The Forsyte Saga(35)
To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives that do not belong to them.
His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate, was his name, ‘Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,’ were not those of a Forsyte. He had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of life – a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels, and slippers. The business part of the room had the usual furniture: an open cupboard with pigeonholes, a round oak table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.
He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.
As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an odd fee once in a way, and – more worthy item – a private annuity under his father’s will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year.
What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies – a well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney’s uncle by marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his brother-in-law.
‘An odd fellow!’ he would say: ‘always spoke of his three eldest boys as “good creatures, but so dull”; they’re all doing capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one he liked. I’ve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: “My dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you’re thinking of!” But I didn’t follow his advice; not I! An eccentric man! He would say to Phil: “Whether you live like a gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one!” and he had himself embalmed in a frock-coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!’
Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain compassion: ‘He’s got a streak of his father’s Byronism. Why, look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for what? – to study foreign architecture – foreign! What could he expect? And there he is – a clever young fellow – doesn’t make his hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could have happened – keep him steady; he’s one of those that go to bed all day and stay up all night, simply because they’ve no method; but no vice about him – not an ounce of vice. Old Forsyte’s a rich man!’
Mr Baynes made himself extremely pleasant to June, who frequently visited his house in Lowndes Square at this period.
‘This house of Mr Soames’s – what a capital man of business – is the very thing for Philip,’ he would say to her; ‘you mustn’t expect to see too much of him just now, my dear young lady. The good cause – the good cause! The young man must make his way. When I was his age I was at work day and night. My dear wife used to say to me, “Bobby, don’t work too hard, think of your health”; but I never spared myself!’
June had complained that her lover found no time to come to Stanhope Gate.
The first time he came again they had not been together a quarter of an hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was a mistress, Mrs Septimus Small arrived. Thereon Bosinney rose and hid himself, according to previous arrangement, in the little study, to wait for her departure.
‘My dear,’ said Aunt Juley, ‘how thin he is! I’ve often noticed it with engaged people but you mustn’t let it get worse. There’s Barlow’s extract of veal; it did your Uncle Swithin a lot of good.’
June, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face quivering grimly, for she regarded her aunt’s untimely visit in the light of a personal injury, replied with scorn:
It’s because he’s busy; people who can do anything worth doing are never fat!’
Aunt Juley pouted; she herself had always been thin, but the only pleasure she derived from the fact was the opportunity of longing to be stouter.
‘I don’t think,’ she said mournfully, ‘that you ought to let them call him “The Buccaneer”; people might think it odd, now that he’s going to build a house for Soames. I do hope he will be careful; it’s so important for him; Soames has such good taste!’