The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the

exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer,

and took a resolution.

"We're just going in," he said to Bosinney; "you'd better come back

to dinner with us." Into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a

stranger pathos: "You, can't deceive me," his look and voice seemed

saying, "but see--I trust you--I'm not afraid of you!"

They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between them. In

the crowded streets Soames went on in front. He did not listen to their

conversation; the strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed

to animate even his secret conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself:

'It's a card I dare not throw away--I must play it for what it's worth.

I have not too many chances.'

He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, and, for

full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing-room. Then

he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was

coming. He found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps

not; he could not say.

He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through--his

manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; and when

at last Bosinney went, he said: "You must come again soon; Irene likes

to have you to talk about the house!" Again his voice had the strange

bravado and the stranger pathos; but his hand was cold as ice.

Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned

away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say

good-night--away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the

light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the sight of Bosinney's

eyes looking at her, so like a dog's looking at its master.

And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love with his

wife.

The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened

window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay listening to her

breathing.

She could sleep, but he must lie awake. And, lying awake, he hardened

himself to play the part of the serene and trusting husband.

In the small hours he slipped out of bed, and passing into his

dressing-room, leaned by the open window.

He could hardly breathe.

A night four years ago came back to him--the night but one before his

marriage; as hot and stifling as this.

He remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window of his

sitting-room off Victoria Street. Down below in a side street a man had

banged at a door, a woman had cried out; he remembered, as though it

were now, the sound of the scuffle, the slam of the door, the dead

silence that followed. And then the early water-cart, cleansing the

reek of the streets, had approached through the strange-seeming, useless

lamp-light; he seemed to hear again its rumble, nearer and nearer, till

it passed and slowly died away.