The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy


This conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the dark.

His philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place. Her conduct was
immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within his power. He
desired no one but her, and she refused him!

She must really hate him, then! He had never believed it yet. He did not
believe it now. It seemed to him incredible. He felt as though he had
lost for ever his power of judgment. If she, so soft and yielding as he
had always judged her, could take this decided step--what could not
happen?

Then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue with
Bosinney. He did not believe that she was; he could not afford to
believe such a reason for her conduct--the thought was not to be faced.

It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his marital
relations public property. Short of the most convincing proofs he must
still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to punish himself. And all
the time at heart--he did believe.

The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched against the
staircase wall.

Bosinney was in love with her! He hated the fellow, and would not spare
him now. He could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over twelve
thousand and fifty pounds--the extreme limit fixed in the correspondence;
or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue him for damages. He would
go to Jobling and Boulter and put the matter in their hands. He would
ruin the impecunious beggar! And suddenly--though what connection
between the thoughts?--he reflected that Irene had no money either. They
were both beggars. This gave him a strange satisfaction.

The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. She was
going to bed at last. Ah! Joy and pleasant dreams! If she threw the
door open wide he would not go in now!

But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered
his eyes with his hands....

It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the dining-room
window gazing gloomily into the Square.

The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their
gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the
corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion,
with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though nothing
indeed but leaves danced to the tune.

The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the tall
houses no one threw her down coppers. She moved the organ on, and three
doors off began again.

It was the waltz they had played at Roger's when Irene had danced with
Bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came back to
Soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been drifted to him
then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her eyes so soft, drawing
Bosinney on and on down an endless ballroom.

The organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding her tune
all day-grinding it in Sloane Street hard by, grinding it perhaps to
Bosinney himself.

Soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked back to
the window. The tune had mesmerized him, and there came into his view
Irene, her sunshade furled, hastening homewards down the Square, in a
soft, rose-coloured blouse with drooping sleeves, that he did not know.
She stopped before the organ, took out her purse, and gave the woman
money.

Soames shrank back and stood where he could see into the hall.

She came in with her latch-key, put down her sunshade, and stood looking
at herself in the glass. Her cheeks were flushed as if the sun had
burned them; her lips were parted in a smile. She stretched her arms out
as though to embrace herself, with a laugh that for all the world was
like a sob.

Soames stepped forward.

"Very-pretty!" he said.

But as though shot she spun round, and would have passed him up the
stairs. He barred the way.

"Why such a hurry?" he said, and his eyes fastened on a curl of hair
fallen loose across her ear....

He hardly recognised her. She seemed on fire, so deep and rich the
colour of her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and of the unusual blouse she
wore.

She put up her hand and smoothed back the curl. She was breathing fast
and deep, as though she had been running, and with every breath perfume
seemed to come from her hair, and from her body, like perfume from an
opening flower.

"I don't like that blouse," he said slowly, "it's a soft, shapeless
thing!"

He lifted his finger towards her breast, but she dashed his hand aside.

"Don't touch me!" she cried.

He caught her wrist; she wrenched it away.

"And where may you have been?" he asked.

"In heaven--out of this house!" With those words she fled upstairs.

Outside--in thanksgiving--at the very door, the organ-grinder was playing
the waltz.

And Soames stood motionless. What prevented him from following her?

Was it that, with the eyes of faith, he saw Bosinney looking down from
that high window in Sloane Street, straining his eyes for yet another
glimpse of Irene's vanished figure, cooling his flushed face, dreaming of
the moment when she flung herself on his breast--the scent of her still
in the air around, and the sound of her laugh that was like a sob?




PART III




CHAPTER I

Mrs. MACANDER'S EVIDENCE

Many people, no doubt, including the editor of the 'Ultra
Vivisectionist,' then in the bloom of its first youth, would say that
Soames was less than a man not to have removed the locks from his wife's
doors, and, after beating her soundly, resumed wedded happiness.

Brutality is not so deplorably diluted by humaneness as it used to be,
yet a sentimental segment of the population may still be relieved to
learn that he did none of these things. For active brutality is not
popular with Forsytes; they are too circumspect, and, on the whole, too
softhearted. And in Soames there was some common pride, not sufficient
to make him do a really generous action, but enough to prevent his
indulging in an extremely mean one, except, perhaps, in very hot blood.
Above all this a true Forsyte refused to feel himself ridiculous. Short
of actually beating his wife, he perceived nothing to be done; he
therefore accepted the situation without another word.

Throughout the summer and autumn he continued to go to the office, to
sort his pictures, and ask his friends to dinner.

He did not leave town; Irene refused to go away. The house at Robin
Hill, finished though it was, remained empty and ownerless. Soames had
brought a suit against the Buccaneer, in which he claimed from him the
sum of three hundred and fifty pounds.

A firm of solicitors, Messrs. Freak and Able, had put in a defence on
Bosinney's behalf. Admitting the facts, they raised a point on the
correspondence which, divested of legal phraseology, amounted to this: To
speak of 'a free hand in the terms of this correspondence' is an Irish
bull.

By a chance, fortuitous but not improbable in the close borough of legal
circles, a good deal of information came to Soames' ear anent this line
of policy, the working partner in his firm, Bustard, happening to sit
next at dinner at Walmisley's, the Taxing Master, to young Chankery, of
the Common Law Bar.

The necessity for talking what is known as 'shop,' which comes on all
lawyers with the removal of the ladies, caused Chankery, a young and
promising advocate, to propound an impersonal conundrum to his neighbour,
whose name he did not know, for, seated as he permanently was in the
background, Bustard had practically no name.

He had, said Chankery, a case coming on with a 'very nice point.' He then
explained, preserving every professional discretion, the riddle in
Soames' case. Everyone, he said, to whom he had spoken, thought it a
nice point. The issue was small unfortunately, 'though d----d serious
for his client he believed'--Walmisley's champagne was bad but plentiful.
A Judge would make short work of it, he was afraid. He intended to make
a big effort--the point was a nice one. What did his neighbour say?

Bustard, a model of secrecy, said nothing. He related the incident to
Soames however with some malice, for this quiet man was capable of human
feeling, ending with his own opinion that the point was 'a very nice
one.'

In accordance with his resolve, our Forsyte had put his interests into
the hands of Jobling and Boulter. From the moment of doing so he
regretted that he had not acted for himself. On receiving a copy of
Bosinney's defence he went over to their offices.

Boulter, who had the matter in hand, Jobling having died some years
before, told him that in his opinion it was rather a nice point; he would
like counsel's opinion on it.

Soames told him to go to a good man, and they went to Waterbuck, Q.C.,
marking him ten and one, who kept the papers six weeks and then wrote as
follows:

'In my opinion the true interpretation of this correspondence depends
very much on the intention of the parties, and will turn upon the
evidence given at the trial. I am of opinion that an attempt should be
made to secure from the architect an admission that he understood he was
not to spend at the outside more than twelve thousand and fifty pounds.
With regard to the expression, "a free hand in the terms of this
correspondence," to which my attention is directed, the point is a nice
one; but I am of opinion that upon the whole the ruling in "Boileau v.
The Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.," will apply.'

Upon this opinion they acted, administering interrogatories, but to their
annoyance Messrs. Freak and Able answered these in so masterly a fashion
that nothing whatever was admitted and that without prejudice.

It was on October 1 that Soames read Waterbuck's opinion, in the
dining-room before dinner.

It made him nervous; not so much because of the case of 'Boileau v. The
Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.,' as that the point had lately begun to seem to
him, too, a nice one; there was about it just that pleasant flavour of
subtlety so attractive to the best legal appetites. To have his own
impression confirmed by Waterbuck, Q.C., would have disturbed any man.

He sat thinking it over, and staring at the empty grate, for though
autumn had come, the weather kept as gloriously fine that jubilee year as
if it were still high August. It was not pleasant to be disturbed; he
desired too passionately to set his foot on Bosinney's neck.

Though he had not seen the architect since the last afternoon at Robin
Hill, he was never free from the sense of his presence--never free from
the memory of his worn face with its high cheek bones and enthusiastic
eyes. It would not be too much to say that he had never got rid of the
feeling of that night when he heard the peacock's cry at dawn--the
feeling that Bosinney haunted the house. And every man's shape that he
saw in the dark evenings walking past, seemed that of him whom George had
so appropriately named the Buccaneer.

Irene still met him, he was certain; where, or how, he neither knew, nor
asked; deterred by a vague and secret dread of too much knowledge. It
all seemed subterranean nowadays.

Sometimes when he questioned his wife as to where she had been, which he
still made a point of doing, as every Forsyte should, she looked very
strange. Her self-possession was wonderful, but there were moments when,
behind the mask of her face, inscrutable as it had always been to him,
lurked an expression he had never been used to see there.

She had taken to lunching out too; when he asked Bilson if her mistress
had been in to lunch, as often as not she would answer: "No, sir."

He strongly disapproved of her gadding about by herself, and told her so.
But she took no notice. There was something that angered, amazed, yet
almost amused him about the calm way in which she disregarded his wishes.
It was really as if she were hugging to herself the thought of a triumph
over him.

He rose from the perusal of Waterbuck, Q.C.'s opinion, and, going
upstairs, entered her room, for she did not lock her doors till
bed-time--she had the decency, he found, to save the feelings of the
servants. She was brushing her hair, and turned to him with strange
fierceness.

"What do you want?" she said. "Please leave my room!"

He answered: "I want to know how long this state of things between us is
to last? I have put up with it long enough."

"Will you please leave my room?"

"Will you treat me as your husband?"

"No."

"Then, I shall take steps to make you."

"Do!"

He stared, amazed at the calmness of her answer. Her lips were
compressed in a thin line; her hair lay in fluffy masses on her bare
shoulders, in all its strange golden contrast to her dark eyes--those
eyes alive with the emotions of fear, hate, contempt, and odd, haunting
triumph.

"Now, please, will you leave my room?" He turned round, and went sulkily
out.

He knew very well that he had no intention of taking steps, and he saw
that she knew too--knew that he was afraid to.

It was a habit with him to tell her the doings of his day: how such and
such clients had called; how he had arranged a mortgage for Parkes; how
that long-standing suit of Fryer v. Forsyte was getting on, which,
arising in the preternaturally careful disposition of his property by his
great uncle Nicholas, who had tied it up so that no one could get at it
at all, seemed likely to remain a source of income for several solicitors
till the Day of Judgment.

And how he had called in at Jobson's, and seen a Boucher sold, which he
had just missed buying of Talleyrand and Sons in Pall Mall.

He had an admiration for Boucher, Watteau, and all that school. It was a
habit with him to tell her all these matters, and he continued to do it
even now, talking for long spells at dinner, as though by the volubility
of words he could conceal from himself the ache in his heart.

Often, if they were alone, he made an attempt to kiss her when she said
good-night. He may have had some vague notion that some night she would
let him; or perhaps only the feeling that a husband ought to kiss his
wife. Even if she hated him, he at all events ought not to put himself
in the wrong by neglecting this ancient rite.

And why did she hate him? Even now he could not altogether believe it.
It was strange to be hated!--the emotion was too extreme; yet he hated
Bosinney, that Buccaneer, that prowling vagabond, that night-wanderer.
For in his thoughts Soames always saw him lying in wait--wandering. Ah,
but he must be in very low water! Young Burkitt, the architect, had seen
him coming out of a third-rate restaurant, looking terribly down in the
mouth!

During all the hours he lay awake, thinking over the situation, which
seemed to have no end--unless she should suddenly come to her
senses--never once did the thought of separating from his wife seriously
enter his head....

And the Forsytes! What part did they play in this stage of Soames'
subterranean tragedy?

Truth to say, little or none, for they were at the sea.

From hotels, hydropathics, or lodging-houses, they were bathing daily;
laying in a stock of ozone to last them through the winter.

Each section, in the vineyard of its own choosing, grew and culled and
pressed and bottled the grapes of a pet sea-air.

The end of September began to witness their several returns.

In rude health and small omnibuses, with considerable colour in their
cheeks, they arrived daily from the various termini. The following
morning saw them back at their vocations.

On the next Sunday Timothy's was thronged from lunch till dinner.

Amongst other gossip, too numerous and interesting to relate, Mrs.
Septimus Small mentioned that Soames and Irene had not been away.

It remained for a comparative outsider to supply the next evidence of
interest.

It chanced that one afternoon late in September, Mrs. MacAnder, Winifred
Dartie's greatest friend, taking a constitutional, with young Augustus
Flippard, on her bicycle in Richmond Park, passed Irene and Bosinney
walking from the bracken towards the Sheen Gate.

Perhaps the poor little woman was thirsty, for she had ridden long on a
hard, dry road, and, as all London knows, to ride a bicycle and talk to
young Flippard will try the toughest constitution; or perhaps the sight
of the cool bracken grove, whence 'those two' were coming down, excited
her envy. The cool bracken grove on the top of the hill, with the oak
boughs for roof, where the pigeons were raising an endless wedding hymn,
and the autumn, humming, whispered to the ears of lovers in the fern,
while the deer stole by. The bracken grove of irretrievable delights, of
golden minutes in the long marriage of heaven and earth! The bracken
grove, sacred to stags, to strange tree-stump fauns leaping around the
silver whiteness of a birch-tree nymph at summer dusk.

This lady knew all the Forsytes, and having been at June's 'at home,' was
not at a loss to see with whom she had to deal. Her own marriage, poor
thing, had not been successful, but having had the good sense and ability
to force her husband into pronounced error, she herself had passed
through the necessary divorce proceedings without incurring censure.

She was therefore a judge of all that sort of thing, and lived in one of
those large buildings, where in small sets of apartments, are gathered
incredible quantities of Forsytes, whose chief recreation out of business
hours is the discussion of each other's affairs.

Poor little woman, perhaps she was thirsty, certainly she was bored, for
Flippard was a wit. To see 'those two' in so unlikely a spot was quite a
merciful 'pick-me-up.'

At the MacAnder, like all London, Time pauses.

This small but remarkable woman merits attention; her all-seeing eye and
shrewd tongue were inscrutably the means of furthering the ends of
Providence.

With an air of being in at the death, she had an almost distressing power
of taking care of herself. She had done more, perhaps, in her way than
any woman about town to destroy the sense of chivalry which still clogs
the wheel of civilization. So smart she was, and spoken of endearingly as
'the little MacAnder!'

Dressing tightly and well, she belonged to a Woman's Club, but was by no
means the neurotic and dismal type of member who was always thinking of
her rights. She took her rights unconsciously, they came natural to her,
and she knew exactly how to make the most of them without exciting
anything but admiration amongst that great class to whom she was
affiliated, not precisely perhaps by manner, but by birth, breeding, and
the true, the secret gauge, a sense of property.

The daughter of a Bedfordshire solicitor, by the daughter of a clergyman,
she had never, through all the painful experience of being married to a
very mild painter with a cranky love of Nature, who had deserted her for
an actress, lost touch with the requirements, beliefs, and inner feeling
of Society; and, on attaining her liberty, she placed herself without
effort in the very van of Forsyteism.

Always in good spirits, and 'full of information,' she was universally
welcomed. She excited neither surprise nor disapprobation when
encountered on the Rhine or at Zermatt, either alone, or travelling with
a lady and two gentlemen; it was felt that she was perfectly capable of
taking care of herself; and the hearts of all Forsytes warmed to that
wonderful instinct, which enabled her to enjoy everything without giving
anything away. It was generally felt that to such women as Mrs. MacAnder
should we look for the perpetuation and increase of our best type of
woman. She had never had any children.

If there was one thing more than another that she could not stand it was
one of those soft women with what men called 'charm' about them, and for
Mrs. Soames she always had an especial dislike.

Obscurely, no doubt, she felt that if charm were once admitted as the
criterion, smartness and capability must go to the wall; and she
hated--with a hatred the deeper that at times this so-called charm seemed
to disturb all calculations--the subtle seductiveness which she could not
altogether overlook in Irene.

She said, however, that she could see nothing in the woman--there was no
'go' about her--she would never be able to stand up for herself--anyone
could take advantage of her, that was plain--she could not see in fact
what men found to admire!

She was not really ill-natured, but, in maintaining her position after
the trying circumstances of her married life, she had found it so
necessary to be 'full of information,' that the idea of holding her
tongue about 'those two' in the Park never occurred to her.

And it so happened that she was dining that very evening at Timothy's,
where she went sometimes to 'cheer the old things up,' as she was wont to
put it. The same people were always asked to meet her: Winifred Dartie
and her husband; Francie, because she belonged to the artistic circles,
for Mrs. MacAnder was known to contribute articles on dress to 'The
Ladies Kingdom Come'; and for her to flirt with, provided they could be
obtained, two of the Hayman boys, who, though they never said anything,
were believed to be fast and thoroughly intimate with all that was latest
in smart Society.

At twenty-five minutes past seven she turned out the electric light in
her little hall, and wrapped in her opera cloak with the chinchilla
collar, came out into the corridor, pausing a moment to make sure she had
her latch-key. These little self-contained flats were convenient; to be
sure, she had no light and no air, but she could shut it up whenever she
liked and go away. There was no bother with servants, and she never felt
tied as she used to when poor, dear Fred was always about, in his mooney
way. She retained no rancour against poor, dear Fred, he was such a
fool; but the thought of that actress drew from her, even now, a little,
bitter, derisive smile.

Firmly snapping the door to, she crossed the corridor, with its gloomy,
yellow-ochre walls, and its infinite vista of brown, numbered doors. The
lift was going down; and wrapped to the ears in the high cloak, with
every one of her auburn hairs in its place, she waited motionless for it
to stop at her floor. The iron gates clanked open; she entered. There
were already three occupants, a man in a great white waistcoat, with a
large, smooth face like a baby's, and two old ladies in black, with
mittened hands.

Mrs. MacAnder smiled at them; she knew everybody; and all these three,
who had been admirably silent before, began to talk at once. This was
Mrs. MacAnder's successful secret. She provoked conversation.

Throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued, the lift
boy standing with his back turned, his cynical face protruding through
the bars.

At the bottom they separated, the man in the white waistcoat
sentimentally to the billiard room, the old ladies to dine and say to
each other: "A dear little woman!" "Such a rattle!" and Mrs. MacAnder to
her cab.

When Mrs. MacAnder dined at Timothy's, the conversation (although Timothy
himself could never be induced to be present) took that wider,
man-of-the-world tone current among Forsytes at large, and this, no
doubt, was what put her at a premium there.

Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester found it an exhilarating change. "If only,"
they said, "Timothy would meet her!" It was felt that she would do him
good. She could tell you, for instance, the latest story of Sir Charles
Fiste's son at Monte Carlo; who was the real heroine of Tynemouth Eddy's
fashionable novel that everyone was holding up their hands over, and what
they were doing in Paris about wearing bloomers. She was so sensible,
too, knowing all about that vexed question, whether to send young
Nicholas' eldest into the navy as his mother wished, or make him an
accountant as his father thought would be safer. She strongly deprecated
the navy. If you were not exceptionally brilliant or exceptionally well
connected, they passed you over so disgracefully, and what was it after
all to look forward to, even if you became an admiral--a pittance! An
accountant had many more chances, but let him be put with a good firm,
where there was no risk at starting!

Sometimes she would give them a tip on the Stock Exchange; not that Mrs.
Small or Aunt Hester ever took it. They had indeed no money to invest;
but it seemed to bring them into such exciting touch with the realities
of life. It was an event. They would ask Timothy, they said. But they
never did, knowing in advance that it would upset him. Surreptitiously,
however, for weeks after they would look in that paper, which they took
with respect on account of its really fashionable proclivities, to see
whether 'Bright's Rubies' or 'The Woollen Mackintosh Company' were up or
down. Sometimes they could not find the name of the company at all; and
they would wait until James or Roger or even Swithin came in, and ask
them in voices trembling with curiosity how that 'Bolivia Lime and
Speltrate' was doing--they could not find it in the paper.