The Forsyte Saga(107)

He sat by the dining-room fire, with the door open, disturbed to the soul, trying to read the evening paper. A book was no good – in daily papers alone was any narcotic to such worry as his. From the customary events recorded in the journal he drew some comfort. ‘Suicide of an actress’ – ‘Grave indisposition of a Statesman’ (that chronic sufferer) – ‘Divorce of an army officer’ – ‘Fire in a colliery’ – he read them all. They helped him a little – prescribed by the greatest of all doctors, our natural taste.

It was nearly seven when he heard her come in.

The incident of the night before had long lost its importance under stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. But now that Irene was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing came back to him, and he felt nervous at the thought of facing her.

She was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her knees, its high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick veil.

She neither turned to look at him nor spoke. No ghost or stranger could have passed more silently.

Bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that Mrs Forsyte was not coming down; she was having the soup in her room.

For once Soames did not ‘change’; it was, perhaps, the first time in his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, and, not even noticing them, he brooded long over his wine. He sent Bilson to light a fire in his picture-room, and presently went up there himself.

Turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst these treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, around the little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. He went straight up to the greatest treasure of them all, an undoubted Turner, and, carrying it to the easel, turned its face to the light. There had been a movement in Turners, but he had not been able to make up his mind to part with it. He stood for a long time, his pale, clean-shaven face poked forward above his stand-up collar, looking at the picture as though he were adding it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes; he found, perhaps, that it came to too little. He took it down from the easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room, stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing.

It was nothing – only the sort of thing that had been bothering him in the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard before the blazing fire, he stole downstairs.

Fresh for the morrow! was his thought. It was long before he went to sleep.…

It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on the events of that fog-engulfed afternoon.

The wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the Forsytes had passed the day reading a novel in the paternal mansion at Prince’s Gardens. Since a recent crisis in his financial affairs he had been kept on parole by Roger, and compelled to reside ‘at home’.

Towards five o’clock he went out, and took train at South Kensington station (for everyone today went Underground). His intention was to dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at the Red Pottle – that unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good gilt restaurant.

He got out at Charing Cross, choosing it in preference to his more usual St James’s Park, that he might reach Jermyn Street by better lighted ways.

On the platform his eyes – for in combination with a composed and fashionable appearance, George had sharp eyes, and was always on the look-out for fillips to his sardonic humour – his eyes were attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, staggered rather than walked towards the exit.

‘So ho, my bird!’ said George to himself; ‘why, it’s “The Buccaneer!” ’ and he put his big figure on the trail. Nothing afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man.

Bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun round, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left. He was too late. A porter caught him by the coat; the train was already moving on.

George’s practised glance caught sight of the face of a lady clad in a grey fur coat at the carriage window. It was Mrs Soames – and George felt that this was interesting!

And now he followed Bosinney more closely than ever – up the stairs, past the ticket collector into the street. In that progress, however, his feelings underwent a change; no longer merely curious and amused, he felt sorry for the poor fellow he was shadowing. ‘The Buccaneer’ was not drunk, but seemed to be acting under the stress of violent emotion; he was talking to himself, and all that George could catch were the words ‘Oh, God!’ Nor did he appear to know what he was doing, or where going; but stared, hesitated, moved like a man out of his mind; and from being merely a joker in search of amusement, George felt that he must see the poor chap through.