The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (acx book reading txt) 📕

was modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, gooseberry tart, and a dowager or two, so that a carriage and pair was almost always standing before the door.

In a room draped in chintz so slippery as to forbid all emotion, Irene was sitting on a piano stool covered with crewelwork, playing “Hansel and Gretel” out of an old score. Above her on a wall, not yet Morris-papered, was a print of the Queen on a pony, amongst deerhounds, Scotch caps, and slain stags; beside her in a pot on the windowsill was a white and rosy fuchsia. The Victorianism of the room almost talked; and in her clinging frock Irene seemed to Jolyon like Venus emerging from the shell of the past century.

“If the proprietor had eyes,” he said, “he would show you the door; you have broken through his decorations.” Thus lightly he smothered up an emotional moment. Having eaten cold beef, pickled walnut, gooseberry tart, and drunk stone-bottle ginger-beer, they walked into the Park, and light talk was succeeded by the silence Jolyon had dreaded.

“You haven’t told me about Paris,” he said at last.

“No. I’ve been shadowed for a long time; one gets used to that. But then Soames came. By the little Niobe⁠—the same story; would I go back to him?”

“Incredible!”

She had spoken without raising her eyes, but she looked up now. Those dark eyes clinging to his said as no words could have: “I have come to an end; if you want me, here I am.”

For sheer emotional intensity had he ever⁠—old as he was⁠—passed through such a moment?

The words: “Irene, I adore you!” almost escaped him. Then, with a clearness of which he would not have believed mental vision capable, he saw Jolly lying with a white face turned to a white wall.

“My boy is very ill out there,” he said quietly.

Irene slipped her arm through his.

“Let’s walk on; I understand.”

No miserable explanation to attempt! She had understood! And they walked on among the bracken, knee-high already, between the rabbit-holes and the oak-trees, talking of Jolly. He left her two hours later at the Richmond Hill Gate, and turned towards home.

“She knows of my feeling for her, then,” he thought. Of course! One could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman!

IV Over the River

Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now too wan and weak to dream again; left him to lie torpid, faintly remembering far-off things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze through the window near his cot at the trickle of river running by in the sands, at the straggling milk-bush of the Karoo beyond. He knew what the Karoo was now, even if he had not seen a Boer roll over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of flying bullets. This pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder. A thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit⁠—who knew? Not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil thing its victory⁠—just enough to know that there were many lying here with him, that he was sore with frenzied dreaming; just enough to watch that thread of river and be able to remember faintly those faraway things.⁠ ⁠…

The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have liked to know the time⁠—to feel his old watch, so butter-smooth, to hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly, homelike. He had not even strength to remember that the old watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of his brain beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurse’s, doctor’s, orderly’s, were indistinguishable, just one indifferent face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, and that almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though far and faint, were more distinct⁠—walking past the foot of the old steps at Harrow “bill”⁠—“Here, sir! Here, sir!”⁠—wrapping boots in the Westminster Gazette, greenish paper, shining boots⁠—grandfather coming from somewhere dark⁠—a smell of earth⁠—the mushroom house! Robin Hill! Burying poor old Balthasar in the leaves! Dad! Home.⁠ ⁠…

Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water in it⁠—someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What could one want? Too weak to want⁠—only to hear his watch strike.⁠ ⁠…

Holly! She wouldn’t bowl properly. Oh! Pitch them up! Not sneaks!⁠ ⁠… “Back her, Two and Bow!” He was Two!⁠ ⁠… Consciousness came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a rising blood-red crescent moon. His eyes rested on it fascinated; in the long minutes of brain-nothingness it went moving up and up.⁠ ⁠…

“He’s going, doctor!” Not pack boots again? Never? “Mind your form, Two!” Don’t cry! Go quietly⁠—over the river⁠—sleep!⁠ ⁠… Dark? If somebody would⁠—strike⁠—his⁠—watch!⁠ ⁠…

V Soames Acts

A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Polteed remained unopened in Soames’ pocket throughout two hours of sustained attention to the affairs of the New Colliery Company, which, declining almost from the moment of old Jolyon’s retirement from the Chairmanship, had lately run down so fast that there was now nothing for it but a “winding-up.” He took the letter out to lunch at his City Club, sacred to him for the meals he had eaten there with his father in the early seventies, when James used to like him to come and see for himself the nature of his future life.

Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed potato, he read:

“Dear Sir,

“In accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the matter up at the other end with gratifying results. Observation of 47 has enabled us to locate 17 at the Green Hotel, Richmond. The two have been observed to meet daily during the past week in Richmond Park. Nothing absolutely crucial has so far been notified. But in conjunction with what we had from Paris at the beginning of the year, I am confident we