THE COMPLETE FORSYTE SAGA SERIES: The Forsyte Saga, A Modern Comedy, End of the Chapter & On Forsyte 'Change (A Prequel). John Galsworthy
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instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her. Soames flushed. To disclose the name of his latest purchases would be like walking into the jaws of disdain. For somehow they all knew of June's predilection for 'genius' not yet on its legs, and her contempt for 'success' unless she had had a finger in securing it.
"One or two," he muttered.
But June's face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing its chance. Why should not Soames buy some of the pictures of Eric Cobbley—her last lame duck? And she promptly opened her attack: Did Soames know his work? It was so wonderful. He was the coming man.
Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view 'splashy,' and would never get hold of the public.
June blazed up.
"Of course it won't; that's the last thing one would wish for. I thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer."
"Of course Soames is a connoisseur," Aunt Juley said hastily; "he has wonderful taste—he can always tell beforehand what's going to be successful."
"Oh!" gasped June, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, "I hate that standard of success. Why can't people buy things because they like them?"
"You mean," said Francie, "because you like them."
And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently that Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn't know if they were any use.
"Well, good-bye, Auntie," said June; "I must get on," and kissing her aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said "Good-bye" again, and went. A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if everyone had sighed.
The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak:
"Mr. James Forsyte."
James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat which gave him a fictitious bulk.
Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at Timothy's for nearly two years.
"It's hot in here," he said.
Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help admiring the glossy way his father was turned out. James sat down, all knees, elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers.
"What's the meaning of that?" he said.
Though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew that he was referring to June. His eyes searched his son's face.
"I thought I'd come and see for myself. What have they answered Kruger?"
Soames took out an evening paper, and read the headline.
"'Instant action by our Government—state of war existing!'"
"Ah!" said James, and sighed. "I was afraid they'd cut and run like old Gladstone. We shall finish with them this time."
All stared at him. James! Always fussy, nervous, anxious! James with his continual, 'I told you how it would be!' and his pessimism, and his cautious investments. There was something uncanny about such resolution in this the oldest living Forsyte.
"Where's Timothy?" said James. "He ought to pay attention to this."
Aunt Juley said she didn't know; Timothy had not said much at lunch to-day. Aunt Hester rose and threaded her way out of the room, and Francie said rather maliciously:
"The Boers are a hard nut to crack, Uncle James."
"H'm!" muttered James. "Where do you get your information? Nobody tells me."
Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest) was now going to drill regularly.
"Ah!" muttered James, and stared before him—his thoughts were on Val. "He's got to look after his mother," he said, "he's got no time for drilling and that, with that father of his." This cryptic saying produced silence, until he spoke again.
"What did June want here?" And his eyes rested with suspicion on all of them in turn. "Her father's a rich man now." The conversation turned on Jolyon, and when he had been seen last. It was supposed that he went abroad and saw all sorts of people now that his wife was dead; his water-colours were on the line, and he was a successful man. Francie went so far as to say:
"I should like to see him again; he was rather a dear."
Aunt Juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day, where James was sitting. He had always been very amiable; what did Soames think?
Knowing that Jolyon was Irene's trustee, all felt the delicacy of this question, and looked at Soames with interest. A faint pink had come up in his cheeks.
"He's going grey," he said.
Indeed! Had Soames seen him? Soames nodded, and the pink vanished.
James said suddenly: "Well—I don't know, I can't tell."
It so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that there was something behind everything, that nobody responded. But at this moment Aunt Hester returned.
"Timothy," she said in a low voice, "Timothy has bought a map, and he's put in—he's put in three flags."
Timothy had...! A sigh went round the company.
If Timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!—it showed what the nation could do when it was roused. The war was as good as over.
CHAPTER XIII—JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS
Jolyon stood at the window in Holly's old night nursery, converted into a studio, not because it had a north light, but for its view over the prospect away to the Grand Stand at Epsom. He shifted to the side window which overlooked the stableyard, and whistled down to the dog Balthasar who lay for ever under the clock tower. The 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