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CHAPTER VI

JAMES AT LARGE


It was not long before Soames's determination to build went the
round of the family, and created the flutter that any decision
connected with property should make among Forsytes.

It was not his fault, for he had been determined that no one
should know. June, in the fulness of her heart had told Mrs.
Small, giving her leave only to tell Aunt Ann--she thought it
would cheer her, the poor old sweet! for Aunt Ann had kept her
room now for many days.

Mrs. Small told Aunt Ann at once, who, smiling as she lay back on
her pillows, said in her distinct, trembling old voice:

"It's very nice for dear June; but I hope they will be careful--
it's rather dangerous!"

When she was left alone again, a frown, like a cloud presaging a
rainy morrow, crossed her face.

While she was lying there so many days the process of recharging
her will went on all the time; it spread to her face, too, and
tightening movements were always in action at the corners of her
lips.

The maid Smither, who had been in her service since girlhood, and
was spoken of as "Smither--a good girl--but so slow!"--the maid
Smither performed every morning with extreme punctiliousness the
crowning ceremony of that ancient toilet. Taking from the
recesses of their, pure white band-box those flat, grey curls,
the insignia of personal dignity, she placed them securely in her
mistress's hands, and turned her back.

And every day Aunts Juley and Hester were required to come and
report on Timothy; what news there was of Nicholas; whether dear
June had succeeded in getting Jolyon to shorten the engagement,
now that Mr. Bosinney was building Soames a house; whether young
Roger's wife was really--expecting; how the operation on Archie
had succeeded; and what Swithin. had done about that empty house
in Wigmore Street, where the tenant had lost all his money and
treated him so badly; above all, about Soames; was Irene still--
still asking for a separate room? And every morning Smither was
told: "I shall be coming down this afternoon, Smither, about two
o'clock. I shall want your arm, after all these days in bed!"

After telling Aunt Ann, Mrs. Small had spoken of the house in the
strictest confidence to Mrs. Nicholas, who in her turn had asked
Winifred Dartie for confirmation, supposing, of course, that,
being Soames's sister, she would know all about it. Through her
it had in due course come round to the ears of James. He had been
a good deal agitated.

"Nobody," he said, "told him anything." And, rather than go
direct to Soames himself, of whose taciturnity he was afraid, he
took his umbrella and went round to Timothy's.

He found Mrs. Septimus and Hester (who had been told--she was so
safe, she found it tiring to talk) ready, and indeed eager, to
discuss the news. It was very good of dear Soames, they thought,
to employ Mr. Bosinney, but rather risky. What had George named
him? 'The Buccaneer' How droll! But George was always droll!
However, it would be all in the family they supposed they must
really look upon Mr. Bosinney as belonging to the family, though
it seemed strange.

James here broke in:

"Nobody knows anything about him. I don't see what Soames wants
with a young man like that. I shouldn't be surprised if Irene
had put her oar in. I shall speak to...."

"Soames," interposed Aunt Juley, "told Mr. Bosinney that he
didn't wish it mentioned. He wouldn't like it to be talked
about, I'm sure, and if Timothy knew he would be very vexed,
I...."

James put his hand behind his ear:

"What?" he said. "I'm getting very deaf. I suppose I don't hear
people. Emily's got a bad toe. We shan't be able to start for
Wales till the end of the month. There' s always something!"
And, having got what he wanted, he took his hat and went away.

It was a fine afternoon, and he walked across the Park towards
Soames's, where he intended to dine, for Emily's toe kept her in
bed, and Rachel and Cicely were on a visit to the country. He
took the slanting path from the Bayswater side of the Row to the
Knightsbridge Gate, across a pasture of short, burnt grass,
dotted with blackened sheep, strewn with seated couples and
strange waifs; lying prone on their faces, like corpses on a
field over which the wave of battle has rolled.

He walked rapidly, his head bent, looking neither to right nor,
left. The appearance of this park, the centre of his own
battle-field, where he had all his life been fighting, excited no
thought or speculation in his, mind. These corpses flung down,
there, from out the press and turmoil of the struggle, these
pairs of lovers sitting cheek by jowl for an hour of idle Elysium
snatched from the monotony of their treadmill, awakened no
fancies in his mind; he had outlived that kind of imagination;
his nose, like the nose of a sheep, was fastened to the pastures
on which he browsed.

One of his tenants had lately shown a disposition to be
behind-hand in his rent, and it had become a grave question
whether he had not better turn him out at once, and so run the
risk of not re-letting before Christmas. Swithin had just been
let in very badly, but it had served him right--he had held on
too long.

He pondered this as he walked steadily, holding his umbrella
carefully by the wood, just below the crook of the handle, so as
to keep the ferule off the ground, and not fray the silk in the
middle. And, with his thin, high shoulders stooped, his long
legs moving with swift mechanical precision, this passage through
the Park, where the sun shone with a clear flame on so much
idleness--on so many human evidences of the remorseless battle of
Property, raging beyond its ring--was like the flight of some
land bird across the sea.

He felt a--touch on the arm as he came out at, Albert Gate.

It was Soames, who, crossing from the shady side of Piccadilly,
where he had been walking home from the office, had suddenly
appeared alongside.

"Your mother's in bed," said James; "I was, just coming to you,
but I suppose I shall be in the way."

The outward relations between James and his son were marked by a
lack of sentiment peculiarly Forsytean, but for all that the two
were by no means unattached. Perhaps they regarded one another
as an investment; certainly they were solicitous of each other's
welfare, glad of each other's company. They had never exchanged
two words upon the more intimate problems of life, or revealed in
each other's presence the existence of any deep feeling.

Something beyond the power of word-analysis bound them together,
something hidden deep in the fibre of nations and families--for
blood, they say, is thicker than water--and neither of them was a
cold-blooded man. Indeed, in James love of his children was now
the prime motive of his existence. To have creatures who were
parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved,
was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was
left that could give him pleasure, but--saving? The kernel of
life was in this saving for his children.

Than James Forsyte, notwithstanding all his 'Jonah-isms,' there
was no saner man (if the leading symptom of sanity, as we are
told, is self-preservation, though without doubt Timothy went too
far) in all this London, of which he owned so much, and loved
with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. He
had the marvellous instinctive sanity of the middle class. In
him--more than in Jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments
of tenderness and philosophy--more than in Swithin, the martyr to
crankiness--Nicholas, the sufferer from ability--and Roger, the
victim of enterprise--beat the true pulse of compromise; of all
the brothers he was least remarkable in mind and person, and for
that reason more likely to live for ever.

To James, more than to any of the others, was "the family'
significant and dear. There had always been something primitive
and cosy in his attitude towards life; he loved the family
hearth, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling. All his
decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family
mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of
other families of similar fibre. Year after year, week after
week, he went to Timothy's, and in his brother's front
drawing-room--his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing
his clean-shaven mouth would sit watching the family pot simmer,
the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered,
refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort.

Beneath the adamant of his self-preserving instinct there was
much real softness in James; a visit to Timothy's was like an
hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving he
himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn
on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to
him to think of them. exposed to the treatment of the world, in
money, health, or reputation. When his old friend John Street's
son volunteered for special service, he shook his head
querulously, and wondered what John Street was about to allow it;
and when young Street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart
that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special
object of saying: He knew how it would be--he'd no patience with
them!

When his son-in-law Dartie had that financial crisis, due to
speculation in Oil Shares, James made himself ill worrying over
it; the knell of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. It took
him three months and a visit to Baden-Baden to get better; there
was something terrible in the idea that but for his, James's,
money, Dartie's name might have appeared in the Bankruptcy List.

Composed of a physiological mixture so sound that if he had an
earache he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional
ailments of his wife and children as in the nature of personal
grievances, special interventions of Providence for the purpose
of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in
the ailments of people outside his own immediate family,
affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver.

His universal comment was: "What can they expect? I have it
myself, if I'm not careful!"

When he went to Soames's that evening he felt that life was hard
on him: There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding about
in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was
ill--he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had
called there three times now without her being able to see him!
And this idea of Soames's, building a house, that would have to
be looked into. As to the trouble with Irene, he didn't know
what was to come of that--anything might come of it!

He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of
being miserable. It was already half-past seven, and Irene,
dressed for dinner, was seated in the drawing- room. She was
wearing her gold-coloured frock--for, having been displayed at a
dinner-party, a soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at
home--and she had adorned the bosom with a cascade of lace, on
which James's eyes riveted themselves at once.

"Where do you get your things?" he said in an aggravated voice.
"I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That
rose-point, now--that's not real!"

Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error.

And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her
deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No
self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said:
He didn't know--he expected she was spending a pretty penny on
dress.

The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene
took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames's usual
place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly
there, so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of
the day; and she began to talk to him about himself.

Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that
steals upon a fruit in the, sun; a sense of being caressed, and
praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single
caress or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was
agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did
not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and,
on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it
was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never
drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine
merchant know that he had been swindled.

Looking up from his food, he remarked:

"You've a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you
give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn't wonder if it was worth
money!"

He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on
the wall opposite, which he himself had given them:

"I'd no idea it was so good!" he said.

They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene
closely.

"That's what I call a capital little dinner," he murmured,
breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; "nothing heavy--and
not too Frenchified. But I can't get it at home. I pay my cook
sixty pounds a year, but she can't give me a dinner like that!"

He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor
did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook
himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures.

James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the
wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt
quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing;
she listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were
saying; and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from
her bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was
leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised against the
top--her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips,
swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover.
Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed.

It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her
attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness
to fall on James. He did not remember ever having, been quite
alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd
feeling crept over him, as though he had come across something
strange and foreign.

Now what was she thinking about--sitting back like that?

Thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been
awakened from a pleasant dream.

"What d'you do with yourself all day?" he said. "You never come
round to Park Lane!"

She seemed to be making very lame excuses, and James did not look

at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding
them--it would mean too much.

"I expect the fact is, you haven't time," he said; "You're always
about with June. I expect you're useful to her with her young
man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she's
never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn't like it, I fancy,
being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she's always
hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here
every day. Now, what do you think of him? D'you think he knows
his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the
grey mare was the better horse!"

The colour deepened in Irene's face; and James watched her
suspiciously.

"Perhaps you don't quite understand Mr. Bosinney," she said.

"Don't understand him!" James humied out: "Why not?--you can see
he's one of these artistic chaps. They say he's clever--they all
think they're clever. You know more about him than I do," he
added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her.

"He is designing a house for Soames," she said softly, evidently
trying to smooth things over.

"That brings me to what I was going to say," continued James; "I
don't know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why
doesn't he go to a first-rate man?"

"Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!"

James rose, and took a turn with bent head.

"That's it'," he said, "you young people, you all stick together;
you all think you know best!"

Halting his tall, lank figure before her, he raised a finger, and
levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment
against her beauty:

"All I can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call
themselves, they're as unreliable as they can be; and my advice
to you is, don't you have too much to do with him!"

Irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange
provocation. She seemed to have lost her deference. Her breast
rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands
inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips
of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at
James.

The latter gloomily scrutinized the floor.

"I tell you my opinion," he said, "it's a pity you haven't got a
child to think about, and occupy you!

A brooding look came instantly on Irene's face, and even James
became conscious of the rigidity that took possession of her
whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing.

He was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most
men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify himself
by bullying.

"You don't seem to care about going about. Why don't you drive
down to Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then.
At your time of life you ought to take an interest in things.
You're a young woman!"

The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous.

"Well, I know nothing about it," he said; "nobody tells me
anything. Soames ought to be able to take care of himself. If
he can't take care of himself he mustn't look to me--that's all."

Biting the corner of his forefinger he stole a cold, sharp look
at his daughter-in-law.

He encountered her eyes fixed on his own, so dark and deep, that
he stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration.

"Well, I must be going," he said after a short pause, and a
minute later rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as
though he had expected to be asked to stop. Giving his hand to
Irene, he allowed himself to be conducted to the door, and let
out into the street. He would not have a cab, he would walk,
Irene was to say good-night to Soames for him, and if she wanted
a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to Richmond any
day.

He walked home, and going upstairs, woke Emily out of the first
sleep she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it
was his impression things were in a bad way at Soames's; on this
theme he descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that
he would not sleep a wink, he turned on his side and instantly
began to snore.

In Montpellier Square Soames, who had come from the picture room,
stood invisible at the top of the stairs, watching Irene sort the
letters brought by the last post. She turned back into the
drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if
listening. Then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten
in her arms. He could see her face bent over the little beast,
which was purring against her neck. Why couldn't she look at him
like that?

Suddenly she saw him, and her face changed.

"Any letters for me?" he said.

"Three."

He stood aside, and without another word she passed on into the
bedroom.





Man of Property by John Galsworthy
Category:
English Novel

General Fiction
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