The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate,
was his name, 'Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,' were not those of a
Forsyte.--He had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large
recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of life--a couch,
an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels and slippers. The business
part of the room had the usual furniture; an open cupboard with
pigeon-holes, a round oak table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs,
a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs.
June had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.

He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.

As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted
of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an
odd fee once in a way, and--more worthy item--a private annuity under his
father's will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year.

What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. It
appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of Cornish
extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies--a well-known
figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney's uncle by marriage, Baynes, of
Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts if not in name, had but
little that was worthy to relate of his brother-in-law.

"An odd fellow!' he would say: 'always spoke of his three eldest boys as
'good creatures, but so dull'; they're all doing capitally in the Indian
Civil! Philip was the only one he liked. I've heard him talk in the
queerest way; he once said to me: 'My dear fellow, never let your poor
wife know what you're thinking of! But I didn't follow his advice; not
I! An eccentric man! He would say to Phil: 'Whether you live like a
gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one! and he had himself
embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin.
Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!"

Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain compassion:
"He's got a streak of his father's Byronism. Why, look at the way he
threw up his chances when he left my office; going off like that for six
months with a knapsack, and all for what?--to study foreign
architecture--foreign! What could he expect? And there he is--a clever
young fellow--doesn't make his hundred a year! Now this engagement is
the best thing that could have happened--keep him steady; he's one of
those that go to bed all day and stay up all night, simply because
they've no method; but no vice about him--not an ounce of vice. Old
Forsyte's a rich man!"

Mr. Baynes made himself extremely pleasant to June, who frequently
visited his house in Lowndes Square at this period.

"This house of your cousin's--what a capital man of business--is the very
thing for Philip," he would say to her; "you mustn't expect to see too
much of him just now, my dear young lady. The good cause--the good
cause! The young man must make his way. When I was his age I was at work
day and night. My dear wife used to say to me, 'Bobby, don't work too
hard, think of your health'; but I never spared myself!"

June had complained that her lover found no time to come to Stanhope
Gate.

The first time he came again they had not been together a quarter of an
hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was a mistress,
Mrs. Septimus Small arrived. Thereon Bosinney rose and hid himself,
according to previous arrangement, in the little study, to wait for her
departure.

"My dear," said Aunt Juley, "how thin he is! I've often noticed it with
engaged people; but you mustn't let it get worse. There's Barlow's
extract of veal; it did your Uncle Swithin a lot of good."

June, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face quivering
grimly, for she regarded her aunt's untimely visit in the light of a
personal injury, replied with scorn:

"It's because he's busy; people who can do anything worth doing are never
fat!"

Aunt Juley pouted; she herself had always been thin, but the only
pleasure she derived from the fact was the opportunity of longing to be
stouter.

"I don't think," she said mournfully, "that you ought to let them call
him 'The Buccaneer'; people might think it odd, now that he's going to
build a house for Soames. I do hope he will be careful; it's so
important for him. Soames has such good taste!"

"Taste!" cried June, flaring up at once; "wouldn't give that for his
taste, or any of the family's!"

Mrs. Small was taken aback.

"Your Uncle Swithin," she said, "always had beautiful taste! And
Soames's little house is lovely; you don't mean to say you don't think
so!"

"H'mph!" said June, "that's only because Irene's there!"

Aunt Juley tried to say something pleasant:

"And how will dear Irene like living in the country?"

June gazed at her intently, with a look in her eyes as if her conscience
had suddenly leaped up into them; it passed; and an even more intent look
took its place, as if she had stared that conscience out of countenance.
She replied imperiously:

"Of course she'll like it; why shouldn't she?"

Mrs. Small grew nervous.

"I didn't know," she said; "I thought she mightn't like to leave her
friends. Your Uncle James says she doesn't take enough interest in life.
We think--I mean Timothy thinks--she ought to go out more. I expect
you'll miss her very much!"

June clasped her hands behind her neck.

"I do wish," she cried, "Uncle Timothy wouldn't talk about what doesn't
concern him!"

Aunt Juley rose to the full height of her tall figure.

"He never talks about what doesn't concern him," she said.

June was instantly compunctious; she ran to her aunt and kissed her.

"I'm very sorry, auntie; but I wish they'd let Irene alone."

Aunt Juley, unable to think of anything further on the subject that would
be suitable, was silent; she prepared for departure, hooking her black
silk cape across her chest, and, taking up her green reticule:

"And how is your dear grandfather?" she asked in the hall, "I expect he's
very lonely now that all your time is taken up with Mr. Bosinney."

She bent and kissed her niece hungrily, and with little, mincing steps
passed away.

The tears sprang up in June's eyes; running into the little study, where
Bosinney was sitting at the table drawing birds on the back of an
envelope, she sank down by his side and cried:

"Oh, Phil! it's all so horrid!" Her heart was as warm as the colour of
her hair.

On the following Sunday morning, while Soames was shaving, a message was
brought him to the effect that Mr. Bosinney was below, and would be glad
to see him. Opening the door into his wife's room, he said:

"Bosinney's downstairs. Just go and entertain him while I finish
shaving. I'll be down in a minute. It's about the plans, I expect."

Irene looked at him, without reply, put the finishing touch to her dress
and went downstairs. He could not make her out about this house. She
had said nothing against it, and, as far as Bosinney was concerned,
seemed friendly enough.

From the window of his dressing-room he could see them talking together
in the little court below. He hurried on with his shaving, cutting his
chin twice. He heard them laugh, and thought to himself: "Well, they get
on all right, anyway!"

As he expected, Bosinney had come round to fetch him to look at the
plans.

He took his hat and went over.

The plans were spread on the oak table in the architect's room; and pale,
imperturbable, inquiring, Soames bent over them for a long time without
speaking.

He said at last in a puzzled voice:

"It's an odd sort of house!"

A rectangular house of two stories was designed in a quadrangle round a
covered-in court. This court, encircled by a gallery on the upper floor,
was roofed with a glass roof, supported by eight columns running up from
the ground.

It was indeed, to Forsyte eyes, an odd house.

"There's a lot of room cut to waste," pursued Soames.

Bosinney began to walk about, and Soames did not like the expression on
his face.

"The principle of this house," said the architect, "was that you should
have room to breathe--like a gentleman!"

Soames extended his finger and thumb, as if measuring the extent of the
distinction he should acquire; and replied:

"Oh! yes; I see."

The peculiar look came into Bosinney's face which marked all his
enthusiasms.

"I've tried to plan you a house here with some self-respect of its own.
If you don't like it, you'd better say so. It's certainly the last
thing to be considered--who wants self-respect in a house, when you can
squeeze in an extra lavatory?" He put his finger suddenly down on the
left division of the centre oblong: "You can swing a cat here. This is
for your pictures, divided from this court by curtains; draw them back
and you'll have a space of fifty-one by twenty-three six. This
double-faced stove in the centre, here, looks one way towards the court,
one way towards the picture room; this end wall is all window; You've a
southeast light from that, a north light from the court. The rest of
your pictures you can hang round the gallery upstairs, or in the other
rooms." "In architecture," he went on--and though looking at Soames he
did not seem to see him, which gave Soames an unpleasant feeling--"as in
life, you'll get no self-respect without regularity. Fellows tell you
that's old fashioned. It appears to be peculiar any way; it never occurs
to us to embody the main principle of life in our buildings; we load our
houses with decoration, gimcracks, corners, anything to distract the eye.
On the contrary the eye should rest; get your effects with a few strong
lines. The whole thing is regularity there's no self-respect without
it."

Soames, the unconscious ironist, fixed his gaze on Bosinney's tie, which
was far from being in the perpendicular; he was unshaven too, and his
dress not remarkable for order. Architecture appeared to have exhausted
his regularity.

"Won't it look like a barrack?" he inquired.

He did not at once receive a reply.

"I can see what it is," said Bosinney, "you want one of Littlemaster's
houses--one of the pretty and commodious sort, where the servants will
live in garrets, and the front door be sunk so that you may come up
again. By all means try Littlemaster, you'll find him a capital fellow,
I've known him all my life!"

Soames was alarmed. He had really been struck by the plans, and the
concealment of his satisfaction had been merely instinctive. It was
difficult for him to pay a compliment. He despised people who were
lavish with their praises.

He found himself now in the embarrassing position of one who must pay a
compliment or run the risk of losing a good thing. Bosinney was just the
fellow who might tear up the plans and refuse to act for him; a kind of
grown-up child!

This grown-up childishness, to which he felt so superior, exercised a
peculiar and almost mesmeric effect on Soames, for he had never felt
anything like it in himself.

"Well," he stammered at last, "it's--it's, certainly original."

He had such a private distrust and even dislike of the word 'original'
that he felt he had not really given himself away by this remark.

Bosinney seemed pleased. It was the sort of thing that would please a
fellow like that! And his success encouraged Soames.

"It's--a big place," he said.

"Space, air, light," he heard Bosinney murmur, "you can't live like a
gentleman in one of Littlemaster's--he builds for manufacturers."

Soames made a deprecating movement; he had been identified with a
gentleman; not for a good deal of money now would he be classed with
manufacturers. But his innate distrust of general principles revived.
What the deuce was the good of talking about regularity and self-respect?
It looked to him as if the house would be cold.

"Irene can't stand the cold!" he said.

"Ah!" said Bosinney sarcastically. "Your wife? She doesn't like the
cold? I'll see to that; she shan't be cold. Look here!" he pointed, to
four marks at regular intervals on the walls of the court. "I've given
you hot-water pipes in aluminium casings; you can get them with very good
designs."

Soames looked suspiciously at these marks.

"It's all very well, all this," he said, "but what's it going to cost?"

The architect took a sheet of paper from his pocket:

"The house, of course, should be built entirely of stone, but, as I
thought you wouldn't stand that, I've compromised for a facing. It ought
to have a copper roof, but I've made it green slate. As it is, including
metal work, it'll cost you eight thousand five hundred."

"Eight thousand five hundred?" said Soames. "Why, I gave you an outside
limit of eight!"

"Can't be done for a penny less," replied Bosinney coolly.

"You must take it or leave it!"

It was the only way, probably, that such a proposition could have been
made to Soames. He was nonplussed. Conscience told him to throw the
whole thing up. But the design was good, and he knew it--there was
completeness about it, and dignity; the servants' apartments were
excellent too. He would gain credit by living in a house like that--with
such individual features, yet perfectly well-arranged.

He continued poring over the plans, while Bosinney went into his bedroom
to shave and dress.

The two walked back to Montpellier Square in silence, Soames watching him
out of the corner of his eye.

The Buccaneer was rather a good-looking fellow--so he thought--when he
was properly got up.

Irene was bending over her flowers when the two men came in.

She spoke of sending across the Park to fetch June.

"No, no," said Soames, "we've still got business to talk over!"

At lunch he was almost cordial, and kept pressing Bosinney to eat. He
was pleased to see the architect in such high spirits, and left him to
spend the afternoon with Irene, while he stole off to his pictures, after
his Sunday habit. At tea-time he came down to the drawing-room, and
found them talking, as he expressed it, nineteen to the dozen.

Unobserved in the doorway, he congratulated himself that things were
taking the right turn. It was lucky she and Bosinney got on; she seemed
to be falling into line with the idea of the new house.

Quiet meditation among his pictures had decided him to spring the five
hundred if necessary; but he hoped that the afternoon might have softened
Bosinney's estimates. It was so purely a matter which Bosinney could
remedy if he liked; there must be a dozen ways in which he could cheapen
the production of a house without spoiling the effect.

He awaited, therefore, his opportunity till Irene was handing the
architect his first cup of tea. A chink of sunshine through the lace of
the blinds warmed her cheek, shone in the gold of her hair, and in her
soft eyes. Possibly the same gleam deepened Bosinney's colour, gave the
rather startled look to his face.

Soames hated sunshine, and he at once got up, to draw the blind. Then he
took his own cup of tea from his wife, and said, more coldly than he had
intended:

"Can't you see your way to do it for eight thousand after all? There must
be a lot of little things you could alter."

Bosinney drank off his tea at a gulp, put down his cup, and answered:

"Not one!"

Soames saw that his suggestion had touched some unintelligible point of
personal vanity.

"Well," he agreed, with sulky resignation; "you must have it your own
way, I suppose."

A few minutes later Bosinney rose to go, and Soames rose too, to see him
off the premises. The architect seemed in absurdly high spirits. After
watching him walk away at a swinging pace, Soames returned moodily to the
drawing-room, where Irene was putting away the music, and, moved by an
uncontrollable spasm of curiosity, he asked:

"Well, what do you think of 'The Buccaneer'?"

He looked at the carpet while waiting for her answer, and he had to wait
some time.

"I don't know," she said at last.

"Do you think he's good-looking?"

Irene smiled. And it seemed to Soames that she was mocking him.

"Yes," she answered; "very."




CHAPTER IX

DEATH OF AUNT ANN

There came a morning at the end of September when Aunt Ann was unable to
take from Smither's hands the insignia of personal dignity. After one
look at the old face, the doctor, hurriedly sent for, announced that Miss
Forsyte had passed away in her sleep.

Aunts Juley and Hester were overwhelmed by the shock. They had never
imagined such an ending. Indeed, it is doubtful whether they had ever
realized that an ending was bound to come. Secretly they felt it
unreasonable of Ann to have left them like this without a word, without
even a struggle. It was unlike her.

Perhaps what really affected them so profoundly was the thought that a
Forsyte should have let go her grasp on life. If one, then why not all!

It was a full hour before they could make up their minds to tell Timothy.
If only it could be kept from him! If only it could be broken to him by
degrees!

And long they stood outside his door whispering together. And when it
was over they whispered together again.

He would feel it more, they were afraid, as time went on. Still, he had
taken it better than could have been expected. He would keep his bed, of
course!

They separated, crying quietly.

Aunt Juley stayed in her room, prostrated by the blow. Her face,
discoloured by tears, was divided into compartments by the little ridges
of pouting flesh which had swollen with emotion. It was impossible to
conceive of life without Ann, who had lived with her for seventy-three
years, broken only by the short interregnum of her married life, which
seemed now so unreal. At fixed intervals she went to her drawer, and
took from beneath the lavender bags a fresh pocket-handkerchief. Her
warm heart could not bear the thought that Ann was lying there so cold.

Aunt Hester, the silent, the patient, that backwater of the family
energy, sat in the drawing-room, where the blinds were drawn; and she,
too, had wept at first, but quietly, without visible effect. Her guiding
principle, the conservation of energy, did not abandon her in sorrow.
She sat, slim, motionless, studying the grate, her hands idle in the lap
of her black silk dress. They would want to rouse her into doing
something, no doubt. As if there were any good in that! Doing something
would not bring back Ann! Why worry her?

Five o'clock brought three of the brothers, Jolyon and James and Swithin;
Nicholas was at Yarmouth, and Roger had a bad attack of gout. Mrs.
Hayman had been by herself earlier in the day, and, after seeing Ann, had
gone away, leaving a message for Timothy--which was kept from him--that
she ought to have been told sooner. In fact, there was a feeling amongst
them all that they ought to have been told sooner, as though they had
missed something; and James said:

"I knew how it'd be; I told you she wouldn't last through the summer."

Aunt Hester made no reply; it was nearly October, but what was the good
of arguing; some people were never satisfied.

She sent up to tell her sister that the brothers were there. Mrs. Small
came down at once. She had bathed her face, which was still swollen, and
though she looked severely at Swithin's trousers, for they were of light
blue--he had come straight from the club, where the news had reached
him--she wore a more cheerful expression than usual, the instinct for
doing the wrong thing being even now too strong for her.

Presently all five went up to look at the body. Under the pure white
sheet a quilted counter-pane had been placed, for now, more than ever,
Aunt Ann had need of warmth; and, the pillows removed, her spine and head
rested flat, with the semblance of their life-long inflexibility; the
coif banding the top of her brow was drawn on either side to the level of
the ears, and between it and the sheet her face, almost as white, was
turned with closed eyes to the faces of her brothers and sisters. In its
extraordinary peace the face was stronger than ever, nearly all bone now
under the scarce-wrinkled parchment of skin--square jaw and chin,
cheekbones, forehead with hollow temples, chiselled nose--the fortress of
an unconquerable spirit that had yielded to death, and in its upward
sightlessness seemed trying to regain that spirit, to regain the
guardianship it had just laid down.

Swithin took but one look at the face, and left the room; the sight, he
said afterwards, made him very queer. He went downstairs shaking the
whole house, and, seizing his hat, clambered into his brougham, without
giving any directions to the coachman. He was driven home, and all the
evening sat in his chair without moving.

He could take nothing for dinner but a partridge, with an imperial pint
of champagne....

Old Jolyon stood at the bottom of the bed, his hands folded in front of
him. He alone of those in the room remembered the death of his mother,
and though he looked at Ann, it was of that he was thinking. Ann was an
old woman, but death had come to her at last--death came to all! His
face did not move, his gaze seemed travelling from very far.

Aunt Hester stood beside him. She did not cry now, tears were
exhausted--her nature refused to permit a further escape of force; she
twisted her hands, looking not at Ann, but from side to side, seeking
some way of escaping the effort of realization.

Of all the brothers and sisters James manifested the most emotion. Tears
rolled down the parallel furrows of his thin face; where he should go now
to tell his troubles he did not know; Juley was no good, Hester worse
than useless! He felt Ann's death more than he had ever thought he
should; this would upset him for weeks!

Presently Aunt Hester stole out, and Aunt Juley began moving about, doing
'what was necessary,' so that twice she knocked against something. Old
Jolyon, roused from his reverie, that reverie of the long, long past,
looked sternly at her, and went away. James alone was left by the
bedside; glancing stealthily round, to see that he was not observed, he
twisted his long body down, placed a kiss on the dead forehead, then he,
too, hastily left the room. Encountering Smither in the hall, he began
to ask her about the funeral, and, finding that she knew nothing,
complained bitterly that, if they didn't take care, everything would go
wrong. She had better send for Mr. Soames--he knew all about that sort
of thing; her master was very much upset, he supposed--he would want
looking after; as for her mistresses, they were no good--they had no
gumption! They would be ill too, he shouldn't wonder. She had better
send for the doctor; it was best to take things in time. He didn't think
his sister Ann had had the best opinion; if she'd had Blank she would
have been alive now. Smither might send to Park Lane any time she wanted
advice. Of course, his carriage was at their service for the funeral.
He supposed she hadn't such a thing as a glass of claret and a
biscuit--he had had no lunch!

The days before the funeral passed quietly. It had long been known, of
course, that Aunt Ann had left her little property to Timothy. There
was, therefore, no reason for the slightest agitation. Soames, who was
sole executor, took charge of all arrangements, and in due course sent
out the following invitation to every male member of the family:

To...........

Your presence is requested at the funeral of Miss Ann Forsyte, in
Highgate Cemetery, at noon of Oct. 1st. Carriages will meet at "The
Bower," Bayswater Road, at 10.45. No flowers by request.
'R.S.V.P.'

The morning came, cold, with a high, grey, London sky, and at half-past
ten the first carriage, that of James, drove up. It contained James and
his son-in-law Dartie, a fine man, with a square chest, buttoned very
tightly into a frock coat, and a sallow, fattish face adorned with dark,
well-curled moustaches, and that incorrigible commencement of whisker
which, eluding the strictest attempts at shaving, seems the mark of
something deeply ingrained in the personality of the shaver, being
especially noticeable in men who speculate.

Soames, in his capacity of executor, received the guests, for Timothy
still kept his bed; he would get up after the funeral; and Aunts Juley
and Hester would not be coming down till all was over, when it was
understood there would be lunch for anyone who cared to come back. The
next to arrive was Roger, still limping from the gout, and encircled by
three of his sons--young Roger, Eustace, and Thomas. George, the
remaining son, arrived almost immediately afterwards in a hansom, and
paused in the hall to ask Soames how he found undertaking pay.

They disliked each other.

Then came two Haymans--Giles and Jesse perfectly silent, and very well
dressed, with special creases down their evening trousers. Then old
Jolyon alone. Next, Nicholas, with a healthy colour in his face, and a
carefully veiled sprightliness in every movement of his head and body.
One of his sons followed him, meek and subdued. Swithin Forsyte, and
Bosinney arrived at the same moment,--and stood--bowing precedence to
each other,--but on the door opening they tried to enter together; they
renewed their apologies in the hall, and, Swithin, settling his stock,
which had become disarranged in the struggle, very slowly mounted the
stairs. The other Hayman; two married sons of Nicholas, together with
Tweetyman, Spender, and Warry, the husbands of married Forsyte and Hayman
daughters. The company was then complete, twenty-one in all, not a male
member of the family being absent but Timothy and young Jolyon.