The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

But from him, thus slumbering, his jealous Forsyte spirit travelled far,

into God-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those two young people, to

see what they were doing down there in the copse--in the copse where

the spring was running riot with the scent of sap and bursting buds,

the song of birds innumerable, a carpet of bluebells and sweet growing

things, and the sun caught like gold in the tops of the trees; to see

what they were doing, walking along there so close together on the path

that was too narrow; walking along there so close that they were always

touching; to watch Irene's eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the heart

out of the spring. And a great unseen chaperon, his spirit was there,

stopping with them to look at the little furry corpse of a mole, not

dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat untouched by the rain or

dew; watching over Irene's bent head, and the soft look of her pitying

eyes; and over that young man's head, gazing at her so hard, so

strangely. Walking on with them, too, across the open space where a

wood-cutter had been at work, where the bluebells were trampled down,

and a trunk had swayed and staggered down from its gashed stump.

Climbing it with them, over, and on to the very edge of the copse,

whence there stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which

came the sounds, 'Cuckoo-cuckoo!'

Silent, standing with them there, and uneasy at their silence! Very

queer, very strange!

Then back again, as though guilty, through the wood--back to the

cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never ceased, and

the wild scent--hum! what was it--like that herb they put in--back to

the log across the path....

And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make noises,

his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her pretty figure

swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up with such strange,

shining eyes, slipping now--a--ah! falling, o--oh! sliding--down his

breast; her soft, warm body clutched, her head bent back from his

lips; his kiss; her recoil; his cry: "You must know--I love you!" Must

know--indeed, a pretty...? Love! Hah!

Swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him. He had a taste in his mouth.

Where was he?

Damme! He had been asleep!

He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it.

Those young people--where had they got to? His left leg had pins and

needles.

"Adolf!" The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere.

He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over

the fields, and presently he saw them coming.