The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1
Page 106Though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffian's presence, Swithin
presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. He laid his
whip-lash across the mares flank. The two chariots, however, by some
unfortunate fatality continued abreast. Swithin's yellow, puffy face
grew red; he raised his whip to lash the costermonger, but was saved
from so far forgetting his dignity by a special intervention of
Providence. A carriage driving out through a gate forced phaeton and
donkey-cart into proximity; the wheels grated, the lighter vehicle
skidded, and was overturned.
Swithin did not look round. On no account would he have pulled up to
help the ruffian. Serve him right if he had broken his neck!
swung from side to side, and people raised frightened faces as they went
dashing past. Swithin's great arms, stretched at full length, tugged at
the reins. His cheeks were puffed, his lips compressed, his swollen face
was of a dull, angry red.
Irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch she gripped it
tightly. Swithin heard her ask:
"Are we going to have an accident, Uncle Swithin?"
He gasped out between his pants: "It's nothing; a--little fresh!"
"I've never been in an accident."
"Don't you move!" He took a look at her. She was smiling, perfectly
And in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to hear
her answer in a voice not like her own:
"I don't care if I never get home!"
The carriage giving a terrific lurch, Swithin's exclamation was jerked
back into his throat. The horses, winded by the rise of a hill, now
steadied to a trot, and finally stopped of their own accord.
"When"--Swithin described it at Timothy's--"I pulled 'em up, there she
was as cool as myself. God bless my soul! she behaved as if she didn't
care whether she broke her neck or not! What was it she said: 'I don't
care if I never get home?" Leaning over the handle of his cane, he
with a finickin' feller like young Soames for a husband!"
It did not occur to him to wonder what Bosinney had done after they had
left him there alone; whether he had gone wandering about like the dog
to which Swithin had compared him; wandering down to that copse where
the spring was still in riot, the cuckoo still calling from afar; gone
down there with her handkerchief pressed to lips, its fragrance mingling
with the scent of mint and thyme. Gone down there with such a wild,
exquisite pain in his heart that he could have cried out among the
trees. Or what, indeed, the fellow had done. In fact, till he came to
Timothy's, Swithin had forgotten all about him.