The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Once more Soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of her

approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath, he muttered

between his teeth: "I will!"

All three went down to the drawing-room together. There, were gathered

the three girls and Dartie; had Irene been present, the family circle

would have been complete.

James sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold greeting to

Dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man likely to be always

in want of money, he said nothing till dinner was announced. Soames,

too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of cool courage, maintained a

conversation with Winifred on trivial subjects. She was never more

composed in her manner and conversation than that evening.

A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene's flight, no view

was expressed by any other member of the family as to the right course

to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the general tone adopted

in relation to events as they afterwards turned out, that James's

advice: "Don't you listen to her, follow-her and get her back!" would,

with here and there an exception, have been regarded as sound, not only

in Park Lane, but amongst the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy's.

Just as it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of

Forsytes all over London, who were merely excluded from judgment by

ignorance of the story.

In spite then of Emily's efforts, the dinner was served by Warmson and

the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and drank all he could

get; the girls seldom talked to each other at any time. James asked once

where June was, and what she was doing with herself in these days.

No one could tell him. He sank back into gloom. Only when Winifred

recounted how little Publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he

brighten up.

"Ah!" he said, "that's a clever little chap. I don't know what'll become

of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent little chap, I call

him!" But it was only a flash.

The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric light,

which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the principal

ornament of the walls, a so-called 'Sea Piece by Turner,' almost

entirely composed of cordage and drowning men.

Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James' prehistoric port, but

as by the chill hand of some skeleton.

At ten o'clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had said

that Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust himself. His

mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a

flush of warmth in his cheeks. He walked away in the cold wind, which

whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of

clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty

greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the

night-women hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of

vagabonds at street corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home,

oblivious; his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt

wire cage into which they had been thrust through the slit in the door.'