 

JUT^E  PAYS  SOME  CALLS 

Old  Jolton  stood  in  the  narrow  hall  at  Broadstairs,  inhaling 
that  odour  of  oilcloth  and  herrings  which  permeates  all  respect- 
able 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  iilling  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,  baiced  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  mas- 
terful 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 — 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  them- 
selves capable  of  saying. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  believe  in  '  Goodness'  and  '  Badness'  any 

197 


108  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  pos- 
sible advantage? 

Accustomed  to  spend  his  holidays  among  the  mountains, 
though  (like  a  true  Forsyte)  he  had  never  attempted  anything 
too  adventurous  or  too  foolhardy,  he  had  been  passionately  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  doubtless  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  troub- 
led him.  It  troubled  and  puzzled  him,  too,  to  think  that  he, 
who  had  always  been  so  careful,  should  be  father  and  grand- 
father 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  busi- 
ness 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  Eoger'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  deflne  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  con- 
trol !  He  would  but  answer :  '  Humbug !'  She  was  dangerous, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  it.    He  wanted  to  close  his  eyes  to  that 


THE  UAN  OF  PROPEETY  199 

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  ta 
himself. 

And  So  he  had  written.  He  got  little  enough  out  of  the 
answer.  As  tc  what  young  Jolyon  had  made  of  the  interview, 
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. 

June  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  and  helped  him  on  with 
his  summer  coat.  From  her  costume,  and  the  expression  of  her 
little  resolute  face,  he  saw  at  once  what  was  coming. 

'I'm  going  with  you/  she  said. 

'  Nonsense,  my  dear ;  I  go  straight  into  the  City.  I  can't 
have  you  racketting  about!' 

'  I  must  see  old  Mrs.  Smeeeh.' 

'  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  pertinacity  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. 
Smeeeh,  her  'lame  duck,'  lived — an  aged  person,  connected 
with  the  charring  interest ;  but  after  half  an  hour  spent  in  hear- 
ing 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,  failing  informa- 
tion 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),  was 


200  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

in  her  kitchen  when  June  was  announced,  organizing  the  cook, 
ior  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  'gense  of  property,'  which,  as  we 
know,  is  the  touchstone  of  Eorsyteism,  and  the  foundation  of 
.good  morality. 

Her  figure,  of  medium  height  and  broad  build,  with  a  ten- 
dency 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  d  la  Princesse  de  Galles,  and  touched  it  here 
and  there,  settling  it  more  firmly  on  her  head,  and  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tin  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.  Whis- 
pers had  reached  her  that  things  were  not  all  right  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  professional 
plainness  only  to  be  found,  as  a  rule,  among  the  female  kind  of 


THE  MAjST  op  PEOPEETY  201 

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  com- 
mercial 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.  Organ- 
ization was  the  only  thing,  for  by  organization  alone  could  you 
feel  sure  that  you  were  getting  a  return  for  your  money.  Organ- 
ization— 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  ecclesi- 
astical circles,  was  one  of  the  principal  priestesses  in  the  temple 
of  Forsyteism,  keeping  alive  day  and  night  a  sacred  flam*  to  the 
God  of  Property,  whose  altar  is  inscribed  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  iq  a  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  battle- 
field of  charity  functions,  and  on  that  battlefield  brushing  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  commer- 
cially Christian  institutions,  maxims,  and  '  principle,'  which  Mrs. 
Baynes  ei&bodied,  were  real  life-blood,  circulatng  freely,  real 
business  curiS-^cy,  not  merely  the  sterilized  imitation  that  flowed 
in  the  veins  t  *  smaller  Society  with  the  larger  '  S.'     People 


203  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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.  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  For- 
syte, 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  ques- 
tion ;  but  the  girl  met  the  glance  without  flinching. 

'  Wo,'  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  smile 
a  moment's  hesitation;  she  disguised  it  by  a  quick  movement, 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  203 

and  spreading  her  skirts  afresh,  said:  'Why,  my  dear — ^he's 
quite  the  most  harum-scarum  person ;  one  never  pays  the  slight- 
est attention  to  what  he  does!' 

The  conviction  came  suddenly  to  June  that  she  was  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 ! 

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,  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  suspense  ? 

She  would  go  to  Phil  himself,  and  ask  him  what  he  meant. 


304  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  bannisters,  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  resolution  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.  Leaning 
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  suddenlv  abandoned  her;  she  rang  again  and  again,  as 
though  in  spite  of  its  emptiness  she  could  drag  some  response 
out  of  that  closed  room,  some  recompense  for  the  shame  and 
fear  that  visit  had  cost  her.  It  did  not  open ;  she  left  off  ring- 
ing, and,  sitting  down  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands. 

Presently  she  stole  down,  out  into  the  air.  She  felt  as  though 
she  had  passed  through  a  bad  illness,  and  had  no  desire  now 
but  to  get  home  as  quickly  as  she  could.  The  people  she  met 
seemed  to  know  where  she  had  been,  what  she  had  been  doing; 
and  suddenly — over  on  the  opposite  side,  going  towards  his 
rooms  from  the  direction  of  Montpellier  Square — she  saw 
Bosinney  himself. 

She  made  a  movement  to  cross  into  the  trafiic.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  he  raised  his  hat.  An  omnibus  passed,  obscuring  her 
view;  then,  from  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  through  a  gap  in 
the  traffic,  she  saw  him  walking  on. 

And  June  stood  motionless,  looking  after  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
PEEFECTIOF  OF  THE  HOUSE 

'  One  mockturtle,  clear ;  one  oxtail ;  two  glasses  of  port.' 

In  the  upper  room  at  French's,  where  a  Forsyte  could  still 
get  heavy  English  food,  James  and  his  son  were  sitting  down 
to  lunch. 

Of  all  eating-places  James  liked  best  to  come  here ;  there  was 
something  unpretentious,  well-flavoured,  and  filling  about  it, 
and  though  he  had  been  to  a  certain  extent  corrupted  by  the 
necessity  for  being  fashionable,  and  the  trend  of  habits  keeping 
pace  with  an  income  that  would  increase,  he  still  hankered  in 
quiet  City  moments  after  the  tasty  fleshpots  of  his  earlier  days. 
Here  you  were  served  by  hairy  English  waiters  in  aprons ;  there 
was  sawdust  on  the  floor,  and  three  round  gilt  looking-glasses 
hung  just  above  the  line  of  sight.  They  had  only  recently 
done  away  with  the  cubicles,  too,  in  which  you  could  have  your 
chop,  prime  chump,  with  a  floury  potato,  without  seeing  your 
neighbours,  like  a  gentleman. 

He  tucked  the  top  corner  of  his  napkin  behind  the  third 
button  of  his  waistcoat,  a  practice  he  had  been  obliged  to 
abandon  years  ago  in  the  West  End.  He  felt  that  he  should 
relish  his  soup — ^the  entire  morning  had  been  given  to  winding 
up  the  estate  of  an  old  friend. 

After  filling  his  mouth  with  household  bread,  stale,  he  at 
once  began :  '  How  are  you  going  down  to  Eobin  Hill  ?  You 
going  to  take  Irene?  You'd  better  take  her.  I  should  think 
there'll  be  a  lot  that'll  want  seeing  to.' 

Without  looking  up,  Soames  answered :  '  She  won't  go.' 

'Won't  go?  What's  the  meaning  of  that?  She's  going  to 
live  in  the  house,  isn't  she?' 

Soames  made  no  reply. 

'I  don't  know  what's  coming  to  women  nowadays,'  mumbled 
James ;  '  I  never  used  to  have  any  trouble  with  them.  She's  had 
too  much  liberty.     She's  spoiled ' 

Soames  lifted  his  eyes:  'I  won't  have  anything  said  against 
her,'  he  said  unexpectedly. 

205 


206  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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.' 

Bousing  himself  from,  his  reverie  over  the  soup,  James  took 
one  of  his  rapid  shifting  surveys  of  surrounding  facts. 

'  Your  mother's  in  bed,'  he  said ;  '  you  can  have  the  carriage 
to  take  you  down.  I  should  think  Irene'd  like  the  drive.  This 
young  Bosinney'll  be  there,  I  suppose,  to  show  you  over?' 

Soames  nodded. 

'  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  for  myself  what  sort  of  a  job  he's 
made  finishing  off,'  pursued  James.  '  I'll  just  drive  round  and 
pick  you  both  up.' 

'  I  am  going  down  by  train,'  replied  Soames.  '  If  you  like 
to  drive  round  and  see,  Irene  might  go  with  you,  I  can't  tell.' 

He  signed  to  the  waiter  to  bring  the  bill,  which  James  paid. 

They  parted  at  St.  Paul's,  Soames  branching  off  to  the  station, 
James  taking  his  omnibus  westwards. 

He  had  secured  the  corner  seat  next  the  conductor,  where 
his  long  legs  made  it  difficult  for  anyone  to  get  in,  and  at  all 
who  passed  him  he  looked  resentfully,  as  if  they  had  no  business 
to  be  using  up  his  air. 

He  intended  to  take  an  opportunity  this  afternoon  of  spewing 
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.  63  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 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPERTY  207 

observers  of  his  long  figure  and  absorbed  expression,  went  forth- 
with into  the  drawing-room  without  permitting  this  to  be  ascer- 
tained. 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. 
Itll  do  you  good !' 

Irene  looked  at  him  as  though  about  to  refuse,  but,  seeming 
to  change  her  mind,  went  upstairs,  and  came  down  again  with 
her  hat  on. 

'Where  are  you  going  to  take  me?'  she  asked. 

'We'll  just  go  down  to  Robin  Hill,'  said  James,  spluttering 
out  his  words  very  quick;  'the  horses  want  exercise,  and  I 
should  like  to  see  what  they've  been  doing  down  there.' 

Irene  hung  back,  but  again  changed  her  mind,  and  went 
out  to  the  carriage,  James  brooding  over  her  closely,  to  make 
quite  sure. 

It  was  not  before  he  had  got  her  more  than  half  way  that  he 
began :  '  Soames  is  very  fond  of  you — ^he  won't  have  anything 
said  against  you;  why  don't  you  show  him  more  affection?' 

Irene  flushed,  and  said  in  a  low  voice:  'I  can't  show  what 
I  haven't  got.' 

James  looked  at  her  sharply;  he  felt  that  now  he  had  her  in 
his  own  carriage,  with  his  own  horses  and  servants,  he  was  really 
in  command  of  the  situation.  She  could  not  put  him  off;  nor 
would  she  make  a  scene  in  public. 

*I  can't  think  what  you're  about,'  he  said.  'He's  a  very 
good  husband!' 

Irene's  answer  was  so  low  as  to  be  almost  inaudible  among 
the  sounds  of  traffic.  He  caught  the  words:  'You  are  not 
married  to  him!' 

'What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  He's  given  you  everything 
you  want.  He's  always  ready  to  take  you  anywhere,  and  now 
he's  built  you  this  house  in  the  country.  It's  not  as  if  you  had 
anything  of  your  own.' 

'No.' 

Again  James  looked  at  her ;  he  could  not  make  out  the  expres- 
sion on  her  face.  She  looked  almost  as  if  she  were  going  to 
cry,  and  yet 


208  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'I'm  sure/  he  muttered  hastily,  'we've  all  tried  to  be  kind 
to  you.' 

Irene's  lips  quivered;  to  his  dismay  James  saw  a  tear  steal 
down  her  cheek.    He  felt  a  choke  rise  in  his  own  throat. 

'We're  all  fond  of  you/  he  said,  'if  you'd  only'— he  was 
going  to  say,  'behave  yourself/  but  changed  it  to — 'if  you'd 
only  be  more  of  a  wife  to  him.' 

Irene  did  not  answer,  and  James,  too,  ceased  speaking.  There 
was  something  in  her  silence  which  disconcerted  him;  it  was 
not  the  silence  of  obstinacy,  rather  that  of  acquiescence  in  all 
that  he  could  find  to  say.  And  yet  he  felt  as  if  he  had  not  had 
the  last  word.     He  could  not  understand  this. 

He  was  unable,  however,  to  long  keep  silence. 

'  I  suppose  that  young  Bosinney/  he  said,  '  will  be  getting 
married  to  June  now?' 

Irene's  face  changed.  *  I  don't  know/  she  said ;  '  you  should 
ask  her.' 

'Does  she  write  to  you?' 

'  No.'     ' 

*  How's  that?'  said  James.  'I  thought  you  and  she  were 
such  great  friends.' 

Irene  turned  on  him.    '  Again/  she  said,  'you  should  ask  her!' 

'Well/  flustered  James,  frightened  by  her  look,  'it's  very 
odd  that  I  can't  get  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question,  but 
there  it  is.' 

He  sat  ruminating  over  his  rebuff,  and  burst  out  at  last : 

'Well,  I've  warned  you.  You  won't  look  ahead.  Soames  he 
doesn't  say  much,  but  I  can  see  he  won't  stand  a  great  deal 
more  of  this  sort  of  thing.  You'll  have  nobody  but  yourself  to 
blame,  and,  what's  more,  you'll  get  no  sympathy  from  anybody/ 

Irene  bent  her  head  with  a  little  smiling  bow.  '  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you.' 

James  did  not  know  what  on  earth  to  answer. 

The  bright  hot  morning  had  changed  slowly  to  a  gray,  op- 
pressive 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  motionless 
across  the  road  without  the  smallest  stir  of  foliage.  A  faint 
odour  of  glue  from  the  heated  horses  clung  in  the  thick  air; 
the  coachman  and  groom,  rigid  and  unbending,  exchanged 
stealthy  murmurs  on  the  box,  without  ever  turning  their  heads. 

To  James's  great  relief  they  reached  the  house  at  last;  the 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  209 

silence  and  impenetrability  of  this  woman  by  his  side,  whom 
he  had  always  thought  so  soft  and  mild,  alarmed  him. 

The  carriage  put  them  down  at  the  door,  and  they  entered. 

The  hall  was  cool,  and  so  still  that  it  was  like  passing  into 
a  tomb;  a  shudder  ran  down  James's  spine.  He  quickly  lifted 
the  heavy  leather  curtains  between  the  columns  into  the  inner 
court. 

He  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation  of  approval. 

The  decoration  was  really  in  excellent  taste.  The  dull  ruby 
tiles  that  extended  from  the  foot  of  the  walls  to  the  verge  of  a 
circular  clump  of  tall  iris  plants,  surrounding  in  turn  a  sunken 
basin  of  white  marble  filled  with  water,  were  obviously  of  the 
best  quality.  He  admired  extremely  the  purple  leather  curtains 
drawn  along  one  entire  side,  framing  a  huge  white-tiled  stove. 
The  central  partitions  of  the  skylight  had  been  slid  back,  and 
the  warm  air  from  outside  penetrated  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  house. 

He  stood,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  head  bent  back  on  his 
high,  narrow  shoulders,  spying  the  tracery  on  the  columns  and 
the  pattern  of  the  frieze  which  ran  round  the  ivory-coloured 
walls  under  the  gallery.  Evidently,  no  pains  had  been  spared. 
It  was  quite  the  house  of  a  gentleman.  He  went  up  to  the 
curtains,  and,  having  discovered  how  they  were  worked,  drew 
them  asunder  and  disclosed  the  picture-gallery,  ending  in  a  great 
window  taking  up  the  whole  end  of  the  room.  It  had  a  black 
oak  floor,  and  its  walls,  again,  were  of  ivory  white.  He  went 
on  throwing  open  doors,  and  peeping  in.  Everything  was  in 
apple-pie  order,  ready  for  immediate  occupation. 

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  was  wrong.  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 !'    And,  making  off  after  his  son,  he 


310  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

heard  Bosinney's  short  laugh,  and  his  '  Well,  thank  God !  You 
look  so '    Most  unfortunately  he  lost  the  rest. 

What  had  happened  ?  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  was  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  time.' 

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  something 
in  her  ordinary  voice,  and  began  to  speak  before  he  reached 
them: 

'There's  a  storm  coming  on.  We'd  better  get  home.  We 
can't  take  you,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Bosinney?  No,  I  suppose  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!' 
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 
som;e  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  of  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  hearing  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  311 

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,  Bosin- 
ney  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  confident  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  may  as 
well  tell  you  that  you've  altogether  mistaken  your  man !' 

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  con- 
clusion. 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  friend  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  contempt — 
four  hundred  pounds.' 

*Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  make  him  pay  that 
towards  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  eyes  dark- 
ening with  anger,  and  taking  no  notice  of  the  taunt,  he  asked 
quietly : 


213  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'  Aro  you  carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  Bosinney  ?' 

'No,  I  am  not!' 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  he  looked  away.  He  neither  believed 
nor  disbelieved  her,  but  he  knew  that  he  had  made  a  mistake 
in  asking;  he  never  had  known,  never  would  know,  what  she 
was  thinking.  The  sight  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. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

SOAMES  SITS  ON  THE  STAIES 

SoAMES  went  upstairs  that  night  with  the  feeling  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  light  and 
burning  low,  he  went  quickly  to  the  other  door.  That  too  was 
locked.  Then  he  noticed  that  the  camp  bed  which  he  occasion- 
ally 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,  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  thei  door, 
like  the  breathing  of  a  creature  threatened  by  danger. 

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 

213 


214  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  philosophical. 

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  never  recover 
it.  His  hunger  could  only  be  appeased  by  his  wife,  inexorable 
and  frightened,  behind  these  shut  doors.  Ko  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  incredible. 
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;  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  mak- 
ing his  marital  relations  public  property.  Short  of  the  most 
convincing  proofs  he  must  stiU  refuse  to  believe,  for  he  did 
not  wish  to  punish  himself.  And  all  the  time  at  heart — ^he  did 
believe. 


THE  MAN"  OP  PEOPBETY  315 

The  moonlight  cast  a  grayish  tinge  over  his  figure,  hunched 
against  the  staircase  wall. 

Bosinney  was  in  love  with  her  I  He  hated  the  fellow,  and 
M'ould  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  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  Eoger's  when  Irene  had 
danced  with  Bosinney;  and  the  perfume  of  the  gardenias  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,  roee-coloured  blouse 


216  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

with  drooping  sleeves,  that  he  did  not  kno-w.  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. 

iBut  as  though  shot  she  spun  round,  and  would  have  passed 
him  up  the  stairs.    He  barred  the  way. 

'  Why  such  a  hurry  ?'  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  of  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. 

And  Soames  stood  motionless.  What  prevented  him  from 
following  her? 

Was  it  that,  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  he  saw  Bosinney  looking 
down  from  that  high  window  in  Sloane  Street,  straining  his 
eyes  for  yet  another  glimpse  of  Irene's  vanished  figure,  cooling 
his  fiushed  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 

CHAPTEE  I 

MES.  MacANDEE'S  EVIDENCE 

Many  people,  no  doubt,  including  the  editor  of  the  'Ultra 
Vivisectionist,'  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.  Tor 
active  brutality  is  not  popular  with  Forsytes;  they  are  too  cir- 
cumspect, 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  Eobin  Hill,  finished  though  it  was,  remained  empty  and 
ownerless.  Soames  had  brought  a  suit  against  the  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  phrase- 

217 


218  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

ology,  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  dis- 
cretion, the  riddle  in  Soames's  case.  Everyone,  he  said,  to 
whom  Ire  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 — 
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'  was  '  a  very  nice  one.' 

.  In  accordance  with  his  resolve,  our  Forsyte  had  put  his 
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  correspondence 
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 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  219 

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  cor- 
respondence," 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  interrogatories, 
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  1  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,  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  Eobin  HiU,  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  Forsyte 
should,  she  looked  very  strange.  Her  self-possession  was  won- 
derful, but  there  were  moments  when,  behind  the  mask  of  her 
face,  inscrutable  as  it  had  always  been  to  him,  lurked  an  expres- 
sion he  had  never  been  used  to  see  there. 

She  had  taken  to  lunching  out  too;  when  he  asked  Bilson  if 


220  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  something 
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,  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.' 

'Do!' 

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  contrast  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  mort- 
gage for  Parkes;  how  that  long-standing  suit  of  Fryer  v.  Forsyte 
was  getting  on,  which,  arising  in  the  preternaturally  careful  dis- 
position of  his  property  by  his  great-uncle  Nicholas,  who  had 
tied  it  up  so  that  no  one  could  get  at  it  at  sill,  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. 

He  had  an  admiration  for  Boucher,  Watteau,  and  all  that 
school.    It  was  a  habit  with  him  to  tell  her  all  these  matters,  and 


THE  MAN"  OP  PEOPERTY  231 

he  continued  to  do  it  even  now,  talking  for  long  spells  at  dinner, 
as  though  by  the  volubility  of  words  he  could  conceal  from  him- 
self 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  neglect- 
ing 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  ex- 
treme; yet  he  hated  Bosinney,  that  Buccaneer,  that  prowling 
vagabond,  that  night-wanderer.  For  in  his  thoughts  Soames  al- 
ways 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  bath- 
ing 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  termini.  The 
following  morning  saw  them  back  at  their  vocations. 

On  the  next  Sunday  Timothy's  was  thronged  from  lunch  till 
dinner. 

Amongst  ether  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.  Mac- 
Ander,  Winifred  Dartie's  greatest  friend,  taking  a  constitutional, 


222  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

with  young  Augustus  Mippard,  on  her  bicycle  in  Eichmond 
Park,  passed  Irene  and  Bosinney  walking  from  the  bracken  to- 
wards 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  Plippard  will  try  the  toughest  consti- 
tution; or  perhaps  the  sight  of  the  cool  bracken  grove,  whence 
'  those  two '  were  coming  down,  excited  her  envy.  The  cool  brac- 
ken 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 
delights,  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  hav- 
ing had  the  good  sense  and  ability  to  force  her  husband  into  pro- 
nounced error,  she  herself  had  passed  through  the  necessary 
divorce  proceedings  without  incurring  censure. 

She  was  therefore  a  judge  of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  lived 
in  one  of  those  large  buildings,  where  in  small  sets  of  apart- 
ments, 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  ill- 
seeing  eye  and  shrewd  tongue  were  inscrutably  the  means  of 
furthmng  the  ends  of  Providence. 

With  an  air  of  being  in  at  the  death,  she  had  an  almost  dis- 
tressing 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  Mac- 
Ander !' 

Dressing  tightly  and  well,  she  belonged  to  a  "Woman's  Club, 
but  was  by  no  means  the  neurotic  and  dismal  type  of  member  who 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  223 

was  always  thinking  of  her  rights.  She  took  her  rights  -uncon- 
sciously, they  came  natural  to  her,  and  she  knew  exactly  how  to 
make  the  most  of  them  without  exciting  anything  but  admira- 
tion 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 
universally  welcomed.  She  excited  neither  surprise  nor  disap- 
probation when  encountered  on  the  Ehine  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  everything  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  women  with  what  men.  called 
*  charm'  about  them,  and  for  Mrs.  Soames  she  always  iiad  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  se- 
ductiveness which  she  could  not  altogether  overlook  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  posi- 
tion 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  oc- 
curred to  her. 

And  it  so  happened  that  she  was  dining  that  very  evening  at 


221  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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,  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  ob- 
tained, 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  whenever  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  fronii  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  of  brown,  num- 
bered 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  pro- 
voked conversation. 

Throughout  a  descent  of  five  stories  the  conversation  con- 
tinued, the  lift  boy  standing  with  his  back  turned,  his  cynical 
face  protruding  through  the  bars. 

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  conversation 
(although  Timothy  himself  could  never  be  induced  to  be  pres- 


THE  MAN  OF  PKOPERTY  225 

ent)  took  that  wider,  man-of-the-world  tone  current  among  For- 
sytes 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  sensi- 
ble, 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  deprecated  the  navy.  If  you  were  not 
exceptfonally  brilliant  or  exceptionally  well  connected,  they 
passed  you  over  so  disgracefully,  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,  know- 
ing in  advance  that  it  would  upset  him.  Surreptitiously,  how- 
ever, for  weeks  after  they  would  look  in  that  paper,  which  they 
took  with  respect  on  account  of  its  really  fashionable  proclivities, 
to  see  whether  'Bright's  Rubies'  or  'The  Woollen  Mackintosh 
Company '  were  up  or  down.  Sometimes  they  could  not  find  the 
name  of  the  company  at  all;  and  they  would  wait  until  James 
or  Eoger  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  Eoger  would  answer :  '  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ? 
Some  trash!  You'll  go  burning  your  fingers — investing  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.  Mac- 
Ander,  looking  airily  round,  said :  '  Oh !  and  whom  do  you  think 


226  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

I  passed  to-day  in  Eichmond  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.  MacAnder  justice,  she  had  been  to  Switzerland 
and  the  Italian  lakes  with  a  party  of  three,  and  had  not  heard  of 
Soames's  rupture  with  his  architect.  She  could  not  tell,  there- 
fore, 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  effect  of  her  words.  On 
either  side  of  her  a  Hayman  boy,  his  lean,  taciturn,  hungry  face 
turned  towards  his  plate,  ate  his  mutton  steadily. 

These  two,  Giles  and  Jesse,  were  so  alike  and  so  inseparable 
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 
Camp  den  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  AUiambra  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  feelings 
of  gentlemen,  they  turned  at  this  painful  moment  to  Mrs.  Mac- 
Ander, 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  re- 
moved her  plate.  Mrs.  MacAnder,  however,  with  presence  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  sympathetic 
temperament !    Soames  is  a  really  lucky  man !' 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  227 

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  herself 
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  m  THE  PAEK 

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  tliemselves — to  use  the  word  Soames  had  inverited  to 
characterize  to  himself  the  situation,  it  was  '  subterranean.' 

Yet,  within  a  week  of  Mrs.  MacAnder's  encounter  in  Rich- 
mond 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  ex- 
pressions still  current  in  fashionable  circles)  voiced  the  senti- 
ment 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  de- 
plorable. 

Without  an  open  scandal  which  they  could  not  see  their  way 
to  recommending,  it  was  diificult  to  see  what  steps  could  be 
taken.  In  tJiis  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  im- 
pression 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. 

'I  can't  tell,'  he  would  say;  'it  worries  me  out  of  my  life. 

228 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPEETY  229 

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  busi- 
ness 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  Buccaneer,'  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. 

N"ot  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  Eound  Pond,  he  could  often  be  seen 
walking  with  his  eyes  fixed  anxiously  on  little  Publius  Dartie's 
Failing-boat,  which  he  had  himself  freighted  with  a  penny,  as 
though  convinced  that  it  would  never  again  come  to  shore: 
while  'ittle  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  paying  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 


230  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  free- 
dom from  labour,  from  the  reek  and  turmoil  of  the  streets. 

The  leaves  browned  slowly,  lingering  with  the  sun  and  sum- 
mer-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  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  seok- 
ing,  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  multi- 
tudes 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  love, 
hiding  under  the  trees,  away  from  the  trustees  of  their  remorse- 
less enemy,  the  'sense  of  property,'  were  holding  a  stealthy 
revel,  and  Soames,  returning  from  Bayswater— for  he  had  been 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPERTY  231 

alone  to  dine  at  Timothy's — walking  home  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,  how- 
ever, for  he  had  a  horror  of  seeing  his  name  in  print. 

But  starved  as  he  was,  the  whispered  sounds  in  the  stillness, 
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  plantations,  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  stiri:ed  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  seek- 
ing— the  wife  of  Soames  Forsyte  sitting  in  the  Park  like  a 
common  wench !  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  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  ta 
the  path,  and  left  that  seeking  for  he  knew  not  what. 


CHAPTER  III 

MEETING  AT  THE  BOTANICAL 

Young  Jolton,  whose  circumstances  were  not  those  of  a  For- 
syte, found  at  times  a  difficulty  in  sparing  the  money  needful 
for  those  country  jaunts  and  researches  into  Nature,  without 
having  prosecuted  which  no  watercolour  artist  ever  puts  brush 
to  paper. 

He  was  frequently,  in  fact,  obliged  to  take  his  colour-box  into 
the  Botanical  Gardens,  and  there,  on  his  stool,  in  the  shade  of  a 
monkey-puzzler  or  in  the  lee  of  some  india-rubber  plant,  he 
would  spend  long  hours  sketching. 

An  Art  critic  who  had  recently  been  looking  at  his  work  had 
delivered  himself  as  follows : 

'  In  a  way  your  drawings  are  very  good ;  tone  and  colour,  in 
some  of  them  certainly  quite  a  feeling  for  Nature.  But,  you 
see,  they're  so  scattered;  you'll  never  get  the  public  to  look  at 
them.  Now,  if  you'd  taken  a  definite  subject,  such  as  "London 
by  Night,"  or  "  The  Crystal  Palace  in  the  Spring,"  and  made  a 
regular  series,  the  public  would  have  known  at  once  what  they 
were  looking  at.  I  can't  lay  too  much  stress  upon  'that.  All 
the  men  who  are  making  great  names  in  Art,  like  Crum  Stone 
or  Bleeder,  are  making  them  by  avoiding  the  unexpected;  by 
specializing  and  putting  their  works  all  in  the  same  pigeon- 
hole, so  that  the  public  know  at  once  where  to  go.  And  this 
stands  to  reason,  for  if  a  man's  a  collector  he  doesn't  want  people 
to  smell  at  the  canvas  to  find  out  whom  his  pictures  are  by;  he 
wants  them  to  be  able  to  say  at  once,  "  A  capital  Forsyte !"  It 
is  all  the  more  important  for  you  to  be  careful  to  choose  a 
subject  that  they  can  lay  hold  of  on  the  spot,  since  there's  no 
very  marked  originality  in  your  style.' 

Young  Jolyon,  standing  by  the  little  piano,  where  a  bowl  of 
dried  rose  leaves,  the  only  produce  of  the  garden,  was  deposited 
on  a  bit  of  faded  damask,  listened  with  his  dim  smile. 

Turning  to  his  wife,  who  was  looking  at  the  speaker  with  an 
angry  expression  on  her  thin  face,  he  said : 

232 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEKTY  233 

*  You  see,  dear  ?' 
I  do  not,'  she  answered  in  her  staccato  voice,  that  still  had 
a  little  foreign  accent ;  *  your  style  has  originality/ 

The  critic  looked  at  her,  smiled  deferentially,  and  said  no 
more.    Like  everyone  else,  he  knew  their  history. 

The  words  bore  good  fruit  with  young  Jolyon;  they  were 
contrary  to  all  that  he  believed  in,  to  all  that  he  theoretically 
held  good  in  his  Art,  but  some  strange,  deep  instinct  moved  him 
against  his  will  to  turn  them  to  profit. 

He  discovered  therefore  one  morning  that  an  idea  had  come 
to  him  for  making  a  series  of  watercolour  drawings  of  London. 
How  the  idea  had  arisen  he  could  not  tell;  and  it  was  not  till 
the  following  year,  when  he  had  completed  and  sold  them  at 
a  very  fair  price,  that  in  one  of  his  impersonal  moods,  he  found 
himself  able  to  recollect  the  Art  critic,  and  to  discover  in  his 
own  achievement  another  proof  that  he  was  a  Forsyte. 

He  decided  to  commence  with  the  Botanical  Gardens,  where 
he  had  already  made  so  many  studies,  and  chose  the  little  arti- 
ficial pond,  sprinkled  now  with  an  autumn  shower  of  red  and 
yellow  leaves,  for  though  the  gardeners  longed  to  sweep  them 
off,  they  could  not  reach  them  with  their  brooms.  The  rest  of 
the  gardens  they  swept  bare  enough,  removing  every  morning 
Nature's  rain  of  leaves ;  piling  them  in  heaps,  whence  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  em- 
blem 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  knowl- 
edge 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 
llxed  on  the  ground.    A  flowering  laurel,  however,  stood  between. 


234  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  ruffle,  a  delicate 
face  with  large  dark  eyes  and  soft  lips.  A  black  '  picture '  hat 
concealed  the  hair;  her  figure  was  lightly  poised  against  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  pecidiar  breed,  at  once  forward 
and  shy,  found  in  the  Eegent'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  gentleman,  old,  and,  by  his  hat,  a  pro- 
fessor 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  irrita- 
tion. 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,  associated 
with  the  box  of  chocolate;  it  was  not  of  the  spiritually  passion- 
ate, or  passionately  spiritual  order,  peculiar  to  house-decoration 
and  modern  poetry;  nor  did  it  seem  to  promise  to  the  play- 
wright material  for  the  production  of  the  interesting  and  neuras- 
thenic 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  Loye,'  a  reproduction  of  which  hung  over  the  Side- 
board in  his  dining-room.    And  her  attraction  seemed  to  be  in 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  235 

this  soft  passivity,  in  the  feeling  she  gave  that  to  pressure  she 
must  yield. 

For  what  or  whom  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  meeting;  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  aifairs  of  a  season  that  distract  men 
and  women  about  town;  none  of  those  sudden  appetites  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  immov- 
able 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 ! 

It  seemed  to  young  Jolyon  that  he  could  hear  her  saying: 
'But,  darling,  it  would  ruin  you!'  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 
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, 


236  THE  P0K8YTE  SAGA 

saw  them  walking  away,  their  handi  itealthilv  joined.    .    .    • 

At  the  end  of  July  old  Jolyon  had  taken  hfi  srand-daugbtw 
to  the  mountain*;  and  on  that  viiit  (the  la»t  thw  over  paid) 
June  recovered  to  a  great  extent  her  health  and  ipiriti.  In  thi 
hoteli,  filled  with  British  Foriytei— for  old  Jolyon  could  not 
bear  a  'get  of  Germani/  ai  he  called  all  foreign oT»—»he  wai 
looked  upon  with  reipect— 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  wa»  not 
June*!  habit—but  she  formed  nomo  f riendihipi,  ana  notably  one 
in  the  Ebone  Valley,  with  a  French  girl  who  wai  dying  of 
consumption. 

Determining  at  once  that  her  friend  should  not  die,  she  forgot, 
in  the  institution  of  a  campaign  against  Death,  much  of  ner 
own  trouble. 

Old  Jolyon  watched  the  new  intimacy  with  relief  and  disap- 
proval ;  for  this  additional  proof  that  her  life  was  to  be  passed 
amongst  'lame  ducks'  worried  him.  Would  she  novor  make  a 
friendship  or  take  an  interest  in  something  that  would  be  of 
real  benefit  to  her? 

'Taking  dp  with  a  parcel  of  foreigners,'  he  called  it.  He 
often,  however,  brought  home  grapes  or  roses,  and  presented 
them  to  this  '  Mam'zelle '  with  an  ingratiating  twinkle. 

Towards  the  end  of  September,  in  spite  of  June's  disapproval, 
Mademoiselle  Vigor  breathed  her  last  in  the  little  hotel  at  Bt. 
Luc,  to  which  they  bad  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  wh«n,  towards 
the  middle  of  October,  they  returned  to  town,  her  grandfather 
believed  that  he  had  e^cted  a  cure. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  they  established  themselves  in  Stan- 
hope Gate  than  he  perceived  to  his  dismay  a  return  of  her  old 
absorbed  and  brooding  manner.  She  would  sit,  staring  in  front 
of  her,  hcT  chin  on  Im  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  et 
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  th«»i»  day*  of  degen- 
erate taste.    He  was  a  man  of  most  open  mind,  who,  more  «ian 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  837 

any  Forsyte  of  thorn  all,  had  aiovod  with  tlio  timos,  but  ho 
could  never  forget  that  he  had  bought  these  groups  at  Jobson's, 
and  given  a  lot  of  money  for  thorn.  lie  often  said  to  June, 
with  a  sort  of  disillusioned  contempt : 

'  You  don't  care  about  them  I  They're  not  ihe  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  tlie  first  things  that  June  did  on  getting  home  was 
to  go  round  to  Timotliy'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  roundabout  ques- 
tion, she  could  glean  news  of  Bosinney. 

They  received  her  most  cordially:  And  how  was  her  dear 
grandfathnr?  He  had  not  been  to  see  them  since  May.  Her 
Uncle  Timothy  was  very  poorly,  he  had  had  a  lot  of  troubla 
with  tlie  chimney-sweep  in  his  bedroom;  the  stupid  man  had 
let  the  soot  down  the  chimney  I    It  had  quite  upset  her  uncle. 

June  sat  there  a  long  time,  dreading,  yet  passionately  hoping, 
tliat  they  would  speak  of  Bosinney. 

But  paralysed  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  diiRculty 
about  the  house,  she  believed.  June  had  hoard,  no  doubt  I  She 
had  better  ask  her  Aunt  Juley ! 

June  turned  to  Mrs.  Small,  who  sat  upright  in  her  chair, 
her  hands  clasped,  her  face  covered  witli  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  tliose  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  ominous 
to  her  thnn  anything  that  could  have  been  said. 

Before  half  an  hour  was  over  slie  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  calming 


g3S  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

effect;  as  though  she  saw  in  the  prospect  of  this  struggle  new 
hope  for  herself.  She  learnt  that  the  case  was  expected  to 
come  on  in  about  a  month,  and  there  seemed  little  or  no  pros- 
pect 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  Baynea 
in  after  years  (Baynes  was  knighted  when  he  built  that  public 
ituseum  of  Art  which  has  given  so  much  employment  to  offi- 
cials, 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,  un- 
accountably, 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,  Bus- 
tard, 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 
'  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  background,  intricate,  dim,  scandalous, 


THE  MAX  OP  PBOPEETY  239 

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  I'  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  affidavits  in  *  re  Buncombe,  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 
belongings,  the  last  word  on  what  he  was  worth.  He  sounded 
the  belL 

'Bring  in  Mr.  Jolyon's  WiU/  he  said  to  an  anxious,  dark- 
haired  clerk. 

'You  going  to  make  some  alterations?'  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. 

'  YoTi*ve  made  some  nice  purchases  lately,  they  tell  me,'  he  said. 

'I  don't  know  where  you  get  your  information  from,'  an- 
swered 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, 
youll  settle  it  out  of  Court.  Good-bye!'  With  a  cold  hand- 
shake he  was  gone. 


240  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  Eoom  to  read  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  Secretary 
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 — by  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  ofHce,  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. 

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  hia 
nose,  his  gold  pencil  moving  down  the  clauses  of  his  "Will. 

It  was  a  simple  affair,  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  whatsoever  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  upoutrust  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  testamentary  disposition  to  be  by 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPBETY  241 

her  duly  made  signed  and  published  direct  appoint  or  make 
over  give  and  dispose  of  the  same  And  in  default  etc.  .  .  . 
Provided  always  .  .  .'  and  so  on,  in  seven  folios  of  brief  and 
simple  phraseology. 

The  will  had  been  drawn  by  James  in  his  palmy  days.  Ho 
had  foreseen  almost  every  contingency. 

Old  Jolyon  sat  a  long  time  reading  this  WHll ;  at  last  he  took 
half  a  sheet  of  paper  from  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  dead,  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  felt  a  strange,  slow  satisfaction,  as  though  he  had  scored 
a  victory  over  James  and  the  man  of  property.  They  should 
not  poke  their  noses  into  his  affairs  any  more;  he  had  just 
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 
young  Herring,  and  he  would  move  the  business  of  his  Com- 
panies too.  If  that  young  Soames  were  such  a  man  of  property, 
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  retributive  justice, 
richly  deserved. 

Slowly,  surely,  with  the  secret  inner  process  that  works  the 
destruction  of  an  old  tree,  the  poison  of  the  wounds  to  his  happi- 
ness, his  will,  his  pride,  had  corroded  the  comely  edifice  of  his 
philosophy.  Life  had  worn  him  down  on  one  side,  till,  like  that 
family  of  which  he  was  the  head,  he  had  lost  balance. 

To  him,  borne  northwards  towards  his  son's  house,  the  thought 
of  the  new  disposition  of  property,  which  he  had  just  set  in 
motion,  appeared  vaguely  in  the  light  of  a  stroke  of  punishment, 
levelled  at  that  family  and  that  Society,  of  which  James  and 
his  son  seemed  to  him  the  representatives.  He  had  made  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  incalculable  sum  of 
disapproval  that  had  been  bestowed  by  the  world  for  fifteen 
years  on  his  only  son.  It  presented  itself  as  the  one  possible 
way  of  asserting  once  more  the  domination  of  his  will;  of 


243  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  recognise  once  and  for  all  that  he 
would  be  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  Jolyon 
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  sat  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 !'  and  see  his 
rush;  and  feel  Holly's  soft  little  hand  stealing  up  against  his 
cheek.  But  he  would  not.  There  was  solenmity  in  what  he 
had  come  to  do,  and  until  it  was  over  he  would  not  play.  He 
amused  himself  by  thinking  how  with  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  Pullbred'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  instruction,  the  child  had  a  remarkable  aptitude. 

As  these  visions  crowded  before  him,  causing  emotion  to 
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. 

"Wliat  pleasure  was  tliere  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 !     Such 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  343 

giving  as  that  was  a  betrayal  of  the  individualistic  convictions 
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  thousands  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  gaU 
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 — I'm  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  ta  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  in- 
stincts. In  extremely  practical  form,  he  thought  of  travel,  of 
his  wife's  costume,  the  children's  education,  a  pony  for  Jolly, 
a  thousand  thiaigs;  but  in  the  midst  of  aU  he  thought,  too,  of 


244  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Bosinney  and  hie  mistress,  and  the  broken  song  of  the  thrush. 
Joy — tragedy !    Which  ?    Which  ? 

The  old  past — ^the  poignant,  suffering,  passionate,  wonderful 
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  lum  with 
a  wondering,  adoring,  doubting  look  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

VOYAGE  INTO  THE  INFEENO 

The  morniBg  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  wrap- 
ping 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  sur- 
prised at  himself. 

Two  nights  before,  at  Winifred  Dartie's,  he  had  taken  Mrs. 
MacAnder  into  dinner.  She  had  said  to  him,  looking  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,  vnth  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. 

245 


246  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  reading  of  his  letters,  those 
nightmare-like  doubts  began  to  assume  less  extravagant  impor- 
tance 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  mar- 
riage, 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. 

In  his  corner  of  the  first-class  compartment  filled  with  City 
men  the  smothered  sobbing  still  haunted  him,  go  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  Eecorder  had  charged  a  grand  jury  on  the 
previous  day  with  a  more  than  usually  long  list  of  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 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  247 

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. 

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  blur,  men  groped  in  and  out;  women, 
very  few,  grasped  their  reticules  to  their  bosoms  and  handker- 
chiefs 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  eacla  other.  Tn  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 


248  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

had  neither  time  nor  money  to  spare  for  any  suffering  but 
their  own. 

Only  a  policeman,  patrolling  slowly  and  at  intervals,  took 
an  interest  in  that  waiting  figure,  the  brim  of  whose  slouch 
hat  haJf  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  1 
Pogs  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  devill 
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,  disturbed 
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  indisposi- 
tion 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  importance 
under  stress  of  anxiety  at  her  strange  sortie  into  the  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  ?  thick 
veil. 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  249 

She  neither  turned  to  look  at  him  nor  spoke.  Ko  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  movement  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  for- 
ward 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.   .    .    . 

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  mansion  at 
Princes'  Gardens.  Since  a  recent  crisis  in  his  financial  affairs 
he  had  been  kept  on  parole  by  Eoger,  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  Eed  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  composed 


250  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  around,  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  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  where 
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  won- 
dered 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  excitement,  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  slov  upon  them; 
and  now  and  then  a  light  showed  like  a  dim  island  in  an  infinite 
dark  sea. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  251 

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. 

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  under- 
stood 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  impressed 
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  them- 
.  selves  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  Quil- 
pish  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 
irrinned  as  he  thought  of  some  respectable,  newly-married  spectre 
enabled  by  the  state  of  his  own  affections  to  catch  an  inkling 


253  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  asso- 
ciated 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. 

'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  everything  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 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  253 

knew  himself  to  be  in  Piccadilly.  Here  he  could  find  his  way 
blindfold;  and  freed  from  the  strain  of  geographical  uncer- 
tainty, 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  Buccaneer, 
and  say,  '  Come,  old  boy.  Time  cures  all.  Let's  go  and  drink 
it  off !' 

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.  Perspiration  started  out 
on  his  brow.    He  stood  quite  still,  listening  with  all  his  might. 

'And  then,'  as  he  confided  to  Dartie  the  same  evening  in  the 
course  of  a  game  of  billiards  at  the  Eed  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  ?'  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!'  exclaimed  Dartie — ^he  used  a  more  figurative 
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  sub- 
ject  again  till,  towards  eleven  o'clock,  having,  in  his  poetic 


254  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 
'Bed  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  Eichmond  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  1"  ' 


CHAPTEE  V 

THE  TEIAL 

On  the  morning  of  his  ease,  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  miad  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  im- 
proving 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  in- 
terval. 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  xusty- 
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  wells,  which,  mingling  with  the  odour  of  the  galleries, 
combined  to  form  the  savour,  like  nothing  but  the  emanation  of 
a  refined  cheese,  so  indissolubly  connected  with  the  administra- 
tion 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  anything;  I  should 
think  he'd  have  to.  He'll  go  bankrupt  if  it  goes  against  him.' 
He  took  a  large  bite  at  his  sandwich  and  a  mouthful  of  sherry. 

255 


266  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

•■  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  appreciat- 
ing the  real  understanding  between  them.  James  finished  his 
sherry  at  a  draught. 

'  How  much  ?'  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  immedi- 
ately 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  of  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 
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  per- 
ceived 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  ap- 
peared— a  thin,  rather  hen-like  man,  with  a  little  stoop,  clean- 
shaven under  his  snowy  wig.     Like  all  the  rest  of  the  court, 


THE  MAN  OP  PEOPEETY  257 

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  Burnley'  Tomms.'  Burnley  Tomra 
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  ease  having  been  called  on,  Waterbuck,  Q.C.,  pushing 
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  lord- 
ship 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.  He  would,  how- 
ever, submit  that  this  correspondence  could  only  mean  one 
very  plain  thing.  After  briefly  reciting  the  history  of  the' 
house  at  Eobin  Hill,  which  he  described  as  a  mansion,  and  tha 
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  treat- 
ment from  his  architect  in  the  matter  of  this  house,  over  whichi 
he  has,  as  your  lordship  has  heard,  already  spent  some  twelve — 
some  twelve  thousand  pounds,  a  sum  considerably  in  advance- 
of  the  amount  he  had  originally  contemplated,  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 


258  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

compressed  lips;  his  dress  in  unostentatious  order,  one  hand 
neatly  gloved,  the  other  hare.  He  answered  the  questions  put 
to  him  in  a  somewhat  low,  hut  distiiict  voice.  His  evidence 
under  cross-examination  savoured  of  taciturnity. 

'  Had  he  not  used  the  expression,  "  a  free  hand  "  ?' 

'No.' 

*  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,  however,  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  Bosin- 
ney'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  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, 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  259 

he  thought  it  was  as  well  not  to  say  so),  but  it  was  not  known 
where  he  was,  and  this  he  considered  to  be  ominous,  knowing- 
how  anxious  Mr.  Bosinhey  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  contemplated  repudiat- 
ing liability  on  any  of  the  work  ordered  or  executed  by  his 
architect.  The  defendant  had  certainly  never  contemplated  such 
a  contingency,  or,  as  was  demonstrated  by  his  letters,  he  would 
never  have  proceeded  with  the  work — a  work  of  extreme  deli- 
cacy, 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,  perhaps,  rather  strong  words  when  he  said  that  this 
action  was  of  a  most  unjustifiable,  unexpected,  indeed  unpre- 
cedented 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  honour- 
able 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. 

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  very  talented  architect, 
whose  professional  reputation  was  undoubtedly  somewhat  at 
stake.  He  concluded  with  a  perhaps  too  personal  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 


260-  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

of  the  artistic  professions,  if  men  of  property  like  this  Mr. 
Forsyte  refuse,  and  are  allowed  to  refuse,  to  carry  out  the 
obligations  of  the  commissions  which  they  have  given.'  .  .  . 
He  would  now  call  his  client,  in  case  he  should  at  the  last 
moment  liave  found  himself  able  to  be  present. 

The  name  Philip  Baynes  Bosinney  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  ? 

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 
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  majesty  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  For- 
syte, 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  plaintiff's  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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY  261 

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  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  mis- 
taken." 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  any  difficulty  between  us.  You  have  a  free  hand  in  the 
terms  of  this  correspondence,  and  I  hope  you  will  see  your 
way  to  completing  the  decorations."  On  May  30  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  de- 
fendant 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  repudiated  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 
engagem.ent. 

'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 


262  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

this  correspondence.  If  this  were  so,  I  can  find  no  reason  for 
the  plaintiff's  importation  into  the  correspondence  of  the  figures 
of  twelve  thousand  pounds  and  subsequently  of  fifty  pounds. 
The  defendant's  contention  would  render  these  figures  meaning- 
less. It  is  manifest  to  me  that  by  his  letter  of  May  20  he  as- 
sented 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  wait- 
ing 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  recouiited  the  whole  proceedings,  eating  two  muflBns  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  won- 
der,' and  then  after  a  long  pause,  during  which  he  had  stared 
disquiotly  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  upraised  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  a  portent. 


CHAPTEE  VI 

SOAMES  BEEAKS  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  Eoad. 

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  suggestion,  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  ?  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  contracted  his  thick,  puffy, 
yellow  hand  as  though  squeezing  within  it  all  this  small  fry, 
and  throwing  out  his  chest  he  waddled  slowly  away. 

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 

263 


264  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

June  do?  This,  also,  was  a  most  exciting,  if  dangerous  specu- 
lation ! 

They  had  never  forgotten  old  Jolyon's  visit,  since  when  he 
Tiad  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  money  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  something  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  country,  or  what  was  he  going  to  do? 

Soames  answered  that  he  did  not  know,  he  thought  they 
Rhould  be  moving  soon.    He  rose  and  kissed  his  aunts. 

No  sooner  had  Aunt  Juley  received  this  emblem  of  departure 
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 
mobody  «lse  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!' 

Mrs.  Small  went  on  as  though  she  had  not  heard :  '  I  think 
you  'Ought  to  know,  dear,  that  Mrs.  MacAnder  saw  Irene  walking 
in  Bichmond  Park  with  Mr.  Bosinney.' 

Aunt  Hester,  who  had  also  risen,  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and 
turned  her  face  away.  Eeally  Juley  was  too — she  should  not 
do  such  things  when  she— Aunt  Hester,  was  in  the  room ;  and, 
breathless  "with  antiieipation,  she  waited  for  what  Soames  would 
answer. 

He  had  flushed  the  peculiar  flush  which  always  centred  be- 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPEETY  265 

tween  his  eyes;  lifting  his  hand,  and,  as  it  were,  selecting  a 
finger,  he  bit  a  nail  delicately;  then,  drawling  it  out  between 
set  lips,  he  said :  '  Mrs.  MacAnder  is  a  cat !' 

Without  waiting  for  any  reply,  he  left  the  room. 

When  he  went  into  Timothy's  he  had  made  up  his  mind  what 
course  to  pursue  on  getting  home.  He  would  go  up  to  Irene 
and  say : 

'Well,  I've  won  my  case,  and  there's  an  end  of  it!  I  don't 
want  to  be  hard  on  Bosinney;  I'll  see  if  we  can't  come  to  some 
arrangement;  he  shan't  be  pressed.  And  now  let's  turn  over  a 
new  leaf !  We'll  let  the  house,  and  get  out  of  these  fogs.  We'll 
go  down  to  Eobin  Hill  at  once.    I — I  never  meant  to  be  rough 

with  you !    Let's  shake  hands — and '    Perhaps  she  would  let 

him  kiss  her,  and  forget ! 

When  he  came  out  of  Timothy's  his  intentions  were  no  longer 
so  simple.  The  smouldering  jealousy  and  suspicion  of  months 
blazed  up  within  him.  He  would  put  an  end  to  that  sort  of 
thing  once  and  for  all;  he  would  not  have  her  drag  his  name 
in  the  dirt !  If  she  could  not  or  would  not  love  him,  as  was 
her  duty  and  his  right — she  should  not  play  him  tricks 
with  anyone  else !  He  would  tax  her  with  it ;  threaten  to 
divorce  her!  That  would  make  her  behave;  she  would  never 
face  that.  But — but — ^what  if  she  did?  He  was  staggered: 
this  had  not  occurred  to  him. 

What  if  she  did?  What  if  she  made  him  a  confession?  How 
would  he  stand  then  ?    He  would  have  to  bring  a  divorce ! 

A  divorce!  Thus  close,  the  word  was  paralyzing,  so  utterly 
at  variance  with  all  the  principles  that  had  hitherto  guided  his 
life.  Its  lack  of  compromise  appalled  him;  he  felt  like  the  cap- 
tain of  a  ship,  going  to  the  side  of  his  vessel,  and,  with  his  own 
hands  throwing  over  the  most  precious  of  his  bales.  This  Jettison- 
ing 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  Eobin  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 


266  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

so  far?  Was  it  wise  to  put  himself  into  a  position  where  he 
might  have  to  eat  his  words?  The  result  of  this  case  would 
ruin  Bosinney;  a  ruined  man  was  desperate,  hut — what  could 
he  do?  He  might  go  abroad,  ruined  men  always  went  abroad. 
What  could  Ihey  do — ^if  indeed  it  was  '  they ' — without  money  ? 
It  would  be  better  to  wait  and  see  how  things  turned  out.  If 
necessary,  he  could  have  her  watched.  The  agony  of  his 
jealousy  (for  all  the  world  like  the  crisis  of  an  aching  tooth) 
came  on  again;  and  he  almost  cried  out.  But  he  must  decide, 
fix  on  some  course  of  action  before  he  got  home.  When  the 
cab  drew  up  at  the  door,  he  had  decided  nothing. 

He  entered,  pale,  his  hands  moist  with  perspiration,  dreading 
to  meet  her,  burning  to  meet  her,  ignorant  of  what  he  was 
to  say  or  do. 

The  maid  Bilson  was  in  the  hall,  and  in  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion :  '  Where  is  your  mistress  ?'  told  him  that  Mrs.  Forsyte  had 
left  the  house  about  noon,  taking  with  her  a  trunk  and  bag. 

Snatching  the  sleeve  of  his  fur  coat  away  from  her  grasp,  he 
confronted  her: 

'What?'  he  exclaimed;  'what's  that  you  said?'  Suddenly 
recollecting  that  he  must  not  betray  emotion,  he  added :  '  What 
message  did  she  leave  ?'  and  noticed  with  secret  terror  the 
startled  look  of  the  maid's  eyes. 

'  Mrs.  Forsyte  left  no  message,  sir.' 

'No  message;  very  well,  thank  you,  that  will  do.  I  shall 
be  dining  out.' 

The  maid  went  downstairs,  leaving  him  still  in  his  fur  coat, 
idly  turning  over  the  visiting  cards  in  the  porcelain  bowl  that 
stood  on  the  carved  oak  rug  chest  in  the  hall. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bareham  Culoher.  Lady  Bellis. 

Mrs.  Septimus  Small.  Miss  Hermione  Bellis. 

Mrs.  Baynes.  Miss  Winifred  Bellis. 

Mr.  Solomon  Thomworthy.  Miss  Ella  Bellis. 

Who  the  devil  were  all  these  people?  He  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  all  familiar  things.  The  words  '  no  message— a  trunk, 
and  a  bag,'  played  a  hide-and-seek  in  his  brain.  It  was  incredible 
that  she  had  left  no  message,  and,  still  in  his  fur  coat,  he  ran 
upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  as  a  young  married  man  when 
he  comes  home  will  run  up  to  his  wife's  room.        » 

Everything  was  dainty,  fresh,  sweet-smelling;  everything  in 


THE  MAN"  OF  PEOPERTY  267 

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  as- 
sume 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  oflBce  hours,  and  the  street  door  was  closed;  the 
woman  who  opened  it  could  not  say  whether  Mr.  Bosinney  were 
in  or  no;  she  had  not  seen  him  that  day,  not  for  two  or  three 
days;  she  did  not  attend  to  him  now,  nobody  attended  to  him, 
he 

Soames  interrupted  her,  he  would  go  up  and  see  for  himself. 
He  went  up  with  a  dogged,  white  face. 

The  top  floor  was  unlighted,  the  door  closed,  no  one  answered 
his  ringing,  he  could  hear  no  sound.  He  was  obliged  to  descend, 
shivering  under  his  fur,  a  chill  at  his  heart.  Hailing  a  cab, 
he  told  the  man  to  drive  to  Park  Lane. 

On  the  way  he  tried  to  recollect  when  he  had  last  given  her 
a  cheque ;  she  could  ..not  have  .more  than  three  or  four  pounds, 
but  there  were  her  jewels ;  and  with  exquisite  torture  he  remem- 
bered how  much  money  she  could  raise  on  these;  enough  to 
take  them  abroad ;  enough  for  them  to  live  on  for  months !    He 


aes  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  hiin  they  were  both  expected  to  dinner. 

Soames  answered :  '  No,  Mrs.  Forsyte  has  a  cold.' 

The  butler  was  sorry. 

Soames  thought  he  was  looking  at  him  inquisitively,  and 
remembering  that  he  was  not  in  dress  clothes,  asked :  '  Anybody 
here  to  dinner,  Warmson?' 

'  Nobody  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dartie,  sir.' 

Again  it  seemed  to  Soames  that  the  butler  was  looking  curi- 
ously 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  some- 
thing that  sounded  like:  'Nothing,  sir,  I'm  sure,  sir,'  and 
stealthily  withdrew. 

Soames  walked  upstairs.  Passing  the  drawing-room  without 
a  look,  he  went  straight  up  to  his  mother's  and  father's  bedroom. 

James,  standing  sideways,  the  concave  lines  of  his  tall,  lean 
figure  displayed  to  advantage  in  shirt  sleeves  and  evening  waist- 
coat, his  head  bent,  the  end  of  his  white  tie  peeping  askew  from 
underneath  one  white  Dundreary  whisker,  his  eyes  peering  with 
intense  concentration,  his  lips  pouting,  was  hooking  the  top 
hooks  of  his  wife's  bodice.  Soames  stopped;  he  felt  half- 
choked,  whether  because  he  had  come  upstairs  too  fast,  or  for 
some  other  reason.  He — he  himself  had  never — ^never  been 
asked  to 

He  heard  his  father's  voice,  as  though  there  were  a  pin  in  his 
mouth,  saying :  '  Who's  that  ?  ^\Tio's  there  ?  What  d'you  want  ?' 
His  mother's :  '  Here,  Felice,  come  and  hook  this ;  your  master'U 
never  get  done.' 

He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  throat,  and  said  hoarsely: 

'  It's  I— Soames !' 

He  noticed  gratefully  the  affectionate  surprise  in  Emily's: 
'Well,  my  dear  boy?'  and  James's,  as  he  dropped  the  hook: 
'  What,  Soam-9 !    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 ' 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  269 

But  Emily  broke  in  quietly :  *  Have  you  brought  Irene  ?' 

Soames  shook  his  head. 

'  No,'  he  stammered,  '  she — she's  left  me !' 

Emily  deserted  the  mirror  before  which  she  was  standing. 
Her  tall,  full  iigure  lost  this  majesty  and  became  very  human  as 
she  came  running  over  to  Soames. 

'  My  dear  boy  !    My  dear  boy !' 

She  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  and  stroked  his  hand. 

James,  too,  had  turned  full  towards  his  son;  his  face  looked 
older. 

'Left  you?'  he  said.  'What  d'you  mean — left  you?  You 
never  told  me  she  was  going  to  leave  you.' 

Soames  answered  surlily:  'How  could  I  tell?  What's  to 
be  done?' 

James  began  walking  up  and  down;  he  looked  strange  and 
stork-like  without  a  coat.  'What's  to  be  done!'  he  muttered. 
'How  should  I  know  what's  to  be  done?  What's  the  good  of 
asking  me?  Nobody  tells  me  anything,  and  then  they  come 
and  ask  me  what's  to  be  done;  and  I  should  like  to  know  how 
I'm  to  tell  them!  Here's  your  mother,  there  she  stands;  she 
doesn't  say  anything.  What  I  should  say  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  follow  her.' 

Soames  smiled;  his  peculiar,  supercilious  smile  had  never 
before  looked  pitiable. 

'  I  don't  know  where  she's  gone,'  he  said. 

'  Don't  know  where  she's  gone !'  said  James.  '  How  d'you 
mean,  don't  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  refit  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,  staring  at  the  floor,  a  little  brokenly:  'Well,  I 
can't  help  you;  I'm  getting  old.  Don't  you  be  in  too  great  a 
hurry,  my  boy.' 


270  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  vi-ent  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  conversation  with  Wini- 
fred 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 !'  would,  with  here  and  there  an  exception, 
have  been  regarded  as  sound,  not  only  in  Park  Lane,  but  amongst 
the  Nicholases,  the  Eogers,  and  at  Timothy's.  Just  as  it  would 
Burely  have  been  endorsed  by  that  wider  body  of  Forsytes  all 
over  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 
whatll  become  of  him,  if  he  goes  on  like  this.  An  intelligent 
little  chap,  I  call  him !'    But  it  was  only  a  flash. 

The  courses  succeeded  one  another  solemnly,  under  the  electric 
light,  which  glared  down  the  table,  but  barely  reached  the  prin- 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  371 

cipal  ornament  of  the  walls,  a  so-called  '  Sea  Piece  by  Turner," 
almost  entirely  composed  of  cordage  and  drowning  men.  Cham- 
pagne 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  streets,  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  vaga- 
bonds at  street  corners.  Winter  was  come!  But  Soames  has- 
tened home,  oblivious;  his  hands  trembled  as  he  took  the  late 
letters  from  the  gilt  wire  cage  into  which  they  had  been  thrust 
through  tlie  slit  in  the  door. 

None  from  Irene. 

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  insisted, 
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 


272  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

was  not  locked,  and  came  open  as  he  pulled;  the  jewel  box 
had  the  key  in  it.  This  surprised  him  until  he  remembered 
that  it  was  sure  to  be  empty.    He  opened  it. 

It  was  far  from  empty.  Divided,  in  little  green  velvet  com- 
partments, 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. 

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  weak- 
ness, he  got  up,  locked  the  box,  and  slowly,  almost  trembling, 
carried  it  with  him  into  the  other  room. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JUNE'S  VICTORY 

JPNE  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  char- 
acter. 

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  XIII.,  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  discomfiture  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 
XIII.,  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  oflBces  on  the  three 
lower  floors  without  attracting  notice;  not  till  she  reached  the 
top  did  her  difiiculties  begin. 

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 

273 


274  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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,  where  his 
father  had  been  at  school,  and  last,  not  least,  the  piece  of 
Japanese  pottery  she  herself  had  given  him.  AH  were  gone; 
and  in  spite  of  the  rage  roused  within  her  championing  soul  at 
the  thought  that  the  world  should  treat  him  thus,  their  disap- 
pearance augured  happily  for  the  success  of  her  plan. 

It  was  while  looking  at  the  spot  where  the  piece  of  Japanese 
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  forehead. 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPBETY  275 

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. 

'  "\Miat  have  you  come  for  ?'  But  the  feeling  that  she  herself 
was  being  asked  the  same  question,  made  her  add :  *  This  horri- 
ble case.    I  came  to  tell  him — ^he  has  lost  it.' 

Irene  did  not  speak,  her  eyeis  never  moved  from  June's  face, 
and  the  girl  cried : 

'  Don't  stand  there  as  if  you  were  made  of  stone !' 

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 
iwiftly  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  ?' 

Irene's  lips  moved;  she  seemed  to  be  saying:  'Where  should 
I  go?' 

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. 


276  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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 !' 

Again  Irene  laughed.  June  saw  that  she  had  played  a  wrong 
card,  and  broke  down. 

'  Why  have  you  come  ?'  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  gnawing  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  reconciled 
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  diilerence  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  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  state- 
ment 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 


THE  MAN  OF  PROPEETY  377 

apologizing  for  having  at  last  deviated  from  the  path  of  virtue, 
and  succumbed,  in  dejBance  of  sounder  principles,  to  his  more 
natural  instincts. 

He  seemed  nervous  lest,  in  thus  annoimcing  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  sugges- 
tion 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,  explana- 
tion 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.' 

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-justification — '  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  im- 
patiently :  '  "Well,  what  do  you  say  ?' 

June  slid  down  to  his  knee,  and  she  in  her  turn  began  her 


378  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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!  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  approve 
of  his  grand-daughter's  way  of  putting  it — she  ought  to  mind 
what  people  thought ! 

Yet  he  said  nothing.  His  feelings  were  too  mixed,  too  in- 
consistent for  expression. 

No — went  on  June — she  did  not  care;  what  business  was  it 
of  theirs  ?  There  was  only  one  thing — and  with  her  cheek  press- 
ing against  his  knee,  old  Jolyon  knew  at  once  that  this  some- 
thing was  no  trifle:  As  he  was  going  to  buy  a  house  in  the 
country,  would  he  not — ^to  please  her — buy  that  splendid  house 
of  Soames'  at  Eobin  Hill?  It  was  finished,  it  was  perfectly 
beautiful,  and  no  one  would  live  in  it  now.  They  would  all 
be  so  happy  there. 

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:  '1  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  I  will!' 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  279 

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  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 !'  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  ?'  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 !' 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  he  spoke  again. 

'  But  as  to  buying  this  house — you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about !' 

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  his  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?' 

But  secretly,  the  idea  of  wresting  the  house  from  James  and 
his  son  had  begun  to  take  hold  of  him.    He  had  heard  on  For- 


280  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

syte  '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 '  that  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.  Jus- 
tice 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. 


CHAPTEE   VIII 

BOSINISTBY'S  DEPARTUEE 

Old  Jolton  was  not  given  to  hasty  decisions;  it  is  probable 
that  he  would  have  continued  to  think  over  the  purchase  of 
the  house  at  Eobin  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.  i.,ii 

*  Carriage !"  he  said,  with  some  appearance  of  innocence ; 
'what  for?    /'m  not  going  out !'  1  , 

She  answered :  '  If  you  don't  go  early,  you  won't  catch  UucIjb 
James  before  he  goes  into  the  City.'  ,  i  , 

'James!  what  about  your  Uncle  James?'  ,!      :  ,      ,    -, 

'  The  house/  she  replied,  in  such  a  voice  that  he  nfl  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:  think- 
ing of  you,  but  you  don't  think  of  yourself;  you  dop't  think 
what  you're  letting  yourself  in  for.  Well;  oi-der  the  carriage 
at  ten !'  -i.;;,!-  h,.'.  -u,,.      -r,:.  ,, 

At  a  quarter  past  he  was  placing  his, , umbrella  in  th?,;  stand 
at  Park  Lane — he  did  not  choose  to,  relinquish  h:iS;:bat  and 
coat;  telling  Warmson  that  he  wanted  to  see  biSj  PiaSitear,  he 
went,  without  being  announced,  into  the  study,  and  sat  down. 

James  was  still  in  the  dining-room  talking  to  .Soames,  who 
had  come  round  again  before  breakfast.,  Op,  hearing,  who  his 
visitor  was,  he  muttered  nervously :  '  Now,  what's  he  want,  I 
wonder?'  '_■■/['.   '  ,(./    •  ,  ;!■ 

He  then  got  up.  ;,  ,    ;  ,,  -    ; i: 

'"Well,'  he  said  to  Soames,  'don't  you  go  doing  anything,  in 
a  hurry.  The  first  thing  is  to,find;out  where  she i  is — -I  should 
go  to  Stainer's  about  it;  they're  the  best  men,  if  they  can't 
find  her,  nobody  can.'    And  sitddenly  moved  tOr  strange  ppfliness, 

'281 


282  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

he  muttered  to  himself :  '  Poor  little  thing  I  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 !' 

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  bank- 
rupt, the  "man  of  property" — ^that  is,  Soames'll  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  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  ai  dread  of  something 
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  connection  with  Bosinney  were  completely 
at  an  end,  her  grandfather  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. 


THE  MAN  OP  PROPEETY  283 

*  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 :  '  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,  T  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  preliminary  negotia- 
tions 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  it!' 
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  police- 
man? I  don't  know  anything  about  a  policeman.  But  I  sup- 
pose 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  sde  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 !' 

He  returned  with  Soames  into  the  dining-room,  but  could 
not  rest. 

'Now  what  does  he  want?'  he  murmured  again. 

'Who?'  replied   Soames:    'the   Inspector?     They   sent  him 


284  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

round  from  Stanhope  Gate,  that's  all  I  know.  That  "noncon- 
formist" 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  pull- 
ing 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  in- 
most chamber  by  some  chance  reality,  some  vague  fear,  Gome 
painful  hope.  To  Forsytes  that  final  renunciation  of  property 
is  hard.  Oh  !  it  is  hard !  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 :  "  Eun  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!    It  must  have  been! 

Old  Jolyon  broke  in  on  his  reverie. 

'Death  was  instantaneous.  He  lay  all  day  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.' 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  285 

Ifo  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,  finishing  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  that  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. 

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  entertained.  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  mu- 
tual 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 : 


286  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

'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  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 
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  handkerchief  he 
wiped  his  brow ;  then,  bending  sorrowiul  and  lank  over  the  dead 
man,  he  too  turned  and  hurried  out. 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  28? 

Old  Jolyon  stood,  still  as  death,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  body. 
AVho  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  ?  Of  his  grand- daughter, 
with  her  broken  hopes  ?  Of  that  other  woman  ?  Of  the  strange- 
ness, and  the  pity  of  it  ?  And  the  irony,  inscrutable,  and  bitter 
of  that  end?  Justice!  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  seemed  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  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  sufPering  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  handkerchief, 
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. 

'  Pound  in  his  breast  pocket,'  said  the  Inspector ;  '  the  name 
has  been  cut  away !' 
Young  Jolyon  with  difficulty  answered:  'I'm  afraid  I  can- 


288  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

not  help  you!'  But  vividly  there  rose  before  him  the  face  he 
had  seen  light  up,  so  tremulous  and  glad,  at  Bosinney's  com- 
ing! Of  her  he  thought  more  than  of  his  own  daughter,  more 
than  of  them  all — of  her  with  the  dark,  soft  glance,  the  deli- 
cate 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  de- 
fences 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,  withered  by  the  same 
flash  that  had  stricken  down  Bosinney.  And  now  the  sap- 
lings 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  doubt- 
less 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's  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  be- 
tween, 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 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPEETY  289 

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  achievements. 

'  Ah !  Jo !'  he  said,  '  is  that  you  ?  I've  told  poor  little  June. 
But  that's  not  all  of  it.  Are  you  going  to  Soames's?  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. 


CHAPTBE  IX 

lEEKE'S  EETUEN 

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  complexion 
of  everything.  There  was  no  longer  the  same  feeling  that  to 
lose  a  minute  would  be  fatal,  nor  would  he  now  risk  communi- 
cating the  fact  of  his  wife's  flight  to  anyone  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  op- 
portunity of  telling  Bilson  that  her  mistress  was  at  the  sea; 
he  would  probably,  he  said,  be  going  down  himself  from  Satur- 
day to  Monday.  This  had  given  him  time  to  breathe,  time 
to  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find  her. 

But  now,  cut  ofE  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 
hot  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 
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 !    Have  you  seen  this  about  the  poor  Buccaneer  ?* 

Soames  answered  stonily:  'Yes.' 

290 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  391 

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 !  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  fitting 
in  her  usual  corner  on  the  sofa.  He  shttt  the  door  softly,  and 
went  towards  her.  She  did  not  move,  and  did  not  seem  to  see 
him. 

'  So  you've  come  back  ?'  he  said.  '  WTiy  are  you  sitting  here 
in  the  dark  ?' 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  her  face,  so  white  and  motionless 
that  it  seemed  a"s  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. 


293  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  sig- 
nificance 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  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:  'Wihy  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  g;od — 
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  thai  came  in;  then  without  hat  or  over- 
coat 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  was  a  man  of  his  acquaintance 


THE  MAN  OF  PEOPERTY  293 

named  Eutter,  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  ad- 
vent 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  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  to  the  thought :  '  Divorce  her 
— ^turn  her  out !    She  has  forgotten  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  un- 
breakable 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 
chair;  the  Persian  rugs,  the  silver  bowls,  the  rows  of  porcelain 
plates  arranged  along  the  walls,  and  this  unknown  man  who 
was  standing  there. 


294  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

And  sharply  he  asked:  'What  is  it  jou  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  van- 
ished 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. 


TO 
ANDRE  CHEVRILLON 


INDIAJT  SUMMER  OP  A  FOESYTE 
I 

On  the  last  day  of  May  in  the  early  nineties,  ahout  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  mous- 
tache, lean  cheeks,  and  long  lean  jaw  were  covered  from  the 
westering  sunshine  by  an  old  brown  Panama  hat.  His  legs  were 
crossed ;  in  aU  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  attach- 
ment 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,  remarkable' — 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  Forsyte  'Change.  Swithin !  And  the  fellow  had 
gone  and  died,  last  November,  at  the  age  of  only  seventy-nine, 
renewing  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.' 

297 


298  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

His  memory  went  searching.  He  had  not  felt  his  age  since 
he  had  bought  his  nephew  Soames'  ill-starred  house  and  settled 
into  it  here  at  Eobin  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  dovm  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  occupation  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  buttercups 
had  sprung  up  after  the  last  mowing !  The  wind  had  got  into 
the  sou'-west,  too — a  delicious  air,  snappy!  He  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-Porsytean  philosophy  which  ever  intruded  on  his  soul,  he 
thought :  '  One's  never  had  enough !  With  a  foot  in  the  grave 
one'll  want  something,  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,  '  Openj  sesame,'  to  him 
day  and  night.  And  sesame  had  opened — how  much,  perhaps,  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  of  these  calm,  bright,  lengthening  days,  with  HoUy's 
hand  in  his,  and  the  dog  Balthasar  in  front  looking  studiously 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FOESYTB  299 

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,  feel- 
ing 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  exhausted  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  Eobin  Hill,  and  flowers  and  birds  and  pretty 
faces — too  few,  even  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  exuber- 
ance, had  long  dropped  off,  leaving  him  reverent  before  three 
things  alone — ^beauty,  upright  conduct,  and  the  sense  of  prop- 
erty; and  the  greatest  of  these  now  was  beauty.  He  had  always 
had  wide  interests,  and,  indeed  could  still  read  The  Times,  but 
he  was  Kable  at  any  moment  to  put  it  down  if  he  heard  a  black- 
bird sing.  Upright  conduct,  property — somehow,  they  were  tir- 
ing; 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  re- 
cently 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,  a,nd  the  Eavogli  '  almost  worthy  of  the  old 
days' — highest  praise  he  could  bestow.  The  yearning  of  Or- 
pheus 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  involuntarily  stirred  the 
ribs  of  the  dog  Balthasar,  causing  the  animal  to  wake  and  attack 
his  fleas ;  for  though  he  was  supposed  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 


300  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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 !  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  remem- 
bered 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  rim  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  disappearance.  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  much  the  other  night — ^more  beau- 
tiful than  he  had  remembered,  but  like  a  mask,  with  something 
going  on  beneath  it.  A  young  woman  still — ^twenty-eight  per- 
haps. Ah,  well !  Very  likely  she  had  another  lover  by  now.  But 
at  this  subversive  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 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FOESYTE  301 

into  old  Jolyon's  face.     "  Walk  ?  "  he  seemed  to  say ;  and  old 
Jolyon  answered :  "  Come  on,  old  chap !  " 

Slowly,  as  was  their  wont,  they  crossed  among  the  constella- 
tions of  buttercups  and  daisies,  and  entered  the  fernery.  This 
feature,  where  very  little  grew  as  yet,  had  been  judiciously 
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 
day,  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  ? '  '  No,  sonny.' 
*  Then  darned  if  I  haven't  been  and  swallowed  a  snileybob.'  And 
when  they  skipped  and  clutched  his  hand,  thinking  of  the  sniley- 
bob going  down  the  little  boy's  '  red  lane,'  his  eyes  would  twinkle. 
Emerging  from  the  fernery,  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,  gambolled  in  front,  at  the  gait  which  marks 
an  oldish  dog  who  takes  the  same  walk  every  day.  Arrived  at 
the  edge,  old  Jolyon  stood,  noting  another  water-lily  opened 
since  yesterday;  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  day  long,  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. 
Eeally,  poor  young  Bosinney  had  made  an  uncommonly  good 
job  of  the  house;  he  would  have  done  very  well  for  himself  if 
he  had  lived !  And  where  was  he  now?  Perhaps,  still  haunting 
this,  the  site  of  his  last  work,  of  his  tragic  love  affair.  Or  was 
Philip  Bosinne/s  spirit  diffused  in  the  general  ?  Who  could  say  ? 
That  dog  was  getting  his  legs  muddy !  And  he  moved  towards 
the  coppice.    There  had  been  the  most  delightful  lot  of  bluebells, 


303  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  mo- 
tionless, just  where  there  was  no  room  to  pass,  and  the  hair 
rose  slowly  along  the  centre  of  his  woolly  back.  Whether  from 
the  growl  gnd  the  look  of  the  dog's  stivered  hair,  or  from  the  sen- 
sation which  a  man  feels  in  a  wood,  old  Jolyon  also  felt  some- 
thing 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  tres- 
passing— I  must  have  a  board  put  up ! '  before  she  turned. 
Powers  above!  The  face  he  had  seen  at  the  opera— -the  very 
woman  he  had  just  been  thinking  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  realized  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 !    I  did." 

He  felt  a  subtle  flattery  in  that,  as  though  she  had  added: 
"  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  Eavogli's  good.  Have  you  seen 
the  cow-houses  ?  " 

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  sudden  sidelong  look  from  the  velvety 
brown  eyes  disturbed  him.    It  seemed  to  come  from  deep  and 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  303 

far,  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." 

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  mis- 
tress of  this  coppice,  showing  those  cow-houses  to  him,  a. 
visitor. 

"  All  Aldemeys,"  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 
vaniUa  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  after- 
noon. Perhape  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 ! "  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. 

"  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 


304  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

did  not  quite  understand.  "  To  grief  ?  "  he  repeated ;  then  re- 
alised 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  sym- 
pathy 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  aU  had  some 
sort  of  beauty." 

Old  Jolyon  straightened  the  doll.  "  Beauty !  "  he  ejaculated : 
"  Ha !  Yes!  A  sad  business ! "  and  he  moved  towards  the 
house.  Through  a  French  window,  imder  sunblinds  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  Jime'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  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  impression  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  stiUer  life  which  he 
had  bought  in  days  when  quantHy  was  precious.    And  now  where 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  305 

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  axe  the  bathrooms,"  he  said,  "  and  other  arrangements. 
I've  had  them  tiled.  The  nurseries  are  along  there.  And  this 
is  Jo's  and  his  wife's.  They  all  communicate.  But  you  remem- 
ber, I  expect." 

Irene  nodded.  They  passed  on,  up  the  gallery  and  entered  a 
large  room  with  a  small  bed,  and  several  windows. 

"  This  is  mine,"  he  said.  The  walls  were  covered  with  the 
photographs  of  children,  and  water-colour  sketches,  and  he  added 
doubtfully : 

"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  if  11 
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  vrindow  paiie,  and  he  was  struck  by 
its  mournful  look.  '  Wish  I  could  make  her  look  happy ! '  he 
thought.  '  A  pretty  face,  but  sad ! '  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  upright  figure,  passed  the 
brushes  over  his  great  white  moustache,  touched  up  his  eye- 
brows 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 


306  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

landau  and  pair  at  half -past  ten  to  drive  her  hack  to  Town  to- 
night.   Is  Miss  Holly  asleep?" 

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. 

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  ! '  he 
mused ;  '  Can't  bear  to  think  of  them ! '  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 — ^wounding  too  grievously  the  deepest  thing 
in  him — ^a  love  of  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  gave  him  deep  pleasure. 
Three  years  to  settle  down  again  since  the  move  from  Town — 
ought  to  be  in  prime  condition !  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  ef 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OP  A  FORSYTE  307 

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  soli- 
tude 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  Eaphael  Madonnas  he  was  wont  to 
dine  alone.     It  was  the  only  disconsolate  hour  of  his  day,  this 
summer  weather.     He  had  never  been  a  large  eater,  like  that 
great  chap  Swithin,  or  Sylvanus  Heythorp,  or  Anthony  Thorn- 
worthy,  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.     Himself  quickly  fatigued  by  the  insensitive,  he 
instinctively  avoided  fatiguing  others,  and  his  natural  flirta- 
tiousness  towards  beauty  guarded  him  specially  in  his  relations 
with  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  remoteness 
which   constituted  half  her  fascination.     He  could  not  bear 
women  who  threw  their  shoulders  and  eyes  at  you,  and  chat- 
tered -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,  clois- 
tered, made  her  seem  nearer  to  himself,  a  strangely  desirable 


308  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

companion.  When  a  man  is  very  old  and  quite  out  of  the  run- 
ning, 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  interruptions  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  Golden  Age.  Their 
poetry  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  armchair,  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  movement  of  his  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 


INDIAN"  SUMMEE  OF  A  FOESYTE  309 

•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!" 

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 
DeHlah  in  her  or  in  that  music.  A  long  blue  spiral  from  his 
cigar  ascended  and  dispersed.  '  So  we  go  out ! '  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  Ehine  wine  beside  him. " 

"  Ah !  yes.  Let's  have  'Orfeo. '  "  Eound  about  him  now  were 
fields  of  gold  and  silver  flowers,  white  forms  swaying  in  the  sun- 
light, bright  birds  flying  to  and  fro.  All  was  summer.  Linger- 
ing 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  snufl  and  eau  de  Cologne. 
'  Ah ! '  he  thought,  *  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  in  the  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  emotionalized,  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- 
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  abandon- 
ment, so  unlike  the  control  and  quietude  of  her  whole  presence 


310  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

was  as  if  she  had  never  before  broken  down  in  the  presence  of 
another  being. 

"There,  there — ^there,  there!"  he  murnmred;  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  came  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  raindrops.  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,  follow- 
ing, laid  the  bone  of  one  of  the  cutlets  they  had  eaten  at  their 
feet. 

Anxious  to  obliterate  the  memory  of  that  emotion,  he  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  remem- 
ber. Here's  a  nice  piece  of  Chelsea.  Now,  what  would  you 
say  this  was  ?  "  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. 


INDIAN"  SUMMEK  OF  A  FOESYTE  311 

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'U  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 !  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  vrindow  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  after- 
noon they  would  enter  the  coppice,  and  walk  as  far  as  the  log. 
'  Well,  she's  not  there ! '  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  return- 
ing 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?" 


312  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  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  it,  but  against  '  First 
Floor,  Plat  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  feeling  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  the  sun- 
blinds  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  I '  There  was  a  mirror  above  the  fireplace,  and  he  saw  him- 
self 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,  afterwards.  Bd;ter  not !  He  did  not 
wish  to  revive  the  echoes  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,  moustache,  and 
square  chilR    It  felt  very  hollow  there  under  the .  cheekbones. 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  313 

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,  per- 
haps.'   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  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  remembered ; 
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? 


314  THE  FOKSYTB  SAGA 

'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  memo- 
ries, half  grateful,  as  if  he  recognised  what  a  link  they  were  be- 
tween 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.  He'd 
be  at  his  best  with  you.  His  ideas  of  art  were  a  little  new — to 
me  " — he  had  stifled  the  word  '  f angled.' 

"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  with  her  eyes,  like 
that! 

"  He  thought  you  had  one  of  those  hearts  that  never  grow 
old.    Phil  had  real  insight." 

He  was  not  taken  in  by  this  flattery  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  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  power,  at  eighty-four,  to  admire  beauty.  And 
he  fought,  '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  sunlight 
fell  cruelly  on  their  pale,  squashed,  unkempt  young  faces. 
"We're  an  ugly  lot!"  said  old  Jolyon  suddenly.  "It  amazes 
me  to  see  how — ^love  triumphs  over  that." 

"  Love  triumphs  over  everything ! " 

"  The  yotng  think  so,"  he  muttered. 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  315 

"  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 
Oeorge !  it's  got  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  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 : 

"  If  s  strange  enough  that  I'm  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  Hps  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  that  others  suffer, 
one's  ashamed." 

"One  of  those?" 

She  nodded,  and  horror  stirred  within  old  Jolyon,  the  horror 
of  one  who  has  never  known  a  struggle  with  desperation.  Almost 
against  his  will  he  muttered :    "  Tell  me,  won't  you  ? " 

"  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  ?    Every  other  was  involved  in  it. 

"  I  wish  you  had  come  to  me,"  he  said.  "  Why  didn't  you?  " 
Irene  did  not  answer. 

"Because  my  name  was  Forsyte,  I  suppose?  Or  was  it 
June  who  kept  you  away?  How  are  you  getting  on  now?" 
His  eyes  involuntarily  swept  her  body.  Perhaps  even  now  she 
was — !    And  yet  she  wasn't  thin — not  really ! 

"  Ob !  with  my  fifty  pounds  a  year,  I  make  just  enough."  The 
answer  did  not  reassure  him ;  he  had  lost  confidence.  And  that 
fellow  Soames !  But  his  sense  of  justice  stifled  condemnation. 
No,  she  would  certainly  have  died  rather  than  take  another  penny 


316  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

from  him.  Soft  as  she  looked,  there  must  be  strength  in  her 
somewherer— strength  and  fidelity.  But  what  business  had 
young  Bosinney  to  have  got  run  over  and  left  her  stranded  like 
this! 

"  Well,  you  must  come  to  me  now,"  he  said,  "  for  anything 
you  want,  or  I  shall  be  quite  cut  up."  And  putting  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  enjoyed  that  stroll  to  the  Kensington  end  of  the  gardens — 
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 
Euffel's  in  the  High  Street,  and  came  out  thence  with  a  great 
box  of  chocolates  swung  on  his  little  finger.  He  enjoyed  the 
drive  back  to  Chelsea  in  a  hansom,  smoking  his  cigar.  She  had 
promised  to  come  down  next  Sunday  and  play  to  him  again,  and 
already  in  thought  she  was  plucking  carnations  and  early  roses 
for  her  to  carry  back  to  tovra.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  give  her  a 
little  pleasure,  if  it  were  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!  Old  Jolyon 
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  figure 
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  protegees  ?  " 

"  Yes.    Now  thanks  to  you,  I  can  do  something  for  her." 

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  know  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."  ^nd  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 


INDIAN"  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  317 

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,  be- 
cause 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 
HoUy  on  the  lawn,  pitching  them  up  to  her  who  was  batting 
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  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  at  least  two  dozen  berries  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. 


318  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

entering  from  the  road  past  Drage'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  was  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  Ivhole  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  of  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-five  minutes  to  wait !  And  then,  turning 
the  corner  of  the  path,  he  saw  her  exactly  where  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 
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  fly  over  the  field,  like  bees  after 
•the  lowers  iind  the  honey.    "  I  wanted  you  to  see  them — wouldn't 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OP  A  FORSYTE  319 

let  them  turn  the  cows  in  yet."  Then,  remembering  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  be- 
cause of  her  dead  lover. 

"  The  best  flower  I  can  show  you,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of 
triumph,  "  is  my  little  sweet.  She'U  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  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  Strasbourg,  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 : 

"  Weil,  my  darling,  here's  the  lady  in  grey  I  promised  you." 

HoUy  raised  herself  and  looked  up.  He  watched  the  two 
of  them  with  a  twinkle,  Irene  smiling.  Holly  beginning  with 
grave  enquiry,  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  ?  " 

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  weU-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  weU-brrred  little  chil- 
dren." JoUy  hated  the  little  Tayleurs;  Holly  wondered  dread- 
fully how  it  was  she  fell  so  short  of  them.  '  A  thin  rum  little 
soul,'  old  Jolyon  thought  lier — Mam'zelle  Beauce. 

Luncheon  was  a  successful  meal,  the  mushrooms  which  he 
himself  had  picked  in  the  mushroom  house,  his  chosen  straw- 


320  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

berries,  and  another  bottle  of  the  Steinberg  Cabinet  filled  him 
with  a  certain  aromatic  spirituality,  and  a  conviction  that  he 
would  have  a  touch  of  eczema  to-morrow.  After  lunch  they 
sat  under  J;he  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  which  gives  me  any  pleasure,  except  yours." 

Prom  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,  ex- 
cept 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  my  little  sweet  marries,  I  hope  she'll  find  someone 
who  knows  what  women  feel.  I  shan't  be  here  to  see  it,  but 
there's  too  much  topsy-turvydom  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  she  was  thinking,  this  pretty 
creature  whose  life  was  spoiled ;  who  had  done  with  love,  and  yet 
was  made  for  love?  Some  day  when  he  was  gone,  perhaps,  she 
would  find  another  mate — ^not  so  disorderly  as  that  young  fel- 
low who  had  got  himself  run  over.    Ah !  but  her  husband  ? 

"  Does  Soames  never  trouble  you  ?  "  he  asked. 


INDIAN"  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  321 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  face  had  closed  up  suddenly.  For 
aU  her  softness  there  was  something  irreconciliable  about  her. 
And  a  glimpse  of  light  on  the  inexorable_>nature  of  sex  antipathies 
strayed  into  a  brain  which,  belonging  to  early  Victorian  civiliza- 
tion— 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  ?  " 

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  ta 
them  at  intervals  for  attention.  It  was  one -.of  the  happiest 
aftemoons  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  witK 
short  hair  like  a  boy's.  And  the  two  sported  in  the  distance,, 
under  the  stairs,  on  the  stairs,  and  up  in  the  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,  listen- 
ing.   Old  Jolyon  watched. 

"  Let's  see  you  dance,  you  two !  " 

Shyly,  with  a  false  start,  they  began.  Bobbing  and  circling-,, 
earnest,  not  very  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 !  Mwis  enfin — qu'est-ce  que  tu  feds  la — ckiiser,  le 
dMiumche!    Yi&ns,  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.    IVot  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 : 


322  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Well,  there  we  are !  Aren't  they  sweet?  Have  you  any  little 
ones  among  your  pupils  ?  " 

"  Yes,  t&ee — ^two  of  tfaem  darlings." 

"Pretty?^' 

"Lovely!" 

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  woidd  see  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  fapwned.  "  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  mvM  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  something  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  oS,  it.  Ah!  What  had  he  missed?  'Dutch 
Fishing  Boats'  responded  blankly;  he  crossed  to  the  French 
window,  and  drawing  the  curtain  aside,  opened  it.    A  wind  had 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OP  A  FOESYTB  323 

got  up,  and  one  of  last  year's  oak  leaves  which  had  somehow  sur- 
vived the  gardener's  brooms,  was  dragging  itself  with  a  tiny 
clicking  rustle  along  the  stone  terrace  4n  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  reaJ,  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  ?  And,  as  if  he  could  not  make  that  calcu- 
lation 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  thouf  ht,  and  a  pang 
went  tiirough  his  heart.  They  had  a  thousand  years  of  life  be- 
fore them!  • 

'.How  much?'  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  ? '  She  had  none  of  his  blood  in  her !  Im 
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  any- 
thing !  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  green  leather  chair 
in  which  he  had  sat  and  smoked  so  many  hundreds  of  cigars. 
And  suddenly  he  seemed  to  see  her  sitting  therein  her  grey  dress, 
fragrant,  soft,  dark-eyed,  graceful,  looking  up  at  him.  Why !  She 
cared  nothing  for  him,  re^ly;  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  compstay,  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  ? '  After  all,  there  was 
plenty ;  his  son  ^nd  his  three  grandchildren  would  never  miss  that 


324  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

little  lump.  He  had  made  it  himself,  nearly  every  penny;  he 
could  leave  it  where  he  liked,  allow  himself  this  little  pleasure. 
He  went  back  to  the  bureau.  '  Well,  I'm  going  to,'  he  thought, 
■'  let  them  think  what  they  like.  I'm  going  to ! '  And  he  sat 
down. 

'  How  much  ? '  Ten  thousand,  twenty  thousand — '  how  much  ? 
If  only  with  his  money  he  could  buy  one  year,  one  month  of 
youth.    And  startled  by  that  thought,  he  wrote  quickly : 

"  Deae  Herking, — Draw  me  a  codicil  to  this  effect :  '  I  leave 
to  my  niece  Irene  Forsyte,  bom  Irene  Heron,  by  which  name  she 
now  goes,  fiftoen  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.  Ex- 
perience 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 
€ut  off,  too,  when  his  son  and  June  returned  from  Spain.  How 
■could  he  justify  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  left  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.  Prepos- 
terous, 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?  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  againstffie  prospect, 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OF  A  FOESYTE  325 

and  calling  himself  an  old  fool,  while  his  heart  heat  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  again,  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  were  such  fools;  and,  as  likely  as  not,  Ihey  had 
known  all  the  past  history  of  Irene  and  young  Bosinney — ser- 
vants knew  everything,  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?  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  arffectionately,  Jolton  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  was  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  was  hot  too,  and  after  dressing  for  dinner 
he  lay  down  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  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  3/0U  ring,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  come  here; "  he  could  not  see  her  clearly,  for  the  cloud 
in  front  of  his  eyes.    "  I'm  not  well,  I  want  some  sal  volatile." 


326  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"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  gn 
off  again,  yet  was  not  conscious  of  how  Irene  came  to  be  stand- 
ing beside  him,  holding  smelling  salts  to  his  nose,  and  pushing  a 
piUow  up  behind  his  head.  He  heard  her  say  anxiously.  "  Dear 
Fncle  Jolyon,  what  is  it?  "  was  dimly  consoious  of  the  soft  pres- 
sure of  her  lips  on  his  hand ;  then  drew  a  long  breath  of  smelling 
salts,  suddenly  discovered  strength  in  them,  and  sneezed. 

"  Ha ! "  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: 

"You  mustn't  come  down,  Uncle;  you  must  rest" 

"  Fiddlesticks !  A  glass  of  champagne  '11  soon  set  me  to  rights. 
T  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  rhat  you 
tripped  up  in  them  at  every  step!  In  the  lift  he  noticed  how 
concerned  she  looked,  and  said  with  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle: 

"  I'm  a  pretty  host." 

When  the  lift  stopped  he  had  to  hold  firmly  to  the  seat  to 
prevent  its  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.  Thafs  a  nice 
dress — ^I  like  the  slyle." 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  327 

"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; 
lef 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  a  darling  to  me.  Uncle 
Jolyon !  *  Why !  Who  wouldn't  be !  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  waa 
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.  AH  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 


328  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

meet  her  again  in  the  little  coppice,  and  walk  up  through  the 
'fields  at  her  side.  He  had  intended  to  consult  the  doctor  about 
3iis  fainting  fit,  but  the  fellow  would  be  sure  to  insist  on  quiet, 
no  excitement  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 
lack  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 
heat  too  fast,  he  had  an  asthmatic  feeling  iji  tlie  chest;  and  going 
to  the  window,  he  opened  it  to  get  some  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  off '  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?  "  he  said  sharply,  "  who's  there ?  " 
Putting  his  hand  to  his  side  to  still  the  beating  of  his  heart, 
!he  stepped  out  on  the  terrace.  Something  soft  scurried  by  in  the 
dark.  "  Shoo ! "  It  was  that  great  grey  cat.  '  Young  Bosin- 
ney  was  like  a  great  cat ! '  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  down  into  the  darkness; 
he  ooiuld  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  bouse.  He  could  see  the  windows  of  the  night  nursery  up 
there.    His  little  sweet  would  be  asleep.    '  Hope  that  dog  won't 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FOESYTE  329 

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  moonlight, 
lie  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,  onlj  pale  winter  sunshine.  The  shell  can  withstand 
the  gentle  beating  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,  imperceptibly,  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  Forsyteism.  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  shibboleths  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 ; 
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  Kensington  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 


330  THE  FOKSYTE  SA.QA 

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  scrupu- 
lously 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  some- 
thing like  dread !  There  was  such  a  delicious  freedom,  such  re- 
covery of  that  independence  a  man  enjoys  before  he  founds  a 
family,  about  these  weeks  of  lovely  Weather,  and  this  new  com- 
panionship 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  enjoyment.  There  was 
something  now  to  live  for  which  stirred  him  continually  to  antic- 
ipation. 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 
every  day  grew  thinner  and  more  worn  to  look  at.  He  was 
again  a  '  threadpaper ; '  and  to  this  thinned  form  his  massive 
forehead,  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  fre- 
quent shortness  of  breath  and  the  pain  in  his  side  at  the  ex- 
pense of  liberty.  Eetum  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. 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  331 

The  servants  perhaps  wondered,  but  they  were,  naturally, 
dumb.  Mam'zelle  Beauce  was  too  concerned  with  her  own  di- 
gestion, and  too  Vell-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 
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  admitted  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 !  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.  Pour  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 


333  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

must  not  worry,  it  left  him  always  curiously  weak,  and  as  if  but 
half  present  in  his  own  body. 

That  evening  after  dinner  he  had  a  return  of  the  dizziness, 
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  eve- 
ning 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 
entr'acte  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- 
morrow afternoon,  and  he  should  see  her  then  when  she  had  got 
used  to  the  idea.  In  the  cab  he  talked  only  of  the  Carmen  j 
he  had  seen  better  in  the  old  days,  but  this  one  was  not  bad  at 
all.  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 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  333 

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  unaccountable.  Well,  there  was  in  life  some- 
thing 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  won- 
der, 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  to  kiss  it  all  away 
for  him.  But,  instead,  her  lips  left  a  patch  of  grievous  uneasi- 
ness. 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  flovring  by,  calm,  eternal,  soothed 
him.  'The  great  thing,'  he  thought,  'is  not  to  make  myself 
a-  nuisance.  FU  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, 


334  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

which  overlooked  the  drive.  The  sunblinds  were  down,  and 
Holly  was  there  vrith  Mademoiselle  Beauce,  sheltered  from  the 
heat  of  a  stifling  Jtdy  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,  was  spread,  and  on  it  the  first  lavender,  whose 
scent  filled  the  room.  In  spite  of  the  coolness  here,  perhaps  be- 
cause of  that  coolness  the  beat  of  life  vehemently  impressed  his 
ebbed-down  senses.  Each  sunbeam  which  came  through  the 
chinks  had  annoying  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  wonderfully  silky  sheen.  A  marvel- 
lous cruelly  strong  thing  was  life  when  you  were  old  and  weak ; 
it  seemed  to  mock  you  with  its  multitude  of  forms  and  its  beat- 
ing 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  this  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  ?  " 

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." 

"  HoUee !    Don't  be  foolish ! " 

That  prim  Mttle  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." 

The  child's  words  seemed  to  bring  the  chilly  atmosphere  of 


INDIAN  SUMMER  OP  A  FORSYTE  335 

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  compapionship ;  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  away  that  fat  chap's  curiosity,  and  defy  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  dovra,  quivering  like  a  leaf.  What 
did  this  mean  ?  She  might  have  lost  her  train,  but  he  knew  well 
enough  she  hadn't.  '  Good-bye,  dear  Uncle  Jolyon.'  Why 
'  Good-bye '  and  not  '  Good-night '  ?  And  that  hand  of  hers 
lingering  in  the  air.  And  her  kiss.  What  did  it  mean?  Ve- 
hement alarm  and  irritation  took  possession  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,  paralyzed  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  bowl  of  carnations  he  had  plucked,  which  mocked  him  vdth 
its  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  five  o'clock,  and  a  letter.  For 
a  moment  hope  beat  up  in  him.  He  cut  the  envelope  with  the 
butter  knife,  and  read: 

"Dbabest  Uncle  Jolyon, — I  can't  bear  to  write  anything 
that  may  disappoint  you,  but  I  was  too  cowardly  to  tell  yon  last 


336  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

night.  I  feel  I  can't  come  down  and  give  Holly  any  more  les- 
sons, 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  sometimes  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  Ikene." 

So,  there  it  was !  Not  good  for  him  to  have  pleasure  and  what 
he  chiefly  cared  about;  to  try  and  put  ofE  feeling  the  inevitable 
end  of  all  things,  the  approach  of  death  with  its  stealthy,  rust- 
ling 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  unUt ;  and  up  and  down 
he  paced,  torn  between  his  dignity  and  his  hold  on  life.  In- 
tolerable to  be  squeezed  out  slowly,  without  a  say  of  your  own, 
to  live  on  when  your  will  was  in  the  hands  of  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  confessing  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 
forego  their  whims;  they  are  obliged  to,  even  the  whim  to  live 
must  be  foregone  sooner  or  later;  and  perhaps  the  sooner  the 
better. 

"My  love  to  you,  Jolton  Fokstte." 

'  Bitter,'  he  thought, '  but  I  cannot  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  for- 
ward to ! ' 
That  evening  after  dinner  which  he  scarcely  touched,  after 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FOESYTE  337 

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!  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  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  beauiy  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  didii'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 — amoving;  '  Ladies  in  grey ! '  Over  that  log  they  would 
cKmb;  would  whisper  together.  She  and  Bosinney!  Funny 
thought!  And  the  frogs  and  little  things  would  whisper  too! 
How  the  clock  ticked,  in  here!  It  was  all  eerie — out  there  in 
the  light  oi  that  red  moon ;  in  here  with  the  little  steady  night- 
light  and  the  ticking  clock  and  the  nurse's  dressing-gown  hang- 
ing 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  emana- 
tion 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  blue-bell 
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;  reached 
bis  room,  undressed  at  once,  and  stood  before  a  mirror  in  his 


338  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

nightshirt.  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  piill  him  down,  even 
his  reflection  in  the  glass,  but  he  was  not  down — ^yet!  He  got 
into  bed,  and  lay  a  long  time  without  sleeping,  trying  to  reach 
resignation,  only  too  well  aware  that  fretting  and  disappoint- 
ment 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  noth- 
ing 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  tel^fram,  running  thus:  'Your  letter  received 
coming  down  this  afternoon  will  be  with  you  at  four-thirty. 
Irene.' 

Coming  down !  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!  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,  fol- 
lowed 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  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  smihng.  What  a  revel  of  bright  minutes! 
What  a  hum  of  insects,  and  cooing  of  pigeons !  It  was  the  quin- 
tessence of  a  summer  day.  Lovely !  And  he  was  happy — ^happy 
as  a  sand-boy,  whatever  that  might  be.  She  was  coming;  she 
had  not  given  him  up  I  He  had  everything  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,  sway- 
ing just  a  little,  a  violet-grey  figure  passing  over  the  daisies  and 


INDIAN  SUMMEE  OF  A  FORSYTE  339 

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 ! '  and  sit  in  ttie 
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  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.  Sum- 
mer— ^summer !    So  went  the  hum. 

The  stable  clock  struck  the  quarter  past.  The  dog  Balthasar 
stretched  and  looked  up  at  his  master.  The  thistledown  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! 


BOOK  II 
IN  CHANCERY 

'Two  households  both  aUke  in  dignity, 


From  ancient  grudge  break  to  new  mutiny." 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 


TO 
JESSIE  AND  JOSEPH  CONRAD 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 

AT  TIMOTHY'S 

The  possessive  instinct  never  stands  still.  Through  florescence 
and  feud,  frosts  and  fires,  it  followed  the  laws  of  progression 
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  ©ighties  and  nineties  will,  in  his 
good  time,  depict  the  somewhat  rapid  progression  from  self- 
contented  and  contained  provincialism  to  still  more  self-con- 
tented if  less  contained  imperialism — in  other  words,  the  'pos- 
sessive' instinct  of  the  nation  on  the  move.  And  so,  as  if  in 
conformity,  was  it  with  the  Forsyte  family.  They  were  spread- 
ing 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  1893  down  at 
Eobin  Hill — ^first  of  the  Forsytes  to  desert  the  family  grave  at 
Highgate.  That  burial,  coming  a  year  after  Swithia's  entirely 
proper  funeral,  had  occasioned  a  great  deal  of  talk  on  Forsyte 
'Change,  the  abode  of  Timothy  Forsyte  on  the  Bayswater  Eoad, 
London,  which  still  collected  and  radiated  family  gossip.  Opin- 
ions ranged  from  the  lamentation  of  Aunt  Juley  to  the  out- 
spoken assertion  of  Prancie  that  it  was  'a  joUy  good  thing  to 
stop  all  that  stuffy  Highgate  business.'  Uncle  Jolyon  in  his 
later  years — ^indeed,  ever  since  the  strange  and  lamentable  affair 
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  be  bad 


344  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

always  taken  had  begun  to  seem  to  them  a  little  wayward.  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  liabili- 
ties £35  7s.  4d.)  he  had  actually  left  £15,000  to  'whomever 
do  you  think,  my  dear?  To  Irene!'  that  runaway  wife  of  his 
nephew  Soames;  Irene,  a  woman  who  had  almost  disgraced  the 
family,  and — still  more  amazing — was  to  him  no  blood  rela- 
tion. 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  was  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  im- 
perial. 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  was  of  course  nice  for 
them,  and  creditable  to  everybody;  and  the  fact  of  owning  some- 
thing really  countrified  seemed  somehow  to  excuse  the  disper- 
sion of  her  remains — ^though  what  could  have  put  cremation  into 
her  head  they  could  not  think!  The  usual  invitations,  how- 
ever, had  been  issued,  and  Soames  had  gone  down  and  young 
Ificholas,  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. 

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 — shovnng  in  a  flash 
what  a  lot  of  water  had  run  under  bridges  since  the  death  of 
Aimt  Ann  in  '86,  just  when  the  proprietorship  of  Soames  ovei 
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,  de- 


IN  CHANCERY  345 

centralization  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! 
There's  no  end  to  their  liberty  in  these  days.  I  knew  that 
'  Jackson '  case  would  lead  to  things — lugging  in  Habeas  Cor- 
pus 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  para- 
doxical forerunner  of  Imperialism,  was  making  progress  all  the 
time.  They  were  all  now  married,  except  George,  confirmed  to 
the  Turf  and  the  Iseeiun  Club;  Francie,  pursuing  her  musical 
career  in  a  studio  off  the  King's  Road,  Chelsea,  and  still  taking 
'lovers'  to  dances;  Eupheinia,  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  Jol- 
yon  had  three,  Winifred  Dartie  four,  young  Nicholas  six  already, 
young  Roger  had  one,  Marian  Tweetyman  one;  St.  John  Hay- 
man  two.  But  the  rest  of  the  sixteen  married — Soames,  Rachel 
and  Cicely  of  James'  family;  Eustace  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  bom ;  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  father  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. 


346  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  neces- 
sity 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  tjiemselves,  conforming  to  the  growing  ten- 
dency— fin  de  siecle,  as  it  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  chil- 
dren !  Even  young  ZSTicholas  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  disper- 
sion rather,  of  which  all  this  was  symptomatic,  had  not  advanced 
BO  far  as  to  prevent  a  rally  when  Eoger  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  Eoger 
with  a  touch  of  his  old  originality  had  suddenly  breathed  his 
last  at  his  own  house  in  Princes  Gardens.  At  Timothy's  it  was 
whispered  sadly  that  poor  Eoger  had  always  been  eccentric  about 
his  digestion — ^had  he  not,  for  instance,  preferred  German  mut- 
ton 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  mechani- 
cally for  his  Uncle  Timothy's  in  the  Bayswater  Eoad.  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  pres- 
ent. StiU,  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  ifievitable  longing  to  get  something  out 
of  everything  you  do,  which  is  the  chief  characteristic  of  For- 
sytes, and  indeed  of  the  saner  elements  in  every  nation.  In  this 
practice  of  taking  family  matters  to  Timothy's  in  the  Bays- 
water  Eoad,  Soames  was  but  following  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
father,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going  at  least  once  a  week 


IN  CHANCEEY  347 

to  see  his  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  vrith  Emily  was  of  no  use,  for  who  could  really 
talk  to  anyone  in  the  presence  of  his  own  wife  ?  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  un- 
doubted 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  Christmastides.  He  him- 
self, who  had  done  extremely  well  with  the  Barbizons,  had  for 
some  years  past  moved  towards  the  Marises,  Israels,  and  Mauve, 
and  was  hoping  to  do  better.  In  the  riverside  house  which 
he  now  inhabited  near  Mapledurham  he  had  a  gallery,  beauti- 
fully 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  Eachel, 
occasionally  organized  for  him.  For  though  he  was  but  a  tacti- 
tum  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  gaug- 
ing 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  Soger'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  fimeral  or  not, 
the  peculiar  Forsyte  build  of  his  face  was  seen  to  the  best  advan- 
tage this  afternoon — a  face  concave  and  long,  with  a  jaw  which 
divested  of  flesh  would  have  seemed  extravagant:  altogether  a 
chinny  face  though  not  at  all  iU-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  which  alone  he  wanted  to  talk — ^his  own  undivorced  position 
— ^was  unspeakable.  And  yet  it  occupied  his  mind  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  aU  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-iive.     More  and  more  of  late  he  had  been  conscious  that 


348  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

he  was  'getting  on.'  The  fortune  already  considerable  when 
he  conceived  the  house  at  Eobin  Hill  which  had  finally  wrecked 
his  marriage  with  Irene,  had  mounted  with  surprising  vigour 
in  the  twelve  lonely  years  during  which  he  had  devoted  himself 
to  little  else.  He  was  worth  to-day  well  over  a  hundred  thou- 
sand 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.'  Con- 
creted 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  himself  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  mar- 
riage 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  distinguished,  for  she  only  kept  the  accoimts 
in  her  mother's  Soho  Eestaurant;  he  could  bring  her  back  as 
something  very  new  and  chic  with  her  French  taste  and  self- 
possesMon,  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  her.  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 
80  delicious  this  year,  and  had  such  a  wonderful  effect.     Oh! 


IN"  CHANCERY  349 

and  about  the  Darties — hid  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?  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  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  Eoger  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  lelt  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,  vrith  her  instinct 
for  avoiding  the  unpleasant,  here  chimed  in :  Did  Soames  think 
they  would  make  Mr.  Chamberlaia  Prime  Minister  at  once? 
He  would  settle  it  all  so  quietly.  She  would  like  to  see  that 
old  Kriiger  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  Conserva- 
tives 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. 


350  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Did  he — did  he  ever  hear  anything  of  Irene  nowadays?  Aunt 
Hester  visibly  interposed  her  shoulder.  Eeally,  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 
his  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  bom  when  your  dear  uncle  lived 
in  Mount  Street;  long  before  they  went  to  Stanhope  Gate — in  De- 
cember. First  before  the  Commune.  He's  over  fifty.  Fancy  that ! 
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 — ^be- 
hold !  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  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  cam- 
phor 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,  repossessed  by  the  image 


IN  CHANCERY  351 

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  Wini- 
fred Dartie's  residence  in  Green  Street,  Mayfair. 


CHAPTEE  II 

EXIT  A  MAN  OE  THE  WORLD 

That  a  man  of  the  world  so  subject  to  the  vicissitudes  of  for- 
tunes as  Montague  Dartie  should  still  be  living  in  a  house  he 
had  inhabited  twenty  years  at  least  would  have  been  more  notice- 
able if  the  rent,  rates,  taxes,  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  some- 
thing invaluable  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  supernaturally  steady  all  this  year.  The 
fact  was  he  had  acquired  a  half  share  in  a  filly  of  George  For- 
syte's, who  had  gone  irreparably  on  the  turf,  to  the  horror  of 
Eoger,  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  depended  on  this  granddaughter  of 
Suspender !  At  that  roving  age  of  forty-five,  trying  to  Forsytes — 
and,  though  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 


IN  CHANCERY  353 

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,  borrow- 
ing 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  New- 
market the  night  before,  arrayed  himself  in  spotless  checks  and 
walked  to  an  eminence  to  see  his  half  of  the  filly  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  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  off'  would  reduce  his  win- 
nings 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  fiutter.  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  Eoger,  his  Forsyte  blood 
was  beginning  to  stand  him  in  good  stead  in  the  profession  of 
owner. 

There  are  moments  of  disillusionment  in  the  lives  of  men  from 


.354:  THE  rOESYTE  SAGA 

■which  the  sensitive  recorder  shrinks.  Suffice  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-fifty  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  crown  and  glory  was  gone — the  pearls  which 
Montague  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!  'Not  till  she  said 
sharply :  "  Very  well,  then,  Monty,  I  shall  go  down  to  Scotland 
Yard  myself,"  did  he  consent  to  take  the  matter  in  hand.  Alas ! 
that  the  steady  and  resolved  continuity  of  design  necessary  to  the 
accomplishment  of  sweeping  operations  should  be  liable  to  inter- 
ruption by  drink.  That  night  Dartie  returned  home  without  a 
care  in  the  world  or  a  particle  of  reticence.  Under  normal  con- 
ditions 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,  answered : 

"Don't  be  a  clown,  Monty.  Have  you  been  to  Scotland 
Yard?" 

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 


IN  CHANCERY  355 

the  right  to  take  the  pearls  he  had  given  her  himself,  who  had  ? 
That  Spanish  filly  had  got'm.  If  Winifred  had  any  'jection  he 
w'd  cut— her— throat.  What  was  the  matter  with  that  ?  (Prob- 
ably the  first  use  of  that  celebrated  phrase — so  obscure  axe  the 
origins  of  even  the  most  classical  language!) 

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  weak- 
ness, 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  circumstances.)  Leaving  Dartie  with 
foam  on  his  dark  moustache  she  went  upstairs,  and,  after  lock- 
ing 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  rosewood  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  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 


356  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

packed  stealthily  all  he  could.  It  was  hard  to  leave  so  many 
shining  hoots,  but  one  must  sacrifice  something.  Then,  carrying 
a  valise  in  either  hand,  he  stepped  out  onto  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  valises.  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  moistened  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  comforting, 
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  EufiE's 
Guide.  Then,  mixing  himself  a  stiff  whisky  and  soda,  and 
lighting  a  cigarette,  he  stood  hesitating  before  a  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 
umbrella,  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, 


IN  CHANCERY  357 

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  after- 
noon, and  pouring  out  the  story  of  the  pearls  to  Aunts  Juley 
and  Hester  in  utter  confidence.  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  con- 
clusion 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  easyl  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;  vidth  four  children;  made  conspicuous,  an  object 
of  commiseration !  Gone  to  the  arms  of  a  Spanish  jade!  Mem- 
ories, feelings,  which  she  had  thought  quite  dead,  revived  within 
her,  painful,  sullen,  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  got  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  SmaUs,  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.  When  he  was  born,  Winifred,  in  the  heyday 
of  spirits,  and  the  craving  for  distinction,  had  determined  that 
her  children  should  have  names  such  as  no  others  had  ever  had. 


358  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

(It  was  a  mercy — she  felt  now — ^that  she  had  just  not  named 
Imogen  Thishe.)  But  it  was  to  George  Forsyte,  always  a  wag, 
that  Val's  christening  was  due.  It  so  happened  that  Dartie 
dining  with  him,  a  week  after  the  hirth  of  his  son  and  heir,  had 
mentioned  this  aspiration  of  Winifred's. 

"  Call  him  Cato,"  said  George,  "  itil  be  damned  piquant ! " 
He  had  just  won  a  tenner  on  a  horse  of  that  name. 

"  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'pedia  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  Publiiis 
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,  con- 
siderable knowledge  of  what  he  should  not  know,  and  no  experi- 
ence 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.  Winifred  let  him  go  with  an  unhappy 
pride.  She  had  wanted  him  at  home,  but  it  was  very  nice  to 
know  that  his  tutor  was  so  fond  of  him.  He  went  out  with  a 
wink  at  Imogen,  saying:  "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." 


IlSr  CHANCERY  359 

Winifred  looking  at  Mm  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  I 

"  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  musn'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, 
snifiBng  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,  immacu- 
late, 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. 

They  dined  quietly,  in  style  and  taste;  left  the  Club  smoking 
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  ideal- 
ism 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  rip- 
ping.   Between  the  acts  Crum  regaled  him  with  particulars  of 


360  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  defi- 
ciencies; 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  costing  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  suffering  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  woman's  arm 
touched  his  imconsciously ;  there  was  a  scent  of  musk  and  im- 
gnonette.  Val  looked  round  the  comer  of  his  lashes.  Perhaps  she 
tww  young,  after  all.  Her  foot  trod  on  his;  she  begged  his  par- 
don.   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  eme- 
rald-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,  un- 
steady, emerged,  walking  arm  in  arm.  The  one  in  the  centre 
wore  the  pink  carnation,  a  white  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  point- 
ing straight  at  them.    Crum's  voice,  level  as  ever,  said : 

"  He  seems  to  know  you ! "    The  '  bounder '  spoke : 


IN  CHANCEEY  361 

"  ffllo !  "  he  said.  "You  fUows,  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 
tha.t  his  father  was  '  screwed ' ;  it  was  Cram'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  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  expe- 
rience 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  pave- 
ment. 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-hearted  as  he  had  never  yet  been,  he  came  to  Green 


363  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  him- 
self 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 ! " 


CHAPTER  III 

SOAMES  PEBPAEES  TO  TAKE  STEPS 

When  Soames  entered  his  sister's  little  Louis  Quinze  drawing- 
room,  with  its  small  balcony,  always  flowered  with  hanging 
geraniums  ia  the  summer,  and  now  with  pots  of  Lilium  Aura- 
tum,  he  was  struck  by  the  immutability  of  human  affairs.  It 
looked  just  the  same  as  on  his  first  visit  to  the  newly  married 
Darties  twenty-one  years  ago.  He  had  chosen  the  furniture 
himself,  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  re- 
mained well-founded.  From  the  first  Soames  had  nosed  out 
Dartie's  nature  from  underneath  the  plausibility,  savoir  fanre, 
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  himself,  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  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." 

363 


364:  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  entering  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!  No- 
body 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,  an- 
swered : 

"  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." 

Soames,  whose  good  sense  applauded  his  sister's  acumen,  said 
grudgingly :  "  Well,  I'll  go  roimd.  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  Pic- 
cadilly. The  evening  was  drawing  in — a  touch  of  chill  in  the 
October  haze.  He  walked  quickly,  with  his  close  and  concen- 
trated 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 


IN  CHANCBEY  365 

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  Soger'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  ? " 

Soames,  scenting  the  approach  of  a  jest,  closed  up,  and  an- 
swered : 

"  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'U  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.  "  I  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  Eestante,  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,  con- 
scious from  George's  eyes  that  he  had  roused  reminiscence  of  his 
own  affair,  he  got  up,  and  held  out  his  hand.    George  rose  too. 


366  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"Eemember  me  to  Winifred.  You'll  enter  her  for  the  Di- 
vorce Stakes  straight  off  if  you  ask  me." 

Soames  took  a  sidelong  look  back  at  him  from  th6  doorway. 
George  had  seated  himself  again  and  was  staring  before  him ;  he 
looked  big  and  lonely  in  those  black  clothes.  Soames  had  never 
knovt^n  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  Eoger  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  Lon- 
don, her  perfect  French  figure.  '  Take  steps ! '  he  thought.  Ee- 
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  dovni  and  see 
him  at  Eobin  Hill.  Eobin  Hill!  The  odd — the  very  odd  feel- 
ing those  words  brought  back !  Eobin  Hill — ^the  house  Bosinney 
had  built  for  him  and  Irene — the  house  they  had  never  lived 
in — the  fatal  house !  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 !  If  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  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  ?  " 


IN  CHANCERY  367 

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,  legalized !  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  Ufe.  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  Eobin  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  com- 
ing."   So  saying,  he  left  her  and  turned  towards  Soho. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

SOHO 

Of  all  quarters  in  the  queer  adventurous  amalgam  called  Lon- 
don, 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,  Ishmaelites,  cats,  Italians, 
tomatoes,  restaurants,  organs,  coloured  stuffs,  queer  names,  peo- 
ple looking  out  of  upper  windows,  it  dwells  rernote  from  the 
British  Body  Politic.  Yet  has  it  haphazard  proprietory  in- 
stincts of  its  own,  and  a  certain  possessive  prosperity  which 
keeps  its  rents  up  when  those  of  other  quarters  go  down.  For 
long  years  Soames'  acquaintanceship  with  Soho  had  been  con- 
fined to  its  Western  bastion,  Wardour  Street.  Many  bargains 
had  he  picked  up  there.  Fven  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: 

FOE  SALE 

The  Lease  of  this  Desirable  Eesidence 

Enquire  of  Messrs.  Lesson  and  Tukes,  Court  Street,  Belgravia. 

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  taken 
down,  Soames  had  gone  there  once  more,  and  stood  against  the 
Square  railings,  looking  at  its  unUghted  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 

368 


IN  CHANCEEY  369 

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  involuntary  groan,  and  a  passing  policeman 
had  glanced  suspiciously  at  him  who  no  longer  possessed  the 
right  to  enter  that  green  door  with  the  carved  brass  knocker  be- 
neath 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  Kestaurant  Bre- 
tagne,  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  sweetpeas,  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  pas- 
sionate money-making,  during  which  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  For- 
syte 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  since  his  migration  to 
Mapledurham  he  had  maintained  those  habits  imtil- — he  had 
known  Annette.  Whether  Annette  had  produced  the  revolution 
in  his  outlook,  or  that  outlook  had  produced  Annette,  he  knew 
no  more  than  we  know  where  a  circle  begins.  It  was  intricate 
and  deeply  involved  with  the  growing  consciousness  that  prop- 
erty without  anyone  to  leave  it  to  is  the  negation  of  true  For- 
syteism.  To  have  an  heir,  some  continuance  of  self,  who  would 
begin  where  he  left  oflf — ensure,  in  fact,  that  he  would  not  leave 
off — ^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 


370  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

peacock-blue  tubs  containing  little  bay-trees  in  a  recessed  door- 
way— and  at  the  words  'Restaurant  Bretagne'  above  them  in 
gold  letters,  rather  favourably  impressed.  Entering,  he  had  no- 
ticed 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  proprie- 
tor. 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  Mamcm,  Monsieur?"  in  a  broken  accent. 

"  Yes,"  Soames  had  answered,  "  I  represent  your  landlord ;  in 
fact,  I'm  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  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  il- 
licit adaptations  in  the  building,  on  the  signs  of  prosperity,  and 
the  obvious  business  capacity  of  Madame  Lamotte.  He  did  not, 
however,  neglect  to  leave  certain  matters  to  future  considera- 
tion, 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  mous- 
tache and  dark  hair  not  yet  grizzling  at  the  sides. 

'  Un  Monsieur  tres  distingue/  Madame  Lamotte  found  him; 
and  presently,  '  Tres  amical,  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  per- 
fect 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  Eestaurant  Bretagne  began,  other 
visits  ceased — without,  indeed,  any  definite  decision,  for  Soames, 


IN  CHANCEEY  371 

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  into  Malta,  Street  on  this  evening  of  early  October, 
1899,  he  bought  a  paper  to  see  if  there  were  any  after-develop- 
ment of  the  Dreyfus  case — a  question  which  he  had  always  found 
useful  in  making  closer  acquaintanceship  with  Madame  La- 
motte  and  her  daughter,  who  were  Catholic  and  anti-Dreyfusard. 

Scanning  those  columns,  Soames,  found  nothing  EVench,  but 
noticed  a  general  fall  on  the  Stock  Exchange  and  an  ominous 
leader  about  the  Tl'ansvaal.  He  entered,  thinking :  '  War's  a 
certainty.  I  shall  sell  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  Eestaurant  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  sen- 
sation at  the  back  of  his  throat,  and  a  slight  thumping  about  the 
heart,  which  he  always  experienced  at  the  door  of  the  little 
room,  prevented  his  thinking  how  much  it  would  cost. 

Going  in,  he  was  conscious  of  an  abundant  black  skirt  van- 
ishing 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  ]ust  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  ? " 

Annette  withdrew  her  hand,  and  blushed.  "  Monsieur  is  very 
good." 


372  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  Not  a  bit  good,"  said  Soames,  and  sat  down  gloomily. 

Annette  mades  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  Eichmond  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  pic- 
tures.   What  do  you  say?" 

Annette  clasped  her  hands. 

"  It  will  be  lovelee.    The  river  is  so  beautiful." 

"  That's  tmderstood,  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  sensual, 
rather  puzded.  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 


IN"  CHANCERY  373 

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  lamp- 
light, 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  Montpellier  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  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  watch- 
ing 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  ricidulous, 
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.'  Involun- 
tarily he  uttered  a  little  snarling  sound,  and,  turning,  made  his 
way  back  to  Park  Lane. 


CHAPTEE  V 

JAMBS  SEES  VISIONS 

The  butler  himself  opened  the  door,  and  closing  it  softly,  de- 
tained 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-hom. 

"All  right,  Waxmson,  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  shawl,  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 
comers  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,  with  intervals  for  meals,  all  day.  At  eighty- 
eight  he  was  still  organically  sound,  but  suffering  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  keep- 
ing things  from  him.    Emily  was  only  seventy!    James  had  a 

374 


IN  CHANCEEY  375 

grudge  against  his  wife's  youth.  He  felt  sometimes  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  ex- 
travagant tastes.  For  all  he  knew  she  might  want  to  buy  one 
of  these  motor-cars.  Cicely  and  Eachel  and  Imogen  and  all  the 
young  people — they  all  rode  those  bicycles  now  and  went  ofE 
Goodness  knew  where.  And  now  Eoger  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  Eoger  as  Soames'  uncle  not  as  his  own  brother.  Soames !  It 
was  more  and  more  the  one  solid  spot  in  a  vanishing  world. 
Soames  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!  For  James'  political  principles 
had  been  fixed  between  '70  and  '85  when  '  that  rascally  Eadical ' 
had  been  the  chief  thorn  in  the  side  of  property  and  he  dis- 
trusted 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.  Eoger!  Eoger  in  his  coffin!  He  remembered 
how,  when  they  came  up  from  school  together  from  the  West, 
on  the  box  seat  of  the  old  Slowflyer  in  1824,  Eoger  had  got  into 
the  '  boot '  and  gone  to  sleep.  James  uttered  a  thin  cackle.  A 
funny  fellow — ^Eoger — 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  grand- 
children 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— wouldn'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 


376  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 
Kriiger!  They  had  tried  to  keep  old  Kriiger  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  dread- 
ful 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  fiUed  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  oc- 
curred. 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  fel- 
low Dartie!  The  voices  had  receded;  and  James  had  been  left 
alone,  with  his  ears  standing  up  like  a  hare's,  and  fear  creeping 
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 — ^fraudulently  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  fiereened.  Why,  it  might  be  for- 
gery! With  eyes  fixed  on  the  doubted  Turner  in  the  centre  of 
the  wall,  James  suffered  tortures.  He  saw  Dartie  in  the  dock, 
his  gj^andchildren  in  the  gutter,  and  himself  in  bed.  He  saw  the 
doubted  Turner  being  sold  at  Jobson's,  and  all  the  majestic  edi- 
fice of  property  in  rags.  He  saw  in  fancy  Winifred  unfashion- 
ably  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 
18  years  yoimger  than  himself.    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,  £  nd  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." 


IN  CHANCEKY  377 

"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." 

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  con- 
stant 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  forehead, 
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  sideboard 
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  For- 
syte 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. 

"  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?" 

"  He'll  be  in  directly." 


378  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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  Eoger'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  after- 
noon 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  rid- 
dance." 

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." 

Again  Soames  nodded;  the  mask  of  his  countenance  betrayed 
no  understanding,  but  he  went  closer,  and  as  if  by  accident 
touched  his  father's  shoulder. 

"They  sent  their  love  to  you  at  Timothy's,"  he  said.  "It 
went  ofE  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  twitehed. 

"  Well,  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 


IN  CHANCEEY  379 

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  James  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,' 


CHAPTEE  VI 

NO-LONGER-YOUNG  JOLYON  AT  HOME 

Trees  take  little  account  of  Time,  and  the  old  oak  on  the  upper 
lawn  at  Eobin  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  hol- 
low— ^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  put  his  heart  into  that  house,  indeed !  It 
might  even  become  one  of  the  '  homes  of  England ' — a  rare 
achievement  for  a  house  in  these  degenerate  days  of  building. 
And  the  eesthetic  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 

380 


IN  CHANCEEY  381 

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  heen  happy  there,  and  no  one  had  lived  there  before 
him.  These  last  eleven  years  at  Eobin  Hill  had  formed  in  Jol- 
yon'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.  Specializing  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  ostracized  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  increasingly  difficult:  jealous  of  her  step-daughter 
June,  jealous  even  of  her  own  little  daughter  Holly,  and  maJsing 
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! 

June  had  never  really  got  on  well  with  her  who  had  reprehen- 
sibly  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  Eobin  Hill  on  her  stepmother's  death,  and  gath- 
ered 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  wan- 
dered, 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  Eobin  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  proteges; 
but  his  own  outcast  days  had  filled  Jolyon  for  ever  with  sym- 
pathy towards  an  outcast,  and  June's  '  lame  ducks '  about  the 


382  THE  FOBSYTE  SAGA 

place  did  not  annoy  him.  By  all  means  let  her  have  them  down 
and  feed  them  up ;  and  though  his  slightly  cynical  humour  per- 
ceived 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  equal- 
ity. When  he  went  down  to  Harrow  to  see  Jolly,  he  never  quite 
knew  which  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  ver- 
bal confidences,  both  having  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  snob- 
bish sentiment.  The  great  cricket  match  was  perhaps  the  most 
searching  and  awkward  time  they  annually  went  through  to- 
gether, for  Jolyon  had  been  at  Eton.  They  would  be  particularly 
careful  during  that  match,  continually  saying:  '  Hooray !  Oh  I 
hard  luck,  old  man ! '  or  '  Hooray !  Oh !  bad  luck.  Dad ! '  to  each 
other,  when  some  disaster  at  which  their  hearts  bounded  hap- 
pened 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 


IN"  CHANCERY  383 

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 : 

"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  won- 
der 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 ;  re- 
membering 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-estimated,  too,  his  boy's  power  of  under- 
standing that  he  was  tolerant  to  the  very  bone.  It  was  that  tol- 
erance of  his,  and  possibly  his  scepticism,  which  ever  made  his 
relations  towards  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  daugh- 
ter 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  funda- 
mentally with  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  in- 
deed 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. 


384 


THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 


and  that  touch  of  the  Berserker  in  her  spirit.  It  was  very  dif- 
ferent with  Holly,  soft  and  quiet,  shy  and  affectionate,  with  a 
playful  imp  in  her  somewhere.  He  watched  this  younger  daugh- 
ter 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 
Beauee  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 

The  Shelter,  Connoissbtjbs'  Club, 

Mapledubham.  St.  James's. 


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  impressionable  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-or- 
dered, balanced,  and  above-board.  It  seemed  incredible  that  his 
father  could  thus  have  vanished  without,  as  it  were,  announcing 
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  Beauee  to  a  Madame  Errant  (as  it  sound- 
ed) 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 


IN  CHANCEEY  385 

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  £430  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,  re- 
minding 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 — freedi 
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 
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  personsdity  had  become  embodied  in 


386  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  vague  wonder 
how  she  was  fifing  otherwise  in  a  world  of  men  not  wont  to  let 
beauty  go  unpossessed.  At  first  Holly  had  spoken  of  her  some- 
times, but  '  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  men- 
tioned, 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  Holly  and 
asked : 

"  Do  you  remember  '  the  lady  in  grey,'  who  used  to  give  you 
music-lessons  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  why  ?    Has  she  come  ? " 

Jolyon  shook  his  head,  and,  changing  his  hoUand  blouse  for 
a  coat,  was  silent,  perceiving  suddenly  that  such  history  was  not 
for  those  young  ears.  His  face,  in  fact,  became  whimsical  per- 
plexity incarnate  while  he  journeyed  toward  the  study. 

Standing  by  the  french-window,  looking  out  across  the  ter- 
race 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  sophisticated  than  the 
first,  in  the  house  built  for  the  one  and  owned  and  occupied  by 
the  other,  was  marked  by  subtle  defensiveness  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  scrutinizing  this 
'  bearded  pard '  from  under  his  dark,  thick  eyelashes. 

"This  is  Val  Dartie,"  said  Soames,  "my  sister's  son.  He's 
just  going  up  to  Oxford.  I  thought  I'd  like  him  to  know  your 
boy." 

"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." 


IF  CHANCERY  387 

"  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  winced.  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  between  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  lit  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  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  for- 
gotten," 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. 


388  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  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  be- 
yond 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  difiBcult 
to  be  sorry  for  him  ? 

"  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,  who  was  standing  there  in  the 
middle  of  the  great  room  which  had  been  designed  expressly  to 
afford  wall  space  for  his  own  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 ! ' 


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  anticipated  no  pleasure 
from  her  society ;  and  suddenly  he  saw  her  standing  there  look- 
ing at  him.    Why,  she  was  pretty !    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  Forsyte." 

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  de- 
veloping into  his  own  father !  "  But  you  know  what  the  For- 
sytes are,"  he  said  almost  viciously.    "  Oh !  I  forgot;  you  don't." 

"What  are  they?" 

"  Oh !  fearfully  careful;  not  sportsmen  a  bit.  Look  at  Uncle 
Soames ! " 

"  I'd  Hke  to,"  said  Holly. 

Val  resisted  a  desire  to  run  his  arm  through  hers.  "  Oh  no," 
he  said,  "  lef  s  go  out.  You'll  see  him  quite  soon  enough.  What's 
your  brother  like  ?  " 

389 


390  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Holly  led  the  way  on  to  the  terrace  and  down  to  the  lawn 
without  answering.  How  describe  Jolly,  who,  ever  since  she  re- 
membered anything,  had  been  her  lord,  master,  and  ideal? 

"  Does  he  sit  on  you  ?  "  said  Val  shrewdly.  "  I  shall  be  know- 
ing 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  fluffy 
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  HoUy;  "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  1  but  he's  a  darling,"  and  she  bent  down  to  stroke  the 
dog.  Gentle  and  supple,  with  dark  imcovered  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." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Val,  "  she's  a  jolly  palfrey.  But  you  ought  to 
bang  her  tail.  She'd  look  much  smarter."  Then  catching  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.  I'm  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 ; 


IN  CHANCERY  391 

why  don't  you  ride  him  ?    Here  he  is.    We  could  go  after  tea." 

Val  looked  doubtfully  at  his  trousered  legs.  He  had  imag- 
ined them  immaculate  before  her  eyes  in  high  brown  boots  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  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  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  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  anything  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,  lef  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  redden- 
ing too.  "  I  believe  in  doing  things  you  want  to  do.  What's 
down  there?" 


393  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"  The  kitchen-garden,  and  the  pond  and  the  coppice,  and  the 
farm." 

"  Lef  s  go  down ! " 

Holly  glanced  back  at  the  house. 

"  It's  tea-time,  I  expect;  there's  dad  beckoning.'* 

Val,  uttering  a  growly  sound,  followed  her  towards  the 
Ihouse. 

When  they  re-entered  the  hall  gallery  the  sight  of  two  mid- 
dle-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 
despising  the  tea-cake  as  it  disappeared,  Jolyon  of  finding  him- 
self 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,  tiU,  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  whim- 
sically 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 
«elf-<consciousness  is  a  handicap,  you  know,  and  that's  the  differ- 
ence between  us.  We've  lost  conviction.  How  and  when  self- 
iconecioueness  was  bom  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.  ITever  to  see  yourself  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,  gaz- 
ing through  a  ring  of  smoke  at  Val  and  Holly,  uncomfortable 


IN  CHANCEEY  393 

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^U  save  time.  We'll  have  a  rip- 
ping 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  preserved  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  re- 
lease. 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 ! ' 


CHAPTBK  VIII 

JOLYON  PROSECUTES  TEUSTBBSHIP 

When  those  two  were  gone  Jolyon  did  not  return  to  his  paint- 
ing, for  daylight  was  failing,  bnt  went  to  the  study,  craving  un- 
consciously a  revival  of  that  momentary  vision  of  his  father  sit- 
ting 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  communion  with  his  father,  l^ot,  in- 
deed, 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  recru- 
descence 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  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 

394 


IN  CHANCERY  395 

clocks  when  the  hour  strikes ;  and  his  words  sounded  in  Jolyon's 
ears  clearer  than  any  chime :  '  I  manage  my  own  affairs.  I've 
told  you  once,  I  tell  you  again :  We  are  not  at  home.'  The  re- 
pugnance he  had  then  felt  for  Soames— for  his  fiat-cheeked, 
shaven  face  full  of  spiritual  bull-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  thafs  lucky;  it'll  make  it  easier  for  me 
to  back  his  wife.'  Half -artist,  and  half -Forsyte,  Jolyon  was  con- 
stitutionally averse  from  what  he  termed  'ructions';  unless  an- 
gered, he  conformed  deeply  to  that  classic  description  of  the  she- 
dog,  'Er'd  ruther  run  than  fight.'  A  little  smile  became  set- 
tled 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  walls 
and  stairway,  appraising  everything!  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  flat,  asking  if  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 
storms.  Eumours  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-ears  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  any- 
thing 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  ap- 


396  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

parent  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  col- 
our, 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,  staooding  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." 

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? 
Belief,  surprise,  pity !    Venus  for  twelve  years  without  a  lover ! 


IN"  CHANCEEY  397 

"  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  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  ? — 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  Mttle,  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  increasing 
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  any- 
thing 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. 

"  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,  back- 


398  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

watered  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  For- 
syte with  a  beard,  and  vanished. 

The  offices  of  '  Forsyte,  Bustard  and  Forsyte '  had  slowly  ab- 
sorbed the  offices  of  'Tooting  and  Bowles,'  and  occupied  the 
whole  of  the  first  floor.  The  firm  consisted  now  of  nothing  but 
Soames  and  a  number  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  off,  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  pre- 
sented him  therein  with  £200  a  year  net  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." 


IN"  CHANCERY  399 

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  think- 
ing, 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  in- 
stincts 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  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  vidth  yourself.  A  man  can 
always  put  these  things  through  if  he'll  take  it  on  himself." 

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 


400  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

is!     Ownerships!    Well,  we  all  own  things.     But — human  be- 
ings !    Pah ! ' 

"  You  have  to  look  at  facts,"  he  said  dryly,  "  or  rather  the 
want  of  them." 

Soames  gave  him  another  quick  suspicious  look. 

"  The  want  of  them  ?  "  he  said.    "  Yes,  but  I  am  not  so  sure." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  Jolyon ;    "  I've  told  you  what 
she  said.    It  was  explicit." 

"  My  experience  has  not  been  one  to  promote  blind  confidence 
in  her  word.    We  shall  see." 

Jolyon  got  up. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  curtly. 

"  Good-bye,"  returned  Soames ;  and  Jolyon  went  out  trying  to 
understand  the  look,  half -startled,  half -menacing,  on  his  cousin's 
face.  He  sought  Waterloo  Station  in  a  disturbed  frame  of  mind, 
as  though  the  skin  of  his  moral  being  had  been  scraped ;  and  all 
the  way  down  in  the  train  he  thought  of  Irene  in  her  lonely  flat, 
and  of  Soames  in  his  lonely  oflBce,  and  of  the  strange  paralysis  of 
life  that  lay  on  them  both.  '  In  chancery ! '  he  thought.  '  Both 
their  necks  in  chancery — and  hers  so  pretty ! ' 


CHAPTEE  IX 

VAL  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

The  keeping  of  engagements  had  not  as  yet  been  a  conspicuous 
feature  in  the  life  of  young  Val  Dartie,  so  that  when  he  broke 
two  and  kept  one,  it  was  the  latter  event  which  caused  him,  if 
anything,  the  greater  surprise,  while  jogging  back  to  town  from 
Eobin  Hill  after  his  ride  with  Holly.    She  had  been  even  prettier 
than  he  had  thought  her  yesterday,  on  her  silver-roan,  long- 
tailed  '  palfrey ' ;  and  it  seemed  to  him,  self-Ci'itical  in  the  bru- 
mous October  gloaming  and  the  outskirts  of  London,  that  only 
his  boots  had  shone  throughout  their  two-hour  companionship. 
He  took  out  his  new  gold  '  hunter ' — ^present  from  James — and 
looked  not  at  the  time,  but  at  sections  of  his  face  in  the  glittering 
back  of  its  opened  case.    He  had  a  temporary  spot  over  one  eye- 
brow, and  it  displeased  him,  for  it  must  have  displeased  her. 
Crum  never  had  any  spots.    Together  with  Crum  rose  the  scene 
in  the  promenade  of  the  Pandemonium.    To-day  he  had  not  had 
the  faintest  desire  to  unbosom  himself  to  Holly  about  his  father. 
His  father  lacked  poetry,  the  stirrings  of  which  he  was  feeling 
for  the  first  time  in  his  nineteen  years.    The  Liberty,  with  Cyn- 
thia Dark,  that  almost  mythical  embodiment  of  rapture;  the 
Pandemonium,  with  the  woman  of  uncertain  age — ^both  seemed 
to  Val  completely  'off,'  fresh  from  communion  with  this  new 
shy,  dark-haired  young  cousin  of  his.    She  rode  '  jolly  well,'  too, 
so  that  it  had  been  all  the  more  flattering  that  she  had  let  him 
lead  her  where  he  would  in  the  long  gallops  of  Eichmond  Park, 
though  she  knew  them  so  much  better  than  he  did.     Looking 
back  on  it  all,  he  was  mystified  by  the  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 

401 


402  THE.  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  liv- 
ery stables  in  the  purlieus  of  Sloane  Square.  He  got  off  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  Newmarket;  he's 
on  his  way  to  South  America.    He — he's  left  us." 

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  Pande- 
monium 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 


I2Sr  CHANCEEY  403 

guarantee  against  the  consequences  of  having  a  father,  even 
against  the  Dartie  blood  in  his  own  veins.  The  flat-checked 
visage  seemed  to  wince,  and  this  upset  him. 

"  It  won't  be  public,  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." 

"  Tes — ^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. 

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  everything;  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  prop- 
erty 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 
with  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  distrusting  the  efficacy  of  those 
words  on  the  boy,  he  went  on  quickly : 

"  He  took  your  mother's  pearls  to  give  to  her." 


404  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'  Val  jerked  up  his  hand,  then.  At'  that  signal  of  distress  Wini- 
fred 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  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  impos- 
sible your  father  is ! "  And  his  uncle  nodded.  Somewhat  as- 
suaged, 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'  lips,  and  became 
bitter. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  of ;  nothing's  so  fatal 
as  delay  in  such  matters." 

"Why?" 

"I  tell  you,  boy,  nothing's  so  fatal.  I  know  from  ex- 
perience." 

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 — something  which 
people  kept  dark ;  he  had  heard  his  father  once  use  an  unmen- 
tionable 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  real 


IN"  CHAlSrCERY  405 

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  expression  of 
her  face,  was  the  most  poignant  regret.  "When  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  grate- 
fully; tiiey  both  felt  that  they  had  gone  quite  far  enough  in 
the  expression  of  feeling. 

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  moie  he  brooded  and  the  further  he  walked  the 
hungrier  he  naturally  became.     Short  of  trailing  home,  there 
were  only  two  places  where  he  could  go — ^his  grandfather's  in 
Park  Lane,  and  Timothy's  in  the  Bayswater  Eoad.    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  other- 
wise.   He  decided  on  Park  Lane,  not  unmoved  by  the  thought 
that  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." 


406  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  mut- 
ton.   Champagne,  Warmson ; "  said  Emily.    And  they  went  in. 

At  the  great  dining-table,  shortened  to  its  utmost,  under  which 
so  many  fasionable  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  a  rail ! '  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  any- 
thing 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  distrustfully 
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. 


m  CHANCERY  407 

"  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." 

Yal  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. 

"  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  meditation  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,  receiv- 
ing 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  by 


408  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

sweet,  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  of  fearful  sudden- 
ness, as  if  yielding  to  weakness — ^he  returned  to  the  charge  in 
the  hall. 

"  Tell  us  about  TJncle  Soames,  Granny.  Why  is  he  so  keen 
on  mother's  getting  a  divorce?" 

"  Your  TJncle  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  atmosphere 
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  waist- 
coats 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  ENTEETAINS  THE  FUTUEE 

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  ?  Eoses  on  the  verandah  were  still  in 
bloom,  and  the  hedges  evergreen,  so  that  there  was  almost  noth- 
ing of  middle-aged  autumn  to  chill  the  mood;  yet  was  he  ner- 
.vous,  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  aU,  they  must  see  at  once  that  his  collection  alone 
was  worth  at  least  thirty  thousand  pounds.  He  minutely  in- 
spected, 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  became  his  wife.  Going  up  to 
the  dressing-table  he  passed  his  hand  over  the  lilac-coloured  pin- 
cushion, into  which  were  stuck  all  kinds  of  pins;  a  bowl  of  pot- 
pourri exhaled  a  scent  that  made  his  head  turn  just  a  little. 
His  wife!  If  only  the  whole  thing  could  be  settled  out  of 
hand,  and  there  was  not  the  nightmare  of  this  divorce  to  be  gone 
through  first;  and  with  gloom  puckered  on  his  forehead,  he 

409 


410  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

looked  out  at  the  river  shining  heyond  the  rcses  and  the  lavm. 
Madame  Lamotte  would  never  resist  this  prospect  for  her  child ; 
Annette  would  never  resist  her  mother.  If  only  he  were  free ! 
He  drove  to  the  station  to  meet  them.  What  taste  French- 
women had !  Madame  Lamotte  was  in  black  with  touches  of  lilac 
colour,  Annette  in  greyish  lilac  linen,  with  cream  coloured  gloves 
and  hat.  Bather  pale  she  looked  and  Londony;  and  her  blue 
eyes  were  demure.  Waiting  for  them  to  come  down  to  lunch, 
Soames  stood  in  the  open  french-window  of  the  dining-room 
moved  by  that  sensuous  delight  in  sunshine  and  flowers  and 
trees  which  only  came  to  the  full  when  youth  and  beauty  were 
there  to  share  it  with  one.  He  had  ordered  the  lunch  with  in- 
tense consideration;  the  wine  was  a  very  special  Sauterne,  the 
whole  appointments  of  the  meal  perfect,  the  coffee  served  on 
the  veranda  super-excellent.  Madame  Lamotte  accepted  creme 
de  men  the;  Annette  refused.  Her  manners  were  charming,  with 
just  a  suspicion  of  'the  conscious  beauty'  creeping  into  them. 
'  Yes,'  thought  Soames,  '  another  year  of  London  and  that  sort 
of  life,  and  she'll  be  spoiled.' 

Madame  was  in  sedate  French  raptures.  "Adorable!  Le 
soleiL  est  si  hon!  How  everything  is  chic,  is  it  not,  Annette? 
Monsieur  is  a  real  Monte  Cristo."  Annette  murmured  assent, 
with  a  look  up  at  Soames  which  he  could  not  read.  He  pro- 
posed a  turn  on  the  river.  But  to  punt  two  persons  when- 
one  of  them  looked  so  ravishing  on  those  Chinese  cushions  was 
merely  to  suffer  from  a  sense  of  lost  opportunity;  so  they  went 
but  a  short  way  towards  Pangbourne,  drifting  slowly  back,  with 
every  now  and  then  an  autumn  leaf  dropping  on  Annette  or  on 
her  mother's  black  amplitude.  And  Soames  was  not  happy,  wor- 
ried by  the  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  jeopardize  his  every  chance ;  yet,  if  he  did 
not  definitely  make  them  understand  that  he  wished  for  Annette's 
hand,  it  would  be  dropping  into  some  other  clutch  before  he 
was  free  to  claim  it. 

At  tea,  which  they  both  took  vrith  lemon,  Soames  spoke  of  the 
Transvaal. 

"  There'll  be  war,"  he  said. 

Madame  Lamotte  lamented. 

"  Ces  pcmvree  gens  hergers! "  Could  they  not  be  left  to 
themselves  ? 

Soames  smiled — ^the  question  seemed  to  him  absurd. 


IJN   CHAJSCEKY  411 

Surely  as  a  woman  of  business  she  understood  that  the  British 
could  not  abandon  their  legitimate  commercial  interests. 

"  Ah !  that !  "  But  Madame  Lamotte  found  that  the  English 
were  a  little  hypocrite.  They  were  talking  of  justice  and  the 
TJitlanderSj  not  of  business.  Monsieur  was  the  first  who  had 
spoken  to  her  of  that. 

"  The  Boers  are  only  half -civilised,"  remarked  Soames ;  "  they 
stand  in  the  way  of  progress.  It  will  never  do  to  let  our  suzer- 
ainty go." 

"  What  does  that  mean  to  say  ?  Suzerainty !  What  a  strange 
word ! "  Soames  became  eloquent,  roused  by  these  threats  to 
the  principle  of  possession,  and  stimulated  by  Annette's  eyes 
fixed  on  him.    He  was  delighted  when  presently  she  said: 

"  I  think  Monsieur  is  right.  They  should  be  taught  a  lesson." 
She  was  sensible ! 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  we  must  act  with  moderation.  I'm 
no  jingo.  We  must  be  firm  without  bullying.  Will  you  come 
up  and  see  my  pictures  ? "  Moving  from  one  to  another  of 
these  treasures,  he  soon  perceived  that  they  knew  nothing.  They 
passed  his  last  Mauve,  that  remarkable  study  of  a  'Hay-cart 
going  Home,'  as  if  it  were  a  lithograph.  He  waited  almost  with 
awe  to  see  how  they  would  view  the  jewel  of  his  collection — an 
Israels  whose  price  he  had  watched  ascending  till  he  was  now 
almost  certain  it  had  reached  top  value,  and  would  be  better  on 
the  market  again.  They  did  not  view  it  at  all.  This  was  a 
shock;  and  yet  to  have  in  Annette  a  virgin  taste  to  form  would 
be  better  than  to  have  the  silly,  half-baked  predilections  of  the 
English  middle-class  to  deal  with.  At  the  end  of  the  gaUery 
was  a  Meissonier  of  which  he  was  rather  ashamed — Meissonier 
was  so  steadily  going  down.    Madame  Lamotte  stopped  before  it. 

"  Meissonier !  Ah !  What  a  jewel !  "  She  had  heard  the 
name;  Soames  took  advantage  of  that  moment.  Very  gently 
touching  Annette's  arm,  he  said : 

"How  do  you  like  my  place,  Annette?" 

She  did  not  shrink,  did  not  respond;  she  looked  at  him  full, 
looked  down,  and  murmured : 

"Who  would  not  like  it?    It  is  so  beautiful!" 

"  Perhaps  some  day "  Soames.  said,  and  stopped. 

So  pretty  she  was,  so  self-possessed — she  frightened  him. 
Those  cornflower-blue  eyes,  the  turn  of  that  creamy  neck,  her 
delicate  curves — she  was  a  standing  temptation  to  indiscretion ! 
No!     No!     One  must  be  sure  of  one's  ground — much  surer! 


412  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'If  I  hold  off/  he  thought,  'it  will  tantalise  her.'  And  he 
crossed  over  to  Madame  Lamotte,  who  was  still  in  front  of  the 
Meissonier. 

"Yes,  that's  quite  a  good  example  of  his  later  work.  You 
must  come  again,  Madame,  and  see  them  lighted  up.  You  must 
both  come  and  spend  a  night." 

Enchanted,  would  it  not  be  beautiful  to  see  them  lighted  ?  By 
moonlight  too,  the  river  must  be  ravishing! 

Annette  murmured: 

"Thou  art  sentimental,  Maman!" 

Sentimental!  That  black-robed,  comely,  substantial  French- 
woman 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  smiled  at  him 
through  the  dark. 

He  went  back  to  the  carriage,  brooding.  "  Go  on  home,  Jor- 
dan," he  said  to  the  coachman ;  "  I'll  walk."  And  he  strode 
out  into  the  darkening  lanes,  caution  and  the  desire  of  posses- 
sion playing  see-saw  within  him.  "  Bon  soir,  monsieur! "  How 
softly  she  had  said  it.  To  know  what  was  in  her  mind !  The 
French — they  were  like  cats — one  could  tell  nothing !  But — ^how 
pretty !  What  perfect  young  thing  to  hold  in  one's  arms !  What 
a  mother  for  his  heir!  And  he  thought,  with  a  smile,  of  his 
family  and  their  surprise  at  a  French  wife,  and  their  curiosity, 
and  of  the  way  he  would  play  with  it  and  buffet  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'll  go  and  see 
Irene.  If  you  want  things  done,  do  them  yourself.  I  must  live 
again — live  and  move  and  have  my  being.'  And  in  echo  to  that 
queer  biblicality  church-bells  chimed  the  call  to  evening  prayer. 


CHAPTEE  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  be- 
cause 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,  for- 
sooth! 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  comer  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!  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.  '  I  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  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 

413 


414  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

past,  bringing  muffled  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  Jolyon  I 

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  ofE?'  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  rdiearsed  this  scene  in  fancy.  Ke- 
hearsal  served  him  not  at  all.  He  simply  could  not  speak.  He 
had  never  thought  that  the  sight  of  this  woman  whom  he  had 
once  so  passionately  desired,  so  completely  owned,  and  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  twelve  years,  could  affect  him  in  this  way.  He 
had  imagined  himself  speaking  and  acting,  half  as  man  of  busi- 
ness, half  as  judge.  And  now  it  was  as  if  he  were  in  the  pres- 
ence not  of  a  mere  woman  and  erring  wife,  but  of  some  foTce, 
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  you  sit  down  ?  " 

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, 
eyes,  hair,  strangely  as  he  remembered  them,  strangely  beau- 
tiful. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  satin-wood  chair,  upholstered 
with  silver-coloured  stuff,  close  to  where  he  was  standing. 


IN  CHANCBKY  415 

"  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 
figure  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  informa- 
tion 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  will  believe  anything  I  say ;  but  if  s  the 
truth." 

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  suppose  you're  comfortably  off  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  effect  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  cold  in  that 
dress.    I'm  not  dangerous."    And  he  uttered  a  little  sad  laugh. 

She  echoed  it — faintly,  bitterly. 

"  It  was— habit." 

"Eather  odd  habit,"  said  Soames  as  bitterly.  "Shut  the 
window ! " 

She  shut  it  and  sat  down  again.  She  had  developed  power, 
this  woman — this — wife  of  his !    He  felt  it  issuing  from  her  as 


416  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

she  sat  there,  in  a  sort  of  armour.  And  almost  unconsciously  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  against  that  white  skin,  and  that 
burnt-amber  hair !  And  how  white  her  shoulders !  Funny  sen- 
sation 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  beiag  defrauded  of  his  self -justification, 
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,  re- 
versed it,  and  said : 

"Lowestoft.  Where  did  you  get  this?  I  bought  its  fellow 
at  Jobson's."  And,  visited  by  the  sudden  memory  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. 


IN  CHANCEEY  417 

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  per- 
fume of  her  dress  and  body,  as  though  the  warmth  within  her, 
which  had  never  been  for  him,  were  struggling  to  show  its  pres- 
ence. 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  bet- 
ter stay ! '  What  should  he  have  felt,  what  would  he  have  done? 
That  cursed  attraction  of  her  was  there  for  him  even  now,  after 
all  the^  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  of  a  son.  And  yet 
the  mere  sight  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. 

ISTearing  his  Club  at  last  he  stopped  to  buy  a  paper.  A  head- 
line 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  flat ! ' 


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  tiiat  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 ! 

"I  think  Roger'd  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  up- 
setting 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  principles. 

"  I  mistrust  that  chap;  he's  a  stormy  petrel.  House-property 
wiU  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 ! '  thought  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  prop- 
erty. 

418 


IN  CHANCEEY  419 

"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  com-e  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  everlasting.  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  of  life !  And  a  fantastic  thought  shot  into 
his  mind.  Absurd!  Idiotic!  But  again  it  came.  And  genu- 
inely 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  birth- 
day so  soon  before  she  left  him,  when  he  was  almost  certain  she 
was  faithless.  Four  birthdays  in  his  house.  He  had  looked  for- 
ward to  them,  because  his  gifts  had  meant  a  semblance  of  grati- 
tude, 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 


420  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  can  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  liim  use  that  old  inci- 
dent, he  had  suffered  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!  Declaration 
of  war ! "  Soames  bought  the  paper.  There  it  was  in  the  stop 
press !  His  first  thought  was :  '  The  Boers  are  committing  sui- 
cide.' 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;  al- 
ways 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  com- 
municating the  news  to  Warmson,  Soames  prepared  to  follow. 
He  paused  by  after-thought  to  say : 


m  CHANCEEY  431 

"  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: 

"  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  Inniskillings." 

"  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  cer- 
tain 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  noth- 
ing 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,  if  11  affect  house  prop- 
erty,' he  was  about  to  pass  on  up  to  the  room  always  kept  ready 
for  him  when  he  heard,  distant  as  yet,  the  hoarse  rushing  call  of 
a  newsvendor.  There  it  was,  and  coming  past  the  house!  He 
knocked  on  his  mother's  door  and  went  in. 

His  father  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  with  his  ears  pricked  under 
the  white  hair  which  Emily  kept  so  beautifully  cut.  He  looked 
pink,  and  extraordinarily  clean,  in  his  setting  of  white  sheet 
and  pillow,  out  of  which  the  points  of  his  high,  thin,  night- 
gowned  shoulders  emerged  in  small  peaks.    His  eyes  alone,  grey 


422  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

and  distrustful  under  their  withered  lids,  were  moving  from  the 
window  to  Emily,  who  in  a  wrapper  was  walking  up  and  down, 
squeezing  a  rubber  ball  attached  to  a  scent  bottle.  The  room 
reeked  faintly  of  the  eau-de-Cologne  she  was  spraying. 

"  All  right !  "  said  Soames,  "  it's  not  a  fire.  The  Boers  have 
declared  war — that's  all." 

Emily  stopped  her  spraying. 

"  Oh !  "  was  all  she  said,  and  looked  at  James. 

Soames,  too,  looked  at  his  father.  He  was  taking  it  differently 
from  their  expectation,  as  if  some  thought,  strange  to  them,  were 
working  in  him. 

"  H'm ! "  he  muttered  suddenly,  "  I  shan't  live  to  see  the  end 
of  this." 

"  Nonsense,  James !    It'll  be  over  by  Christmas." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ? "  James  answered  her  with 
asperity.  "  It's  a  pretty  mess — at  this  time  of  night,  too !  "  He 
lapsed  into  silence,  and  his  wife  and  son,  as  if  hypnotised,  waited 
for  him  to  say :  '  I  can't  tell — I  don't  know ;  I  knew  how  it 
would  be ! '  But  he  did  not.  The  grey  eyes  shifted,  evidently 
seeing  nothing  in  the  room ;  then  movement  occurred  under  the 
bedclothes,  and  the  knees  were  drawn  up  suddenly  to  a  great 
height. 

"  They  ought  to  send  out  Eoberts.  It  all  comes  from  that 
fellow  Gladstone  and  his  Majuba." 

The  two  listeners  noted  something  beyond  the  usual  in  his 
voice,  something  of  real  anxiety.  It  was  as  if  he  had  said :  '  I 
shall  never  see  the  old  country  peaceful  and  safe  again.  I  shall 
have  to  die  before  I  know  she's  won.'  And  in  spite  of  the  feeling 
that  James  must  not  be  encouraged  to  be  fussy,  they  were 
touched.  Soames  went  up  to  the  bedside  and  stroked  his  father's 
hand  which  had  emerged  from  under  the  bedclothes,  long  and 
wrinkled  with  veins. 

"  Mark  my  words ! "  said  James,  "  consols  will  go  to  par. 
For  all  I  know,  Val  may  go  and  enlist." 

"  Oh,  come  James ! "  cried  Emily,  "  you  talk  as  if  there  were 
danger." 

Her  comfortable  voice  seemed  to  soothe  James  for  once. 

"  Well,"  he  muttered,  "  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  I  don't 
know,  I'm  sure — ^nobody  tells  me  anything.  Are  you  sleeping 
here,  my  boy  ?  " 

The  crisis  was  past,  he  would  now  compose  himself  to  his  nor- 
mal degree  of  anxiety;  and,  assuring  his  father  that  he  was 


IN  CHANCERY  423 

sleeping  in  the  house,  Soames  pressed  his  hand,  and  went  up  to 
his  room. 

The  following  afternoon  witnessed  the  greatest  crowd  Tim- 
othy's had  known  for  many  a  year.  On  national  occasions, 
such  as  this,  it  was,  indeed,  almost  impossible  to  avoid  going 
there.  Not  that  there  was  any  danger  or  rather  only  just 
enough  to  make  it  necessary  to  assure  each  other  that  there  was 
none. 

Nicholas  was  there  early.  He  had  seen  Soames  the  nigh.t 
before — Soames  had  said  it  was  bound  to  come.  This  old 
Kriiger  was  in  his  dotage — ^why,  he  must  be  seventy-five  if  he 
was  a  day!  (Nicholas  was  eighty-two.)  What  had  Timothy 
said?  He  had  had  a  fit  after  Majuba.  These  Boers  were  a 
grasping  lot !  The  dark-haired  Francie,  who  had  arrived  on  his 
heels,  with  the  contradictious  touch  which  became  the  free  spirit 
of  a  daughter  of  Eoger,  chimed  in : 

"Kettle  and  pot!  Uncle  Nicholas.  What  price  the  Uit- 
landers  ?  "  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  smiled ; 
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'U  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  wonderful  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  investments  for  months  afterwards.     It  was  the  in- 


424  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

gratitude  of  the  Boers  that  was  so  dreadful,  after  everything 
had  been  done  for  them — Dr.  Jameson  imprisoned,  and  he  was 
so  nice,  Mrs.  MaeAnder  had  always  said.  And  Sir  Alfred  Mil- 
ner  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  great  occasions  sometimes  bring 
forth: 

"Miss  June  Forsyte." 

Aunts  Juley  and  Hester  were  on  their  feet  at  once,  trembling 
from  smothered  resentment,  and  old  affection  bubbling  up,  and 
pride  at  the  return  of  a  prodigal  June !  Well,  this  was  a  sur- 
prise !  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  eyes  and  her  hair 
like  flame,  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  out- 
look had  become  intense.  Indeed,  she  had  almost  ceased  to 
believe  that  her  family  existed,  and  looked  round  her  now  vnth 
a  sort  of  challenging  directness  which  brought  exquisite  dis- 
comfort 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  Eoad,  she  had  suddenly 
remembered  them  with  compunction  as  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  impu- 
dent thing  of  that  old  Kriiger!" 

"  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." 

The  silence  of  sensation  was  broken  by  Francie  saying: 


IN  CHANCERY  435 

"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  curi- 
osity 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  con- 
tract is  a  contract." 

"  Contracts  are  not  always  just,"  fiamed  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 : 

"  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  pic- 


426  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

tures  of  Eric  Cobbley — her  last  lame  duck  ?  And  she  promptly 
opened  her  attack :  Did  Soames  know  his  work  ?  It  was  so  won- 
derful.   He  was  the  coming  man. 

Oh,  yes,  Soames  knew  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  beforehand  what's 
going  to  be  successful." 

"  Oh ! "  gasped  June,  and  sprang  up  from  the  bead-covered 
chair,  "  I  hate  that  standard  of  success.  Why  can't  people  buy 
things  because  they  like  them  ?  " 

"  You  mean,"  said  Francie,  "  because  you  like  them." 

And  in  the  slight  pause  young  Nicholas  was  heard  saying 
gently  that  Violet  (his  fourth)  was  taking  lessons  in  pastel,  he 
didn't  know  if  they  were  any  use. 

"  Well,  good-bye.  Auntie,"  said  June ;  "  I  must  get  on,"  and 
kissing  her  aunts,  she  looked  defiantly  round  the  room,  said 
"  Good-bye "  again,  and  went.  A  breeze  seemed  to  pass  out 
with  her,  as  if  everyone  had  sighed. 

The  third  sensation  came  before  anyone  had  time  to  speak : 

"Mr.  James  Forsyte." 

James  came  in  using  a  stick  slightly  and  wrapped  in  a  fur 
coat  which  gave  him  a  fictitious  bulk. 

Everyone  stood  up.  James  was  so  old ;  and  he  had  not  been 
at  Timothy's  for  nearly  two  years. 

"  It's  hot  in  here,",  he  said. 

Soames  divested  him  of  his  coat,  and  as  he  did  so  could  not 
help  admiring  the  glossy  way  his  father  was  turned  out.  James 
sat  down,  all  knees,  elbows,  frock-coat,  and  long  white 
whiskers. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  that?  "  he  said. 

Though  there  was  no  apparent  sense  in  his  words,  they  all 
knew  that  he  was  referring  to  June.  His  eyes  searched  his 
son's  face. 

"  I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  for  myself.  What  have  they  an- 
swered Kriiger?" 

Soames  took  out  an  evening  paper,  and  read  the  headline. 

" '  Instant  action  by  our  Government — state  of  war  exist- 
ing!'" 


IN"  CHANCERY  427 

"  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  some- 
thing uncanny  about  such  resolution  in  this  the  oldest  living 
Forsyte. 

"  Where's  Timothy  ?  "  said  James.  "  He  ought  to  pay  atten- 
tion 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  infor- 
mation ?    Nobody  tells  me." 

Young  Nicholas  remarked  in  his  mild  voice  that  Nick  (his 
eldest)   was  now  going  to  drill  regularly. 

"  Ah !  "  muttered  James,  and  stared  before  him — ^his  thoughts 
were  on  Val.  "  He's  got  to  look  after  his  mother,"  he  said, 
"he's  got  no  time  for  drilling  and  that,  with  that  father  of 
his."  This  cryptic  saying  produced  silence,  until  he  spoke 
again. 

"  What  did  June  want  here?  "  And  his  eyes  rested  with  sus- 
picion 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  ami- 
able; 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 


428  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

that  there  was  something  behind  everything,  that  nobody  re- 
sponded.   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. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

JOLYON  FINDS  OUT  WHEEE  HE  IS 

JoLTON  stood  at  the  window  in  Holly's  old  night  nursery,  con- 
verted 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  lodged  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  prose- 
cute 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  re- 
ceived 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  mil- 
dewed 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  Soamee  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  poig- 
nant harmony  1  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  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  sup- 
posed, 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  con- 

429 


430  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

centrate  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  be- 
cause it's  a  natural  product  of  the  nerves,  and  we  don't  change 
them." 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  Soames  has  been  to  see  me.  He  said 
a  thing  that  frightened  me.    He  said : '  You  are  still  my  wife ' ! " 

"  What !  "  ejaculated  Jolyon.  "  You  ought  not  to  live  alone." 
And  he  continued  to  stare  at  her,  afflicted  by  the  thought  that 
where  Beauty  was,  nothing  ever  ran  quite  straight,  which,  no 
doubt,  was  why  so  many  people  looked  on  it  as  immoral. 

"What  more?" 

"  He  asked  me  to  shake  hands." 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes.  When  he  came  in  I'm  sure  he  didn't  want  to;  he 
changed  while  he  was  there." 

"  Ah !  you  certainly  ought  not  to  go  on  living  there  alone." 

"  I  know  no  woman  I  could  ask ;  and  I  can't  take  a  lover  to 
order,  Cousin  Jolyon." 

"  Heaven  forbid ! "  said  Jolyon.  "  What  a  damnable  position ! 
Will  you  stay  to  dinner?  No?  Well,  let  me  see  you  back  to 
town ;  I  wanted  to  go  up  this  evening." 

"Truly?" 

"  Truly.    I'll  be  ready  in  five  minutes." 

On  that  walk  to  the  station  they  talked  of  pictures  and  music, 
contrasting  the  English  and  French  characters  and  the  dif- 
ference in  their  attitude  to  Art.  But  to  Jolyon  the  colours  in 
the  hedges  of  the  long  straight  lane,  the  twittering  of  chaf- 
finches who  kept  pace  with  them,  the  perfume  of  weeds  being 


m  CHANCBEY  431 

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  pub- 
lisher, it  seemed,  which  supplemented  her  income  a  little.  She 
seldom  went  out  in  the  evening.  "  I've  been  living  alone  so 
long,  you  see,  that  I  don't  mind  it  a  bit.  I  believe  I'm  naturally 
solitary." 

"  I  don't  believe  that,"  said  Jolyon.  "  Do  you  know  many 
people  ?  " 

"Very  few." 

At  Waterloo  they  took  a  hansom,  and  he  drove  with  her  to 
the  door  of  her  mansions.  Squeezing  her  hand  at  parting,  he 
said: 

"  You  know,  you  could  always  come  to  us  at  Eobin  Hill ;  you 
must  let  me  know  everything  that  happens.     Good-bye,  Irene." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered  softly. 

Jolyon  climbed  back  into  his  cab,  wondering  why  he  had  not 
asked  her  to  dine  and  go  to,  the  theatre  with  him.  Solitary, 
starved,  hung-up  life  that  she  had!  "Hotch  Potch  Club,"  he 
said  through  the  trap-door.  As  his  hansom  debouched  on  to 
the  Embankment,  a  man  in  top-hat  and  overcoat  passed,  walking 
quickly,  so  close  to  the  wall  that  he  seemed  to  be  scraping  it. 

'  By  Jove ! '  thought  Jolyon ;  '  Soames  himself !  What's  he 
up  to  now?'  And,  stopping  the  cab  round  the  corner,  he  got 
out  and  retraced  his  steps  to  where  he  could  see  the  entrance  to 
the  mansions.  Soames  had  halted  in  front  of  them,  and  was 
looking  up  at  the  light  in  her  windows.  '  If  he  goes  in,'  thought 
Jolyon,  '  what  shall  I  do  ?  What  have  I  the  right  to  do  ? '  What 
the  fellow  had  said  was  true.  She  was  still  his  wife,  absolutely 
without  protection  from  annoyance!  'Well,  if  he  goes  in,'  he 
thought,  '  I  follow.'  And  he  began  moving  towards  the  man- 
sions. Again  Soames  advanced;  he  was  in  the  very  entrance 
now.  But  suddenly  he  stopped,  spun  round  on  his  heel,  and 
came  back  towards  the  river.  '  What  now  ? '  thought  Jolyon. 
'  In  a  dozen  steps  he'll  recognise  me.'  And  he  turned  tail.  His 
cousin's  footsteps  kept  pace  with  his  own.    But  he  reached  his 


432  THE  FOESTTE  SAGA 

cab,  and  got  in  before  Soames  had  turned  the  comer.  "Go 
on!"  he  said  through  the  trap.  Soames'  figure  ranged  up 
alongside. 

"  Hansom ! "  he  said.    "  Engaged  ?    Hallo ! " 

« Hallo !"  answered  Jolyon.    "You?" 

The  quick  suspicion  on  his  cousin's  face,  white  in  the  lamp- 
light, 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  haH-lifted  sneering  lip,  roused  sudden  anger  in 
Jolyon;  but  he  subdued  it. 

"  You  ought  to  know  best,"  he  said,  "  but  if  you  want  a  di- 
vorce 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." 

"She  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  dam- 
nable position.  Hers  is  what  she  made  for  herself;  mine  what 
she  made  for  me.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  in  her  own  inter- 
ests I  shan't  require  her  to  return  to  me." 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Jolyon ;  and  a  shiver  went  through  his 
whole  body. 

"  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- 


m  CHANCBKY  433 

couldn't  force  his  wife  to  live  -with  him.  Those  days  were  past, 
anyway!  And  he  looked  around  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:  'In- 
stead of  helping  her,  I've  made  things  worse.'  Suddenly 
Soames  said : 

"It  would  he  the  hest  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  were 
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  compla- 
cent 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  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  twice  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  remem- 


434  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

bered  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 ! ' 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

SOAMES  DISCOVERS  WHAT  HE  WANTS 

It  is  so  mucli  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  re- 
main 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  exaspera- 
tion, clear  his  mind. 

The  restaurant  was  fairly  full — a  good  many  foreigners  and 
folk  whom,  from  their  appearance,  he  took  to  be  literary  or  ar- 
tistic. Scrape  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  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  entered, 
having  supper — such  a  much  nicer-looking  supper  than  the  din- 
ner 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, 

435 


436  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

seemingly  so  candid ;  could  she  be  angling  for  him  ?  He  turned 
to  Madame  Lamotte  and  said: 

"  I've  been  dining  here." 

Eeally !  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 j  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  feeling  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  another  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." 

'  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  everything 
before  you." 

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  mocking; 
"  she  will  never  let  failure  lodge  in  her  house." 


m  CHANCEEY  437 

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  consciousness.  A  son — something  to  look  forward  to,  some- 
thing to  make  the  rest  of  life  worth  while,  something  to  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.  IsTo !  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  Mfe;  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  ?  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  re- 
taken into  use  and  possession  by  him  who  legally  owned  he^r? 
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 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  THIRD  GENERATION 

Jolly  Forsyte  was  stroinng  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. 

"HaUo!  "said  Jolly. 

"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  privi- 
leged 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  commenced  one  of 
those  careers  attractive  and  inexplicable  to  ordinary  mortals  for 
whom  a  single  bankruptcy  is  good  as  a  feast.  Already  famous 
for  having  Qie  only  roulette  table  then  to  be  found  in  Oxford, 
he  was  anticipating  his  expectations  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  seductive  green  before 
him,  he  had  caught  sight,  through  a  cloud  of  smoke,  of  his  cousin 
standing  opposite.  'Rouge  ffagne,  impair ^  et  manque!'  He 
had  not  seen  him  again. 

"  Come  in  to  the  Frying-pan  and  have  tea,"  said  Jolly,  and 
they  went  in. 

439 


440  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

A  stranger,  seeing  them  together,  would  have  noticed  an  un- 
seizable  resemblance  between  these  second  cousins  of  the  third 
generations  of  Forsytes;  the  same  bone  formation  in  face, 
though  Jolly's  eyes  were  darker  grey,  his  hair  lighter  and  more 
wavy. 

"  Tea  and  buttered  buns,  waiter,  please,"  said  Jolly. 

"Have  one  of  my  cigarettes?"  said  Val.  "I  saw  you  last 
night.    How  did  you  do  ?  " 

"I  didn't  play." 

"  I  won  fifteen  quid." 

Though  desirous  of  repeating  a  whimsical  comment  on  gam- 
bling he  had  once  heard  his  father  make — '  When  you're  fleeced 
you're  sick,  and  when  you  fleece  you're  sorry ' — JoUy  contented 
himself  with : 

"  Eotten  game,  I  think ;  I  was  at  school  with  that  chap.  He's 
an  awful  fool." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know,"  said  Val,  as  one  might  speak  in  defence 
of  a  disparaged  god ;  "  he's  a  pretty  good  sport." 

They  exchanged  whiffs  in  silence. 

"  You  met  my  people,  didn't  you  ?  "  said  Jolly.  "  They're 
coming  up  to-morrow." 

Val  grew  a  little  red. 

"  Eeally !  I  can  give  you  a  rare  good  tip  for  the  Manchester 
November  handicap." 

"  Thanks,  I  only  take  interest  in  the  classic  races." 

"  You  can't  make  any  money  over  them,"  said  Val. 

"  I  hate  the  ring,"  said  Jolly ;  "  there's  such  a  row  and  stink. 
I  like  the  paddock." 

"  I  like  to  back  my  judgment,"  answered  Val. 

Jolly  smiled ;  his  smile  was  like  his  f  athei^s.  "  I  haven't  got 
any.    I  always  lose  money  if  I  bet." 

"  You  have  to  buy  experience,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  all  messed-up  with  doing  people  in  the  eye." 

"  Of  course,  or  they'll  do  you — ^that's  the  excitement." 

Jolly  looked  a  little  scornful. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  ?    Eow  ?  " 

"No — ride,  and  drive  about.  I'm  going  to  play  polo  next 
term,  if  I  can  get  my  granddad  to  stump  up." 

"  That's  old  Uncle  James,  isn't  it?    What's  he  like?  " 

"  Older  than  forty  hills,"  said  Val,  "  and  always  thinking  he's 
going  to  be  ruined." 

"  I  suppose  my  granddad  and  he  were  brothers." 


IN  CHANCEKY  441 

cc'l^  ^on't  believe  any  of  that  old  lot  were  sportsmen,"  said  Val; 

they  must  have  worshipped  money." 

"  Mine  didn't !  "  said  Jolly  warmly. 

Val  flipped  the  ash  off  his  cigarette. 

"  Money's  only  fit  to  spend/'  he  said ;  "  I  wish  the  deuce  I 
had  more." 

Jolly  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  they  drank  tea  and  ate  the 
buttered  buns. 

"  Where  are  your  people  going  to  stay  ?  "  asked  Val,  elaborately 
casual. 


« i  ■ 


■  Eainbow.'    What  do  you  think  of  the  war  ?  " 

"  Eotten,  so  far.    The  Boers  aren't  sports  a  bit.    Why  don't 
they  come  out  into  the  open  ?  " 

"  Why  should  they  ?    They've  got  everything  against  them  ex- 
cept their  way  of  fighting.    I  rather  admire  them." 

"They  can  ride  and  shoot,"  admitted  Val,  "but  they're  a 
lousy  lot.    Do  you  know  Crum  ?  " 

"  Of  Merton  ?    Only  by  sight.    He's  in  that  fast  set  too,  isn't 
he?    Eather  La-di-da  and  Brummagem." 

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  un- 
consciously 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  every- 
thing. 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  honum  of  the  old  'dan- 
dies '  and  of  '  the  mashers '  in  the  eighties.    And  round  Crum 


442  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

were  still  gathered  a  forlorn  hope  of  blue-bloods  with  a  pluto- 
cratic 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-consciousness  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 ! ' 

"  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  thsy  should 
not  go ;  but,  instinctively  polite,  he  added :  "  You'd  better  come- 
and  have  dinner  with  us  to-morrow." 

"Bather.    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  thi& 
wonderful  place.  After  lunch  she  wandered,  examining  his 
household  gods  with  intense  curiosity.  Jolly's  sitting-room  was- 
panelled,  and  Art  represented  by  a  set  of  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  advantage  they  left  him  at  the 


IN  CHANCERY  443 

Barge  and  crossed  the  river  to  the  towing-path.  Slight  in  build — 
for  of  all  the  Forsytes  only  old  Swithin  and  George  were  beefy — 
Jolly  was  rowing '  Two '  in  a  trial  eight.  He  looked  very  earnest 
and  strenuous.  With  pride  Jolyon  thought  him  the  best-looking 
boy  of  the  lot ;  Holly,  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;  Jolyon  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  I'd  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.' "  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 
jiorsyte — ^your  great-grandfather,  Jolly;  better  known  as  Supe- 
rior Dosset  Forsyte — built  houses,  so  the  chronicle  runs,  begat 
ten  children,  and  migrated  to  London  town.    It  is  known  that 


444  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

he  drank  Madeira  sherry.  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  prin- 
ciples 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  alto- 
gether 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. 

"  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  in- 
dividualism. 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  Eainbow,  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. 

Eather  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 
'  showy '  !     Val's  buttonhole  would  give  offence ;  and  she  so 


IN  CHANCERY  445 

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." 

"  Eather  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. 

"You  haven't  forgotten,"  he  said,  suddenly  gathering  cour- 
age, "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  be- 
gins in  June,  you  know,  and  goes  on  for  ever — ^we'U  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  fled 
into  Val's  patent  leather  and  Holly's  white  satin  toes,  where  it 
itched  and  tingled  during  an  evening  not  conspicuous  for  open- 
heartedness. 

Sensitive  to  atmosphere,  Jolyon  soon  felt  the  latent  antagon- 
ism 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  beneath  a  lamp. 

"  Deak  Jolyon, 

"  Soames  came  again  to-night — my  thirty-seventh  birthday. 


446  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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, 

"  Ikene." 

He  folded  the  letter  back  into  his  pocket  and  walked  on,  as- 
tonished 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,  vrith  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  himt  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 
could  make  himself  very  nasty.  I  didn't  like  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  upset- 
ting 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  ior  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  above 
and  below  Val's  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 


IK  CHANCERY  447 

instead  Holly,  slim  and  white-froeked,  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 ! ' 


CHAPTEE  II 

SOAMES  PUTS  IT  TO  THE  TOTJCH 

Op  all  those  radiant  firms  which  emblazon  with  their  windows 
the  West  End  of  London,  Gaves  and  Cortegal  were  considered 
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 
of  all  the  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  there- 
from, 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  con- 
vinced 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  wiio  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  res- 
titution of  conjugal  rights,  a  point  which  to  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  con- 
stitute legal  desertion,  and  they  should  obtain  evidence  of  mis- 
conduct and  file  their  petition  for  divorce.    All  of  which  Soames 

448 


IN"  CHANCERY  449 

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  pea- 
cock 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  well-coupled  and  preserved,  neat,  healthy,  pale,  un- 
blemishe'd  by  drink  or  excess  of  any  kind.  The  Forsyte  jaw 
and  the  concentration  of  his  face  were,  in  his,  eyes,  virtues.  So 
far  as  he  could  tell  there  was  no  feature  of  him  which  need  in- 
spire 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  determination  to  let  bygones 
be  bygones,  and  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  please  her,  why  should 
she  not  come  back  to  him  ? 

He  entered  Gaves  and  Cortegal's  therefore,  on  the  morning  of 
NTovember  the  9th,  to  buy  a  certain  diamond  brooch.  "  Pour 
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  flat 
green  morocco  case  in  his  breast  pocket.  Several  times  that  day 
he  opened  it  to  look  at  the  seven  soft  shining  stones  in  their  vel- 
vet 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  neces- 
sary. 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  Underground  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  in- 
stinct of  all  true  Forsytes  in  anxiety  and  trouble,  the  corporate 


450  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  impu- 
dence of  Kriiger's  ultimatum  had  lit  in  him  had  been  cold- 
watered  by  the  poor  success  of  the  last  month,  and  the  exhorta- 
tions to  effort  in  The  Times.  He  didn't  know  where  it  would 
end.  Soames  sought  to  cheer  him  by  the  continual  use  of  the 
word  Buller.  But  James  couldn't  tell !  There  was  CoUey — and 
Ihe  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  consolation.  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. 

"  Ah !  "  James  muttered,  "  he's  a  clever  little  chap."  But  he 
shook  his  head  shortly  afterwards,  and  remarked  that  he  didii't 
know  what  would  become  of  him,  and  looking  wistfully  at  his 
son,  murmured  on  that  Soames  had  never  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 !  " 

Bui  James,  not  looking  anyone  in  the  face,  muttered  on. 
There  were  Eoger  and  Nicholas  and  Jolyon ;  they  all  had  grand- 
sons. 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  consolation,  he  was  silent,  eat- 
ing 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. 


IN  CHANCEEY  451 

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  mys- 
terious 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  mo- 
ment he  was  filled  with  a  sort  of  exaltation,  as  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  becoming  the  good  fairy  of  her  future.  Under 
a  tree  opposite  Knightsbridge  Barracks,  where  the  moonlight 
struck  down  clear  and  white,  he  took  out  once  more  the  morocco 
case,  and  let  the  beams  draw  colour  from  those  stones.  Yes, 
they  were  of  the  first  water !  But,  at  the  hard  closing  snap  of 
the  case,  another  cold  shiver  ran  through  his  nerves;  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  mysterious  she  was  again  beset  him.  Dining  alone  there 
night  after  night — in  an  evening  dress,  too,  as  if  she  were  mak- 
ing believe  to  be  in  society !  Playing  the  piano — ^to  herself !  Not, 
even  a  dog  or  cat,  so  far  as  he  had  seen.  And  that  reminded  him. 
suddenly  of  the  mare  he  kept  for  station  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  1' 
'  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  sud- 
denly in  Soames,  so  that  he  dreamed  dreams  opposite  South  Ken- 
sington Station.  In  the  King's  Eoad  a  man  came  slithering  out 
of  a  public  house  playing  a  concertina.  Soames  watched  him 
for  a  moment  dance  crazily  on  the  pavement  to  his  own  drawling 
jagged  sounds,  then  crossed  over  to  avoid  contact  with  this  piece 
of  drunken  foolery.  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 
ruffians  like  that  about,  with  women  out  alone ! '  A  woman's 
figure  in  front  had  induced  this  thought.  Her  walk  seemed  odd- 
ly familiar,  and  when  she  turned  the  corner  for  which  he  was 


453  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

bound,  his  heart  began  to  beat.  He  hastened  on  to  the  corner 
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  corner  he  saw  her  enter  her  block 
of  flats.  To  make  sure  of  her  now,  he  ran  those  few  paces,  hur- 
ried up  the  stairs,  and  caught  her  standing  at  her  door.  He 
heard  the  latchkey  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 
you.    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  still  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  dilem- 
ma 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!  He  heard  her  voice,  uncomfortably, 
pathetically  soft: 

"  Why  have  you  come  again  ?  Didn't  you  understand  that  I 
would  rather  you  did  not  ?  " 

He  noticed  her  clothes — a  dark  brown  velvet  corduroy,  a  sable 
boa,  a  small  round  toque  of  the  same.  They  suited  her  admir- 
ably. She  had  money  to  spare  for  dress,  evidently!  He  said 
abruptly : 

"  It's  your  birthday.  I  brought  you  this,"  and  he  held  out  to 
Iher  the-  green  morocco  case. 

"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 
ni-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. 


IN  CHA2SrCERY  455 

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'll  give  you  all  you  want. 
You  shall  Hve  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  unflattering  to  you 
that  in  spite  of  everything  I — I  still  want  you  for  my  wife? 
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  recollection  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: 


454  THE,  POESYTE  SAGA 

"  I  am  alone  here.  You  won't  behave  again  as  you.  once  be- 
haved." 

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  answered  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. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said.  And  there  intervened  in  him  a  sort  of  paraly- 
sis 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 
faim. 

"  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  ease  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  will  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 — 


IN  CHANCERY  455 

that  most  deep  and  secret  Forsyte  quality,  the  impossihility  of 
letting  go,  the  impossibility  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  ri- 
diculous in  this  separation  by  the  whole  width  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  anybody  but  yourself  ? "  he  said. 

Irene's  lips  quivered ;  then  she  answered  slowly : 

"  Bo  you  ever  think  that  I  found  out  my  mistake — ^my  hope- 
less, 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.  I've 
never  understood  you;  I  shall  never  understand  you.  You  had 
everything  you  wanted;  and  you  can  have  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  spi- 
der'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  was  close,  the 
old  familiar  scent  of  her  clothes  suddenly  affected  him.  He  put; 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  bent  forward  to  kiss  her.  Ha 
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. 


CHAPTEK  in 

VISIT  TO  lEENB 

'I 
JoLTON  foxmi  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  independence  which  it  guar- 
anteed. TJnwatched  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  te- 
nacity— he  must  surely  have  tired,  she  now  expended  in  cham- 
pionship of  the  underdogs  and  budding  'geniuses'  of  the  ar- 
tistic 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  considerably 
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 
tihat  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 
pointt  of  view.'  This  crowning  example  of  commercial  cowardice 
towards  her  favourite  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,  reso- 
lute face,  and  her  red-gold  hair  to  shine  more  than  ever.  She 
gavie  her  father  a  hug,  and  got  into  a  cab  with  him,  having  as 
Tuaamj  ifish  to  fry  with  him  as  he  with  her.  It  became  at  once  a 
question  which  would  fry  them  first. 


IN  CHANCERY  457 

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  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"  A  small  Gallery,"  murmured  Jolyon,  "  seems  a  modest  de- 
sire.   But  your  grandfather  foresaw  it." 

"I  think,"  cried  Juno  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  ac- 
customed; "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  raust  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  the  Gallery,  Dad,  think  what  I  could  do.  I 
could  make  Eric  Cobbley's  name  in  no  time,  and  ever  so  many 
others." 


458  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  Names  worth  making  make  themselves  in  time." 

"  When  they're  dead." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  anybody  Kving,  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,  "  you  buy  the  Gallery,  and  I'll  pay  you 
four  hundred  a  year  for  it.  Then  neither  of  us  will  be  any  the 
worse  off.    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 
poimds  is  a  lump,  and  I'm  not  a  commercial  character." 

June  looked  at  him  with  admiring  appraisement. 

"  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 
off  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  off  Cork  Street." 

'  Ah ! '  thought  Jolyon,  '  I  knew  it  was  just  off  somewhere. 
Now  for  what  I  want  out  of  her!' 

"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'd 

love  to  help  her." 

It  was  Jolyon's  turn  to  squeeze  her  arm,  in  warm  admiration 
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." 


IN  CHANCEEY  459 

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  foundation.  Jolyon  could 
see  that  Irene  was  deeply  affected  by  this  simple  forgiveness. 

"  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,  "■  scms 
amowr." 

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.    Wliat  does  he  want  at  his  age?  " 

"  A  child.    It's  not  unnatural." 

"  A  child !  "  cried  June  scornfully.  "  Of  course !  To  leave 
his- money  to.  If  he  wants  one  badly  enough  let  him  take  some- 
body and  have  one ;  then  you  can  divorce  him,  and  he  can  marry 
her." 

Jolyon  perceived  suddenly  that  he  had  make  a  mistake  to 
bring  June — ^her  violent  partizanship  was  fighting  Soames'  battle. 

"  It  would  be  best  for  Irene  to  come  quietly  to  us  at  Eobin 
Hill,  and  see  how  things  shape." 

"  Of  course,"  said  June ;  "  only " 

Irene  looked  full  at  Jolyon — in  all  his  many  attempts  after- 
wards to  analyze  that  glance  he  never  could  succeed. 


460  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"  No !  I  should  only  bring  trouble  on  you  all.  I  will  go 
abroad." 

He  knew  from  her  voice  that  this  was  final.  The  irrelevant 
thought  flashed  through  him:  'Well,  I  could  see  her  there.' 
But  he  said : 

"  Don't  you  think  you  would  be  more  helpless  abroad,  in  case 
he  followed?" 

"  I  don't  know.    I  can  but  try." 

June  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room.  "  It's  all  horrible,"  she 
said.  "  Why  should  people  be  tortured  and  kept  miserable  and 
helpless  year  after  year  by  this  disgusting  sanctimonious  law  ?  " 
But  someone  had  come  into  the  room,  and  June  came  to  a  stand- 
still.   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  if  s  a  pleasure  to  do  anything,  at  any  time,  remember  that. 

And  if  you  change  your  mind !     Come  along,  June;  say 

good-bye." 

June  came  from  the  window  and  flung  her  arms  round  Irene. 

"Don't  think  of  him,"  she  said  under  her  breath;  "enjoy 
yourself,  and  bless  you !  " 

With  a  memory  of  tears  in  Irene's  eyes,  and  of  a  smile  on  her 
lips,  they  went  away  extremely  silent,  passing  the  lady  who  had 
interrupted  the  interview  and  was  turning  over  the  papers  on 
the  tabla 

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  emo- 
tions 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 


IN  CHANCERY  461 

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  crea- 
ture, 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  comers.  '  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 
Eainbow. 


CHAPTEE IV 

WHEEB  FOESYTES  FEAR  TO  TEEAD 

Quivering  from  the  defeat  of  Ms  hopes,  with  the  green  moroccc 
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 — heB 
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  sev- 
eral times  in  the  routine  of  his  profession,  even  quite  lately  over 
Dartie's  case,  but  he  had  never  thought  it  possible  to  employ 
them  to  watch  his  own  wife. 

It  was  too  insulting  to  himself! 

He  slept  over  that  project  and  his  wounded  pride — or  rather, 
kept  vigil.  Only  while  shaving  did  he  suddenly  remember  that 
she  called  herself  by  her  maiden  name  of  Heron.  Polteed  would 
not  know,  at  first  at  all  events,  whose  wife  she  was,  would  not 
look  at  him  obsequiously  and  leer  behind  his  back.  She  would 
just  be  the  wife  of  one  of  his  clients.  And  that  would  be  true — 
for  was  he  not  his  own  solicitor? 

He  was  literally  afraid  not  to  put  his  design  into  execution 
at  the  first  possible  moment,  lest,  after  all,  he  might  fail  himself. 
And  making  Warmson  bring  him  an  early  cup  of  coffee,  he  stole 
out  of  the  house  before  the  hour  of  breakfast.  He  walked  rapidly 
to  one  of  those  small  West  End  streets  where  Polteed's  and  other 

462 


IN"  CHANCERY  463 

firms  ministered  to  the  virtues  of  the  wealthier  classes.  Hith- 
erto 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  overpowering  con- 
sideration. 

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  client  sends  for  me,'  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  '  he 
takes  what  precaution  he  likes.  If  he  comes  here,  we  convince 
him  that  we  have  no  leakages.  I  may  safely  say  we  lead  in  se- 
curity, if  iu  nothing  else.  .  .  .'  "  Now,  sir,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

Soames'  gorge  had  risen  so  that  he  could  hardly  speak.  It  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  hide  from  this  man  that  he  had  any  but 
professional  interest  in  the  matter;  and,  mechanically,  his  face 
assumed  its  sideway  smile. 

"  I've  come  to  you  early  like  this  because  there's  not  an  hour 
to  lose  " — ^if  he  lost  an  hour  he  might  fail  himself  yet !  "  Have 
you  a  really  trustworthy  woman  free  ? " 

Mr.  Polteed  unlocked  a  drawer,  produced  a  memorandum,  ran 
his  eyes  over  it,  and  locked  the  drawer  up  again. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  the  very  woman." 

Soames  had  seated  himself  and  crossed  his  legs — nothing  but 
a  faint  flush,  which  might  have  been  his  normal  complexion,  be- 
trayed 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." 


464  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  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.  "  TTnderstand  me :  Nothing  may  come 
of  this.  If  a  name  gets  out,  or  the  watching  is  suspected,  it  may 
have  very  serious  consequences." 

Mr.  Polteed  nodded.  "  I  can  put  it  into  the  cipher  category. 
Under  that  system  a  name  is  never  mentioned;  we  work  by 
numbers." 

He  unlocked  another  drawer  and  took  out  two  slips  of  paper, 
wrote  on  them,  and  handed  one  to  Soames. 

"Keep  that,  sir;  it's  your  key.  I  retain  this  duplicate.  The 
case  we'll  call  7x.  The  party  watched  will  be  17;  the  watcher 
19 ;  the  Mansions  25 ;  yourself — I  should  say,  your  firm — 31 ;  my 
firm  38,  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  compat- 
ible." 

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,  un- 
clean method,  so  utterly  repugnant  to  one  who  regarded  his  pri- 
vate 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 


IN  CHANCEEY  465 

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  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  with  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  oppor- 
tunity 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  wife, 

"  Winifred  Daetie." 

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  feUow  would  turn  up  again  like  a  bad 
penny.  It  saved  a  thousand  a  year  at  least  to  get  rid  of  him,  be- 
sides all  the  worry  to  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 


466  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  ?  Mtist 
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  understands  that  it's  to  lead  to  a  divorce ; 
but  you  must  seem  genuinely  anxious  to  get  Dartie  back — ^you 
might  practice  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  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  Eow. 

"  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  maa 
to  supplement  and  stiffen  Dreamer. 


IN  CHANCEEY  467 

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.  We  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 
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  comer  on  the  person 
he  was  talking  to;  this,  with  a  disconcerting  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  know  all  that; "  and  coming  round  the  comer  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  ?  " 

"The  sooner "  Soames  began. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Bellby  ?  "  said  Dreamer,  coming  round  his 
corner. 

Mr.  Bellby  seemed  to  snifE  the  air  like  a  hound. 

"We  won't  be  on  till  the  middle  of  December.  We've  no 
need  to  give  um  more  rope  than  that." 

"  No,"  said  Soames,  "  why  should  my  sister  be  incommoded 
by  his  choosing  to  go " 


468  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  To  Jericho ! "  said  Dreamer,  again  coming  round  his  cor- 
ner ;  "  quite  so.  People  oughtn't  to  go  to  Jericho,  ought  they, 
Mrs.  Dartie  ?  "  And  he  raised  his  gown  into  a  sort  of  f antail. 
■■'  I  agree.    We  can  go  forward.    Is  there  anything  more?  " 

"  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  lin- 
gered.   In  spite  of  himself  he  was  impressed  by  Dreamer. 

"  The  evidence  is  all  right,  I  think,"  he  said  to  Bellby.  "  Be- 
tween 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  tiie 
public  like  this?  Why  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  determiaedly  balked,  was  ani- 
mating two  members  of  the  Forsyte  family  towards  riddance  of 
what  they  eould  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  Buller  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  eamfe,  he  was  enabled  to  say  to  everybody : 
'  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  Nichols  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  effi- 
ciency 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  distrustful 
of  Imperial  commitments,  by  which,  moreover,  he  stood  to  lose, 
for  he  owned  De  Beers,  now  going  down  fast,  more  than  a  suffi- 
cient 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 

469 


470  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

crystallising  out  into  vivid  oppositions.  Normal  adolescence, 
ever  in  England  of  a  conservative  tendency,  though  not  taking 
things  tx)o  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.  Kadical  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  re- 
mained 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  wav- 
ered. 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  reme- 
died, still  that  father  had  an  '  air '  which  gave  a  sort  of  glamour 
to  his  creed  of  ironic  tolerance.  Artists,  of  course,  were  notori- 
ously 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  sach 
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  ominious  repulses  at  Stormberg, 
Magersfontein,  Colenso.  The  sturdy  English  soul  reacting  after 
the  first  cried,  '  Ah !  but  Methuen ! '  after  the  second :  '  AJi !  but 
BuUer ! '  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  hostility  he  had  always 


IN  CHANCEKY  471 

felt  towards  his  second-cousin  was  strongly  and  suddenly  rein- 
forced. "  All  right !  "  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." 

"AU  right.    Come  on." 

They  went,  eyeing  each  other  askance,  unsteady,  and  unflinch- 
ing; they  climbed  the  garden  railings.  The  spikes  on  the  top 
slightly  ripped  Val's  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  un- 
clinched  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  gar- 
den 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  college  gate.  They 
went  out  silently,  Val  going  towards  the  Broad  along  the  Brew- 
ery, Jolly  down  the  lane  towards  the  High.     His  head,  still 


472  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

fumed,  was  busy  with  regret  that  he  had  not  displayed  more  sci- 
ence, passing  in  review  the  counters  and  knock-out  blows  which 
he  had  not  delivered.  His  mind  strayed  on  to  an  imagined  com- 
bat, infinitely  unlike  that  which  he  had  just  been  through,  infi- 
nitely gallant,  with  sash  and  sword,  with  thrust  and  parry,  as 
if  he  were  in  the  pages  of  his  beloved  Dumas.  He  fancied  him- 
self La  Mole,  and  Aramis,  Bussy,  Chicot,  and  D'Artagnan  rolled 
into  one,  but  he  quite  failed  to  envisage  Val  as  Coconnas,  Bris- 
sae,  or  Eochefort.  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  Eobin 
Hill.  J^obody  was  there  but  June  and  Holly,  for  his  father 
had  gone  to  Paris.  He  spent  a  restless  and  unsettled  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 
outsides,'  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  Eichmond  Park,  making  a  point  of  jumping  the 
stiff,  high  hurdles  put  up  to  close  certain  worn  avenues  of  grass — 
keeping  his  nerve  in,  he  called  it.  Jolly  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 


IN  CHANCEKY  473 

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  com- 
petitive, and  with  a  strong  sense  of  form,  he  could  not  bear 
to  be  left  behind  in  anything — but  to  do  it  ofi  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  alto- 
gether 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  fellow  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 
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  stroking  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  HoUy  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  grand- 
fathers study.  The  room,  not  much  used  now,  was  still  vaguely 
haunted  for  them  both  by  a  presence  with  which  they  asso- 
ciated 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  aU,  had  been  wont  to  wrestle 
with  his  grandfather,  who  even  at  eighty  had  an  irresistible 


474  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  mysterious  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,'  hav- 
ing had  a  bad  dream,  to  have  the  clutch  of  it  released.  And 
here  JoUy,  having  begun  the  day  badly  by  introducing  fizzy  mag- 
nesia 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  musn't  go  on  like  this." 

"Well,  she  boxed  my  ears,  Gran,  so  I  only  boxed  hers,  and 
then  she  boxed  mine  again." 

"  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  Gib- 
bon'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  iliight  have  been  sitting  there  still, 
with  legs  crossed,  in  the  armchair,  and  domed  forehead  and  deep 
eyes  grave  above  The  Times — ^here  they  came,  those  two  grand- 
children.   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  ?  " 


IlSr  CHANCEEY  475 

Jolly  wished  to  answer :  '  I  should  have/  but  it  seemed  be- 
neath 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?" 

"  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  star- 
ing 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  Md  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,  becoming 
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,  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 


476  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

address?  Holly  wouldn't  give  it  him!  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,  blow- 
ing smoke  through  his  nostrils.  .  .  . 

But  up  in  her  room,  divested  of  her  habit.  Holly  was  still 
frowning.  'He  is  no1r—he  is  not!'  were  the  words  which  kept 
forming  on  her  Ups. 


CHAPTEE  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  fel- 
low Forsytes  abroad — vapid  as  fish  out  of  water  in  their  well- 
trodden  runs  the  Opera,  Eue  de  Eivoli,  and  Moulin  Eouge. 
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  attrac- 
tive in  winter.  The  acrid  savour  from  woodsmoke  and  chestnut- 
roasting  braziers,  the  sharpness  of  the  wintry  sunshine  on  bright 
rays,  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  t«  her  about  the  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  Jolton, 

"  It  will  be  a  happiness  for  me  to  see  you. 

"Irene." 
477 


478  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  pic- 
tured, and  the  expression  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  1  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  diflB.cult;  and  yet,  Paris  was  so  full 
of  its  own  life  that  it  was  often,  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  Op4ra-Comique." 

It  was  the  beginning  of  daily  meetings. 

Jolyon  soon  found  that  for  those  who  desired  a  static  condition 
of  the  affections,  Paris  was  at  once  the  first  and  last  place  iu 
which  to  be  friendly  with  a  pretty  woman.  Kevelation  was 
alighting  like  a  bird  in  his  heart,  singing:  ' Elle  est  ton  reve! 
Elle  est  ton  reve!'  Sometimes  this  seemed  natural,  sometimes 
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 


IN  CHANCEEY  479 

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  say- 
ing nothing  to  destroy  that  pleasure.  It  was  like  watching  a 
starved  plant  draw  up  water,  to  see  her  drink-in  his  companion- 
ship. 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,  expedi- 
tions 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  gentler,  tempered  to  pro- 
tective companionship  by  admiration,  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  phi- 
losophy of  life  seemed  to  march  in  admirable  step  with  his  own, 
conditioned  by  emotion  more  than  by  reason,  ironically  mistrust- 
ful, susceptible  to  beauty,  almost  passionately  humane  and  tol- 
erant, 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  well- 
nigh  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,  per- 
haps even  death.  He  felt  disturbed  to  the  soul,  realising  sud- 
denly how  Irene  had  twined  herself  round  the  roots  of  his  being. 
Thus  threatened  with  severance,  the  tie  between  them — ^for  it 
had  become  a  kind  of  tie — ^no  longer  had  impersonal  quality. 


480  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

The  tranquil  enjoyment  of  things  in  common,  Jolyon  perceived, 
■was  gone  for  ever.  He  saw  his  feeling  as  it  was,  in  the  nature 
of  an  infatuation.  Ridiculous,  perhaps,  but  so  real  that  sooner 
or  later  it  must  disclose  itself.  And  now,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
he  could  not,  must  not,  make  any  such  disclosure.  The  news  of 
Jolly  stood  inexorably  in  the  way.  He  was  proud  of  this  enlist- 
ment; proud  of  his  boy  for  going  off  to  fight  for  the  country; 
for  on  Jolyon's  pro-Boerism,  too.  Black  Week  had  left  his  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  uncon- 
scious. '  Have  I  to  give  up  seeing  that  ? '  he  thought.  '  If  s  un- 
natural, 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  fiood  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  doorway, 
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 

DARTIB  VERSUS  DARTIE 

The  suit — ^Dartie  versus  Dartie — ^for  restitution  of  those  con- 
jugal 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  sympathy,  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  raade  the  fall  in  Consols  a  com- 
paratively 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,  served  to  drug  a  mind  from  which  all  allusions  to 
the  matter  (except  his  own)  were  studiously  kept.  What  wor- 
ried him  as  a  lawyer  and  a  parent  was  the  fear  that  Dartie  might 
suddenly  turn  up  and  obey  the  Order  of  the  Court  when  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  Christ- 
mas 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  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  cos^  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,  rea- 
sonably tenacious  of  his  purpose.  It  was  very  risky  without 
knowing  how  the  land  lay  out  there.     Still,  it  would  look  well 

481 


482  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

with  the  Court;  and  he  would  see  that  Dreamer  brought  it  out. 
"  I  wonder,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  where  that  ballet  goes  after  the 
Argentine  " ;  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  l)ehaving  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  sa'id,  "  that  you  want  to  play  polo  up  at  Oxford." 

Val  became  less  recumbent  in  his  chair. 

"  Rather !  "  he  said. 

"  Well,"  continued  Soames,  "  thaf  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  understood  his  meaning. 

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  pal- 
frey 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  any- 
thing in  daylight  that  did  not  meet  with  tlie  one  response: 
"Sorry;  I've  got  to  see  a  fellow";  and  he  was  put  to  extraor- 
dinary shifts  to  get  in  and  out  of  the  house  unobserved  in  riding 
clothes ;  until,  being  made  a  member  of  the  Goat's  Club,  he  was 
able  to  transport  them  therp,  where  he  could  change  unregarded 


IN  CHANCERY  483 

and  slip  off  on  his  hack  to  Eichmond  Park.  He  kept  his  gro-w- 
ing  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  milk- 
sop in  the  eyes  of  Crum.  All  he  cared  for  was  to  dress  in  his 
last-created  riding  togs,  and  steal  away  to  the  Eobin  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,  rid-^ 
ing  races  sometimes,  and  sometimes  holding  hands.  More  than 
once  of  an  evening,  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  directory !  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  exceptionally  well.  But  when  after  break- 
fast 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  HoUy  ? ' 


484  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Her  voice  interrupted: 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  nice  to  me,  dear  boy  ?  " 

Val  grinned  doubtfully. 

"  Will  you  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  buaness  which  he  had  almost  succeeded 
in  forgetting,  since  nobody  ever  mentioned  it.  In  self-com- 
miseration he  stood  picking  little  bits  of  skin  ofE  his  fingers. 
Then  noticing  that  his  mother's  lips  were  all  awry,  he  said  im- 
pulsively :  "  AH  right,  mother ;  I'll  come.  The  brutes !  "  What 
brutes  he  did  not  know,  but  the  expression  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  blas- 
phemous accompaniment.  Looking  at  himself  in  the  glass,  he 
said,  "  Well,  I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to  show  anything ! "  and 
went  down.  He  found  his  grandfather'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  bully  you "  began  Val. 

"  Oh !  they  won't.    I  shall  be  very  cool.    If  s  the  only  way." 

"  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  turmoil  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. 


IN  CHANCEEY  485 

"  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, 
axe  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,  Wini- 
fred." 

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,  howeypr, 
was  but  a  momentary  vision — of  mahogany,  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  some- 
thing in  this  business.  All  right!  He  would  show  them! 
Squaring  his  shoulders,  he  crossed  his  legs  and  gazed  inscrut- 
ably 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  public!  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 


486  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Lane  and  punishing  the  port;  he  knew  now  where  they  'dug 
them  up.'  All  the.  same  he  found  the  old  buffer  quite  fascinat- 
ing, 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  '  sports- 
man '  with  his  sarcastic  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  respondent" 
(What  a  word!  Was  that  his  father?) — "strained  situation — 
frequent  absences  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Dartie.  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  I ') 

"  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,  flushing  deeper ;  '  you're  not  paid 
to  make  jokes ! ' 

" '  You  will  not  get  the  chance  to  insult  me  again  in  my  own 
house.  I  am  leaving  the  country  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. 

"'1  am  going  to  live  a  new  life. — M.  D.' 

"  And  next  day,  me  Lud,  the  respondent  left  by  the  steamship 
Tiiscwrora  for  Buenos  Aires.  Since  then  we  have  nothing  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 


IN  CHANCEEY  487 

too  and  say :  '  Look  here !  I'm  going  to  see  you  jolly  welj 
treat  her  decently.'  He  subdued  it,  however;  heard  her  sayiag, 
'the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,'  and 
looked  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  confronting  all  these  '  con- 
founded lawyers.'  The  examination  began.  Knowing  that  this 
was  only  the  preliminary  to  divorce,  Vd  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 : 

"Wow,  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  in- 
stinct 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  really  want  his 
father  back.  His  mother  spoke  again,  a  thought  more  fash- 
ionably. 

"  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." 

"  And  you  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  be- 
hind him,  in  the  sudden  crossing  of  his  uncle's  legs,  told  Val 
that  she  had  made  just  the  right  answer.  '  Crafty !  *  he  thought; 
'  by  Jove,  what  humbug  it  all  is ! ' 

The  Judge  was  speaking: 


i88  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"Just  one  more  question,  Mrs.  Daitie.  Are  you  still  fond 
of  your  husband  ?  " 

Val's  hands,  slack  behind  him,  became  fists.  What  business 
had  that  Judge  to  make  things  human  suddenly?  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  behaved  beautifully,  dear.  It  was  such  a  comfort  to 
have  you.    Your  uncle  and  I  are  going  to  lunch." 

"  All  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. 

*  *  *  !tli  ^ 

When  Val  had  left  them  Soames  and  Winifred  made  their  way 
to  the  Cheshire  Cheese.  He  had  suggested  it  as  a  meeting 
place  with  Mr.  Bellby.  At  that  early  hour  of  noon  they  would 
have  it  to  themselves,  and  Winifred  had  thought  it  would  be 
'amusing'  to  see  this  far-famed  hostelry.  Having  ordered  a 
light  repast,  to  the  consternation  of  the  waiter,  they  awaited  its 
arrival  together  with  that  of  Mr.  Bellby,  in  silent  reaction  after 
the  hour  and  a  half's  suspense  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.  He'll  probably  try  the 
divorce — it  will  look  fishy  if  it  comes  out  that  we  knew  of  mis- 
conduct from  the  start.  His  questions  showed  well  enough  that 
he  doesn't  like  this  restitution  dodge." 

"  Pho !  "  said  Mr.  Bellby  cheerily,  « he'll  forget!    Why,  man. 


IN  CHANCERY  489 

he^U  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  about  um !  " 

Soames  nodded. 

"And  I  compliment  ye,  Mrs.  Dartie,"  went  on  Mr.  Bellby; 
"ye've  a  natural  gift  for  giving  evidence.  Steady  as  a 
rock." 

Here  the  waiter  arrived  with  three  plates  balanced  on  one  arm, 
and  the  remark:  "I  'urried  up  the  pudden,  sir.  You'll  find 
plenty  o'  lark  in  it  to-day." 

Mr.  Bellby  applauded  his  forethought  with  a  dip  of  his  nose. 
But  Soames  and  Winifred  looked  with  dismay  at  their  light 
lunch  of  gravified  brown  masses,  touching  them  gingerly  with 
their  forks  in  the  hope  of  distinguishing  the  bodies  of  the  tasty 
little  song-givers.  Having  begun,  however,  they  found  they 
were  hungrier  than  they  thought,  and  finished  the  lot,  with  a 
glass  of  port  apiece.  Conversation  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  vic- 
tory, 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  in- 
creasingly 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  Wini- 
fred a  cheque,  saying: 


490  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"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  Eoehampton  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 
Eichmond  Park,  fearing  to  be  late.  But  again  he  was  alone 
at  the  trysting  spot,  and  this  second  defection  on  the  part  of 
Holly  upset  ham  dreadfully.  He  could  not  go  back  without 
seeing  her  to-day!  Emerging  from  the  Park,  he  proceeded 
towards  Eobin  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  were 
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. 

"  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 

491 


492  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  inadequate  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  imperative 
mood,  as  the  masterful  young  lover,  and  now  he  felt  humble, 
touched,  trembly.  He  was  afraid  to  stir  off  his  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  en- 
gaged," and  striding  towards  the  curtains,  he  drew  them  aside. 
There  at  the  fireplace  in  the  hall  stood  Jolly,  with  his  back 


IN  CHANCEEY  493 

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  ad- 
miring 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  comers 
of  the  worn  Turkey  carpet;  awkwardly  upright,  not  looking  at 
each  other,  quite  incapable  of  seeing  any  humour  in  the  situa- 
tion. 

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." 

Jolly  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  evi- 
dently taking  place  in  him;  and  Val  and  Holly  stared  at  him, 
so  clearly  was  that  struggle  marked;  they  could  even  hear  him 


494  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

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. 

"  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  Holly  vnth  eyes  grown  sud- 
denly, 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  postman.  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. 

"  All  right ! "  he  said.    "  Done !  " 


IN  CHANCEEY  495 

Holly's  face — oh !  it  was  queer !  He  saw  her  flush,  start  for- 
ward. He  had  done  the  right  thing — her  face  was  shining  witli 
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." 

Eeeovering  from  the  impetus  which  had  carried  him  to  that 
decision,  Val  looked  at  him  maliciously  from  under  his  lashes. 
'  All  right,'  he  thought,  '  one  to  you.  I  shall  have  to  join — but 
I'll  get  back  on  you  somewhow.'  And  he  said  with  dignity :  "  I 
shall  be  ready." 

"  We'll  meet  at  the  main  Eecruiting  Office,  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  liem  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 
'showing-off'  was  still,  however,  uppermost.  One  must  do  the 
wretched  thing  with  an  air ! 

"  We  shall  get  plenty  of  riding  and  shooting,  anyway,"  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,  feel- 
ing 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  AT  JAMES' 

Dinner  parties  were  not  now  given  at  James'  in  Paxk  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,  Wini- 
fred, 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'll  be.    Val  likes  you  to  look  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: 

"  He's  an  extravagant  chap,  I'm  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  comfort- 
ably ;  "  I  thought  it  would  be  good  practice  for  Imogen — she 
must  get  used  to  it  now  she^s  coming  out." 

496 


IJN   (JHAJNCEKY  497 

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 
ofi  his  pretty  granddaughter  would  finish  him!  He  had  never 
quite  forgiven  Emily  for  having  been  as  much  taken  in  by  Mon- 
tague 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,  Warm- 
son." 

"  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.  If  s  the  last  of 
the  Madeira  I  had  from  Mr.  Jolyon  when  we  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  sud- 
denly, "  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  recollection 
of  long  moments  among  the  open  gas-jets,  the  cobwebs  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  his- 
tory 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 


498  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  debu- 
tante, 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  bombshell  up  his  sleeve,  this  piece  of  sen- 
sational 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,'  in- 
dissolubly  connected  with  guns  and  horses;  he  had  a  right  to 
swagger — not,  of  course,  that  he  was  going  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  anything!  Still,  the  old  boy  was 
drinking  Madeira,  and  looking  jolly  fit !  Besides,  he  ought  to  be 
pleased  at  this  set-off  to  the  disgrace  of  the  divorce.  The  sight 
of  his  uncle  opposite,  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  grandfather's  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 :  '  Kow  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." 


IN  CHANCERY  499 

"You  didn't  sign?"  from  Uncle  Soames. 

"  Eather !    We  go  into  camp  on  Monday." 

"I  say!"  cried  Imogen. 

All  looked  at  James.  He  was  leaning  forward  with  his  hand 
behind  his  ear. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  said.    "  What's  he  saying  ?    I  can't  hear." 

Emily  reached  forward  to  pat  Val's  hand. 

"  If  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,  tremulously  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  deferentially  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  side- 
long; only  his  mother  sat  unmoving,  till,  affected  by  her  stillness, 
Val  said : 

"  It's  all  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  excep- 
tional in  giving  his  age  as  twenty-one. 

Emily's  voice  brought  him  back  to  earth. 

"  You  mustn't  have  a  second  glass,  James.    Warmson !  " 

"  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  ?  " 

"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 


500  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  Mm."  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  con- 
scious 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  ex- 
pression on  his  uncle's  face,  like — ^like  that  of  a  snarling  dog. 

"  Artists !  "  said  James.  The  word  coming  from  the  very  bot- 
tom 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  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  knowledge  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, 


IN  CHANCERY  501 

'  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  resented  having  had  to  sell  the  house  at  Eobin  Hill;  never 
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 !  I'm  mad,  I  think, 
to  want  her  still.    That  fellow!    If ?    Urn!    No!' 


CHAPTEK  X 

DEATH  OF  THE  DOG  BALTHASAR 

JoLTON,  who  had  crossed  from  Calais  by  night,  arrived  at  Eobin 
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  rambling  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.  '  I'm  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  un- 
bearable !  '  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  fernery  he  could 
see  his  old  dog  Balthasar.  The  animal,  whose  dim  eyes  took  his 
master  for  a  stranger,  was  warning  the  world  against  him.  Jol- 
yon  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  gate,  but  Balthasar  was  not  there,  and,  rather  alarmed, 
he  turned  into  the  fernery.  On  his  fat  side,  looking  up  with 
eyes  already  glazing,  the  old  dog  lay. 

"  What  is  it,  my  poor  old  man  ?  "  cried  Jolyon.  Balthasar's 
curled  and  flufEy  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 

502 


IN  CHANCERY  503 

the  slowly  ceasing  heave  of  the  dog's  side.  He  raised  the  head 
a  little — very  heavy. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  man  ?  Where  are  yon  hurt  ?  "  The  tail  flut- 
tered 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  cov- 
ering 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  conquered 
her  feeling  for  the  Boers.  The  atmosphere  of  his  house  was 
strange  and  pocketty  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  dog  Balthasar!  Two  of 
them  could  remember  nothing  before  his  day;  to  June  he  repre- 
sented the  last  years  of  her  grandfather;  to  Jolyon  that  life  of 
domestic  stress  and  aesthetic  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  off  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  have  one,  may  be  a  pure  altruist;  who  knows?  " 

"  He  won't  be  like  me,  then.  Dad ;  I'm  beastly  selfish." 


504  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

"  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  impos- 
sible 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  ir- 
reconcilable ideas  of  God.  There's  the  Unknowable  Creative 
Principle — one  believes  in  That.  And  there's  the  Sum  of  altru- 
ism in  man — naturally  one  believes  in  That." 

"  I  see.    That  leaves  out  Christ,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Jolyon  stared.  Christ,  the  link  between  those  two  ideas !  Out 
of  the  mouth  of  babes!  Here  was  orthodoxy  scientifically  ex- 
plained at  last !  The  sublime  poem  of  the  Christ  life  was  man's 
attempt  to  join  those  two  irreconcilable  conceptions  of  God. 
And  since  Mie  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  en- 
listed 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 


IlSr  CHANCEEY  505 

generation — this  modern  feud  which  had  no  overt  expression? 

'  Shall  I  tell  the  hoy  about  it? '  he  thought.  But  to  what  end 
— if  he  had  to  stop  short  of  his  own  part? 

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  unresponsive,  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  stiU  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. 


CHAPTEE  XI 

TIMOTHY  STAYS  THE  EOT 

On  Forsyte  'Change  news  of  the  enlistment  spread  fast,  together 
with  the  report  that  June,  not  to  be  outdone,  was  going  to  become 
a  Bed  Cross  nurse.  These  events  were  so  extreme,  so  subversive 
of  pure  Porsyteism,  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  Hay- 
man  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  re- 
semble 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  haS 
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  Kving  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,  ex- 
pected, 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,  Christo- 
pher, whose  spirit  was  so  free  that  he  had  actually  said  he  was 
going  on  the  stage.  All  admitted,  however,  that  this  was  best 
known  to  Timothy  himself,  and  possibly  to  Soames,  who  never 
divulged  a  secret. 

506 


IN  CHANCEEY  507 

Those  few  Forsytes  who  had  seen  him  reported  a  man  of  thick 
and  robust  appearance,  not  very  tall,  with  a  brown-red  com- 
plexion, grey  hair,  and  little  of  the  refinement  of  feature  with 
which  most  of  the  Forsytes  had  been  endowed  by  '  Superior  Dos- 
set'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  un- 
easiness 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  move- 
ments 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  Sun- 
day 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,  concealing  the  lower  part  of  his  face 
with  a  large  hand,  and  were  greeted  by  the  awed  voioe  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!" 

Franeie  was  present,  and  Eustace  had  come  in  his  car;  Wini- 
fred had  brought  Imogen,  breaking  the  ice  of  the  restitution  pro- 
ceedings with  the  warmth  of  family  appreciation  at  Val's  enlist- 
ment; and  Marian  Tweetyman  with  the  last  news  of  Giles  and 
Jesse.  These  with  Aunts  Juley  and  Hester,  young  Nicholas,  Eu- 
phemia,  and — of  all  people ! — George,  who  had  come  with  Eus- 
tace 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  re- 
ducing 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,  smiling  with  a  sort  of  sweet  deprecation,  in- 
timated that  of  course  his  mother  was  very  anxious. 

"  The  Dromios  are  off,  I  hear,"  said  George,  turning  to  Marian 


508  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Tweetyman ;  "  we  shall  all  be  there  soon.    Bn  avant,  the  Forsytes ! 
Eoll,  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,  addressing 
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  drum- 
sticks. 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  was  relief  when  he  got  up, 
offered  his  arm  to  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." 

Prancie  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." 


IN"  CHANCEEY  509 

"  But  if  you  haven't  got  him.  Uncle  Timothy? " 

"Thafs  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." 

And  looking  round  him,  he  added  almost  angrily : 

"  Volunteerin',  indeed !  Throwin'  good  money  after  bad !  We 
must  save !  Conserve  energy — that's  the  only  way."  And  with 
a  prolonged  sound,  not  quite  a  snifE  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  effect  of  something  said  with  conviction  by  one  who  has 
evidently  made  a  sacriiice  to  say  it  is  ever  considerable.  And  the 
eight  Forsytes  left  behind,  all  women  except  young  Nicholas, 
were  silent  for  a  moment  round  the  map.  Then  Prancie 
said: 

"  Keally,  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  progres- 
sive. Think  of  their  giving  up  their  scarlet.  They  were  always 
so  proud  of  it.  And  now  they  all  look  like  convicts.  Hester  and 
I  were  saying  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  July  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  off  her  sister's  next  remark,  for  Juley's  crumpled  cheeks 
had  flushed. 

"  We  had  dear  little  Mrs.  MacAnder  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. 

"  Irene !  Imagine !  After  all  this  time;  walking  with  a  fair 
jjgard " 

"  Auntie !  you'll  kill  me !    A  fair  beard " 

"  I  was  going  tq  say,"  said  Aunt  Juley  severely,  "  a  fair-beard- 


510  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

ed  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  cupboard,  isn't 
she?    And  they're  such  fun." 

Aunt  Hester  sat  down.    Eeally,  Juley  had  done  it  now ! 

"  She  wasn't  much  of  a  skeleton  as  I  remember  her,"  mur- 
mured Euphemia,  "  extremely  well-covered." 

"  My  dear !  "  said  Aunt  Juley,  "  what  a  peculiar  way  of  put- 
ting it — not  very  nice." 

"  No,  but  what  was  she  Hke?  "  persisted  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  ?  "  pursued  the  inex- 
orable Imogen,  moving  her  dark  luscious  eyes  from  face  to  face. 

Aunt  Hester  made  a  gesture  of  despair,  just  as  Aunt  Juley  an- 
swered :  "  Yes,  your  Uncle  Soames  was  very  much  attached  to 
ner." 

"  I  suppose  she  ran  off  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." 

But  Aunt  Juley  interjected  resolutely :  "  She — she  didn't  be- 
have at  all  well." 

"  Oh,  bother ! "  cried  Imogen ;  "  thaf  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  particu- 
larly expensive  essence  of  giUy-flower  herself. 

"  I  can't  think  what  we  are  about,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  raising 
her  hands,  "  talking  of  such  things !  " 


IN  CHANCEEY  511 

"  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  ?  " 

"  N"o  one.  Uncle,"  replied  Prancie  with  perfect  truth. 

Timothy  took  his  map  ofE  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  nowadays,  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  sub- 
dued 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."  .  .  . 

That  evening,  when  she  and  Hester  were  sitting  along  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  The  Times; 
"  he  had  it  in  his  pocket,  but  he  wouldn't  show  it  us." 

Aunt  Juley  was  silent,  ruminating.  The  clock  ticked,  The 
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." 


CHAPTEE  XII 

PEOGEESS   OP   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  heen  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 — ^restaurants,  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  vice  versa.  They  went  to  Pontainebleau — ^but  nothing 
of  value.  In  short,  the  situation  is  promising,  but  requires  pa- 
tience."   And  looking  up  suddenly,  he  added : 

"  One  rather  curious  point — 47  has  the  same  name  as — er — 
31!" 

'  The  feUow  knows  I'm  her  husband,'  thought  Soames. 

"  Christian  name — an  odd  one — Jolyon,"  continued  Mr.  Pol- 
teed. "  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  any- 
thing fresh  in." 

He  returned  with  some  letters.  Eelocking  the  door,  he  glanced 
at  the  envelopes. 

"  Yes,  here's  a  personal  one  from  19  to  myself." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Soames. 

"Um! "  said  Mr.  Polteed,  "she  says:  '47  left  for  England 
to-day.  Address  on  his  baggage :  Eobin  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 

512 


IJN   CHAJSiCEEY  513 

47  in  England  if  you  think  desirable,  no  doubt.' "  And  Mr.  Pol- 
teed  lifted  an  unprofessional  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  let- 
ting-up  on  17,  and  keeping  an  eye  on  47.  We  can't  get  at  corre- 
spondence 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  ai 
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." 

"  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,  hig  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  suggested  ?  Or  was  Jolyon 
but  taking  compassion  on  her  loneliness,  as  he  would  call  it— 


514  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  ? 

'  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  the  City.  .  .  . 

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  con- 
ducted 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  curtains  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  Ms 
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  difiBcult.    I  don't  want  you  to  go  using 


IN  CHANCERY  515 

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  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  miscon- 
ceive 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  influence," 
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  'femin- 
ist,' 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  opinion* 
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  responsibility." 

Jolyon  rose  and  made  him  a  slight  bow. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and,  without  ofEering  to  shake  hands, 
moved  away,  leaving  Soames  staring  after  him.  '  We  Forsytes,' 
thought  Jolyon,  hailing  a  cab,  '  are  very  civilised.  With  simpler 
folk  that  might  have  come  to  a  row.    If  it  weren't  for  my  boy 

going  to  the  war '    The  war !    A  -gnst  of  his  old  doubt  swept 

over  him.  A  precious  war !  Domination  of  peoples  or  of  women ! 
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,  '  I 
always  felt  "  agin  "  'em,  anyway ! '  Yes !  Even  before  his  first 
disastrous  marriage  he  could  remember  fuming  over  the  blud- 


516  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

geoning  of  Ireland,  or  the  matrimonial  suits  of  women  trying  to 
be  free  of  men  they  loathed.  Parsons  would  have  it  that  free- 
dom 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  I  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,  who  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  Eobin  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  gnaw- 
ing 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  mustn't  rush  things,' 
he  thought.  '  I  have  some  breathing  space;  he's  not  going  back 
to  Paris,  unless  he  was  lying.  I'll  let  the  spring  come  I '  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:  '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 ! 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

'HEEE  WE  ARE  AGAIN!' 

Imogen's  frocks  for  her  first  season  exercised  the  jiadgment  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  doubtfully  desired ;  took  her 
mind,  too,  off  her  boy  and  his  fast  approaching  departure  for  a 
war  from  which  the  news  remained  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  Eegert  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  pa- 
tience 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  unpleasant — she  often  looked  so  nice,  and  flattery  was  im- 
plicit 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 

517 


518  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Imogen  a  good  send-off — ^Winifred  passed  towards  the  silver  bas- 
ket 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.  Bather  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 — ^whipping  up  nostal- 
gia 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,  sad- 
dening, silly!  In  the  silver  basket  were  new  cards,  two  with 
'Mr.  and  Mrs.  Polegate  Thom,'  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.'  Upstairs 
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  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  ap- 
peared 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,  become  sar- 
donic; 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 


IN  CHANCEKY  519 

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  hus- 
band 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 !" 

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  resentment.  He  put  his  hand  up 
to  his  moustache;  but  did  not  frizz  and  twist  it  in  the  old  fa- 
miliar way,  he  just  pulled  it  downwards. 

"  Gad ! "  he  said :  "  If  you  knew  the  time  I've  had ! " 

"I'm  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  her,"  cried  Winifred,  "  I  go  straight  out  t-o 
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." 


520  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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?" 

She  gave  him  one  from  a  little  hox  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  you 
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  run- 
ning, 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  mor 
ment  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  be- 
stowed 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  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  yet ! '  But  that  woman  who  had  reduced 
tiim  to  those  words :    '  I've  been  through  it.     I've  been  fright- 


IN  CHANCEEY  521 

ened — frightened,  Freddie!'  She  neared  her  father's  house, 
driven  this  way  and  that,  while  all  the  time  the  Forsyte  under- 
tow was  drawing  her  to  deep  conclnsion  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 !    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  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?" 


522  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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,  remembering 
the  look  on  her  husband's  face.  The  burnt  child — the  burnt 
child.    Perhaps ! 

"Eecovers?"  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  remark- 
able for  a  Canaletto  too  doubtful  to  be  placed  elsewhere,  and  a 
line  collection  of  Law  Keports  unopened  for  many  years.  Here 
she  stood,  with  her  back  to  maroon-coloured  curtains  close- 
drawn,  staring  at  the  empty  grate,  till  her  mother  came  in  fol- 
lowed 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  expres- 
sion 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  Wini- 
fred 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  sugges- 
tions 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  punirfi 
him,  she  could  do  it  at  home  without  the  world  knowing. 


IN  CHANCEEY  523 

"  Well,"  said  Emily,  "  come  into  the  dining-room  comfort- 
ably— 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  eixpression  as  if  he  saw  before  him  a  frog  too  large  to 
swallow. 

"  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.  Something  wry 
occurred  about  his  shaven  mouth  and  chin,  something  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  o£E,  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  Wini- 
fred was  surprised  when  she  said :  "  No,  I'll  keep  him  now  he's 
back;  he  must  just  behave — that's  all." 


524  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

They  all  looked  at  her.  It  had  always  been  known  that  Wini- 
fred had  pluck. 

"  Out  there !  "  said  James  elliptieally,  "  who  knows  what  cut- 
throats !  You  look  for  his  revolver !  Don't  go  to  bed  without. 
You  ought  to  have  Warmson  to  sleep  in  the  house.  I'll  see  him 
myself  to-morrow." 

They  were  touched  by  this  declaration,  and  Emily  said  com- 
fortably :     "  That's  right,  Janies,  we  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  went  over  to  kiss  her 
father  good-night,  he  looked  up  with  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  any- 
one— 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  win- 
dow-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  wor- 
ried. If  you  aren't  going  to  behave  yourself,  you  may  go  back, 
you  may  go  anywhere.    Have  you  had  dinner?" 

"  No." 

"  Would  you  like  some  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Imogen  offered  me  some.    I  didn't  want  any." 

Imogen !  In  the  plenitude  of  emotion  Winifred  had  forgotten 
her. 


IN  CHANCEEY  525 

"  So  you've  seen  her  ?    What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  gave  me  a  kiss." 

With  mortification  Winifred  saw  his  dark  sardonic  face  re- 
laxed.   '  Yes ! '  she  thought,  '  he  cares  for  her,  not  for  me  a  bit.' 

Dartie's  eyes  were  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  Icnowing! 

"  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  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  'worrying,'  but 
gnawed  by  jealousy  of  what  he  had  been  through,  and  now  and 
again  just  visited  by  pity. 


CHAPTEE  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  make  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  Eestaurant  Bretagne  without  going  in,  and  wan- 
der 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  Eegent  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  fea- 
thers, every  appanage  of  idiocy,  as  it  seemed  to  him.  Maf  eking ! 
Of  course,  it  had  been  relieved!  Good!  But  was  that  an  ex- 
cuse? 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  your  hair  on,  stucco ! '  A 
youth  so  knocked  off  his  top-hat  that  he  recovered  it  with  diffi- 
culty. 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, 

fi9fi 


IN  CHANCEEY  537 

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  Eegent 
Street,  in  Piccadilly !  What  were  the  poHce  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  dwell- 
ings, 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  remembered 
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  hysteri- 
cal— it  wasn't  English!  And  all  about  the  relief  of  a  little 
town  as  big  as — ^Watford,  six  thousand  miles  away.  Eestraint, 
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  his  way  on.  It  was  as  if  he  had  sud- 
denly 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  discover- 
ing 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  sun- 
burnt from  racing,  holding  a  false  nose  in  his  hand. 

"  Hallo,  Soames !  "  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." 


538  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'In  vino  Veritas/  thought  Soames,  but  he  only  nodded,  and 
passed  on  up  Hamilton  Place.  There  was  but  a  trickle  of  roy- 
sterers  in  Park  Lane,  not  very  noisy.  And  looking  up  at  the 
houses  he  thought :  '  After  all,  we're  the  backbone  of  the  coun- 
try. They  won'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  twen- 
ty-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  For- 
syte 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  bee- 
hives, the  Galleries  which  smelled  of  beeswax.  He  was  too  cau- 
tious and  too  shy  to  explore  that  side  of  Paris  supposed  by  For- 
sytes 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  prosecu- 
tion of  his  own  legitimate  affairs.  He  went,  indeed,  because 
things  were  getting  past  a  joke.  The  watch  went  on  and  on,  and 
— nothing — ^nothing !  Jolyon  had  never  returned  to  Paris,  and 
no  one  else  was  '  suspect ! '  Busy  vnth  new  and  very  confiden- 
tial matters,  Soames  was  realising  more  than  ever  how  essential 

529 


530  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

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,  any- 
way! 

He  went  to  an  hotel  in  the  Eue  Caumartin,  highly  recom- 
mended to  F'orsytes,  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  flight. 
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  Eeine,'  where  Irene's 
hotel  was  situated,  almost  too  suddenly,  for  he  had  not  yet  fixed 
on  his  procedure.  Crossing  over  to  the  river  side,  he  noted  the 
building,  white  and  cheerful-looking,  with  green  sunblinds,  seen 
through  a  screen  of  plane-tree  leaves.  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  was  not  quite  eleven  o'clock,  and  improbable 
that  she  had  yet  gone  out.  Some  pigeons  were  strutting 
and  preening  their  feathers  in  the  pools  of  sunlight  between  the 
shadows  of  the  plane-trees.  A  workman  in  a  blue  blouse  passed, 
and  threw  them  crumbs  from  the  paper  which  contained  his 
dinner.  A  '  bonne '  coiffed  with  ribbon  shepherded  two  little 
girls  with  pigtails  and  frilled  drawers.  A  cab  meandered  by, 
whose  cocker  wore  a  blue  coat  and  a  black-glazed  hat.     To 


IN  CHANCEKY  531 

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,  with  a  sense  of  in- 
jury that  Fate  should  be  casting  his  life  into  outlandish  waters. 
He  shouldn't  wonder  if  Irene  quite  enjoyed  this  foreign  life; 
she  had  never  been  properly  English — even  to  look  at !  And  ho 
began  considering  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  obstinacy  ? 
He  threw  the  fag-end  of  his  cigarette  at  a  pigeon,  with  the 
thought:  'I  can't  stay  here  for  ever  twiddling  my  thumbs. 
Better  give  it  up  and  call  on  her  in  the  late  afternoon.'  But  he 
still  sat  on,  heard  twelve  strike,  and  then  half -past.  '  I'll  wait 
till  one,'  he  thought,  'while  I'm  about  it.'  But  just  then  he 
started  up,  and  shrinkingly  sat  down  again.  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  away  to  recognise  him,  then  set  out  after  her.  She 
was  strolling  as  though  she  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  difficulty 
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,  ridiculously,  in  burning  jealousy  for 
her  and  young  Bosinney.  The  path  bent  sharply,  and,  hurry- 
ing, 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  griev- 
ances 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  ex- 
plain his  presence,  he  pointed  to  the  mournful  little  Niobe,  and 
said: 


533  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"  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." 

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  ilesh  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.    G-ood-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." 

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' 


IN  CHANCEEY  533 

— so  extreme,  so  primitive — made  all  the  Forsyte  in  him  trem- 
ble. With  a  deep  imprecation  he  strode  away  from  where  .she 
had  vanished,  and  ran  almost  into  the  arms  of  the  lady  saunter- 
ing 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-skinnedness. 
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  crSpe  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  resolu- 
tion to  go  and  dine  at  her  hotel.  If  she  were  there,  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  will  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  un- 
read. Then  he  went  out,  and  made  his  way  through  the  glow- 
ing streets,  abandoned  to  evening  pleasure-seekers.  Entering 
her  hotel,  he  took  his  seat  in  a  far  corner  of  the  dining-room. 


534  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

whence  he  could  see  all  entrances  and  exits.  She  was  not  there. 
He  ate  little,  quickly,  watchfully.  She  did  not  come.  He  lin- 
gered in  the  lounge  over  his  coffee,  drank  two  liqueurs  of  brandy. 
But  still  she  did  not  come.  He  went  over  to  the  keyboard  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 

roimd  and  turned  the  handle.  The  door  opened,  but  into  a  lit- 
tle space  leading  to  another  door;  he  knocked  on  that — ^no  an- 
swer. 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." 

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  yel- 
low-wheeled Victoria  all  over  star-shaped  Paris,  with  here  and 
there  a  pause,  and  the  question,  "  C'est  par  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  Dutch- 
Aian  of  a  cab. 

'  'Lak'-  my  life,'  thought  Soames, '  without  object,  on  and  on ! ' 


CHAPTBK  II 

IN  THE  WEB 

SoAMES  returned  to  England  the  following  day,  and  on  the  third 
morning  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  Polteed,  who  wore  a  ilower 
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 
iius,tified  in  calling  conclusive  evidence,"  andl  Mt.  Polteed 
paused. 

"Well?" 

"  On  the  10th  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. 

"  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, 

535 


536  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

evening  dress  at  night,  pale,  dark  hair,  small  dark  moustaclie, 
flat  cheeks,  good  chin,  grey  eyes,  small  feet,  guilty  look ' " 

Soames  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  He  stood  there  in  sar- 
donic fury.  Congenital  idiot — spidery  congenital  idiot!  Seven 
months  at  fifteen  pounds  a  week — 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. 

"Pity,"  he  said,  "quite  a  pity!  That  other  affair  seemed 
very  costive." 

Soames  rose. 

"  Never  mind  that.  Please  watch  47,  and  take  caxe  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,  ridiculous 
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. 


IN  CHANCERY  537 

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  An- 
nette?" 

Her  whole  personality  had  become,  as  it  were,  like  jet — dear- 
cut,  black,  hard,  shining. 

"  Annette  is  young,"  she  said ;  "  so  is  monsimr  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." 

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!  ga — mwis  rums  avons  le  temps!"  was  all  she  said. 
"  Another  little  cup  ?  "  Soames  refused,  and,  taking  his  leave, 
walked  westward. 

He  had  got  that  off  his  mind ;  she  would  not  let  Annette  com- 
mit 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  free- 
dom 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  iind  out. 
For  since  that  last  and  most  ignominious  repulse  his  wounded 


538  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  cablegram 
was  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  de- 
parture 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  '  won- 
derfulness '  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 
off.'  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  wide  and  doubtful — had  no  such  hope.  Poor  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 

539 


540  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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?  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  dan- 
ger." 

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  them  I  should  feel  aw- 
ful.   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.  Tenderness  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  all  terribly  dis- 
tasteful. 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 


IN  CHANCERY  541 

a  single  cabin ;  but  one  of  us  could  sleep  on  the  floor.  If  you 
consent,  she'll  go  up  now  and  get  permission." 

'  Consent?'  thoug-ht  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  Val'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  expres- 
sion 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  ofiicial  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  evening,  and  they  duly  slid  away  from  him,  pro- 
vided with  money,  invalid  foods,  and  those  letters  of  credit 
without  which  Forsytes  do  not  travel. 

He  drove  back  to  Eobin  Hill  under  a  brilliant  sky  to  his  late 
dinner,  served  with  an  added  care  by  servants  trying  to  show 
him  that  they  sympathised,  eaten  with  an  added  scrupulousness 
to  show  them  that  he  appreciated  that  sympathy.  But  it  was 
a  real  relief  to  get  to  his  cigar  on  the  tertace  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  smelling  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  his  father  was  always  nearest  to  the  house, 
and  his  son  always  nearest  to  the  terrace  edge.     Each  had  an, 


543  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  whisper- 
ing trees,  the  groom  playing  on  his  penny  whistle.  A  multi- 
tude of  stars  up  there — ^bright  and  silent,  so  far  off !  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  loneli- 
ness !  He  could  not  go  on  living  here  alone.  And  yet,  so  long 
as  there  was  beauty,  why  should  a  man  feel  lonely?  The  an- 
swer— as  to  some  idiot's  riddle — ^was:  Because  he  did.  The 
greater  the  beauty,  the  greater  the  loneliness,  for  at  the  back 
of  beauty  was  harmony,  and  at  the  back  of  harmony  was — 
union.  Beauty  could  not  comfort  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  off  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  footlights 
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  was  trying  to  find  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  found  the  curtains  closing  before 
him.    Bitterly  disappointed  he — or  was  it  Soames? — ^moved  on, 


IN  CHANCERY  543 

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  re- 
ceived this  letter: 

"  Grebn  Hotei,, 

"  ElOHMOND. 

"June  13. 
"  My  dear  Jolton, 

"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, 

"  Ikene." 

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  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  pos- 
sess 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 


544  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

beef,  gooseberry  tart,  and  a  dowager  or  two,  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  emo- 
tion, 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 
fuchsia.  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. 

"  Ko.  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  up 
now.  Those  dark  eyes  clinging  to  his  said  as  no  words  could 
have :  '  I  have  come  to  an  end ;  if  you  want  me,  here  I  am.' 

For  sheer  emotional  intensity  had  he  ever — old  as  he  was — 
passed  through  such  a  moment? 

The  words : '  Irene,  I  adore  you ! '  almost  escaped  him.  Then, 
with  a  clearness  of  which  he  would  not  have  believed  mental 
vision  capable,  he  saw  Jolly  lying  with  a  white  face  turned  to 
a  white  wall. 

"  My  boy  is  very  ill  out  there,"  he  said  quietly. 

Irene  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"Let's  walk  on;  I  understand." 

No  miserable  explanation  to  attempt!  She  had  understood! 
And  they  walked  on  among  the  bracken,  knee-high  already,  be- 
tween the  rabbit-holes  and  the  oak-trees,  talking  of  Jolly.  He 
left  her  two  hours  later  at  the  Eichmond  Hill  Gate,  anS  turned 
towards  home. 

'She  knows  of  my  feeling  for  her,  then,'  he  thought.  Of 
course!  One  could  not  keep  knowledge  of  that  from  such  a 
woman! 


CHAPTER  IV 

OVEE  THE  RIVER 

Jolly  was  tired  to  death  of  dreams.  They  had  left  him  now 
too  wan  and  weak  to  dream  again ;  left  him  to  lie  torpid,  faintly 
remembering  far-off  things;  just  able  to  turn  his  eyes  and  gaze 
through  the  window  near  his  cot  at  the  trickle  of  river  running 
by  in  the  sands,  at  the  straggling  milk-bush  of  the  Karoo  be- 
yond. 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  a  rash  drink,  or  perhaps 
a  tainted  fruit — who  knew  ?  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  of 
river  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  wound  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  indifferent  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  steps  at  Harrow  'bill' — 'Here,  sir! 
Here,  sir ! ' — ^wrapping  boots  in  the  Westminster  Oaaette,  green- 
ish paper,  shining  boots — grandfather  coming  from  somewhere 
dark — a  smeU  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. 

545 


546  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  I  .  .  .  '  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-nothing- 
ness 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!  .  .  . 


CHAPTEE  V 

SOAMES  ACTS 

A  SEALED  letter  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Polteed  remained 
unopened  in  Soames'  pocket  throughout  two  hours  of  sustained 
attention  to  the  affairs  of  the  '  New  Colliery  Company/  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  '  winding-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  comer  before  a  plate  of  roast  mutton  and 
mashed  potato,  he  read: 

"Deae  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, 
Eichmond.  The  two  have  been  observed  to  meet  daily  during 
the  past  week  in  Eichmond  Park.  Nothing  absolutely  crucial 
has  so  far  been  notified.  But  in  conjunction  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." 

Soames  read  it  through  twice  and  beckoned  to  the  waiter. 
"Take  this  away;  it's  cold." 
"  Shall  I  bring  you  some  more,  sir  ?  " 
"  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  mar- 

547 


548  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

ble  table  with  the  coffee  before  him.  That  fellow  Jolyon !  He 
poured  out  his  coffee,  sweetened  and  drank  it.  He  would  dis- 
grace 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  com- 
mit 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  con- 
tempt 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,  pre- 
venting 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  fundamentally 
believe  in  themselves  he  was  rising  to  the  occasion,  and,  with  his 
little  sideway  smile,  he  said :  "  I've  had  your  letter.  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  masterpiece. 
It  so  clearly  said :  '  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  But  mere  pro- 
fessional 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 ! ' 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Soames,  moistening  his  lips :  "  there's 
no  need  to  say  more.  I'm  instructing  Linkman  and  Laver  of 
Budge  Eow  to  act  for  me.  I  don't  want  to  hear  your  evidence, 
but  kindly  make  your  report  to  them  at  five  o'clock,  and  con- 
tinue 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?" 


IN  CHANCERY  549 

The  faintest  movement  occurred  to  Mr.  Polteed's  shoulders. 

"  You  can  rist  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  Piccadilly  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  be- 
come more  rich  and  cultured  than  himself  because  he  would 
start  even  better  off.  To  get  old — like  that  thin,  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  from  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  between 
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  pdn  to  think  of  her  with  that  fellow — ^that  stealing 
fellow ! 


CHAPTEE  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  OfiBce  elicited 
nothing;  nor  could  he  expect  to  hear  from  June  and  Holly 
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  nev«r 
been  a  rupture;  nor  one  heart-to-heart  confidence,  not  even 
when  Jolly's  mother  died.  Nothing  but  half-ironical  affection. 
He  had  been  too  afraid  of  committing  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  con- 
tinuity 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  ex- 
pected 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  envelope 
in  Jolyon's  hand  he  wheeled  off  the  path  and  rode  away.  Be- 
wildered, 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, 

550 


IF  CHANCERY  551 

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  vrent 
along.  It  was  an  ironical  business.  For,  whatever  the  Scrip- 
tures 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  re- 
volted 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  conscientiousness 
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  I  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  de- 
grading, 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  walks  in  Richmond  Park,  horrified 
him.  The  brutality  and  hypocritical  censoriousness  of  the  whole 
process;  the  probability  that  they  would  not  be  believed — the 
mere  vision  of  her,  whom  he  looked  on  as  the  embodiment  of 
JSTature  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  thou- 
sand times  better  accept  what  Soames  and  the  gods  had  sent ! 

'Besides,'  he  thought  honestly,  'who  knows  whether,  even 
for  my  bo/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  1 '  he  thought,  '  thun- 


552  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

der!  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  Eobin  Hill/  he  thought. 

^  ■!•  ■!*  n*  *!■ 

The  storm  had  passed  over  the  Poultry  at  four  o'clock,  bring- 
ing welcome  distraction  to  the  clerks  in  every  office.  Soames 
was  drinking  a  cup  of  tea  when  a  note  was  brought  in  to  him : 

"  Deae  Sie, 

Forsyte  v.  Forsyte  and  Forsyte 

"  In  accordance  with  your  instructions,  we  beg  to  inform 
you  that  we  personally  served  the  respondent  and  co-respondent 
in  this  suit  to-day,  at  Richmond,  and  Eobin  Hill,  respectively. 
"  Faithfully  yours, 

"LiNKMAN   AND  LAVEE." 

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  con- 
clusive; 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  ?  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  feUow  to  ground,  and  Goodness  knew  what  decision  they 
might  come  to  after  such  a  shock!  'If  I  were  a  theatrical 
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  ease  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 


IN  CHANCERY  553 

by  their  eyelids  in  the  great  scramble!  Perhaps  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Soames  thought:  'I  could  let  go  if  I  liked! 
Nothing  conld  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  was  what  he  pos- 
sessed and  sought  to  possess.  Only  fools  thought  otherwise — 
fools,  and  socialists,  and  libertines ! 

The  cab  was  passing  villas  now,  going  a  great  pace.  *  Fif- 
teen miles  an  hour,  I  should  think ! '  he  mused ;  '  this'U  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  Common.  This  inter- 
view! Surely  a  man  of  fifty-two  with  grown-up  children,  and 
hung  on  the  line,  would  not  be  reckless.  '  He  won't  want  to  dis- 
grace 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 
handkerchief  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  which  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  to  be  guided  by  this 
or  that  left  him  utterly.  The  look  of  his  farmer  forbears — 
dogged  Forsytes  down  by  the  sea,  from  'Superior  I)osset'  back 
— ^grinned  out  of  his  face. 


554  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  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  open- 
ing. 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 
affairs. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourselves  ?  " 

The  fellow  had  the  effrontery  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  stam- 
mering and  his  hands  twitching.  Neither  of  them  answered; 
but  their  faces  seemed  to  him  as  if  contemptuous. 

"Well,"  he  said;  "you— Irene?" 

Her  lips  moved,  but  Jolyon  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Let  her  alone  I  "  said  Soames  furiously.  "  Irene,  will  you 
swear  it?" 

"No." 

"  Oh!  and  you?" 

"  Still  less." 

"  So  then  you're  guilty,  are  you  ?  " 

"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: 

"  You  are  a  devil." 

"  Go  out !  Leave  this  house,  or  I'll  do  you  an  injury."  That 
fellow  to  talk  of  injuries !  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. 


IN  CHANCEKY  555 

"  I'll  make  you  pay !  "  he  said. 
"  I  shall  be  very  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  wince,  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  restraint  which 
was  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  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  fit  for  it,'  he  thought; 
'  I  mustn't — I'm  not  fit  for  it.'  The  cab  sped  on,  and  in  me- 
chanical 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  Ful- 
ham  Eoad,  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  perspira- 
tion,'he  thought :' Let  them  laugh !  I  won-'f  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 
oxeye  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  Na- 
ture was  wonderfully  poignant.  Under  the  sun-soaked  wall 
ran  a  narrow  strip  of  garden-bed  full  of  mignonette  and  pan- 
sies,  and  from  the  bees  came  a  low  hum  in  which  alT  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  mea- 
dow. 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  in- 
stinct ! 

And  while  they  walked  Jolyon  pondered  those  words :  '  I  hope 
you'll  treat  him  as  you  treated  me.'  That  would  depend  on 
himself.  Could  he  trust  himself?  Did  Nature  permit  a  For- 
syte 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 

556 


IN  CHANCEEY  557 

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  perching- 
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  posses- 
sive instinct  walling  in  that  little  black  figure  of  himself,  and 
Soames — 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.  Dam- 
ages 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  universal  beauty,  deep,  mysterious,  which  the  old 
painters,  Titian,  Giorgione,  Botticelli,  had  known  how  to  cap- 
ture and  transfer  to  the  faces  of  their  women — this  flying  beauty 
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  behind  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. 


558  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"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  telgram.  Watch- 
ing 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: 

"JoLYOsr  Forsyte,  Eobin  Hill. — ^Your  son  passed  pain- 
lessly away  on  June  30th.  Deep  sympathy" — some  name  un- 
known 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  into  the  night.  Gone  out  like  a 
candle  flame;  far  from  home,  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  didn't  really  know  him,'  he  thought, 
'  and  he  didn't  know  me ;  but  we  loved  each  other.  If 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.  Bet- 
ter far  if  he  had  died  in  battle,  without  time  to  long  for  them 
to  come  to  him,  to  call  out  for  them,  perhaps,  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  jip  the  tele- 
gram 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  dined  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  till  that  mo- 
ment 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  aU  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  be- 
came conscious  of  commotion  on  the  second-floor  landing.  His 
mother's  voice  was  saying: 

"Now,  James,  you'U  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  mak- 
ing a  guy  of  yourself  on  the  landing." 

"  He'll  go  up  to  bed,  I  shouldn't  wonder.    I  shan't  sleep." 

"  Now  come  back  to  bed,  James." 

"Hm!     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 ! " 

559 


660  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"  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  stand- 
ing 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,  stoop- 
ing 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  aU  right.  Come  in,  and  I'U  brush  your  hair."  James 
extended  a  thin,  crooked  finger,  oddly  like  the  beckoning  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. 

"  Your  father's  been  in  a  great  state  all  the  evening.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  about."  The  faint  '  whish-whish '  of 
the  brushes  continued  the  soothing  of  her  voice. 

"  No !  ifou  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  somebody'U  pick  up 
Imogen,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Soames  listened  vaguely — ^he  had  heard  all  this  before.  Whish- 
whish !  went  the  brushes. 


IK  CHANCEEY  561 

"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  fel- 
low." (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 !  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." 

Soames  replaced  the  button  hook  on  the  lace  and  pink  silk 
of  the  dressing-table  coverlet. 

"  The  name  ? "  said  Emily,  "  there  are  all  the  other  For- 
sytes." 

"  As  if  that  helped  me,"  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." 

"  If  11  be  a  scandal,"  muttered  James,  as  if  to  himself ;  "  but 
I  can't  help  that.    Don't  brush  so  hard.    When'U  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. 


563  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  atten- 
tion 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'U  be  ever  so  much  more  comfy." 


CHAPTER  IX 

OUT  OP  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  irregularity.  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  wast 
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 — pay- 
ing it  with  the  feeling  that  after  the  suit  came  on  he  would  be 
paying  no  more — felt  knowledge  in  the  air  as  he  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  un- 
comfortable. She  looked  so  piteously  at  Soames,  she  checked 
herself  on  the  point  of  speech  so  often,  that  Aunt  Hester  ex- 
cused herself  and  said  she  must  go  and  bathe  Timothy's  eye— 

563 


564  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  conclusion. 
To  go  on  seeing  all  those  people  who  had  known  him  as  a  '  long- 
headed chap,'  an  astute  adviser — after  that — no !  The  fastidi- 
ousness and  pride  which  was  so  strangely,  so  inextricably 
blended  in  him  with  possessive  obtuseness,  revolted  against  the 
thought.  He  would  retire,  live  privately,  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  amalgama- 
tion 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  impor- 
tant a  stage  of  his  career,  he  made  a  calculation  of  what  he  was 
worth,  and  after  writing  ofE  liberally  for  depreciation  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.  Stand- 
ing among  his  pictures,  he  saw  before  him  a  future  full  of  bar- 
gains 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  ambi- 
tion— to  live  on  her  'rentes'  in  Paris  near  her  grandchildren. 
He  would  buy  the  goodwill  of  the  Eestaurant  Bretagne  at  a 


IN  CHANCEEY  565 

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),  pre- 
cisely 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 
off  the  rose.  He  had  no  illusions  like  Shakespeare  that  roses 
by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet.  The  name  was  a 
possession,  a  concrete,  unstained  piece  of  property,  the  value 
of  which  would  be  reduced  some  twenty  per  cent,  at  least.  Un- 
less it  were  Eoger,  who  had  once  refused  to  stand  for  Parlia- 
ment, and — oh,  irony! — Jolyon,  hung  on  the  line,  there  had 
never  been  a  distinguished  Forsyte.  But  that  very  lack  of  dis- 
tinction 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,  with- 
out any  more  interference  from  the  public  than  had  been  neces- 
sitated 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  per- 
petual 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  faithfully,  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  hisi 
wife,  and  punish  him  when  someone  unlawfully  took  her  away 


566  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  remembered  his  cousin's  words,  "  I 
shall  be  very  happy,"  with  the  uneasy  feeling  that  to  claim 
damages  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 ! "  And  he  gave  instructions  that  his  Coun- 
sel should  state  that  the  money  would  be  given  to  a  Home  for 
Fallen  Women.  He  was  a  long  time  hitting  oflE  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  atten- 
tion. 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  hap- 
pened to  be  exceptionally  thin  that  summer,  so  that  his  case 
would  be  reached  before  August.  As  the  day  grew  nearer,  Wini- 
fred 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  ruffian  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  ?  " 

"  He  says  he's  married,"  said  Winifred. 

"  Whom  to,  for  Goodness'  sake? " 

Winifred  looked  up  at  him. 


IN  CHANCERY  567 

"  To  Holly  Forsyte,  Jolyon's  daughter." 

"What?" 

"  He  got  leave  and  did  it.  I  didn't  even  knovr  he  knew  her. 
Awkward,  isn't  it?" 

Soames  uttered  a  short  laugh  at  that  characteristic  mini- 
misation. 

"Awkward!  Well,  I  don't  suppose  they'll  hear  ahout  this 
till  they  come  back.  They'd  better  stay  out  there.  That  fel- 
low 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  if  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  be- 
trayed 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  al- 
ways 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?" 

"  Yes,  she's  pretty,"  said  Soames.    "  Dark — lady-like  enough." 

'  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'Il  soon  be  over 
now,  you'd  better  let  Val  take  to  farming  out  there." 

It  was  tantamount  to  saying  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  beforehand  that  he 
took  it  all  like  one  dead.  The  moment  the  decree  nisi  was  pro- 
nounced he  left  the  Courts  of  Justice. 


568  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Four  hours  until  he  became  public  property !  '  Solicitor's 
divorce  suit ! '  A  surly,  dogged  anger  replaced  that  dead  feel- 
ing within  him.  '  Damn  them  all ! '  he  thought;  '  I  won't  run 
away.  I'll  act  as  if  nothing  had  happened.'  And  in  the  swelter- 
ing 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 
every  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!  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 
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  disenchanted  home 
of  rapscallionism.  Alone,  the  Eestaurant  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  discomfiture  Annette  answered  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 


IN  CHANCEEY  569 

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  shoul- 
der, 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 ! 

"Do  you  feel  better?" 

"Ifs  nothing,"  said  Soames.  Instinct  told  him  that  to  be 
feeble  before  her  was  not  helping  him — age  was  enough  handi- 
cap without  that.  Will-power  was  his  fortune  with  Annette; 
he  had  lost  ground  these  latter  months  from  indecision — ^he 
could  not  afford  to  lose  any  more.     He  got  up,  and  said : 

"I'U  write  to  your  mother.  I'm  going  down  to  my  river 
house  for  a  long  holiday.  I  want  you  both  to  come  there  pres- 
ently 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 
n»  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  ?  " 
"  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  expression. 
'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  domestic 
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  miss  a 
substance ! 

The  tremendous   effort  it  was  to  write  a  simple  note  to 


570  THE  rOESYTE  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  con- 
firmed 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  FORS-JTE." 

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  Pad- 
dington  Station  and  took  the  first  train  to  Eeading.  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  pico- 
tees  in  his  fiower-borders.    A  stealing  coolness  came  off  the  river. 

Eest — ^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  cornflower-blue  sky  where  stars 
were  coming  up — let  him  cease  from  himself,  and  rest! 


CHAPTEE  X 

PASSING  OP  AN  AGE 

The  marriage  of  Soames  with  Annette  took  place  in  Paris  on 
the  last  day  of  January,  1901,  with  such  privacy  that  not  even 
Emily  was  told  until  it  was  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  any- 
where 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  ? 
What  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  differ- 
ently from  us.  They  look  at  marriage  from  the  point  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 

571 


57a  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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,  perpetuation  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  musi; 
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  lis  fancy.  In  '37,  when  she  came  to  the 
throne,  '  Superior  Dosset '  was  still  iDuilding  houses  to  make 
London  hideous ;  and  James,  a  stripling  of  twenty-six,  just  lay- 
ing 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  cabriolets ;  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  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!  Morals 
had  changed,  manners  had  changed,  men  had  become  monkeys 
twice-removed,  God  had  become  Mammon — Mammon  so  respect- 
able as  to  deceive  himself.  Sixty-four  years  that  favoured  prop- 
erty, and  had  made  the  upper  middle  class ;  buttressed,  chiselled, 
polished  it,  till  it  was  almost  indistinguishable  in  manners,  mor- 
als, speech,  appearance,  habit,  and  soul  from  the  nobility.  An 
epoch  which  had  gilded  individual  liberty  so  that  if  a  man  had 
money,  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 


IN  CHANCEEY  573 

Age,  whose  transmuting  influence  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  emerged  from  her  seclusion 
for  the  last  time  to  make  a  London  holiday.  From  Hounds- 
ditch,  Acton,  Ealing,  Hampstead,  Islington,  and  Bethnal  Green ; 
from  Hackney,  Hornsey,  Leytonstone,  Battersea,  and  Fulham; 
and  from  those  green  pastures  where  Forsytes  flourish — Mayfair 
and  Kensington,  St.  James'  and  Belgravia,  Bayswater  and  Chel- 
sea and  the  Regent's  Park,  the  people  swarmed  down  on  to  the 
roads  where  death  would  presently  pass  with  dusky  pomp  and 
pageantry.  N"ever  again  would  a  Queen  reign  so  long,  or  people 
have  a  chance  to  see  so  much  history  buried  for  their  money.  A 
pity  the  war  dragged  on,  and  that  the  Wreath  of  Victory  could 
not  be  laid  upon  her  cofBn!  All  else  would  be  there  to  follow 
and  commemorate — soldiers,  sailors,  foreign  princes,  half-mast- 
ed 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,  Soames  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  sub- 
stantially 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  chat- 
tered above  like  monkeys,  threw  twigs  and  orange-peel.    It  was 


574  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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.  They  looked  happy!  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  dis- 
tinguee!" 

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  whis- 
per, "  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  murmuring  groan 
from  all  the  long  line  of  those  who  watched,  a  sound  such  as 
Soames  had  never  heard,  so  unconscious,  primitive,  deep  and 
wild,  that  neither  he  nor  any  knew  whether  they  had  joined  in 


IN  CHANCERY  575 

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  hu- 
man sound,  and  yet  inhuman,  pushed  out  by  animal  subcon- 
sciousness, 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  be- 
gan, eager  to  retrieve  interest  in  the  show.  Soames  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  gone!  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  fly  still, 
he  shouldn't  wonder.  What  a  lot  of  people  out  there  I  It  didn't 
seem  so  very  long  since,  he  and  Swithin  stood  in  the  crowd  out- 
side 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 
had  joined  with  Eoger  in  renting  a  balcony  in  Piccadilly.  Jol- 
yon, Swithin,  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  Kriiger  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  Emily  had  asked  Dartie  to  lunch,  with  Winifred  and 
Imogen,  to  meet  Soames'  wife — she  was  always  doing  some- 


576  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

thing.  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  impossibility  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  window, 
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  pro- 
cession, 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: 

"  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  the  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  pass- 
ing. 

"  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 


iJ\  CHANCBEY  577 

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  little  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  grand- 
son of  his  name. 

Gazing  at  him,  so  old,  thin,  white,  and  spotless,  Annette  mur- 
mured something  in  French  which  James  did  not  understand. 

"  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  cocktail  besid&- 
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, 
composure,  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  n'amie; 
pas  ce  type — la! " 

"  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  oiJier  house  of  my  relations  I  must  take 


578  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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." 

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  care- 
ful— such  a  good  hush "    Aunt  Juley  checked  herself,  and 

placed  her  lips  just  under  each  of  Annette's  eyes — she  after- 
wards described  them  to  Prancie,  who  dropped  in,  as :  "  Corn- 
flower-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 
was  alluring,  wasn't  she?  with  that  white  skin  and  those  dark 
eyes,  and  that  hair,  couleur  de — ^what  was  it?    I  always  forget." 

"  Feuille  morte,"  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  connection." 

"  Oh ! "  replied  Aunt  Juley,  rather  flustered,  "  it  was  so  al- 
luring, and  her  eyes  and  hair,  you  know "    She  was  silent, 

as  if  surprised  in  some  indelicacy.  "  Feuille  morte,"  she  added 
suddenly ;  "  Hester — do  remember  that ! "  .  .  . 

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,  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,  com- 
posed :    "  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  ri- 


IJN   UHAJNCEKY  579 

diculous;  he  had  waited  to  be  married  before  mentioning  it; 
and  now  he  wished  he  hadn't. 

"And  what  part  do  you  know  best?"  said  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  down  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  alto- 
gether 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. 

"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  under- 
standing. 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  restau- 
rant 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 — 
thaf  s  all." 

"  I  see,"  said  Annette;  "  it  is  the  same  m  France." 

"  Oh ! "  murmured  Soames,  at  once  relieved  and  taken  aback. 
"  Of  course,  class  is  everything,  really.'' 

"  Yes,"  said  Annette ;  "  comme  vous  etes  sage." 

'  That's  all  right,'  thought  Soames,  watching  her  lips,  '  only 
she's  pretty  cynical.'     His  knowledge  of  French  was  not  yet 


580  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

such  as  to  make  him  grieve  that  she  had  not  said  '  tu'  He 
slipped  his  arm  round  her,  and  murmured  with  an  effort: 

"  Et  vous  etes  ma  belle  fem/me." 

Annette  went  off  into  a  little  fit  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  non!"  she  said.  "Oh,  non!  ne  parlez,  pas  FroMgcds, 
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. 


CHAPTEE  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  recovered  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.  In- 
deed, 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  backr 
wards  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  col- 
umn of  TJie  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  di- 
vorced wife,'  'of  Soames  Forsyte.'  Altogether,  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  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 

581 


682  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

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  wife  was  nursing  him.  He  would  have  a  little  limp — 
nothing  to  speak  of.  He  wanted  his  grandfather  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  com- 
fortable, 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 
wise,  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  oc- 
cupation for  him." 

Aunt  Juley  thought  that  horses  were  very  uncertain,  had  not 
Montague  found  them  so? 

"  Val's  different,"  said  Winifred ;  "  he  takes  after  me." 

Aunt  Juley  was  sure  that  dear  Val  was  very  clever.  "  I  al- 
ways 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  was 
much  better  for  the  young  people  to  be  secure  and  not  run  any 
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  borfed  to  death." 

Aunt  Hester  thought  that  it  would  be  nice  for  him  to  work, 
if  he  were  quite  sute  not  to  lose  by  it.  It  was  not  as  if  they 
had  no  money.  Timothy,  of  course,  had  done  so  well  by  re- 
tiring. Aunt  Juley  wanted  to  know  what  Montague  had 
said. 

Winifred  did  not  tell  her,  for  Montague  had  merely  remarked : 
"  Wait  till  the  old  man  dies." 

At  this  moment  Francie  was  announced.  Her  eyes  were 
brimming  with  a  smile. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"Of  what,  dear?" 

"  In  The  Times  this  morning." 


IN  CHANCERY  583 

"  We  haven't  seen  it,  we  always  read  it  after  dinner ;  Timothy 
has  it  till  then." 

Prancie  rolled  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  you  ought  to  tell  us?"  said  Aunt  Juley. 
"What  was  it?" 

"  Irene's  had  a  son  at  Eobin  Hill." 

Aunt  Juley  drew  in  her  breath.  "  But,"  she  said,  "  they  were 
only  married  in  March !  " 

"  Yes,  Auntie ;  isn't  it  interesting  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Winifred,  "  I'm  glad.  I  was  sorry  for  Jolyon 
losing  his  boy.     It  might  have  been  Val." 

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  al- 
ways told  me  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Winifred,  "  he's  going  to — ^bar  accidents." 

Gladness  trickled  out  of  Aunt  Juley's  eyes. 

"  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  Kensing- 
ton Gardens.  To  wait,  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. 


584  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

with  his  tendency  to  give  them  pictures,  and  his  almost  weekly 
visits  which  they  missed  so  much,  and  his  need  for  their  sym- 
pathy evoked  by  the  wreck  of  his  first  marriage.  This  new 
■event — the  birth  of  an  heir  to  Soames — ^was  so  important  for 
him,  and  for  his  dear  father,  too,  that  James  might  not  have 
to  die  without  some  certainty  about  things.  James  did  so  dis- 
like uncertainty;  and  with  Montague,  of  course,  he  could  not 
feel  really  satisfied  to  leave  no  grandchildren  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  Eoger.  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  Kew  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  afterwards.  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  «xertion.  Any  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 
■exciting;  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 
«xtraordinary  animation,  and  little  notes  passed  between  them 
iby  the  hand  of  Smither  while  they  were  having  breakfast  in  their 
Ibeds.  Smither  must  go  round  and  take  their  love  and  little 
presents  and  find  out  how  Mr.  James  was,  and  whether  he  had 


IN  CHANCERY  585 

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  after- 
wards; 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  foi*  Winifred.  She  came  at  four,  bring- 
ing 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  Imo- 
gen ;  "  he  can't  be  happy  now  he's  got  it." 

The  words  struck  familiarly  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. 

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  Soames." 

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  con- 
siderate and  careful,  and  not  at  all  old,  considering  every- 
thing." 

Imogen,  turning  her  luscious  glance  from  one  to  the  other 
of  the  '  old  dear?,'  only  smiled. 


586  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"I  hope,"  said  Aunt  Juley  quite  severely,  "that  you  will 
marry  as  good  a  man." 

"I  shan't  maxry  a  good  man.  Auntie,"  murmured  Imogen; 
"they're  dull." 

"  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  Winifredj  she  said:  "How  is  Mon- 
tague ?  " 

That  evening,  while  they  were  waiting  for  dinner,  she  mur- 
mured : 

"  I've  told  Smither  to  get  up  half  a  bottle  of  the  sweet  cham- 
pagne, Hester.  I  think  we  ought  to  drink  dear  James'  health, 
and — and  the  health  of  Soames'  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,  now  that  Irene  has  had  a  son.  Wini- 
fred says  George  is  calling  Jolyon  '  The  Three-Decker,'  be- 
cause of  his  three  families,  you  know!  George  is  droll.  And 
fancy!  Irene  is  living  after  all  in  the  .house  Soames  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  fiat,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  ceiling 
yellowed  by  the  light  from  her  reading-lamp.  Young  things! 
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 
Eoger  used  to  rock  her  until  she  f eU  off !  Oh  dear !  that  was  a 
long  time  ago !  It  was!  '  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  man- 
sions  '     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 ! 


IF  CHANCERY  587 

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. 


CHAPTBK  XII 

BIETH  OF  A  FOESYTB 

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  bom  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  obvi- 
ously can't  decide  for  herself,  and  we  can't  wait  for  hor  mother. 
It's  for  you  to  make  the  decision,  while  I'm  getting  what's  nec- 
essary.    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  any- 
thing, 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  understood  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  wet,  though  the  air  was  chilly.  These  sounds 
which  came  from  her  room !  To  go  back  there  would  only  make 
it  more  difBcult.  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 

588 


IN  CHANCEEY  589 

more  children  afterwards!  Which  to  choose?  ...  It  had 
rained  this  last  fortnight — the  river  was  very  full,  and  in  the 
water,  collected  round  the  little  honse-boat  moored  by  his  land- 
ing-stage, were  many  leaves  from  the  woods  above,  brought  off 
by  a  frost.  Leaves  fell,  lives  drifted  down!  Death!  To  de- 
cide 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  went,  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  hes- 
itated 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,  especially  since 
she  had  been  growing  frightened,  he  had  wondered.  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  to,  for  her — for  me!  Fot  me!'  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!  Impos- 
sible! Out  into  soundless,  scentless,  touchless,  sightless  space! 
The  very  idea  was  ghastly,  futile!  And  touching  there  the 
bedrock  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? 


590  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  set- 
tle !  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  un- 
locked 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 !  An- 
nette can't  die ;  it's  not  possible.    She's  strong ! ' 

He  was  still  standing  sullenly  at  the  sideboard  when  he  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  Soames;  "don't  operate!" 

"  Not?    You  understand — ^the  risk's  great?" 

In  Soames'  set  face  nothing  moved  but  the  lips. 

"  You  said  there  was  a  chance  ?  " 

"A  chance,  yes;  not  much  of  one." 

"  You  say  the  baby  must  be  born  dead  if  you  do  ?  " 

"  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.  "  If 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-mor- 
row,' 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 ; 


IN  CHANCEEY  591 

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  ?  '  But  she'd 
take  the  risk  of  losing  me,'  he  thought,  '  sooner  than  lose  her 
child !  She  doesn't  really  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  walking 
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  al- 
most 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  came  to  the  foot  of  his  flight  of 
stairs  and  said  breathlessly: 

"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." 


592  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  Over  ?  "  said  Soames,  witli  a  sort  of  menace ;  "  what  d'you 
mean  ?  " 

"  It's  bom,  sir." 

He  dashed  up  the  four  steps  in  front  of  him,  and  came  sud- 
denly on  the  doctor  in  the  dim  passage.  The  man  was.  wiping 
his  brow. 

"Well?"  he  said;  "quick!" 

"Both  living;  it's  all  right,  I  think." 

Soames  stood  quite  still,  covering  his  ejes. 

"  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.  I'll  have  dinner 
sent  up  to  you."    And  he  went  downstairs. 

Eelief  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 ! '  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  afteir  these  last  hours,  but  he  felt  this. 
Half-past  seven,  a  train  from  Eeading  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  me- 
chanically, and  went  upstairs.    The  doctor  came  out  to  him. 

"  They're  sleeping." 

"  I  won't  go  in,"  said  Soames  with  relief.  "  My  father's  dy- 
ing; I  have  to  go  up.    Is  it  all  right?  " 


IN  CHANCEEY  593 

The  doctor's  face  expressed  a  kind  of  doubting  admiration. 
'  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." 

Tha  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  with  a  dressing-bag. 

"  This  all  you  have  ? "  asked  Soames. 

"  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?  " 

"  My  father's  dying,"  said  Soames  between  his  teeth.  "  I'm 
going  up.    Give  my  love  to  Annette." 

"Tiem!"  murmured  Madame  Lamotte;  "quel  malheur!" 

Soames  took  his  hat  off,  and  moved  towards  hi«  train.  '  The 
French ! '  he  thought. 


CHAPTEE  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  September — 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  ail  precautions  and  rem- 
edies; 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  thermome- 
ter to  his  lips.    James  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Whaf  s  the  good  of  that  ?  "  he  murmured  huskily ;  "  I  don't 
want  to  know." 

Then  she  vras  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  affectionate,  really  kind  and 
generous  to  them  all ! 

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  com- 

594 


m  CHANCERY  595 

fortable  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  usej  I'm 
tired,'  was  written  plainly  across  that  white  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  nar- 
row; 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  io  his  father's  room.  It  was  not  his  taste;  but 
in  its  own  substantial,  lincrusta  way  it  was  the  acme  of  com- 
fort 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 


596  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

life  slowly,  painfully  squeezed  out  of  him !  And,  without  know- 
ing 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 : 

"  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  breathing  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  wrap  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. 


IN  CHANCEEY  597 

"  He  wants  to  be  pulled  up,"  whispered  the  nurse. 
Soames  pulled.  He  thought  he  pulled  gently,  but  a  look  al- 
most 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  again,  James' 
eyes  bent  on  him  a  look  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  very 
depths  of  what  was  left  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  puflBng  of  his  lips  could  they  teU  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  Wini- 
fred 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!  Dead!  He  kissed  the 
brow,  turned  round  and  went  out  of  the  room.  He  ran  up- 
stairs to  the  bedroom,  his  old  bedroom,  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  anxi- 
ety, 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  night. 

"  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  An- 
nette, 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,  ap- 
preciation 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,  bare  of 
all  relationship  and  all  possessions.  Into  such  a  world  his  fa- 
ther 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 

598 


m  CHANCEEY  599 

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  tiiis  was  jungle  and  marsh  and  water, 
and  weird  creatures  roamed  and  sported  without  human  cog- 
nizance 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  pas- 
ture. Well !  they  had  got  it  under,  kennelled  it  all  up,  labelled 
it,  and  stowed  it  in  lawyers'  offices.  And  a  good  thing  t(DO !  But 
once  in  a  way,  as  now,  the  ghoet  of  the  past  came  out  to  haunt 
and  brood  and  whisper  to  any  human  who  chanced  to  be  awake : 
'  Out  of  my  xmowned  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  feath- 
ers in  the  sunlight. 

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's  a  pity.    Mais  la  petite  est  adorable.    Du  cafe?" 

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 


600  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  his  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 — fsistidious  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!"  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  fore- 
head. 

"  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  endearment, 
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  you  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  fea- 
tures, it  seemed  to  assume  an  individual  shape,  grew  to  be  like 
a  picture,  a  thing  he  would  know  again ;  not  repulsive,  strangely 


IN  CHANCERY  601 

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! "  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  Ais.' 


INTERLUDE 
AWAKENING 


INTERLUDE 

AWAKENING 

Through  the  massive  skylight  illuminating  the  hall  at  Eobin 
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-linen-suited.  His  hair  was  shining,  and  his  eyes, 
from  beneath  a  frown,  for  he  was  considering  how  to  go  down- 
stairs, this  last  of  innumerable  times,  before  the  car  brought  his 
father  and  mother  home.  Four  at  a  time,  and  five  at  the  bot- 
tom? Stale!  Down  the  banisters?  But  in  which  fashion? 
On  his  face,  feet  foremost?  Very  stale.  On  his  stomach,  side- 
ways ?  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  frown  on  the  illuminated  face  of  little  Jon.  .    .    . 

In  that  Summer  of  1909  the  simple  souls  who  even  then  de- 
sired to  simplify  the  English  tongue,  had,  of  course,  no  cogni- 
zance of  little  Jon,  or  they  would  have  claimed  him  for  a  dis- 
ciple. 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  en- 
joyed the  name  of  Spraggins  in  that  private  life  lived  at  odd 
moments  even  by  domestic  servants.  His  mother  had  only  ap- 
peared to  him,  as  it  were  in  dreams,  smelling  delicious,  smooth- 
ing his  forehead  just  before  he  fell  asleep,  and  sometimes  dock- 
ing 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 

605 


606  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

his  head  against  her  neck.  She  wag  precious  but  remote,  be- 
cause "  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  in- 
tended 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  Eichmond 
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  rather  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  1901,  he  had  come  to  consciousness  when  his  coun- 
try, 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,  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  becopiing  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  Mademoiselle  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 


AWAKENING  607 

disagreeable,  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  interfer- 
ence with  the  free  individualism  of  a  Forsyte  drove  him  almost 
frantic.  There  was  something  appalling  in  the  utter  helpless^ 
ness  of  that  position,  and  the  uncertainty  as  to  whether  it  would 
ever  come  to  an  end.  Suppose  she  never  let  him  get  up  any 
more !  He  suffered  torture  at  the  top  of  his  voice  for  fifty  sec- 
onds. 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 !  Wihen  he  was  let  up  he  remained  con- 
vinced 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  sav  to  his  father — 

"Then,  wiU  you  tell  'Da,'  dear,  or  shall  I?  She's  so  de- 
voted 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  embarrass- 
ment, and  stayed  where  he  was,  ravaged  by  desire  for  the  mush- 
room. 


608  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

Such  had  been  his  first  dip  into  the  dark  abysses  of  existence. 
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  " ;  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  ap- 
palling— and.  soon  forgotten! 

The  next  thing  had  been  to  sit  on  a  bumble  bee,  a  poignant  ex- 
perience, 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  wretched- 
ness, he  had  enjoyed  a  disease  composed  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  nurtured  her  own  Berserker  spirit,  born  in  the  noted  year 
of  1870.  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;  whereupon  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,  Eed  Indians,  balloons,  North 
Poles  and  other  extravagant  delights.  The  moment  he  was  suf- 
fered 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  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 


AWAKENING  609 

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  "  night- 
gown. After  that,  his  father,  seeking  to  steady  his  imagina- 
tion, brought  him  Ivanhoe,  Bevis,  a  book  about  King  Arthur, 
and  Tom  Broiun'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  Eebecea  and  Eowena; 
with  piercing  cries  of:  "En  avant,  de  Bracy!"  and  similar  utter- 
ances. 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,  Pitz  and  Puck  Forsyte,  who  permitted  no  liber- 
ties. 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  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  les- 
sons. 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,  com- 
pleted 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,  encountering  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 


610  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  F' 

"  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  fragment  of 
talk  lodged,  thick,  in  his  small  gizzard.  Loving,  lovable,  imag- 
inative, 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  stair- 
way, 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  adven- 
tures in  person  and  risking  his  own  life,  he  began  to  play  im- 
aginative 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  Peninsular,  the  Seven  Years,  the  Thirty  Years,  and  other 
wars,  about  which  he  had  been  reading  of  late  in  a  big  Ilisiory 
of  Europe  which  had  been  his  grandfather's.     He  altered  them 


AWAKENING  611 

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  passion- 
ately 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  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  Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn.  When  he  read  thoise 
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  Eobin  Hill,  he  had  to  make  one  out  of  the  pond, 
which  fortunately  had  water  lilies,  dragon-flies,  gnats,  bull- 
rushes,  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  paddling,  and  lying  down  out  of  sight  of  Indian  Joe 
and  other  enemies.  On  the  shore  of  the  pond,  too,  he  built  him- 
self 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  coppice  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  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  her  two 


613  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  foreseen,  they  came  at  once  to  his  wigwam,  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  brown  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  two  days,  and  often  from  the  day  nur- 
sery where  he  slept  now,  had  stolen  into  his  mother's  room, 
looked  at  everything,  without  touching,  and  on  into  the  dress- 
ing-room ;  and  standing  on  one  leg  beside  the  bath,  like  Slingsby, 
had  whispered — 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho !  Dog  my  cats,"  mysteriously,  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 


AWAKENING  613 

was  something  swaying  with  two  dark  eyes  looking  back  at  him; 
and  the  scent  of  her  wardrobe. 

Bella  was  in  the  hall,  drawing  aside  the  big  curtains,  and 
opening  the  front  door.    Little  Jon  said,  wheedling— 

"  Bella ! "  >  s 

"  Yes,  Master  Jon." 

"Do  let's  have  tea  under  the  oak  tree  when  they  come;  I 
Icnow  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. 

"  What  jam  ?  "  he  asked.    "  I'm  so  tired  of  waiting." 

"  Gooseberry  and  strawberry." 

Num  !    They  were  his  favourites ! 

\Vlien  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  be- 
yond.    Pulling  six  daisies  he  named  them  carefully,  Sir  Lam- 


614  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

orac.  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  cut- 
ting. 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  flower,  and  in  the  sky  the  blue 
was  beautiful,  with  a  few  white  clouds  which  looked  and  per- 
haps 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 !  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 
things  about  his  mother  that  he  had  never  seemed  to  see  before, 
her  cheeks  for  instance  were  creamy,  there  were  silver  threads  in 


AWAKENING  615 

her  dark  goldy  hair,  her  throat  had  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  Mademoiselle,  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  same  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  ?  " 

"  No,  Jon,  but  I  thought  you  might." 

"WJiy?" 

"  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. 

"  Did  you  see  him?  " 

"  No ;  I  only  saw  Yenus  Anadj'omene." 

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." 


616  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

"  What  is  she  like,  Daddy?  " 

"  Like  Mum." 

"  Oh !  Then  she  must  he "  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,  how- 
ever, 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?" 

He  pitched  the  motive  low,  to  absolve  him  from  unmanliness, 
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  closo 
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  win- 
dow-seat, and  tucking  his  legs  up  under  him,  watched  her  un- 
pack. He  derived  a  pleasure  from  the  operation  such  as  he  had 
not  yet  known,  partly  because  she  was  taking  out  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." 


AWAKENING  617 

"To  church?    Oh!" 

"  She  wanted  to  see  how  it  would  afEeet  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. 

"  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  something  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." 


618  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  Oh !  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." 

Little  Jon  suddenly  reached  out  and  caught  her  neck  in  his 
hands. 

"/  Icnow,"  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." 

"  Belfa  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." 

"Bays?" 

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  ob- 
vious admiration,  he  mounted  the  bed,  and  threw  himself  head 
foremost  from  his  feet  on  to  his  back,  without  touching  any- 
thing 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  little  round 
table  they  used  when  they  were  alone.     He  was  extremely  ex- 


AWAKENING  619 

cited.  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  un- 
dressed very  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,  hal- 
lowed 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  trespass  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  re- 
mained 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." 

"  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  up." 

"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  ?  " 


620  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Little  Jon  answered  shyly : 

''Guinevere!  it's  out  of  the  Eound  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  bring- 
ing 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  ?  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  very  big.  It  had  a  funny,  wicked  face,  as  if 
laughing  at  him,  and  he  did  not  want  to  look  at  it.  Then,  re- 
membering that  his  mother  had  said  moonlit  nights  were  beau- 
tiful, 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  aU.  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 


AWAKENING  621 

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  moon- 
beam crept  towards  his  face.  Little  Jon  turned  in  his  sleep  till 
he  lay  on  his  back,  with  one  brown  fist  still  grasping  the  bed- 
clothes. 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  become  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  dread- 
ful! 

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  !  There ! 
It's  nothing!"' 

But  little  Jon  continued  to  say :  "  Oh !  oh !" 

Her  voice  went  on,  velvety  in  his  ear: 

"  It  was  the  moonlight,  sweetheart,  coming  on  your  face." 

Little  Jon  burbled  into  her  nightgown : 

"  You  said  it  was  beautiful.    Oh !" 

"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 


622  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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,  -W^hat  can  you  expect  if  you  eat  macaroons  after 
you've  gone  to  bed?" 

"  Only  one.  Mum ;  it  made  the  music  ever  so  more  beautiful. 
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?" 

"  Not  to-night." 

"Can  I  come?" 

"  If  you  wish,  my  precious." 

Half  himself  again,  little  Jon  drew  back. 

"  You  look  different.  Mum ;  ever  so  younger." 

"  It's  my  hair,  darling." 

Little  Jon  laid  hold  of  it,  thick,  dark  gold,  with  a  few  silver 

XfirPfl.nS 

"  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?" 

"  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 
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  watch- 
ing the  spears  and  chariots.    It  all  seemed  very  long. 

"  Oh  !  Mum,  do  hurry  up !" 

"  Darling,.  I  have  to  plait  my  hair." 


AWAKENING  623 

"  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  ofE  his  past. 


BOOK  III 
TO  LET 


"'From  out  the  fatal  loins  of  thosie  two  foes 
A  pair  of  star-crossed  lovers  take  their  life." 
— Borneo  and  Juliet. 


TO 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER 


PART  I 


ENCOUNTER 


SoAMHS  Forsyte  emerged  from  the  Knightsbridge  Hotel,  whera 
he  was  staying,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  13th  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  forgiven  them,  deeply  identifying 
them  with  gloomy  memories  and  now,  dimly,  like  all  members 
of  their  class,  with  revolution.  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  believe  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,  en- 
cumbered 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  confiscation 
of  war  profits,  he  was  entirely  in  favour  of  it,  for  he  had  none, 
and  "serve  the  beggars  right!"  The  price  of  pictures,  more- 
over, 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  congenitally  cautious, 
and  hardened  a  character  already  dogged.  To  be  in  danger 
of  being  entirely  dispersed  inclined  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 

627 


628  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  Uke  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  some- 
thing old-fashioned  within  him  which  abhorred  emotional  ex- 
travagance. He  had,  for  instance,  strongly  objected  to  Annette, 
so  attractive,  and  in  1914  only  thirty-five,  going  to  her  native 
France,  her  "  chere  patrie "  as,  under  the  stimulus  of  war, 
ehe  had  begun  to  call  it,  to  nurse  her  "  Iraves  poilus,"  forsooth  1 
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  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  afiair.  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- 


TO  LET  629 

way  between  that  house  in  Park  Lane  which  had  seen  his  birth 
and  his  parents'  deaths,  and  the  little  house  in  Montpellier 
Square  where  thirty-five  years  ago  he  had  enjoyed  his  first  edi- 
tion 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  feeling  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 
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  hia 
face  by  the  heightening  of  his  forehead  in  the  recession  of  hia 
grey  hair.  Little  change  had  Time  wrought  in  the  "  warmest " 
of  the  young  Forsytes,  as  the  last  of  the  old  Forsytes — Tjmothy 
— 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  wealth  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 !  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  width  between  the  arching  eyebrows) 


630  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  grand- 
mother Lamotte's  eyes  were  dark  as  treacle ! 

He  began  to  wali  on  again  toward  Hyde  Park  Corner.  No 
greater  change  in  all  England  than  in  the  Bow!  Born  almost 
within  hail  of  it,  he  could  remember  it  from  1860  on.  Brought 
there  as  a  child  between  the  crinolines  to  stare  at  tight-trousered 
dandies  in  whiskers,  riding  with  a  cavalry  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  rows  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 ;  with,  here  and  there,  little  girls  on  ponies,  or  old  gentle- 
men jogging  their  livers,  or  an  orderly  trying  a  great  galumph- 
ing cavalry  horse;  no  thoroughbreds,  no  grooms,  no  bowing, 
no  scraping,  no  gossip — nothing;  only  the  trees  the  same — ^the 
trees  indifferent  to  the  generations  and  declensions  of  man- 
kind. 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-smelling  Cheerio.  Little 
half-beaten  pockets  of  gentility  and  caste  lurking  here  and 
there,  dispersed  and  chetif,  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  life — was  flung !  And  when  those  Labour  chaps 
got  power — if  they  ever  did — ^the  worst  was  yet  to  come ! 

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 


TO  LET  631 

all  his  time,  like  some  immovable,  sardonic,  humorous  eye  noting 
the  decline  of  men  and  things.  And  Soames  hurried,  ever 
constitutionally  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  part- 
nership 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  went  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  re- 
spectable to  Soames.  George,  too,  he  knew,  had  sown  the  last 
of  his  wild  oats,  and  was  committed  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  indis- 
cretion 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." 


632  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"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  anything  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  invented  a  way 
yet  of  dodging  this  damned  income  tax?  It  hits  the  fixed  in- 
herited 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  me  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  hun- 
dred— 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  con- 
fiscation once  began,  it  was  he — ^the  worker  and  the  saver — ^who 
would  be  looted !  That  was  the  negation  of  all  virtue,  the  over- 
turning 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  capi- 
tal? 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 


TO  LET  633 

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  ? 

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,  "^patant!"  he 
heard  one  say.  - 

"  Jargon !"  growled  Soames  to  himself. 

The  other's  boyish  voice  replied: 

"  Missed  it,  old  bean ;  he's  pulling  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  handkerchief,  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  eye8 
to  the  young  man's  face.  It  had  rather  fawn-like  ears,  a  laugh- 
ing mouth,  with  half  a  toothbrush  growing  out  of  it  on  each 
side,  and  small  lively  eyes,  above  a  normally  dressed  appear- 
ance. 

"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. 


634  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"If  you  really  care  for  pictures,"  he  said,  "here's  my  card. 
I  can  show  you  some  quite  good  ones  any  Sunday,  if  you'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  oif  his  hat. 

Soames,  already  regretting  his  impulse,  raised  his  own  slightly 
in  response,  with  a  downward  look  at  the  young  man's  com- 
panion, who  had  a  purple  tie,  dreadful  little  sluglike  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:  "Fo.  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  con- 
noisseur's life,  indeed,  he  had  marked  so  many  "movements," 
seen  the  tides  of  taste  and  technique  so  ebb  and  flow,  that  there 
was  really  no  telling  anything  except  that  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,  tiU  some 
one  else  came  by,  murmuring:  "What  expression  he  gets  with 
his  foreground!"  Expression?  Of  what?  Soames  went  back 
to  his  seat.  The  thing  was  "rich,"  as  his  father  would  have 
said,  and  he  wouldn't  give  a  damn  for  it.  Expression  I  Ah ! 
they  were  all  Expressionists  now,  he  had  heard,  pn  the  Con- 
tinent.    So  it  was  coming  here  too,  was  it?    He  remembered 


TO  LET  635 

the  first  wave  of  influenza  in  1887 — or  8 — thatched  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 !  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  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,  darling." 

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 


636  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  feelings  after  all  these  years.  Ghosts!  And  yet  as  one 
grew  old — was  there  anything  but  what  was  ghost-like  left? 
Yes,  there  was  Fleur !  jEe  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  entrance.  She 
was  due;  but  she  would  keep  him  waitings  of  course!  And 
.suddenly  he  became  aware  of  a  sort  of  human  breeze — a  short, 
slight  form  clad  in  a  sea-green  djibbah  with  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  I" 

Soames  turned  his  head  a  very  little. 

"How  are  youf"  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  ?    What  on  earth  makes  you  run  a  show  like  this  ?" 

"  I  don't  treat  Art  as  if  it  were  grocery." 

Soames  pointed  to  the  Future  Town.  "  Look  at  that !  Who's 
going  to  live  in  a  town  like  that,  or  with  it  on  his  walls  ?" 

June  contemplated  the  picture  for  a  moment.  "  It's  a  vision," 
she  said. 

"  The  deuce !" 


TO  LET  637 

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'll 
close  this  exhibition." 

June  looked  back  at  him.  "Oh !  You  Forsyte !"  she  said,  and 
moved  on.  About  her  light,  fly-away  figure,  passing  so  sudden- 
ly away,  was  a  look  of  dangerous  decisions.  Forsyte !  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 !  .  .  .  And  sud- 
denly 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  Eoger'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  Eed 
Cross — and  Jesse  Hayman  been  a  special  constable — those 
*'Dromios"  had  always  been  of  a  sporting  type!  As  for  him- 
self, 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  all  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  grovrth  of  something  or  other — 
or  perhaps  the  decline  of  something  else.  Had  the  Forsytes  be- 
come less  individual,  or  more  Imperial,  or  less  provincial?  Or 
was  it  simply  that  one  hated  Germans  ?  .  .  .  Why  didn't  Pleur 
come,  so  that  he  could  get  away  ?  He  saw  those  three  return  to- 
gether from  the  other  room  and  pass  back  along  the  far  side  of 
the  screen.    The  boy  was  standing  before  the  Juno  now.    And, 


638  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  slipped  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  cheeirf  ully :  "  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  cheer- 
fully; "they  don't  either." 

Fleur's  voice  said :  "  Hallo,  Father !  Here  you  are !"  pre- 
cisely 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  wide-apart 
brown  eyes  were  set  in  whites  so  clear  that  they  glinted  when 
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  soft- 
ening as  he  looked  at  her,  Soames  frowned  to  preserve  the  un- 
emotionalism  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  pic- 
tures." 

"  You're  not  going  to  buy  that.  Father  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Soames  grimly ;  "nor  that  Juno  you've  been  look- 
ing 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  "  Tres- 
passers will  be  prosecuted,"  and  he  barely  acknowledged  the 
young  fellow's  salute. 

"Well,"  he  said  in  the  street,  "whom  did  you  meet  at 
Imogen's  ?" 


TO  LET  639 

"  Aunt  Winifred,  and  that  Monsieur  Profond." 
"  Oh  I"  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.  "~1  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  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 

"  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 !  They  were  round  him 
this  afternoon  like  a  swarm  of  bees ! 

"  I  don't  like  it  I"  he  said. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  race-horses,"  murmured  Pleur ;  "  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." 

"  Eacing !"  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  rid- 
dance for  your  aunt."  He  frowned,  recollecting  the  inquiry  into 
those  stairs  which  he  had  attended  in  Paris  six  years  ago,  be- 
cause Montague  Dartie  could  not  attend  it  himself — ^perfectly 
normal  stairs  in  a  house  where  they  played"  baccarat.    Either  his 


640  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  G-aUery  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  confectioner'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  tre- 
mendous 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  intro- 
duce 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  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! — 


TO  LET  641 

"  it's  jolly  good  of  you  to  encourage  tliem.  Only— ^hang  it  all !" 
Soames  stole  a  glance.  Irene's  startled  eyes  were  bent  watcli- 
fully  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." 

"  Keally !  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  withi 
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  T 
Very  good  of  you.    Good-bye  I" 

He  moved  on. 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  Fleur  was  saying.     "  Au  revoir!" 

"  Au  revoir!"  he  heard  the  boy  reply. 


II 

FINE  PLETJE  TOESYTE 

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  therefore  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  like  those  cousins.  Father?" 

Soames  lifted  the  corner  of  his  lip. 

•"What  made  you  think  that?" 

■"  Ce'la  se  voit." 

*  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  connected 
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  seeij  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 
carefully  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  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 

642 


TO  LET  643 

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  grand- 
father died  the  day  you  were  born.    He  was  ninety." 

"  Ninety  ?  Are  there  many  Forsytes  besides  those  in  the  Eed 
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  shouldl 
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  f 
If  Timothy  could  see  the  disquiet  England  of  his  greatnephewa 
and  greatnieces,  he  would  certainly  give  tongue.  And  involun- 
tarily he  glanced  up  at  the  Iseeum ;  yes — George  was  still  in  the 
window,  with  the  same  pink  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Where  is  Eobm  Hill,  Father?" 

Eobin  Hill !  Eobin  Hill,  round  which  all  that  tragedy  had 
centred !    What  did  she  want  to  know  for  ? 

"  In  Surrey,"  he  muttered ;  "  not  far  from  Eichmond.    Why?'* 

"  Is  the  house  there  ?" 

"W(hat  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,  darling." 


644  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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;  fine,  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  evervthing — and  a  great  deal  more,  it  seems  to 
me!" 

"  What's  her  husband  like  ?  He  must  be  your  first  cousin,  if 
your  fathers  were  brothers." 

"  Dead,  for  all  I  know,"  said  Soames,  with  sudden  vehemence. 
"  I  haven't  seen  him  for  twentv  vears." 

"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 !" 

It  was  really  like  lying  in  the  dark  with  a  mosquito  hovering 
above  his  fact-.  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  con- 
fused, techy,  troubled.  The  throb  of  that  old  wound,  scarred 
over  by  Time  and  new  interests,  was  mingled  with  displeasure 


TO  LET  645 

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  ques- 
tioned him  about  his  first  marriage,  he  had  always  shut  her  up ; 
she  knew  nothing  of  it,  save  that  it  had  been  the  great  passion  of 
bis  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 

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  dark- 
ened 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  countrymen  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  like  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." 


64G  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"That  Belgian  chap?    Why  him?" 

Annette  turned  her  neck  lazily,  touched  one  eyelash,  and 
said: 

"  He  amuses  Winifred." 

"  I  want  some  one  to  amuse  Meur ;  she's  restive." 

*•'  E-restive  ?"  repeated  Annette.  "  Is  it  the  first  time  you 
see  that,  my  friend  ?    She  was  born  r-restive,  as  you  call  it." 

Would  she  never  get  that  affected  roll  out  of  her  r's  ? 

He  touched  the  dress  she  had  taken  off,  and  asked: 

"What  have  you  been  doing?" 

Annette  looked  at  him,  reflected  in  her  glass.  Her  just- 
brightened  lips  smiled,  rather  full,  rather  ironical. 

"Enjoying  myself,"  she  said. 

"  Oh !"  answered  Soames  glumly.     "  Eibbandry,  I  suppose." 

It  was  his  word  for  all  that  incomprehensible  running  in 
and  out  of  shops  that  women  went  in  for.  "  Has  Fleur  got  her 
summer  dresses  ?" 

"  You  don't  ask  if  I  have  mine." 

"  You  don't  care  whether  I  do  or  not." 

"  Quite  right.  Well,  she  has ;  and  I  have  mine — ^terribly  ex- 
pensive." 

"H'm!"  said  Soames.  "What  does  that  chap  Profond  do 
in  England?" 

Annette  raised  the  eyebrows  she  had  just  finished. 

"  He  yachts." 

"  Ah !"  said  Soames ;  "  he's  a  sleepy  chap." 

"  Sometimes,"  answered  Annette,  and  her  face  had  a  sort  of 
quiet  enjoyment.     "  But  sometimes  very  amusing." 

"He's  got  a  touch  of  the  tar-brush  about  him." 

Annette  stretched  herself. 

"Tar-brush?"  she  said.  "What  is  that?  His  mother  was 
Armenienne." 

"That's  it,  then,"  muttered  Soames.  "  Does  he  know  anything 
about  pictures?" 

"He  knows  about  everything — ^a  man  of  the  world." 

"Well,  get  some  one  for  Fleur.  I  want  to  distract  her. 
She's  going  off  on  Saturday  to  Val  Dartie  and  his  wife ;  I  don't 
Uke  it." 

"Why  not?" 

Since  the  reason  could  not  be  explained  without  going  into 
family  history,  Soames  merely  answered : 

"  Eacketing  about.    There's  too  much  of  it." 

"I  like  that  little  Mrs.  Val;  she  is  very  quiet  and  clever." 


TO  LET  64? 

"  I  know  nothing  of  her  except 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  shoulder  into  the 
glass,  he  saw  the  expression  on  her  face,  faintly  amused,  faintly 
contemptuous,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  Thanks !  You  will  never 
learn  !"  No,  thank  God,  he  wasn't  a  Frenchman !  He  finished 
with  a  jerk,  and  the  words :  "  It's  too  low  here."  And  he  went 
to  the  door,  with  the  wish  to  get  away  from  her  and  go  down 
to  Fleur  again. 

Annette  stayed  a  powder-puff,  and  said  with  startling  sudden- 
ness: 

"Que  tu  es  grassier!" 

He  knew  the  expression — he  had  leason  to.  The  first  time 
she  had  used  it  he  had  thought  it  meant  "What  a  grocer  you 
are !"  and  had  not  known  whether  to  be  relieved  or  not  when 
better  informed.  He  resented  the  word — he  was  not  coarse !  If 
he  was  coarse,  what  was  that  chap  in  the  room  beyond  his,  who 
made  those  horrible  noises  in  the  morning  when  he  cleared  his 
throat,  or  those  people  in  the  Lounge  who  thought  it  well-bred 
to  say  nothing  but  what  the  whole  world  could  hear  at  the  top  of 
their  voices — quacking  inanity !  Coarse,  because  he  had  said 
her  dress  was  low!  "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 


€48  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Tray  she  sat  in  that  chair  showed  it — lost  in  her  dream.  He  had 
never  been  lost  in  a  dream  himself — ^there  was  nothing  to  be  had 
•out  of  it ;  and  where  she  got  it  from  he  did  not  know !  Certainly 
not  from  Annette !  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  her- 
self 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!" 


Ill 

AT  EOBIN"  HILL 

JoLTOiT  Forsyte  had  spent  his  boy's  nineteenth  birthday  at 
Eobin  Hill,  quietly  going  into  his  affairs.  He  did  everything 
quietly  now,  because  his  heart  was  in  a  poor  way,  and,  like  all 
his  family,  he  disliked  the  idea  of  dying.  He  had  never  real- 
ized 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  conceive 
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  &nd  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,  develops 
to  the  full  the  subtler  side  of  character.  Naturally  not  abrupt, 
except  when  nervously  excited,  Jolyon  had  become  control  in- 
carnate. The  sad  patience  of  old  people  who  cannot  exert  them- 
selves 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 

649 


650  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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.  Hav- 
ing docketed  and  enclosed  it  in  his  father's  old  Chinese  cabinet, 
he  put  the  key  info  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  Har- 
row, like  his  dead  half-brother,  but  at  one  of  those  establish- 
ments 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.  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  in- 
clined 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 


TO  LET  651 

Bar.  After  that  one  would  see,  or  more  probably  one  would  not. 
In  face  of  these  proffered  allurements,  however,  Jon  had  re- 
mained 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  to  try  farm- 
ing. Dad ;  if  it  won't  cost  you  too  miieh.  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  inci- 
dentally, 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  ap- 
prentice. 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 !  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  hun- 
dreds of  years  yet,  unless  some  barbarian  cut  it  down — ^would  see 
old  England  out  at  the  pace  things  were  going!     He  remera- 


653  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

bered  a  night  three  years  before,  when,  looking  from  his  win- 
dow, with  his  arm  close  round  Irene,  he  had  watched  a  German 
aeroplane  hovering,  it  seemed,  right  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  im- 
portant 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  won- 
dered, whimsically,  whether,  having  put  everything  in  such  per- 
fect 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. 

Prom  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  fiower  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  fly- 
ing 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 
of  species,  the  universality  of  life  as  well.  They  were  the  fel- 
lows! 'I've  made  nothing  that  will  live!'  thought  Jolyon; 
'I've  been  an  amateur — a  mere  lover,  not  a  creator.  StiU,  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  Trans- 
vaal. 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 


TO  LET  653 

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." 

"WJth  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. 

"You  didn't ?"  he  began. 

"  No ;  but  Jon  knows  their  name.  The  girl  dropped  her  band- 
kerchief  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,  noth- 
ing of  the  prisoned  grief  in  an  unhappy  marriage,  nothing  of 
jealousy,  or  passion — ^knew  nothing  at  all,  as  yet ! 


654  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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  you." 

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  under- 
stand 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  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  pos- 
sible !  And,  long  after  Irene  had  left  him,  he  lay  awake  turning 
over  those  precautions.  He  must  write  to  Holly,  telling  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  boj'S  and  girls  were  co-educated,  and  mixed  up  in 
early  life  till  sex  was  almost  abolished,  Jon  was  singularly  old- 


TO  LET  655 

fashioned.  His  modern  school  took  boys  only,  and  his  holidays  had 
been  spent  at  Eobin  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  tem- 
perature was  mounting  fast.  He  lay  awake,  featuring  Pleur — as 
they  called  it — recalling  her  words,  especially  that  "  Au  revoir!" 
so  soft  and  sprightly. 

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  Mapledurham — 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!"  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 !  Ehythm  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. 


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  Bayswater  Eoad, 
for  Timothy's  soul  still  had  one  foot  in  Timothy  Forsyte's 
body,  and  Smither  kept  the  atmosphere  unchanging,  of  cam- 
phor 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  sur- 
viving 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  gossip;  the  house  of 
the  "  old  people  "  of  another  century,  another  age. 

The  sight  of  Smither — still  corseted  up  to  the  armpits  be- 
cause 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, 


TO  LET  657 

•with  the  words:  "Why!  it's  Mr.  Soames,  after  all  this  time! 
And  how  are  you,  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  please  Miss  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  \"  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  him  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  gar- 
rulous !  "  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  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." 


658  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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,  creak- 
ing 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.  E." — Timothy  had  always  believed 
they  might  turn  out  to  be  Joshua  Reynolds,  but  Soames,  who 
admired  them,  had  discovered  that  they  were  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  educational  books,  which 
Timothy's  firm  had  published  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,  1914, 
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 


TO  LET  659 

large  globe  of  that  world  never  visited  by  Timothy,  deeply 
convinced  of  the  unreality  of  everything  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  was  always  taking 
things  into  his  head,  and  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  humming-birds  !"  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  remem- 
bered that  suit  well!  Aunt  Ann  with  her  ringlets,  and  her 
spidery  kind  hands,  and  her  grave  old  aquiline  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  ITncle  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 
voung  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." 

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 


660  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

Nick  had  always  been  rather  like  that — a  wonderful  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  sesthetic  'Change.  Soames 
opened  the  drawing-room  door.  The  room  was  dusted,  the 
furniture  uncovered,  the  curtains  drawn  back,  preci.sely  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 — ^like  Carlyle's — and  put  up  a 
tablet,  and  show  it  ?  "  Specimen  of  mid- Victorian  abode — en- 
trance, 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  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 !  many,  many  pictures 
at  which  Soames  had  gazed  a  thousand  times  in  supercilious 
fascination;  a  marvellous  collection  of  bright,  smooth  gilt 
frames. 

And  the  boudoir-grand  piano,  beautifully  dusted,  hermeti- 
cally 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  the  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 
fire  the  one  really  easy  chair,  back  to  the  light,  for  Aunt  Hester. 


TO  LET  661 

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  preserved.'  And,  by  George,  they  might  laugh  at  it,  but 
for  a  standard  of  gentle  life  never  departed  from,  for  fastidious- 
ness 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  whenever  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. 

With  rather  a  choky  feeling  he  closed  the  door  and  went 
tiptoeing  up-stairs.  He  looked  in  at  a  place  on  the  way:  H'ml 
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  concentration 
on  his  own  aifairs,  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  cov- 
ered vrith  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 


662  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

on  his  face  was  that  of  a  crossed  child,  intent  on  something  thai 
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  3'esumed  his  babyhood. 

"  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,"  replied  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!"  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  663 

"  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  quan- 
tity, 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 
takm'  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  improper  precaution, 
but  Timothy  had  wished  it,  and,  after  all.  Aunt  Hester  had 
provided  for  them  amply. 

"  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; 


664  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

'passes  and  begins  again.  Poor  old  chap!'  And  he  listened, 
if  perchance  the  sound  of  Timothy  trailing  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. 


THE  NATIVE  HEATH 

"  His  foot's  upon  his  native  heath, 
His  name's — Val  Dariie." 

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  hoth  leg.  and  pocket  safe.  He  should 
be  moderate;  Holly  was  always  right — she  had  a  natural  apti- 
tude. 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 
twenty  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  first  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  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  ho 
never  looked  at  Holly  without  her  knowing  of  it,  but  that  she 
looked  at  him  sometimes  unawares. 

665 


666  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  Eleur — 
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  ?" 

"  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 !  Eighto !"  If  Holly  thought  it  safe,  it  was. 
Glancing  slyly  round  at  him,  she  said:  "Did  you  notice  how 
beautifully  she  asked  herself?" 

"Ko!" 

"  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  hom^  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?" 


TO  LET  667 

"  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 
thoughts  of  Holly,  his  morning  paper,  the  look  of  the  bright 
day,  and  his  dim  memory  of  ITewmarket,  Val  plunged  into  the 
recesses  of  a  small  square  book,  all  names,  pedigrees,  tap-rpots, 
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  some- 
thing 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,  divest- 
ing him  of  the  dandyism  in  which  he  had  been  bred,  had  left 


668  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  "ilapping  cockatoory"  of 
some  Englishwomen — Holly  had  none  of  that  and  Holly  was 
his  model.  Observant,  quick,  resourceful,  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,  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,"  replied  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  bubbling  behind  a  fuU  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  ?" 

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't  care  for  it.  I'm  a  yachtin'  man.  I 
don't  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;  "small  car,  with  a 
email  lunch  " ;  he  moved  on,  groomed,  sleepy,  and  remote,  George 
Forsyte  following,  neat,  huge,  and  with  his  jesting  air. 


TO  LET  669 

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  reality. 

"  That  '  small '  mare  " — he  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  Mon- 
sieur 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  theii  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.  '  Mufiin  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. 

"  Nicest  woman  I  know,"  returned  Val  dryly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Monsieur  Profond ;  "  she  has  a  nice  face.  I  ad- 
mire nice  women." 

Val  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  but  something  kindly  and, 
direct  in  the  heavy  diabolism  of  his  companion  disarmed  him 
for  the  moment. 

"Any  time  you  like  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't  know.  I've  done 
everything;  it's  the  last  thing  I'm  doin'." 


670  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"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: 

"Yougoin'tobid?" 

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  realized  from  his  South  African  farm  on  his  establishment 
in  Sussex.  And  very  soon  he  was  thinking:  'Dash  it!  she's 
going  beyond  me !'  His  limit — six  hundred — was  exceeded ;  he 
dropped  out  of  the  bidding.  The  Mayfly  filly  passed  under 
the  hammer  at  seven  hundred  and  fifty  guineas.  He  was  turn- 
ing 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' 
want  her." 

"  Hang  it !  one  doesn't " 


TO  LET  671 

"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  like  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  there- 
after 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  this  time,  to  feel  him  so  little  changed,  and  to  have 
taken  a  fancy  to  his  wife.  Winifred,  who  in  the  late  seven- 
ties, 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  some- 
times regretted  that  she  had  not  done  the  same ;  a  second,  third, 
fourth  incident  might  have  secured  her  a  partner  of  less  daz- 
zling inebriety;  though,  after  all,  ho  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  much- 
ness! Spend,  to-morrow  we  shall  be  poor!"  She  found  it  a 
saving  grace  in  Fleur  that  having  set  her  heart  on  a  thing,  she 


672  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  con- 
sideration to  Winifred,  a  lover  of  the  style  and  distinction  which 
hafi  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 
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  Eobin  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  comfortably : 
"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  com- 
fort 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,  somehow." 

And  soon  after  he  gave  her  his  blessing,  received  a  kiss,  and 
left  her  for  his  bookmaker's,  the  Iseeum  Club,  and  Victoria 
station. 


VI 

JON 

Mrs.  Val  Daetie,  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  apprehend  the  rare 
quality  of  their  outlines  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  Eobin 
Hill,  soon  after  their  arrival  home,  had  yielded  no  sight  of 
him — he  was  still  at  school;  so  that  her  recollection,  like  Val's, 
was  of  a  little  sunny-haired  boy,  striped  blue  and  yellow,  down 
by  the  pond. 

Those  three  days  at  Eobin  Hill  had  been  exciting,  sad,  em- 
barrassing. Memories  of  her  dead  brother,  memories  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  pres- 
ence of  her  stepmother,  whom  she  could  still  vaguely  remember 
as  the  "  lady  in  grey  "  of  days  when  she  was  little  and  grand- 
father alive  and  Mademoiselle  Beauce  so  cross  because  that  in* 
truder  gave  her  music  lessons — all  these  confused  and  tantalized 

673 


674  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

a  spirit  which  had  longed  to  find  Eobin  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  manifest  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,  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  be- 
coming spirit — his  brow  felt,  somehow,  so  insubstantial. 

But  the  most  poignant  memory  of  that  little  visit  had  been 
watching,  unobserved,  her  stepmother  reading  to  herself  a 
letter  from  Jon.  It  was — 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 


TO  LET  675 

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  because 
she  was  to  drive  him  home,  instead  of  his  driving  her.  Shouldn't 
he  have  a  shot?  They  hadn't  a  car  at  Eobin  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. 

"Mt  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!     ISTo  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  ?" 


676  THE  POESYTB  SAGA 

"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  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  of  young  Meur. 
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 
bjl  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  thdr 
first  songs  among  the  coming  blossom.  Jon  was  one  of  those 
boys  (not  many)  in  whom  a  home-traiued  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 


TO  LET  677 

it  was  there,  fastidious  and  clear  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  discomfiture :  '  I  shan't  be  able  to  show  it  to 
Mother.'  He  slept  terribly  well,  when  he  did  sleep,  overwhelmed 
by  novelty. 


VII 

FLBrR 

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;  Meur'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  Pleur  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  neces- 
sary to  the  success  of  spoken  untruth.  He  listened  therefore 
to  Fleur's  swift  and  rapt  allusions  to  the  joUiness  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  prsition. 
Jon  saw  the  fixed  object;  it  had  dark  eyes  and  passably  dark 
hair,  and  changed  its  position,  but  never  its  shape.  The  knowl- 
edge that  between  him  and  that  object  there  was  already  a 

678 


TO  LET  679 

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  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  hopeless  indeed! 

His  sister's  eyes,  fixed  on  him  with  a  certain  astonishment, 
obliged  him  at  last  to  look  at  Pleur;  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 


680  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  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  gener- 
ally look  after  it  when  he  brought  it  in.  Jon  said  he  was  ac- 
customed 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  fol- 
lowed.   She  was  running  among  the  trees  like  a  ghost.    All  was 


TO  LET  681 

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 : 

"Eather!" 

She  reached  up,  twisted  off  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  fami- 
lies?" 

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  ex- 
citing.   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  ud  her  blossom  in  the  moon- 
light.   "  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  bend- 
ing over,  kissed  the  hand  which  held  his. 

"  That's  nice  and  old-fashioned,"  said  Pleur  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. 

"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 


682  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

blossom.  They  came  out  where  they  had  gone  in,  Pleur  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  ilung  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,  writ- 
ing by  candlelight. 

"Deakest  Cheery, 

"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  Vospo- 
vitch  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  ex- 
citing. 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  silvery 
hair  and  a  young  face  with  dark  eyes.  I'm  staying  with  his  sis- 
ter— 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- 


TO  LET  683 

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.  Any- 
way, I'll  sleep  over  it.    So  good-night,  my  Cherry-oh ! 

"Your 

"Fledb." 


VIII 

IDYLL  ON"  GEASS 

WIhen  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  any- 
thing to  say  they  did  not  say  it,  but  marched  in  the  early  awk- 
wardness 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  Chanctonbu,ry 
Ring;  a  sparkle  of  far  sea  came  into  view,  a  sparrow-hawk 
hovered  in  the  sun's  eye  so  that  the  blood-nourished  brown  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  Chanctonbury  Eing 
there  were  none — its  great  beech  temple  was  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 ! 

684 


TO  LET  685 

"  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  I" 

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  prop- 
erty ;  and  that's  why  there  was  the  "War." 

"  Oh !"  said  Fleur,  "  I  never  thought  of  that.  Your  people 
and  mine  quarrelled  about  property.  And  anyway  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  !" 

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  free, 
O  who  will  with  me  ride? 
O  who  will  up  and  foUow  me " 

"  Sing,  Jon  I" 

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 : 

"  Mv  God !    I  am  hungry  now !" 

"Oh!    I  am  sorry!" 

She  looked  round  into  his  face. 

"Jon,  you're  rather  a  darling." 


686  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  Pleur  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  Pleur,  "  let's  sit  down  for  half  a 
minute." 

Jon  took  off  his  coat,  and  they  shared  it. 

"  Smell !    Actually  wild  thyme  I" 

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 
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." 

Eleur  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. 


TO  LET  687 

"  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  L  We  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." 

"  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 !" 


IX 

GOYA 

Lt'N'ch  was  over  and  Soames  mounted  to  the  picture-gallery 
in  his  house  near  Mapledurham.  He  had  what  Annette  called 
"  a  grief."  Fleur  was  not  yet  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-Im- 
pressionist 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  Wini- 
fred had  followed  him  up. 

"  Oh !  you  do  f  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." 

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?" 

688 


TO  LET  689 

"  The  harm !"  muttered  Soames.    "  Why,  she "  he  cheeked 

himself.  The  Juno,  the  handkerchief,  Fleur's  eyes,  her  ques- 
tions, 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  he.  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.    . 

"  Ko,"  he  said,  "  not  yet.    Never  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.    Think  wliat  people  are !" 

"Twenty  years  is  a  long  time,"  muttered  Soames.  "Outside 
our  family,  who's  likely  to  remember?" 

AVinifred  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."  Hia 
acquisition  of  the  real  Goya  rather  beautifully  illustrated  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  aris- 
tocratic culture  which,  independent  of  mere  sensuous  enjoy- 
ment, is  founded  on  the  sounder  principle  that  one  must  know 
everything  and  be  fearfully  interested  in  life,  he  had  fully  in- 
tended 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  vio- 
lently attacked  in  1909,  and  the  noble  owner  became  alarmed 


690  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  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  col- 
lectors, 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  but- 
tons— ^he  had  made  so  many  that  he  desired  that  his  wife  should 
be  called  Lady  '"'  Buttons."  He  therefore  bought  a  unique  pic- 
ture 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  por- 
trait, 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 


TO  LET  691 

of  "  La  Vendimia."  There  she  was — ^the  little  wretch — ^looking 
back  at  him  in  her  dreamy  mood,  the  mood  he  loved  best  be- 
cause 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.  Porsyde,  what  you  goin'  to  do  with  this  small  lot?" 

That  Belgian  chap,  whose  mother — as  if  Flemish  blood  were 
not  enough — had  been  Armenian !  Subduing  a  natural  irrita- 
tion, 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. 

"  Eather  fine,  I  think,"  he  said ;  "  do  you  want  to  sell  it  ?" 

Soames  checked  his  instinctive  "  Not  particularly" — ^he  would 
not  chaifer  with  this  alien. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"What  do  vou  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  property 
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. 

"What  shall  I  make  my  cheque  for?"  pursued  Monsieur 
Profond. 


692  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  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  ?  Mon- 
sieur 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  cos- 
mopolitan,' 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  wreathe  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.  He  watched  them  walk  along  the  path 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  A  young  man  in  ilannels  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 
Pleur,  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  cheerfiil  young  man  of  the  Gallery  off  Cork 
Street! 

"  Turned  up,  you  see,  sir ;  I  live  only  four  miles  from  Pang- 
bourne.    Jolly  day,  isn't  it  ?" 


TO  LET  693 

Confronted  with  the  results  of  his  expansiveness,  Soamea 
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.  He  had 
not  anticipated  much  intelligence  from  one  who  had  mistaken 
a  copy  for  an  original,  but  as  they  passed  from  section  to  sec- 
tion, period  to  period,  he  was  startled  by  the  young  man's  frank 
and  relevant  remarks.  Natively  shrewd  himself,  and  even  sen- 
suous beneath  his  mask,  Soames  had  not  spent  thirty-eight  yeara 
over  his  one  hobby  without  knowing  something  more  about  pic- 
tures 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  sesthetics  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  waa 
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 


694  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  ?" 

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  was  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  compromise  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  re- 
produced 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  cer- 
is.\ii  grey  and  fiat-cheeked  distinction;  to  the  vivacious  Michael 
Mont,  pointed  in  ear  and  eye;  to  Imogen,  dark,  luscious  of 
glance,  growing  a  little  stout;  to  Prosper  Profond,  with  his 


TO  LET  695 

expression  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  Cardi- 
gan, 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  con- 
tinued 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  Caversham  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. 


696  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"But  he's  right,"  said  Monsieur  Profond  unexpectedly, 
"  there's  nbthin'  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. 
Wie  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  there  listen- 
ing for  the  car.  All  was  still  and  Sundayfied;  the  lilacs  in  full 
flower  scented  the  air.  There  were  white  clouds,  like  the  feath- 
ers 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  sun- 
light, 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  un- 
insured, 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." 


TO  LET  697 

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! 

And  that  fellow's  grin!     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  be- 
ginning to  tone  down.  '  There's  no  real  life  in  it,'  thought 
Soames.     'Why  doesn't  she  come?' 


TEIO 

AnoifG  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  Padding- 
ton  ;  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  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 

698 


TO  LET  699 

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  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 


700  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

tenacity  of  soul,  a  dread  of  showing  his  feelings,  a  determina- 
tion not  to  know  when  he  was  beaten.  Sensitive,  imaginative, 
affectionate  boys  get  a  bad  time  at  school,  but  Jon  had  in- 
stinctively kept  his  nature  dark,  and  been  but  normally  unhappy 
there.  Only  with  his  mother  had  he,  up  till  then,  been  abso- 
lutely 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  tho 
first  thing  his  mother  said  to  him  was : 

"  So  you've  had  our  little  friend  of  the  confectioner's  there, 
Jon.    Wliat  is  she  like  on  second  thoughts  ?" 

With  relief,  and  a  high  colour,  Jon  answered : 

"  Oh !  awfully  jolly,  Mum." 

Her  arm  pressed  his. 

Jon  had  never  loved  her  so  much  as  in  that  minute  which 
seemed  to  falsify  Flour'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  his  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 


TO  LET  'i'Ol 

his  face ;  and  again  he  saw  Pleur — in  his  mother's  hands,  slim 
and  whi  te  on  the  keys,  in  the  profile  of  her  face  and  her  powdery 
hair;  and  down  the  long  room  in  the  open  window  where  the 
May  night  walked  outside. 

AVhen  he  went  up  to  bed  his  mother  came  into  his  room. 
She  stood  at  the  window,  and  said: 

"  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.  "  Ko,  dear ;  that's  for  your 
Pather  some  day,  if  he  thinks  fit." 

"Then  it  teas  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  S9 
sharp  and  so  confused.  Italy  with  his  mother!  A  fortnight 
ago  it  would  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 : 

"  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,  still  slim  and  firm  as  a 
girl's. 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  leave  Father  ?"  he  said  feebly, 
feeling  very  mean. 


702  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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  I" 

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." 

"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!  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 : 

"Ah!  why  on  earth  are  we  born  young?  Now,  if  only  we 
were  born  old  and  grew  younger  year  by  year,  we  should  under- 
stand 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." 


TO  LET  703 

"  Let  me  try,  anyway." 

Jolyon  stood  a  moment  without  speaking.  Between  this  devil 
and  this  deep  sea — ^the  pain  of  a  dreaded  disclosure  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." 


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 !"  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." 

.Ton  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  others  beasts  ! — oh !  heaven !  He  tipped  the  porter  unnatur- 
ally, in  his  confusion.  The  brute  deserved  nothing  for  putting 
them  in  there,  and  looking  as  if  he  knew  all  about  it  into  the 
bargain. 

Pleur  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. 

7C4 


TO  LET  703 

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." 

"  Ko,"  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  me,"  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.' 

The  train  went  on;  and  again  Fleur  leaned  forward. 

"  I  never  let  go,"  she  said ;  "  do  you  ?" 

Jon  shook  his  head  vehemently. 

"  Never !"  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  Maidenhead ; 
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 


706  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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 
Tpas  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. 

"  Six  weeks  isn't  really  long,"  she  said ;  "  and  you  can  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  was  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  Eeading,  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,  dis- 
tracted-looking youth  could  have  been  seen — as  they  say — ^leap- 
ing 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 


TO  LET  'i'07 

side  of  the  willow  leaves  up  into  the  sunlight,  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?" 

"  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  hit  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  always  the  condition  of 
the  world !" 

"  The  condition  of  the  world !" 

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 
nyself  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  inta 
another  hole.  Look  at  them,  still  fighting  and  plotting  and 
struggling,  though  they're  dying  in  heaps  all  the  time.    Idiots  I" 

"  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  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  v/retches,  and  don't  think 
of  me." 

Jon  stood  still.     Sweat  brol.c  out  on  his  forehead,  and  hia 


708  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

limbs  trembled.  Pleur  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." 

Pleur  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." 

Jon  nodded.  His  face  had  become  extremely  set,  his  eyes 
stared  straight  before  him. 

"To-day's  the  twenty-third  of  May,"  said  Pleur;  "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  Pleur,  and  blotted  herself  against  the 
hawthorn  hedge.     The  blossom  sprayed  out  above  her  head, 


TO  LET  'J'Ol) 

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  handa  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  Eeading 
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  poepi.  so  full  of  feeling  that  it  would  not  rhyme. 


XII 

CAPRICE 

Pleur  sped  on.  She  had  need  of  rapid  motion ;  she  was  lafe, 
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 
etepped  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  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  Eus- 
sian  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;  outlined  his  father,  and 

710 


TO  LET  711 

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  origi- 
nally, bat  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  S within." 

"  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." 

"Do  you  mind  sculling?"  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." 


712  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  I  am."  And  he  did  for  several  strokes,  looking  at  her  with 
Tueful  eagerness.  "  Of  course,  you  know,"  he  ejaculated,  paus- 
ing, "  that  I  came  to  see  you,  not  your  father's  pictures." 

Fleur  rose. 

"  If  you  don't  row,  I  shall  get  out  and  swim." 

"  Eeally  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  irrespressible  Mont.  "  I  know  you're 
going  to  say :  *  Out,  damned  hair !' " 

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  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, 
loo,  from  a  eucalyptus-tree,  startling  Southerner  in  this  old 
Snglish  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: 
^ DemainJ"  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, 
(dowm  ±h«  lawn;  and  the  click  of  billiard-balls  which,  in  listen- 
ing for  'other  sounds,  she  had  ceased  to  hear,  began  again.  She 
shook  herself,  passed  into  the  hall,  and  opened  the  drawing- 
loom  door.    Her  mother  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  between  the 

^rindoWSa  hsr  ikn^BS  ''■nriaa^arl     lior   lioa^    Ton+i-nfr  rvn    o    />Tialii/\'rt     Tio-r 


TO  LET  'J'13 

lips  half  parted,  her  eyes  half  closed.  She  looked  extraordinarily 
handsome. 

"Ah!  Here  you  are,  Pleur!  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." 

"I  thought  you  might  be.  Will  you  get  me  a  quite  plain 
parasol  ?" 

"What  colour?" 

"  Green.    They're  all  going  back,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  all ;  you  will  console  your  father.    Kiss  me,  then." 

Pleur  crossed  the  room,  stooped,  received  a  kiss  on  her  fore- 
head, 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  de- 
mands 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  unerring  instinct 
for  what  was  likely  to  advantage  her  own  case  was  already  at 
work.  In  a  disttirbed  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!  What  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  \" 

"  Is  that  all,"  murmured  Pleur,  "  from  a  bad  parent  ?"  And 
she  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his. 

Soames  shook  his  head  so  far  as  that  was  possible. 


714  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"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. 
TJnconsciously  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  that  was  not  involuted, 
and  yet — in  spite  of  all — she  retained  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 


TO  LET  715 

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,  Pleur;  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  whiteness 
on  the  river.  The  trees  had  lost  all  gaiety  of  colour.  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  light  laugh. 

"  0  la!  la!  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.    I  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 
"Eigoletto":  "donna  e  mobile."  Just  what  he  would  think! 
She  squeezed  her  father's  arm. 

"  Prowling !"  she  muttered,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  the 


716  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  barst  out.  Jon  would  be  in  London  by  now;  in  the 
Park  perhaps,  crossing  the  Serpentine,  thinking  of  her!  A 
little  sound  beside  her  made  her  turn  her  eyes;  her  father  was 
again  tearing  the  paper  in  his  bauds.  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 
i^,  "Most  amusing."  Imogen  was  enraptured.  Jack  Cardigan 
called  it  "  stunning,"  "  ripping,"  "  topping,"  and  "  corking." 
Monsieur  Prof ond,  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- 
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 


TO  LET  nt 

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  shimber.  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  Eobin  Hill,  and  the  sparrows  of  Mayfair,  ail 
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  anx- 
iety or  love,  burned  their  wavering  tapers  of  dream  and  thought 
into  the  lonely  hours. 

Fleur,  leaning  out  of  her  window,  heard  the  hall  clock's 
muiHed  chime  of  twelve,  the  tiny  splash  of  a  fish,  the  sudden 
shaking  of  an  aspen's  leaves  in  the  pufEs  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  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  forbidden  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  ab  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 


718  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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 


MOTHBE  AND  SON 

To  say  that  Jon  Forsyte  accompanied  his  mother  to  Spain  un- 
willingly 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-boues  are  wont  to  sulk.  But 
Jon  had  little  sulkiness  in  his  composition.  He  adored  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  apprecia- 
tive 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  tum- 
bling 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  com- 
patriots. Jon,  who,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had  no  blood  in  him 
which  was  not  English,  was  often  innately  unhappy  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  own  countrymen.  He  felt  they  had  no  nonsense 
about  them,  and  took  a  more  practical  view  of  things  than  him- 
self. He  confided  to  his  mother  that  he  must  be  an  unsociable 
beast — it  was  jolly  to  be  away  from  everybody  who  could  talk 

719 


730  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  appre- 
ciating 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  stimu- 
lated 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  re- 
production 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  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  '93." 

In  '93 — ^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  something 
in  her  face — a  look  of  life  hard-lived,  the  mysterious  impress  of 
emotions,  experience,  and  suffering — seemed,  with  its  incalcula- 
ble depth,  its  purchased  sanctity,  to  make  curiosity  impertinent. 


\ 


TO  LET  ',    731^ 

His  mother  must  have  had  a  -wonderfully  interesting  life;  she 
was  so  beautiful,  and  so — so — ^but  he  could  not  frame  what  ho 
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  sunlight.  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  chil- 
dren 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  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  War,  like  nearly  everybody  else! — made  him 
small  in  his  own  eyes. 

That  night,  from  the  balcony  of  his  bedroom,  he  gazed  down 
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 
cry  of  the  sentry  as  the  hours  struck,  and  forming  in  his  head 
these  lines: 

"Voice  in  the  night  crying,  down  in  the  old  sleeping 
Spanish  city  darkened  under  her  white  stars! 

What  says  the  voice — its  clear — lingering  anguish? 

Just  the  watchman,  telling  his  dateless  tale  of  safety? 
Just  a  road-man,  flinging  to  the  moon  his  song? 

No!    'Tis  one  deprived,  whose  lover's  heart  is  weeping. 
Just  his  cry:    '  How  long?'  " 

The  word  "deprived"  seemed  to  him  cold  and  unsatisfac- 
tory, but  "bereaved"  was  too  final,  and  no  other  word  of  two 
syllables  short-long  came  to  him,  which  would  enable  him  to  keep 
"  whose  lover's  heart  is  weeping."  It  was  past  two  by  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. 


722  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

About  noon  that  same  day,  on  the  tiled  terrace  of  their  hotel, 
he  felt  a  sudden  dull  pain  in  the  back  of  his  head,  a  queer  sen- 
sation in  the  eyes,  and  sickness.  The  sun  had  touched  him 
too  affectionately.  The  next  three  days  were  passed  in  semi- 
darkness,  and  a  dulled,  aching  indifference  to  all  except  tbe  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  angelic.  But  there  were  moments  when  he  was 
extremely  sorry  for  himself,  and  wished  terribly  that  Fleur 
could  see  him.  Several  times  he  took  a  poignant  imaginary 
leave  of  her  and  of  the  earth,  tears  oozing  out  of  his  eyes.  He 
even  prepared  the  message  he  would  send  to  her  by  his  mother 
— who  would  regret  to  her  dying  day  that  she  had  ever  sought 
to  separate  them — ^his  poor  mother!  He  was  not  slow,  how- 
ever, in  perceiving  that  he  had  now  his  excuse  for  going  home. 

Toward  half -past  six  each  evening  came  a  "gasgacha"  of 
bells — a  cascade  of  tumbling  chimes,  mounting  from  the  city 
below  and  falling  back  chime  on  chime.  After  listening  to  them 
on  the  fourth  day  he  said  suddenly: 

"I'd  like  to  be  back  in  England,  Mum,  the  sun's  too  hot." 

"Very  well,  darling.  As  soon  as  you're  fit  to  travel."  And 
at  once  he  felt  better,  and — ^meaner. 

They  had  been  out  five  weeks  when  they  turned  toward  home. 
Jon's  head  was  restored  to  its  pristine  clarity,  but  he  was  con- 
fined to  a  hat  lined  by  his  mother  with  many  layers  of  orange 
and  green  silk  and  he  still  walked  from  choice  in  the  shade. 
As  the  long  struggle  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  had  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.  Kow  that  he  was  going  back  to  her,  he  could  afford  a 
lesser  scrutiny.  It  was  his  mother  who  lingered  before  the  pic- 
ture, saying: 

"  The  face  and  the  figure  of  the  girl  are  exquisite." 

Jon  heard  her  uneasily.  Did  she  understand?  But  he  felt 
once  more  that  he  was  no  match  for  her  in  self-control  and 
subtlety.  She  could,  in  some  supersensitive  way,  of  which  he 
had  not  the  secret,  feel  the  pulse  of  his  thoughts;  she  knew  by 
instinct  what  he  hoped  and  feared  and  wished.  It  made  him 
terribly  uncomfortable  and  guilty,  having,  beyond  most  boys,  a 


TO  LET  723 

conscience.  He  wished  she  would  be  irank.  with  him,  he  almost; 
hoped  for  an  open  struggle.  But  none  came,  and  steadily,  si- 
lently, 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. 


II 

FATHEES  AND  DAUGHTEES 

Deprived  of  his  wife  and  son  by  the  Spanish  adventure,  Jolyon 
found  the  solitude  at  Eobin  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  Eobin  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  Eobin  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  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  impatient  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  overlived,  himself  again.  The 
great  thing  about  this  healer  was  that  he  relied  on  Nature.    He 

724 


TO  LET  735 

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 
Eobin  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  down;  as,  for  ex- 
ample, when  the  Austrian  woke  him  at  eight  o'clock  just  as  he 
was  going  to  sleep,  or  June  took  I'he  Times  away  from  him, 
because  it  was  unnatural  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  Pox-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  it  must  impose  on  the 
dancer's  will-power.  Aware  that,  hung  on  the  line  in  the  Water 
Colour  Society,  he  was  a  back  number  to  those  with  any  preten- 
sion 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  admir- 
ation 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  differ- 
ent from  his  own  rather  folded  and  subtilized  countenance,  her 


726  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

little  light  figure,  v/hen  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 
surrounded,  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  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  admitted — 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.  WTien  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  indifllerence  and  prejudice 
as  her  father  manifested  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  hope- 
less 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,  puflBng  the  mild  cigarette  to  which 
he  was  reduced,  "  as  Mr.  Paul  Post  puts  his  art,  eh  ?    Art  for 


TO  LET  727 

Art's  sake — Science  for  the  sake  of  Science.  I  know  those 
enthusiastic  egomaniac  gentry.  They  vivisect  you  without  blink- 
ing.   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  to  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  nowa- 
days 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  inex- 
orable 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  dis- 
cretion. After  she  had  brooded  on  the  news,  it  brought  a  rather 
sharp  discussion,  during  which  he  perceived  to  the  full  the  fun- 
damental 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  sig- 
nally triumphed  over  the  active  principle. 

According  to  June,  it  was  foolish  and  even  cowardly  to  hide 
the  past  from  Jon.    Sheer  opportunism,  she  called  it. 

"  Which,"  Jolyon  put  in  mildly,  "  is  the  working  principle  of 
real  life,  my  dear." 

"  Oh !"  cried  June,  "  you  don't  really  defend  her  for  not  tell- 
ing 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." 

"Then  why  don't  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 


728  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  consideration.  After  all,  she  was  Soames' 
cousin,  and  they  were  hoth  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  Eeading  station.  The  river  country  was  lovely 
in  those  days  of  her  own  month,  and  June  ached  at  its  loveli- 
ness. 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  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.  Think- 
ing, '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  calmlr' 


TO  LET  729 

"  He's  quite  a  nice  bov." 

"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  don't  believe  it; 
we've  both  got  heaps.  They  wouldn't  have  been  so  lourgeois  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  something  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  encounter. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  you  drop  your  handkerchief. 
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  you." 


730  THE  FOBSYTE  SAGA 

"  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." 

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  yoii  across." 

"Look!"  said  June  impulsively,  "next  time  you're  in  Lon- 
don, come  and  see  me.  This  is  where  I  live.  I  generally  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  aw- 
fully 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  like  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  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  meadowrsweet,  wondering  how  she  could  force  everybody 
to  be  happy.    Jon  and  Fleur !    Two  little  lame  ducks — charm- 


TO  LET  'J'31 

ing  callow  yellow  little  ducks!  A  great  pity!  Surely  some- 
thing 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  Pleur.  I  think  she's 
very  attractive.    It's  no  good  hiding  our  heads  under  our  wings, 

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?" 

"  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?" 

"  You  haven't  lived  that  past.  I  have — ^through  the  feelings 
of  my  wife;  through  my  own  nerves  and  my  imagination,  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  Italian 


n^  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

peasant  woman  utters  to  her  mule.  His  heart  had  begun  beat- 
ing 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 !  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  and 
slipped  her  arm  through  his.  Not  convinced  that  he  was  right, 
and  she  herself  wrong,  because  that  was  not  natural  to  her,  she 
was  yet  profoundly  impressed  by  the  obvious  fact  that  the  sub- 
ject was  very  bad  for  him.  She  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder,  and  said  nothing. 

After  taking  her  elderly  cousin  across,  Fleur  did  not  land 
at  once,  but  pulled  in  among  the  reeds,  into  the  sunshine.  The 
peaceful  beauty  of  the  afternoon  seduced  for  a  little  one  not 
much  given  to  the  vague  and  poetic.  In  the  field  beyond  the 
bank  where  her  skiff  lay  up,  a  machine  drawn  by  a  grey  horse 
was  turning  an  early  field  of  hay.  She  watched  the  grass 
cascading  over  and  behind  the  light  wheels  with  fascination — 
it  looked  so  cool  and  fresh.  The  click  and  swish  blended  with 
the  rustle  of  the  willows  and  the  poplars,  and  the  cooing  of  a 
wood-pigeon,  in  a  true  river  song.  Alongside,  in  the  deep  green 
water,  weeds,  like  yellow  snakes,  were  writhing  and  nosing  with 
the  current;  pied  cattle  on  the  farther  side  stood  in  the  shade 
lazily  swishing  their  tails.  It  was  an  afternnon  to  dream.  And 
she  took  out  Jon's  letters — not  flowery  effusions,  but  haunted 
in  their  recital  of  things  seen  and  done  by  a  longing  very 
agreeable  to  her,  and  all  ending  "  Your  devoted  J."  Meur  was 
not  sentimental,  her  desires  were  ever  concrete  and  concentrated, 
but  what  poetry  there  was  in  the  daughter  of  Soames  and  An- 
nette had  certainly  in  those  weeks  of  waiting  gathered  round 
her  memories  of  Jon.    They  all  belonged  to  grass  and  blossom, 


TO  LET  733 

flowers  and  running  water.  She  enjoyed  him  in  the  scents  ab- 
sorbed by  her  crinkling  nose.  The  stars  could  persuade  her  that 
she  was  standing  beside  him  in  the  centre  of  the  map  of  Spain ; 
and  of  an  early  morning  the  dewy  cobwebs,  the  hazy  sparkle 
and  promise  of  the  day  down  in  the  garden,  were  Jon  personified 
to  her. 

Two  white  swans  came  majestically  by,  while  she  was  reading 
his  letters,  followed  by  their  brood  of  six  young  swans  in  a  line, 
with  just  so  much  water  between  each  tail  and  head,  a  flotilla 
of  grey  destroyers.  Fleur  thrust  her  letters  back,  got  out  her 
sculls,  and  pulled  up  to  the  landing-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  him 
the  reason  of  the  feud.  She  went,  therefore,  up  the  road  to  meet 
him. 

Soames  had  gone  to  look  at  a  patch  of  ground  on  which  the 
Local  Authorities  were  proposing  to  erect  a  Sanatorium  for 
people  with  weak  lungs.  Faithful  to  his  native  individualism, 
he  took  no  part  in  local  affairs,  content  to  pay  the  rates  which 
were  always  going  up.  He  could  not,  however,  remain  i,ndiffer- 
ent  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  sta-mp  out  tuberculosis;  but  this  was  not  the 
place.  It  should  be  done  farther  away.  He  took,  indeed,  an 
attitude  common  to  all  true  Forsytes,  that  disability  of  any  sort 
in  other  people  was  not  his  affair,  and  the  State  should  do  its 
business  without  prejudicing  in  any  way  the  natural  advantages 
which  he  had  acquired  or  inherited.  Francie,  the  most  free- 
spirited  Forsyte  of  his  generation  (exee^it  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  Sanatorium  would  depreciate  the 
neighbourhood,  and  he  should  certainly  sign  the  petition  which 
was  being  got  up  against  it.  Eeturning  with  this  decision 
fresh  within  him,  he  saw  Fleur  coming. 

She  was  showing  him  more  affection  of  late,  and  the  quiet 
time  down  here  with  her  in  this  summer  weather  had  been 
making  him  feel  quite  young;  Annette  was  always  running  up 
to  Town  for  one  thing  or  another,  so  that  he  had  Fleur  to  him- 
self almost  as  much  as  he  could  wish._  To  be  sure,  young  Mont 
had  formed  a  habit  of  appearing  on  his  motor-cycle  almost  every 


734  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  din- 
ner, 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  grace- 
fully 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  re- 
membering that  caprice  of  hers. 

AVhen  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." 

"  She's  only  a  first  cousin  once  removed,"  muttered  Soames. 

"And  the  daughter  of  your  enemy." 

"A\Tiat  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  ?" 


TO  LET  735 

Fleur  saw  that  she  had  overreached  herself. 

"  I  don't  want  to  plague  you,  darling.  As  you  say,  why  want 
to  know  more?  "Why  want  to  know  anything  of  that  'small' 
mystery — Je  m'en  fiche,  as  Prof ond  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  in- 
stinct, 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  indistinguish- 
able 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 
as  his  nature  would  permit.  His  senses  were  at  rest;  his  affec- 
tions found  all  the  vent  they  needed  in  his  daughter;  his  col- 
lection was  well  known,  his  money  well  invested;  his  health  ex- 
cellent, 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  in- 
stinctively, perverse  and  retrogressive.  Those  two  crumpled 
rose-leaves,  Pleur'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 


736  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

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  her,  perhaps.  Then, 
afraid  of  showing  by  her  manner  that  she  had  lighted  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.  Kever 
mind!" 

That  evening  passed  for  Fleur  in  putting  two  and  two  to- 
gether; recalling  the  look  on  her  father's  face  in  the  confec- 
tioner'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.  Un- 
sparing and  matter-of-fact,  her  mind  darted  to  his  relations  with 
her  own  mother.  Had  he  ever  really  loved  her?  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  relief  was  caught 
in  the  folds  of  her  nightgown  slipping  over  her  head. 


Ill 

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'  loneliness  to  cure  was  not  agreeable. 

At  the  question,  ""Wiell,  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 
rieur'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  indispensable  in  Conduit 
Street,  turned  his  face  toward  Piccadilly.  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  j'oung  men  to  himself.  They  wore  their 
clothes  with  such  an  air;  thev  had  assurance;  they  were  old.  He 

737 


738  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

was  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  the  conviction  that  Pleur  must 
have  forgotten  him.  Absorbed  in  his  own  feeling  for  her  all 
these  weSce,  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 — Pleur  incomparable !  It  was 
an  evil  moment.  Jon,  however,  had  a  great  idea  that  one  must 
be  able  to  face  anything.  And  he  braced  himself  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  gets  news  of  her  from  Val ! 

The  condition  of  England,  that  nightmare  of  its  Press  and 
Public  men,  was  seen  in  different  perspective  within  the  tobac- 
conist'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  tobaccon- 
ist's face.  "  Many's  the  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  acci- 
dent.   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,  mous- 
tachioed, a  little  pufi'y,  in  the  only  halo  it  had  earned.  His 
father  had  his  fame  here,  anyway — a  man  who  smoked  two  hun- 
dred cigarettes  a  week,  who  could  give  tips,  and  run  accounts 
for  ever !  To  his  tobacconist  a  hero !  Even  that  was  some  dis- 
tinction to  inherit ! 

"  I  pay  cash,"  he  said ;  "  how  much  ?" 

"  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 


TO  LET  739 

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  be- 
fore. Saved  my  life,  I  expect.  Do  you  want  any  cigarettes, 
Jon  ?" 

Bather  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  to- 
bacco, then?" 

"  Identical,  sir ;  a  little  dearer,  that's  all.  Wonderful  staying 
power — the  British  Empire,  I  always  say." 

"  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  controll- 
ing 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,  A^1l  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,  per- 
vaded with  such  freemason!  cal  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  T)nce ;  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  br-eeding,  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 


740  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

not  take  his  eyes  off  the  dark  past  master — ^what  he  said  was  so 
deliberate  and  discouraging — such  heavy,  queer,  smiled-out 
words.    Jon  vra.s  thinking  of  butterflies,  when  he  heard  him  say : 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Soames  Porsyde  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  Por- 
syde  is  a  bit  old-fashioned.  I  want  to  see  him  have  a  pleasure 
some  day." 

George  Porsyte  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  Porsyte  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  Pleur." 

"  Don't  suppose  Pleur  cares  very  much ;  she's  very  up-to- 
date." 

"Her  mother!" 

"You're  very  green,  Jon." 

Jon  grew  red.  "Mothers,"  Ihe  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." 

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." 


TO  LET  741 

"Well,  you  can  ask  Holly.  If  she  won't  tell  yon,  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  mad^e  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! 

"They  told  me  you'd  been,  and  were  coming  back.  So  I 
thought  you  might  be  out  here;  and  you  are — it's  rather 
wonderful !" 

"  Oh,  Fleur !  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." 

"Eeally!    Was  it  interesting?" 

"No.  Mother  was  an  angel.  Has  anything  happened  to 
you?" 


743  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  Nothing.  Except  that  I  think  I've  found  out  what's  wrong 
between  our  families,  Jon." 

His  heart  began  beating  very  fast. 

"I  believe  my  father  wanted  to  marry  your  mother,  and 
your  father  got  her  instead." 

"  Oh !" 

"  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  somebody 
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 !" 

"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  io  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  usj  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  Lon- 
don 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, 
oiRcial,  commercial,  or  professional,  like  the  working  classes, 
still  worked  their  seven  hours  a  day,  so  that  those  two  of  tbn 


TO  LET  74,3 

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  villager 
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  permanent, 
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  thiiig.  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: 

"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 ! 


744  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"  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.  Kow  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." 

"  It's  supposed  to  be  satiric,  isn't  it  ?"  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!  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  any- 
thing nowadays,  not  even  our  feelings.  They  stand  in  the  way 
of — Nothing." 

Jon   listened,   bewildered,   almost   outraged  by   his   father's 


TO  LET  745 

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  all!" 

"  By  Georoe !"  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 !"  He  felt  less 
young. 

Fleur  looked  at  her  watch,  and  rose.  His  mother  went  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  something  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. 


IV 

IN  GREEN   STREET 

TJncertain,  whether  the  impression  that  Prosper  Profond  was 
dangerous  should  be  traced  to  his  attempt  to  give  Val  the 
Mayfly  filly ;  to  a  remark  of  Fleur's :  "  He's  like  the  hosts  of 
Midian — he  prowls  and  prowls  around  " ;  to  his  preposterous  in- 
quiry of  Jack  Cardigan:  "What's  the  use  of  keepin'  fit?"  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  him  a  Gauguin  and  then 
torn  up  the  cheque,  so  that  Monsieur  Profond  himself  had  said: 
"  I  didn't  get  that  small  picture  I  bought  from  Mr.  Forsyde." 

However  suspiciously  regarded,  he  still  frequented  Wini- 
fred's evergreen  Httle  house  in  Green  Street,  with  a  good-natured 
obtuseness  which  no  one  mistook  for  naivete,  a  word  hardly 
applicable  to  Monsieur  Prosper  Profond.  Winifred  still  found 
him  "  amusing,"  and  would  write  him  little  notes  saying : 
"  Come  and  have  a  '  jolly '  with  us  " — it  was  breath  of  life  to 
her  to  keep  up  with  the  phras«s  of  the  day. 

The  mystery,  with  which  all  felt  him  to  be  surrounded,  was 
due  to  his  having  done,  seen,  heard,  and  known  everything, 
and  found  nothing  in  it — ^which  was  unnatural.  The  English 
type  of  disillusionment  was  familiar  enough  to  Winifred,  who 
had  always  moved  in  fashionable  circles.  It  gave  a  certain 
cachet  or  distinction,  so  that  one  got  something  out  of  it.  But 
to  see  nothing  in  anything,  not  as  a  pose,  but  because  there 
tvas  nothing  in  anything,  was  not  English;  and  that  which 
was  not  English  one  could  not  help  secretly  feeling  dangerous, 
if  not  precisely  bad  form.  It  was  like  having  the  mood  which 
the  War  had  left,  seated — dark,  heavy,  smiling,  indifferent — in 
your  Empire  chair;  it  was  like  listening  to  that  mood  talking 
through  thick  pink  lips  above  a  little  diabolic  beard.  It  was, 
as  Jack  Cardigan  expressed  it — ^for  the  English  character  at 
large — "a  bit  too  thick" — for  if  nothing  was  really  worth 
getting  excited  about,  there  were  always  games,  and  one  could 

746 


TO  LET  747 

make  it  so !  Even  Winifred,  ever  a  Forsyte  at  heart,  felt  that 
there  was  nothing  to  be  had  out  of  such  a  mood  of  disillusion- 
ment, so  that  it  really  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  return  from  Eobin  Hill,  came 
down  to  dinner  that  evening,  the  mood  was  standing  at  the 
window  of  Winifred's  little  drawing-room,  looking  out  into 
Green  Street,  with  an  air  of  seeing  nothing  in  it.  And  Fleur 
gazed  promptly  into  the  fireplace  with  an  air  of  seeing  a  fire 
which  was  not  there. 

Monsieur  Profond  came  from  the  window.  He  was  in  full 
fig,  with  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  white  flower  in  his  buttonhole. 

"Well,  Miss  Forsyde,"  he  said,  "I'm  awful  pleased  to  see 
you.  Mr.  Forsyde  well?  I  was  sayin'  to-day  I  want  to  see 
him  have  some  pleasure.    He  worries." 

"You  think  so?"  said  Fleur  shortly. 

"Worries,"    repeated    Monsieur    Profond,    burring   the    r's. 

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.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

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 !" 

Fleur  looTced  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 


748  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  Eleur  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. 

"  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  upstairs  ?" 

"  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." 

"Well,  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 


TO  LET  U9 

her  life  as  yet  had  she  suffered  from  even  momentary  fear  that 
she  would  not  get  what  she  had  set  her  heart  on.  The  sensa- 
tions of  the  afternoon  had  been  full  and  poignant,  and  this 
gruesome  discovery  coming  on  the  top  of  them  had  really  made 
her  head  ache.  No  wonder  her  father  had  hidden  that  photo- 
graph, so  secretly  behind  her  own — ashamed  of  having  kept  it  1 
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  Eobin  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  desper- 
ately 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?  She  searched  her  memor- 
ies of  Eobin  Hill.  His  mother's  face  so  passive — ^with  its  dark 
eyes  and  as  if  powdered  hair,  its  reserve,  its  smile— bafHed  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 !  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.' 

Soup  was  brought  up  to  her,  and  one  of  Winifred's  pet 
headache  cachets.  She  swallowed  both.  Then  Winifred  herself 
appeared.    Fleur  opened  her  campaign  with  the  words : 

"  You  know.  Auntie,  I  do  wish  people  wouldn't  think  I'm 
in  love  with  that  boy.    Why,  I've  hardly  seen  him !" 

Winifred,  though  experienced,  was  not  "fine."  She  accepted 
the  remark  with  considerable  relief.  Of  course,  it  was  not 
pleasant  for  the  girl  to  hear  of  the  family  scandal,  and  she  set 


750  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

herself  to  minimize  the  matter,  a  task  for  which,  she,  was  emi- 
nently qualified,  "  raised "  fashionably  under  a  comfortable 
mother  and  a  father  whose  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  Jiad  been  a  young  man  who 
had  got  run  over,  and  she  had  left  Fleur's  father.  Then,  years 
after,  when  it  might  all  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  Prof  on  d,  who,  in  spite  of  his  indis- 
cretion, 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  unforgivingness  of  pas- 
sionate hearts.  She,  who  knew  so  little  of  life,  and  had  touched 
only  the  fringe  of  love,  was  yet  aware  by  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  flgure.  It 
fell  short,  but  the  action  did  her  good. 

And  a  little  puff  of  air  came  up  from  Green  Street,  smelling 
of  petrol,  not  sweet. 


PUEELY  FOESYTE  APFAIES 

SoAMES,  coming  up  to  the  City,  with  the  intention  of  calling 
in  at  Green  Street  at  the  end  of  his  day  and  taking  Pleur  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  Forsyte's,  and  one 
special  clerk  and  a  half  assigned  to  the  management  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  Eoger, 
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  jn  connection  with  these  trusts.  If 
Soames  thought  this  or  thought  that,  one  had  better  save  one- 
self 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  Eoger  or 
Nicholas,  his  cousins-in-law  Tweetyman  and  Spender,  or  his 
Bister  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  was  extraor- 
dinarily 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  bankruptcies.  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 

751 


753  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  would  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  diflBcult  to  refute  in  a  world  com- 
posed 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  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  nationali- 
zation— 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  per- 
fect peace,  to  think  that  a  lot  of  unscrupulous  Trusts  and  Com- 
binations 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  rufiians  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.' 


TO  LET  ''S^ 

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  Eoger. 
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. 

"  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.  Eecovering 
his  body,  he  raised  his  girizzle-haired  face,  very  red  from 
stooping. 

"  Copies,  sir." 

Soames  took  them.  It  struck  him  suddenly  how  like  Grad- 
man was  to  the  stout  brindled  yard  dog  they  had  been  wont 
to  keep  on  his  chain  at  The  Shelter,  till  one  day  Pleur  had 
come  and  insisted  it  should  be  let  loose,  so  that  it  had  at  once 
bitten  the  cook  and  been  destroyed.  If  you  let  Gradman  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  Meur 
was  born.  He  wanted  to  see  whether  the  words  "  during  cover- 
ture" were  in.  Yes,  they  were — odd  expression,  when  you 
thought  of  it,  and  derived  perhaps  from  horse-breeding!  In- 
terest on  fifteen  thousand  pounds  (which  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  Pleur's 
mother.  His  Will  made  it  up  to  an  annuity  of  a  thousand 
under  the  same  conditions.  All  right !  He  returned  the  copies 
to  Gradman,  who  took  them  without  looking  up,  swung  the 
chair,  restored  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 


754  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

to  find  a  way  by  which  I  can  safeguard  Miss  Fleur  against 
pnything  which  might  arise." 

Gradman  wrote  the  figure  "  2  "  on  his  blotting-paper. 

"  Ye-es,"  he  said ;  "  there's  a  nahsty  spirit." 

"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  I"  said  Gradman. 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  make  a  settlement  on  her  at  once  with 
myself  as  beneficiary  for  life,  they  couldn't  take  anything  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 :  "  Eather  extreme  at  your  age,  sir ;  you  lose 
control." 

"  That's  my  business,"  said  Soames,  sharply. 

Gradman  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper :  "  Life-interest — antici- 
pation— 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." 

"  Not  young  Mr.  Nicholas  ?  He's  at  the  Bar.  We've  given 
'im  briefs." 

"He'll  never  set  the  Thames  on  fire,"  said  Soames. 

A  smile  oozed  out  on  Gradman's  face,  greasy  with  countless 
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?" 


TO  LET  755 

"  Ye-es,  quite  a  young  fellow." 

"  Well,  put  him  in ;  but  I  want  somebody  who'll  take  a  per- 
sonal interest.  There's  no  one  that  I  can  see." 

"  What  about  Mr.  Valerius,  now  he's  come  home  ?" 

"ValDartie?    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  wei'e  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 
■ffant  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  I 
and  Mr.  Timothy?    Is  everything  in  order  in  case  of " 

"  I've  got  the  inventory  of  his  estate  all  ready ;  had  the  furni- 
ture 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  3ince  I  first  saw  Mr.  Timothy !" 

"We  can't  live  for  ever,"  said  Soames,  taking  down  his  hat. 

"  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  bilious  and  mathematical  exactitude,  the  prepos- 
terous 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 


756  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  swivel  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,  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  considering  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  like  dry- 
ing 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.  Eoger  or  Mr.  James  would  say  if  they  could  see 
it  being  sold  like  this — eeemed  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  nowa- 
days—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,  fallin'  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,  Grad- 
man, you're  only  a  shaver — ^you  pay  attention,  and  you'll  make 


TO  LET  75r 

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 — mot  that  he  ap- 
proved of  it,  an  extravagant  affair — he  entered  the  Tube  elevator 
with  his  mere  brown-paper  parcel,  and  was  borne  down  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth. 


VI 

SOAMES'  PEIVATE  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  pro- 
hibitive; 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. 

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 

758 


TO  LET  'i'Sg 

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!  Incredulously  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  j  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 " 

Beaching  that  word  Soames  stopped  mechanically  and  ex- 
amined the  postmark.  So  far  as  he  could  pierce  the  impenetra- 
ble disguise  in  which  the  Post  Office  had  wrapped  it,  there  was 
something  with  a  "sea"  at  the  end  and  a  "t"  in  it.  Chelsea? 
Ko !    Battersea  ?    Perhaps !    He  read  on. 

"  These  foreigners  are  all  the  same.  Sack  the  lot.  This  one 
meets  your  lady  twice  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  thafs  in  it.  Yours 
obedient." 

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  anonymity 
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,  per- 
used his  Will  and  Marriage  Settlement?  And  now  this  anony- 
mous ruffian,  with  nothing  to  gain,  apparently,  save  the  venting 
of  his  spite  against  foreigners,  had  wrenched  it  out  of  the  ob- 
scurity 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 


760  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  Eleur.  That  resolution  taken,  his  mind  answered 
the  helm  again,  and  he  made  his  ablutions.  His  hands  trem- 
bled as  he  dried  them.  Scandal  he  would  not  have,  but  some- 
thing must  be  done  to  stop  this  sort  of  thing !  He  went  into  his 
wife's  room  and  stood  looking  around  him.  The  idea  of  search- 
ing for  anything  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  ruf- 
fian, whose  impudent  intrusion  into  his  private  life  he  so  vio- 
lently resented.  It  was  repugnant  to  him  to  make  use  of  it, 
biit  he  might  have  to.  What  a  mercy  Eleur  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  fear- 
fully gone  that  I  thought  you'd  better  know.  It's  cld-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  cot- 
tons?" 


TO  LET  761 

"Yes,  sir j  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. 

"  Not  from  Fleur,  sir.    Imagine,  if  you  were  me !" 

Soames  cleared  his  throat.  That  way  of  putting  it  was  forci- 
ble 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 
Lair.    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  shoiildn'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  everything  is  not 
a  proof  of  maturity." 

"All  right,  sir;  I  give  you  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  hiow ;  but  so  she  is  to  me." 

"  That's  as  may  be.  I'm  glad  you've  told  me,  however.  And 
.now  I  think  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

"  I  know  it  rests  with  her,  sir." 

"  It  will  rest  with  her  a  long  time,  I  hope." 


762  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

"  You  aren't  cheering,"  said  Mont  suddenly. 

"No,"  said  Soames,  "my  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  my 
brains  out  for  want  of  her.     She  knows  that  perfectly  well." 

"  I  dare  say."  And  Soames  held  out  his  hand.  A  distracted 
squeeze,  a  heavy  sigh,  and  soon  after  sounds  from  the  young 
man's  motor-cycle  called  up  visions  of  flying  dust  and  broken 
bones. 

'The  younger  generation!'  he  thought  heavily,  and  went  out 
on  to  the  lawn.  The  gardeners  had  been  mowing,  and  there 
was  still  the  smell  of  fresh-cut  grass — ^the  thundery  air  kept  all 
scents  close  to  earth.  The  sky  was  of  a  purplish  hue — the  pop- 
lars black.  Two  or  three  boats  passed  on  the  river,  scuttling,  as 
it  were,  for  shelter  before  the  storm.  '  Three  days'  fine  weather,' 
thought  Soames,  'and  then  a  storm!'  Where  was  Annette? 
WSth  that  chap,  for  all  he  knew — she  was  a  young  woman !  Im- 
pressed with  the  queer  charity  of  that  thought,  he  entered  the 
summerhouse  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  indifferent  to  that  side  of  things!  It  was 
odd  how,  with  all  this  ingrained  care  for  moderation  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  once,  but  now — ^now  it  should  save  him! 
He  cared  so  much  for  Fleur  that  he  would  have  no  further  scan- 
dal. 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  should  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  finger  on  the  dusty  surface  of  a  little  rustic 
table.  Fleur's  future !  '  I  want  fair  sailing  for  her,'  he  thought. 
'  Nothing  else  matters  at  my  time  of  life.'  A  lonely  business — 
life !  What  you  had  you  never  could  keep  to  yourself !  As  you 
warned  one  off,  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 
— iNature  was  a  queer  thing!  The  thunder  rumbled  and 
crashed,  travelling  east  along  the  river,  the  paling  flashes  flicked 


TO  LET  763 

his  eyes;  the  poplar  tops  showed  sharp  and  dense  against 
the  sky,  a  heavy  shower  rustled  and  rattled  and  veiled  in  the 
little  house  wherein  he  sat,  indifferent,  thinking. 

When  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 !'  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  know- 
ing what  to  say  and  how  to  say  it  had  increased.  A  new  and 
scaring  thought  occurred  to  him.  Suppose  she  wanted  her 
liberty  to  marry  this  fellow !  Well,  if  she  did,  she  couldn't  have 
it.  He  had  not  married  her  for  that.  The  image  of  Prosper 
Profond  dawdled  before  him  reassuringly.  Not  a  marrying 
man !  No,  no !  Anger  replaced  that  momentary  scare.  '  He 
had  better  not  come  my  way,'  he  thought.  The  mongrel  repre- 
sented  (!  But  what  did  Prosper  Profond  represent?  Noth- 
ing 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 
m'en  fichef"  A  fatalistic  chap!  A  continental — a  cosmopoli- 
tan— 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  handsome 
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  quan- 
tity 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  win- 
dows. She  was  leaning  back,  almost  upright,  in  a  low  black 
frock,  with  her  knees  crossed  and  her  blue  eyes  half-closed; 


764  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

grey-blue  smoke  issued  from  her  red,  rather  full  lips,  a  fiUet 
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." 

He  did  so,  and  stood  looking  at  a  David  Cox  adorning  the 
cream-panelled  wall  close  by. 

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  eyes.  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  sav?" 

"  No." 

"Well,  speak  out!" 

"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,  "  what 
you  were  when  I  married  j'ou?  Working  at  accounts  in  a  res- 
taurant." 

"  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. 


TO  LET  765 

"  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 ;  "  Meur.  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  practi- 
cal." 

Soames,  who  had  passed  through  all  the  sensations  of  being 
choked,  repeated  dully : 

"  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  ease.    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 


766  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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,  what- 
ever 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,  start- 
ling 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-preserva- 
tion warned  him  to  batten  down  his  hatches,  to  smother  the 
fire  with  want  of  air.  Unless  one  believed  there  was  something 
in  a  thing,  there  wasn't. 

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  by  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 
Bcent  of  lime-blossom.  God !  That  had  been  a  different  thing ! 
Passion — Memory !    Dust ! 


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  even- 
ing in  June  Forsyte's  studio  on  the  bank  of  the  Thames  at 
Chiswick.  On  the  evening  of  July  6,  Boris  Strumolowski — sev- 
€ral  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  cheekSboned  countenance 
framed  in  bright  hair  banged  like  a  girl's.  June  had  known 
him  three  weeks,  and  he  still  seemed  to  her  the  principal  em- 
hodiment  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  record- 
ing his  impressions  of  the  United  States,  whose  dust  he  had  just 
shaken  from  off  his  feet — a  country,  in  his  opinion,  so  barbar- 
ous 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  frater- 
nity, 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  unhap- 
pily 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  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  mas- 
terpieces. She  had  at  once  encountered  trouble.  Paul  Post  had 
kicked ;  Vospovitch  had  stung.  "With  all  the  emphasis  of  a  ge- 
nius which  she  did  not  as  yet  deny  them,  they  had  demanded 
another  six  weeks  at  least  of  her  Gallery.    The  American  stream, 

767 


768  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

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  pres- 
ent, except  Hannah  Hobdey,  the  mediiEval  blaek-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 — ihe  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  perfectly  blind  to  Art,  and 
sunk  in  profiteering  and  the  grossest  materialism.  Conscious 
that  Hannah  Hobdey  was  murmuring,  "  Hear,  hear !"  and  Jim- 
my Portugal  sniggering,  June  grew  crimson,  and  suddenly 
rapped  out : 

"  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  Jplyon's  sense  of  justice  had  risen,  as  it  were,  from 
bed.  "  You  come  and  sponge  on  us,"  she  said,  "  and  then 
abxise  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  sensibility  of  ge- 
nius 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." 


TO  LET  769 

"  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  pufE  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  and 
lame  ducks.  She  was  struggling  for  adequate  words  when  the. 
door  was  opened,  and  her  Austrian  murmured : 

"  A  young  lady,  gnadiges  Fraulein." 

"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  perceived  the 
young  lady  to  be  Pleur — looking  very  pretty,  if  pale.  At  this 
disenchanted  moment  a  little  lame  duck  of  her  own  breed  was 
welcome  to  June,  so  homceopathic  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  thea 
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 !"  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  hipa 


770  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

and  tight  below  the  knees,  June  took  a  sudden  liking — a  charm- 
ing 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  charming,  set  oE 
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  her  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  unemotional 
her  voice  sounded ! 

"  People  will  assume  that  I'm  in  love." 

"WJeU,  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  after- 
ward 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. 
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 !" 


TO  LET  'J"J'l 

'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,  ex- 
cept 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 
senf=e  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  Strumo- 
lowski for  half  an  hour,  promising  him  a  month,  at  least,  of  the 
American  stream;  so  that  he  went  away  with  his  halo  in  per- 
fect order.  'In  spite  of  all,'  June  thought,  'Boris  is  wonder- 
ful.' 


VIII 

THE  BIT  BETWEEN  THE  TEETH 

To  know  that  your  hand  is  against  every  one's  is — for  some 
natures — ito  experience  a  sense  of  moral  release.  Fleur  felt  no 
remorse  when  she  left  June's  house.  Eeading  condemnatory 
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  considera- 
tion less  philosophic.  If  she  persuaded  Jon  to  a  quick  and 
secret  marriage,  and  he  found  out  afterward  that  she  had 
known  the  truth.  AVhat  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  these  instinctive  calculations  she  was  carried  on 
past  Green  Street  as  far  as  the  Eitz  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  taU  stout  man  in  the  bay  window.     Turning 

772 


TO  LET  773 

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  Porsyde.  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." 

Monsieur  Profond  smiled. 

"Look  here.  Miss  Porsyde,  don't  worry.  It'll  be  all  right. 
Nothing  lasts." 

"  Things  do  last,"  cried  Pleur ;  "  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." 

Pleur  looked  at  him,  startled. 

"Wiere?" 

"  Small  voyage  to  the  South  Seas  or  somewhere,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Profond. 

Pleur  suffered  relief  and  a  sense  of  insult.  Clearly  he  meant 
to  convey  that  he  was  breaking  with  her  mother.  How  dared  he 
have  anything  to  break,  and  yet  how  dared  he  break  it  ? 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Porsyde !  Eemember  me  to  Mrs.  Dartie. 
I'm  not  so  bad  really.  Good-night !"  Pleur  left  him  standing 
there  with  his  hat  raised.  Stealing  a  look  round,  she  saw  him 
stroll — immaculate  and  heavy — back  toward  hjs  Club. 

'  He  can't  even  love  with  conviction,'  she  ihougbt.  *  What 
will  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  Porsyte  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  re- 
solve, nothing  would  happen.  From  the  invaluable  tome  she 
learned  that  they  must  each  be  twenty-one;  or  some  one's  con- 
sent would  be  necessary,  which  of  course  was  unobtainable; 
then  she  became  lost  in  directions  concerning  licenses,  certifi- 


774  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

cates,  notices,  districts,  coming  finally  to  the  word  "  perjury." 
But  that  was  nonsense !  "WTio  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  was  more— they  would 
be!  It  was  far  the  best  way;  and  at  once  she  ran  over  her 
schoolfellows.  There  was  Mary  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  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.  N"o !  Mary  Lambe  was  pref- 
erable, 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  was  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  oif  anchovy-paste  sand- 
wiches 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  briok  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,  stealing  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: 


TO  LET  775 

"  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." 

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 
— end  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." 

Meur  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  love  me  enough." 

"  Not  love  you  enough  !    Why — I " 

"  Then  make  sure  of  me." 

"Without  telling  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. 

Meur  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,  thev  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 !' " 

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  ?" 


776  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

"  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  her- 
self 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  Hke  hitting  them.  I  must  think  a  little,  Fleur.  I 
really  must." 

Fleur  slipped  out  of  his  arms. 

"  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  cold- 
ness 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 
ior  them.    That  stormy  little  meeting  ended  inconclusively. 

"Will  you  some  tea,  gnadiges  Fraulein?" 


TO  LET  777 

Pushing  Jon  from  her,  she  cried  out : 

"  No — no,  thank  you !    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  othei's  said 
that  Winifred  and  Imogen  had  gone.  Pleur  went  on  to  Pad- 
dington.  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. 


IX 

THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIEE 

On  reaching  home  Pleur  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  Prof ond  ?'    To  her  mother  she  said : 

"What's  the  matter  with  Father?" 

Her  mother  answered  with  a  shr.ig  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  grow- 
ing. 

"  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 — Ihe'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  motor- 
ing, and  making  love." 

"  Didn't  you  ever  make  love  ?" 

She  avoided  looking  at  him  while  she  said  that,  but  she 
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." 

778 


TO  LET  779 

"  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 
60  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 

affair  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." 

"  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." 


780  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

But  pile  could  see  he  wasn't  angry ;  only  scared,  deeply  scared. 

"  I  thought  that  foolishness,"  he  stammered,  "  was  all  for- 
gotten." 

"  Oh,  no !    It's  ten  times  what  it  was." 

Soames  kicked  at  the  hot-water  pipe.    The  hapless  movement 
touched  her,  who  had  no  fear  of  her  father — none. 

"Dearest!"  she  said.    "What  must  be,  must,  you  know." 

"Must!"  repeated  Soames.     "Yon  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  fixedly  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  iioted,  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. 

"  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  mojrient,  and  stole  away, 
leaving  him  still  looking  at  the  pipe-joint.  She  wandered  into 
the  fruit-garden,  among  the  raspberry  and  currant  bushes,  with- 
out 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  discouragement  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  Meur  thought:  'The  yacht!    Poor  Mother!* 

Annette  gave  her  a  wide  startled  look,  and  said : 


TO  LET  781 

"  J' ai  la  migraine."  ,,,3,,     ,,; 

"  I'm  awfully  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 !  It  was  all  frightening !  Her  father,  her 
mother,  herself!  And  only  two  months  back  they  had  seemed 
to  have  everything  they  wanted  in  this  world. 

Annette  crumpled  the  letter  in  her  hand.  Pleur  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  Pleur,  'and  I  was  glad!  That  man! 
What  do  men  come  prowling  for,  disturbing  everything!  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  land- 
scape. 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  al- 
most 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  ? 
She  had  not  lived  for  nearly  nineteen  years  without  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  con- 
fessed that  he — when  young — ^had  loved  with  a  grand  passion? 
He  ought  to  understand !  *  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 


782  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  mis- 
takes, committed  crimes,  and  wanted  their  childrea  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  vel- 
vety 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  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  ar- 
range 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." 


TO  LET  783 


'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  rea- 
sonable, Fleur !    It's  midsummer  madness !" 

Meur  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. 

"  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.  Im- 
pressed 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  feel- 
ing, 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  wilfulness 


784  THE  FOESYTE  SA(3A 

you'll  have  yourself  to  blame.  Come !  Don't  be  foolish,  my 
child — my  only  child !" 

Pleur  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  in- 
determinate and  vague  within  her,  like  the  shapes  and  shadows 
in  the  garden,  except — her  will  to  have.  A  poplar  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?" 

"  Fm  not  a  water-nymph." 

"  Haven't  vou  any  romance  in  you  ?  Don't  be  modem, 
Fleur!" 

He  appeared  on  the  path  within  a  yard  of  her. 

"Go  away!" 

"  Flexir,  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  be- 
fore 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  thrown  in." 

"  Thank  you,  I  have  imagined  it.     Good-night !" 

They  stood  for  a  moment  facing  each  other  in  the  shadow  of 


TO  LET  785 

an  acaeia-tree  with  very  moonlit  blossoms,  and  the  smoke  from 
their  cigarettes  mingled  in  the  air  between  them. 

"Also  ran:  'Michael  Mont'?"  he  said.  Flenr  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.  "Jolly- 
jolly!"  Pleur  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  remark- 
able 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 !' 


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  miy- 
mured : 

"  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: 

"Well— 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  anx- 
ious 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?" 

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. 

786 


TO  LET  787 

"  He  never  give  no  trouble  to  no  one,  and  smile  so  gentle." 

"Yes,  doesn't  he?" 

"  He  look  at  Miss  Forsyte  so  fun,ny  sometimes.  I  tell  him  all 
my  story;  he  so  sympStiseh.    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  concerned 
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,  as  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  irresolution.  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  birt  postponed — the  longing  for  Pleur,  and  the 
hatred  of  deception.  He  came  to  the  old  chalk-pit  above  Wans- 
don with  his  mind  no  more  made  up  than  when  he  started.  To 
see  both  sides  of  a  question  vigorously  was  at  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  Eobin  Hill, 
to-day's  meetjng — ^that  there  seemed  nothing  to  ask.  He  talked 
of  Spain,  his  sunstroke,  Val's  horses,  their  father's  health.  Holly 
startled  him  by  saying  that  she  thought  their  father  not  at  all 
well.  She  had  been  twice  to  Eobin  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: 
«  Eather !" 


788  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  I  think,  he's  been  a  simply  perfect  father,  so  long  as  I  can 
remeriiber." 

"  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. 

"  There  was  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  yoii  heard  anything  of  Pleur  ?" 

"Yes." 

His  face  told  her,  then,  more  than  the  most  elaborate  explana- 
tions.   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  woman  I  ever  saw — Age 
doesn't  seem  to  touch  her." 


TO  LET  789 

Jon's  face  softened;  then  again  became  tense.  Everybody — 
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  to  live 
down  here,  noH;  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  diattant  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. 


XI 

TIMOTHY  PEOPHESIES 

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  esti- 
mate the  attendance  at  ten  thousand.  And  the  ten  thousand, 
all  animated  by  one  hope,  were  asking  each  other  one  ques- 
tion :  "  Where  are  you  lunching  ?"  Something  wonderfully  up- 
lifting 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  mayon- 
naise, 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  doffed  and  furled,  ten  thousand 
mouths  all  speaking  the  same  English  would  be  filled.  There 
was  life  in  the  old  dog  yet !  Tradition !  And  again  Tradition  1 
How  strong  and  how  elastic !  Wars  might  rage,  taxation  prey, 
Trades  Unions  take  toll,  and  Europe  perish  of  starvation;  but 
the  ten  thousand  would  be  fed;  and,  within  their  ring  fence, 
stroll  upon  green  turf,  wear  their  top  hats,  and  meet — them- 
selves. The  heart  was  sound,  the  pulse  still  regular.  E-ton! 
B-ton !    Har-r-o-o-o-w ! 

Among  the   many   Forsytes,   present  on   a   hunting-ground 

790 


TO  LET  791 

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  Pleur  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  sup- 
posed that  people  drank  too  much  still,  but  there  was  not  the 
scope  for  it  there  used  to  be.    He  remembered  George  Forsyte 
— ^whose  brothers  Eoger  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  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  little  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  gentleman  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  waa 
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.      Out- 


793  THE  FOKSYTE  SAGA 

side  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  I 
Whether  that  fellow  were  coming  or  not,  she  evidently  knew 
all  about  it.  It  did  not  escape  him  that  Pleur,  too,  looked  at 
her  mother.  If  Annette  didn't  respect  his  feelings,  she  might 
think  of  Fleur's !  The  conversation,  very  desultory,  was  synco- 
pated by  Jack  Caxdigan  talking  about  "mid-off."  He  cited 
all  the  "great  mid-offs"  from  the  beginning  of  time,  as  if 
they  had  been  a  definite  racial  entity  in  the  composition  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.  Conversation  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  sayin',  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. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  I  think  they  want  their  own  small  way, 
and  I  think  they  always  did." 

"Indeed!" 

"Oh,  but — Prosper,"  Wjnifred  interjected  comfortably,  "the 
girls  in  the  streets — the  girls  who've  been  in  munitions,  the  little 
flappers  in  the  shops;  their  manners  now  really  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. 


TO  LET  'i'93 

"  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. 

"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  per- 
fectly 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  Winifred  for  part- 
ner. They  walked  in  the  bright,  circling  stream,  a  little  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  amus- 
ing, 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  ?"  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  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 


794  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

Bays  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 !" 

"  He's  a  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.  She  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. 

"  Eeally,"  said  Winifred  suddenly ;  "  it  almost  seems  like  Fate. 
Only  that's  so  old-fashioned.  Look !  There  are  George  and 
Eustace !" 

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  droll." 

"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,  con- 
scious 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  nowadays !  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 


TO  LET  795 

be  sitting  here  as  he  had  sat  in  '83  and  '84,  before  he  was 
certain  that  his  marriage  with  Irene  had  gone  all  wrong,  be- 
fore 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 !  But  had  that  been  his  fault  ?  He 
had  done  his  best.  And  his  rewards  were — ^those  two  sitting  in 
that  Stand,  and  this  affair  of  Pleur's ! 

And  overcome  by  loneliness  he  thought :  '  Shan't  wait  any 
longer!  They  must  find  their  own  way  back  to  the  hotel — if 
they  mean  to  come!'  Hailing  a  cab  outside  the  ground,  he 
said: 

"Drive  me  to  the  Bayswater  Eoad."  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  was  just  taking  the  air.     Cook  will  be  so 

"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  saying :  '  My  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 !    It's  such  a  pleasant  change !" 

"  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  very  satis- 
fied with  him,  not  all  this  week.  He's  always  been  one  to  "leave  a 
titbit  to  the  end ;  but  ever  since  Monday  he's  been  eating  it  first. 


796  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  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  anything  important  ?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  say  that,  Mr.  Soames;  but  he's  turned 
against  his  Will.  He  gets  quite  pettish — and  after  having  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 :  '  No- 
body wants  my  character.'  Think  of  his  saying  a  thing  like 
that!  But  sometimes  he'll  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 !'  murmured :  "  I'll  go  up  and  see 
him,  Smither." 

"  Cook's  with  him,"  answered  Smither  'above  her  corsets ; 
"  she  will  be  pleased  to  see  you." 

He  mounted  slowly,  with  the  thought:  'Shan't  care  to  live 
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 :  "  Why !    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. 

"Uncle  Timothy,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "Uncle 
Timothy !" 

Timothy's  eyes  left  the  fly,  and  levelled  themselves  on  his 


TO  LET  797 

visitor.  Soames  could  see  his  pale  tongue  passing  over  hia 
darkish  lips. 

"Uncle  Timothy,"  he  said  again,  "is  there  anything  I  can 
do  for  you?    Is  there  anything  you'd  like  to  say?" 

"Ha!"  said  Timothy. 

"  I've  come  to  look  you  up  and  see  that  everything's  all  right." 

Timothy  nodded.  He  seemed  trying  to  get  used  to  the  appari- 
tion 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  out- 
lived 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  ceiling, 
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,  like 
in  old  days;  you  did  so  relish  them.  Good-bye,  sir;  it  lias 
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." 


798  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  Well,  good-bye !"  said  Soames,  and  got  into  his  taxi. 

'  Going  up  !'"  he  thought ; '  going  up !' 

Beaching  the  hotel  at  Knightsbridge  he  went  to  their  sitting- 
room,  and  rang  for  tea.  Neither  of  them  was  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  watch- 
ing at  Lord'd  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,  realized  the  fecundity  and  elasticity  of  wealth.  They  had 
only  to  keep  their  heads,  and  go  at  it  steadily.  Why!  he 
remembered  cobblestones,  and  stinking  straw  on  the  floor  of 
your  cab.  And  old  Timothy — what  could  he  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  "  Eake's  Progress  "  prints  in  the  old  inns  were  worth  looking 
at — ^but  this  sentimental  stufE — 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  "  democratic 
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  under- 
lay everything  worth  having.  The  world  had  slipped  its  sanity 
a  bit,  as  dogs  now  and  again  at  full  moon  slipped  theirs  and 
went  oil  for  a  night's  rabbiting;  but  the  world,  like  the  dog, 
knew  where  its  bread  was  buttered  and  its  bed  warm,  and 


TO  LET  799 

■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?" 

"  Yes." 

"For  how  long?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  And  when  are  you  going  ?" 

«  On  Monday." 

Was  she  really  going  to  her  mother?  Odd,  how  indifferent 
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  ffive  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!  "In- 
herited," his  girl  had  said.    She — she  was  "  holding  on  " ! 


PART  III 


OLD  JOLYON  WALKS 

Twofold  impulse  had  made  Jolyon  say  to  his  wife  at  breakfast : 
"Let's  go  up  to  Lord's!" 

"Wanted" — something  to  abate  the  anxiety  in  which  those 
two  had  lived  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  over- 
heard. 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  him- 
self. 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  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. 

801 


803  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  Eobin  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. 

Wlhen  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 — diet'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  C^sar 
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  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,  seem- 
ing to  speak.  "  Are  you  facing  it,  Jo  ?  It's  for  you  to  decide. 
She's  only  a  woman!"  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!" 


TO  LET  803 

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 !  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,  till, 
through  the  window  of  the  music-room,  he  could  see  Irene  at 
the  piano,  with  lamp-light  falling  on  her  powdery  hair;  with- 
drawn 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  dying  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  Avith  difficulty  and  many  erasures. 

"  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 — like  j'our  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  con- 
scious of  havng  sinned  exactly — people  in  real  life  very  seldom 
are,  I  believe — but  niost  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  mar- 
riage— 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  Pleur's  father  that  she  mar- 
ried, my  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  mis- 
fortune." 

So  far  Jolyon  had  kept  some  semblance  of  irony,  but  now  his 
subject  carried  him  away.  «, 


804  THE  rOESYTE  SAGA 

"  Jon,  I  want  to  explain  to  you  if  I  can — and  it's  very  hard — 
how  it  is  that  an  unhappy  majriage  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,  in  those  days  and  even  to  this  day 
— indeed,  I  don't  see,  for  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  experienced  it.  That's  the  crux.  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  doubt- 
ful cases,  this  act  cements  and  strengthens  the  attachment, 
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,  '  What  a 
fuss  about  nothing!'  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  life  to  the  dungeons  they  have  made  for  themselves. 
You  know  the  expression :  '  She  has  made  her  bed,  she  must 
lie  on  it!'  It  is  a  hard-mouthed  saying,  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  I  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 
nd  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 !  Let  them  go !  They  are  as  much  anathema 
to  me  as  I,  no  doubt,  am  to  them.  I  have  had  to  say  all  this, 
becfvuse  I  am  going  to  put  you  into  a  position  to  judge  your 


TO  LET  805 

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  live  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  thai  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  I 
don't  you  will  never  understand  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  when  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  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 
property.  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  bmn ! 


80G  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

Elnowiiig  you  as  I  do,  T  feel  it  cannot  be  otherwise  than  ab- 
horrent to  you.  Let  me  go  on  with  the  story.  Your  mother 
fled  from  his  house  that  night ;  for  twelve  years  she  lived  quietly 
alone  without  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.  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  blindly  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  for- 
gotten. 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 
hex,  I  appeal  to  you  to  break  it  off  at  once.     Don't  give  your 


TO  LET  80r 

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 

"  JOLTOK  POESTTE." 

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 
boy — ^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  yet  without  speaking  of  them  how 
make  Jon  understand  the  reality,  the  deep  cleavage,  the  in- 
effaceable scar?  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  evening  to 
think  it  over;  for  even  if  posted  now  it  could  not  reach  Jon 
till  Monday.  He  felt  a  curious  relief  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  little 
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  writ- 
ing 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.  Pres- 
ently, seeing  that  she  had  finished  reading  and  was  standing 


808  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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. 


II 

CONFESSION" 

Late  that  yame  afternoon,  Jolyon  had  a  nap  in  the  old  arm- 
chair. Face  down  on  his  knee  was  La  Rotisserie  de  la  Beine 
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  detached  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  be  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  ?" 

"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  him- 
self used  to  sit  beside  his  own  father,  installed  in  its  recesses. 
Eight  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 

809 


810  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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,  "  Flenr  and  I  are  engaged." 

'  Exactly !'  thought  Jolyon,  breathing  with  difficulty. 

"I  know  that  you  and  Mother  don't  like  the  idea.  Fleur 
Bays  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  might  put  you  off  with  talk  about  your  both 
being  too  young  and  not  knowing  your  own  minds,  and  all  that, 
but  you  wouldn't  listen,  besides,  it  doesn't  meet  the  case — 
Touth,  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  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  reassur- 
ance 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  tha+  ?  Of 
course  I  can't  I" 

"  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  anything  in  the  world." 


TO  LET  811 

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  understand,  for 
something  that  I  don't  believe  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  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  j-ou ;  I  shan't  last  much  longer." 

"Wihy  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  thi^  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  happi- 
ness— 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. 


812  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  What  is  it  ?    What  is  it  f    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 — some  pretty  bitter  mo- 
ments— 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  my- 
self, but  I  see  it's  no  good.  Eead  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 !  .  .  .  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 
— ^bringing  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  the 
fragrance  Jon  would  be  reading  that  letter,  turning  and  twisting 
its  pages  in  his  trouble,  his  bewilderment  and  trouble — ^break- 
ing 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 !  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,  tor- 
mented by  that  vision  of  Youth  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  LET  813 

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  roAvs  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  clear- 
ness, 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  chew- 
ing cow  in  the  warm  dusk !  He  called  again.  No  answer ! 
And  he  hurried  away  out  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  acknowledging  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, 


814  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  honey- 
suckle that  he  and  she  liad  taken  such  trouble  with  that  it 
might  sweeten  the  air  which  drifted  in.  Its  fragrance  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.  .    .    . 


Ill 

lEElSTE 

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  hegan  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 
reafing,  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  mechanically.  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,  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  aver- 
sion— alive  in  her  to-day  .  .  .  your  children  .  .  .  grand- 
children .  .  .  of  a  man  who  once  owned  your  mother  as  a  man 
might  own  a  slave.   ..."     He  got  up  from  his  bed.     This 

815 


816  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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?  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  fioor.  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  sprawling 
all  over  it.  He  sat  there  huddled,  his  hair  rufQed,  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  photo- 
graph. 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  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,  tiU  she  said : 

"Oh!  my  darling!" 

"  It's  all  right."     The  emotions  in  him  were  so  violent  and 


TO  LET  8ir 

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  got  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  two  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  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  h'Js  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  fore- 
head. 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  un- 
utterable 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  andi  beauty,  but  a  be- 
ginning to  this  terrible  white  stillness.  It  made  a  dreadful 
mark  on  him;  all  seemed  suddenly  little,  futile,  short.  Ho 
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 


818  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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 
Bpare  his  mother  and  himself!  His  own  trouble  seemed  small 
while  he  was  looking  at  that  face.  The  word  scribbled  on  the 
page!  Th'e  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  believe  in  consciousness  surviving 
death,  or  that  if  it  did  it  might  be  just  survival  till  the 
natural  age  limit  of  the  body  had  been  reached — the  natural 
term  of  its  inherent  vitality;  so  that  if  the  body  were  broken 
by  accident,  excess,  violent  disease,  consciousness  might  still 
persist  till,  in  the  course  of  Nature  uninterfered  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  life  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. 


IV 

SOAMES  COGITATES 

The  announcement  in  The  Times  of  his  cousin  Jolyon's  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. 

"  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. 

819 


820  THE  EOKSYTE  SAGA 

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  g,s  one  could  make  out,  and  would  not  be 
"  fit "  for  some  time.    She  could  not  get  used  to  the  idea. 

"  Did  Prof ond  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  Annette  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  did — 
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's  dead." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  done  him  justice  before,"  said  Soames ; 
"but  I  never  had  the  chance.  Have  you  got  a  'Baronetage' 
here?" 

"  Yes ;  in  that  bottom  row." 

Soames  took  out  a  fat  red  book,  and  ran  over  the  leaves. 

"  Mont — Sir  Lawrence,  9th  Bt.,  cr.  1630,  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;  1  son,  heir 
Michael  Conway,  b.  1895,  2  daurs.  Eesidence:  Lippinghall 
Manor,  Polwell,  Bucks.  Clubs:  Snooks':  Coffee  House:  Aero- 
plane.   See  Bidiicott." 

"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  remember." 

"Did  it  win?" 

"No;  it  ran  last,  I  think.  You  know  Monty  really  was 
quite  clever  in  his  way." 


TO  LET  821 

"  Was  he  ?"  said  Soames.  "  Can  you  see  any  connection  be- 
tween 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." 

"  No,"  murmured  Winifred ;  "  it's  very  diflacult.  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  cot- 
tage, and  be  out  of  the  way  of  holidays  and  strikes  when  you 
want." 

"  The  country  bores  me,"  answered  Winifred,  "  and  I  foimd 
the  railway  strike  quite  exciting." 

Winifred  had  always  been  noted  for  sang-froid. 
Soames  took  his  leave.  All  the  way  down  to  Eeading  he  de- 
bated whether  he  should  tell  Pleur  of  that  boy's  father's  death. 
It  did  not  alter  the  situation  except  that  he  would  be  inde- 
pendent now,  and  only  have  his  mother's  opposition  to  en- 
counter. He  would  come  into  a  lot  of  money,  no  doubt,  and 
perhaps  the  house — ^thei  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  be,  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 
ehe — Irene — would  be  linked  to  him  once  more.  Nonsense! 
Absurd !    He  put  the  notion  from  his  head. 


822  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  a  smile.  How 
pretty  she  looked!  Ko  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  titles,  rather  remote  and 
artificial  things — not  worth  the  money  they  cost,  and  having  to 
do  with  the  Court.  They  had  all  had  that  feeling  in  differing 
measure — Soames  remembered.  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  performance,  and 
how  his  father  had  put  his  foot  down  with  unwonted  decision. 
What  did  she  want  with  that  peacocking — wasting  time  and 
money ;  there  was  nothing  in  it ! 

The  instinct  which  had  made  and  kept  the  British  Commons 
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  singularly  free  of  "  flum- 
mery," 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  generation,  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.' " 

"  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. 


TO  LET  823 

"  I've  started  in,  sir.  Eum  game,  business,  isn't  it  ?  I  sup- 
pose 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  afford  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  advertisement?"  said  Soames  dryly. 

"  Of  course  it  is;  but  I  meant  on  principle." 

"  Does  your  firm  work  on  those  lines  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mont,  "  but  it'll  come." 

"  And  they  will  go." 

"  No,  really,  sir.  I'm  making  any  number  of  observations, 
and  they  all  confirm  my  theory.  Human  nature  is  consistently 
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. 


824  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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?"  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. 

"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  bothering  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  nonsense  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. 


THE  FIXED  IDEA 

"  The  fixed  idea,"  which  has  outrun  more  conetables  than  any 
other  form  of  human  disorder,  has  never  more  speed  and 
stamina  than  when  it  takes  the  avid  guise  of  love.  To  hedges 
and  ditches,  and  doors,  to  humans  without  ideas  fixed  or  other- 
wise, 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  every- 
body 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  little  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 
<jod  "  indifferent  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. 

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. 

825 


826  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  what  he  said  of  his  mother  which 
caused  the  fluttering  in  her  heart  and  the  weak  sensation  in 
her  legs. 

Her  first  impulse  was  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  which  had  at  once 
made  and  undone  Soames  was  her  backbone,  too,  frilled  and 
embroidered  by  French  grace  and  quickness.  Instinctively  she 
conjugated  the  verb  "to  have"  always  with  the  pronoim  "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  light  shining- 
from  her  bedroom  window  late  at  night.  What  was  she  think- 
ing 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. 


TO  LET  827 

■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  inadyertence  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  iixed  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  proximity,  murmured  above  the  sound 
of  the  car's  progress,  she  smiled  and  answered,  thinking:  'If 
that  were  Jon's  voice  I'  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  r 

Flour  shrugged  her  shoulders — the  younger  generation  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 


828  THE  POESTTE  SAGA 

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.  Every- 
body'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?" 

"  I  should  say  increasing  among  those  who  have  none." 

"  W«ll,  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." 

Pleur  saw  the  young  man's  eyes  turn  rather  piteoualy  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 !' 


VI 

DESPERATE 

The  weeks  which  followed  the  death  of  his  father  were  sad 
and  empty  to  the  only  Jolyon  Forsyte  left.  The  necessary  forma 
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  ceremony,  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 
Bobin  HiU,  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,  ybung  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 
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  be- 

829 


830  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

cause  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  undertake  it.  Both  Jon  and  his  mother  had 
felt  that  if  she  took  his  portfolios,  unexhibited  drawings  and  un- 
finished 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  in- 
dividual 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,  con- 
scientious, and  complete.  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,  seemed 
to  have  been  his  ruling  principle.  There  was  something  in 
this  which  appealed  to  the  boy,  and  made  him  heartily  endorse 
his  mother's  comment:  "He  had  true  refinement;  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 
on«  been  Holly's  schoolroom,  devoted  to  her  silkworms,  dried 
lavender,  music,  and  other  forms  of  instruction.    Now,  at  the 


TO  LET  831 

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  di- 
shevelled, sad  workroom.  Jon,  at  the  north  window,  snifBng 
air  mysteriously  scented  with  warm  strawberries,  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.  In- 
stinctively 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  the  palms  of  his  hands  together.  Pres- 
ently he  had  jotted  this : 

"If  I  could  make  a  little  song — 
A  little  sojng  to  soothe  my  heart! 
I'd  jnake  it  all  of  little  things — 
The  plash  of  water,  rub  of  wings. 
The  puffing-off  of  dandie's  crown. 
The  hiss  of  raindrop  spilling  down. 
The  purr  of  cat,  the  trill  of  bird. 
And  ev'ry  whispering  I've  heard 
From  willy  wind  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." 


833  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  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 
trying  not  to  hurt  her  hands.  His  own  felt  so  hard  and  hera 
so  soft.    She  said  almost  defiantly : 

"That  old  story — was  it  so  very  dreadful?" 

"  Yes."    In  his  voice,  too,  there  was  a  note  of  defiance. 

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  understand." 

"  She  w.ants  to  spoil  our  lives,  just  because " 

"Yes,  of  what?" 

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.  Meur  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  em- 


TO  LET  833 

brace,  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  tha 
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  moonlight, 
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  producing  a  kind  of  fever  of  par- 
tisanship, so  that  he  really  felt  there  were  two  camps,  hia 
mother's  and  his — Fleur's  and  her  father's.  It  might  be  a 
dead  thing,  that  old  tragic  o-wnership  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  memor- 
ies, 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  -«dndow-seat  and  roamed  in  the  big  grey  ghostly  room. 


834  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

whose  walls  were  hung  with  silvered  canvas.  This  house — ^hia 
father  said  in  that  death-bed  letter — ^had  been  built  for  his 
mother  to  live  in — ^with  Pleur'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  ou 
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 — land  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  iDurned.    He  shut  the  window,  drew 

curtains  over  it,  switched  off  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- 
Beat,  Jon  on  his  bed.  She  had  her  profile  turned  to  him, 
and  the  beauty  and  grace  of  her  figure,  the  delicate  line  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 !  .  What  was  she  going  to  say  to  him,  who  had  in  his  heart 
such  thijDgs  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  criminality." 

"  Mother !"  burst  from  Jon's  lips. 

"  He  put  it  very  sweetly, .  but  I  know  that  in  marrying 
Heur's  father  without  love  I  did  a  dreadful  thing.  An  un- 
hapj^  marriage,  Jon,  can  play  such  havoc  with  other  lives  be- 


TO  LET  835 

sides  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 !  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 — where  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  something 
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'!' can't ^beat«i:o  make 

you  unhappy.  Mother,  now  that  Pather "     He  thrust  hia. 

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  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. 


VII 

EMBASSY 

Enquihing  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  Eollhard  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  outrageous.  With  four  hours  fast 
becoming  five,  and  still  no  Fleur,  all  the  old  car-wise  feelings 
he  had  experienced  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 

836 


TO  LET  837 

had  taken  nothing — no  dressing-case,  no  jewellery.  And  this, 
a  relief  in  one  sense,  increased  his  fears  of  an  accident.  Terrible 
to  be  helpless  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  getting  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  Eobin  Hill !  What 
did  that  portend  ? 

It  was  not  a  subject  they  could  discuss  at  dinner — conse- 
crated 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  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,  un- 
certain 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. 


838  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  wiU  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." 

"Oh!  it  is;  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  I  feel." 

Pleur  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  really  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?  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 !  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. 


TO  LET  839 

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!  "Well, 
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  had  always  made 
him  miserable  when  his  mother  set  it  going  on  Sunday  after? 
noons.  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  Eobin 
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  un- 
reality, 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; 


840  THE  FOESTTE  SAGA 

had  heard  young  Mont  call  his  father  a  pig-headed  Morning 
Poster — disrespectful  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  f antigue." 
He  could  see  the  house  now  among  its  trees,  the  house  he 
had  watched  being  built,  intending  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 
tither  forms  of  investment.  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  owner- 
ship, personified,  meeting  lawless  beauty,  incarnate.  His  dig- 
nity demanded  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  had 
Seen  a  bad  lot — ^had  loved  two  men,  and  not  himself !  He  must 
remember  that  when  he  came  face  to  face  with  her  once  more. 
And  suddenly  he  saw  her  in  the  opening  chink  between  the 
long  heavy  purple  curtains,  swaying,  as  if  in  hesitation;  the 
old  perfect  poise  and  line,  the  old  startled  dark-eyed  gravity, 
the  old  calm  defensive  voice :  "  Will  you  come  in,  please  ?" 

He  passed  through  that  opening.  As  in  the  picture-gallery 
and  the  confectioner's  shop,  she  seemed  to  him  still  beautiful. 
And  this  was  the  first  time — ^the  very  first — since  he  married 


TO  LET  841 

her  six-and-thirty  years  ago,  that  he  was  speaking  to  her  without 
the  legal  right  to  call  her  his.  She  was  not  wearing  black — 
one  of  that  fellow's  radical  notions,  he  supposed. 

"  I  apologize  for  coming,"  he  said  glumly ;  "  but  this  businesa 
must  be  settled  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Won't  YOU  sit  down  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you." 

Anger  at  his  false  position,  impatience  of  ceremony  between 
them,  mastered  him,  and  words  came  tumbling  out: 

"  It's  an  infernal  mischance ;  I've  done  my  best  to  discourage 
it.  I  consider  my  daughter  crazy,  but  I've  got  into  the  habit  of 
indulging  her;  that's  why  I'm  here.  I  suppose  you're  fond 
of  your  son." 

"  Devotedly." 

"W^ll?" 

"  It  rests  with  him." 

He  had  a  sense  of  being  met  and  baffled.  Always — always 
she  had  baffled  him,  even  in  those  old  first  married  days. 

"  It's  a  mad  notion,"  he  said. 

«  It  is." 

"If  you  had  only !     "Well — they  might  have  been " 

he  did  not  finish  that  sentence  "  brother  and  sister  and  all  this 
saved,"  but  he  saw  her  shudder  as  if  he  had,  and  stung  by  the 
sight  he  crossed  over  to  the  window.  Out  there  the  trees  had 
not  grown — ^they  couldn't,  they  were  old! 

"  So  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  he  said,  "  you  may  make  your 
mind  easy.  I  desire  to  see  neither  you  nor  your  son  if  this 
marriage  comes  about.  Young  people  in  these  days  are — are 
unaccountable.  But  I  can't  bear  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  finger. 

"  I  remember  an  evening 1"  he  said  suddenly ;  and  was 

silent.  What  was  there — what  was  there  in  this  woman  that 
would  not  fit  into  the  four  corners  of  his  hate  or  condemnation? 
"  Where  is  he — your  son  ?" 

"Up  in  his  father's  studio,  I  think." 

"Perhaps  you'd  have  him  down." 

He  watched  her  ring  the  bell,  he  watched  the  maid  come  in. 

"  Please  tell  Mr.  Jon  that  I  want  him." 


842  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"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  ?" 

"  It  will  be  as  Jon  wishes." 

"  This  house,"  said  Soames  suddenly :  "  I  had  hopes  when  I 
begati  it.  If  they  live  in  it — their  children !  They  say  there's 
such  a  thing  as  Nemesis.    Do  you  believe  in  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  ['    You  do !" 

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  off  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  with 
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 


TO  LET  843 


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. 


viir 

THE  DAEK  TUNE 

As  Soames  walked  away  from  the  house  at  Eobin  Hill  the  sun 
broke  through  the  grey  of  that  chill  afternoon,  in  smoky  radiance. 
So  absorbed  in  landscape  painting  that  he  seldom  looked  seri- 
ously for  effects  of  Nature  out  of  doors — ^he  was  struck  by  that 
moody  effulgence — it  mourned  with  a  triumph  suited  to  his 
own  feeling.  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  believe  he  had  done  his  best?  And 
under  that  sunlight  flaring  on  the  elms,  hazels,  hollies  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  un- 
seizable  thing. 

Not  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  he  dined  in  town  at  the  Con- 
noisseurs. While  eating  a  pear  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that,  if  he  had  not  gone  down  to  Eobin  Hill,  the  boy  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  Meur  cooked  her  own 
goose  by  trying  to  make  too  sure  ? 

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 

844 


TO  LET  845 

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  believe 

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 !" 

With  every  nerve  in  his  body  twitching  he  went  toward 
the  door. 

Fleur  darted  after  him. 

"  He  gives  me  up  ?    You  mean  that  ?    Father !" 

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'  throfit.  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 
paliery,  and  paced  among  his  treasures.  Outrageous!  Oh! 
Outrageous !  She  was  spoiled !  Ah !  and  who  had  spoiled  her  ? 
He  stood  still  before  the  Goya  copy.     Accustomed  to  her  own 


846  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA  " 

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  rosea 
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  he 
had  left  it,  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!  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  babbles  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,  queeking,  queek- 
ing;  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- 


TO  LET  847 

stage.  And  Soames  watched,  clenching  his  hands.  Should  he 
speak  to  her?  His  excitement  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,  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  relief,  he  saw  her  turn  back  toward 
the  house.  What  could  he  givejier  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  under- 
stood. 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 !  And  in  God's  name — why  ?  How  was 
he  to  know,  when  he  wanted  Irene  so  violently,  and  she  con- 
sented 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 


848  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  dark- 
ness. 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  consolation?  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? 


IX 

IINDBE  THE  OAK-TEEB 

When  their  visitor  had  disappeared  Jon  and  his  mother  stood 
without  spea,king,  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 ! 
Wliile  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,  millions  on  millions 
of  people,  all  with  theii  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, 
and  to  behave  like  a  cry-baby  or  a  L-ad.  He  pictured  the  people 
who  had  nothing — the  millions  who  had  given  up  life  in  the 
War,  the  millions  whom  the  War  had  left  with  life  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 

849 


850  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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.  Por  two  hours  in  that  melancholy 
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.  Euled  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 : 

"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, 
it'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— 


TO  LET  851 

if — ^if  I  wanted  to  stay  out  somewhere — America  oi  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  minutes  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. 


X 

FLEUE'S  WEDDING 

The  October  paragraphs  describing  the  wedding  of  Fleur 
Forsyte  to  Michael  Mont  hardly  conveyed  the  symbolic  signifi- 
cance of  this  event.  In  the  union  of  the  great-granddanghter 
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  resent- 
ment against  a  "flummery"  not  theirs  by  birth,  and  accept  it 
as  the  still  more  natural  due  of  their  possessive  instincts.  Be- 
sides, 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  dis- 
tinguish 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  piu  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  mooted.  After  all,  Timothy  had 
sai  J  Consols  were  goin'  up.  Timothy,  the  last,  the  missing  link ; 
Timothy,  in  extremis  on  the  Bayswater  Eoad — 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 
insurance,  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 

852 


TO  LET  853 

confined  to  theory.    As  George  remarked  to  his  sister  Francis: 
"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-sufEerers  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  Sky- 
ward'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  performance. 
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." 
"  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 !"  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 — ibut 
it  was  clearly  a  toss-up;  and  to  consecrate  a  toss-up  in  this 
fashion  with  manufactured  unction  before  a  crowd  of  fashion- 


854  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

able  free-thinkers — for  who  thought  otherwise  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  produced  a  prelate)  to 
Val,  beside  her,  thinking — she  was  certain — of  the  Mayfly  filly 
at  fifteen  to  one  for  the  Cambridgeshire.  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, 
back  from  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  Eegistrar's !  And  between  her  little  and  third  fingers 
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  connection  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. 


TO  LET  853 

"  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. 

"  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  com- 
posed, 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  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  Expressionistic  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  "intriguing"  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  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  clinging  to  her  Louis-Quinze  cabinet ; 
Franeie  Forsyte  had  seized  the  new  mantel-board,  finely  carved 


856  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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.  Every- 
body, in  fact,  seemed  holding  on  to  something.  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  sqeak  of  conversation. 
Kobody  could  hear  anything  that  anybody  said;  which  seemed 
of  little  consequence,  since  no  one  waited  for  anything  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 
Prancie,  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  ?" 

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  aark  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  will  you  put  him,  Soames  ?" 

"  Highgate."    He  counted  on  his  fingers.    "  It'll  make  twelve 


TO  LET  857 

of  them  there,  including  wives.    How  do  you  think  Fleur  looks  ?" 

"  Eemarkably  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  Eobin  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  miser- 
able, till  suddenly  Fleur  had  said  she  was  going  to  marry  young 
Mont.  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  non- 
sense. 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  marry  this  young  man.  He  is  a  nice  boy — not  so 
highty-flighty  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  commoa  sense.  He  had  settled  fifty  thousand  on 
Fleur,  taking  care  that  there  was  no  cross  settlement  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. 


858,  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

"  "Why !    Of  all  wonders— June !" 

There,  in  a  djibbah — what  things  she  wore ! — with  her  hair 
Btraying  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. 

"Eeally,"  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  mam 
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,  *1 
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 
while  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." 

Jime  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?" 

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  thj  girl  sink  on  her  knees  and 
bury  her  face  in  the  djibbah.  A  strangled  sob  mounted  to 
June's  ears. 


TO  LET  859 

"  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  after- 
ward! 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 
«motion.  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 
ier  chin  into  the  girl's  warm  cheek. 

"I  want  a  whiff,"  said  Fleur;  "don't  wait." 

June  left  her,  sitting  on  the  bed  with  a  cigarette  between  her 
lips  and  her  eyes  half  closed,  and  went  down-stairs.  In  the  door- 
way 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, 
goo'glcd.    That  old  feud !    Eeally,  it  was  quite  romantic  I 

Soames,  moving  to  the  well  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 


860  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

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  kiss  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 !"  she  said,  and  was  past  and  gone.  Daddy ! .  She 
hadn't  called  him  that  for  years.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and 
followed  slowly  down.  There  was  all  the  folly  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." 
"  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 ! 


XI 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  OLD  FORSYTES 

When  they  came  to  prepare  that  terrific  symbol  Timothy  For- 
syte— ^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  evi- 
dence o-f  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. 
.Tulia,  Miss  Hester;  with  Mr.  Jolyon,  Mr.  S within,  Mr.  James, 
Mr.  Eoger  and  Mr.  Nicholas  of  the  party.  Whether  Mrs.  Hay- 
man  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 
threepence  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 
beer,  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  own  m  regard 
to  heaven  that  it  quite  put  one  about  sometimes. 

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 — 

861 


862  THE  FORSYTE  SAGA 

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  Prancie,  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  workbox;  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  rela- 
tions, 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." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Soames ;  "  he'd  lost  touch  with  the 
family." 

Soames  had  often  noticed  in  old  days  how  much  more  neigh- 
bourly 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  something. 

vVt  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 


TO  LET  863 

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 
neprlected,  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  distinguished 
for  the  funeral  of  the  last  old  Forsyte. 

He  took  Gradman  into  his  carriage  on  the  way  back  to  the 
Bayswater  Eoad  with  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  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  extra- 
ordinarily 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,  Soamea 
faced  Gradman  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  For- 
syte of  The  Bower  Bayswater  Road  London  I  appoint  my 
nephew  Soames  Forsyte  of  The  Shelter  Mapledurham  and 
Thomas  Gradman  of  159  Folly  Eoad  Highgate  (hereinafter  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,  con- 
vulsively 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 


864  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

same  upon  the  following  trusts  namely  To  pay  thereout  all 
my  debts  funeral  expenses  and  outgoings  of  any  kind  in  con- 
nection 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  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  hia 
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  word! 
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  mil- 
lion eight  hundred  thousand  in  seventy — ^nine  million  six  hun- 
dred  in   eighty-four Why,   in   a   hundred   years   it'll   be 

twenty  million !   And  we  shan't  live  to  use  it !  It  is  a  Will  I" 

Soames  said  dryly :  "  Anything  may  happen.  The  State  might 
take  the  lot ;  they're  capaile  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.  Adver- 
tise ;  but  there  are  no  debts.    When's  the  sale  ?" 

"  Tuesday  week,"  said  Gradman.  "  Life  or  lives  in  bein' 
and  twenty-one  years  afterward — it's  a  long  way  off.  But  I'm 
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, 


TO  LET  865 

though  not  by  Cook  and  Smither,  for  Soames  had  taken  it  on 
himself  to  give  them  their  heart's  desires.  "Winifred  was  present, 
Jiuphemia,  and  Francie,  and  Eustace  had  come  in  his  car.  The 
miniatures,  Barbizons,  and  J.  E.  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  shill- 
ingSj  he  cried  out,  suddenly :  "  Five  pounds  I"  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.  Eevolutions 
on  the  horizon;  Fleur  in  Spain;  no  comfort  in  Annette;  no 
Timothy's  on  the  Bayswater  Eoad.  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  Eobin  Hill — was 
for  sale,  and  Irene  going  to  join  her  boy  out  in  British 
Colambia,  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 


866  THE  POESYTE  SAGA 

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  atmosphere,  and  something  in- 
dividual 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  devotion  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 
priiie.  And  there,  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 


TO  LET  867 

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  Cemetery  and  mounted  through  its  white 
forest  to  the  Forsyte  vault.  Close  to  the  cedar,  above  catacombs 
and  columbaria,  tall,  ugly,  and  individual,  it  looked  like  an 
apex  of  the  competitive  system.  He  could  remember  a  discus- 
sion wherein  S within  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  words :  "  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  reposefully  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  Eobin  Hill;  and  Susan  Hayman,  cremated  so 
that  none  knew  where  she  might  be.  Soames  gazed  at  it  with 
satisfaction — imassive,  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,  Maupassant — a 
most  lugubrious  concern,  where  all  the  skeletons  emerged  from 
their  graves  one  night,  and  all  the  pious  inscriptions  on  the 
stoned  were  altered  to  descriptions  of  their  sins.  Not  a  true 
story  at  all.  He  didn't  know  about  the  French,  but  there  was 
not  mnch  real  haim  m  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 


868  THE  FOESYTE  SAGA 

dust!  The  boom  of  an  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  solid  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  doubt- 
ful, 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, 
bariisters,  merchants,  publishers,  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  genera- 
tion ;  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  mortality  was  in  it.  He  gazed  rest- 
lessly at  the  crosses  and  the  urns,  the  angels,  the  "  immortelles," 
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-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  gravea 
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 
rusfy-golden  and  her  white  shoulders  his — Irene,  the  prize  of 
his  love-passion,  resistant  to  his  ownership.     He  saw  Bosinney's 


TO  LET  869 

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  Pleur  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  Eobin  Hill.  To  the  sofa, 
sphere  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 
Dwned  his  soul,  his  investments,  and  his  woman,  without  check 
Dr  question.  And  now  the  State  had,  or  would  have,  his  invest- 
ments, his  woman  had  herself,  and  God  knew  who  had  his  soul. 
■'  To  Let " — ithat  sane  and  simple  creed ! 

The  waters  of  change  were  foaming  in,  carrying  the  promise 
of  new  forms  only  when  their  destructive  flood  should  have 
pas.sed  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  rrt — waters  bringing  to  his  mouth  a  salt  taste  as  of  blood, 
lapping  to  the  foot  of  this  Highgate  Hill  where  Victorianism 
lay  buried.  And  sitting  there,  high  up  on  its  most  individual 
spot,  Soames — ^like  a  figure  of  Investment — refused  their  rest- 
less sounds.  Instinctively  he  would  not  fight  them — there  was 
in  him  too  much  primeval  wisdom,  of  Man  the  possessive  animal. 
They  would  quiet  down  w-hen  they  had  fulfilled  their  tidal 
fever  of  dispossessing  and  destroying;  when  the  creations  and 


870  THE  FOESYTB  SAGA 

the  properties  of  others  were  sufficiently  broken  and  dejected — 
they  would  lapse  and  ebb,  and  fresh  forms  would  rise  based  on 
an  instinct  older  than  the  fever  of  change — the  instinct  of 
Home. 

"  Je  m'en  fiche,"  said  Prosper  Profond.  Soames  did  not 
say  " Je  m'en  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  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 


F( 


b.  1741,  Jol; 


(1) 


(2) 


b.  1799,  Ann;   d.  1886. 
"  Aunt  Ann." 


I 
b.  1806,  Jolyon;  d.  1892. 
"  Old  Jolyon." 
(Tea   merchant,    "Forsyte  *   Treflry." 
Chairman  of  companies.)    (Stanhope 
Gate.) 
1846  m.  Edith  Moor;    d.  1874.     Daur.  of 
barrister. 


i 

b.  177(   Jolyon,  "  Superior  Dossett " 
(b'-J<Jw);  d.  1850. 

m.  1798,  Ann  Pierce,  daur.  of  country 
solicitor.          I 
(3) Ten  |  children. 

b.  1811,  James;    d.  1901. 
(Solicitor,    founder   of  firm 
"Forsj^,  Bustard  &  Forsyte,"  Park 
Lane.) 
m.  1852,  Emily  Golding,  b.  1831,  d.  1910. 
I         "  Emily." 


Ed!ga 


b.  1811,  Switb^n ;   d. 

(Estate  ar       and 

"Four  in  d  Fi 

(Hyd'        .rk  1 


m.  (1)  1868,  Frances  Crisson 
d.l880.  (Daur.  of  colonel.) 


b.  1847,  Jolyon;    d.   1920. 

"  Young  Jolyog"  ■    

(Underwriter  and 
artist.    Robin  Hill.) 
m.  (2)  1880,  HeleneHilmer; 
d.  1894.   (Austro-English.) 


b.  1869,  June. 

(Engaged  to  Philip  Bosinney 
never  married.) 


b.  1879,  Jolly; 

d.  in  Transvaal, 
1900. 


1881,  HoUy; 
m.  Yal  Dartie, 
1900. 


.m.  (3)  1901,  Irene. 
(Daur.    of   Prof. 
Heron     and     di- 
vorced   wife    of 
Soames  Forsyte.) 


1855,  Soames.    (Solicitor  and  connois- 
'seur,  Montpellier  Sq.  and 
Mapledurham.) 

m.  (1)  1885,  Irene.       m.  (2)  1901.  Annette; 


(Daur.  of  Prof. 
Heron,  b.  1863, 
<Ut.  1900.) 


b.  1858,  Winifred: 

m.  1879,  Montague  Dartie, 
"Man    of   the    world." 
I  (Green  Street.) 


b.   1901,  Jolyon. 
"  Jon." 


b.  1880.  (Daur.  of 
Mme.    Lame 
French.) 


b.  1901,  Flew. 


b.  1861,  Kachel. 


b.   18Go,  Ci 


b.  1880,  Val:           b.  1882,  Imogen:       b.  1884,  Maud.  b.  1886 

1900  m.  Holly        1906.  m.  Jack  Cardigan  (Ali 

(daur.  of  Young                    I  col< 
Jolyon). 


b.  1910,  John. 


I 
b.  1912,  James. 


FORSYTE    FAMILY    TREE 

b.  1741.  Jolyon  Forsyte  (farmer,  of  Hays  Dencombe,  Dorset);  d.  1812. 
m.  Julia  Hayter,  1768. 


Edgar: 

(in  Jute). 


Nicholas : 

(Mayor  of  Bosport). 


Julia: 

(m.  Nightingall). 


Roger: 

(Merchant  Service). 


(4) 


I 
b.  1811,  S within;   d.  1891. 

(Estate  and  land  agent.) 
"Four  in  hand  Forsyte." 
(Hyde  Park  Mansions.) 


61,  Rachel.  b.   1865,  Ciceley. 


(5) 


I 
b.  1813,  Roger;    d.  1899. 

(Collector  of  house  property.    Prince's 

Gardens.) 
m.  1853,  Mary  Monk. 


(6) 


(7) 


b.  1814,  Julia;   d.  1905. 
"Aunt  Juley  ": 
m,   Septimus   Small,   of  weak 
constitution,  who  died  of  it. 
(Reverted  to  Bayswater  Road.) 


.  1815,  Hester;    d. 

"  Aunt  Hester." 
(Bayswater  Road.) 


1907. 


I  I 

b.  1853,  Roger:  b.  1856,  George. 

"Young  Roger,"  "~~^~~ 

m.  Muriel  Wake. 


b.  1858.  Francie. 


b.  1859,  Eustace:        b. 
m.  No  offspring. 


1862,  Thomas: 
m  No  offspring. 


b.  1849,  Nicholas: 

"  Young  Nicholas, 
(Insurances.) 
m.  1877,  Dorothy  Boxton 


I  I 

b.  1853,  Ernest:         b.  1857,  Archibald:      b.  1859, 
m.  No  offspring.        m.   No  offspring.        m.   '] 


Patr 


b.  18S4,  Maud, 
ardigan 


b.  1886,  Benedict. 
(Almost  a 
colonel.) 


b.  1890,  Roger: 

"Very  Young  Roger,' 
wounded  in  the  war. 


b.  1879,  Nicholas: 

"  Very  Young  Nicholas." 
(Barrister,  O.B.E.)     m. 


b.  1880,  Blanche:  m. 


1881,   Christopher. 
(Inclining  to  the  stetge.) 


b.  1884,  Violet. 

(Artistic  pastels.) 


b.  1886,  Gladys:   m.       b.  1 


1912,  James. 


reak 
)f  it. 
lad.) 


(7) 


b.   1815,  Hester;    d.   1907. 
"  Aunt  Hester." 
(Bayswater  Boad. ) 


(8) 

b.  1817.  Hicholas;   d.  1908. 

(Mines,  Railways  and  house  property.) 

(Ladbroke  Grove.) 
m.  1848,  Elizabeth  Blaine. 
"Fanny." 


(« 

I 
b.  1819.  Timothy;    d.  1920. 

(Publisher.    In  Consols.) 
(Bayswater  Road.) 


(10) 

I 
b.  1821,  Susan;  d.  1895. 

(Campden  Hill.) 
m.  Hayman. 


I  I  I  I  „l  .  I  I  I  II 

s:  b.  1853.  Ernest:  b.  1857,  Archibald:      b.  1859.  Marian:     b.  1861.  Florence:     b.  1862. Enphemia.     St.  John:    Augustus:   Annabel:  Giles.  Jesse: 

cholas."  m.  No  offspring.        m.    No  offspring.  m.   Tweetyman.  m.   Warry.  Unmarried.  m.  m.  m.  Spender      "TheDromios " 

n I  No  offspring. 

orothy  Boxton. 


Patricia. 


ige.) 


b.  1884.  Violet. 

(Artistic  pastels.) 


I 
b.  1886,  Gladys:    m. 


b.  1894,  Patrick. 
(In  the  war.) 


Offspring. 
One  killed 
in  t^  war