In Chancery tfs-3 Read online

  But Aunt Juley interjected resolutely: “She—she didn’t behave at all well.”

  “Oh, bother!” cried Imogen; “that’s as far as I ever get.”

  “Well, my dear,” said Francie, “she had a love affair which ended with the young man’s death; and then she left your uncle. I always rather liked her.”

  “She used to give me chocolates,” murmured Imogen, “and smell nice.”

  “Of course!” remarked Euphemia.

  “Not of course at all!” replied Francie, who used a particularly expensive essence of gillyflower herself.

  “I can’t think what we are about,” said Aunt Juley, raising her hands, “talking of such things!”

  “Was she divorced?” asked Imogen from the door.

  “Certainly not,” cried Aunt Juley; “that is—certainly not.”

  A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had re-entered the back drawing-room. “I’ve come for my map,” he said. “Who’s been divorced?”

  “No one, Uncle,” replied Francie with perfect truth.

  Timothy took his map off the piano.

  “Don’t let’s have anything of that sort in the family,” he said. “All this enlistin’s bad enough. The country’s breakin’ up; I don’t know what we’re comin’ to.” He shook a thick finger at the room: “Too many women nowadays, and they don’t know what they want.”

  So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went out as if afraid of being answered.

  The seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued murmur, out of which emerged Francie’s, “Really, the Forsytes!” and Aunt Juley’s: “He must have his feet in mustard and hot water to-night, Hester; will you tell Jane? The blood has gone to his head again, I’m afraid…”

  That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up:

  “Hester, I can’t think where I’ve heard that dear Soames wants Irene to come back to him again. Who was it told us that George had made a funny drawing of him with the words, ‘He won’t be happy till he gets it’?”

  “Eustace,” answered Aunt Hester from behind The Times; “he had it in his pocket, but he wouldn’t show it us.”

  Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, The Times crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr. Aunt Juley dropped another stitch.

  “Hester,” she said, “I have had such a dreadful thought.”

  “Then don’t tell me,” said Aunt Hester quickly.

  “Oh! but I must. You can’t think how dreadful!” Her voice sank to a whisper:

  “Jolyon—Jolyon, they say, has a—has a fair beard, now.”

  Chapter XII.

  PROGRESS OF THE CHASE

  Two days after the dinner at James’, Mr. Polteed provided Soames with food for thought.

  “A gentleman,” he said, consulting the key concealed in his left hand, “47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17 during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in public places, without concealment—restaurants, the Opera, the Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. She has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor vice versa. They went to Fontainebleau—but nothing of value. In short, the situation is promising, but requires patience.” And, looking up suddenly, he added:

  “One rather curious point—47 has the same name as—er—31!”

  ‘The fellow knows I’m her husband,’ thought Soames.

  “Christian name—an odd one—Jolyon,” continued Mr. Polteed. “We know his address in Paris and his residence here. We don’t wish, of course, to be running a wrong hare.”

  “Go on with it, but be careful,” said Soames doggedly.

  Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret made him all the more reticent.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Polteed, “I’ll just see if there’s anything fresh in.”

  He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at the envelopes.

  “Yes, here’s a personal one from 19 to myself.”

  “Well?” said Soames.

  “Um!” said Mr. Polteed, “she says: ‘47 left for England to-day. Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England if you think desirable, no doubt.’” And Mr. Polteed lifted an unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of business. “Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful make-up. Not cheap, but earns her money well. There’s no suspicion of being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and keeping an eye on 47. We can’t get at correspondence without great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell your client that it’s looking up very well.” And again his narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer.

  “No,” said Soames suddenly, “I prefer that you should keep the watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with this end.”

  “Very well,” replied Mr. Polteed, “we can do it.”

  “What—what is the manner between them?”

  “I’ll read you what she says,” said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers; “she sums it up somewhere confidentially. Yes, here it is! ‘17 very attractive—conclude 47, longer in the tooth’ (slang for age, you know)—‘distinctly gone—waiting his time—17 perhaps holding off for terms, impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined to think on the whole—doesn’t know her mind—likely to act on impulse some day. Both have style.’”

  “What does that mean?” said Soames between close lips.

  “Well,” murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white teeth, “an expression we use. In other words, it’s not likely to be a weekend business—they’ll come together seriously or not at all.”

  “H’m!” muttered Soames, “that’s all, is it?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Polteed, “but quite promising.”

  ‘Spider!’ thought Soames. “Good-day!”

  He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria Station and take the Underground into the City. For so late in January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the frosty grass—an illumined cobweb of a day.

  Little spiders—and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it—sentimental radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! What attraction had he?

  ‘Besides, he’s come back,’ he thought; ‘that doesn’t look–I’ll go and see him!’ and, taking out a card, he wrote:

  “If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall be at the Connoisseurs any day between 5.30 and 6, or I could come to the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you. – S. F.”

  He walked up St. James’s Street and confided it to the porter at the Hotch Potch.

  “Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in,” he said, and took one of the new motor cabs into the City…

  Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face towards the Connoisseurs. What did Soames want now? Had he got wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James’s Street, he determined to make no secret of his visit. ‘But it won’t do,’ he thought, ‘to let him know she’s there, unless he knows already.’ In this complicated state of mind he was conducted to where Soames was drinking tea in a small bay-window.

  “No te
a, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I’ll go on smoking if I may.”

  The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other.

  “You’ve been in Paris, I hear,” said Soames at last.

  “Yes; just back.”

  “Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?” Jolyon nodded.

  “You didn’t happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she’s abroad somewhere.”

  Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: “Yes, I saw her.”

  “How was she?”

  “Very well.”

  There was another silence; then Soames roused himself in his chair.

  “When I saw you last,” he said, “I was in two minds. We talked, and you expressed your opinion. I don’t wish to reopen that discussion. I only wanted to say this: My position with her is extremely difficult. I don’t want you to go using your influence against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I’m going to ask her to let bygones be bygones.”

  “You have asked her, you know,” murmured Jolyon.

  “The idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. But the more she thinks of it, the more she must see that it’s the only way out for both of us.”

  “That’s not my impression of her state of mind,” said Jolyon with particular calm. “And, forgive my saying, you misconceive the matter if you think reason comes into it at all.”

  He saw his cousin’s pale face grow paler—he had used, without knowing it, Irene’s own words.

  “Thanks,” muttered Soames, “but I see things perhaps more plainly than you think. I only want to be sure that you won’t try to influence her against me.”

  “I don’t know what makes you think I have any influence,” said Jolyon; “but if I have I’m bound to use it in the direction of what I think is her happiness. I am what they call a ‘feminist,’ I believe.”

  “Feminist!” repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. “Does that mean that you’re against me?”

  “Bluntly,” said Jolyon, “I’m against any woman living with any man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten.”

  “And I suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into her mind.”

  “I am not likely to be seeing her.”

  “Not going back to Paris?”

  “Not so far as I know,” said Jolyon, conscious of the intent watchfulness in Soames’ face.

  “Well, that’s all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility.”

  Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow.

  “Good-bye,” he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved away, leaving Soames staring after him. ‘We Forsytes,’ thought Jolyon, hailing a cab, ‘are very civilised. With simpler folk that might have come to a row. If it weren’t for my boy going to the war…’ The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over him. A precious war! Domination of peoples or of women! Attempts to master and possess those who did not want you! The negation of gentle decency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone ‘agin’ ’em—outcast! ‘Thank Heaven!’ he thought, ‘I always felt “agin” ’em, anyway!’ Yes! Even before his first disastrous marriage he could remember fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed. Parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite different things! Pernicious doctrine! Body and soul could not thus be separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness. ‘I ought to have told Soames,’ he thought, ‘that I think him comic. Ah! but he’s tragic, too!’ Was there anything, indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own possessive instinct, who couldn’t see the sky for it, or even enter fully into what another person felt! ‘I must write and warn her,’ he thought; ‘he’s going to have another try.’ And all the way home to Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty to his son which prevented him from posting back to Paris…

  But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing ache—a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of resistance to his way out. ‘Does that mean that you’re against me?’ he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question. Feminist! Phrasey fellow! ‘I mustn’t rush things,’ he thought. ‘I have some breathing space; he’s not going back to Paris, unless he was lying. I’ll let the spring come!’ Though how the spring could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell. And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from pool to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: ‘Nothing seems any good—nothing seems worth while. I’m loney—that’s the trouble.’

  He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark street below a church—passing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. He opened his eyes—so vividly he had seen her! A woman was passing below, but not she! Oh no, there was nothing there!

  Chapter XIII.

  ‘HERE WE ARE AGAIN!’

  Imogen’s frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of her mother and the purse of her grandfather all through the month of March. With Forsyte tenacity Winifred quested for perfection. It took her mind off the slowly approaching rite which would give her a freedom but doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her boy and his fast approaching departure for a war from which the news remained disquieting. Like bees busy on summer flowers, or bright gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, she and her ‘little daughter,’ tall nearly as herself and with a bust measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent Street, the establishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street, lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. Dozens of young women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before Winifred and Imogen, draped in ‘creations.’ The models—‘Very new, modom; quite the latest thing—’ which those two reluctantly turned down, would have filled a museum; the models which they were obliged to have nearly emptied James’ bank. It was no good doing things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for making this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success. Their patience in trying the patience of those impersonal creatures who swam about before them could alone have been displayed by such as were moved by faith. It was for Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess Fashion, fervent as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for Imogen an experience by no means too unpleasant—she often looked so nice, and flattery was implicit everywhere: in a word it was ‘amusing.’

  On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted Skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at Caramel and Baker’s, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, turned homewards through Berkeley Square of an evening touched with spring. Opening the door—freshly painted a light olive-green; nothing neglected that year to give Imogen a good send-off—Winifred passed towards the silver basket to see if anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched. What was that scent?

  Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood absorbed. Rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her breast, Winifred said:

  “Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.”

  Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath. Was it spring tickling her senses—whipping up nostalgia for her ‘clown,’ against all wisdom and outraged virtue? A male scent! A faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him ‘the limit.’ Whence came it, or was it ghost of scent—sheer emanation from memory? She looked round her. Nothing—not a thing, no tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the diningroom. A little day-dream of a scent—illusory, saddening, silly! In the silver basket were new cards, two with ‘Mr. and Mrs. Po
legate Thom,’ and one with ‘Mr. Polegate Thom’ thereon; she sniffed them, but they smelled severe. ‘I must be tired,’ she thought, ‘I’ll go and lie down.’ Upstairs the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom. This, too, was half-curtained and dim, for it was six o’clock. Winifred threw off her coat—that scent again! – then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail. Something dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner. A word of horror—in her family—escaped her: “God!”

  “It’s I—Monty,” said a voice.

  Clutching the bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch of the light hanging above her dressing-table. He appeared just on the rim of the light’s circumference, emblazoned from the absence of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, but—yes! – split at the toecap. His chest and face were shadowy. Surely he was thin—or was it a trick of the light? He advanced, lighted now from toe-cap to the top of his dark head—surely a little grizzled! His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black moustache had lost boldness, become sardonic; there were lines which she did not know about his face. There was no pin in his tie. His suit—ah! – she knew that—but how unpressed, unglossy! She stared again at the toe-cap of his boot. Something big and relentless had been ‘at him,’ had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him. And she stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at that crack across the toe.

  “Well!” he said, “I got the order. I’m back.”

  Winifred’s bosom began to heave. The nostalgia for her husband which had rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper jealousy than any she had felt yet. There he was—a dark, and as if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self! What force had done this to him—squeezed him like an orange to its dry rind! That woman!

  “I’m back,” he said again. “I’ve had a beastly time. By God! I came steerage. I’ve got nothing but what I stand up in, and that bag.”