Jolyon stood in the narrow hall at Broadstairs, inhaling that
odour of oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable
seaside lodging-houses. On a chair—a shiny leather chair,
displaying its horsehair through a hole in the top left-hand
corner—stood a black despatch case. This he was filling with
papers, with the _Times_, and a bottle of Eau-de Cologne. He had
meetings that day of the “Globular Gold Concessions” and the “New
Colliery Company, Limited,” to which he was going up, for he
never missed a Board; to “miss a Board” would be one more piece
of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous Forsyte
spirit could not bear.
His eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at
any moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of a
schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls
himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. And old Jolyon
controlled himself, keeping down, with his masterful restraint
now slowly wearing out, the irritation fostered in him by the
conditions of his life.
He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by
rambling generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of
answering a plain question. “I’ve seen Bosinney,” he said; “he is
not a criminal. The more I see of people the more I am convinced
that they are never good or bad—merely comic, or pathetic. You
probably don’t agree with me!”
Old Jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express
oneself; he had not yet reached that point of old age when even
Forsytes, bereft of those illusions and principles which they
have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never
believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the
very heart by having nothing left to hope for—break through the
barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed
themselves capable of saying.
Perhaps he did not believe in “goodness” and “badness” any more
than his son; but as he would have said: He didn’t know—couldn’t
tell; there might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary
expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage?
Accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though
(like a true Forsyte) he had never attempted anything too
adventurous or too foolhardy, he had been passionately fond of
them. And when the wonderful view (mentioned in
Baedeker—“fatiguing but repaying”.—was disclosed to him after the
effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some
great, dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the
petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was
as near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever
gone.
But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had
taken June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and
had realized bitterly that his walking days were over.
To that old mountain—given confidence in a supreme order of
things he had long been a stranger.
He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled
him. It troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had
always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such
as seemed born to disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo—who
could say anything against the boy, an amiable chap?—but his
position was deplorable, and this business of Jun’s nearly as
bad. It seemed like a fatality, and a fatality was one of those
things no man of his character could either understand or put up
with.
In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would
come of it. Since the ball at Roger’s he had seen too clearly how
the land lay—he could put two and two together quicker than most
men—and, with the example of his own son before his eyes, knew
better than any Forsyte of them all that the pale flame singes
men’s wings whether they will or no.
In the days before Jun’s engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames
were always together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the
spell she cast over men. She was not a flirt, not even a
coquette—words dear to the heart of his generation, which loved
to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word—but she was
dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of a quality innate in
some women—a seductive power beyond their own control! He would
but answer: “Humbug!” She was dangerous, and there was an end of
it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it
was; _he_ did not want to hear any more about it—he only wanted
to save Jun’s position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she
might once more become a comfort to himself.
And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As
to what young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was
practically only the queer sentence: “I gather that he’s in the
stream.” The stream! What stream? What was this new-fangled way
of talking?
He sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of
the bag; he knew well enough what was meant.
June came out of the dining-room, and helped him on with his
summer coat. From her costume, and the expression of her little
resolute face, he saw at once what was coming.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“Nonsense, my dear; I go straight into the City. I can’t have you
racketting about!”
“I must see old Mrs. Smeech.”
“Oh, your precious ‘lame ducks’!” grumbled out old Jolyon. He did
not believe her excuse, but ceased his opposition. There was no
doing anything with that pertinacity of hers.
At Victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered
for himself—a characteristic action, for he had no petty
selfishnesses.
“Now, don’t you go tiring yourself, my darling,” he said, and
took a cab on into the city.
June went first to a back-street in Paddington, where Mrs.
Smeech, her “lame duck,” lived—an aged person, connected with the
charring interest; but after half an hour spent in hearing her
habitually lamentable recital, and dragooning her into temporary
comfort, she went on to Stanhope Gate. The great house was closed
and dark.
She had decided to learn something at all costs. It was better to
face the worst, and have it over. And this was her plan: To go
first to Phil’s aunt, Mrs. Baynes, and, failing information
there, to Irene herself. She had no clear notion of what she
would gain by these visits.
At three o’clock she was in Lowndes Square. With a woman’s
instinct when trouble is to be faced, she had put on her best
frock, and went to the battle with a glance as courageous as old
Jolyon’s itself. Her tremors had passed into eagerness.
Mrs. Baynes, Bosinney’s aunt (Louisa was her name), was in her
kitchen when June was announced, organizing the cook, for she was
an excellent housewife, and, as Baynes always said, there was “a
lot in a good dinner.” He did his best work after dinner. It was
Baynes who built that remarkably fine row of tall crimson houses
in Kensington which compete with so many others for the title of
“the ugliest in London.”
On hearing Jun’s name, she went hurriedly to her bedroom, and,
taking two large bracelets from a red morocco case in a locked
drawer, put them on her white wrists—for she possessed in a
remarkable degree that “sense of property,” which, as we know, is
the touchstone of Forsyteism, and the foundation of good
morality.
Her figure, of medium height and broad build, with a tendency to
embonpoint, was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood
wardrobe, in a gown made under her own organization, of one of
those half-tints, reminiscent of the distempered walls of
corridors in large hotels. She raised her hands to her hair,
which she wore _à la_ Princesse de Galles, and touched it here
and there, settling it more firmly on her head, and her eyes were
full of an unconscious realism, as though she were looking in the
face one of life’s sordid facts, and making the best of it. In
youth her cheeks had been of cream and roses, but they were
mottled now by middle-age, and again that hard, ugly directness
came into her eyes as she dabbed a powder-puff across her
forehead. Putting the puff down, she stood quite still before the
glass, arranging a smile over her high, important nose, her chin,
(never large, and now growing smaller with the increase of her
neck), her thin-lipped, down-drooping mouth. Quickly, not to lose
the effect, she grasped her skirts strongly in both hands, and
went downstairs.
She had been hoping for this visit for some time past. Whispers
had reached her that things were not all right between her nephew
and his fiancée. Neither of them had been near her for weeks. She
had asked Phil to dinner many times; his invariable answer had
been “Too busy.”
Her instinct was alarmed, and the instinct in such matters of
this excellent woman was keen. She ought to have been a Forsyte;
in young Jolyon’s sense of the word, she certainly had that
privilege, and merits description as such.
She had married off her three daughters in a way that people said
was beyond their deserts, for they had the professional plainness
only to be found, as a rule, among the female kind of the more
legal callings. Her name was upon the committees of numberless
charities connected with the Church-dances, theatricals, or
bazaars—and she never lent her name unless sure beforehand that
everything had been thoroughly organized.
She believed, as she often said, in putting things on a
commercial basis; the proper function of the Church, of charity,
indeed, of everything, was to strengthen the fabric of “Society.”
Individual action, therefore, she considered immoral.
Organization was the only thing, for by organization alone could
you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money.
Organization—and again, organization! And there is no doubt that
she was what old Jolyon called her—“a ‘dab’ at that”—he went
further, he called her “a humbug.”
The enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so
admirably that by the time the takings were handed over, they
were indeed skim milk divested of all cream of human kindness.
But as she often justly remarked, sentiment was to be deprecated.
She was, in fact, a little academic.
This great and good woman, so highly thought of in ecclesiastical
circles, was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of
Forsyteism, keeping alive day and night a sacred flame to the God
of Property, whose altar is inscribed with those inspiring words:
“Nothing for nothing, and really remarkably little for sixpence.”
When she entered a room it was felt that something substantial
had come in, which was probably the reason of her popularity as a
patroness. People liked something substantial when they had paid
money for it; and they would look at her—surrounded by her staff
in charity ballrooms, with her high nose and her broad, square
figure, attired in an uniform covered with sequins—as though she
were a general.
The only thing against her was that she had not a double name.
She was a power in upper middle-class society, with its hundred
sets and circles, all intersecting on the common battlefield of
charity functions, and on that battlefield brushing skirts so
pleasantly with the skirts of Society with the capital “S.” She
was a power in society with the smaller “s,” that larger, more
significant, and more powerful body, where the commercially
Christian institutions, maxims, and “principle,” which Mrs.
Baynes embodied, were real life-blood, circulating freely, real
business currency, not merely the sterilized imitation that
flowed in the veins of smaller Society with the larger “S.”
People who knew her felt her to be sound—a sound woman, who never
gave herself away, nor anything else, if she could possibly help
it.
She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney’s father,
who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable
ridicule. She alluded to him now that he was gone as her “poor,
dear, irreverend brother.”
She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a
mistress, a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her
eminence in the commercial and Christian world could be
afraid—for so slight a girl June had a great dignity, the
fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs. Baynes, too,
shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of
Jun’s manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been
merely frank and courageous, Mrs. Baynes would have thought her
“cranky,” and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte,
like Francie—let us say—she would have patronized her from sheer
weight of metal; but June, small though she was—Mrs. Baynes
habitually admired quantity—gave her an uneasy feeling; and she
placed her in a chair opposite the light.
There was another reason for her respect which Mrs. Baynes, too
good a churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to
admit—she often heard her husband describe old Jolyon as
extremely well off, and was biassed towards his granddaughter for
the soundest of all reasons. To-day she felt the emotion with
which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance,
nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the novelist,
the young man should be left without it at the end.
Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how
distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old
Jolyon’s health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and
young looking, and how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never
have thought it! They were at the sea! Very nice for them; she
supposed June heard from Phil every day? Her light grey eyes
became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl
met the glance without flinching.
“No,” she said, “he never writes!”
Mrs. Baynes’s eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so,
but they did. They recovered immediately.
“Of course not. That’s Phil all over—he was always like that!”
“Was he?” said June.
The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes’s bright smile a
moment’s hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and
spreading her skirts afresh, said: “Why, my dear—he’s quite the
most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention
to what _he_ does!”
The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her
time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would
never get anything out of this woman.
“Do you see him?” she asked, her face crimsoning.
The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes’ forehead beneath the
powder.
“Oh, yes! I don’t remember when he was here last—indeed, we
haven’t seen much of him lately. He’s so busy with your cousin’s
house; I’m told it’ll be finished directly. We must organize a
little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night
with us!”
“Thank you,” said June. Again she thought: “I’m only wasting my
time. This woman will tell me nothing.”
She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too;
her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was
evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who
stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided
face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to
be afraid of asking questions—all organization was based on the
asking of questions!
But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was
fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: “Old Mr.
Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!”
And this girl stood there, holding out her hand—holding out her
hand!
The chance might be slipping away—she couldn’t tell—the chance of
keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.
Her eyes followed June to the door.
It closed.
Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her
bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again.
Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an
expression of real anger and mortification on her face.
June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She
detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been
accustomed to think so kind. Was she always to be put off thus,
and forced to undergo this torturing suspense?
She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had
the right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she
came to Bosinney’s number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom,
she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully.
At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding
on to the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above.
With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the
door, with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had
brought her so far evaporated.
The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all
over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk
covering of her gloves.
She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against
the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and
she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she
refused to go down. Did it matter what people thought of her?
They would never know! No one would help her if she did not help
herself! She would go through with it.
Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she
rang the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear
suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in
spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that
closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit
had cost her. It did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting
down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands.
Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though
she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but
to get home as quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to
know where she had been, what she had been doing; and
suddenly—over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from
the direction of Montpellier Square—she saw Bosinney himself.
She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met,
and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view;
then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the
traffic, she saw him walking on.
And June stood motionless, looking after him.