Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had
received his telegram while at breakfast. Her abode—a studio and
two bedrooms in a St. John’s Wood garden—had been selected by her
for the complete independence which it guaranteed. Unwatched by
Mrs. Grundy, unhindered by permanent domestics, she could receive
lame ducks at any hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck
without studio of its own made use of June’s. She enjoyed her
freedom, and possessed herself with a sort of virginal passion;
the warmth which she would have lavished on Bosinney, and of
which—given her Forsyte tenacity—he must surely have tired, she
now expended in championship of the underdogs and budding
“geniuses” of the artistic world. She lived, in fact, to turn
ducks into the swans she believed they were. The very fervour of
her protection warped her judgments. But she was loyal and
liberal; her small eager hand was ever against the oppressions of
academic and commercial opinion, and though her income was
considerable, her bank balance was often a minus quantity.
She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit
to Eric Cobbley. A miserable Gallery had refused to let that
straight-haired genius have his one-man show after all. Its
impudent manager, after visiting his studio, had expressed the
opinion that it would only be a “one-horse show from the selling
point of view.” This crowning example of commercial cowardice
towards her favourite lame duck—and he so hard up, with a wife
and two children, that he had caused her account to be
overdrawn—was still making the blood glow in her small, resolute
face, and her red-gold hair to shine more than ever. She gave her
father a hug, and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to
fry with him as he with her. It became at once a question which
would fry them first.
Jolyon had reached the words: “My dear, I want you to come with
me,” when, glancing at her face, he perceived by her blue eyes
moving from side to side—like the tail of a preoccupied cat—that
she was not attending. “Dad, is it true that I absolutely can’t
get at any of my money?”
“Only the income, fortunately, my love.”
“How perfectly beastly! Can’t it be done somehow? There must be a
way. I know I could buy a small Gallery for ten thousand pounds.”
“A small Gallery,” murmured Jolyon, “seems a modest desire. But
your grandfather foresaw it.”
“I think,” cried June vigorously, “that all this care about money
is awful, when there’s so much genius in the world simply crushed
out for want of a little. I shall never marry and have children;
why shouldn’t I be able to do some good instead of having it all
tied up in case of things which will never come off?”
“Our name is Forsyte, my dear,” replied Jolyon in the ironical
voice to which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown
accustomed; “and Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle
their property that their grandchildren, in case they should die
before their parents, have to make wills leaving the property
that will only come to themselves when their parents die. Do you
follow that? Nor do I, but it’s a fact, anyway; we live by the
principle that so long as there is a possibility of keeping
wealth in the family it must 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.”
“Names worth making make themselves in time.”
“When they’re dead.”
“Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having
his name made?”
“Yes, you,” said June, pressing his arm.
Jolyon started. “I?” he thought. “Oh! Ah! Now she’s going to ask
me to do something. We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our
different ways.”
June came closer to him in the cab.
“Darling,” she said, “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 pounds
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.”
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 going, of course?” cried June.
Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. “But his position is
horrible,” she murmured.
“It’s his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he
could.”
Jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped
that no divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover’s name.
“Let us hear what Irene _is_ going to do,” he said.
Irene’s lips quivered, but she spoke calmly.
“I’d better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me.”
“How horrible!” cried June.
“What else can I do?”
“Out of the question,” said Jolyon very quietly, “_sans amour_.”
He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she
half turned her back on them, and stood regaining control of
herself.
June said suddenly:
“Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone.
What does he want at his age?”
“A child. It’s not unnatural”
“A child!” cried June scornfully. “Of course! To leave his money
to. If he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have
one; then you can divorce him, and he can marry her.”
Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring
June—her violent partizanship was fighting Soames’ battle.
“It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill,
and see how things shape.”
“Of course,” said June; “only....”
Irene looked full at Jolyon—in all his many attempts afterwards
to analyze that glance he never could succeed.
“No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad.”
He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant
thought flashed through him: “Well, I could see her there.” But
he said:
“Don’t you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he
followed?”
“I don’t know. I can but try.”
June sprang up and paced the room. “It’s all horrible,” she said.
“Why should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless
year after year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?” But
someone had come into the room, and June came to a standstill.
Jolyon went up to Irene:
“Do you want money?”
“No.”
“And would you like me to let your flat?”
“Yes, Jolyon, please.”
“When shall you be going?”
“To-morrow.”
“You won’t go back there in the meantime, will you?” This he said
with an anxiety strange to himself.
“No; I’ve got all I want here.”
“You’ll send me your address?”
She put out her hand to him. “I feel you’re a rock.”
“Built on sand,” answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; “but
it’s a pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And
if you change your mind...! Come along, June; say good-bye.”
June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene.
“Don’t think of him,” she said under her breath; “enjoy yourself,
and bless you!”
With a memory of tears in Irene’s eyes, and of a smile on her
lips, they went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had
interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the
table.
Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed:
“Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!”
But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father’s
balance, and could see things impartially even when his emotions
were roused. Irene was right; Soames’ position was as bad or
worse than her own. As for the law—it catered for a human nature
of which it took a naturally low view. And, feeling that if he
stayed in his daughter’s company he would in one way or another
commit an indiscretion, he told her he must catch his train back
to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner’s water-colours,
with the promise that he would think over that Gallery.
But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to
love! If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he
pitied her profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so
handicapped and lonely! “I hope to goodness she’ll keep her
head!” he thought; “she might easily grow desperate.” In fact,
now that she had cut loose from her poor threads of occupation,
he couldn’t imagine how she would go on—so beautiful a creature,
hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his exasperation was more
than a little fear and jealousy. Women did strange things when
they were driven into corners. “I wonder what Soames will do
now!” he thought. “A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I
suppose they would say it was her own fault.” Very preoccupied
and sore at heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and
on the platform at Oxford took his hat off to a lady whose face
he seemed to remember without being able to put a name to her,
not even when he saw her having tea at the Rainbow.