The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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CHAPTER III

VISIT TO IRENE

Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had
received his telegram while at breakfast. Her abode--a studio and two
bedrooms in a St. John's Wood garden--had been selected by her for the
complete independence which it guaranteed. Unwatched by Mrs. Grundy,
unhindered by permanent domestics, she could receive lame ducks at any
hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck without studio of its own
made use of June's. She enjoyed her freedom, and possessed herself with
a sort of virginal passion; the warmth which she would have lavished on
Bosinney, and of which--given her Forsyte tenacity--he must surely have
tired, she now expended in championship of the underdogs and budding
'geniuses' of the artistic world. She lived, in fact, to turn ducks into
the swans she believed they were. The very fervour of her protection
warped her judgments. But she was loyal and liberal; her small eager
hand was ever against the oppressions of academic and commercial opinion,
and though her income was considerable, her bank balance was often a
minus quantity.

She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit to Eric
Cobbley. A miserable Gallery had refused to let that straight-haired
genius have his one-man show after all. Its impudent manager, after
visiting his studio, had expressed the opinion that it would only be a
'one-horse show from the selling point of view.' This crowning example
of commercial cowardice towards her favourite lame duck--and he so hard
up, with a wife and two children, that he had caused her account to be
overdrawn--was still making the blood glow in her small, resolute face,
and her red-gold hair to shine more than ever. She gave her father a
hug, and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to fry with him as
he with her. It became at once a question which would fry them first.

Jolyon had reached the words: "My dear, I want you to come with me,"
when, glancing at her face, he perceived by her blue eyes moving from
side to side--like the tail of a preoccupied cat--that she was not
attending. "Dad, is it true that I absolutely can't get at any of my
money?"

"Only the income, fortunately, my love."

"How perfectly beastly! Can't it be done somehow? There must be a way.
I know I could buy a small Gallery for ten thousand pounds."

"A small Gallery," murmured Jolyon, "seems a modest desire. But your
grandfather foresaw it."

"I think," cried June vigorously, "that all this care about money is
awful, when there's so much genius in the world simply crushed out for
want of a little. I shall never marry and have children; why shouldn't I
be able to do some good instead of having it all tied up in case of
things which will never come off?"

"Our name is Forsyte, my dear," replied Jolyon in the ironical voice to
which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown accustomed; "and
Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle their property that their
grandchildren, in case they should die before their parents, have to make
wills leaving the property that will only come to themselves when their
parents die. Do you follow that? Nor do I, but it's a fact, anyway; we
live by the principle that so long as there is a possibility of keeping
wealth in the family it must not go out; if you die unmarried, your money
goes to Jolly and Holly and their children if they marry. Isn't it
pleasant to know that whatever you do you can none of you be destitute?"

"But can't I borrow the money?"

Jolyon shook his head. "You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if you could
manage it out of your income."

June uttered a contemptuous sound.

"Yes; and have no income left to help anybody with."

"My dear child," murmured Jolyon, "wouldn't it come to the same thing?"

"No," said June shrewdly, "I could buy for ten thousand; that would only
be four hundred a year. But I should have to pay a thousand a year rent,
and that would only leave me five hundred. If I had the Gallery, Dad,
think what I could do. I could make Eric Cobbley's name in no time, and
ever so many others."

"Names worth making make themselves in time."

"When they're dead."

"Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his name
made?"

"Yes, you," said June, pressing his arm.

Jolyon started. 'I?' he thought. 'Oh! Ah! Now she's going to ask me
to do something. We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our different
ways.'

June came closer to him in the cab.

"Darling," she said, "you buy the Gallery, and I'll pay you four hundred
a year for it. Then neither of us will be any the worse off. Besides,
it's a splendid investment."

Jolyon wriggled. "Don't you think," he said, "that for an artist to buy
a Gallery is a bit dubious? Besides, ten thousand pounds is a lump, and
I'm not a commercial character."

June looked at him with admiring appraisement.

"Of course you're not, but you're awfully businesslike. And I'm sure we
could make it pay. It'll be a perfect way of scoring off those wretched
dealers and people." And again she squeezed her father's arm.

Jolyon's face expressed quizzical despair.

"Where is this desirable Gallery? Splendidly situated, I suppose?"

"Just off Cork Street."

'Ah!' thought Jolyon, 'I knew it was just off somewhere. Now for what I
want out of her!'

"Well, I'll think of it, but not just now. You remember Irene? I want
you to come with me and see her. Soames is after her again. She might be
safer if we could give her asylum somewhere."

The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most calculated
to rouse June's interest.

"Irene! I haven't seen her since! Of course! I'd love to help her."

It was Jolyon's turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for this
spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting.

"Irene is proud," he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden doubt of
June's discretion; "she's difficult to help. We must tread gently. This
is the place. I wired her to expect us. Let's send up our cards."

"I can't bear Soames," said June as she got out; "he sneers at everything
that isn't successful"

Irene was in what was called the 'Ladies' drawing-room' of the Piedmont
Hotel.

Nothing if not morally courageous, June walked straight up to her former
friend, kissed her cheek, and the two settled down on a sofa never sat on
since the hotel's foundation. Jolyon could see that Irene was deeply
affected by this simple forgiveness.

"So Soames has been worrying you?" he said.

"I had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to him."

"You're not going, of course?" cried June.

Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. "But his position is horrible,"
she murmured.

"It's his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he could."

Jolyon remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped that no
divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover's name.

"Let us hear what Irene is going to do," he said.

Irene's lips quivered, but she spoke calmly.

"I'd better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me."

"How horrible!" cried June.

"What else can I do?"

"Out of the question," said Jolyon very quietly, "sans amour."

He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half turned
her back on them, and stood regaining control of herself.

June said suddenly:

"Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. What
does he want at his age?"

"A child. It's not unnatural"

"A child!" cried June scornfully. "Of course! To leave his money to.
If he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have one; then you
can divorce him, and he can marry her."

Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring June--her
violent partizanship was fighting Soames' battle.

"It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill, and see
how things shape."

"Of course," said June; "only...."

Irene looked full at Jolyon--in all his many attempts afterwards to
analyze that glance he never could succeed.

"No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad."

He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant thought
flashed through him: 'Well, I could see her there.' But he said:

"Don't you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he followed?"

"I don't know. I can but try."

June sprang up and paced the room. "It's all horrible," she said. "Why
should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless year after year
by this disgusting sanctimonious law?" But someone had come into the
room, and June came to a standstill. Jolyon went up to Irene:

"Do you want money?"

"No."

"And would you like me to let your flat?"

"Yes, Jolyon, please."

"When shall you be going?"

"To-morrow."

"You won't go back there in the meantime, will you?" This he said with
an anxiety strange to himself.

"No; I've got all I want here."

"You'll send me your address?"

She put out her hand to him. "I feel you're a rock."

"Built on sand," answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; "but it's a
pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And if you change
your mind....! Come along, June; say good-bye."

June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene.

"Don't think of him," she said under her breath; "enjoy yourself, and
bless you!"

With a memory of tears in Irene's eyes, and of a smile on her lips, they
went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had interrupted the
interview and was turning over the papers on the table.

Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed:

"Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!"

But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father's balance,
and could see things impartially even when his emotions were roused.
Irene was right; Soames' position was as bad or worse than her own. As
for the law--it catered for a human nature of which it took a naturally
low view. And, feeling that if he stayed in his daughter's company he
would in one way or another commit an indiscretion, he told her he must
catch his train back to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner's
water-colours, with the promise that he would think over that Gallery.

But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to love!
If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he pitied her
profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so handicapped and
lonely! 'I hope to goodness she'll keep her head!' he thought; 'she
might easily grow desperate.' In fact, now that she had cut loose from
her poor threads of occupation, he couldn't imagine how she would go
on--so beautiful a creature, hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his
exasperation was more than a little fear and jealousy. Women did strange
things when they were driven into corners. 'I wonder what Soames will do
now!' he thought. 'A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I suppose
they would say it was her own fault.' Very preoccupied and sore at
heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at
Oxford took his hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember
without being able to put a name to her, not even when he saw her having
tea at the Rainbow.




CHAPTER IV

WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD

Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco case still
flat against his heart, Soames revolved thoughts bitter as death. A
spider's web! Walking fast, and noting nothing in the moonlight, he
brooded over the scene he had been through, over the memory of her figure
rigid in his grasp. And the more he brooded, the more certain he became
that she had a lover--her words, 'I would sooner die!' were ridiculous if
she had not. Even if she had never loved him, she had made no fuss until
Bosinney came on the scene. No; she was in love again, or she would not
have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal, which in all the
circumstances was reasonable! Very well! That simplified matters.

'I'll take steps to know where I am,' he thought; 'I'll go to Polteed's
the first thing tomorrow morning.'

But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble with
himself. He had employed Polteed's agency several times in the routine
of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie's case, but he had never
thought it possible to employ them to watch his own wife.

It was too insulting to himself!

He slept over that project and his wounded pride--or rather, kept vigil.
Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she called herself by
her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not know, at first at all
events, whose wife she was, would not look at him obsequiously and leer
behind his back. She would just be the wife of one of his clients. And
that would be true--for was he not his own solicitor?

He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at the first
possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail himself. And making
Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he stole out of the house
before the hour of breakfast. He walked rapidly to one of those small
West End streets where Polteed's and other firms ministered to the
virtues of the wealthier classes. Hitherto he had always had Polteed to
see him in the Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at
the opening hour. In the outer office, a room furnished so cosily that
it might have been a money-lender's, he was attended by a lady who might
have been a schoolmistress.

"I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me--never mind my name."

To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was reduced to
having his wife spied on, was the overpowering consideration.

Mr. Claud Polteed--so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed--was one of those
men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown eyes, who
might be taken for Jews but are really Phoenicians; he received Soames in
a room hushed by thickness of carpet and curtains. It was, in fact,
confidentially furnished, without trace of document anywhere to be seen.

Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door with a
certain ostentation.

"If a client sends for me," he was in the habit of saying, "he takes what
precaution he likes. If he comes here, we convince him that we have no
leakages. I may safely say we lead in security, if in nothing
else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?"

Soames' gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was absolutely
necessary to hide from this man that he had any but professional interest
in the matter; and, mechanically, his face assumed its sideway smile.

"I've come to you early like this because there's not an hour to
lose"--if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! "Have you a really
trustworthy woman free?"

Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes over
it, and locked the drawer up again.

"Yes," he said; "the very woman."

Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs--nothing but a faint
flush, which might have been his normal complexion, betrayed him.

"Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat C, Truro
Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice."

"Precisely," said Mr. Polteed; "divorce, I presume?" and he blew into a
speaking-tube. "Mrs. Blanch in? I shall want to speak to her in ten
minutes."

"Deal with any reports yourself," resumed Soames, "and send them to me
personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My client exacts
the utmost secrecy."

Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, 'You are teaching your grandmother,
my dear sir;' and his eyes slid over Soames' face for one unprofessional
instant.

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

"No," said Soames. "Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a name
gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very serious
consequences."

Mr. Polteed nodded. "I can put it into the cipher category. Under that
system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers."

He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote on
them, and handed one to Soames.

"Keep that, sir; it's your key. I retain this duplicate. The case we'll
call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the watcher 19; the Mansions 25;
yourself--I should say, your firm--31; my firm 32, myself 2. In case you
should have to mention your client in writing I have called him 43; any
person we suspect will be 47; a second person 51. Any special hint or
instruction while we're about it?"

"No," said Soames; "that is--every consideration compatible."

Again Mr. Polteed nodded. "Expense?"

Soames shrugged. "In reason," he answered curtly, and got up. "Keep it
entirely in your own hands."

"Entirely," said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and the
door. "I shall be seeing you in that other case before long. Good
morning, sir." His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames once more, and
he unlocked the door.

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

Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A spider's web,
and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret, unclean method, so
utterly repugnant to one who regarded his private life as his most sacred
piece of property. But the die was cast, he could not go back. And he
went on into the Poultry, and locked away the green morocco case and the
key to that cipher destined to make crystal-clear his domestic
bankruptcy.

Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye all the
private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of others, should
dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; and yet not odd, for
who should know so well as he the whole unfeeling process of legal
regulation.

He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o'clock; he was to take
her down to a conference in the Temple with Dreamer Q.C., and waiting for
her he re-read the letter he had caused her to write the day of Dartie's
departure, requiring him to return.

"DEAR MONTAGUE,

"I have received your letter with the news that you have left me for ever
and are on your way to Buenos Aires. It has naturally been a great
shock. I am taking this earliest opportunity of writing to tell you that
I am prepared to let bygones be bygones if you will return to me at once.
I beg you to do so. I am very much upset, and will not say any more now.
I am sending this letter registered to the address you left at your Club.
Please cable to me.

"Your still affectionate wife,
"WINIFRED DARTIE."

Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred while she
copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said, laying down her pen,
"Suppose he comes, Soames!" in such a strange tone of voice, as if she
did not know her own mind. "He won't come," he had answered, "till he's
spent his money. That's why we must act at once." Annexed to the copy
of that letter was the original of Dartie's drunken scrawl from the
Iseeum Club. Soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly
penned in liquor. Just the sort of thing the Court would pitch on. He
seemed to hear the Judge's voice say: "You took this seriously!
Seriously enough to write him as you did? Do you think he meant it?"
Never mind! The fact was clear that Dartie had sailed and had not
returned. Annexed also was his cabled answer: "Impossible return.
Dartie." Soames shook his head. If the whole thing were not disposed of
within the next few months the fellow would turn up again like a bad
penny. It saved a thousand a year at least to get rid of him, besides
all the worry to Winifred and his father. 'I must stiffen Dreamer's
back,' he thought; 'we must push it on.'

Winifred, who had adopted a kind of half-mourning which became her fair
hair and tall figure very well, arrived in James' barouche drawn by
James' pair. Soames had not seen it in the City since his father retired
from business five years ago, and its incongruity gave him a shock.
'Times are changing,' he thought; 'one doesn't know what'll go next!'
Top hats even were scarcer. He enquired after Val. Val, said Winifred,
wrote that he was going to play polo next term. She thought he was in a
very good set. She added with fashionably disguised anxiety: "Will there
be much publicity about my affair, Soames? Must it be in the papers?
It's so bad for him, and the girls."

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

"The papers are a pushing lot; it's very difficult to keep things out.
They pretend to be guarding the public's morals, and they corrupt them
with their beastly reports. But we haven't got to that yet. We're only
seeing Dreamer to-day on the restitution question. Of course he
understands that it's to lead to a divorce; but you must seem genuinely
anxious to get Dartie back--you might practice that attitude to-day."

Winifred sighed.

"Oh! What a clown Monty's been!" she said.

Soames gave her a sharp look. It was clear to him that she could not
take her Dartie seriously, and would go back on the whole thing if given
half a chance. His own instinct had been firm in this matter from the
first. To save a little scandal now would only bring on his sister and
her children real disgrace and perhaps ruin later on if Dartie were
allowed to hang on to them, going down-hill and spending the money James
would leave his daughter. Though it was all tied up, that fellow would
milk the settlements somehow, and make his family pay through the nose to
keep him out of bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! They left the shining
carriage, with the shining horses and the shining-hatted servants on the
Embankment, and walked up to Dreamer Q.C.'s Chambers in Crown Office Row.

"Mr. Bellby is here, sir," said the clerk; "Mr. Dreamer will be ten
minutes."

Mr. Bellby, the junior--not as junior as he might have been, for Soames
only employed barristers of established reputation; it was, indeed,
something of a mystery to him how barristers ever managed to establish
that which made him employ them--Mr. Bellby was seated, taking a final
glance through his papers. He had come from Court, and was in wig and
gown, which suited a nose jutting out like the handle of a tiny pump, his
small shrewd blue eyes, and rather protruding lower lip--no better man to
supplement and stiffen Dreamer.

The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the weather and
spoke of the war. Soames interrupted suddenly:

"If he doesn't comply we can't bring proceedings for six months. I want
to get on with the matter, Bellby."

Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at Winifred and
murmured: "The Law's delays, Mrs. Dartie."

"Six months!" repeated Soames; "it'll drive it up to June! We shan't get
the suit on till after the long vacation. We must put the screw on,
Bellby"--he would have all his work cut out to keep Winifred up to the
scratch.

"Mr. Dreamer will see you now, sir."

They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting Winifred
after an interval of one minute by his watch.

Dreamer Q.C., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before the
fire, as if this conference were in the nature of a treat; he had the
leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great learning, a
considerable nose with glasses perched on it, and little greyish
whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking of one eye, and the
concealment of his lower with his upper lip, which gave a smothered turn
to his speech. He had a way, too, of coming suddenly round the corner on
the person he was talking to; this, with a disconcerting tone of voice,
and a habit of growling before he began to speak--had secured a
reputation second in Probate and Divorce to very few. Having listened,
eye cocked, to Mr. Bellby's breezy recapitulation of the facts, he
growled, and said:

"I know all that;" and coming round the corner at Winifred, smothered the
words:

"We want to get him back, don't we, Mrs. Dartie?"

Soames interposed sharply:

"My sister's position, of course, is intolerable."

Dreamer growled. "Exactly. Now, can we rely on the cabled refusal, or
must we wait till after Christmas to give him a chance to have
written--that's the point, isn't it?"

"The sooner...." Soames began.

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

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

"We won't be on till the middle of December. We've no need to give um
more rope than that."

"No," said Soames, "why should my sister be incommoded by his choosing to
go..."

"To Jericho!" said Dreamer, again coming round his corner; "quite so.
People oughtn't to go to Jericho, ought they, Mrs. Dartie?" And he raised
his gown into a sort of fantail. "I agree. We can go forward. Is there
anything more?"

"Nothing at present," said Soames meaningly; "I wanted you to see my
sister."

Dreamer growled softly: "Delighted. Good evening!" And let fall the
protection of his gown.

They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered. In
spite of himself he was impressed by Dreamer.