"Of course I will."

"You wouldn't like--" but he stifled the words "to give her lessons."

The idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him; yet it would mean

that he would see her regularly. She left the piano and came over to his

chair.

"I would like, very much; but there is--June. When are they coming

back?"

Old Jolyon frowned. "Not till the middle of next month. What does that

matter?"

"You said June had forgiven me; but she could never forget, Uncle

Jolyon."

Forget! She must forget, if he wanted her to.

But as if answering, Irene shook her head. "You know she couldn't; one

doesn't forget."

Always that wretched past! And he said with a sort of vexed finality:

"Well, we shall see."

He talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred little

things, till the carriage came round to take her home. And when she had

gone he went back to his chair, and sat there smoothing his face and

chin, dreaming over the day.

That evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of

paper. He stayed for some minutes without writing, then rose and stood

under the masterpiece 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.' He was not

thinking of that picture, but of his life. He was going to leave her

something in his Will; nothing could so have stirred the stilly deeps of

thought and memory. He was going to leave her a portion of his wealth,

of his aspirations, deeds, qualities, work--all that had made that

wealth; going to leave her, too, a part of all he had missed in life, by

his sane and steady pursuit of wealth. All! What had he missed? 'Dutch

Fishing Boats' responded blankly; he crossed to the French window, and

drawing the curtain aside, opened it. A wind had got up, and one of last

year's oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was

dragging itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in

the twilight. Except for that it was very quiet out there, and he could

smell the heliotrope watered not long since. A bat went by. A bird

uttered its last 'cheep.' And right above the oak tree the first star

shone. Faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years

of youth. Morbid notion! No such bargain was possible, that was real

tragedy! No making oneself new again for love or life or anything.

Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and

leave it something in your Will. But how much? And, as if he could not

make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country

night, he turned back and went up to the chimney-piece. There were

his pet bronzes--a Cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a

greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in some horses.

'They last!' he thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a

thousand years of life before them!




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