The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney's father, who had
not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable ridicule. She
alluded to him now that he was gone as her 'poor, dear, irreverend
brother.'

She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a mistress, a
little afraid of her as far as a woman of her eminence in the commercial
and Christian world could be afraid--for so slight a girl June had a
great dignity, the fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs.
Baynes, too, shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness
of June's manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been
merely frank and courageous, Mrs. Baynes would have thought her 'cranky,'
and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte, like Francie--let us
say--she would have patronized her from sheer weight of metal; but June,
small though she was--Mrs. Baynes habitually admired quantity--gave her
an uneasy feeling; and she placed her in a chair opposite the light.

There was another reason for her respect which Mrs. Baynes, too good a
churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to admit--she often
heard her husband describe old Jolyon as extremely well off, and was
biassed towards his granddaughter for the soundest of all reasons.
To-day she felt the emotion with which we read a novel describing a hero
and an inheritance, nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of
the novelist, the young man should be left without it at the end.

Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how
distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old
Jolyon's health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and young
looking, and how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never have thought
it! They were at the sea! Very nice for them; she supposed June heard
from Phil every day? Her light grey eyes became more prominent as she
asked this question; but the girl met the glance without flinching.

"No," she said, "he never writes!"

Mrs. Baynes's eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they
did. They recovered immediately.

"Of course not. That's Phil all over--he was always like that!"

"Was he?" said June.

The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes's bright smile a moment's
hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her
skirts afresh, said: "Why, my dear--he's quite the most harum-scarum
person; one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!"

The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time; even
were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out
of this woman.

'Do you see him?' she asked, her face crimsoning.

The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes' forehead beneath the powder.

"Oh, yes! I don't remember when he was here last--indeed, we haven't
seen much of him lately. He's so busy with your cousin's house; I'm told
it'll be finished directly. We must organize a little dinner to
celebrate the event; do come and stay the night with us!"

"Thank you," said June. Again she thought: 'I'm only wasting my time.
This woman will tell me nothing.'

She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too; her
lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was evidently very
wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim,
straight little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful
eyes. She was not accustomed to be afraid of asking question's--all
organization was based on the asking of questions!

But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly
shaken; only that morning her husband had said: "Old Mr. Forsyte must be
worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!"

And this girl stood there, holding out her hand--holding out her hand!

The chance might be slipping away--she couldn't tell--the chance of
keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.

Her eyes followed June to the door.

It closed.

Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky
frame from side to side, and opened it again.

Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression
of real anger and mortification on her face.

June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She detested
that woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so
kind. Was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this
torturing suspense?

She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had the
right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she came to
Bosinney's number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the
stairs, her heart thumping painfully.

At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to
the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above.

With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the door,
with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had brought her so
far evaporated.

The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all over; the
palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her
gloves.

She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against the
rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at
the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she refused to go down.
Did it matter what people thought of her? They would never know! No one
would help her if she did not help herself! She would go through with
it.

Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang
the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly
abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its
emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room, some
recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her. It did not
open; she left off ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs,
buried her face in her hands.

Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though she had
passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as
quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to know where she had
been, what she had been doing; and suddenly--over on the opposite side,
going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpellier Square--she saw
Bosinney himself.

She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, and he
raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the
edge of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking
on.

And June stood motionless, looking after him.




CHAPTER XIII

PERFECTION OF THE HOUSE

'One mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.'

In the upper room at French's, where a Forsyte could still get heavy
English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch.

Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was something
unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he had
been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being
fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that
would increase, he still hankered in quiet City moments after the tasty
fleshpots of his earlier days. Here you were served by hairy English
waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt
looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only
recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your
chop, prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your neighbours,
like a gentleman.

He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his
waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the
West End. He felt that he should relish his soup--the entire morning had
been given to winding up the estate of an old friend.

After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once began:
"How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take Irene? You'd
better take her. I should think there'll be a lot that'll want seeing
to."

Without looking up, Soames answered: "She won't go."

"Won't go? What's the meaning of that? She's going to live in the
house, isn't she?"

Soames made no reply.

"I don't know what's coming to women nowadays," mumbled James; "I never
used to have any trouble with them. She's had too much liberty. She's
spoiled...."

Soames lifted his eyes: "I won't have anything said against her," he said
unexpectedly.

The silence was only broken now by the supping of James's soup.

The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped him.

"That's not the way to serve port," he said; "take them away, and bring
the bottle."

Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of his
rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts.

"Your mother's in bed," he said; "you can have the carriage to take you
down. I should think Irene'd like the drive. This young Bosinney'll be
there, I suppose, to show you over"

Soames nodded.

"I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he's made
finishing off," pursued James. "I'll just drive round and pick you both
up."

"I am going down by train," replied Soames. "If you like to drive round
and see, Irene might go with you, I can't tell."

He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid.

They parted at St. Paul's, Soames branching off to the station, James
taking his omnibus westwards.

He had secured the corner seat next the conductor, where his long legs
made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who passed him he
looked resentfully, as if they had no business to be using up his air.

He intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to Irene.
A word in time saved nine; and now that she was going to live in the
country there was a chance for her to turn over a new leaf! He could see
that Soames wouldn't stand very much more of her goings on!

It did not occur to him to define what he meant by her 'goings on'; the
expression was wide, vague, and suited to a Forsyte. And James had more
than his common share of courage after lunch.

On reaching home, he ordered out the barouche, with special instructions
that the groom was to go too. He wished to be kind to her, and to give
her every chance.

When the door of No.62 was opened he could distinctly hear her singing,
and said so at once, to prevent any chance of being denied entrance.

Yes, Mrs. Soames was in, but the maid did not know if she was seeing
people.

James, moving with the rapidity that ever astonished the observers of his
long figure and absorbed expression, went forthwith into the drawing-room
without permitting this to be ascertained. He found Irene seated at the
piano with her hands arrested on the keys, evidently listening to the
voices in the hall. She greeted him without smiling.

"Your mother-in-law's in bed," he began, hoping at once to enlist her
sympathy. "I've got the carriage here. Now, be a good girl, and put on
your hat and come with me for a drive. It'll do you good!"

Irene looked at him as though about to refuse, but, seeming to change her
mind, went upstairs, and came down again with her hat on.

"Where are you going to take me?" she asked.

"We'll just go down to Robin Hill," said James, spluttering out his words
very quick; "the horses want exercise, and I should like to see what
they've been doing down there."

Irene hung back, but again changed her mind, and went out to the
carriage, James brooding over her closely, to make quite sure.

It was not before he had got her more than half way that he began:
"Soames is very fond of you--he won't have anything said against you; why
don't you show him more affection?"

Irene flushed, and said in a low voice: "I can't show what I haven't
got."

James looked at her sharply; he felt that now he had her in his own
carriage, with his own horses and servants, he was really in command of
the situation. She could not put him off; nor would she make a scene in
public.

"I can't think what you're about," he said. "He's a very good husband!"

Irene's answer was so low as to be almost inaudible among the sounds of
traffic. He caught the words: "You are not married to him!"

"What's that got to do with it? He's given you everything you want.
He's always ready to take you anywhere, and now he's built you this house
in the country. It's not as if you had anything of your own."

"No."

Again James looked at her; he could not make out the expression on her
face. She looked almost as if she were going to cry, and yet....

"I'm sure," he muttered hastily, "we've all tried to be kind to you."

Irene's lips quivered; to his dismay James saw a tear steal down her
cheek. He felt a choke rise in his own throat.

"We're all fond of you," he said, "if you'd only"--he was going to say,
"behave yourself," but changed it to--"if you'd only be more of a wife to
him."

Irene did not answer, and James, too, ceased speaking. There was
something in her silence which disconcerted him; it was not the silence
of obstinacy, rather that of acquiescence in all that he could find to
say. And yet he felt as if he had not had the last word. He could not
understand this.

He was unable, however, to long keep silence.

"I suppose that young Bosinney," he said, "will be getting married to
June now?"

Irene's face changed. "I don't know," she said; "you should ask her."

"Does she write to you?" No.

"How's that?" said James. "I thought you and she were such great
friends."

Irene turned on him. "Again," she said, "you should ask her!"

"Well," flustered James, frightened by her look, "it's very odd that I
can't get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it is."

He sat ruminating over his rebuff, and burst out at last:

"Well, I've warned you. You won't look ahead. Soames he doesn't say
much, but I can see he won't stand a great deal more of this sort of
thing. You'll have nobody but yourself to blame, and, what's more,
you'll get no sympathy from anybody."

Irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. "I am very much obliged
to you."

James did not know what on earth to answer.

The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive
afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of coming
thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up.

The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road without the
smallest stir of foliage. A faint odour of glue from the heated horses
clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, rigid and unbending,
exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, without ever turning their heads.

To James' great relief they reached the house at last; the silence and
impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he had always thought so
soft and mild, alarmed him.

The carriage put them down at the door, and they entered.

The hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a tomb; a
shudder ran down James's spine. He quickly lifted the heavy leather
curtains between the columns into the inner court.

He could not restrain an exclamation of approval.

The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby tiles that
extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a circular clump of
tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble
filled with water, were obviously of the best quality. He admired
extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side,
framing a huge white-tiled stove. The central partitions of the skylight
had been slid back, and the warm air from outside penetrated into the
very heart of the house.

He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, narrow
shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the
frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls under the gallery.
Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was quite the house of a
gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, having discovered how they
were worked, drew them asunder and disclosed the picture-gallery, ending
in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. It had a black
oak floor, and its walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on
throwing open doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order,
ready for immediate occupation.

He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing over in
the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosinney.

Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that something
was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, ignorant of the
nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth things over.

"How are you, Mr. Bosinney?" he said, holding out his hand. "You've been
spending money pretty freely down here, I should say!"

Soames turned his back, and walked away.

James looked from Bosinney's frowning face to Irene, and, in his
agitation, spoke his thoughts aloud: "Well, I can't tell what's the
matter. Nobody tells me anything!" And, making off after his son, he
heard Bosinney's short laugh, and his "Well, thank God! You look so...."
Most unfortunately he lost the rest.

What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the
architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. He hastened up
to his son.

Soames was pacing the picture-gallery.

"What's the matter?" said James. "What's all this?"

Soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but James knew
well enough that he was violently angry.

"Our friend," he said, "has exceeded his instructions again, that's all.
So much the worse for him this time."

He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed
hurriedly, edging himself in front. He saw Irene take her finger from
before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary voice, and began
to speak before he reached them.

"There's a storm coming on. We'd better get home. We can't take you, I
suppose, Mr. Bosinney? No, I suppose not. Then, good-bye!" He held out
his hand. Bosinney did not take it, but, turning with a laugh, said:

"Good-bye, Mr. Forsyte. Don't get caught in the storm!" and walked away.

"Well," began James, "I don't know...."

But the 'sight of Irene's face stopped him. Taking hold of his
daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the carriage. He
felt certain, quite certain, they had been making some appointment or
other....

Nothing in this world is more sure to upset a Forsyte than the discovery
that something on which he has stipulated to spend a certain sum has cost
more. And this is reasonable, for upon the accuracy of his estimates the
whole policy of his life is ordered. If he cannot rely on definite
values of property, his compass is amiss; he is adrift upon bitter waters
without a helm.

After writing to Bosinney in the terms that have already been chronicled,
Soames had dismissed the cost of the house from his mind. He believed
that he had made the matter of the final cost so very plain that the
possibility of its being again exceeded had really never entered his
head. On hearing from Bosinney that his limit of twelve thousand pounds
would be exceeded by something like four hundred, he had grown white with
anger. His original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been
ten thousand pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for
allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses. Over this last
expenditure, however, Bosinney had put himself completely in the wrong.
How on earth a fellow could make such an ass of himself Soames could not
conceive; but he had done so, and all the rancour and hidden jealousy
that had been burning against him for so long was now focussed in rage at
this crowning piece of extravagance. The attitude of the confident and
friendly husband was gone. To preserve property--his wife--he had
assumed it, to preserve property of another kind he lost it now.

"Ah!" he had said to Bosinney when he could speak, "and I suppose you're
perfectly contented with yourself. But I may as well tell you that
you've altogether mistaken your man!"

What he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, but after
dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself and Bosinney to
make quite sure. There could be no two opinions about it--the fellow had
made himself liable for that extra four hundred, or, at all events, for
three hundred and fifty of it, and he would have to make it good.

He was looking at his wife's face when he came to this conclusion. Seated
in her usual seat on the sofa, she was altering the lace on a collar.
She had not once spoken to him all the evening.

He went up to the mantelpiece, and contemplating his face in the mirror
said: "Your friend the Buccaneer has made a fool of himself; he will have
to pay for it!"

She looked at him scornfully, and answered: "I don't know what you are
talking about!"

"You soon will. A mere trifle, quite beneath your contempt--four hundred
pounds."

"Do you mean that you are going to make him pay that towards this
hateful, house?"

"I do."

"And you know he's got nothing?"

"Yes."

"Then you are meaner than I thought you."

Soames turned from the mirror, and unconsciously taking a china cup from
the mantelpiece, clasped his hands around it as though praying. He saw
her bosom rise and fall, her eyes darkening with anger, and taking no
notice of the taunt, he asked quietly:

"Are you carrying on a flirtation with Bosinney?"

"No, I am not!"

Her eyes met his, and he looked away. He neither believed nor
disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in asking; he
never had known, never would know, what she was thinking. The sight of
her inscrutable face, the thought of all the hundreds of evenings he had
seen her sitting there like that soft and passive, but unreadable,
unknown, enraged him beyond measure.

"I believe you are made of stone," he said, clenching his fingers so hard
that he broke the fragile cup. The pieces fell into the grate. And
Irene smiled.

"You seem to forget," she said, "that cup is not!"

Soames gripped her arm. "A good beating," he said, "is the only thing
that would bring you to your senses," but turning on his heel, he left
the room.




CHAPTER XIV

SOAMES SITS ON THE STAIRS

Soames went upstairs that night that he had gone too far. He was
prepared to offer excuses for his words.

He turned out the gas still burning in the passage outside their room.
Pausing, with his hand on the knob of the door, he tried to shape his
apology, for he had no intention of letting her see that he was nervous.

But the door did not open, nor when he pulled it and turned the handle
firmly. She must have locked it for some reason, and forgotten.

Entering his dressing-room where the gas was also light and burning low,
he went quickly to the other door. That too was locked. Then he noticed
that the camp bed which he occasionally used was prepared, and his
sleeping-suit laid out upon it. He put his hand up to his forehead, and
brought it away wet. It dawned on him that he was barred out.

He went back to the door, and rattling the handle stealthily, called:
"Unlock the door, do you hear? Unlock the door!"

There was a faint rustling, but no answer.

"Do you hear? Let me in at once--I insist on being let in!"

He could catch the sound of her breathing close to the door, like the
breathing of a creature threatened by danger.

There was something terrifying in this inexorable silence, in the
impossibility of getting at her. He went back to the other door, and
putting his whole weight against it, tried to burst it open. The door was
a new one--he had had them renewed himself, in readiness for their coming
in after the honeymoon. In a rage he lifted his foot to kick in the
panel; the thought of the servants restrained him, and he felt suddenly
that he was beaten.

Flinging himself down in the dressing-room, he took up a book.

But instead of the print he seemed to see his wife--with her yellow hair
flowing over her bare shoulders, and her great dark eyes--standing like
an animal at bay. And the whole meaning of her act of revolt came to
him. She meant it to be for good.

He could not sit still, and went to the door again. He could still hear
her, and he called: "Irene! Irene!"

He did not mean to make his voice pathetic.

In ominous answer, the faint sounds ceased. He stood with clenched
hands, thinking.

Presently he stole round on tiptoe, and running suddenly at the other
door, made a supreme effort to break it open. It creaked, but did not
yield. He sat down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands.

For a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the skylight
above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly towards him down the
stairway. He tried to be philosophical.

Since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a wife, and he
would console himself with other women.

It was but a spectral journey he made among such delights--he had no
appetite for these exploits. He had never had much, and he had lost the
habit. He felt that he could never recover it. His hunger could only be
appeased by his wife, inexorable and frightened, behind these shut doors.
No other woman could help him.