Early in May, Winifred came round to say that Val had been wounded in the leg by a spent bullet, and was to be discharged. His wife was nursing him. He would have a little limp—nothing to speak of. He wanted his grandfather to buy him a farm out there where he could breed horses. Her father was giving Holly eight hundred a year, so they could be quite comfortable, because his grandfather would give Val five, he had said; but as to the farm, he didn’t know—couldn’t tell: he didn’t want Val to go throwing away his money.
“But you know,” said Winifred, “he must do something.”
Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, because if he didn’t buy a farm it couldn’t turn out badly.
“But Val loves horses,” said Winifred. “It’d be such an occupation for him.”
Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not Montague found them so?
“Val’s different,” said Winifred; “he takes after me.”
Aunt Juley was sure that dear Val was very clever. “I always remember,” she added, “how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. His dear grandfather was so pleased. He thought it showed such presence of mind. I remember his saying that he ought to go into the navy.”
Aunt Hester chimed in: Did not Winifred think that it was much better for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at their age?
“Well,” said Winifred, “if they were in London, perhaps; in London it’s amusing to do nothing. But out there, of course, he’ll simply get bored to death.”
Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he were quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as if they had no money. Timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. Aunt Juley wanted to know what Montague had said.
Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked: “Wait till the old man dies.”
At this moment Francie was announced. Her eyes were brimming with a smile.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think of it?”
“Of what, dear?”
“In The Times this morning.”
“We haven’t seen it, we always read it after dinner; Timothy has it till then.”
Francie rolled her eyes.
“Do you think you ought to tell us?” said Aunt Juley. “What was it?”
“Irene’s had a son at Robin Hill.”
Aunt Juley drew in her breath. “But,” she said, “they were only married in March!”
“Yes, Auntie; isn’t it interesting?”
“Well,” said Winifred, “I’m glad. I was sorry for Jolyon losing his boy. It might have been Val.”
Aunt Juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. “I wonder,” she murmured, “what dear Soames will think? He has so wanted to have a son himself. A little bird has always told me that.”
“Well,” said Winifred, “he’s going to—bar accidents.”
Gladness trickled out of Aunt Juley’s eyes.
“How delightful!” she said. “When?”
“November.”
Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a long time for James to wait, at his age!
To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it themselves. Indeed, it was their great distraction. To wait! For The Times to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews to come in and cheer them up; for news of Nicholas’s health; for that decision of Christopher’s about going on the stage; for information concerning the mine of Mrs. MacAnder’s nephew; for the doctor to come about Hester’s inclination to wake up early in the morning; for books from the library which were always out; for Timothy to have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not too hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait, one on each side of the hearth in the drawing room, for the clock between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying knitting needles and crochet hooks, their hair ordered to stop—like Canute’s waves—from any further advance in colour. To wait in their black silks or satins for the Court to say that Hester might wear her dark green, and Juley her darker maroon. To wait, slowly turning over and over, in their old minds the little joys and sorrows, events and expectancies, of their little family world, as cows chew patient cuds in a familiar field. And this new event was so well worth waiting for. Soames had always been their pet, with his tendency to give them pictures, and his almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage. This new event—the birth of an heir to Soames—was so important for him, and for his dear father, too, that James might not have to die without some certainty about things. James did so dislike uncertainty; and with Montague, of course, he could not feel really satisfied to leave no grand-children but the young Darties. After all, one’s own name did count! And as James’s ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what precautions he was taking. He would be the first of the Forsytes to reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life. That was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty-seven and eighty-five; though they did not want to think of themselves when they had Timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to think of. There was, of course, a better world. “In my Father’s house are many mansions” was one of Aunt Juley’s favourite sayings—it always comforted her, with its suggestion of house property, which had made the fortune of dear Roger. The Bible was, indeed, a great resource, and on very fine Sundays there was church in the morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into Timothy’s study when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament casually among the books on his little table—he was a great reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed that Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. And Smither had told her more than once that she had picked books off the floor in doing the room. Still, with all that, they did feel that heaven could not be quite so cosy as the rooms in which they and Timothy had been waiting so long. Aunt Hester, especially, could not bear the thought of the exertion. Any change, or rather the thought of a change—for there never was any—always upset her very much. Aunt Juley, who had more spirit, sometimes thought it would be quite exciting; she had so enjoyed that visit to Brighton the year dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew was nice, and it was so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, so on the whole she was more than content to wait.
On the morning of James’s birthday, August the fifth, they felt extraordinary animation, and little notes passed between them by the hand of Smither while they were having breakfast in their beds. Smither must go round and take their love and little presents and find out how Mr. James was, and whether he had passed a good night with all the excitement. And on the way back would Smither call in at Green Street—it was a little out of her way, but she could take the bus up Bond Street afterwards; it would be a nice little change for her—and ask dear Mrs. Dartie to be sure and look in before she went out of town.
All this Smither did—an undeniable servant trained many years ago under Aunt Ann to a perfection not now procurable. Mr. James, so Mrs. James said, had passed an excellent night, he sent his love; Mrs. James had said he was very funny and had complained that he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Oh! and Mrs. Dartie sent her love, and she would come to tea.
Aunts Juley and Hester, rather hurt that their presents had not received special mention—they forgot every year that James could not bear to receive presents, “throwing away their money on him,” as he always called it—were delighted; it showed that James was in good spirits, and that was so important for him. And they began to wait for Winifred. She came at four, bringing Imogen, and Maud, just back from school, and “getting such a pretty girl, too,” so that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about Annette. Aunt Juley, however, summoned courage to enquire whether Winifred had heard anything, and if Soames was anxious.
“Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie,” interrupted Imogen; “he ca
n’t be happy now he’s got it.”
The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley’s ears. Ah! yes; that funny drawing of George’s, which had not been shown them! But what did Imogen mean? That her uncle always wanted more than he could have? It was not at all nice to think like that.
Imogen’s voice rose clear and clipped:
“Imagine! Annette’s only two years older than me; it must be awful for her, married to Uncle Soames.”
Aunt Juley lifted her hands in horror.
“My dear,” she said, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. Your Uncle Soames is a match for anybody. He’s a very clever man, and good-looking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, and not at all old, considering everything.”
Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the old dears, only smiled.
“I hope,” said Aunt Juley quite severely, “that you will marry as good a man.”
“I shan’t marry a good man, Auntie,” murmured Imogen; “they’re dull.”
“If you go on like this,” replied Aunt Juley, still very much upset, “you won’t marry anybody. We’d better not pursue the subject;” and turning to Winifred, she said: “How is Montague?”
That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured:
“I’ve told Smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet champagne, Hester. I think we ought to drink dear James’s health, and—and the health of Soames’s wife; only, let’s keep that quite secret. I’ll just say like this, ‘And you know, Hester!’ and then we’ll drink. It might upset Timothy.”
“It’s more likely to upset us,” said Aunt Nester. “But we must, I suppose; for such an occasion.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Juley rapturously, “it is an occasion! Only fancy if he has a dear little boy, to carry the family on! I do feel it so important, now that Irene has had a son. Winifred says George is calling Jolyon “The Three-Decker,” because of his three families, you know! George is droll. And fancy! Irene is living after all in the house Soames had built for them both. It does seem hard on dear Soames; and he’s always been so regular.”
That night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her glass of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with her preayer book opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling yellowed by the light from her reading lamp. Young things! It was so nice for them all! And she would be so happy if she could see dear Soames happy. But, of course, he must be now, in spite of what Imogen had said. He would have all that he wanted: property, and wife, and children! And he would live to a green old age, like his dear father, and forget all about Irene and that dreadful case. If only she herself could be here to buy his children their first rocking horse! Smither should choose it for her at the stores, nice and dappled. Ah! how Roger used to rock her until she fell off! Oh dear! that was a long time ago! It was! “In my Father’s house are many mansions—” A little scrattling noise caught her ear—“but no mice!” she thought mechanically. The noise increased. There! it was a mouse! How naughty of Smither to say there wasn’t! It would be eating through the wainscot before they knew where they were, and they would have to have the builders in. They were such destructive things! And she lay, with her eyes just moving, following in her mind that little scrattling sound, and waiting for sleep to release her from it.
Chapter XII
Birth of a Forsyte
Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the garden door, without having realised that he had moved. The sound of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed, and the doctor gone. What, exactly, had he said?
“This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don’t operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it’s a great risk for the mother—a great risk. In either case I don’t think she can ever have another child. In her state she obviously can’t decide for herself, and we can’t wait for her mother. It’s for you to make the decision, while I’m getting what’s necessary. I shall be back within the hour.”
The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down! No time for anything!
The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent; then, suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To come before its time like this, with no chance to foresee anything, not even to get her mother here! It was for her mother to make that decision, and she couldn’t arrive from Paris till tonight! If only he could have understood the doctor’s jargon, the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the chances properly; but they were Greek to him—like a legal problem to a layman. And yet he must decide! He brought his hand away from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which came from her room! To go back there would only make it more difficult. He must be calm, clear. On the one hand life, nearly certain, of his young wife, death quite certain, of his child; and—no more children afterwards! On the other, death perhaps of his wife, nearly certain life for the child; and—no more children afterwards! Which to choose?. . . . It had rained this last fortnight—the river was very full, and in the water, collected round the little houseboat moored by his landing stage, were many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost. Leaves fell, lives drifted down—Death! To decide about death! And no one to give him a hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing go that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn’t get it back. It left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying up there behind that windowpane on which the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it might conceivably have been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago. Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment! Operate, operate! Make certain of her life! No decision—a mere instinctive cry for help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling for Annette! Many times these last months, especially since she had been growing frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of her own, was selfish in her French way. And yet—so pretty! What would she wish—to take the risk. “I know she wants the child,” he thought. “If it’s born dead, and no more chance afterwards—it’ll upset her terribly. No more chance! All for nothing! Married life with her for years and years without a child. Nothing to steady her! She’s too young. Nothing to look forward to, for her—for me! For me!” He struck his hands against his chest! Why couldn’t he think without bringing himself in—get out of himself and see what he ought to do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself! Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And touching there the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there’d be nothing in it!
He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. He must decide! If against the operation and she died, how face her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? It was his child that she was having. If for the operation—then he condemned them both to childlessness. And for what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir? And his father—at death’s door, waiting for the news! “It’s cruel!” he thought; “I ought never to have such a thing to settle! It’s cruel!” He turned towards the house. Some deep, simple way of deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he knew he would not abide by what came up! He went into the dining room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds issued. The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked the tantalus. He hardly ever touched spirits, but now—he poured himself out
some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. “That fellow Jolyon,” he thought; “he had children already. He has the woman I really loved; and now a son by her! And I—I’m asked to destroy my only child! Annette can’t die; it’s not possible. She’s strong!”
He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the doctor’s carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to come downstairs.
“Well, doctor?”
“The situation’s the same. Have you decided?”
“Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!”
“Not? You understand—the risk’s great?”
In Soames’s set face nothing moved but the lips.
“You said there was a chance?”
“A chance, yes; not much of one.”
“You say the baby must be born dead if you do?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?”
“One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.”
“She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the risk.”
The doctor looked at him very gravely. “It’s on your shoulders,” he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.”
Soames’s chin jerked up as if someone had hit him.
“Am I of any use up there?” he asked.
“No; keep away.”
“I shall be in my picture gallery, then; you know where.”
The doctor nodded, and went upstairs.
Soames continued to stand, listening. “By this time tomorrow,” he thought, “I may have her death on my hands.” No! it was unfair—monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him again, and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour, glowing, burnished-an early autumn. If it were his own life, would he be taking that risk? “But she’d take the risk of losing me,” he thought, “sooner than lose her child! She doesn’t really love me!” What could one expect—a girl and French? The one thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and their futures, was a child! “I’ve been through a lot for this,” he thought, “I’ll hold on—hold on. There’s a chance of keeping both—a chance!” One kept till things were taken—one naturally kept! He began walking round the gallery. He had made one purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it—a girl with dull gold hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made—admire the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster. Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if . . . ! He turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window. Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came into his throat. She would not—could not die! She was too—too sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in spite of her fair prettiness.
The Forsyte Saga Page 68
