Indian Summer of a Forsyte and In Chancery
John Galsworthy

Part 4 out of 7

old dog looked up and wagged his tail. 'Poor old boy!' thought
Jolyon, shifting back to the other window.

He had been restless all this week, since his attempt to prosecute
trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which was ever acute,
disturbed in his sense of compassion which was easily excited, and
with a queer sensation as if his feeling for beauty had received
some definite embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of the old
oak-tree, its leaves were browning. Sunshine had been plentiful
and hot this summer. As with trees, so with men's lives! 'I ought
to live long,' thought Jolyon; 'I'm getting mildewed for want of
heat. If I can't work, I shall be off to Paris.' But memory of
Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how could he go? He must
stay and see what Soames was going to do. 'I'm her trustee. I
can't leave her unprotected,' he thought. It had been striking him
as curious how very clearly he could still see Irene in her little
drawing-room which he had only twice entered. Her beauty must have
a sort of poignant harmony! No literal portrait would ever do her
justice; the essence of her was--ah I what?... The noise of hoofs
called him back to the other window. Holly was riding into the
yard on her long-tailed 'palfrey.' She looked up and he waved to
her. She had been rather silent lately; getting old, he supposed,
beginning to want her future, as they all did--youngsters!

Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste
this swift-travelling commodity was unforgivable folly, he took up
his brush. But it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye--
besides, the light was going. 'I'll go up to town,' he thought.
In the hall a servant met him.

"A lady to see you, sir; Mrs. Heron."

Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picture-gallery, as it
was still called, he saw Irene standing over by the window.

She came towards him saying:

"I've been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden.
I always used to come that way to see Uncle Jolyon."

"You couldn't trespass here," replied Jolyon; "history makes that
impossible. I was just thinking of you."

Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere
spirituality--serener, completer, more alluring.

"History!" she answered; "I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was
for ever. Well, it isn't. Only aversion lasts."

Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last?

"Yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a
natural product of the nerves, and we don't change them."

"I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a
thing that frightened me. He said: 'You are still my wife!'"

"What!" ejaculated Jolyon. "You ought not to live alone." And he
continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where
Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was
why so many people looked on it as immoral.

"What more?"

"He asked me to shake hands.

"Did you?"

"Yes. When he came in I'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while
he was there."

"Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone."

"I know no woman I could ask; and I can't take a lover to order,
Cousin Jolyon."

"Heaven forbid!" said Jolyon. "What a damnable position! Will you
stay to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted
to go up this evening."


"Truly. I'll be ready in five minutes."

On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music,
contrasting the English and French characters and the difference in
their attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges of
the long straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept pace
with them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of
her neck, the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and
then, the lure of her whole figure, made a deeper impression than
the remarks they exchanged. Unconsciously he held himself
straighter, walked with a more elastic step.

In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she
did with her days.

Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano,
translated from the French.

She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which
supplemented her income a little. She seldom went out in the
evening. "I've been living alone so long, you see, that I don't
mind it a bit. I believe I'm naturally solitary."

"I don't believe that," said Jolyon. "Do you know many people?"

"Very few."

At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door
of her mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said:

"You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let
me know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene."

"Good-bye," she answered softly.

Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked
her to dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved,
hung-up life that she had! "Hotch Potch Club," he said through the
trap-door. As his hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a man in
top-hat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close to the wall
that he seemed to be scraping it.

'By Jove!' thought Jolyon; 'Soames himself! What's he up to now?'
And, stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and retraced his
steps to where he could see the entrance to the mansions. Soames
had halted in front of them, and was looking up at the light in her
windows. 'If he goes in,' thought Jolyon, 'what shall I do? What
have I the right to do?' What the fellow had said was true. She
was still his wife, absolutely without protection from annoyance!
'Well, if he goes in,' he thought, 'I follow.' And he began moving
towards the mansions. Again Soames advanced; he was in the very
entrance now. But suddenly he stopped, spun round on his heel, and
came back towards the river. 'What now?' thought Jolyon. 'In a
dozen steps he'll recognise me.' And he turned tail. His cousin's
footsteps kept pace with his own. But he reached his cab, and got
in before Soames had turned the corner. "Go on!" he said through
the trap. Soames' figure ranged up alongside.

"Hansom!" he said. "Engaged? Hallo!"

"Hallo!" answered Jolyon. "You?"

The quick suspicion on his cousin's face, white in the lamplight,
decided him.

"I can give you a lift," he said, "if you're going West."

"Thanks," answered Soames, and got in.

"I've been seeing Irene," said Jolyon when the cab had started.


"You went to see her yesterday yourself, I understand."

"I did," said Soames; "she's my wife, you know."

The tone, the half-lifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in
Jolyon; but he subdued it.

"You ought to know best," he said, "but if you want a divorce it's
not very wise to go seeing her, is it? One can't run with the hare
and hunt with the hounds?"

"You're very good to warn me," said Soames, "but I have not made up
my mind."

"She has," said Jolyon, looking straight before him; "you can't
take things up, you know, as they were twelve years ago."

"That remains to be seen."

"Look here!" said Jolyon, "she's in a damnable position, and I am
the only person with any legal say in her affairs."

"Except myself," retorted Soames, "who am also in a damnable
position. Hers is what she made for herself; mine what she made
for me. I am not at all sure that in her own interests I shan't
require her to return to me."

"What!" exclaimed Jolyon; and a shiver went through his whole body.

"I don't know what you may mean by 'what,'" answered Soames coldly;
"your say in her affairs is confined to paying out her income;
please bear that in mind. In choosing not to disgrace her by a
divorce, I retained my rights, and, as I say, I am not at all sure
that I shan't require to exercise them."

"My God!" ejaculated Jolyon, and he uttered a short laugh.

"Yes," said Soames, and there was a deadly quality in his voice.
"I've not forgotten the nickname your father gave me, 'The man of
property'! I'm not called names for nothing."

"This is fantastic," murmured Jolyon. Well, the fellow couldn't
force his wife to live with him. Those days were past, anyway!
And he looked around at Soames with the thought: 'Is he real, this
man?' But Soames looked very real, sitting square yet almost
elegant with the clipped moustache on his pale face, and a tooth
showing where a lip was lifted in a fixed smile. There was a long
silence, while Jolyon thought: 'Instead of helping her, I've made
things worse.' Suddenly Soames said:

"It would be the best thing that could happen to her in many ways."

At those words such a turmoil began taking place in Jolyon that he
could barely sit still in the cab. It was as if he were boxed up
with hundreds of thousands of his countrymen, boxed up with that
something in the national character which had always been to him
revolting, something which he knew to be extremely natural and yet
which seemed to him inexplicable--their intense belief in contracts
and vested rights, their complacent sense of virtue in the exaction
of those rights. Here beside him in the cab was the very
embodiment, the corporeal sum as it were, of the possessive
instinct--his own kinsman, too! It was uncanny and intolerable!
'But there's something more in it than that!' he thought with a
sick feeling. 'The dog, they say, returns to his vomit! The sight
of her has reawakened something. Beauty! The devil's in it!'

"As I say," said Soames, "I have not made up my mind. I shall be
obliged if you will kindly leave her quite alone."

Jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed
the thought of one now.

"I can give you no such promise," he said shortly.

"Very well," said Soames, "then we know where we are. I'll get
down here." And stopping the cab he got out without word or sign
of farewell. Jolyon travelled on to his Club.

The first news of the war was being called in the streets, but he
paid no attention. What could he do to help her? If only his
father were alive! He could have done so much! But why could he
not do all that his father could have done? Was he not old
enough?--turned fifty and twice married, with grown-up daughters
and a son. 'Queer,' he thought. 'If she were plain I shouldn't be
thinking twice about it. Beauty is the devil, when you're sen-
sitive to it!' And into the Club reading-room he went with a
disturbed heart. In that very room he and Bosinney had talked one
summer afternoon; he well remembered even now the disguised and
secret lecture he had given that young man in the interests of
June, the diagnosis of the Forsytes he had hazarded; and how he had
wondered what sort of woman it was he was warning him against. And
now! He was almost in want of a warning himself. 'It's deuced
funny!' he thought, 'really deuced funny!'



It is so much easier to say, "Then we know where we are," than to
mean anything particular by the words. And in saying them Soames
did but vent the jealous rankling of his instincts. He got out of
the cab in a state of wary anger--with himself for not having seen
Irene, with Jolyon for having seen her; and now with his inability
to tell exactly what he wanted.

He had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain seated
beside his cousin, and walking briskly eastwards he thought: 'I
wouldn't trust that fellow Jolyon a yard. Once outcast, always
outcast!' The chap had a natural sympathy with--with--laxity (he
had shied at the word sin, because it was too melodramatic for use
by a Forsyte).

Indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. He was like a child
between a promised toy and an old one which had been taken away
from him; and he was astonished at himself. Only last Sunday
desire had seemed simple--just his freedom and Annette. 'I'll go
and dine there,' he thought. To see her might bring back his
singleness of intention, calm his exasperation, clear his mind.

The restaurant was fairly full--a good many foreigners and folk
whom, from their appearance, he took to be literary or artistic.
Scraps of conversation came his way through the clatter of plates
and glasses. He distinctly heard the Boers sympathised with, the
British Government blamed. 'Don't think much of their clientele,'
he thought. He went stolidly through his dinner and special coffee
without making his presence known, and when at last he had
finished, was careful not to be seen going towards the sanctum of
Madame Lamotte. They were, as he entered, having supper--such a
much nicer-looking supper than the dinner he had eaten that he felt
a kind of grief--and they greeted him with a surprise so seemingly
genuine that he thought with sudden suspicion: 'I believe they knew
I was here all the time.' He gave Annette a look furtive and
searching. So pretty, seemingly so candid; could she be angling
for him? He turned to Madame Lamotte and said:

"I've been dining here."

Really! If she had only known! There were dishes she could have
recommended; what a pity! Soames was confirmed in his suspicion.
'I must look out what I'm doing!' he thought sharply.

"Another little cup of very special coffee, monsieur; a liqueur,
Grand Marnier?" and Madame Lamotte rose to order these delicacies.

Alone with Annette Soames said, "Well, Annette?" with a defensive
little smile about his lips.

The girl blushed. This, which last Sunday would have set his
nerves tingling, now gave him much the same feeling a man has when
a dog that he owns wriggles and looks at him. He had a curious
sense of power, as if he could have said to her, 'Come and kiss
me,' and she would have come. And yet--it was strange--but there
seemed another face and form in the room too; and the itch in his
nerves, was it for that--or for this? He jerked his head towards
the restaurant and said: "You have some queer customers. Do you
like this life?"

Annette looked up at him for a moment, looked down, and played with
her fork.

"No," she said, "I do not like it."

'I've got her,' thought Soames, 'if I want her. But do I want
her?' She was graceful, she was pretty--very pretty; she was fresh,
she had taste of a kind. His eyes travelled round the little room;
but the eyes of his mind went another journey--a half-light, and
silvery walls, a satinwood piano, a woman standing against it,
reined back as it were from him--a woman with white shoulders that
he knew, and dark eyes that he had sought to know, and hair like
dull dark amber. And as in an artist who strives for the
unrealisable and is ever thirsty, so there rose in him at that
moment the thirst of the old passion he had never satisfied.

"Well," he said calmly, "you're young. There's everything before

Annette shook her head.

"I think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work. I am
not so in love with work as mother."

"Your mother is a wonder," said Soames, faintly mocking; "she will
never let failure lodge in her house."

Annette sighed. "It must be wonderful to be rich."

"Oh! You'll be rich some day," answered Soames, still with that
faint mockery; "don't be afraid."

Annette shrugged her shoulders. "Monsieur is very kind." And
between her pouting lips she put a chocolate.

'Yes, my dear,' thought Soames, 'they're very pretty.'

Madame Lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that
colloquy. Soames did not stay long.

Outside in the streets of Soho, which always gave him such a
feeling of property improperly owned, he mused. If only Irene had
given him a son, he wouldn't now be squirming after women! The
thought had jumped out of its little dark sentry-box in his inner
consciousness. A son--something to look forward to, something to
make the rest of life worth while, something to leave himself to,
some perpetuity of self. 'If I had a son,' he thought bitterly,
'a proper legal son, I could make shift to go on as I used. One
woman's much the same as another, after all.' But as he walked he
shook his head. No! One woman was not the same as another. Many
a time had he tried to think that in the old days of his thwarted
married life; and he had always failed. He was failing now. He
was trying to think Annette the same as that other. But she was
not, she had not the lure of that old passion. 'And Irene's my
wife,' he thought, 'my legal wife. I have done nothing to put her
away from me. Why shouldn't she come back to me? It's the right
thing, the lawful thing. It makes no scandal, no disturbance. If
it's disagreeable to her--but why should it be? I'm not a leper,
and she--she's no longer in love!' Why should he be put to the
shifts and the sordid disgraces and the lurking defeats of the
Divorce Court, when there she was like an empty house only waiting
to be retaken into use and possession by him who legally owned her?
To one so secretive as Soames the thought of reentry into quiet
possession of his own property with nothing given away to the world
was intensely alluring. 'No,' he mused, 'I'm glad I went to see
that girl. I know now what I want most. If only Irene will come
back I'll be as considerate as she wishes; she could live her own
life; but perhaps--perhaps she would come round to me.' There was
a lump in his throat. And doggedly along by the railings of the
Green Park, towards his father's house, he went, trying to tread on
his shadow walking before him in the brilliant moonlight.




Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street, Oxford, on a November
afternoon; Val Dartie was strolling up. Jolly had just changed out
of boating flannels and was on his way to the 'Frying-pan,' to
which he had recently been elected. Val had just changed out of
riding clothes and was on his way to the fire--a bookmaker's in

"Hallo!" said Jolly.

"Hallo!" replied Val.

The cousins had met but twice, Jolly, the second-year man, having
invited the freshman to breakfast; and last evening they had seen
each other again under somewhat exotic circumstances.

Over a tailor's in the Cornmarket resided one of those privileged
young beings called minors, whose inheritances are large, whose
parents are dead, whose guardians are remote, and whose instincts
are vicious. At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers
attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single
bankruptcy is good as a feast. Already famous for having the only
roulette table then to be found in Oxford, he was anticipating his
expectations at a dazzling rate. He out-crummed Crum, though of a
sanguine and rather beefy type which lacked the latter's
fascinating languor. For Val it had been in the nature of baptism
to be taken there to play roulette; in the nature of confirmation
to get back into college, after hours, through a window whose bars
were deceptive. Once, during that evening of delight, glancing up
from the seductive green before him, he had caught sight, through a
cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite. 'Rouge gagne,
impair, et manque!' He had not seen him again.

"Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea," said Jolly, and they went

A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an unseizable
resemblance between these second cousins of the third generations
of Forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though Jolly's eyes
were darker grey, his hair lighter and more wavy.

"Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please," said Jolly.

"Have one of my cigarettes?" said Val. "I saw you last night. How
did you do?"

"I didn't play."

"I won fifteen quid."

Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had
once heard his father make--'When you're fleeced you're sick, and
when you fleece you're sorry--Jolly contented himself with:

"Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He's an
awful fool."

"Oh! I don't know," said Val, as one might speak in defence of a
disparaged god; "he's a pretty good sport."

They exchanged whiffs in silence.

"You met my people, didn't you?" said Jolly. "They're coming up

Val grew a little red.

"Really! I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester
November handicap."

"Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races."

"You can't make any money over them," said Val.

"I hate the ring," said Jolly; "there's such a row and stink. I
like the paddock."

"I like to back my judgment,"' answered Val.

Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father's.

"I haven't got any. I always lose money if I bet."

"You have to buy experience, of course."

"Yes, but it's all messed-up with doing people in the eye."

"Of course, or they'll do you--that's the excitement."

Jolly looked a little scornful.

"What do you do with yourself? Row?"

"No--ride, and drive about. I'm going to play polo next term, if I
can get my granddad to stump up."

"That's old Uncle James, isn't it? What's he like?"

"Older than forty hills," said Val, "and always thinking he's going
to be ruined."

"I suppose my granddad and he were brothers."

"I don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen," said Val;
"they must have worshipped money."

"Mine didn't!" said Jolly warmly.

Val flipped the ash off his cigarette.

"Money's only fit to spend," he said; "I wish the deuce I had

Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had
inherited from old Jolyon: One didn't talk about money! And again
there was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns.

"Where are your people going to stay?" asked Val, elaborately

"'Rainbow.' What do you think of the war?"

"Rotten, so far. The Boers aren't sports a bit. Why don't they
come out into the open?"

"Why should they? They've got everything against them except their
way of fighting. I rather admire them."

"They can ride and shoot," admitted Val, "but they're a lousy lot.
Do you know Crum?"

"Of Merton? Only by sight. He's in that fast set too, isn't he?
Rather La-di-da and Brummagem."

Val said fixedly: "He's a friend of mine."

"Oh! Sorry!" And they sat awkwardly staring past each other,
having pitched on their pet points of snobbery. For Jolly was
forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was:

'We defy you to bore us. Life isn't half long enough, and we're
going to talk faster and more crisply, do more and know more, and
dwell less on any subject than you can possibly imagine. We are
"the best"--made of wire and whipcord.' And Val was unconsciously
forming himself on a set whose motto was: 'We defy you to interest
or excite us. We have had every sensation, or if we haven't, we
pretend we have. We are so exhausted with living that no hours are
too small for us. We will lose our shirts with equanimity. We
have flown fast and are past everything. All is cigarette smoke.
Bismillah!' Competitive spirit, bone-deep in the English, was
obliging those two young Forsytes to have ideals; and at the close
of a century ideals are mixed. The aristocracy had already in the
main adopted the 'jumping-Jesus' principle; though here and there
one like Crum--who was an 'honourable'--stood starkly languid for
that gambler's Nirvana which had been the summum bonum of the old
'dandies' and of 'the mashers' in the eighties. And round Crum
were still gathered a forlorn hope of blue-bloods with a
plutocratic following.

But there was between the cousins another far less obvious
antipathy--coming from the unseizable family resemblance, which
each perhaps resented; or from some half-consciousness of that old
feud persisting still between their branches of the clan, formed
within them by odd words or half-hints dropped by their elders.
And Jolly, tinkling his teaspoon, was musing: 'His tie-pin and his
waistcoat and his drawl and his betting--good Lord!'

And Val, finishing his bun, was thinking: 'He's rather a young

"I suppose you'll be meeting your people?" he said, getting up.
"I wish you'd tell them I should like to show them over B.N.C.--not
that there's anything much there--if they'd care to come."

"Thanks, I'll ask them."

"Would they lunch? I've got rather a decent scout."

Jolly doubted if they would have time.

"You'll ask them, though?"

"Very good of you," said Jolly, fully meaning that they should not
go; but, instinctively polite, he added: "You'd better come and
have dinner with us to-morrow."

"Rather. What time?"



"No." And they parted, a subtle antagonism alive within them.

Holly and her father arrived by a midday train. It was her first
visit to the city of spires and dreams, and she was very silent,
looking almost shyly at the brother who was part of this wonderful
place. After lunch she wandered, examining his household gods with
intense curiosity. Jolly's sitting-room was panelled, and Art
represented by a set of Bartolozzi prints which had belonged to old
Jolyon, and by college photographs--of young men, live young men, a
little heroic, and to be compared with her memories of Val. Jolyon
also scrutinised with care that evidence of his boy's character and

Jolly was anxious that they should see him rowing, so they set
forth to the river. Holly, between her brother and her father,
felt elated when heads were turned and eyes rested on her. That
they might see him to the best advantage they left him at the Barge
and crossed the river to the towing-path. Slight in build--for of
all the Forsytes only old Swithin and George were beefy--Jolly was
rowing 'Two' in a trial eight. He looked very earnest and
strenuous. With pride Jolyon thought him the best-looking boy of
the lot; Holly, as became a sister, was more struck by one or two
of the others, but would not have said so for the world. The river
was bright that afternoon, the meadows lush, the trees still
beautiful with colour. Distinguished peace clung around the old
city; Jolyon promised himself a day's sketching if the weather
held. The Eight passed a second time, spurting home along the
Barges--Jolly's face was very set, so as not to show that he was
blown. They returned across the river and waited for him.

"Oh!" said Jolly in the Christ Church meadows, "I had to ask that
chap Val Dartie to dine with us to-night. He wanted to give you
lunch and show you B.N.C., so I thought I'd better; then you
needn't go. I don't like him much."

Holly's rather sallow face had become suffused with pink.

"Why not?"

"Oh! I don't know. He seems to me rather showy and bad form. What
are his people like, Dad? He's only a second cousin, isn't he?"

Jolyon took refuge in a smile.

"Ask Holly," he said; "she saw his uncle."

"I liked Val," Holly answered, staring at the ground before her;
"his uncle looked--awfully different." She stole a glance at Jolly
from under her lashes.

"Did you ever," said Jolyon with whimsical intention, "hear our
family history, my dears? It's quite a fairy tale. The first
Jolyon Forsyte--at all events the first we know anything of, and
that would be your great-great-grandfather--dwelt in the land of
Dorset on the edge of the sea, being by profession an
'agriculturalist,' as your great-aunt put it, and the son of an
agriculturist--farmers, in fact; your grandfather used to call
them, 'Very small beer.'" He looked at Jolly to see how his
lordliness was standing it, and with the other eye noted Holly's
malicious pleasure in the slight drop of her brother's face.

"We may suppose him thick and sturdy, standing for England as it
was before the Industrial Era began. The second Jolyon Forsyte--
your great-grandfather, Jolly; better known as Superior Dosset
Forsyte--built houses, so the chronicle runs, begat ten children,
and migrated to London town. It is known that he drank sherry. We
may suppose him representing the England of Napoleon's wars, and
general unrest. The eldest of his six sons was the third Jolyon,
your grandfather, my dears--tea merchant and chairman of companies,
one of the soundest Englishmen who ever lived--and to me the
dearest." Jolyon's voice had lost its irony, and his son and
daughter gazed at him solemnly, "He was just and tenacious, tender
and young at heart. You remember him, and I remember him. Pass to
the others! Your great-uncle James, that's young Val's grand-
father, had a son called Soames--whereby hangs a tale of no love
lost, and I don't think I'll tell it you. James and the other
eight children of 'Superior Dosset,' of whom there are still five
alive, may be said to have represented Victorian England, with its
principles of trade and individualism at five per cent. and your
money back--if you know what that means. At all events they've
turned thirty thousand pounds into a cool million between them in
the course of their long lives. They never did a wild thing--
unless it was your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe was once
swindled at thimble-rig, and was called 'Four-in-hand Forsyte'
because he drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their type, not
altogether for the advantage of the country. They were pedestrian,
but they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon Forsyte--a poor
holder of the name--"

"No, Dad," said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand.

"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, I'm afraid,
nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism,
and individual liberty--a different thing from individualism,
Jolly. You are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old man, and you open the
ball of the new century."

As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly
said: "It's fascinating, Dad."

None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave.

The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for
lack of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled private sitting-
room, in which Holly sat to receive, white-frocked, shy, and alone,
when the only guest arrived. Rather as one would touch a moth, Val
took her hand. And wouldn't she wear this 'measly flower'? It
would look ripping in her hair. He removed a gardenia from his

"Oh! No, thank you--I couldn't!" But she took it and pinned it at
her neck, having suddenly remembered that word 'showy'! Val's
buttonhole would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to like
him. Did she realise that Val was at his best and quietest in her
presence, and was that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction
for her?

"I never said anything about our ride, Val."

"Rather not! It's just between us."

By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was
giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too--the
wish to make him happy.

"Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely."

Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked;
the lectures were nothing; and there were some very good chaps.
"Only," he added, "of course I wish I was in town, and could come
down and see you."

Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance dropped.

"You haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering courage, "that
we're going mad-rabbiting together?"

Holly smiled.

"Oh! That was only make-believe. One can't do that sort of thing
after one's grown up, you know."

"Dash it! cousins can," said Val. "Next Long Vac.--it begins in
June, you know, and goes on for ever--we'll watch our chance."

But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly
shook her head. "It won't come off," she murmured.

"Won't it!" said Val fervently; "who's going to stop it? Not your
father or your brother."

At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance fled into
Val's patent leather and Holly's white satin toes, where it itched
and tingled during an evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness.

Sensitive to atmosphere, Jolyon soon felt the latent antagonism
between the boys, and was puzzled by Holly; so he became un-
consciously ironical, which is fatal to the expansiveness of youth.
A letter, handed to him after dinner, reduced him to a silence
hardly broken till Jolly and Val rose to go. He went out with
them, smoking his cigar, and walked with his son to the gates of
Christ Church. Turning back, he took out the letter and read it
again beneath a lamp.


"Soames came again to-night--my thirty-seventh birthday. You were
right, I mustn't stay here. I'm going to-morrow to the Piedmont
Hotel, but I won't go abroad without seeing you. I feel lonely and

"Yours affectionately,


He folded the letter back into his pocket and walked on, astonished
at the violence of his feelings. What had the fellow said or done?

He turned into High Street, down the Turf, and on among a maze of
spires and domes and long college fronts and walls, bright or
darkshadowed in the strong moonlight. In this very heart of
England's gentility it was difficult to realise that a lonely woman
could be importuned or hunted, but what else could her letter mean?
Soames must have been pressing her to go back to him again, with
public opinion and the Law on his side, too! 'Eighteen-ninety-
nine!,' he thought, gazing at the broken glass shining on the top
of a villa garden wall; 'but when it comes to property we're still
a heathen people! I'll go up to-morrow morning. I dare say it'll
be best for her to go abroad.' Yet the thought displeased him.
Why should Soames hunt her out of England! Besides, he might
follow, and out there she would be still more helpless against the
attentions of her own husband! 'I must tread warily,' he thought;
'that fellow could make himself very nasty. I didn't like his
manner in the cab the other night.' His thoughts turned to his
daughter June. Could she help? Once on a time Irene had been her
greatest friend, and now she was a 'lame duck,' such as must appeal
to June's nature! He determined to wire to his daughter to meet
him at Paddington Station. Retracing his steps towards the Rainbow
he questioned his own sensations. Would he be upsetting himself
over every woman in like case? No! he would not. The candour of
this conclusion discomfited him; and, finding that Holly had gone
up to bed, he sought his own room. But he could not sleep, and sat
for a long time at his window, huddled in an overcoat, watching the
moonlight on the roofs.

Next door Holly too was awake, thinking of the lashes above and
below Val's eyes, especially below; and of what she could do to
make Jolly like him better. The scent of the gardenia was strong
in her little bedroom, and pleasant to her.

And Val, leaning out of his first-floor window in B.N.C., was
gazing at a moonlit quadrangle without seeing it at all, seeing
instead Holly, slim and white-frocked, as she sat beside the fire
when he first went in.

But Jolly, in his bedroom narrow as a ghost, lay with a hand
beneath his cheek and dreamed he was with Val in one boat, rowing a
race against him, while his father was calling from the towpath:
'Two! Get your hands away there, bless you!'



Of all those radiant firms which emblazon with their windows the
West End of London, Gaves and Cortegal were considered by Soames
the most 'attractive' word just coming into fashion. He had never
had his Uncle Swithin's taste in precious stones, and the
abandonment by Irene when she left his house in 1887 of all the
glittering things he had given her had disgusted him with this form
of investment. But he still knew a diamond when he saw one, and
during the week before her birthday he had taken occasion, on his
way into the Poultry or his way out therefrom, to dally a little
before the greater jewellers where one got, if not one's money's
worth, at least a certain cachet with the goods.

Constant cogitation since his drive with Jolyon had convinced him
more and more of the supreme importance of this moment in his life,
the supreme need for taking steps and those not wrong. And,
alongside the dry and reasoned sense that it was now or never with
his self-preservation, now or never if he were to range himself and
found a family, went the secret urge of his senses roused by the
sight of her who had once been a passionately desired wife, and the
conviction that it was a sin against common sense and the decent
secrecy of Forsytes to waste the wife he had.

In an opinion on Winifred's case, Dreamer, Q.C.--he would much have
preferred Waterbuck, but they had made him a judge (so late in the
day as to rouse the usual suspicion of a political job)--had
advised that they should go forward and obtain restitution of
conjugal rights, a point which to Soames had never been in doubt.
When they had obtained a decree to that effect they must wait to
see if it was obeyed. If not, it would constitute legal desertion,
and they should obtain evidence of misconduct and file their
petition for divorce. All of which Soames knew perfectly well.
They had marked him ten and one. This simplicity in his sister's
case only made him the more desperate about the difficulty in his
own. Everything, in fact, was driving him towards the simple
solution of Irene's return. If it were still against the grain
with her, had he not feelings to subdue, injury to forgive, pain to
forget? He at least had never injured her, and this was a world of
compromise! He could offer her so much more than she had now. He
would be prepared to make a liberal settlement on her which could
not be upset. He often scrutinised his image in these days. He
had never been a peacock like that fellow Dartie, or fancied
himself a woman's man, but he had a certain belief in his own
appearance--not unjustly, for it was well-coupled and preserved,
neat, healthy, pale, unblemished by drink or excess of any kind.
The Forsyte jaw and the concentration of his face were, in his
eyes, virtues. So far as he could tell there was no feature of him
which need inspire dislike.

Thoughts and yearnings, with which one lives daily, become natural,
even if far-fetched in their inception. If he could only give
tangible proof enough of his determination to let bygones be
bygones, and to do all in his power to please her, why should she
not come back to him?

He entered Gaves and Cortegal's therefore, on the morning of
November the 9th, to buy a certain diamond brooch. "Four
twenty-five and dirt cheap, sir, at the money. It's a lady's
brooch." There was that in his mood which made him accept without
demur. And he went on into the Poultry with the flat green morocco
case in his breast pocket. Several times that day he opened it to
look at the seven soft shining stones in their velvet oval nest.

"If the lady doesn't like it, sir, happy to exchange it any time.
But there's no fear of that." If only there were not! He got
through a vast amount of work, only soother of the nerves he knew.
A cablegram came while he was in the office with details from the
agent in Buenos Aires, and the name and address of a stewardess who
would be prepared to swear to what was necessary. It was a timely
spur to Soames, with his rooted distaste for the washing of dirty
linen in public. And when he set forth by Underground to Victoria
Station he received a fresh impetus towards the renewal of his
married life from the account in his evening paper of a fashionable
divorce suit. The homing instinct of all true Forsytes in anxiety
and trouble, the corporate tendency which kept them strong and
solid, made him choose to dine at Park Lane. He neither could nor
would breath a word to his people of his intention--too reticent
and proud--but the thought that at least they would be glad if they
knew, and wish him luck, was heartening.

James was in lugubrious mood, for the fire which the impudence of
Kruger's ultimatum had lit in him had been cold-watered by the poor
success of the last month, and the exhortations to effort in The
Times. He didn't know where it would end. Soames sought to cheer
him by the continual use of the word Buller. But James couldn't
tell! There was Colley--and he got stuck on that hill, and this
Ladysmith was down in a hollow, and altogether it looked to him a
'pretty kettle of fish'; he thought they ought to be sending the
sailors--they were the chaps, they did a lot of good in the Crimea.
Soames shifted the ground of consolation. Winifred had heard from
Val that there had been a 'rag' and a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day at
Oxford, and that he had escaped detection by blacking his face.

"Ah!" James muttered, "he's a clever little chap." But he shook
his head shortly afterwards and remarked that he didn't know what
would become of him, and looking wistfully at his son, murmured on
that Soames had never had a boy. He would have liked a grandson of
his own name. And now--well, there it was!

Soames flinched. He had not expected such a challenge to disclose
the secret in his heart. And Emily, who saw him wince, said:

"Nonsense, James; don't talk like that!"

But James, not looking anyone in the face, muttered on. There were
Roger and Nicholas and Jolyon; they all had grandsons. And Swithin
and Timothy had never married. He had done his best; but he would
soon be gone now. And, as though he had uttered words of profound
consolation, he was silent, eating brains with a fork and a piece
of bread, and swallowing the bread.

Soames excused himself directly after dinner. It was not really
cold, but he put on his fur coat, which served to fortify him
against the fits of nervous shivering to which he had been subject
all day. Subconsciously, he knew that he looked better thus than
in an ordinary black overcoat. Then, feeling the morocco case flat
against his heart, he sallied forth. He was no smoker, but he lit
a cigarette, and smoked it gingerly as he walked along. He moved
slowly down the Row towards Knightsbridge, timing himself to get to
Chelsea at nine-fifteen. What did she do with herself evening
after evening in that little hole? How mysterious women were! One
lived alongside and knew nothing of them. What could she have seen
in that fellow Bosinney to send her mad? For there was madness
after all in what she had done--crazy moonstruck madness, in which
all sense of values had been lost, and her life and his life
ruined! And for a moment he was filled with a sort of exaltation,
as though he were a man read of in a story who, possessed by the
Christian spirit, would restore to her all the prizes of existence,
forgiving and forgetting, and becoming the godfather of her
future. Under a tree opposite Knightsbridge Barracks, where the
moon-light struck down clear and white, he took out once more the
morocco case, and let the beams draw colour from those stones.
Yes, they were of the first water! But, at the hard closing snap
of the case, another cold shiver ran through his nerves; and he
walked on faster, clenching his gloved hands in the pockets of his
coat, almost hoping she would not be in. The thought of how
mysterious she was again beset him. Dining alone there night after
night--in an evening dress, too, as if she were making believe to
be in society! Playing the piano--to herself! Not even a dog or
cat, so far as he had seen. And that reminded him suddenly of the
mare he kept for station work at Mapledurham. If ever he went to
the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her
home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if longing
to be back and lonely in her stable! 'I would treat her well,' he
thought incoherently. 'I would be very careful.' And all that
capacity for home life of which a mocking Fate seemed for ever to
have deprived him swelled suddenly in Soames, so that he dreamed
dreams opposite South Kensington Station. In the King's Road a man
came slithering out of a public house playing a concertina. Soames
watched him for a moment dance crazily on the pavement to his own
drawling jagged sounds, then crossed over to avoid contact with
this piece of drunken foolery. A night in the lock-up! What asses
people were! But the man had noticed his movement of avoidance,
and streams of genial blasphemy followed him across the street.
'I hope they'll run him in,' thought Soames viciously. 'To have
ruffians like that about, with women out alone!' A woman's figure
in front had induced this thought. Her walk seemed oddly familiar,
and when she turned the corner for which he was bound, his heart
began to beat. He hastened on to the corner to make certain.
Yes! It was Irene; he could not mistake her walk in that little
drab street. She threaded two more turnings, and from the last
corner he saw her enter her block of flats. To make sure of her
now, he ran those few paces, hurried up the stairs, and caught her
standing at her door. He heard the latchkey in the lock, and
reached her side just as she turned round, startled, in the open

"Don't be alarmed," he said, breathless. "I happened to see you.
Let me come in a minute."

She had put her hand up to her breast, her face was colourless, her
eyes widened by alarm. Then seeming to master herself, she
inclined her head, and said: "Very well."

Soames closed the door. He, too, had need to recover, and when she
had passed into the sitting-room, waited a full minute, taking deep
breaths to still the beating of his heart. At this moment, so
fraught with the future, to take out that morocco case seemed
crude. Yet, not to take it out left him there before her with no
preliminary excuse for coming. And in this dilemma he was seized
with impatience at all this paraphernalia of excuse and
justification. This was a scene--it could be nothing else, and he
must face it. He heard her voice, uncomfortably, pathetically

"Why have you come again? Didn't you understand that I would
rather you did not?"

He noticed her clothes--a dark brown velvet corduroy, a sable boa,
a small round toque of the same. They suited her admirably. She
had money to spare for dress, evidently! He said abruptly:

"It's your birthday. I brought you this," and he held out to her
the green morocco case.

"Oh! No-no!"

Soames pressed the clasp; the seven stones gleamed out on the pale
grey velvet.

"Why not?" he said. "Just as a sign that you don't bear me ill-
feeling any longer."

"I couldn't."

Soames took it out of the case.

"Let me just see how it looks."

She shrank back.

He followed, thrusting his hand with the brooch in it against the
front of her dress. She shrank again.

Soames dropped his hand.

"Irene," he said, "let bygones be bygones. If I can, surely you
might. Let's begin again, as if nothing had been. Won't you?"
His voice was wistful, and his eyes, resting on her face, had in
them a sort of supplication.

She, who was standing literally with her back against the wall,
gave a little gulp, and that was all her answer. Soames went on:

"Can you really want to live all your days half-dead in this little
hole? Come back to me, and I'll give you all you want. You shall
live your own life; I swear it."

He saw her face quiver ironically.

"Yes," he repeated, "but I mean it this time. I'll only ask one
thing. I just want--I just want a son. Don't look like that! I
want one. It's hard." His voice had grown hurried, so that he
hardly knew it for his own, and twice he jerked his head back as if
struggling for breath. It was the sight of her eyes fixed on him,
dark with a sort of fascinated fright, which pulled him together
and changed that painful incoherence to anger.

"Is it so very unnatural?" he said between his teeth, "Is it
unnatural to want a child from one's own wife? You wrecked our
life and put this blight on everything. We go on only half alive,
and without any future. Is it so very unflattering to you that in
spite of everything I--I still want you for my wife? Speak, for
Goodness' sake! do speak."

Irene seemed to try, but did not succeed.

"I don't want to frighten you," said Soames more gently. "Heaven
knows. I only want you to see that I can't go on like this. I
want you back. I want you."

Irene raised one hand and covered the lower part of her face, but
her eyes never moved from his, as though she trusted in them to
keep him at bay. And all those years, barren and bitter, since--
ah! when?--almost since he had first known her, surged up in one
great wave of recollection in Soames; and a spasm that for his life
he could not control constricted his face.

"It's not too late," he said; "it's not--if you'll only believe

Irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing
gesture in front of her breast. Soames seized them.

"Don't!" she said under her breath. But he stood holding on to
them, trying to stare into her eyes which did not waver. Then she
said quietly:

"I am alone here. You won't behave again as you once behaved."

Dropping her hands as though they had been hot irons, he turned
away. Was it possible that there could be such relentless
unforgiveness! Could that one act of violent possession be still
alive within her? Did it bar him thus utterly? And doggedly he
said, without looking up:

"I am not going till you've answered me. I am offering what few
men would bring themselves to offer, I want a--a reasonable

And almost with surprise he heard her say:

"You can't have a reasonable answer. Reason has nothing to do with
it. You can only have the brutal truth: I would rather die."

Soames stared at her.

"Oh!" he said. And there intervened in him a sort of paralysis of
speech and movement, the kind of quivering which comes when a man
has received a deadly insult, and does not yet know how he is going
to take it, or rather what it is going to do with him.

"Oh!" he said again, "as bad as that? Indeed! You would rather
die. That's pretty!"

"I am sorry. You wanted me to answer. I can't help the truth, can

At that queer spiritual appeal Soames turned for relief to
actuality. He snapped the brooch back into its case and put it in
his pocket.

"The truth!" he said; "there's no such thing with women. It's

He heard the whisper:

"Yes; nerves don't lie. Haven't you discovered that?" He was
silent, obsessed by the thought: 'I will hate this woman. I will
hate her.' That was the trouble! If only he could! He shot a
glance at her who stood unmoving against the wall with her head up
and her hands clasped, for all the world as if she were going to be
shot. And he said quickly:

"I don't believe a word of it. You have a lover. If you hadn't,
you wouldn't be such a--such a little idiot." He was conscious,
before the expression in her eyes, that he had uttered something of
a non-sequitur, and dropped back too abruptly into the verbal
freedom of his connubial days. He turned away to the door. But he
could not go out. Something within him--that most deep and secret
Forsyte quality, the impossibility of letting go, the impossibility
of seeing the fantastic and forlorn nature of his own tenacity--
prevented him. He turned about again, and there stood, with his
back against the door, as hers was against the wall opposite, quite
unconscious of anything ridiculous in this separation by the whole
width of the room.

"Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?" he said.

Irene's lips quivered; then she answered slowly:

"Do you ever think that I found out my mistake--my hopeless,
terrible mistake--the very first week of our marriage; that I went
on trying three years--you know I went on trying? Was it for

Soames gritted his teeth. "God knows what it was. I've never
understood you; I shall never understand you. You had everything
you wanted; and you can have it again, and more. What's the matter
with me? I ask you a plain question: What is it?" Unconscious of
the pathos in that enquiry, he went on passionately: "I'm not lame,
I'm not loathsome, I'm not a boor, I'm not a fool. What is it?
What's the mystery about me?"

Her answer was a long sigh.

He clasped his hands with a gesture that for him was strangely full
of expression. "When I came here to-night I was--I hoped--I meant
everything that I could to do away with the past, and start fair
again. And you meet me with 'nerves,' and silence, and sighs.
There's nothing tangible. It's like--it's like a spider's web."


That whisper from across the room maddened Soames afresh.

"Well, I don't choose to be in a spider's web. I'll cut it." He
walked straight up to her. "Now!" What he had gone up to her to
do he really did not know. But when he was close, the old familiar
scent of her clothes suddenly affected him. He put his hands on
her shoulders and bent forward to kiss her. He kissed not her
lips, but a little hard line where the lips had been drawn in; then
his face was pressed away by her hands; he heard her say: "Oh!
No!" Shame, compunction, sense of futility flooded his whole
being, he turned on his heel and went straight out.



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

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

"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

"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

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

"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?"


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

"Yes, Jolyon, please."

"When shall you be going?"


"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

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.



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

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

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.


"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

"Your still affectionate wife,


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

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.

"The evidence is all right, I think," he said to Bellby. "Between
ourselves, if we don't get the thing through quick, we never may.
D'you think he understands that?"

"I'll make um," said Bellby. "Good man though--good man."

Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a
draught, biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said:

"The evidence of the stewardess will be very complete."

Winifred's face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to
the carriage. And, all through that silent drive back to Green
Street, the souls of both of them revolved a single thought: 'Why,
oh! why should I have to expose my misfortune to the public like
this? Why have to employ spies to peer into my private troubles?
They were not of my making.'



The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was
animating two members of the Forsyte family towards riddance of
what they could no longer possess, was hardening daily in the
British body politic. Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning
a war which must affect property, had been heard to say that these
Boers were a pig-headed lot; they were causing a lot of expense,
and the sooner they had their lesson the better. He would send out
Wolseley! Seeing always a little further than other people--whence
the most considerable fortune of all the Forsytes--he had perceived
already that Buller was not the man--'a bull of a chap, who just
went butting, and if they didn't look out Ladysmith would fall.'
This was early in December, so that when Black Week came, he was
enabled to say to everybody: 'I told you so.' During that week of
gloom such as no Forsyte could remember, very young Nicholas
attended so many drills in his corps, 'The Devil's Own,' that young
Nicholas consulted the family physician about his son's health and
was alarmed to find that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only
just eaten his dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense,
and it was in a way a nightmare to his father and mother that he
should be playing with military efficiency at a time when military
efficiency in the civilian population might conceivably be wanted.
His grandfather, of course, pooh-poohed the notion, too thoroughly
educated in the feeling that no British war could be other than
little and professional, and profoundly distrustful of Imperial
commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to lose, for he owned De
Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient sacrifice on the
part of his grandson.

At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The
inherent effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two
months of the term before Black Week, been gradually crystallising
out into vivid oppositions. Normal adolescence, ever in England of
a conservative tendency though not taking things too seriously, was
vehement for a fight to a finish and a good licking for the Boers.
Of this larger faction Val Dartie was naturally a member. Radical
youth, on the other hand, a small but perhaps more vocal body, was
for stopping the war and giving the Boers autonomy. Until Black
Week, however, the groups were amorphous, without sharp edges, and
argument remained but academic. Jolly was one of those who knew
not where he stood. A streak of his grandfather old Jolyon's love
of justice prevented, him from seeing one side only. Moreover, in
his set of 'the best' there was a 'jumping-Jesus' of extremely
advanced opinions and some personal magnetism. Jolly wavered. His
father, too, seemed doubtful in his views. And though, as was
proper at the age of twenty, he kept a sharp eye on his father,
watchful for defects which might still be remedied, still that
father had an 'air' which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of
ironic tolerance. Artists of course; were notoriously Hamlet-like,
and to this extent one must discount for one's father, even if one
loved him. But Jolyon's original view, that to 'put your nose in
where you aren't wanted' (as the Uitlanders had done) 'and then
work the oracle till you get on top is not being quite the clean
potato,' had, whether founded in fact or no, a certain attraction
for his son, who thought a deal about gentility. On the other hand
Jolly could not abide such as his set called 'cranks,' and Val's
set called 'smugs,' so that he was still balancing when the clock
of Black Week struck. One--two--three, came those ominous repulses
at Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso. The sturdy English soul
reacting after the first cried, 'Ah! but Methuen!' after the
second: 'Ah! but Buller!' then, in inspissated gloom, hardened.
And Jolly said to himself: 'No, damn it! We've got to lick the
beggars now; I don't care whether we're right or wrong.' And, if
he had known it, his father was thinking the same thought.

That next Sunday, last of the term, Jolly was bidden to wine with
'one of the best.' After the second toast, 'Buller and damnation
to the Boers,' drunk--no heel taps--in the college Burgundy, he
noticed that Val Dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a
grin and saying something to his neighbour. He was sure it was
disparaging. The last boy in the world to make himself conspicuous
or cause public disturbance, Jolly grew rather red and shut his
lips. The queer hostility he had always felt towards his second-
cousin was strongly and suddenly reinforced. 'All right!' he
thought, 'you wait, my friend!' More wine than was good for him,
as the custom was, helped him to remember, when they all trooped
forth to a secluded spot, to touch Val on the arm.

"What did you say about me in there?"

"Mayn't I say what I like?"


"Well, I said you were a pro-Boer--and so you are!"

"You're a liar!"

"D'you want a row?"

"Of course, but not here; in the garden."

"All right. Come on."

They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching;
they climbed the garden railings. The spikes on the top slightly
ripped Val's sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly's mind was
occupied by the thought that they were going to fight in the
precincts of a college foreign to them both. It was not the thing,
but never mind--the young beast!

They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off
their coats.

"You're not screwed, are you?" said Jolly suddenly. "I can't fight
you if you're screwed."

"No more than you."

"All right then."

Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of
defence. They had drunk too much for science, and so were
especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote
Val almost accidentally on the nose. After that it was all a dark
and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one
to call 'time,' till, battered and blown, they unclinched and
staggered back from each other, as a voice said:

"Your names, young gentlemen?"

At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate,
like some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and snatching up
their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made
for the secluded spot whence they had issued to the fight. Here,
in dim light, they mopped their faces, and without a word walked,
ten paces apart, to the college gate. They went out silently, Val
going towards the Broad along the Brewery, Jolly down the lane
towards the High. His head, still fumed, was busy with regret that
he had not displayed more science, passing in review the counters
and knockout blows which he had not delivered. His mind strayed on
to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike that which he had just
been through, infinitely gallant, with sash and sword, with thrust
and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved Dumas. He
fancied himself La Mole, and Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and D'Artagnan
rolled into one, but he quite failed to envisage Val as Coconnas,
Brissac, or Rochefort. The fellow was just a confounded cousin who
didn't come up to Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or
two. 'Pro-Boer!' The word still rankled, and thoughts of en-
listing jostled his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing
gallantly, while the Boers rolled over like rabbits. And, turning
up his smarting eyes, he saw the stars shining between the house-
tops of the High, and himself lying out on the Karoo (whatever that
was) rolled in a blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed
on a glittering heaven.

He had a fearful 'head' next morning, which he doctored, as became
one of 'the best,' by soaking it in cold water, brewing strong
coffee which he could not drink, and only sipping a little Hock at
lunch. The legend that 'some fool' had run into him round a corner
accounted for a bruise on his cheek. He would on no account have
mentioned the fight, for, on second thoughts, it fell far short of
his standards.

The next day he went 'down,' and travelled through to Robin Hill.
Nobody was there but June and Holly, for his father had gone to
Paris. He spent a restless and unsettled Vacation, quite out of
touch with either of his sisters. June, indeed, was occupied with
lame ducks, whom, as a rule, Jolly could not stand, especially that
Eric Cobbley and his family, 'hopeless outsiders,' who were always
littering up the house in the Vacation. And between Holly and
himself there was a strange division, as if she were beginning to
have opinions of her own, which was so--unnecessary. He punched
viciously at a ball, rode furiously but alone in Richmond Park,
making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles put up to close
certain worn avenues of grass--keeping his nerve in, he called it.
Jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most boys are. He
bought a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home field, shooting
across the pond into the kitchen-garden wall, to the peril of
gardeners, with the thought that some day, perhaps, he would enlist
and save South Africa for his country. In fact, now that they were
appealing for Yeomanry recruits the boy was thoroughly upset.
Ought he to go? None of 'the best,' so far as he knew--and he was
in correspondence with several--were thinking of joining. If they
had been making a move he would have gone at once--very compet-
itive, and with a strong sense of form, he could not bear to be
left behind in anything--but to do it off his own bat might look


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