The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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


"In completing these decorations, the defendant incurred liabilities and
expenses which brought the total cost of this house up to the sum of
twelve thousand four hundred pounds, all of which expenditure has been
defrayed by the plaintiff. This action has been brought by the plaintiff
to recover from the defendant the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds
expended by him in excess of a sum of twelve thousand and fifty pounds,
alleged by the plaintiff to have been fixed by this correspondence as the
maximum sum that the defendant had authority to expend.

"The question for me to decide is whether or no the defendant is liable
to refund to the plaintiff this sum. In my judgment he is so liable.

"What in effect the plaintiff has said is this 'I give you a free hand to
complete these decorations, provided that you keep within a total cost to
me of twelve thousand pounds. If you exceed that sum by as much as fifty
pounds, I will not hold you responsible; beyond that point you are no
agent of mine, and I shall repudiate liability.' It is not quite clear to
me whether, had the plaintiff in fact repudiated liability under his
agent's contracts, he would, under all the circumstances, have been
successful in so doing; but he has not adopted this course. He has
accepted liability, and fallen back upon his rights against the defendant
under the terms of the latter's engagement.

"In my judgment the plaintiff is entitled to recover this sum from the
defendant.

"It has been sought, on behalf of the defendant, to show that no limit of
expenditure was fixed or intended to be fixed by this correspondence. If
this were so, I can find no reason for the plaintiff's importation into
the correspondence of the figures of twelve thousand pounds and
subsequently of fifty pounds. The defendant's contention would render
these figures meaningless. It is manifest to me that by his letter of May
20 he assented to a very clear proposition, by the terms of which he must
be held to be bound.

"For these reasons there will be judgment for the plaintiff for the
amount claimed with costs."

James sighed, and stooping, picked up his umbrella which had fallen with
a rattle at the words 'importation into this correspondence.'

Untangling his legs, he rapidly left the Court; without waiting for his
son, he snapped up a hansom cab (it was a clear, grey afternoon) and
drove straight to Timothy's where he found Swithin; and to him, Mrs.
Septimus Small, and Aunt Hester, he recounted the whole proceedings,
eating two muffins not altogether in the intervals of speech.

"Soames did very well," he ended; "he's got his head screwed on the right
way. This won't please Jolyon. It's a bad business for that young
Bosinney; he'll go bankrupt, I shouldn't wonder," and then after a long
pause, during which he had stared disquietly into the fire, he added:

"He wasn't there--now why?"

There was a sound of footsteps. The figure of a thick-set man, with the
ruddy brown face of robust health, was seen in the back drawing-room.
The forefinger of his upraised hand was outlined against the black of his
frock coat. He spoke in a grudging voice.

"Well, James," he said, "I can't--I can't stop," and turning round, he
walked out.

It was Timothy.

James rose from his chair. "There!" he said, "there! I knew there was
something wro...." He checked himself, and was silent, staring before
him, as though he had seen a portent.




CHAPTER VI

SOAMES BREAKS THE NEWS

In leaving the Court Soames did not go straight home. He felt
disinclined for the City, and drawn by need for sympathy in his triumph,
he, too, made his way, but slowly and on foot, to Timothy's in the
Bayswater Road.

His father had just left; Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester, in possession of
the whole story, greeted him warmly. They were sure he was hungry after
all that evidence. Smither should toast him some more muffins, his dear
father had eaten them all. He must put his legs up on the sofa; and he
must have a glass of prune brandy too. It was so strengthening.

Swithin was still present, having lingered later than his wont, for he
felt in want of exercise. On hearing this suggestion, he 'pished.' A
pretty pass young men were coming to! His own liver was out of order,
and he could not bear the thought of anyone else drinking prune brandy.

He went away almost immediately, saying to Soames: "And how's your wife?
You tell her from me that if she's dull, and likes to come and dine with
me quietly, I'll give her such a bottle of champagne as she doesn't get
every day." Staring down from his height on Soames he contracted his
thick, puffy, yellow hand as though squeezing within it all this small
fry, and throwing out his chest he waddled slowly away.

Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester were left horrified. Swithin was so droll!

They themselves were longing to ask Soames how Irene would take the
result, yet knew that they must not; he would perhaps say something of
his own accord, to throw some light on this, the present burning question
in their lives, the question that from necessity of silence tortured them
almost beyond bearing; for even Timothy had now been told, and the effect
on his health was little short of alarming. And what, too, would June
do? This, also, was a most exciting, if dangerous speculation!

They had never forgotten old Jolyon's visit, since when he had not once
been to see them; they had never forgotten the feeling it gave all who
were present, that the family was no longer what it had been--that the
family was breaking up.

But Soames gave them no help, sitting with his knees crossed, talking of
the Barbizon school of painters, whom he had just discovered. These were
the coming men, he said; he should not wonder if a lot of money were made
over them; he had his eye on two pictures by a man called Corot, charming
things; if he could get them at a reasonable price he was going to buy
them--they would, he thought, fetch a big price some day.

Interested as they could not but be, neither Mrs. Septimus Small nor Aunt
Hester could entirely acquiesce in being thus put off.

It was interesting--most interesting--and then Soames was so clever that
they were sure he would do something with those pictures if anybody
could; but what was his plan now that he had won his case; was he going
to leave London at once, and live in the country, or what was he going to
do?

Soames answered that he did not know, he thought they should be moving
soon. He rose and kissed his aunts.

No sooner had Aunt Juley received this emblem of departure than a change
came over her, as though she were being visited by dreadful courage;
every little roll of flesh on her face seemed trying to escape from an
invisible, confining mask.

She rose to the full extent of her more than medium height, and said: "It
has been on my mind a long time, dear, and if nobody else will tell you,
I have made up my mind that...."

Aunt Hester interrupted her: "Mind, Julia, you do it...." she gasped--"on
your own responsibility!"

Mrs. Small went on as though she had not heard: "I think you ought to
know, dear, that Mrs. MacAnder saw Irene walking in Richmond Park with
Mr. Bosinney."

Aunt Hester, who had also risen, sank back in her chair, and turned her
face away. Really Juley was too--she should not do such things when
she--Aunt Hester, was in the room; and, breathless with anticipation, she
waited for what Soames would answer.

He had flushed the peculiar flush which always centred between his eyes;
lifting his hand, and, as it were, selecting a finger, he bit a nail
delicately; then, drawling it out between set lips, he said: "Mrs.
MacAnder is a cat!"

Without waiting for any reply, he left the room.

When he went into Timothy's he had made up his mind what course to pursue
on getting home. He would go up to Irene and say:

"Well, I've won my case, and there's an end of it! I don't want to be
hard on Bosinney; I'll see if we can't come to some arrangement; he
shan't be pressed. And now let's turn over a new leaf! We'll let the
house, and get out of these fogs. We'll go down to Robin Hill at once.
I--I never meant to be rough with you! Let's shake hands--and--"
Perhaps she would let him kiss her, and forget!

When he came out of Timothy's his intentions were no longer so simple.
The smouldering jealousy and suspicion of months blazed up within him.
He would put an end to that sort of thing once and for all; he would not
have her drag his name in the dirt! If she could not or would not love
him, as was her duty and his right--she should not play him tricks with
anyone else! He would tax her with it; threaten to divorce her! That
would make her behave; she would never face that. But--but--what if she
did? He was staggered; this had not occurred to him.

What if she did? What if she made him a confession? How would he stand
then? He would have to bring a divorce!

A divorce! Thus close, the word was paralyzing, so utterly at variance
with all the principles that had hitherto guided his life. Its lack of
compromise appalled him; he felt--like the captain of a ship, going to
the side of his vessel, and, with his own hands throwing over the most
precious of his bales. This jettisoning of his property with his own
hand seemed uncanny to Soames. It would injure him in his profession: He
would have to get rid of the house at Robin Hill, on which he had spent
so much money, so much anticipation--and at a sacrifice. And she! She
would no longer belong to him, not even in name! She would pass out of
his life, and he--he should never see her again!

He traversed in the cab the length of a street without getting beyond the
thought that he should never see her again!

But perhaps there was nothing to confess, even now very likely there was
nothing to confess. Was it wise to push things so far? Was it wise to
put himself into a position where he might have to eat his words? The
result of this case would ruin Bosinney; a ruined man was desperate,
but--what could he do? He might go abroad, ruined men always went
abroad. What could they do--if indeed it was 'they'--without money? It
would be better to wait and see how things turned out. If necessary, he
could have her watched. The agony of his jealousy (for all the world
like the crisis of an aching tooth) came on again; and he almost cried
out. But he must decide, fix on some course of action before he got
home. When the cab drew up at the door, he had decided nothing.

He entered, pale, his hands moist with perspiration, dreading to meet
her, burning to meet her, ignorant of what he was to say or do.

The maid Bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question: "Where is
your mistress?" told him that Mrs. Forsyte had left the house about noon,
taking with her a trunk and bag.

Snatching the sleeve of his fur coat away from her grasp, he confronted
her:

"What?" he exclaimed; "what's that you said?" Suddenly recollecting that
he must not betray emotion, he added: "What message did she leave?" and
noticed with secret terror the startled look of the maid's eyes.

"Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir."

"No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be dining out."

The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly turning
over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood on the carved
oak rug chest in the hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher. Mrs. Septimus Small. Mrs. Baynes. Mr.
Solomon Thornworthy. Lady Bellis. Miss Hermione Bellis. Miss Winifred
Bellis. Miss Ella Bellis.

Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten all
familiar things. The words 'no message--a trunk, and a bag,' played a
hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she had left no
message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs two steps at a time,
as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his wife's room.

Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect
order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had
made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her
slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as
though expecting her.

On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her
dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some mistake. What
bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon Bilson, but remembered
in time that he must assume knowledge of where Irene had gone, take it
all as a matter of course, and grope out the meaning for himself.

He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going round;
and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes.

Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror.

He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water,
and began feverishly washing.

Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used
for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy
seized him again.

Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street.

He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down
Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her
at Bosinney's. But if he should? His power of decision again failed; he
reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her
there.

It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who
opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or no; she had not
seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him
now, nobody attended to him, he....

Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He went up
with a dogged, white face.

The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his
ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, shivering
under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he told the man to
drive to Park Lane.

On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque; she
could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her jewels;
and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she could raise
on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to live on for
months! He tried to calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the
calculation unmade.

The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master had told
him they were both expected to dinner.

Soames answered: "No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold."

The butler was sorry.

Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and remembering that
he was not in dress clothes, asked: "Anybody here to dinner, Warmson?"

"Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir."

Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously at him.
His composure gave way.

"What are you looking at?" he said. "What's the matter with me, eh?"

The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that sounded
like: "Nothing, sir, I'm sure, sir," and stealthily withdrew.

Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, he went
straight up to his mother's and father's bedroom.

James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure
displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head
bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white
Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips
pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife's bodice. Soames stopped;
he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or
for some other reason. He--he himself had never--never been asked to....

He heard his father's voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth,
saying: "Who's that? Who's there? What d'you want?" His mother's:
"Here, Felice, come and hook this; your master'll never get done."

He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely:

"It's I--Soames!"

He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily's: "Well, my
dear boy?" and James', as he dropped the hook: "What, Soames! What's
brought you up? Aren't you well?"

He answered mechanically: "I'm all right," and looked at them, and it
seemed impossible to bring out his news.

James, quick to take alarm, began: "You don't look well. I expect you've
taken a chill--it's liver, I shouldn't wonder. Your mother'll give
you...."

But Emily broke in quietly: "Have you brought Irene?"

Soames shook his head.

"No," he stammered, "she--she's left me!"

Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her tall, full
figure lost its majesty and became very human as she came running over to
Soames.

"My dear boy! My dear boy!"

She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand.

James, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked older.

"Left you?" he said. "What d'you mean--left you? You never told me she
was going to leave you."

Soames answered surlily: "How could I tell? What's to be done?"

James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like without
a coat. "What's to be done!" he muttered. "How should I know what's to
be done? What's the good of asking me? Nobody tells me anything, and
then they come and ask me what's to be done; and I should like to know
how I'm to tell them! Here's your mother, there she stands; she doesn't
say anything. What I should say you've got to do is to follow her.."

Soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before looked
pitiable.

"I don't know where she's gone," he said.

"Don't know where she's gone!" said James. "How d'you mean, don't know
where she's gone? Where d'you suppose she's gone? She's gone after that
young Bosinney, that's where she's gone. I knew how it would be."

Soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother pressing his
hand. And all that passed seemed to pass as though his own power of
thinking or doing had gone to sleep.

His father's face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to cry, and
words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some spasm in his soul.

"There'll be a scandal; I always said so." Then, no one saying anything:
"And there you stand, you and your mother!"

And Emily's voice, calm, rather contemptuous: "Come, now, James! Soames
will do all that he can."

And James, staring at the floor, a little brokenly: "Well, I can't help
you; I'm getting old. Don't you be in too great a hurry, my boy."

And his mother's voice again: "Soames will do all he can to get her back.
We won't talk of it. It'll all come right, I dare say."

And James: "Well, I can't see how it can come right. And if she hasn't
gone off with that young Bosinney, my advice to you is not to listen to
her, but to follow her and get her back."

Once more Soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of her
approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath, he muttered
between his teeth: "I will!"

All three went down to the drawing-room together. There, were gathered
the three girls and Dartie; had Irene been present, the family circle
would have been complete.

James sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold greeting to
Dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man likely to be always
in want of money, he said nothing till dinner was announced. Soames,
too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of cool courage, maintained a
conversation with Winifred on trivial subjects. She was never more
composed in her manner and conversation than that evening.

A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene's flight, no view
was expressed by any other member of the family as to the right course to
be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the general tone adopted in
relation to events as they afterwards turned out, that James's advice:
"Don't you listen to her, follow-her and get her back!" would, with here
and there an exception, have been regarded as sound, not only in Park
Lane, but amongst the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy's. Just as
it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of Forsytes all
over London, who were merely excluded from judgment by ignorance of the
story.

In spite then of Emily's efforts, the dinner was served by Warmson and
the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and drank all he could
get; the girls seldom talked to each other at any time. James asked once
where June was, and what she was doing with herself in these days. No
one could tell him. He sank back into gloom. Only when Winifred
recounted how little Publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he
brighten up.

"Ah!" he said, "that's a clever little chap. I don't know what'll become
of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent little chap, I call
him!" But it was only a flash.

The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric light,
which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the principal
ornament of the walls, a so-called 'Sea Piece by Turner,' almost entirely
composed of cordage and drowning men.

Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James' prehistoric port, but
as by the chill hand of some skeleton.

At ten o'clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had said that
Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust himself. His mother
kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a flush of
warmth in his cheeks. He walked away in the cold wind, which whistled
desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of clear
steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting,
nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women
hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at
street corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home, oblivious;
his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt wire cage
into which they had been thrust through the slit in the door.'

None from Irene!

He went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his chair drawn
up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven cigarette box on the
table; but after staring at it all for a minute or two, he turned out the
light and went upstairs. There was a fire too in his dressing-room, but
her room was dark and cold. It was into this room that Soames went.

He made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time continued
pacing up and down between the bed and the door. He could not get used
to the thought that she had really left him, and as though still
searching for some message, some reason, some reading of all the mystery
of his married life, he began opening every recess and drawer.

There were her dresses; he had always liked, indeed insisted, that she
should be well-dressed--she had taken very few; two or three at most, and
drawer after drawer; full of linen and silk things, was untouched.

Perhaps after all it was only a freak, and she had gone to the seaside
for a few days' change. If only that were so, and she were really coming
back, he would never again do as he had done that fatal night before
last, never again run that risk--though it was her duty, her duty as a
wife; though she did belong to him--he would never again run that risk;
she was evidently not quite right in her head!

He stooped over the drawer where she kept her jewels; it was not locked,
and came open as he pulled; the jewel box had the key in it. This
surprised him until he remembered that it was sure to be empty. He
opened it.

It was far from empty. Divided, in little green velvet compartments,
were all the things he had given her, even her watch, and stuck into the
recess that contained--the watch was a three-cornered note addressed
'Soames Forsyte,' in Irene's handwriting:

'I think I have taken nothing that you or your people have given me.'
And that was all.

He looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at the
little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires, at the
chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed up in his eyes
and dropped upon them.

Nothing that she could have done, nothing that she had done, brought home
to him like this the inner significance of her act. For the moment,
perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to understand--understood
that she loathed him, that she had loathed him for years, that for all
intents and purposes they were like people living in different worlds,
that there was no hope for him, never had been; even, that she had
suffered--that she was to be pitied.

In that moment of emotion he betrayed the Forsyte in him--forgot himself,
his interests, his property--was capable of almost anything; was lifted
into the pure ether of the selfless and unpractical.

Such moments pass quickly.

And as though with the tears he had purged himself of weakness, he got
up, locked the box, and slowly, almost trembling, carried it with him
into the other room.




CHAPTER VII

JUNE'S VICTORY

June had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of the
journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at first puzzled
old Jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it with all the
promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character.