“Is it so very unnatural?” he said between his teeth, “Is it

unnatural to want a child from one’s own wife? You wrecked our

life and put this blight on everything. We go on only half alive,

and without any future. Is it so very unflattering to you that in

spite of everything I—I still want you for my wife? Speak, for

Goodness’ sake! do speak.”

Irene seemed to try, but did not succeed.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” said Soames more gently. “Heaven

knows. I only want you to see that I can’t go on like this. I

want you back. I want you.”

Irene raised one hand and covered the lower part of her face, but

her eyes never moved from his, as though she trusted in them to

keep him at bay. And all those years, barren and bitter,

since—ah! when?—almost since he had first known her, surged up in

one great wave of recollection in Soames; and a spasm that for

his life he could not control constricted his face.

“It’s not too late,” he said; “it’s not—if you’ll only believe

it.”

Irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing

gesture in front of her breast. Soames seized them.

“Don’t!” she said under her breath. But he stood holding on to

them, trying to stare into her eyes which did not waver. Then she

said quietly:

“I am alone here. You won’t behave again as you once behaved.”

Dropping her hands as though they had been hot irons, he turned

away. Was it possible that there could be such relentless

unforgiveness! Could that one act of violent possession be still

alive within her? Did it bar him thus utterly? And doggedly he

said, without looking up:

“I am not going till you’ve answered me. I am offering what few

men would bring themselves to offer, I want a—a reasonable

answer.”

And almost with surprise he heard her say:

“You can’t have a reasonable answer. Reason has nothing to do

with it. You can only have the brutal truth: I would rather die.”

Soames stared at her.

“Oh!” he said. And there intervened in him a sort of paralysis of

speech and movement, the kind of quivering which comes when a man

has received a deadly insult, and does not yet know how he is

going to take it, or rather what it is going to do with him.

“Oh!” he said again, “as bad as that? Indeed! You would rather

die. That’s pretty!”

“I am sorry. You wanted me to answer. I can’t help the truth, can

I?”

At that queer spiritual appeal Soames turned for relief to

actuality. He snapped the brooch back into its case and put it in

his pocket.

“The truth!” he said; “there’s no such thing with women. It’s

nerves—nerves.”

He heard the whisper:

“Yes; nerves don’t lie. Haven’t you discovered that?” He was

silent, obsessed by the thought: “I _will_ hate this woman. I

_will_ hate her.” That was the trouble! If only he could! He shot

a glance at her who stood unmoving against the wall with her head

up and her hands clasped, for all the world as if she were going

to be shot. And he said quickly:

“I don’t believe a word of it. You have a lover. If you hadn’t,

you wouldn’t be such a—such a little idiot.” He was conscious,

before the expression in her eyes, that he had uttered something

of a non-sequitur, and dropped back too abruptly into the verbal

freedom of his connubial days. He turned away to the door. But he

could not go out. Something within him—that most deep and secret

Forsyte quality, the impossibility of letting go, the

impossibility of seeing the fantastic and forlorn nature of his

own tenacity—prevented him. He turned about again, and there

stood, with his back against the door, as hers was against the

wall opposite, quite unconscious of anything ridiculous in this

separation by the whole width of the room.

“Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?” he said.

Irene’s lips quivered; then she answered slowly:

“Do you ever think that I found out my mistake—my hopeless,

terrible mistake—the very first week of our marriage; that I went

on trying three years—you know I went on trying? Was it for

myself?”

Soames gritted his teeth. “God knows what it was. I’ve never

understood you; I shall never understand you. You had everything

you wanted; and you can have it again, and more. What’s the

matter with me? I ask you a plain question: What is it?”

Unconscious of the pathos in that enquiry, he went on

passionately: “I’m not lame, I’m not loathsome, I’m not a boor,

I’m not a fool. What is it? What’s the mystery about me?”

Her answer was a long sigh.

He clasped his hands with a gesture that for him was strangely

full of expression. “When I came here to-night I was—I hoped—I

meant everything that I could to do away with the past, and start

fair again. And you meet me with ‘nerves,’ and silence, and

sighs. There’s nothing tangible. It’s like—it’s like a spider’s

web.”

“Yes.”

That whisper from across the room maddened Soames afresh.

“Well, I don’t choose to be in a spider’s web. I’ll cut it.” He

walked straight up to her. “Now!” What he had gone up to her to

do he really did not know. But when he was close, the old

familiar scent of her clothes suddenly affected him. He put his

hands on her shoulders and bent forward to kiss her. He kissed

not her lips, but a little hard line where the lips had been

drawn in; then his face was pressed away by her hands; he heard

her say: “Oh! No!” Shame, compunction, sense of futility flooded

his whole being, he turned on his heel and went straight out.

CHAPTER III VISIT TO IRENE

Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had

received his telegram while at breakfast. Her abode—a studio and

two bedrooms in a St. John’s Wood garden—had been selected by her

for the complete 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.

CHAPTER IV WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD

Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco

case still flat against his heart, Soames revolved thoughts

bitter as death. A spider’s web! Walking fast, and noting nothing

in the moonlight, he brooded over the scene he had been through,

over the memory of her figure rigid in his grasp. And the more he

brooded, the more certain he became that she had a lover—her

words, “I would sooner die!” were ridiculous if she had not. Even

if she had never loved him, she had made no fuss until Bosinney

came on the scene. No; she was in love again, or she would not

have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal, which in all

the circumstances was reasonable! Very well! That simplified

matters.

“I’ll take steps to know where I am,” he thought; “I’ll go to

Polteed’s the first thing tomorrow morning.”

But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble

with himself. He had employed Polteed’s agency several times in

the routine of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie’s

case, but he had never thought it possible to employ them to

watch his own wife.

It was too insulting to himself!

He slept over that project and his wounded pride—or rather, kept

vigil. Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she

called herself by her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not

know, at first at all events, whose wife she was, would not look

at him obsequiously and leer behind his back. She would just be

the wife of one of his clients. And that would be true—for was he

not his own solicitor?

He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at

the first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail

himself. And making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he

stole out of the house before the hour of breakfast. He walked

rapidly to one of those small West End streets where Polteed’s

and other firms ministered to the virtues of the wealthier

classes. Hitherto he had always had Polteed to see him in the

Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at the

opening hour. In the outer office, a room furnished so cosily

that it might have been a money-lender’s, he was attended by a

lady who might have been a schoolmistress.

“I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me—never mind my

name.”

To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was

reduced to having his wife spied on, was the overpowering

consideration.

Mr. Claud Polteed—so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed—was one of

those men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown

eyes, who might be taken for Jews but are really Phœnicians; he

received Soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and

curtains. It was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without

trace of document anywhere to be seen.

Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door

with a certain ostentation.

“If a client sends for me,” he was in the habit of saying, “he

takes what precaution he likes. If he comes here, we convince him

that we have no leakages. I may safely say we lead in security,

if in nothing else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?”

Soames’ gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was

absolutely necessary to hide from this man that he had any but

professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face

assumed its sideway smile.

“I’ve come to you early like this because there’s not an hour to

lose”—if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! “Have you a

really trustworthy woman free?”

Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his

eyes over it, and locked the drawer up again.

“Yes,” he said; “the very woman.”

Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs—nothing but a

faint flush, which might have been his normal complexion,

betrayed him.

“Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat

C, Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Polteed; “divorce, I presume?” and he blew

into a speaking-tube. “Mrs. Blanch in? I shall want to speak to

her in ten minutes.”

“Deal with any reports yourself,” resumed Soames, “and send them

to me personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My

client exacts the utmost secrecy.”

Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, “You are teaching your

grandmother, my dear sir;” and his eyes slid over Soames’ face

for one unprofessional instant.

“Make his mind perfectly easy,” he said. “Do you smoke?”

“No,” said Soames. “Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a

name gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very

serious consequences.”

Mr. Polteed nodded. “I can put it into the cipher category. Under

that system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers.”

He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote

on them, and handed one to Soames.

“Keep that, sir; it’s your key. I retain this duplicate. The case

we’ll call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the watcher 19; the

Mansions 25; yourself—I should say, your firm—31; my firm 32,

myself 2. In case you should have to mention your client in

writing I have called him 43; any person we suspect will be 47; a

second person 51. Any special hint or instruction while we’re

about it?”

“No,” said Soames; “that is—every consideration compatible.”

Again Mr. Polteed nodded. “Expense?”

Soames shrugged. “In reason,” he answered curtly, and got up.

“Keep it entirely in your own hands.”

“Entirely,” said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and

the door. “I shall be seeing you in that other case before long.

Good morning, sir.” His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames

once more, and he unlocked the door.

“Good morning,” said Soames, looking neither to right nor left.

Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A

spider’s web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret,

unclean method, so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his

private life as his most sacred piece of property. But the die

was cast, he could not go back. And he went on into the Poultry,

and locked away the green morocco case and the key to that cipher

destined to make crystal-clear his domestic bankruptcy.

Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye

all the private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of

others, should dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own;

and yet not odd, for who should know so well as he the whole

unfeeling process of legal regulation.

He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o’clock; he was

to take her down to a conference in the Temple with Dreamer Q.C.,

and waiting for her he re-read the letter he had caused her to

write the day of Dartie’s departure, requiring him to return.

“DEAR MONTAGUE,

“I have received your letter with the news that you have left

me for ever and are on your way to Buenos Aires. It has

naturally been a great shock. I am taking this earliest

opportunity of writing to tell you that I am prepared to let

bygones be bygones if you will return to me at once. I beg

you to do so. I am very much upset, and will not say any more

now. I am sending this letter registered to the address you

left at your Club. Please cable to me.

“Your still affectionate wife,

“WINIFRED DARTIE.”

Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred

while she copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said,

laying down her pen, “Suppose he comes, Soames!” in such a

strange tone of voice, as if she did not know her own mind. “He

won’t come,” he had answered, “till he’s spent his money. That’s

why we must act at once.” Annexed to the copy of that letter was

the original of Dartie’s drunken scrawl from the Iseeum Club.

Soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in

liquor. Just the sort of thing the Court would pitch on. He

seemed to hear the Judge’s voice say: “You took this seriously!

Seriously enough to write him as you did? Do you think he meant

it?” Never mind! The fact was clear that Dartie had sailed and

had not returned. Annexed also was his cabled answer: “Impossible

return. Dartie.” Soames shook his head. If the whole thing were

not disposed of within the next few months the fellow would turn

up again like a bad penny. It saved a thousand a year at least to

get rid of him, besides all the worry to Winifred and his father.

“I must stiffen Dreamer’s back,” he thought; “we must push it

on.”

Winifred, who had adopted a kind of half-mourning which became

her fair hair and tall figure very well, arrived in James’

barouche drawn by James’ pair. Soames had not seen it in the City

since his father retired from business five years ago, and its

incongruity gave him a shock. “Times are changing,” he thought;

“one doesn’t know what’ll go next!” Top hats even were scarcer.

He enquired after Val. Val, said Winifred, wrote that he was

going to play polo next term. She thought he was in a very good

set. She added with fashionably disguised anxiety: “Will there be

much publicity about my affair, Soames? _Must_ it be in the

papers? It’s so bad for him, and the girls.”

With his own calamity all raw within him, Soames answered:

“The papers are a pushing lot; it’s very difficult to keep things

out. They pretend to be guarding the public’s morals, and they

corrupt them with their beastly reports. But we haven’t got to

that yet. We’re only seeing Dreamer to-day on the restitution

question. Of course he understands that it’s to lead to a

divorce; but you must seem genuinely anxious to get Dartie

back—you might practise that attitude to-day.”

Winifred sighed.

“Oh! What a clown Monty’s been!” she said.

Soames gave her a sharp look. It was clear to him that she could

not take her Dartie seriously, and would go back on the whole

thing if given half a chance. His own instinct had been firm in

this matter from the first. To save a little scandal now would

only bring on his sister and her children real disgrace and

perhaps ruin later on if Dartie were allowed to hang on to them,

going down-hill and spending the money James would leave his

daughter. Though it _was_ all tied up, that fellow would milk the

settlements somehow, and make his family pay through the nose to

keep him out of bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! They left the

shining carriage, with the shining horses and the shining-hatted

servants on the Embankment, and walked up to Dreamer Q.C.’s

Chambers in Crown Office Row.

“Mr. Bellby is here, sir,” said the clerk; “Mr. Dreamer will be

ten minutes.”

Mr. Bellby, the junior—not as junior as he might have been, for

Soames only employed barristers of established reputation; it

was, indeed, something of a mystery to him how barristers ever

managed to establish that which made him employ them—Mr. Bellby

was seated, taking a final glance through his papers. He had come

from Court, and was in wig and gown, which suited a nose jutting

out like the handle of a tiny pump, his small shrewd blue eyes,

and rather protruding lower lip—no better man to supplement and

stiffen Dreamer.

The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the

weather and spoke of the war. Soames interrupted suddenly:

“If he doesn’t comply we can’t bring proceedings for six months.

I want to get on with the matter, Bellby.”

Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at

Winifred and murmured: “The Law’s delays, Mrs. Dartie.”

“Six months!” repeated Soames; “it’ll drive it up to June! We

shan’t get the suit on till after the long vacation. We must put

the screw on, Bellby”—he would have all his work cut out to keep

Winifred up to the scratch.

“Mr. Dreamer will see you now, sir.”

They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting

Winifred after an interval of one minute by his watch.

Dreamer Q.C., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before

the fire, as if this conference were in the nature of a treat; he

had the leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great

learning, a considerable nose with glasses perched on it, and

little greyish whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking

of one eye, and the concealment of his lower with his upper lip,

which gave a smothered turn to his speech. He had a way, too, of

coming suddenly round the corner on the person he was talking to;

this, with a disconcerting tone of voice, and a habit of growling

before he began to speak—had secured a reputation second in

Probate and Divorce to very few. Having listened, eye cocked, to

Mr. Bellby’s breezy recapitulation of the facts, he growled, and

said:

“I know all that;” and coming round the corner at Winifred,

smothered the words:

“We want to get him back, don’t we, Mrs. Dartie?”

Soames interposed sharply:

“My sister’s position, of course, is intolerable.”

Dreamer growled. “Exactly. Now, can we rely on the cabled

refusal, or must we wait till after Christmas to give him a

chance to have written—that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“The sooner....” Soames began.

“What do you say, Bellby?” said Dreamer, coming round his corner.

Mr. Bellby seemed to sniff the air like a hound.

“We won’t be on till the middle of December. We’ve no need to

give um more rope than that.”

“No,” said Soames, “why should my sister be incommoded by his

choosing to go...”

“To Jericho!” said Dreamer, again coming round his corner; “quite

so. People oughtn’t to go to Jericho, ought they, Mrs. Dartie?”

And he raised his gown into a sort of fantail. “I agree. We can

go forward. Is there anything more?”

“Nothing at present,” said Soames meaningly; “I wanted you to see

my sister.”

Dreamer growled softly: “Delighted. Good evening!” And let fall

the protection of his gown.

They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered.

In spite of himself he was impressed by Dreamer.

“The evidence is all right, I think,” he said to Bellby. “Between

ourselves, if we don’t get the thing through quick, we never may.

D’you think _he_ understands that?”

“I’ll make um,” said Bellby. “Good man though—good man.”

Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a

draught, biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said:

“The evidence of the stewardess will be very complete.”

Winifred’s face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to

the carriage. And, all through that silent drive back to Green

Street, the souls of both of them revolved a single thought:

“Why, oh! why should I have to expose my misfortune to the public

like this? Why have to employ spies to peer into my private

troubles? They were not of my making.”

CHAPTER V JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT

The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was

animating two members of the Forsyte family towards riddance of

what they could no longer possess, was hardening daily in the

British body politic. Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning

a war which must affect property, had been heard to say that

these Boers were a pig-headed lot; they were causing a lot of

expense, and the sooner they had their lesson the better. _He_

would send out Wolseley! Seeing always a little further than

other people—whence the most considerable fortune of all the

Forsytes—he had perceived already that Buller was not the man—“a

bull of a chap, who just went butting, and if they didn’t look

out Ladysmith would fall.” This was early in December, so that

when Black Week came, he was enabled to say to everybody: “I told

you so.” During that week of gloom such as no Forsyte could

remember, very young Nicholas attended so many drills in his

corps, “The Devil’s Own,” that young Nicholas consulted the

family physician about his son’s health and was alarmed to find

that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only just eaten his

dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense, and it was

in a way a nightmare to his father and mother that he should be

playing with military efficiency at a time when military

efficiency in the civilian population might conceivably be

wanted. His grandfather, of course, pooh-poohed the notion, too

thoroughly educated in the feeling that no British war could be

other than little and professional, and profoundly distrustful of

Imperial commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to lose, for

he owned De Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient

sacrifice on the part of his grandson.

At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The

inherent effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two

months of the term before Black Week, been gradually

crystallising out into vivid oppositions. Normal adolescence,

ever in England of a conservative tendency though not taking

things too seriously, was vehement for a fight to a finish and a

good licking for the Boers. Of this larger faction Val Dartie was

naturally a member. Radical youth, on the other hand, a small but

perhaps more vocal body, was for stopping the war and giving the

Boers autonomy. Until Black Week, however, the groups were

amorphous, without sharp edges, and argument remained but

academic. Jolly was one of those who knew not where he stood. A

streak of his grandfather old Jolyon’s love of justice prevented,

him from seeing one side only. Moreover, in his set of “the best”

there was a “jumping-Jesus” of extremely advanced opinions and

some personal magnetism. Jolly wavered. His father, too, seemed

doubtful in his views. And though, as was proper at the age of

twenty, he kept a sharp eye on his father, watchful for defects

which might still be remedied, still that father had an “air”

which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of ironic tolerance.

Artists, of course, were notoriously Hamlet-like, and to this

extent one must discount for one’s father, even if one loved him.

But Jolyon’s original view, that to “put your nose in where you

aren’t wanted” (as the Uitlanders had done) “and then work the

oracle till you get on top is not being quite the clean potato,”

had, whether founded in fact or no, a certain attraction for his

son, who thought a deal about gentility. On the other hand Jolly

could not abide such as his set called “cranks,” and Val’s set

called “smugs,” so that he was still balancing when the clock of

Black Week struck. One—two—three, came those ominous repulses at

Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso. The sturdy English soul

reacting after the first cried, “Ah! but Methuen!” after the

second: “Ah! but Buller!” then, in inspissated gloom, hardened.

And Jolly said to himself: “No, damn it! We’ve got to lick the

beggars now; I don’t care whether we’re right or wrong.” And, if

he had known it, his father was thinking the same thought.

That next Sunday, last of the term, Jolly was bidden to wine with

“one of the best.” After the second toast, “Buller and damnation

to the Boers,” drunk—no heel taps—in the college Burgundy, he

noticed that Val Dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a

grin and saying something to his neighbour. He was sure it was

disparaging. The last boy in the world to make himself

conspicuous or cause public disturbance, Jolly grew rather red

and shut his lips. The queer hostility he had always felt towards

his second-cousin was strongly and suddenly reinforced. “All

right!” he thought, “you wait, my friend!” More wine than was

good for him, as the custom was, helped him to remember, when

they all trooped forth to a secluded spot, to touch Val on the

arm.

“What did you say about me in there?”

“Mayn’t I say what I like?”

“No.”

“Well, I said you were a pro-Boer—and so you are!”

“You’re a liar!”

“D’you want a row?”

“Of course, but not here; in the garden.”

“All right. Come on.”

They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching;

they climbed the garden railings. The spikes on the top slightly

ripped Val’s sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly’s mind was

occupied by the thought that they were going to fight in the

precincts of a college foreign to them both. It was not the

thing, but never mind—the young beast!

They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took

off their coats.

“You’re not screwed, are you?” said Jolly suddenly. “I can’t

fight you if you’re screwed.”

“No more than you.”

“All right then.”

Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures

of defence. They had drunk too much for science, and so were

especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote

Val almost accidentally on the nose. After that it was all a dark

and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no

one to call “time,” till, battered and blown, they unclinched and

staggered back from each other, as a voice said:

“Your names, young gentlemen?”

At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden

gate, like some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and

snatching up their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up

them, and made for the secluded spot whence they had issued to

the fight. Here, in dim light, they mopped their faces, and

without a word walked, ten paces apart, to the college gate. They

went out silently, Val going towards the Broad along the Brewery,

Jolly down the lane towards the High. His head, still fumed, was

busy with regret that he had not displayed more science, passing

in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not

delivered. His mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely

unlike that which he had just been through, infinitely gallant,

with sash and sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the

pages of his beloved Dumas. He fancied himself La Mole, and

Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and D’Artagnan rolled into one, but he

quite failed to envisage Val as Coconnas, Brissac, or Rochefort.

The fellow was just a confounded cousin who didn’t come up to

Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or two. “Pro-Boer!” The

word still rankled, and thoughts of enlisting jostled his aching

head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the Boers

rolled over like rabbits. And, turning up his smarting eyes, he

saw the stars shining between the housetops of the High, and

himself lying out on the Karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a

blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed on a glittering

heaven.

He had a fearful “head” next morning, which he doctored, as

became one of “the best,” by soaking it in cold water, brewing

strong coffee which he could not drink, and only sipping a little

Hock at lunch. The legend that “some fool” had run into him round

a corner accounted for a bruise on his cheek. He would on no

account have mentioned the fight, for, on second thoughts, it

fell far short of his standards.

The next day he went “down,” and travelled through to Robin Hill.

Nobody was there but June and Holly, for his father had gone to

Paris. He spent a restless and unsettled Vacation, quite out of

touch with either of his sisters. June, indeed, was occupied with

lame ducks, whom, as a rule, Jolly could not stand, especially

that Eric Cobbley and his family, “hopeless outsiders,” who were

always littering up the house in the Vacation. And between Holly

and himself there was a strange division, as if she were

beginning to have opinions of her own, which was so—unnecessary.

He punched viciously at a ball, rode furiously but alone in

Richmond Park, making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles

put up to close certain worn avenues of grass—keeping his nerve

in, he called it. Jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most

boys are. He bought a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home

field, shooting across the pond into the kitchen-garden wall, to

the peril of gardeners, with the thought that some day, perhaps,

he would enlist and save South Africa for his country. In fact,

now that they were appealing for Yeomanry recruits the boy was

thoroughly upset. Ought he to go? None of “the best,” so far as

he knew—and he was in correspondence with several—were thinking

of joining. If they _had_ been making a move he would have gone

at once—very competitive, and with a strong sense of form, he

could not bear to be left behind in anything—but to do it off his

own bat might look like “swagger”. because of course it wasn’t

really necessary. Besides, he did not want to go, for the other

side of this young Forsyte recoiled from leaping before he

looked. It was altogether mixed pickles within him, hot and

sickly pickles, and he became quite unlike his serene and rather

lordly self.

And then one day he saw that which moved him to uneasy wrath—two

riders, in a glade of the Park close to the Ham Gate, of whom she

on the left-hand was most assuredly Holly on her silver roan, and

he on the right-hand as assuredly that “squirt” Val Dartie. His

first impulse was to urge on his own horse and demand the meaning

of this portent, tell the fellow to “bunk,” and take Holly home.

His second—to feel that he would look a fool if they refused. He

reined his horse in behind a tree, then perceived that it was

equally impossible to spy on them. Nothing for it but to go home

and await her coming! Sneaking out with that young bounder! He

could not consult with June, because she had gone up that morning

in the train of Eric Cobbley and his lot. And his father was

still in “that rotten Paris.” He felt that this was emphatically

one of those moments for which he had trained himself,

assiduously, at school, where he and a boy called Brent had

frequently set fire to newspapers and placed them in the centre

of their studies to accustom them to coolness in moments of

danger. He did not feel at all cool waiting in the stable-yard,

idly stroking the dog Balthasar, who queasy as an old fat monk,

and sad in the absence of his master, turned up his face, panting

with gratitude for this attention. It was half an hour before

Holly came, flushed and ever so much prettier than she had any

right to look. He saw her look at him quickly—guiltily of

course—then followed her in, and, taking her arm, conducted her

into what had been their grandfather’s study. The room, not much

used now, was still vaguely haunted for them both by a presence

with which they associated tenderness, large drooping white

moustaches, the scent of cigar smoke, and laughter. Here Jolly,

in the prime of his youth, before he went to school at all, had

been wont to wrestle with his grandfather, who even at eighty had

an irresistible habit of crooking his leg. Here Holly, perched on

the arm of the great leather chair, had stroked hair curving

silvery over an ear into which she would whisper secrets. Through

that window they had all three sallied times without number to

cricket on the lawn, and a mysterious game called “Wopsy-doozle,”

not to be understood by outsiders, which made old Jolyon very

hot. Here once on a warm night Holly had appeared in her

“nighty,” having had a bad dream, to have the clutch of it

released. And here Jolly, having begun the day badly by

introducing fizzy magnesia into Mademoiselle Beauce’s new-laid

egg, and gone on to worse, had been sent down (in the absence of

his father) to the ensuing dialogue:

“Now, my boy, you mustn’t go on like this.”

“Well, she boxed my ears, Gran, so I only boxed hers, and then

she boxed mine again.”

“Strike a lady? That’ll never do! Have you begged her pardon?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you must go and do it at once. Come along.”

“But she began it, Gran; and she had two to my one.”

“My dear, it was an outrageous thing to do.”

“Well, she lost her temper; and I didn’t lose mine.”

“Come along.”

“You come too, then, Gran.”

“Well—this time only.”

And they had gone hand in hand.

Here—where the Waverley novels and Byron’s works and Gibbon’s

_Roman Empire_ and Humboldt’s _Cosmos_, and the bronzes on the

mantelpiece, and that masterpiece of the oily school, “Dutch

Fishing-Boats at Sunset,” were fixed as fate, and for all sign of

change old Jolyon might have been sitting there still, with legs

crossed, in the arm chair, and domed forehead and deep eyes grave

above _The Times_—here they came, those two grandchildren. And

Jolly said:

“I saw you and that fellow in the Park.”

The sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some

satisfaction; she _ought_ to be ashamed!

“Well?” she said.

Jolly was surprised; he had expected more, or less.

“Do you know,” he said weightily, “that he called me a pro-Boer

last term? And I had to fight him.”

“Who won?”

Jolly wished to answer: “I should have,” but it seemed beneath

him.

“Look here!” he said, “what’s the meaning of it? Without telling

anybody!”

“Why should I? Dad isn’t here; why shouldn’t I ride with him?”

“You’ve got me to ride with. I think he’s an awful young rotter.”

Holly went pale with anger.

“He isn’t. It’s your own fault for not liking him.”

And slipping past her brother she went out, leaving him staring

at the bronze Venus sitting on a tortoise, which had been

shielded from him so far by his sister’s dark head under her soft

felt riding hat. He felt queerly disturbed, shaken to his young

foundations. A lifelong domination lay shattered round his feet.

He went up to the Venus and mechanically inspected the tortoise.

Why didn’t he like Val Dartie? He could not tell. Ignorant of

family history, barely aware of that vague feud which had started

thirteen years before with Bosinney’s defection from June in

favour of Soames’ wife, knowing really almost nothing about Val

he was at sea. He just _did_ dislike him. The question, however,

was: What should he do? Val Dartie, it was true, was a

second-cousin, but it was not the thing for Holly to go about

with him. And yet to “tell” of what he had chanced on was against

his creed. In this dilemma he went and sat in the old leather

chair and crossed his legs. It grew dark while he sat there

staring out through the long window at the old oak-tree, ample

yet bare of leaves, becoming slowly just a shape of deeper dark

printed on the dusk.

“Grandfather!” he thought without sequence, and took out his

watch. He could not see the hands, but he set the repeater going.

“Five o’clock!” His grandfather’s first gold hunter watch,

butter-smooth with age—all the milling worn from it, and dented

with the mark of many a fall. The chime was like a little voice

from out of that golden age, when they first came from St. John’s

Wood, London, to this house—came driving with grandfather in his

carriage, and almost instantly took to the trees. Trees to climb,

and grandfather watering the geranium-beds below! What was to be

done? Tell Dad he must come home? Confide in June?—only she was

so—so sudden! Do nothing and trust to luck? After all, the Vac.

would soon be over. Go up and see Val and warn him off? But how

get his address? Holly wouldn’t give it him! A maze of paths, a

cloud of possibilities! He lit a cigarette. When he had smoked it

halfway through his brow relaxed, almost as if some thin old hand

had been passed gently over it; and in his ear something seemed

to whisper: “Do nothing; be nice to Holly, be nice to her, my

dear!” And Jolly heaved a sigh of contentment, blowing smoke

through his nostrils....

But up in her room, divested of her habit, Holly was still

frowning. “He is _not_—he is _not!_” were the words which kept

forming on her lips.

CHAPTER VI JOLYON IN TWO MINDS

A little private hotel over a well-known restaurant near the Gare

St. Lazare was Jolyon’s haunt in Paris. He hated his fellow

Forsytes abroad—vapid as fish out of water in their well-trodden

runs, the Opera, Rue de Rivoli, and Moulin Rouge. Their air of

having come because they wanted to be somewhere else as soon as

possible annoyed him. But no other Forsyte came near this haunt,

where he had a wood fire in his bedroom and the coffee was

excellent. Paris was always to him more attractive in winter. The

acrid savour from woodsmoke and chestnut-roasting braziers, the

sharpness of the wintry sunshine on bright rays, the open cafés

defying keen-aired winter, the self-contained brisk boulevard

crowds, all informed him that in winter Paris possessed a soul

which, like a migrant bird, in high summer flew away.

He spoke French well, had some friends, knew little places where

pleasant dishes could be met with, queer types observed. He felt

philosophic in Paris, the edge of irony sharpened; life took on a

subtle, purposeless meaning, became a bunch of flavours tasted, a

darkness shot with shifting gleams of light.

When in the first week of December he decided to go to Paris, he

was far from admitting that Irene’s presence was influencing him.

He had not been there two days before he owned that the wish to

see her had been more than half the reason. In England one did

not admit what was natural. He had thought it might be well to

speak to her about the letting of her flat and other matters, but

in Paris he at once knew better. There was a glamour over the

city. On the third day he wrote to her, and received an answer

which procured him a pleasurable shiver of the nerves:

“MY DEAR JOLYON,

“It will be a happiness for me to see you.

“IRENE.”

He took his way to her hotel on a bright day with a feeling such

as he had often had going to visit an adored picture. No woman,

so far as he remembered, had ever inspired in him this special

sensuous and yet impersonal sensation. He was going to sit and

feast his eyes, and come away knowing her no better, but ready to

go and feast his eyes again to-morrow. Such was his feeling, when

in the tarnished and ornate little lounge of a quiet hotel near

the river she came to him preceded by a small page-boy who

uttered the word, “_Madame_,” and vanished. Her face, her smile,

the poise of her figure, were just as he had pictured, and the

expression of her face said plainly: “A friend!”

“Well,” he said, “what news, poor exile?”

“None.”

“Nothing from Soames?”

“Nothing.”

“I have let the flat for you, and like a good steward I bring you

some money. How do you like Paris?”

While he put her through this catechism, it seemed to him that he

had never seen lips so fine and sensitive, the lower lip curving

just a little upwards, the upper touched at one corner by the

least conceivable dimple. It was like discovering a woman in what

had hitherto been a sort of soft and breathed-on statue, almost

impersonally admired. She owned that to be alone in Paris was a

little difficult; and yet, Paris was so full of its own life that

it was often, she confessed, as innocuous as a desert. Besides,

the English were not liked just now!

“That will hardly be your case,” said Jolyon; “you should appeal

to the French.”

“It has its disadvantages.”

Jolyon nodded.

“Well, you must let _me_ take you about while I’m here. We’ll

start to-morrow. Come and dine at my pet restaurant; and we’ll go

to the Opéra-Comique.”

It was the beginning of daily meetings.

Jolyon soon found that for those who desired a static condition

of the affections, Paris was at once the first and last place in

which to be friendly with a pretty woman. Revelation was

alighting like a bird in his heart, singing: “_Elle est ton rêve!

Elle est ton rêve!_” Sometimes this seemed natural, sometimes

ludicrous—a bad case of elderly rapture. Having once been

ostracised by Society, he had never since had any real regard for

conventional morality; but the idea of a love which she could

never return—and how could she at his age?—hardly mounted beyond

his subconscious mind. He was full, too, of resentment, at the

waste and loneliness of her life. Aware of being some comfort to

her, and of the pleasure she clearly took in their many little

outings, he was amiably desirous of doing and saying nothing to

destroy that pleasure. It was like watching a starved plant draw

up water, to see her drink in his companionship. So far as they

could tell, no one knew her address except himself; she was

unknown in Paris, and he but little known, so that discretion

seemed unnecessary in those walks, talks, visits to concerts,

picture-galleries, theatres, little dinners, expeditions to

Versailles, St. Cloud, even Fontainebleau. And time fled—one of

those full months without past to it or future. What in his youth

would certainly have been headlong passion, was now perhaps as

deep a feeling, but far gentler, tempered to protective

companionship by admiration, hopelessness, and a sense of

chivalry—arrested in his veins at least so long as she was there,

smiling and happy in their friendship, and always to him more

beautiful and spiritually responsive: for her philosophy of life

seemed to march in admirable step with his own, conditioned by

emotion more than by reason, ironically mistrustful, susceptible

to beauty, almost passionately humane and tolerant, yet subject

to instinctive rigidities of which as a mere man he was less

capable. And during all this companionable month he never quite

lost that feeling with which he had set out on the first day as

if to visit an adored work of art, a well-nigh impersonal desire.

The future—inexorable pendant to the present he took care not to

face, for fear of breaking up his untroubled manner; but he made

plans to renew this time in places still more delightful, where

the sun was hot and there were strange things to see and paint.

The end came swiftly on the 20th of January with a telegram:

“Have enlisted in Imperial Yeomanry.—JOLLY.”

Jolyon received it just as he was setting out to meet her at the

Louvre. It brought him up with a round turn. While he was

lotus-eating here, his boy, whose philosopher and guide he ought

to be, had taken this great step towards danger, hardship,

perhaps even death. He felt disturbed to the soul, realising

suddenly how Irene had twined herself round the roots of his

being. Thus threatened with severance, the tie between them—for

it had become a kind of tie—no longer had impersonal quality. The

tranquil enjoyment of things in common, Jolyon perceived, was

gone for ever. He saw his feeling as it was, in the nature of an

infatuation. Ridiculous, perhaps, but so real that sooner or

later it must disclose itself. And now, as it seemed to him, he

could not, must not, make any such disclosure. The news of Jolly

stood inexorably in the way. He was proud of this enlistment;

proud of his boy for going off to fight for the country; for on

Jolyon’s pro-Boerism, too, Black Week had left its mark. And so

the end was reached before the beginning! Well, luckily he had

never made a sign!

When he came into the Gallery she was standing before the “Virgin

of the Rocks,” graceful, absorbed, smiling and unconscious. “Have

I to give up seeing _that?_” he thought. “It’s unnatural, so long

as she’s willing that I should see her.” He stood, unnoticed,

watching her, storing up the image of her figure, envying the

picture on which she was bending that long scrutiny. Twice she

turned her head towards the entrance, and he thought: “That’s for

me!” At last he went forward.

“Look!” he said.

She read the telegram, and he heard her sigh.

That sigh, too, was for him! His position was really cruel! To be

loyal to his son he must just shake her hand and go. To be loyal

to the feeling in his heart he must at least tell her what that

feeling was. Could she, would she understand the silence in which

he was gazing at that picture?

“I’m afraid I must go home at once,” he said at last. “I shall

miss all this awfully.”

“So shall I; but, of course, you must go.”

“Well!” said Jolyon holding out his hand.

Meeting her eyes, a flood of feeling nearly mastered him.

“Such is life!” he said. “Take care of yourself, my dear!”

He had a stumbling sensation in his legs and feet, as if his

brain refused to steer him away from her. From the doorway, he

saw her lift her hand and touch its fingers with her lips. He

raised his hat solemnly, and did not look back again.

CHAPTER VII DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE

The suit—Dartie _versus_ Dartie—for restitution of those conjugal

rights concerning which Winifred was at heart so deeply

undecided, followed the laws of subtraction towards day of

judgment. This was not reached before the Courts rose for

Christmas, but the case was third on the list when they sat

again. Winifred spent the Christmas holidays a thought more

fashionably than usual, with the matter locked up in her low-cut

bosom. James was particularly liberal to her that Christmas,

expressing thereby his sympathy, and relief, at the approaching

dissolution of her marriage with that “precious rascal,” which

his old heart felt but his old lips could not utter.

The disappearance of Dartie made the fall in Consols a

comparatively small matter; and as to the scandal—the real animus

he felt against that fellow, and the increasing lead which

property was attaining over reputation in a true Forsyte about to

leave this world, served to drug a mind from which all allusions

to the matter (except his own) were studiously kept. What worried

him as a lawyer and a parent was the fear that Dartie might

suddenly turn up and obey the Order of the Court when made. That

would be a pretty how-de-do! The fear preyed on him in fact so

much that, in presenting Winifred with a large Christmas cheque,

he said: “It’s chiefly for that chap out there; to keep him from

coming back.” It was, of course, to pitch away good money, but

all in the nature of insurance against that bankruptcy which

would no longer hang over him if only the divorce went through;

and he questioned Winifred rigorously until she could assure him

that the money had been sent. Poor woman!—it cost her many a pang

to send what must find its way into the vanity-bag of “that

creature!” Soames, hearing of it, shook his head. They were not

dealing with a Forsyte, reasonably tenacious of his purpose. It

was very risky without knowing how the land lay out there. Still,

it would look well with the Court; and he would see that Dreamer

brought it out. “I wonder,” he said suddenly, “where that ballet

goes after the Argentine”; never omitting a chance of reminder;

for he knew that Winifred still had a weakness, if not for

Dartie, at least for not laundering him in public. Though not

good at showing admiration, he admitted that she was behaving

extremely well, with all her children at home gaping like young

birds for news of their father—Imogen just on the point of coming

out, and Val very restive about the whole thing. He felt that Val

was the real heart of the matter to Winifred, who certainly loved

him beyond her other children. The boy could spoke the wheel of

this divorce yet if he set his mind to it. And Soames was very

careful to keep the proximity of the preliminary proceedings from

his nephew’s ears. He did more. He asked him to dine at the

Remove, and over Val’s cigar introduced the subject which he knew

to be nearest to his heart.

“I hear,” he said, “that you want to play polo up at Oxford.”

Val became less recumbent in his chair.

“Rather!” he said.

“Well,” continued Soames, “that’s a very expensive business. Your

grandfather isn’t likely to consent to it unless he can make sure

that he’s not got any other drain on him.” And he paused to see

whether the boy understood his meaning.

Val’s thick dark lashes concealed his eyes, but a slight grimace

appeared on his wide mouth, and he muttered:

“I suppose you mean my Dad!”

“Yes,” said Soames; “I’m afraid it depends on whether he

continues to be a drag or not;” and said no more, letting the boy

dream it over.

But Val was also dreaming in those days of a silver-roan palfrey

and a girl riding it. Though Crum was in town and an introduction

to Cynthia Dark to be had for the asking, Val did not ask;

indeed, he shunned Crum and lived a life strange even to himself,

except in so far as accounts with tailor and livery stable were

concerned. To his mother, his sisters, his young brother, he

seemed to spend this Vacation in “seeing fellows,” and his

evenings sleepily at home. They could not propose anything in

daylight that did not meet with the one response: “Sorry; I’ve

got to see a fellow”; and he was put to extraordinary shifts to

get in and out of the house unobserved in riding clothes; until,

being made a member of the Goat’s Club, he was able to transport

them there, where he could change unregarded and slip off on his

hack to Richmond Park. He kept his growing sentiment religiously

to himself. Not for a world would he breathe to the “fellows,”

whom he was not “seeing,” anything so ridiculous from the point

of view of their creed and his. But he could not help its

destroying his other appetites. It was coming between him and the

legitimate pleasures of youth at last on its own in a way which

must, he knew, make him a milksop in the eyes of Crum. All he

cared for was to dress in his last-created riding togs, and steal

away to the Robin Hill Gate, where presently the silver roan

would come demurely sidling with its slim and dark-haired rider,

and in the glades bare of leaves they would go off side by side,

not talking very much, riding races sometimes, and sometimes

holding hands. More than once of an evening, in a moment of

expansion, he had been tempted to tell his mother how this shy

sweet cousin had stolen in upon him and wrecked his “life.” But

bitter experience, that all persons above thirty-five were

spoil-sports, prevented him. After all, he supposed he would have

to go through with College, and she would have to “come out,”

before they could be married; so why complicate things, so long

as he could see her? Sisters were teasing and unsympathetic

beings, a brother worse, so there was no one to confide in. Ah!

And this beastly divorce business! What a misfortune to have a

name which other people hadn’t! If only he had been called Gordon

or Scott or Howard or something fairly common! But Dartie—there

wasn’t another in the directory! One might as well have been

named Morkin for all the covert it afforded! So matters went on,

till one day in the middle of January the silver-roan palfrey and

its rider were missing at the tryst. Lingering in the cold, he

debated whether he should ride on to the house: But Jolly might

be there, and the memory of their dark encounter was still fresh

within him. One could not be always fighting with her brother! So

he returned dismally to town and spent an evening plunged in

gloom. At breakfast next day he noticed that his mother had on an

unfamiliar dress and was wearing her hat. The dress was black

with a glimpse of peacock blue, the hat black and large—she

looked exceptionally well. But when after breakfast she said to

him, “Come in here, Val,” and led the way to the drawing-room, he

was at once beset by qualms. Winifred carefully shut the door and

passed her handkerchief over her lips; inhaling the violette de

Parme with which it had been soaked, Val thought: “Has she found

out about Holly?”

Her voice interrupted

“Are you going to be nice to me, dear boy?”

Val grinned doubtfully.

“Will you come with me this morning....”

“I’ve got to see....” began Val, but something in her face

stopped him. “I say,” he said, “you don’t mean....”

“Yes, I have to go to the Court this morning.” Already!—that d—-d

business which he had almost succeeded in forgetting, since

nobody ever mentioned it. In self-commiseration he stood picking

little bits of skin off his fingers. Then noticing that his

mother’s lips were all awry, he said impulsively: “All right,

mother; I’ll come. The brutes!” What brutes he did not know, but

the expression exactly summed up their joint feeling, and

restored a measure of equanimity.

“I suppose I’d better change into a ‘shooter,’” he muttered,

escaping to his room. He put on the “shooter,” a higher collar, a

pearl pin, and his neatest grey spats, to a somewhat blasphemous

accompaniment. Looking at himself in the glass, he said, “Well,

I’m damned if I’m going to show anything!” and went down. He

found his grandfather’s carriage at the door, and his mother in

furs, with the appearance of one going to a Mansion House

Assembly. They seated themselves side by side in the closed

barouche, and all the way to the Courts of Justice Val made but

one allusion to the business in hand. “There’ll be nothing about

those pearls, will there?”

The little tufted white tails of Winifred’s muff began to shiver.

“Oh, no,” she said, “it’ll be quite harmless to-day. Your

grandmother wanted to come too, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought

you could take care of me. You look so nice, Val. Just pull your

coat collar up a little more at the back—that’s right.”

“If they bully you....” began Val.

“Oh! they won’t. I shall be very cool. It’s the only way.”

“They won’t want me to give evidence or anything?”

“No, dear; it’s all arranged.” And she patted his hand. The

determined front she was putting on it stayed the turmoil in

Val’s chest, and he busied himself in drawing his gloves off and

on. He had taken what he now saw was the wrong pair to go with

his spats; they should have been grey, but were deerskin of a

dark tan; whether to keep them on or not he could not decide.

They arrived soon after ten. It was his first visit to the Law

Courts, and the building struck him at once.

“By Jove!” he said as they passed into the hall, “this’d make

four or five jolly good racket courts.”

Soames was awaiting them at the foot of some stairs.

“Here you are!” he said, without shaking hands, as if the event

had made them too familiar for such formalities. “It’s Happerly

Browne, Court I. We shall be on first.”

A sensation such as he had known when going in to bat was playing

now in the top of Val’s chest, but he followed his mother and

uncle doggedly, looking at no more than he could help, and

thinking that the place smelled “fuggy.” People seemed to be

lurking everywhere, and he plucked Soames by the sleeve.

“I say, Uncle, you’re not going to let those beastly papers in,

are you?”

Soames gave him the sideway look which had reduced many to

silence in its time.

“In here,” he said. “You needn’t take off your furs, Winifred.”

Val entered behind them, nettled and with his head up. In this

confounded hole everybody—and there were a good many of

them—seemed sitting on everybody else’s knee, though really

divided from each other by pews; and Val had a feeling that they

might all slip down together into the well. This, however, was

but a momentary vision—of mahogany, and black gowns, and white

blobs of wigs and faces and papers, all rather secret and

whispery—before he was sitting next his mother in the front row,

with his back to it all, glad of her violette de Parme, and

taking off his gloves for the last time. His mother was looking

at him; he was suddenly conscious that she had really wanted him

there next to her, and that he counted for something in this

business.

All right! He would show them! Squaring his shoulders, he crossed

his legs and gazed inscrutably at his spats. But just then an

“old Johnny” in a gown and long wig, looking awfully like a funny

raddled woman, came through a door into the high pew opposite,

and he had to uncross his legs hastily, and stand up with

everybody else.

“Dartie _versus_ Dartie!”

It seemed to Val unspeakably disgusting to have one’s name called

out like this in public! And, suddenly conscious that someone

nearly behind him had begun talking about his family, he screwed

his face round to see an old be-wigged buffer, who spoke as if he

were eating his own words—queer-looking old cuss, the sort of man

he had seen once or twice dining at Park Lane and punishing the

port; he knew now where they “dug them up.” All the same he found

the old buffer quite fascinating, and would have continued to

stare if his mother had not touched his arm. Reduced to gazing

before him, he fixed his eyes on the Judge’s face instead. Why

should that old “sportsman” with his sarcastic mouth and his

quick-moving eyes have the power to meddle with their private

affairs—hadn’t he affairs of his own, just as many, and probably

just as nasty? And there moved in Val, like an illness, all the

deep-seated individualism of his breed. The voice behind him

droned along: “Differences about money matters—extravagance of

the respondent” (What a word! Was that his father?)—“strained

situation—frequent absences on the part of Mr. Dartie. My client,

very rightly, your Ludship will agree, was anxious to check a

course—but lead to ruin—remonstrated—gambling at cards and on the

racecourse—” (“That’s right!” thought Val, “pile it on!”) “Crisis

early in October, when the respondent wrote her this letter from

his Club.” Val sat up and his ears burned. “I propose to read it

with the emendations necessary to the epistle of a gentleman who

has been—shall we say dining, me Lud?”

“Old brute!” thought Val, flushing deeper; “you’re not paid to

make jokes!”

“‘You will not get the chance to insult me again in my own house.

I am leaving the country to-morrow. It’s played out’—an

expression, your Ludship, not unknown in the mouths of those who

have not met with conspicuous success.”

“Sniggering owls!” thought Val, and his flush deepened.

“‘I am tired of being insulted by you.’ My client will tell your

Ludship that these so-called insults consisted in her calling him

‘the limit’,—a very mild expression, I venture to suggest, in all

the circumstances.”

Val glanced sideways at his mother’s impassive face, it had a

hunted look in the eyes. “Poor mother,” he thought, and touched

her arm with his own. The voice behind droned on.

“‘I am going to live a new life. M. D.’”

“And next day, me Lud, the respondent left by the steamship

_Tuscarora_ for Buenos Aires. Since then we have nothing from him

but a cabled refusal in answer to the letter which my client

wrote the following day in great distress, begging him to return

to her. With your Ludship’s permission. I shall now put Mrs.

Dartie in the box.”

When his mother rose, Val had a tremendous impulse to rise too

and say: “Look here! I’m going to see you jolly well treat her

decently.” He subdued it, however; heard her saying, “the truth,

the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” and looked up. She

made a rich figure of it, in her furs and large hat, with a

slight flush on her cheek-bones, calm, matter-of-fact; and he

felt proud of her thus confronting all these “confounded

lawyers.” The examination began. Knowing that this was only the

preliminary to divorce, Val followed with a certain glee the

questions framed so as to give the impression that she really

wanted his father back. It seemed to him that they were “foxing

Old Bagwigs finely.”

And he received a most unpleasant jar when the Judge said

suddenly:

“Now, why did your husband leave you—not because you called him

‘the limit,’ you know?”

Val saw his uncle lift his eyes to the witness box, without

moving his face; heard a shuffle of papers behind him; and

instinct told him that the issue was in peril. Had Uncle Soames

and the old buffer behind made a mess of it? His mother was

speaking with a slight drawl.

“No, my Lord, but it had gone on a long time.”

“What had gone on?”

“Our differences about money.”

“But you supplied the money. Do you suggest that he left you to

better his position?”

“The brute! The old brute, and nothing but the brute!” thought

Val suddenly. “He smells a rat he’s trying to get at the pastry!”

And his heart stood still. If—if he did, then, of course, he

would know that his mother didn’t really want his father back.

His mother spoke again, a thought more fashionably.

“No, my Lord, but you see I had refused to give him any more

money. It took him a long time to believe that, but he did at

last—and when he did....”

“I see, you had refused. But you’ve sent him some since.”

“My Lord, I wanted him back.”

“And you thought that would bring him?”

“I don’t know, my Lord, I acted on my father’s advice.”

Something in the Judge’s face, in the sound of the papers behind

him, in the sudden crossing of his uncle’s legs, told Val that

she had made just the right answer. “Crafty!” he thought; “by

Jove, what humbug it all is!”

The Judge was speaking:

“Just one more question, Mrs. Dartie. Are you still fond of your

husband?”

Val’s hands, slack behind him, became fists. What business had

that Judge to make things human suddenly? To make his mother

speak out of her heart, and say what, perhaps, she didn’t know

herself, before all these people! It wasn’t decent. His mother

answered, rather low: “Yes, my Lord.” Val saw the Judge nod.

“Wish I could take a cock-shy at your head!” he thought

irreverently, as his mother came back to her seat beside him.

Witnesses to his father’s departure and continued absence

followed—one of their own maids even, which struck Val as

particularly beastly; there was more talking, all humbug; and

then the Judge pronounced the decree for restitution, and they

got up to go. Val walked out behind his mother, chin squared,

eyelids drooped, doing his level best to despise everybody. His

mother’s voice in the corridor roused him from an angry trance.

“You behaved beautifully, dear. It was such a comfort to have

you. Your uncle and I are going to lunch.”

“All right,” said Val; “I shall have time to go and see that

fellow.” And, parting from them abruptly, he ran down the stairs

and out into the air. He bolted into a hansom, and drove to the

Goat’s Club. His thoughts were on Holly and what he must do

before her brother showed her this thing in to-morrow’s paper.

When Val had left them Soames and Winifred made their way to the

Cheshire Cheese. He had suggested it as a meeting place with Mr.

Bellby. At that early hour of noon they would have it to

themselves, and Winifred had thought it would be “amusing” to see

this far-famed hostelry. Having ordered a light repast, to the

consternation of the waiter, they awaited its arrival together

with that of Mr. Bellby, in silent reaction after the hour and a

half’s suspense on the tenterhooks of publicity. Mr. Bellby

entered presently, preceded by his nose, as cheerful as they were

glum. Well! they had got the decree of restitution, and what was

the matter with that!

“Quite,” said Soames in a suitably low voice, “but we shall have

to begin again to get evidence. He’ll probably try the divorce—it

will look fishy if it comes out that we knew of misconduct from

the start. His questions showed well enough that he doesn’t like

this restitution dodge.”

“Pho!” said Mr. Bellby cheerily, “he’ll forget! Why, man, he’ll

have tried a hundred cases between now and then. Besides, he’s

bound by precedent to give ye your divorce, if the evidence is

satisfactory. We won’t let um know that Mrs. Dartie had knowledge

of the facts. Dreamer did it very nicely—he’s got a fatherly

touch about um!”

Soames nodded.

“And I compliment ye, Mrs. Dartie,” went on Mr. Bellby; “ye’ve a

natural gift for giving evidence. Steady as a rock.”

Here the waiter arrived with three plates balanced on one arm,

and the remark: “I ’urried up the pudden, sir. You’ll find plenty

o’ lark in it to-day.”

Mr. Bellby applauded his forethought with a dip of his nose. But

Soames and Winifred looked with dismay at their light lunch of

gravified brown masses, touching them gingerly with their forks

in the hope of distinguishing the bodies of the tasty little

song-givers. Having begun, however, they found they were hungrier

than they thought, and finished the lot, with a glass of port

apiece. Conversation turned on the war. Soames thought Ladysmith

would fall, and it might last a year. Bellby thought it would be

over by the summer. Both agreed that they wanted more men. There

was nothing for it but complete victory, since it was now a

question of prestige. Winifred brought things back to more solid

ground by saying that she did not want the divorce suit to come

on till after the summer holidays had begun at Oxford, then the

boys would have forgotten about it before Val had to go up again;

the London season too would be over. The lawyers reassured her,

an interval of six months was necessary—after that the earlier

the better. People were now beginning to come in, and they

parted—Soames to the city, Bellby to his chambers, Winifred in a

hansom to Park Lane to let her mother know how she had fared. The

issue had been so satisfactory on the whole that it was

considered advisable to tell James, who never failed to say day

after day that he didn’t know about Winifred’s affair, he

couldn’t tell. As his sands ran out; the importance of mundane

matters became increasingly grave to him, as if he were feeling:

“I must make the most of it, and worry well; I shall soon have

nothing to worry about.”

He received the report grudgingly. It was a new-fangled way of

going about things, and he didn’t know! But he gave Winifred a

cheque, saying:

“I expect you’ll have a lot of expense. That’s a new hat you’ve

got on. Why doesn’t Val come and see us?”

Winifred promised to bring him to dinner soon. And, going home,

she sought her bedroom where she could be alone. Now that her

husband had been ordered back into her custody with a view to

putting him away from her for ever, she would try once more to

find out from her sore and lonely heart what she really wanted.

CHAPTER VIII THE CHALLENGE

The morning had been misty, verging on frost, but the sun came

out while Val was jogging towards the Roehampton Gate, whence he

would canter on to the usual tryst. His spirits were rising

rapidly. There had been nothing so very terrible in the morning’s

proceedings beyond the general disgrace of violated privacy. “If

we were engaged!” he thought, “what happens wouldn’t matter.” He

felt, indeed, like human society, which kicks and clamours at the

results of matrimony, and hastens to get married. And he galloped

over the winter-dried grass of Richmond Park, fearing to be late.

But again he was alone at the trysting spot, and this second

defection on the part of Holly upset him dreadfully. He could not

go back without seeing her to-day! Emerging from the Park, he

proceeded towards Robin Hill. He could not make up his mind for

whom to ask. Suppose her father were back, or her sister or

brother were in! He decided to gamble, and ask for them all

first, so that if he were in luck and they were not there, it

would be quite natural in the end to ask for Holly; while if any

of them _were_ in—an “excuse for a ride” must be his saving

grace.

“Only Miss Holly is in, sir.”

“Oh! thanks. Might I take my horse round to the stables? And

would you say—her cousin, Mr. Val Dartie.”

When he returned she was in the hall, very flushed and shy. She

led him to the far end, and they sat down on a wide window-seat.

“I’ve been awfully anxious,” said Val in a low voice. “What’s the

matter?”

“Jolly knows about our riding.”

“Is he in?”

“No; but I expect he will be soon.”

“Then!” cried Val, and diving forward, he seized her hand. She

tried to withdraw it, failed, gave up the attempt, and looked at

him wistfully.

“First of all,” he said, “I want to tell you something about my

family. My Dad, you know, isn’t altogether—I mean, he’s left my

mother and they’re trying to divorce him; so they’ve ordered him

to come back, you see. You’ll see that in the paper to-morrow.”

Her eyes deepened in colour and fearful interest; her hand

squeezed his. But the gambler in Val was roused now, and he

hurried on:

“Of course there’s nothing very much at present, but there will

be, I expect, before it’s over; divorce suits are beastly, you

know. I wanted to tell you, because—because—you ought to

know—if—” and he began to stammer, gazing at her troubled eyes,

“if—if you’re going to be a darling and love me, Holly. I love

you—ever so; and I want to be engaged.” He had done it in a

manner so inadequate that he could have punched his own head; and

dropping on his knees, he tried to get nearer to that soft,

troubled face. “You do love me—don’t you? If you don’t I....”

There was a moment of silence and suspense, so awful that he

could hear the sound of a mowing-machine far out on the lawn

pretending there was grass to cut. Then she swayed forward; her

free hand touched his hair, and he gasped: “Oh, Holly!”

Her answer was very soft: “Oh, Val!”

He had dreamed of this moment, but always in an imperative mood,

as the masterful young lover, and now he felt humble, touched,

trembly. He was afraid to stir off his knees lest he should break

the spell; lest, if he did, she should shrink and deny her own

surrender—so tremulous was she in his grasp, with her eyelids

closed and his lips nearing them. Her eyes opened, seemed to swim

a little; he pressed his lips to hers. Suddenly he sprang up;

there had been footsteps, a sort of startled grunt. He looked

round. No one! But the long curtains which barred off the outer

hall were quivering.

“My God! Who was that?”

Holly too was on her feet.

“Jolly, I expect,” she whispered.

Val clenched fists and resolution.

“All right!” he said, “I don’t care a bit now we’re engaged,” and

striding towards the curtains, he drew them aside. There at the

fireplace in the hall stood Jolly, with his back elaborately

turned. Val went forward. Jolly faced round on him.

“I beg your pardon for hearing,” he said.

With the best intentions in the world, Val could not help

admiring him at that moment; his face was clear, his voice quiet,

he looked somehow distinguished, as if acting up to principle.

“Well!” Val said abruptly, “it’s nothing to you.”

“Oh!” said Jolly; “you come this way,” and he crossed the hall.

Val followed. At the study door he felt a touch on his arm;

Holly’s voice said:

“I’m coming too.”

“No,” said Jolly.

“Yes,” said Holly.

Jolly opened the door, and they all three went in. Once in the

little room, they stood in a sort of triangle on three corners of

the worn Turkey carpet; awkwardly upright, not looking at each

other, quite incapable of seeing any humour in the situation.

Val broke the silence.

“Holly and I are engaged.”

Jolly stepped back and leaned against the lintel of the window.

“This is our house,” he said; “I’m not going to insult you in it.

But my father’s away. I’m in charge of my sister. You’ve taken

advantage of me.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Val hotly.

“I think you did,” said Jolly. “If you hadn’t meant to, you’d

have spoken to me, or waited for my father to come back.”

“There were reasons,” said Val.

“What reasons?”

“About my family—I’ve just told her. I wanted her to know before

things happen.”

Jolly suddenly became less distinguished.

“You’re kids,” he said, “and you know you are.

“I am _not_ a kid,” said Val.

“You are—you’re not twenty.”

“Well, what are you?”

“I _am_ twenty,” said Jolly.

“Only just; anyway, I’m as good a man as you.”

Jolly’s face crimsoned, then clouded. Some struggle was evidently

taking place in him; and Val and Holly stared at him, so clearly

was that struggle marked; they could even hear him breathing.

Then his face cleared up and became oddly resolute.

“We’ll see that,” he said. “I dare you to do what I’m going to

do.”

“Dare me?”

Jolly smiled. “Yes,” he said, “dare you; and I know very well you

won’t.”

A stab of misgiving shot through Val; this was riding very blind.

“I haven’t forgotten that you’re a fire-eater,” said Jolly

slowly, “and I think that’s about all you are; or that you called

me a pro-Boer.”

Val heard a gasp above the sound of his own hard breathing, and

saw Holly’s face poked a little forward, very pale, with big

eyes.

“Yes,” went on Jolly with a sort of smile, “we shall soon see.

I’m going to join the Imperial Yeomanry, and I dare you to do the

same, Mr. Val Dartie.”

Val’s head jerked on its stem. It was like a blow between the

eyes, so utterly unthought of, so extreme and ugly in the midst

of his dreaming; and he looked at Holly with eyes grown suddenly,

touchingly haggard.

“Sit down!” said Jolly. “Take your time! Think it over well.” And

he himself sat down on the arm of his grandfather’s chair.

Val did not sit down; he stood with hands thrust deep into his

breeches’ pockets—hands clenched and quivering. The full

awfulness of this decision one way or the other knocked at his

mind with double knocks as of an angry postman. If he did not

take that “dare” he was disgraced in Holly’s eyes, and in the

eyes of that young enemy, her brute of a brother. Yet if he took

it, ah! then all would vanish—her face, her eyes, her hair, her

kisses just begun!

“Take your time,” said Jolly again; “I don’t want to be unfair.”

And they both looked at Holly. She had recoiled against the

bookshelves reaching to the ceiling; her dark head leaned against

Gibbon’s _Roman Empire_, her eyes in a sort of soft grey agony

were fixed on Val. And he, who had not much gift of insight, had

suddenly a gleam of vision. She would be proud of her

brother—that enemy! She would be ashamed of him! His hands came

out of his pockets as if lifted by a spring.

“All right!” he said. “Done!”

Holly’s face—oh! it was queer! He saw her flush, start forward.

He had done the right thing—her face was shining with wistful

admiration. Jolly stood up and made a little bow as who should

say: “You’ve passed.”

“To-morrow, then,” he said, “we’ll go together.”

Recovering from the impetus which had carried him to that

decision, Val looked at him maliciously from under his lashes.

“All right,” he thought, “one to you. I shall have to join—but

I’ll get back on you somehow.” And he said with dignity: “I shall

be ready.”

“We’ll meet at the main Recruiting Office, then,” said Jolly, “at

twelve o’clock.” And, opening the window, he went out on to the

terrace, conforming to the creed which had made him retire when

he surprised them in the hall.

The confusion in the mind of Val thus left alone with her for

whom he had paid this sudden price was extreme. The mood of

“showing-off” was still, however, uppermost. One must do the

wretched thing with an air.

“We shall get plenty of riding and shooting, anyway,” he said;

“that’s one comfort.” And it gave him a sort of grim pleasure to

hear the sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of her heart.

“Oh! the war’ll soon be over,” he said; “perhaps we shan’t even

have to go out. I don’t care, except for you.” He would be out of

the way of that beastly divorce. It was an ill-wind! He felt her

warm hand slip into his. Jolly thought he had stopped their

loving each other, did he? He held her tightly round the waist,

looking at her softly through his lashes, smiling to cheer her

up, promising to come down and see her soon, feeling somehow six

inches taller and much more in command of her than he had ever

dared feel before. Many times he kissed her before he mounted and

rode back to town. So, swiftly, on the least provocation, does

the possessive instinct flourish and grow.

CHAPTER IX DINNER AT JAMES’

Dinner parties were not now given at James’ in Park Lane—to every

house the moment comes when Master or Mistress is no longer “up

to it”. no more can nine courses be served to twenty mouths above

twenty fine white expanses; nor does the household cat any longer

wonder why she is suddenly shut up.

So with something like excitement Emily—who at seventy would

still have liked a little feast and fashion now and then—ordered

dinner for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign

words on cards, and arranged the flowers—mimosa from the Riviera,

and white Roman hyacinths not from Rome. There would only be, of

course, James and herself, Soames, Winifred, Val, and Imogen—but

she liked to pretend a little and dally in imagination with the

glory of the past. She so dressed herself that James remarked:

“What are you putting on that thing for? You’ll catch cold.”

But Emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of

shining, unto fourscore years, and she only answered:

“Let me put you on one of those dickies I got you, James; then

you’ll only have to change your trousers, and put on your velvet

coat, and there you’ll be. Val likes you to look nice.”

“Dicky!” said James. “You’re always wasting your money on

something.”

But he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone,

murmuring vaguely:

“He’s an extravagant chap, I’m afraid.”

A little brighter in the eye, with rather more colour than usual

in his cheeks, he took his seat in the drawing-room to wait for

the sound of the front-door bell.

“I’ve made it a proper dinner party,” Emily said comfortably; “I

thought it would be good practice for Imogen—she must get used to

it now she’s coming out.”

James uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of Imogen as she

used to climb about his knee or pull Christmas crackers with him.

“She’ll be pretty,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t wonder.”

“She _is_ pretty,” said Emily; “she ought to make a good match.”

“There you go,” murmured James; “she’d much better stay at home

and look after her mother.” A second Dartie carrying off his

pretty granddaughter would finish him! He had never quite

forgiven Emily for having been as much taken in by Montague

Dartie as he himself had been.

“Where’s Warmson?” he said suddenly. “I should like a glass of

Madeira to-night.”

“There’s champagne, James.”

James shook his head. “No body,” he said; “I can’t get any good

out of it.”

Emily reached forward on her side of the fire and rang the bell.

“Your master would like a bottle of Madeira opened, Warmson.”

“No, no!” said James, the tips of his ears quivering with

vehemence, and his eyes fixed on an object seen by him alone.

“Look here, Warmson, you go to the inner cellar, and on the

middle shelf of the end bin on the left you’ll see seven bottles;

take the one in the centre, and don’t shake it. It’s the last of

the Madeira I had from Mr. Jolyon when we came in here—never been

moved; it ought to be in prime condition still; but I don’t know,

I can’t tell.”

“Very good, sir,” responded the withdrawing Warmson.

“I was keeping it for our golden wedding,” said James suddenly,

“but I shan’t live three years at my age.”

“Nonsense, James,” said Emily, “don’t talk like that.”

“I ought to have got it up myself,” murmured James, “he’ll shake

it as likely as not.” And he sank into silent recollection of

long moments among the open gas-jets, the cobwebs and the good

smell of wine-soaked corks, which had been appetiser to so many

feasts. In the wine from that cellar was written the history of

the forty odd years since he had come to the Park Lane house with

his young bride, and of the many generations of friends and

acquaintances who had passed into the unknown; its depleted bins

preserved the record of family festivity—all the marriages,

births, deaths of his kith and kin. And when he was gone there it

would be, and he didn’t know what would become of it. It’d be

drunk or spoiled, he shouldn’t wonder!

From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him,

followed very soon by that of Winifred and her two eldest.

They went down arm-in-arm—James with Imogen, the debutante,

because his pretty grandchild cheered him; Soames with Winifred;

Emily with Val, whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened.

This was to be a proper full “blowout” with “fizz” and port! And

he felt in need of it, after what he had done that day, as yet

undivulged. After the first glass or two it became pleasant to

have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece of sensational

patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to

display—for his pleasure in what he had done for his Queen and

Country was so far entirely personal. He was now a “blood,”

indissolubly connected with guns and horses; he had a right to

swagger—not, of course, that he was going to. He should just

announce it quietly, when there was a pause. And, glancing down

the menu, he determined on “Bombe aux fraises” as the proper

moment; there would be a certain solemnity while they were eating

that. Once or twice before they reached that rosy summit of the

dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather was

never told anything! Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and

looking jolly fit! Besides, he ought to be pleased at this

set-off to the disgrace of the divorce. The sight of his uncle

opposite, too, was a sharp incentive. He was so far from being a

sportsman that it would be worth a lot to see his face. Besides,

better to tell his mother in this way than privately, which might

upset them both! He was sorry for her, but after all one couldn’t

be expected to feel much for others when one had to part from

Holly.

His grandfather’s voice travelled to him thinly. “Val, try a

little of the Madeira with your ice. You won’t get that up at

college.”

Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil

of the old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its aroma, and

thought: “Now for it!” It was a rich moment. He sipped, and a

gentle glow spread in his veins, already heated. With a rapid

look round, he said, “I joined the Imperial Yeomanry to-day,

Granny,” and emptied his glass as though drinking the health of

his own act.

“What!” It was his mother’s desolate little word.

“Young Jolly Forsyte and I went down there together.”

“You didn’t sign?” from Uncle Soames.

“Rather! We go into camp on Monday.”

“I _say!_” cried Imogen.

All looked at James. He was leaning forward with his hand behind

his ear.

“What’s that?” he said. “What’s he saying? I can’t hear.”

Emily reached forward to pat Val’s hand.

“It’s only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it’s very

nice for him. He’ll look his best in uniform.”

“Joined the—rubbish!” came from James, tremulously loud. “You

can’t see two yards before your nose. He—he’ll have to go out

there. Why! he’ll be fighting before he knows where he is.”

Val saw Imogen’s eyes admiring him, and his mother still and

fashionable with her handkerchief before her lips.

Suddenly his uncle spoke.

“You’re under age.”

“I thought of that,” smiled Val; “I gave my age as twenty-one.”

He heard his grandmother’s admiring, “Well, Val, that was plucky

of you;” was conscious of Warmson deferentially filling his

champagne glass; and of his grandfather’s voice moaning: “_I_

don’t know what’ll become of you if you go on like this.”

Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him

sidelong; only his mother sat unmoving, till, affected by her

stillness, Val said:

“It’s all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. I

only hope I shall come in for something.”

He felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once. This

would show Uncle Soames, and all the Forsytes, how to be

sportsmen. He had certainly done something heroic and exceptional

in giving his age as twenty-one.

Emily’s voice brought him back to earth.

“You mustn’t have a second glass, James. Warmson!”

“Won’t they be astonished at Timothy’s!” burst out Imogen. “I’d

give anything to see their faces. Do you have a sword, Val, or

only a popgun?”

“What made you?”

His uncle’s voice produced a slight chill in the pit of Val’s

stomach. Made him? How answer that? He was grateful for his

grandmother’s comfortable:

“Well, I think it’s very plucky of Val. I’m sure he’ll make a

splendid soldier; he’s just the figure for it. We shall all be

proud of him.”

“What had young Jolly Forsyte to do with it? Why did you go

together?” pursued Soames, uncannily relentless. “I thought you

weren’t friendly with him?”

“I’m not,” mumbled Val, “but I wasn’t going to be beaten by

_him_.” He saw his uncle look at him quite differently, as if

approving. His grandfather was nodding too, his grandmother

tossing her head. They all approved of his not being beaten by

that cousin of his. There must be a reason! Val was dimly

conscious of some disturbing point outside his range of vision;

as it might be, the unlocated centre of a cyclone. And, staring

at his uncle’s face, he had a quite unaccountable vision of a

woman with dark eyes, gold hair, and a white neck, who smelt

nice, and had pretty silken clothes which he had liked feeling

when he was quite small. By Jove, yes! Aunt Irene! She used to

kiss him, and he had bitten her arm once, playfully, because he

liked it—so soft. His grandfather was speaking:

“What’s his father doing?”

“He’s away in Paris,” Val said, staring at the very queer

expression on his uncle’s face, like—like that of a snarling dog.

“Artists!” said James. The word coming from the very bottom of

his soul, broke up the dinner.

Opposite his mother in the cab going home, Val tasted the

after-fruits of heroism, like medlars over-ripe.

She only said, indeed, that he must go to his tailor’s at once

and have his uniform properly made, and not just put up with what

they gave him. But he could feel that she was very much upset. It

was on his lips to console her with the spoken thought that he

would be out of the way of that beastly divorce, but the presence

of Imogen, and the knowledge that his mother would _not_ be out

of the way, restrained him. He felt aggrieved that she did not

seem more proud of him. When Imogen had gone to bed, he risked

the emotional.

“I’m awfully sorry to have to leave you, Mother.”

“Well, I must make the best of it. We must try and get you a

commission as soon as we can; then you won’t have to rough it so.

Do you know any drill, Val?”

“Not a scrap.”

“I hope they won’t worry you much. I must take you about to get

the things to-morrow. Good-night; kiss me.”

With that kiss, soft and hot, between his eyes, and those words,

“I hope they won’t worry you much,” in his ears, he sat down to a

cigarette, before a dying fire. The heat was out of him—the glow

of cutting a dash. It was all a damned heart-aching bore. “I’ll

be even with that chap Jolly,” he thought, trailing up the

stairs, past the room where his mother was biting her pillow to

smother a sense of desolation which was trying to make her sob.

And soon only one of the diners at James’ was awake—Soames, in

his bedroom above his father’s.

So that fellow Jolyon was in Paris—what was he doing there?

Hanging round Irene! The last report from Polteed had hinted that

there might be something soon. Could it be this? That fellow,

with his beard and his cursed amused way of speaking—son of the

old man who had given him the nickname “Man of Property,” and

bought the fatal house from him. Soames had ever resented having

had to sell the house at Robin Hill; never forgiven his uncle for

having bought it, or his cousin for living in it.

Reckless of the cold, he threw his window up and gazed out across

the Park. Bleak and dark the January night; little sound of

traffic; a frost coming; bare trees; a star or two. “I’ll see

Polteed to-morrow,” he thought. “By God! I’m mad, I think, to

want her still. That fellow! If...? Um! No!”

CHAPTER X DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR

Jolyon, who had crossed from Calais by night, arrived at Robin

Hill on Sunday morning. He had sent no word beforehand, so walked

up from the station, entering his domain by the coppice gate.

Coming to the log seat fashioned out of an old fallen trunk, he

sat down, first laying his overcoat on it.

“Lumbago!” he thought; “that’s what love ends in at my time of

life!” And suddenly Irene seemed very near, just as she had been

that day of rambling at Fontainebleau when they had sat on a log

to eat their lunch. Hauntingly near! Odour drawn out of fallen

leaves by the pale-filtering sunlight soaked his nostrils. “I’m

glad it isn’t spring,” he thought. With the scent of sap, and the

song of birds, and the bursting of the blossoms, it would have

been unbearable! “I hope I shall be over it by then, old fool

that I am!” and picking up his coat, he walked on into the field.

He passed the pond and mounted the hill slowly.

Near the top a hoarse barking greeted him. Up on the lawn above

the fernery he could see his old dog Balthasar. The animal, whose

dim eyes took his master for a stranger, was warning the world

against him. Jolyon gave his special whistle. Even at that

distance of a hundred yards and more he could see the dawning

recognition in the obese brown-white body. The old dog got off

his haunches, and his tail, close-curled over his back, began a

feeble, excited fluttering; he came waddling forward, gathered

momentum, and disappeared over the edge of the fernery. Jolyon

expected to meet him at the wicket gate, but Balthasar was not

there, and, rather alarmed, he turned into the fernery. On his

fat side, looking up with eyes already glazing, the old dog lay.

“What is it, my poor old man?” cried Jolyon. Balthasar’s curled

and fluffy tail just moved; his filming eyes seemed saying: “I

can’t get up, master, but I’m glad to see you.”

Jolyon knelt down; his eyes, very dimmed, could hardly see the

slowly ceasing heave of the dog’s side. He raised the head a

little—very heavy.

“What is it, dear man? Where are you hurt?” The tail fluttered

once; the eyes lost the look of life. Jolyon passed his hands all

over the inert warm bulk. There was nothing—the heart had simply

failed in that obese body from the emotion of his master’s

return. Jolyon could feel the muzzle, where a few whitish

bristles grew, cooling already against his lips. He stayed for

some minutes kneeling; with his hand beneath the stiffening head.

The body was very heavy when he bore it to the top of the field;

leaves had drifted there, and he strewed it with a covering of

them; there was no wind, and they would keep him from curious

eyes until the afternoon. “I’ll bury him myself,” he thought.

Eighteen years had gone since he first went into the St. John’s

Wood house with that tiny puppy in his pocket. Strange that the

old dog should die just now! Was it an omen? He turned at the

gate to look back at that russet mound, then went slowly towards

the house, very choky in the throat.

June was at home; she had come down hotfoot on hearing the news

of Jolly’s enlistment. His patriotism had conquered her feeling

for the Boers. The atmosphere of his house was strange and

pocketty when Jolyon came in and told them of the dog Balthasar’s

death. The news had a unifying effect. A link with the past had

snapped—the dog Balthasar! Two of them could remember nothing

before his day; to June he represented the last years of her

grandfather; to Jolyon that life of domestic stress and aesthetic

struggle before he came again into the kingdom of his father’s

love and wealth! And he was gone!

In the afternoon he and Jolly took picks and spades and went out

to the field. They chose a spot close to the russet mound, so

that they need not carry him far, and, carefully cutting off the

surface turf, began to dig. They dug in silence for ten minutes,

and then rested.

“Well, old man,” said Jolyon, “so you thought you ought?”

“Yes,” answered Jolly; “I don’t want to a bit, of course.”

How exactly those words represented Jolyon’s own state of mind

“I admire you for it, old boy. I don’t believe I should have done

it at your age—too much of a Forsyte, I’m afraid. But I suppose

the type gets thinner with each generation. Your son, if you have

one, may be a pure altruist; who knows?”

“He won’t be like me, then, Dad; I’m beastly selfish.”

“No, my dear, that you clearly are not.” Jolly shook his head,

and they dug again.

“Strange life a dog’s,” said Jolyon suddenly: “The only

four-footer with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God!”

Jolly looked at his father.

“Do you believe in God, Dad? I’ve never known.”

At so searching a question from one to whom it was impossible to

make a light reply, Jolyon stood for a moment feeling his back

tried by the digging.

“What do you mean by God?” he said; “there are two irreconcilable

ideas of God. There’s the Unknowable Creative Principle—one

believes in That. And there’s the Sum of altruism in

man—naturally one believes in That.”

“I see. That leaves out Christ, doesn’t it?”

Jolyon stared. Christ, the link between those two ideas! Out of

the mouth of babes! Here was orthodoxy scientifically explained

at last! The sublime poem of the Christ life was man’s attempt to

join those two irreconcilable conceptions of God. And since the

Sum of human altruism was as much a part of the Unknowable

Creative Principle as anything else in Nature and the Universe, a

worse link might have been chosen after all! Funny—how one went

through life without seeing it in that sort of way!

“What do _you_ think, old man?” he said.

Jolly frowned. “Of course, my first year we talked a good bit

about that sort of thing. But in the second year one gives it up;

I don’t know why—it’s awfully interesting.”

Jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it

his first year at Cambridge, and given it up in his second.

“I suppose,” said Jolly, “it’s the second God, you mean, that old

Balthasar had a sense of.”

“Yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of

something outside himself.”

“But wasn’t that just selfish emotion, really?”

Jolyon shook his head. “No, dogs are not pure Forsytes, they love

something outside themselves.”

Jolly smiled.

“Well, I think I’m one,” he said. “You know, I only enlisted

because I dared Val Dartie to.”

“But why?”

“We bar each other,” said Jolly shortly.

“Ah!” muttered Jolyon. So the feud went on, unto the third

generation—this modern feud which had no overt expression?

“Shall I tell the boy about it?” he thought. But to what end—if

he had to stop short of his own part?

And Jolly thought: “It’s for Holly to let him know about that

chap. If she doesn’t, it means she doesn’t want him told, and I

should be sneaking. Anyway, I’ve stopped it. I’d better leave

well alone!”

So they dug on in silence, till Jolyon said:

“Now, old man, I think it’s big enough.” And, resting on their

spades, they gazed down into the hole where a few leaves had

drifted already on a sunset wind.

“I can’t bear this part of it,” said Jolyon suddenly.

“Let me do it, Dad. He never cared much for me.”

Jolyon shook his head.

“We’ll lift him very gently, leaves and all. I’d rather not see

him again. I’ll take his head. Now!”

With extreme care they raised the old dog’s body, whose faded tan

and white showed here and there under the leaves stirred by the

wind. They laid it, heavy, cold, and unresponsive, in the grave,

and Jolly spread more leaves over it, while Jolyon, deeply afraid

to show emotion before his son, began quickly shovelling the

earth on to that still shape. There went the past! If only there

were a joyful future to look forward to! It was like stamping

down earth on one’s own life. They replaced the turf carefully on

the smooth little mound, and, grateful that they had spared each

other’s feelings, returned to the house arm-in-arm.

CHAPTER XI TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT

On Forsyte ’Change news of the enlistment spread fast, together

with the report that June, not to be outdone, was going to become

a Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of

pure Forsyteism, as to have a binding effect upon the family, and

Timothy’s was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members trying to

find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each

other a sense of family credit. Giles and Jesse Hayman would no

longer defend the coast but go to South Africa quite soon; Jolly

and Val would be following in April; as to June—well, you never

knew what she would really do.

The retirement from Spion Kop and the absence of any good news

from the seat of war imparted an air of reality to all this,

clinched in startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old

Forsytes—scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble

their father, “Superior Dosset,” even in his best-known

characteristic of drinking Sherry—had been invisible for so many

years that he was almost mythical. A long generation had elapsed

since the risks of a publisher’s business had worked on his

nerves at the age of forty, so that he had got out with a mere

thirty-five thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his

living by careful investment. Putting by every year, at compound

interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years without

having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over

money matters. He was now putting aside some two thousand a year,

and, with the care he was taking of himself, expected, so Aunt

Hester said, to double his capital again before he died. What he

would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself dead,

was often mockingly queried by free spirits such as Francie,

Euphemia, or young Nicholas’ second, Christopher, whose spirit

was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage.

All admitted, however, that this was best known to Timothy

himself, and possibly to Soames, who never divulged a secret.

Those few Forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and

robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion,

grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which

most of the Forsytes had been endowed by “Superior Dosset’s”

wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was

known that he had taken surprising interest in the war, sticking

flags into a map ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as

to what would happen if the English were driven into the sea,

when it would be almost impossible for him to put the flags in

the right places. As to his knowledge of family movements or his

views about them, little was known, save that Aunt Hester was

always declaring that he was very upset. It was, then, in the

nature of a portent when Forsytes, arriving on the Sunday after

the evacuation of Spion Kop, became conscious, one after the

other, of a presence seated in the only really comfortable

armchair, back to the light, concealing the lower part of his

face with a large hand, and were greeted by the awed voice of

Aunt Hester:

“Your Uncle Timothy, my dear.”

Timothy’s greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and

rather, as it were, passed over by him than expressed:

“How de do? How de do? ’Xcuse me gettin’ up!”

Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car; Winifred

had brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution

proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at Val’s

enlistment; and Marian Tweetyman with the last news of Giles and

Jesse. These with Aunt Juley and Hester, young Nicholas,

Euphemia, and—of all people!—George, who had come with Eustace in

the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family’s palmiest

days. There was not one chair vacant in the whole of the little

drawing-room, and anxiety was felt lest someone else should

arrive.

The constraint caused by Timothy’s presence having worn off a

little, conversation took a military turn. George asked Aunt

Juley when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing

her to a state of gaiety; whereon he turned to Nicholas and said:

“Young Nick’s a warrior bold, isn’t he? When’s he going to don

the wild khaki?”

Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation,

intimated that of course his mother was very anxious.

“The Dromios are off, I hear,” said George, turning to Marian

Tweetyman; “we shall all be there soon. _En avant_, the Forsytes!

Roll, bowl, or pitch! Who’s for a cooler?”

Aunt Juley gurgled, George was _so_ droll! Should Hester get

Timothy’s map? Then he could show them all where they were.

At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left

the room.

George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing

Timothy as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom he had noted at once

for “a pretty filly,”—as Vivandière; and holding his top hat

between his knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks.

The reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. All

laughed—George was licensed; but all felt that the family was

being “rotted”; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it

was going to give five of its members to the service of the

Queen. George might go too far; and there was relief when he got

up, offered his arm to Aunt Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted

him, kissed his aunt with mock passion, said, “Oh! what a treat,

dear papa! Come on, Eustace!” and walked out, followed by the

grave and fastidious Eustace, who had never smiled.

Aunt Juley’s bewildered, “Fancy not waiting for the map! You

mustn’t mind him, Timothy. He’s _so_ droll!” broke the hush, and

Timothy removed the hand from his mouth.

“I don’t know what things are comin’ to,” he was heard to say.

“What’s all this about goin’ out there? That’s not the way to

beat those Boers.”

Francie alone had the hardihood to observe: “What is, then, Uncle

Timothy?”

“All this new-fangled volunteerin’ and expense—lettin’ money out

of the country.”

Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby

with eruptions. With the assistance of Euphemia it was laid on

the piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was

believed, the summer before Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago.

Timothy rose. He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at

his map while they all gathered round.

“There you are,” he said; “that’s the position up to date; and

very poor it is. H’m!”

“Yes,” said Francie, greatly daring, “but how are you going to

alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?”

“Men!” said Timothy; “you don’t want men—wastin’ the country’s

money. You want a Napoleon, he’d settle it in a month.”

“But if you haven’t got him, Uncle Timothy?”

“That’s their business,” replied Timothy. “What have we kept the

Army up for—to eat their heads off in time of peace! They ought

to be ashamed of themselves, comin’ on the country to help them

like this! Let every man stick to his business, and we shall get

on.”

And looking round him, he added almost angrily:

“Volunteerin’, indeed! Throwin’ good money after bad! We must

save! Conserve energy that’s the only way.” And with a prolonged

sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on

Euphemia’s toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint

scent of barley-sugar behind him.

The effect of something said with conviction by one who has

evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever considerable. And

the eight Forsytes left behind, all women except young Nicholas,

were silent for a moment round the map. Then Francie said:

“Really, I think he’s right, you know. After all, what is the

Army for? They ought to have known. It’s only encouraging them.”

“My dear!” cried Aunt Juley, “but they’ve been so progressive.

Think of their giving up their scarlet. They were always so proud

of it. And now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were

saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much.

Fancy what the Iron Duke would have said!”

“The new colour’s very smart,” said Winifred; “Val looks quite

nice in his.”

Aunt Juley sighed.

“I do so wonder what Jolyon’s boy is like. To think we’ve never

seen him! His father must be so proud of him.”

“His father’s in Paris,” said Winifred.

Aunt Hester’s shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward

off her sister’s next remark, for Juley’s crumpled cheeks had

gushed.

“We had dear little Mrs. MacAnder here yesterday, just back from

Paris. And whom d’you think she saw there in the street? You’ll

never guess.”

“We shan’t try, Auntie,” said Euphemia.

“Irene! Imagine! After all this time; walking with a fair

beard....”

“Auntie! you’ll kill me! A fair beard....”

“I was going to say,” said Aunt Juley severely, “a fair-bearded

gentleman. And not a day older; she was always so pretty,” she

added, with a sort of lingering apology.

“Oh! tell us about her, Auntie,” cried Imogen; “I can just

remember her. She’s the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn’t

she? And they’re such fun.”

Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Juley had done it now!

“She wasn’t much of a skeleton as I remember her,” murmured

Euphemia, “extremely well-covered.”

“My dear!” said Aunt Juley, “what a peculiar way of putting

it—not very nice.”

“No, but what _was_ she like?” persisted Imogen.

“I’ll tell you, my child,” said Francie; “a kind of modern Venus,

very well-dressed.”

Euphemia said sharply: “Venus was never dressed, and she had blue

eyes of melting sapphire.”

At this juncture Nicholas took his leave.

“Mrs. Nick is awfully strict,” said Francie with a laugh.

“She has six children,” said Aunt Juley; “it’s very proper she

should be careful.”

“Was Uncle Soames awfully fond of her?” pursued the inexorable

Imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes from face to face.

Aunt Hester made a gesture of despair, just as Aunt Juley

answered:

“Yes, your Uncle Soames was very much attached to her.”

“I suppose she ran off with someone?”

“No, certainly not; that is—not precisely.”

“What did she do, then, Auntie?”

“Come along, Imogen,” said Winifred, “we must be getting back.”

But Aunt Juley interjected resolutely: “She—she didn’t behave at

all well.”

“Oh, bother!” cried Imogen; “that’s as far as I ever get.”

“Well, my dear,” said Francie, “she had a love affair which ended

with the young man’s death; and then she left your uncle. I

always rather liked her.”

“She used to give me chocolates,” murmured Imogen, “and smell

nice.”

“Of course!” remarked Euphemia.

“Not of course at all!” replied Francie, who used a particularly

expensive essence of gillyflower herself.

“I can’t think what we are about,” said Aunt Juley, raising her

hands, “talking of such things!”

“Was she divorced?” asked Imogen from the door.

“Certainly not,” cried Aunt Juley; “that is—certainly not.”

A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had re-entered

the back drawing-room. “I’ve come for my map,” he said. “Who’s

been divorced?”

“No one, Uncle,” replied Francie with perfect truth.

Timothy took his map off the piano.

“Don’t let’s have anything of that sort in the family,” he said.

“All this enlistin’s bad enough. The country’s breakin’ up; I

don’t know what we’re comin’ to.” He shook a thick finger at the

room: “Too many women nowadays, and they don’t know what they

want.”

So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went

out as if afraid of being answered.