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!'
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.
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 Vivandiere; 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.
The seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued murmur, out of which emerged Francie's, “Really, the Forsytes!” and Aunt Juley's: “He must have his feet in mustard and hot water to-night, Hester; will you tell Jane? The blood has gone to his head again, I'm afraid....”
That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up:
“Hester, I can't think where I've heard that dear Soames wants Irene to come back to him again. Who was it told us that George had made a funny drawing of him with the words, 'He won't be happy till he gets it'.”
“Eustace,” answered Aunt Hester from behind The Times; “he had it in his pocket, but he wouldn't show it us.”
Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, The Times crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley dropped another stitch.
“Hester,” she said, “I have had such a dreadful thought.”
“Then don't tell me,” said Aunt Hester quickly.
“Oh! but I must. You can't think how dreadful!” Her voice sank to a whisper:
“Jolyon—Jolyon, they say, has a—has a fair beard, now.”
Two days after the dinner at James', Mr. Polteed provided Soames with food for thought.
“A gentleman,” he said, consulting the key concealed in his left hand, “47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17 during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in public places, without concealment—restaurants, the Opera, the Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. She has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor vice versa. They went to Fontainebleau—but nothing of value. In short, the situation is promising, but requires patience.” And, looking up suddenly, he added:
“One rather curious point—47 has the same name as—er—31!”
'The fellow knows I'm her husband,' thought Soames.
“Christian name—an odd one—Jolyon,” continued Mr. Polteed. “We know his address in Paris and his residence here. We don't wish, of course, to be running a wrong hare.”
“Go on with it, but be careful,” said Soames doggedly.
Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret made him all the more reticent.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Polteed, “I'll just see if there's anything fresh in.”
He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at the envelopes.
“Yes, here's a personal one from 19 to myself.”
“Well?” said Soames.
“Um!” said Mr. Polteed, “she says: '47 left for England to-day. Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England if you think desirable, no doubt.'” And Mr. Polteed lifted an unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of business. “Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful make-up. Not cheap, but earns her money well. There's no suspicion of being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and keeping an eye on 47. We can't get at correspondence without great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell your client that it's looking up very well.” And again his narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer.
“No,” said Soames suddenly, “I prefer that you should keep the watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with this end.”
“Very well,” replied Mr. Polteed, “we can do it.”
“What—what is the manner between them?”
“I'll read you what she says,” said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers; “she sums it up somewhere confidentially. Yes, here it is! '17 very attractive—conclude 47, longer in the tooth' (slang for age, you know)—'distinctly gone—waiting his time—17 perhaps holding off for terms, impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined to think on the whole—doesn't know her mind—likely to act on impulse some day. Both have style.'”
“What does that mean?” said Soames between close lips.
“Well,” murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white teeth, “an expression we use. In other words, it's not likely to be a weekend business—they'll come together seriously or not at all.”
“H'm!” muttered Soames, “that's all, is it?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Polteed, “but quite promising.”
'Spider!' thought Soames. “Good-day!”
He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria Station and take the Underground into the City. For so late in January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the frosty grass—an illumined cobweb of a day.
Little spiders—and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it—sentimental radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! What attraction had he?
'Besides, he's come back,' he thought; 'that doesn't look—-I'll go and see him!' and, taking out a card, he wrote:
“If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall be at the Connoisseurs any day between 5.30 and 6, or I could come to the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you.—S. F.”
He walked up St. James's Street and confided it to the porter at the Hotch Potch.
“Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in,” he said, and took one of the new motor cabs into the City....
Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face towards the Connoisseurs. What did Soames want now? Had he got wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James's Street, he determined to make no secret of his visit. 'But it won't do,' he thought, 'to let him know she's there, unless he knows already.' In this complicated state of mind he was conducted to where Soames was drinking tea in a small bay-window.
“No tea, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I'll go on smoking if I may.”
The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other.
“You've been in Paris, I hear,” said Soames at last.
“Yes; just back.”
“Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?” Jolyon nodded.
“You didn't happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she's abroad somewhere.”
Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: “Yes, I saw her.”
“How was she?”
“Very well.”
There was another silence; then Soames roused himself in his chair.
“When I saw you last,” he said, “I was in two minds. We talked, and you expressed your opinion. I don't wish to reopen that discussion. I only wanted to say this: My position with her is extremely difficult. I don't want you to go using your influence against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I'm going to ask her to let bygones be bygones.”
“You have asked her, you know,” murmured Jolyon.
“The idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. But the more she thinks of it, the more she must see that it's the only way out for both of us.”
“That's not my impression of her state of mind,” said Jolyon with particular calm. “And, forgive my saying, you misconceive the matter if you think reason comes into it at all.”
He saw his cousin's pale face grow paler—he had used, without knowing it, Irene's own words.
“Thanks,” muttered Soames, “but I see things perhaps more plainly than you think. I only want to be sure that you won't try to influence her against me.”
“I don't know what makes you think I have any influence,” said Jolyon; “but if I have I'm bound to use it in the direction of what I think is her happiness. I am what they call a 'feminist,' I believe.”
“Feminist!” repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. “Does that mean that you're against me?”
“Bluntly,” said Jolyon, “I'm against any woman living with any man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten.”
“And I suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into her mind.”
“I am not likely to be seeing her.”
“Not going back to Paris?”
“Not so far as I know,” said Jolyon, conscious of the intent watchfulness in Soames' face.
“Well, that's all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility.”
Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow.
“Good-bye,” he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved away, leaving Soames staring after him. 'We Forsytes,' thought Jolyon, hailing a cab, 'are very civilised. With simpler folk that might have come to a row. If it weren't for my boy going to the war....' The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over him. A precious war! Domination of peoples or of women! Attempts to master and possess those who did not want you! The negation of gentle decency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone 'agin' 'em—outcast! 'Thank Heaven!' he thought, 'I always felt “agin” 'em, anyway!' Yes! Even before his first disastrous marriage he could remember fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed. Parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite different things! Pernicious doctrine! Body and soul could not thus be separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness. 'I ought to have told Soames,' he thought, 'that I think him comic. Ah! but he's tragic, too!' Was there anything, indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own possessive instinct, who couldn't see the sky for it, or even enter fully into what another person felt! 'I must write and warn her,' he thought; 'he's going to have another try.' And all the way home to Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty to his son which prevented him from posting back to Paris....
But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing ache—a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of resistance to his way out. 'Does that mean that you're against me?' he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question. Feminist! Phrasey fellow! 'I mustn't rush things,' he thought. 'I have some breathing space; he's not going back to Paris, unless he was lying. I'll let the spring come!' Though how the spring could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell. And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from pool to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: 'Nothing seems any good—nothing seems worth while. I'm loney—that's the trouble.'
He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark street below a church—passing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. He opened his eyes—so vividly he had seen her! A woman was passing below, but not she! Oh no, there was nothing there!