“I can’t help thinking of that poor Buccaneer,” he said. “He may

be wandering out there now in that fog. If he’s not a corpse,” he

added with strange dejection.

“Corpse!” said Dartie, in whom the recollection of his defeat at

Richmond flared up. “_He’s_ all right. Ten to one if he wasn’t

tight!”

George turned on him, looking really formidable, with a sort of

savage gloom on his big face.

“Dry up!” he said. “Don’t I tell you he’s ‘taken the knock!’”

CHAPTER V THE TRIAL

In the morning of his case, which was second in the list, Soames

was again obliged to start without seeing Irene, and it was just

as well, for he had not as yet made up his mind what attitude to

adopt towards her.

He had been requested to be in court by half-past ten, to provide

against the event of the first action (a breach of promise)

collapsing, which however it did not, both sides showing a

courage that afforded Waterbuck, Q.C., an opportunity for

improving his already great reputation in this class of case. He

was opposed by Ram, the other celebrated breach of promise man.

It was a battle of giants.

The court delivered judgment just before the luncheon interval.

The jury left the box for good, and Soames went out to get

something to eat. He met James standing at the little

luncheon-bar, like a pelican in the wilderness of the galleries,

bent over a sandwich with a glass of sherry before him. The

spacious emptiness of the great central hall, over which father

and son brooded as they stood together, was marred now and then

for a fleeting moment by barristers in wig and gown hurriedly

bolting across, by an occasional old lady or rusty-coated man,

looking up in a frightened way, and by two persons, bolder than

their generation, seated in an embrasure arguing. The sound of

their voices arose, together with a scent as of neglected 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 administration of British

Justice.

It was not long before James addressed his son.

“When’s your case coming on? I suppose it’ll be on directly. I

shouldn’t wonder if this Bosinney’d say 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. “Your

mother,” he said, “wants you and Irene to come and dine

to-night.”

A chill smile played round Soames’s lips; he looked back at his

father. Anyone who had seen the look, cold and furtive, thus

interchanged, might have been pardoned for not appreciating the

real understanding between them. James finished his sherry at a

draught.

“How much?” he asked.

On returning to the court Soames took at once his rightful seat

on the front bench beside his solicitor. He ascertained where his

father was seated with a glance so sidelong as to commit nobody.

James, sitting back with his hands clasped over the handle of his

umbrella, was brooding on the end of the bench immediately behind

counsel, whence he could get away at once when the case was over.

He considered Bosinney’s conduct in every way outrageous, but he

did not wish to run up against him, feeling that the meeting

would be awkward.

Next to the Divorce Court, this court was, perhaps, the favourite

emporium of justice, libel, breach of promise, and other

commercial actions being frequently decided there. Quite a

sprinkling 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 perceived that

Soames alone was represented by silk.

Waterbuck, Q.C., had barely screwed round on his elbow to chat

with his Junior before Mr. Justice Bentham himself appeared—a

thin, rather hen-like man, with a little stoop, clean-shaven

under his snowy wig. Like all the rest of the court, Waterbuck

rose, and remained on his feet until the judge was seated. James

rose but slightly; he was already comfortable, and had no opinion

of Bentham, having sat next but one to him at dinner twice at the

Bumley Tomms’. Bumley Tomm was rather a poor thing, though he had

been so successful. James himself had given him his first brief.

He was excited, too, for he had just found out that Bosinney was

not in court.

“Now, what’s he mean by that?” he kept on thinking.

The case having been called on, Waterbuck, Q.C., 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

Lordship would be asked was to interpret the correspondence which

had taken place between his client and the defendant, an

architect, with reference to the decoration of a house. He would,

however, submit that this correspondence could only mean one very

plain thing. After briefly reciting the history of the house at

Robin Hill, which he described as a mansion, and the actual facts

of expenditure, he went on as follows:

“My client, Mr. Soames Forsyte, is a gentleman, a man of

property, who would be the last to dispute any legitimate claim

that might be made against him, but he has met with such

treatment from his architect in the matter of this house, over

which he has, as your lordship has heard, already spent some

twelve—some twelve thousand pounds, a sum 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 compressed

lips; his dress in unostentatious order, one hand neatly gloved,

the other bare. He answered the questions put to him in a

somewhat low, but distinct voice. His evidence under

cross-examination savoured of taciturnity.

Had he not used the expression, “a free hand”? No.

“Come, come!”

The expression he had used was “a free hand in the terms of this

correspondence.”

“Would you tell the Court that that was English?”

“Yes!”

“What do you say it means?”

“What it says!”

“Are you prepared to deny that it is a contradiction in terms?”

“Yes.”

“You are not an Irishman?”

“No.”

“Are you a well-educated man?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you persist 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 Bosinney’s

absence in an awkward position. He therefore did his best to turn

that absence to account.

He could not but fear—he said—that his client had met with an

accident. He had fully expected him there to give evidence; they

had sent round that morning both to Mr. Bosinney’s office and to

his rooms (though he knew they were one and the same, he thought

it was as well not to say so), but it was not known where he was,

and this he considered to be ominous, knowing how anxious Mr.

Bosinney had been to give his evidence. He had not, however, been

instructed to apply for an adjournment, and in default of such

instruction he conceived it his duty to go on. The plea on which

he somewhat confidently relied, and which his client, had he not

unfortunately been prevented in some way from attending, would

have supported by his evidence, was that such an expression as a

“free hand” could not be limited, fettered, and rendered

unmeaning, by any verbiage which might follow it. He would go

further and say that the correspondence showed that whatever he

might have said in his evidence, Mr. Forsyte had in fact never

contemplated repudiating liability on any of the work ordered or

executed by his architect. The defendant had certainly never

contemplated such a contingency, or, as was demonstrated by his

letters, he would never have proceeded with the work—a work of

extreme delicacy, carried out with great care and efficiency, to

meet and satisfy the fastidious taste of a connoisseur, a rich

man, a man of property. He felt strongly on this point, and

feeling strongly he used, perhaps, rather strong words when he

said that this action was of a most unjustifiable, unexpected,

indeed—unprecedented character. If his Lordship had had the

opportunity that he himself had made it his duty to take, to go

over this very fine house and see the great delicacy and beauty

of the decorations executed by his client—an artist in his most

honourable profession—he felt convinced that not for one moment

would his Lordship tolerate this, he would use no stronger word

than daring attempt to evade legitimate responsibility.

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 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 have 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 erection, 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 Forsyte, who walked and

talked in every-day life under the name of Sir Walter Bentham.

He delivered judgment in the following words:

“The facts in this case are not in dispute. On May 15 last the

defendant wrote to the plaintiff, requesting to be allowed to

withdraw from his professional position in regard to the

decoration of the 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

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 mistaken.’ On May 19 the

plaintiff wrote as follows: ‘I did not mean to say that if you

should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty

or even fifty pounds there would be 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

20 the defendant replied thus shortly: ‘Very well.’

“In completing these decorations, the defendant incurred

liabilities and expenses which brought the total cost of this

house up to the sum of twelve thousand four hundred pounds, all

of which expenditure has been defrayed by the plaintiff. This

action has been brought by the plaintiff to recover from the

defendant the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds expended by

him in excess of a sum of twelve thousand and fifty pounds,

alleged by the plaintiff to have been fixed by this

correspondence as the maximum sum that the defendant had

authority to expend.

“The question for me to decide is whether or no the defendant is

liable to refund to the plaintiff this sum. In my judgment he is

so liable.

“What in effect the plaintiff has said is this ‘I give you a free

hand to complete these decorations, provided that you keep within

a total cost to me of twelve thousand pounds. If you exceed that

sum by as much as fifty pounds, I will not hold you responsible;

beyond that point you are no agent of mine, and I shall repudiate

liability.’ It is not quite clear to me whether, had the

plaintiff in fact 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 engagement.

“In my judgment the plaintiff is entitled to recover this sum

from the defendant.

“It has been sought, on behalf of the defendant, to show that no

limit of expenditure was fixed or intended to be fixed by this

correspondence. If this were so, I can find no reason for the

plaintiff’s importation into the correspondence of the figures of

twelve thousand pounds and subsequently of fifty pounds. The

defendant’s contention would render these figures meaningless. It

is manifest to me that by his letter of May 20 he assented to a

very clear proposition, by the terms of which he must be held to

be bound.

“For these reasons there will be judgment for the plaintiff for

the amount claimed with costs.”

James sighed, and stooping, picked up his umbrella which had

fallen with a rattle at the words “importation into this

correspondence.”

Untangling his legs, he rapidly left the Court; without waiting

for his son, he snapped up a hansom cab (it was a clear, grey

afternoon) and drove straight to Timothy’s where he found

Swithin; and to him, Mrs. Septimus Small, and Aunt Hester, he

recounted the whole proceedings, eating two muffins not

altogether in the intervals of speech.

“Soames did very well,” he ended; “he’s got his head screwed on

the right way. This won’t please Jolyon. It’s a bad business for

that young Bosinney; he’ll go bankrupt, I shouldn’t wonder,” and

then after a long pause, during which he had stared disquietly

into the fire, he added:

“He wasn’t there—now why?”

There was a sound of footsteps. The figure of a thick-set man,

with the ruddy brown face of robust health, was seen in the back

drawing-room. The forefinger of his 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.

CHAPTER VI SOAMES BREAKS THE NEWS

In leaving the Court Soames did not go straight home. He felt

disinclined for the City, and drawn by need for sympathy in his

triumph, he, too, made his way, but slowly and on foot, to

Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road.

His father had just left; Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester, in

possession of the whole story, greeted him warmly. They were sure

he was hungry after all that evidence. Smither should toast him

some more muffins, his dear father had eaten them all. He must

put his legs up on the sofa; and he must have a glass of prune

brandy too. It was so strengthening.

Swithin was still present, having lingered later than his wont,

for he felt in want of exercise. On hearing this 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 June do? This,

also, was a most exciting, if dangerous speculation!

They had never forgotten old Jolyon’s visit, since when he had

not once been to see them; they had never forgotten the feeling

it gave all who were present, that the family was no longer what

it had been—that the family was breaking up.

But Soames gave them no help, sitting with his knees crossed,

talking of the Barbizon school of painters, whom he had just

discovered. These were the coming men, he said; he should not

wonder if a lot of 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 should 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 nobody

else will tell you, I have made up my mind that....”

Aunt Hester interrupted her: “Mind, Julia, you do it....” she

gasped—“on your own responsibility!”

Mrs. Small went on as though she had not heard: “I think you

_ought_ to know, dear, that Mrs. MacAnder saw Irene walking in

Richmond Park with Mr. Bosinney.”

Aunt Hester, who had also risen, sank back in her chair, and

turned her face away. Really Juley was too—she should not do such

things when she—Aunt Hester, was in the room; and, breathless

with anticipation, she waited for what Soames would answer.

He had flushed the peculiar flush which always centred between

his eyes; lifting his hand, and, as it were, selecting a finger,

he bit a nail delicately; then, drawling it out between set lips,

he said: “Mrs. MacAnder is a cat!”

Without waiting for any reply, he left the room.

When he went into Timothy’s he had made up his mind what course

to pursue on getting home. He would go up to Irene and say:

“Well, I’ve won my case, and there’s an end of it! I don’t want

to be hard on Bosinney; I’ll see if we can’t come to some

arrangement; he shan’t be pressed. And now let’s turn over a new

leaf! We’ll let the house, and get out of these fogs. We’ll go

down to Robin Hill at once. I—I never meant to be rough with you!

Let’s shake hands—and—” Perhaps she would let him kiss her, and

forget!

When he came out of Timothy’s his intentions were no longer so

simple. The smouldering jealousy and suspicion of months blazed

up within him. He would put an end to that sort of thing once and

for all; he would not have her drag his name in the dirt! If she

could not or would not love him, as was her duty and his

right—she should not play him tricks with anyone else! He would

tax her with it; threaten to divorce her! That would make her

behave; she would never face that. But—but—what if she did? He

was staggered; this had not occurred to him.

What if she did? What if she made him a confession? How would he

stand then? He would have to bring a divorce!

A divorce! Thus close, the word was paralyzing, so utterly at

variance with all the principles that had hitherto guided his

life. Its lack of compromise appalled him; he felt—like the

captain of a ship, going to the side of his vessel, and, with his

own hands throwing over the most precious of his bales. This

jettisoning of his property with his own hand seemed uncanny to

Soames. It would injure him in his profession: He would have to

get rid of the house at Robin Hill, on which he had spent so much

money, so much anticipation—and at a sacrifice. And she! She

would no longer belong to him, not even in name! She would pass

out of his life, and he—he should never see her again!

He traversed in the cab the length of a street without getting

beyond the thought that he should never see her again!

But perhaps there was nothing to confess, even now very likely

there was nothing to confess. Was it wise to push things so far?

Was it wise to put himself into a position where he might have to

eat his words? The result of this case would ruin Bosinney; a

ruined man was desperate, but—what could he do? He might go

abroad, ruined men always went abroad. What could _they_ do—if

indeed it _was_ “_they_”—without money? It would be better to

wait and see how things turned out. If necessary, he could have

her watched. The agony of his jealousy (for all the world like

the crisis of an aching tooth) came on again; and he almost cried

out. But he must decide, fix on some course of action before he

got home. When the cab drew up at the door, he had decided

nothing.

He entered, pale, his hands moist with perspiration, dreading to

meet her, burning to meet her, ignorant of what he was to say or

do.

The maid Bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question:

“Where is your mistress?” told him that Mrs. Forsyte had left the

house about noon, taking with her a trunk and bag.

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

confronted her:

“What?” he exclaimed; “what’s that you said?” Suddenly

recollecting that he must not betray emotion, he added: “What

message did she leave?” and noticed with secret terror the

startled look of the maid’s eyes.

“Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir.”

“No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be

dining out.”

The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly

turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood

on the carved oak rug chest in the hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher.

Mrs. Septimus Small.

Mrs. Baynes.

Mr. Solomon Thornworthy.

Lady Bellis.

Miss Hermione Bellis.

Miss Winifred Bellis.

Miss Ella Bellis.

Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten

all familiar things. The words “no message—a trunk, and a bag,”

played a hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she

had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs

two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home

will run up to his wife’s room.

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

perfect order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was

the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold

her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets

even turned over at the head as though expecting her.

On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from

her dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some

mistake. What bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon

Bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of

where Irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and

grope out the meaning for himself.

He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going

round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes.

Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the

mirror.

He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out

water, and began feverishly washing.

Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion

she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of

his jealousy seized him again.

Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the

street.

He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went

down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should

not find her at Bosinney’s. But if he should? His power of

decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what

he should do if he did find her there.

It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the

woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or

no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she

did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he....

Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He

went up with a dogged, white face.

The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his

ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend,

shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he

told the man to drive to Park Lane.

On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a

cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but

there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered

how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them

abroad; enough for them to live on for months! He tried to

calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation

unmade.

The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master

had told him they were both expected to dinner.

Soames answered: “No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold.”

The butler was sorry.

Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and

remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: “Anybody

here to dinner, Warmson?”

“Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir.”

Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously

at him. His composure gave way.

“What are you looking at?” he said. “What’s the matter with me,

eh?”

The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that

sounded like: “Nothing, sir, I’m sure, sir,” and stealthily

withdrew.

Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look,

he went straight up to his mother’s and father’s bedroom.

James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean

figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening

waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew

from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering

with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top

hooks of his wife’s bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked,

whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other

reason. He—he himself had never—never been asked to....

He heard his father’s voice, as though there were a pin in his

mouth, saying: “Who’s that? Who’s there? What d’you want?” His

mother’s: “Here, Félice, come and hook this; your master’ll never

get done.”

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

“It’s I—Soames!”

He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily’s:

“Well, my dear boy?” and James’, as he dropped the hook: “What,

Soames! What’s brought you up? Aren’t you well?”

He answered mechanically: “I’m all right,” and looked at them,

and it seemed impossible to bring out his news.

James, quick to take alarm, began: “You don’t look well. I expect

you’ve taken a chill—it’s liver, I shouldn’t wonder. Your

mother’ll give you....”

But Emily broke in quietly: “Have you brought Irene?”

Soames shook his head.

“No,” he stammered, “she—she’s left me!”

Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her

tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she

came running over to Soames.

“My dear boy! My _dear_ boy!”

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

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

older.

“Left you?” he said. “What d’you mean—left you? You never told me

she was going to leave you.”

Soames answered surlily: “How could I tell? What’s to be done?”

James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like

without a coat. “What’s to be done!” he muttered. “How should I

know what’s to be done? What’s the good of asking me? Nobody

tells me anything, and then they come and ask me what’s to be

done; and I should like to know how I’m to tell them! Here’s your

mother, there she stands; _she_ doesn’t say anything. What _I_

should say you’ve got to do is to follow her..”

Soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before

looked pitiable.

“I don’t know where she’s gone,” he said.

“Don’t know where she’s gone!” said James. “How d’you mean, don’t

know where she’s gone? Where d’you suppose she’s gone? She’s gone

after that young Bosinney, that’s where she’s gone. I knew how it

would be.”

Soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother

pressing his hand. And all that passed seemed to pass as though

his own power of thinking or doing had gone to sleep.

His father’s face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to

cry, and words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some

spasm in his soul.

“There’ll be a scandal; I always said so.” Then, no one saying

anything: “And there you stand, you and your mother!”

And Emily’s voice, calm, rather contemptuous: “Come, now, James!

Soames will do all that he can.”

And James, 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.”

And his mother’s voice again: “Soames will do all he can to get

her back. We won’t talk of it. It’ll all come right, I dare say.”

And James: “Well, I can’t see how it can come right. And if she

hasn’t gone off with that young Bosinney, my advice to you is not

to listen to her, but to follow her and get her back.”

Once more Soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of

her approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath,

he muttered between his teeth: “I will!”

All three went down to the drawing-room together. There, were

gathered the three girls and Dartie; had Irene been present, the

family circle would have been complete.

James sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold

greeting to Dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man

likely to be always in want of money, he said nothing till dinner

was announced. Soames, too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of

cool courage, maintained a conversation with Winifred on trivial

subjects. She was never more composed in her manner and

conversation than that evening.

A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene’s flight, no

view was expressed by any other member of the family as to the

right course to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the

general tone adopted in relation to events as they afterwards

turned out, that James’s advice: “Don’t you listen to her, follow

her and get her back!” would, with here and there an exception,

have been regarded as sound, not only in Park Lane, but amongst

the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy’s. Just as it would

surely have been endorsed by that wider body of Forsytes all over

London, who were merely excluded from judgment by ignorance of

the story.

In spite then of Emily’s efforts, the dinner was served by

Warmson and the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and

drank all he could get; the girls seldom talked to each other at

any time. James asked once where June was, and what she was doing

with herself in these days. No one could tell him. He sank back

into gloom. Only when Winifred recounted how little Publius had

given his bad penny to a beggar, did he brighten up.

“Ah!” he said, “that’s a clever little chap. I don’t know what’ll

become of him, if he goes on like this. An 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 onto the table, but barely reached the

principal ornament of the walls, a so-called “Sea Piece by

Turner,” almost entirely composed of cordage and drowning men.

Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James’ 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 vagabonds at street

corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home, oblivious;

his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt wire

cage into which they had been thrust through the slit in the

door.

None from Irene!

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 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

compartments, were all the things he had given her, even her

watch, and stuck into the recess that contained the watch was a

three-cornered note addressed “Soames Forsyte,” in Irene’s

handwriting:

“I think I have taken nothing that you or your people have given

me.” And that was all.

He looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at

the little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires,

at the chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed

up in his eyes and dropped upon them.

Nothing that she could have done, nothing that she _had_ done,

brought home to him like this the inner significance of her act.

For the moment, perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to

understand—understood that she loathed him, that she had loathed

him for years, that for all intents and purposes they were like

people living in different worlds, that there was no hope for

him, never had been; even, that she had suffered—that she was to

be pitied.

In that moment of emotion he betrayed the Forsyte in him—forgot

himself, his interests, his property—was capable of almost

anything; was lifted into the pure ether of the selfless and

unpractical.

Such moments pass quickly.

And as though with the tears he had purged himself of weakness,

he got up, locked the box, and slowly, almost trembling, carried

it with him into the other room.

CHAPTER VII JUNE’S VICTORY

June had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of

the journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at

first puzzled old Jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it

with all the promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character.

She will always remember best in her life that morning when at

last she saw amongst the reliable Cause List of the _Times_

newspaper, under the heading of Court 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 offices on the three

lower floors without attracting notice; not till she reached the

top did her difficulties 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 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. All were gone; and in

spite of the rage roused within her championing soul at the

thought that the world should treat him thus, their disappearance

augured happily for the success of her plan.

It was while looking at the spot where the piece of 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 grey fur; the travelling cap on her

head left a wave of gold hair visible above her forehead. The

soft fullness of the coat made her face as small as a child’s.

Unlike Jun’s cheeks, her cheeks had no colour in them, but were

ivory white and pinched as if with cold. Dark circles lay round

her eyes. In one hand she held a bunch of violets.

She looked back at June, no smile on her lips; and with those

great dark eyes fastened on her, the girl, for all her startled

anger, felt something of the old spell.

She spoke first, after all.

“What have you come for?” But the feeling that she herself was

being asked the same question, made her add: “This horrible case.

I came to tell him—he has lost it.”

Irene did not speak, her eyes never moved from Jun’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 swiftly

walking to and fro. Suddenly she broke out:

“I was here first. We can’t both stay here together!”

On Irene’s face a smile wandered up, and died out like a flicker

of firelight. She did not move. And then it was that June

perceived under the softness and immobility of this figure

something desperate and resolved; something not to be turned

away, something dangerous. She tore off her hat, and, putting

both hands to her brow, pressed back the bronze mass of her hair.

“You have no right here!” she cried defiantly.

Irene answered: “I have no right anywhere——”

“What do you mean?”

“I have left Soames. You always wanted me to!”

June put her hands over her ears.

“Don’t! I don’t want to hear anything—I don’t want to know

anything. It’s impossible to fight with you! What makes you stand

like that? Why don’t you go?”

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 ceaselessly

turned and twisted the little bunch of violets.

The tears of rage and disappointment rolled down Jun’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 Jun’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 difference to her, for it was a long time

since she had shown him any affection.

But when June came down, her face was pinched and piteous; there

was a strained, pathetic look in her eyes. She snuggled up in her

old attitude on the arm of his chair, and what he said compared

but poorly with the clear, authoritative, injured statement he

had thought out with much care. His heart felt sore, as the great

heart of a mother-bird feels sore when its youngling flies and

bruises its wing. His words halted, as though he were apologizing

for having at last deviated from the path of virtue, and

succumbed, in defiance of sounder principles, to his more natural

instincts.

He seemed nervous lest, in thus announcing his intentions, he

should be setting his granddaughter a bad example; and now that

he came to the point, his way of putting the suggestion that, if

she didn’t like it, she could live by herself and lump it, was

delicate in the extreme.

“And if, by any chance, my darling,” he said, “you found you

didn’t get on—with them, why, I could make that all right. You

could have what you liked. We could find a little flat in London

where you could set up, and I could be running to continually.

But the children,” he added, “are dear little things!”

Then, in the midst of this grave, rather transparent, explanation

of changed policy, his eyes twinkled. “This’ll astonish Timothy’s

weak nerves. That precious young thing will have something to say

about this, or I’m a Dutchman!”

June had not yet spoken. Perched thus on the arm of his chair,

with her head above him, her face was invisible. But presently he

felt her warm cheek against his own, and knew that, at all

events, there was nothing very alarming in her attitude towards

his news. He began to take courage.

“You’ll like your father,” he said—“an amiable chap. Never was

much push about him, but easy to get on with. You’ll find him

artistic and all that.”

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

impatiently: “Well, what do you say?”

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

She thought it would all go splendidly; she did not see any

difficulty, and she did not care a bit what people thought.

Old Jolyon wriggled. H’m! then people _would_ think! He had

thought that after all these years perhaps they wouldn’t! Well,

he couldn’t help it! Nevertheless, he could not approve of his

granddaughter’s way of putting it—she ought to mind what people

thought!

Yet he said nothing. His feelings were too mixed, too

inconsistent for expression.

No—went on June—she did not care; what business was it of theirs?

There was only one thing—and with her cheek pressing against his

knee, old Jolyon knew at once that this something was no trifle:

As he was going to buy a house in the country, would he not—to

please her—buy that splendid house of Soames’ at Robin Hill? It

was finished, it was perfectly beautiful, and no one would live

in it now. They would all be so happy there.

Old Jolyon was on the alert at once. Wasn’t the “man of property”

going to live in his new house, then? He never alluded to Soames

now but under this title.

“No”—June said—“he was not; she knew that he was not!”

How did she know?

She could not tell him, but she knew. She knew nearly for

certain! It was most unlikely; circumstances had changed! Irene’s

words still rang in her head: “I have left Soames. Where should I

go?”

But she kept silence about that.

If her grandfather would only buy it and settle that wretched

claim that ought never to have been made on Phil! It would be the

very best thing for everybody, and everything—everything might

come straight.

And June put her lips to his forehead, and pressed them close.

But old Jolyon freed himself from her caress, his face wore the

judicial look which came upon it when he dealt with affairs. He

asked: What did she mean? There was something behind all this—had

she been seeing Bosinney?

June answered: “No; but I have been to his rooms.”

“Been to his rooms? Who took you there?”

June faced him steadily. “I went alone. He has lost that case. I

don’t care whether it was right or wrong. I want to help him; and

_I will!_”

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 lawsuit 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 Forsyte

’Change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house.

It was “too artistic,” but a fine place. To take from the “man of

property” 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. Justice once for all on those who

had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless outcast.

He would see, he would see! It might be out of the question; he

was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why,

perhaps he would do it!

And still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her.

But he did not commit himself. He would think it over—he said to

June.

CHAPTER VIII BOSINNEY’S DEPARTURE

Old Jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that

he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house

at Robin Hill, had not Jun’s face told him that he would have no

peace until he acted.

At breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should

order the carriage.

“Carriage!” he said, with some appearance of innocence; “what

for? _I’m_ not going out!”

She answered: “If you don’t go early, you won’t catch Uncle James

before he goes into the City.”

“James! what about your Uncle James?”

“The house,” she replied, in such a voice that he no longer

pretended ignorance.

“I’ve not made up my mind,” he said.

“You must! You must! Oh! Gran—think of me!”

Old Jolyon grumbled out: “Think of you—I’m always thinking of

you, but you don’t think of yourself; you don’t think what you’re

letting yourself in for. Well, order the carriage at ten!”

At a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at

Park Lane—he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat;

telling Warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went,

without being announced, into the study, and sat down.

James was still in the dining-room talking to Soames, who had

come round again before breakfast. On hearing who his visitor

was, he muttered nervously: “Now, what’s _he_ want, I wonder?”

He then got up.

“Well,” he said to Soames, “don’t you go doing anything in a

hurry. The first thing is to find out where she is—I should go to

Stainer’s about it; they’re the best men, if they can’t find her,

nobody can.” And suddenly moved to strange softness, he muttered

to himself, “Poor little thing, _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 bankrupt,

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’ 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 a 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

Jun’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.

“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, I can see that very well if I’m met in this manner!”

James was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a

commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was

dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations

such as these made him nervous—he never knew quite how far he

could go.

“Well,” he said, “I know nothing about it. Soames, he tells me

nothing; I should think he’d entertain it—it’s a question of

price.”

“Oh!” said old Jolyon, “don’t let him make a favour of 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 policeman? I

don’t know anything about a policeman. But I suppose you know

something about him,” he added to old Jolyon with a look of

suspicion: “I suppose you’d better see him!”

In the hall an Inspector of Police stood stolidly regarding with

heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old English furniture picked

up by James at the famous Mavrojano sale in Portman Square.

“You’ll find my brother in there,” said James.

The Inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap,

and entered the study.

James saw him go in with a strange sensation.

“Well,” he said to Soames, “I suppose we must wait and see what

he wants. Your uncle’s been here about the house!”

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 round from

Stanhope Gate, that’s all I know. That ‘nonconformist’ of Uncle

Jolyon’s has been pilfering, I shouldn’t wonder!”

But in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease.

At the end of ten minutes old Jolyon came in. He walked up to the

table, and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long white

moustaches. James gazed up at him with opening mouth; he had

never seen his brother look like this.

Old Jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly:

“Young Bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed.”

Then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down

at him with his deep eyes:

“There’s—some—talk—of—suicide,” he said.

James’ jaw dropped. “_Suicide!_ What should he do that for?”

Old Jolyon answered sternly: “God knows, if you and your son

don’t!”

But James did not reply.

For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had

bitter experiences. The passer-by, who sees them wrapped in

cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that

such black shadows had fallen on their roads. To every man of

great age—to Sir Walter Bentham himself—the idea of suicide has

once at least been present in the ante-room of his soul; on the

threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by

some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. To

Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it is

hard! Seldom—perhaps never—can they achieve, it; and yet, how

near have they not sometimes been!

So even with James! Then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke

out: “Why I saw it in the paper yesterday: ‘Run over in the fog!’

They didn’t know his name!” He turned from one face to the other

in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was

rejecting that rumour of suicide. He dared not entertain this

thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his

son, of every Forsyte. He strove against it; and as his nature

ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety

accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. It was an accident!

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.”

No one opposing this command he led the way from the room.

The day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to Park

Lane from Stanhope Gate, old Jolyon had had the carriage open.

Sitting back on the padded cushions, 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 the first fine day will bring into London streets after a

spell of fog or rain. And he had felt so happy; he had not felt

like it for months. His confession to June was off his mind; he

had the prospect of his son’s, above all, of his grandchildren’s

company in the future—(he had appointed to meet young Jolyon at

the Hotch Potch that very morning to discuss it again); and there

was the pleasurable excitement of a coming encounter, a coming

victory, over James and the “man of property” in the matter of

the house.

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’ 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 mutual defence between them,

there came an overmastering desire to have his own son at his

side, as though this visit to the dead man’s body was a battle in

which otherwise he must single-handed meet those two. And the

thought of how to keep Jun’s name out of the business kept

whirring in his brain. James had his son to support him! Why

should he not send for Jo?

Taking out his card-case, he pencilled the following message:

“Come round at once. I’ve sent the carriage for you.”

On getting out he gave this card to his coachman, telling him to

drive—as fast as possible to the Hotch Potch Club, and if Mr.

Jolyon Forsyte were there to give him the card 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, which 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 grey 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 sorrowful and lank over the dead man, he too turned

and hurried out.

Old Jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. Who

shall tell of what he was thinking? Of himself, when his hair was

brown like the hair of that young fellow dead before him? Of

himself, with his battle just beginning, the long, long battle he

had loved; the battle that was over for this young man almost

before it had begun? Of his grand-daughter, with her broken

hopes? Of that other woman? Of the strangeness, 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 suffering under great stress of

mind, and took no notice of things about him. Perhaps you can

throw some light on these.”

He took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table.

Carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady’s 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.

“Found in his breast pocket,” said the Inspector; “the name has

been cut away!”

Young Jolyon with difficulty answered: “I’m afraid I cannot help

you!” But vividly there rose before him the face he had seen

light up, so tremulous and glad, at Bosinney’s coming! Of her he

thought more than of his own daughter, more than of them all—of

her with the dark, soft glance, the delicate passive face,

waiting for the dead man, waiting even at that moment, perhaps,

still and patient in the sunlight.

He walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father’s

house, reflecting that this death would break up the Forsyte

family. The stroke had indeed slipped past their defences into

the very wood of their tree. They might flourish to all

appearance as before, preserving a brave show before the eyes of

London, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same flash that

had stricken down Bosinney. And now the saplings would take its

place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property.

Good forest of Forsytes! thought young Jolyon—soundest timber of

our land!

Concerning the cause of this death—his family would doubtless

reject with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so

compromising! They would take it as an accident, a stroke of

fate. In their hearts they would even feel it an intervention of

Providence, a retribution—had not Bosinney endangered their two

most priceless possessions, the pocket and the hearth? And they

would talk of “that unfortunate accident of young Bosinney’s,”

but perhaps they would not talk—silence might be better!

As for himself, he regarded the bus-driver’s account of the

accident as of very little value. For no one so madly in love

committed suicide for want of money; nor was Bosinney the sort of

fellow to set much store by a financial crisis. And so he too,

rejected this theory of suicide, the dead man’s face rose too

clearly before him. Gone in the heyday of his summer—and to

believe thus that an accident had cut Bosinney off in the full

sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young Jolyon.

Then came a vision of Soames’ home as it now was, and must be

hereafter. The streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny

gleam on bare bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising

flesh was gone....

In the dining-room at Stanhope Gate old Jolyon was sitting alone

when his son came in. He looked very wan in his great armchair.

And his eyes travelling round the walls with their pictures of

still life, and the masterpiece “Dutch fishing-boats at Sunset”

seemed as though passing their gaze over his life with its hopes,

its gains, its 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’? _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.

CHAPTER IX IRENE’S RETURN

After leaving James and old Jolyon in the mortuary of the

hospital, Soames hurried aimlessly along the streets.

The tragic event of Bosinney’s death altered the complexion of

everything. There was no longer the same feeling that to lose a

minute would be fatal, nor would he now risk communicating the

fact of his wife’s flight to 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 opportunity of

telling Bilson that her mistress was at the sea; he would

probably, he said, be going down himself from Saturday to Monday.

This had given him time to breathe, time to leave no stone

unturned to find her.

But now, cut off from taking steps by Bosinney’s death—that

strange death, to think of which was like putting a hot iron to

his heart, like lifting a great weight from it—he did not know

how to pass his day; and he wandered here and there through the

streets, looking at every face he met, devoured by a hundred

anxieties.

And as he wandered, he thought of him who had finished his

wandering, his prowling, and would never haunt his house again.

Already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the

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.”

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

sitting in her usual corner on the sofa. He shut 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. “Why are you sitting here in the

dark?”

Then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it

seemed as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her

veins; and her eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide,

startled brown eyes of an owl.

Huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a

strange resemblance to a captive owl, bunched in its soft

feathers against the wires of a cage. The supple erectness of her

figure was gone, as though she had been broken by cruel exercise;

as though there were no longer any reason for being beautiful,

and supple, and erect.

“So you’ve come back,” he repeated.

She never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over

her motionless figure.

Suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then

that he understood.

She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing

where to turn, not knowing what she was doing. The sight of her

figure, huddled in the fur, was enough.

He knew then for certain that Bosinney had been her lover; knew

that she had seen the report of his death—perhaps, like himself,

had bought a paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read

it.

She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had

pined to be free of—and taking in all the tremendous significance

of this, he longed to cry: “Take your hated body, that I love,

out of my house! Take away that pitiful white face, so cruel and

soft—before I crush it. Get out of my sight; never let me see you

again!”

And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move

away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was

fighting to awake—rise and go out into the dark and cold, without

a thought of him, without so much as the knowledge of his

presence.

Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, “No;

stay there!” And turning away from her, he sat down in his

accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth.

They sat in silence.

And Soames thought: “Why is all this? Why should I suffer so?

What have I done? It is not my fault!”

Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and

dying, whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from

it, whose poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow,

soft, unseeing look, taking farewell of all that is good—of the

sun, and the air, and its mate.

So they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side

of the hearth.

And the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well,

seemed to grip Soames by the throat till he could bear it no

longer. And going out into the hall he flung the door wide, to

gulp down the cold air that came in; then without hat or overcoat

went out into the Square.

Along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way

towards him, and Soames thought: “Suffering! when will it cease,

my suffering?”

At a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance

named Rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of “I am master

here.” And Soames walked on.

From far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and

Irene had been married were pealing in “practice” for the advent

of Christ, the chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. He

felt a craving for strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or

rouse him to fury. If only he could 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

unbreakable cage.

On the far side of the Square newspaper boys were calling their

evening wares, and the ghoulish cries mingled and jangled with

the sound of those church bells.

Soames covered his ears. The thought flashed across him that but

for a chance, he himself, and not Bosinney, might be lying dead,

and she, instead of crouching there like a shot bird with those

dying eyes....

Something soft touched his legs, the cat was rubbing herself

against them. And a sob that shook him from head to foot burst

from Soames’ chest. Then all was still again in the dark, where

the houses seemed to stare at him, each with a master and

mistress of its own, and a secret story of happiness or sorrow.

And suddenly he saw that his own door was open, and black against

the light from the hall a man standing with his back turned.

Something slid too in his breast, and he stole up close behind.

He could see his own fur coat flung across the carved oak chair;

the Persian rugs; the silver bowls, the rows of porcelain plates

arranged along the walls, and this unknown man who was standing

there.

And sharply he asked: “What is it you want, sir?”

The visitor turned. It was young Jolyon.

“The door was open,” he said. “Might I see your wife for a

minute, I have a message for her?”

Soames gave him a strange, sidelong stare.

“My wife can see no one,” he muttered doggedly.

Young Jolyon answered gently: “I shouldn’t keep her a minute.”

Soames brushed by him and barred the way.

“She can see no one,” he said again.

Young Jolyon’s glance shot past him into the hall, and Soames

turned. There in the drawing-room doorway stood Irene, her eyes

were wild and eager, her lips were parted, her hands

outstretched. In the sight of both men that light vanished from

her face; her hands dropped to her sides; she stood like stone.

Soames spun round, and met his visitor’s eyes, and at the look he

saw in them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. He drew his lips

back in the ghost of a smile.

“This is my house,” he said; “I manage my own affairs. I’ve told

you once—I tell you again; we are not at home.”

And in young Jolyon’s face he slammed the door.