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

“I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?”

“Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have dinner sent up to you.” And he went downstairs.

Relief unspeakable, and yet⁠—a daughter! It seemed to him unfair. To have taken that risk⁠—to have been through this agony⁠—and what agony!⁠—for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust himself. “My father!” he thought. A bitter disappointment, no disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And there was no other⁠—at least, if there was, it was no use!

While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him.

“Come up at once, your father sinking fast.⁠—Mother.”

He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he couldn’t feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this. Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame’s train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty⁠—he would meet that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him.

“They’re sleeping.”

“I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I have to⁠—go up. Is it all right?”

The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If they were all as unemotional!” he might have been saying.

“Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down soon?”

“Tomorrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.”

The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy.

“Good night!” said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on his fur coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a cigarette in the carriage⁠—one of his rare cigarettes. The night was windy and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to search out the way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless night⁠—to die!

The London train came in just as he reached the station, and Madame Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the lamplight, came towards the exit with a dressing-bag.

“This all you have?” asked Soames.

“But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?”

“Doing well⁠—both. A girl!”

“A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!”

Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed into the brougham.

“And you, mon cher?”

“My father’s dying,” said Soames between his teeth. “I’m going up. Give my love to Annette.”

“Tiens!” murmured Madame Lamotte; “quel malheur!”

Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. “The French!” he thought.

A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the room he had not left since the middle of September⁠—and James was in deep waters. A little cold, passing his little strength and flying quickly to his lungs. “He mustn’t catch cold,” the doctor had declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt it in his throat he had said to his nurse⁠—for he had one now⁠—“There, I knew how it would be, airing the room like that!” For a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and went in advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour. Emily was not alarmed.

But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: “He won’t have his temperature taken.”

Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said softly, “How do you feel, James?” holding the thermometer to his lips. James looked up at her.

“What’s the good of that?” he murmured huskily; “I don’t want to know.”

Then she was alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had “had trouble” with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been James for nearly fifty years; she couldn’t remember or imagine life without James⁠—James, behind all his fussiness, his pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and generous to them all!

All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and comfortable in the sickroom, tears ran down her cheeks when she was out of it.

About teatime on the third day⁠—she had just changed her dress, keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed everything⁠—she saw a difference. “It’s no use; I’m tired,” was written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to him, he muttered: “Send for Soames.”

“Yes, James,” she said comfortably; “all right⁠—at once.” And she kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and without hope now, she sent Soames the telegram.

When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was still as a grave. Warmson’s broad face looked almost narrow; he took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying:

“Will you have a glass of wine, sir?”

Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry.

Warmson’s lips twitched. “He’s asking for you, sir;” and suddenly he blew his nose. “It’s a long time, sir,” he said, “that I’ve been with Mr. Forsyte⁠—a long time.”

Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs. This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last pilgrimage to his father’s room. It was not his taste; but in its own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and security. And the night was so dark and windy; the