The memory of that change, vivid and touching, like the breaking open of a flower, or the first sun after long winter, the memory, too, of all that came after, often intruded itself, unaccountably, inopportunely on Lady Baynes, when her mind was set upon the most important things.
This was the very afternoon of the day that young Jolyon witnessed the meeting in the botanical gardens, and on this day, too, old Jolyon paid a visit to his solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard, and Forsyte, in the Poultry. Soames was not in, he had gone down to Somerset House; Bustard was buried up to the hilt in papers and that inaccessible apartment, where he was judiciously placed, in order that he might do as much work as possible; but James was in the front office, biting a finger, and lugubriously turning over the pleadings in Forsyte v. Bosinney.
This sound lawyer had only a sort of luxurious dread of the “nice point,” enough to set up a pleasurable feeling of fuss; for his good practical sense told him that if he himself were on the bench he would not pay much attention to it. But he was afraid that this Bosinney would go bankrupt and Soames would have to find the money after all, and costs into the bargain. And behind this tangible dread there was always that intangible trouble, lurking in the background, intricate, dim, scandalous, like a bad dream, and of which this action was but an outward and visible sign.
He raised his head as old Jolyon came in, and muttered: “How are you, Jolyon? Haven’t seen you for an age. You’ve been to Switzerland, they tell me. This young Bosinney, he’s got himself into a mess. I knew how it would be!” He held out the papers, regarding his elder brother with nervous gloom.
Old Jolyon read them in silence, and while he read them James looked at the floor, biting his fingers the while.
Old Jolyon pitched them down at last, and they fell with a thump amongst a mass of affidavits in “re Buncombe, deceased,” one of the many branches of that parent and profitable tree, Fryer v. Forsyte.
“I don’t know what Soames is about,” he said, “to make a fuss over a few hundred pounds. I thought he was a man of property.”
James’s long upper lip twitched angrily; he could not bear his son to be attacked in such a spot.
“It’s not the money,” he began, but meeting his brother’s glance, direct, shrewd, judicial, he stopped.
There was a silence.
“I’ve come in for my will,” said old Jolyon at last, tugging at his moustache.
James’s curiosity was roused at once. Perhaps nothing in this life was more stimulating to him than a will; it was the supreme deal with property, the final inventory of a man’s belongings, the last word on what he was worth. He sounded the bell.
“Bring in Mr. Jolyon’s will,” he said to an anxious, dark-haired clerk.
“You going to make some alterations?” And through his mind there flashed the thought: “Now, am I worth as much as he?”
Old Jolyon put the will in his breast pocket, and James twisted his long legs regretfully.
“You’ve made some nice purchases lately, they tell me,” he said.
“I don’t know where you get your information from,” answered old Jolyon sharply. “When’s this action coming on? Next month? I can’t tell what you’ve got in your minds. You must manage your own affairs; but if you take my advice, you’ll settle it out of court. Goodbye!” With a cold handshake he was gone.
James, his fixed grey-blue eye corkscrewing round some secret anxious image, began again to bite his finger.
Old Jolyon took his will to the offices of the New Colliery Company, and sat down in the empty boardroom to read it through. He answered “Down-by-the-starn” Hemmings so tartly when the latter, seeing his chairman seated there, entered with the new superintendent’s first report, that the secretary withdrew with regretful dignity; and sending for the transfer clerk, blew him up till the poor youth knew not where to look.
It was not—by George—as he (Down-by-the-starn) would have him know, for a whippersnapper of a young fellow like him, to come down to that office, and think that he was God Almighty. He (Down-by-the-starn) had been head of that office for more years than a boy like him could count, and if he thought that when he had finished all his work, he could sit there doing nothing, he did not know him, Hemmings (Down-by-the-starn), and so forth.
On the other side of the green baize door old Jolyon sat at the long, mahogany and leather board table, his thick, loose-jointed, tortoiseshell eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his gold pencil moving down the clauses of his will.
It was a simple affair, for there were none of those vexatious little legacies and donations to charities, which fritter away a man’s possessions, and damage the majestic effect of that little paragraph in the morning papers accorded to Forsytes who die with a hundred thousand pounds.
A simple affair. Just a bequest to his son of twenty thousand, and “as to the residue of my property of whatsoever kind whether realty or personalty, or partaking of the nature of either—upon trust to pay the proceeds rents annual produce dividends or interest thereof and thereon to my said granddaughter June Forsyte or her assigns during her life to be for her sole use and benefit and without, etc. . . . and from and after her death or decease upon trust to convey assign transfer or make over the said last-mentioned lands hereditaments premises trust moneys stocks funds investments and securities or such as shall then stand for and represent the same unto such person or persons whether one or more for such intents purposes and uses and generally in such manner way and form in all respects as the said June Forsyte notwithstanding coverture shall by her last will and testament or any writing or writings in the nature of a will testament or testamentary disposition to be by her duly made signed and published direct appoint or make over give and dispose of the same And in default etc. . . . Provided always . . .” and so on, in seven folios of brief and simple phraseology.
The will had been drawn by James in his palmy days. He had foreseen almost every contingency.
Old Jolyon sat a long time reading this will; at last he took half a sheet of paper from the rack, and made a prolonged pencil note; then buttoning up the will, he caused a cab to be called and drove to the offices of Paramor and Herring, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Jack Herring was dead, but his nephew was still in the firm, and old Jolyon was closeted with him for half an hour.
He had kept the hansom, and on coming out, gave the driver the address—3 Wistaria Avenue.
He felt a strange, slow satisfaction, as though he had scored a victory over James and the man of property. They should not poke their noses into his affairs anymore; he had just cancelled their trusteeships of his will; he would take the whole of his business out of their hands, and put it into the hands of young Herring, and he would move the business of his companies too. If that young Soames were such a man of property, he would never miss a thousand a year or so; and under his great white moustache old Jolyon grimly smiled. He felt that what he was doing was in the nature of retributive justice, richly deserved.
Slowly, surely, with the secret inner process that works the destruction of an old tree, the poison of the wounds to his happiness, his will, his pride, had corroded the comely edifice of his philosophy. Life had worn him down on one side, till, like that family of which he was the head, he had lost balance.
To him, borne northwards towards his son’s house, the thought of the new disposition of property, which he had just set in motion, appeared vaguely in the light of a stroke of punishment, levelled at that family and that society, of which James and his son seemed to him the representatives. He had made a restitution to young Jolyon, and restitution to young Jolyon satisfied his secret craving for revenge-revenge against time, sorrow, and interference, against all that incalculable sum of disapproval that had been bestowed by the world for fifteen years on his only son. It presented itself as the one possible way of asserting once more the domination of his will; of forcing James, and Soames, and the fam
ily, and all those hidden masses of Forsytes—a great stream rolling against the single dam of his obstinacy—to recognise once and for all that he would be master. It was sweet to think that at last he was going to make the boy a richer man by far than that son of James, that “man of property.” And it was sweet to give to Jo, for he loved his son.
Neither young Jolyon nor his wife were in (young Jolyon indeed was not back from the botanical), but the little maid told him that she expected the master at any moment:
“He’s always at ’ome to tea, sir, to play with the children.”
Old Jolyon said he would wait; and sat down patiently enough in the faded, shabby drawing room, where, now that the summer chintzes were removed, the old chairs and sofas revealed all their threadbare deficiencies. He longed to send for the children; to have them there beside him, their supple bodies against his knees; to hear Jolly’s: “Hallo, Gran!” and see his rush; and feel Holly’s soft little hand stealing up against his cheek. But he would not. There was solemnity in what he had come to do, and until it was over he would not play. He amused himself by thinking how with two strokes of his pen he was going to restore the look of caste so conspicuously absent from everything in that little house; how he could fill these rooms, or others in some larger mansion, with triumphs of art from Baple and Pullbred’s; how he could send little Jolly to Harrow and Oxford (he no longer had faith in Eton and Cambridge, for his son had been there); how he could procure little Holly the best musical instruction, the child had a remarkable aptitude.
As these visions crowded before him, causing emotion to swell his heart, he rose, and stood at the window, looking down into the little walled strip of garden, where the pear tree, bare of leaves before its time, stood with gaunt branches in the slow-gathering mist of the autumn afternoon. The dog Balthasar, his tail curled tightly over a piebald, furry back, was walking at the farther end, sniffing at the plants, and at intervals placing his leg for support against the wall.
And old Jolyon mused.
What pleasure was there left but to give? It was pleasant to give, when you could find one who would be thankful for what you gave—one of your own flesh and blood! There was no such satisfaction to be had out of giving to those who did not belong to you, to those who had no claim on you! Such giving as that was a betrayal of the individualistic convictions and actions of his life, of all his enterprise, his labour, and his moderation, of the great and proud fact that, like tens of thousands of Forsytes before him, tens of thousands in the present, tens of thousands in the future, he had always made his own, and held his own, in the world.
And, while he stood there looking down on the smut-covered foliage of the laurels, the black-stained grass plot, the progress of the dog Balthasar, all the suffering of the fifteen years during which he had been baulked of legitimate enjoyment mingled its gall with the sweetness of the approaching moment.
Young Jolyon came at last, pleased with his work, and fresh from long hours in the open air. On hearing that his father was in the drawing room, he inquired hurriedly whether Mrs. Forsyte was at home, and being informed that she was not, heaved a sigh of relief. Then putting his painting materials carefully in the little coat closet out of sight, he went in.
With characteristic decision old Jolyon came at once to the point. “I’ve been altering my arrangements, Jo,” he said. “You can cut your coat a bit longer in the future—I’m settling a thousand a year on you at once. June will have fifty thousand at my death; and you the rest. That dog of yours is spoiling the garden. I shouldn’t keep a dog, if I were you!”
The dog Balthasar, seated in the centre of the lawn, was examining his tail.
Young Jolyon looked at the animal, but saw him dimly, for his eyes were misty.
“Yours won’t come short of a hundred thousand, my boy,” said old Jolyon; “I thought you’d better know. I haven’t much longer to live at my age. I shan’t allude to it again. How’s your wife? And—give her my love.”
Young Jolyon put his hand on his father’s shoulder, and, as neither spoke, the episode closed.
Having seen his father into a hansom, young Jolyon came back to the drawing room and stood, where old Jolyon had stood, looking down on the little garden. He tried to realize all that this meant to him, and, Forsyte that he was, vistas of property were opened out in his brain; the years of half rations through which he had passed had not sapped his natural instincts. In extremely practical form, he thought of travel, of his wife’s costume, the children’s education, a pony for Jolly, a thousand things; but in the midst of all he thought, too, of Bosinney and his mistress, and the broken song of the thrush. Joy—tragedy! Which? Which?
The old past—the poignant, suffering, passionate, wonderful past, that no money could buy, that nothing could restore in all its burning sweetness—had come back before him.
When his wife came in he went straight up to her and took her in his arms; and for a long time he stood without speaking, his eyes closed, pressing her to him, while she looked at him with a wondering, adoring, doubting look in her eyes.
Chapter IV
Voyage into the Inferno
The morning after a certain night on which Soames at last asserted his rights and acted like a man, he breakfasted alone.
He breakfasted by gaslight, the fog of late November wrapping the town as in some monstrous blanket till the trees of the square even were barely visible from the dining room window.
He ate steadily, but at times a sensation as though he could not swallow attacked him. Had he been right to yield to his overmastering hunger of the night before, and break down the resistance which he had suffered now too long from this woman who was his lawful and solemnly constituted helpmate?
He was strangely haunted by the recollection of her face, from before which, to soothe her, he had tried to pull her hands—of her terrible smothered sobbing, the like of which he had never heard, and still seemed to hear; and he was still haunted by the odd, intolerable feeling of remorse and shame he had felt, as he stood looking at her by the flame of the single candle, before silently slinking away.
And somehow, now that he had acted like this, he was surprised at himself.
Two nights before, at Winifred Dartie’s, he had taken Mrs. MacAnder into dinner. She had said to him, looking in his face with her sharp, greenish eyes: “And so your wife is a great friend of that Mr. Bosinney’s?”
Not deigning to ask what she meant, he had brooded over her words.
They had roused in him a fierce jealousy, which, with the peculiar perversion of this instinct, had turned to fiercer desire.
Without the incentive of Mrs. MacAnder’s words he might never have done what he had done. Without their incentive and the accident of finding his wife’s door for once unlocked, which had enabled him to steal upon her asleep.
Slumber had removed his doubts, but the morning brought them again. One thought comforted him: No one would know—it was not the sort of thing that she would speak about.
And, indeed, when the vehicle of his daily business life, which needed so imperatively the grease of clear and practical thought, started rolling once more with the reading of his letters, those nightmare-like doubts began to assume less extravagant importance at the back of his mind. The incident was really not of great moment; women made a fuss about it in books; but in the cool judgment of right-thinking men, of men of the world, of such as he recollected often received praise in the divorce court, he had but done his best to sustain the sanctity of marriage, to prevent her from abandoning her duty, possibly, if she were still seeing Bosinney, from. . . .
No, he did not regret it.
Now that the first step towards reconciliation had been taken, the rest would be comparatively—comparatively. . . .
He, rose and walked to the window. His nerve had been shaken. The sound of smothered sobbing was in his ears again. He could not get rid of it.
He put on his fur coat, and went out into the fog; having to go into the city, he took the underground railway from Sloane Square station.
In his corner of the first-class compartment filled with city men the smothered sobbing still haunted him, so he opened The Times with the rich crackle that drowns all lesser sounds, and, barricaded behind it, set himself steadily to con the news.
He read that a recorder had charged a grand jury on the previous day with a more than usually long list of offences. He read of three murders, five manslaughters, seven arsons, and as many as eleven rapes—a surprisingly high number—in addition to many less conspicuous crimes, to be tried during a coming sessions; and from one piece of news he went on to another, keeping the paper well before his face.
And still, inseparable from his reading, was the memory of Irene’s tearstained face, and the sounds from her broken heart.
The day was a busy one, including, in addition to the ordinary affairs of his practice, a visit to his brokers, Messrs. Grin and Grinning, to give them instructions to sell his shares in the New Colliery Co., Ltd., whose business he suspected, rather than knew, was stagnating (this enterprise afterwards slowly declined, and was ultimately sold for a song to an American syndicate); and a long conference at Waterbuck, Q.C.’s chambers, attended by Boulter, by Fiske, the junior counsel, and Waterbuck, Q.C., himself.
The case of Forsyte v. Bosinney was expected to be reached on the morrow, before Mr. Justice Bentham.
Mr. Justice Bentham, a man of common sense rather than too great legal knowledge, was considered to be about the best man they could have to try the action. He was a “strong” judge.
Waterbuck, Q.C., in pleasing conjunction with an almost rude neglect of Boulter and Fiske paid to Soames a good deal of attention, by instinct or the sounder evidence of rumour, feeling him to be a man of property.
The Forsyte Saga Page 29
