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A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with the gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the worn fine gravity of old coins.
Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room with windows thrown open to the London night.
“Good-bye!” he whispered, and went out.
Chapter XIV.
HIS
He had much to see to, that night and all next day. A telegram at breakfast reassured him about A
“I don’t know what I should have done without you, my dear boy.”
He reached his house at midnight. The weather had changed, was mild again, as though, having finished its work and sent a Forsyte to his last account, it could relax. A second telegram, received at di
And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world-new to him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of its past—went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two paragraphs:
“On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte, in his ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at Highgate. No flowers by request.”
“On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, A
And underneath on the blottingpaper he traced the word “son.”
It was eight o’clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to the house. Bushes across the river stood round and bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the sunlight.
He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and dark clothes.
Madame Lamotte was begi
She looked at his clothes, said, “Don’t tell me!” and pressed his hand. “A
Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended him—solid, matter-of-fact, quick, clear—French. He could not bear her vowels, her ‘r’s’; he resented the way she had looked at him, as if it were his fault that A
Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child!
One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment. On the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from it—fastidious possessor that he was. He was afraid of what A
He spent an hour walking up and down the drawing-room before he could screw his courage up to mount the stairs and knock on the door of their room.
Madame Lamotte opened it.
“Ah! At last you come! Elle vous attend!” She passed him, and Soames went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his eyes furtive.
A
“Here you are then, Soames,” she said. “I am not so bad now. But I suffered terribly, terribly. I am glad I ca
Soames stood silent, stroking her hand; words of endearment, of sympathy, absolutely would not come; the thought passed through him: ‘An English girl wouldn’t have said that!’ At this moment he knew with certainty that he would never be near to her in spirit and in truth, nor she to him. He had collected her—that was all! And Jolyon’s words came rushing into his mind: “I should imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery.” Well, he had got it out! Had he got it in again?
“We must feed you up,” he said, “you’ll soon be strong.”
“Don’t you want to see baby, Soames? She is asleep.”
“Of course,” said Soames, “very much.”
He passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood staring. For the first moment what he saw was much what he had expected to see—a baby. But as he stared and the baby breathed and made little sleeping movements with its tiny features, it seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture, a thing he would know again; not repulsive, strangely bud-like and touching. It had dark hair. He touched it with his finger, he wanted to see its eyes. They opened, they were dark—whether blue or brown he could not tell. The eyes winked, stared, they had a sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart felt queer, warm, as if elated.
“Ma petite fleur!” A
“Fleur,” repeated Soames: “Fleur! we’ll call her that.”
The sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him.
By God! this—this thing was his! By God! this—this thing was his!