Soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth surface
of a marqueterie table; then, without looking at his nephew, he began:
"You don't understand what your mother has had to put up with these
twenty years. This is only the last straw, Val." And glancing up
sideways at Winifred, he added:
"Shall I tell him?"
Winifred was silent. If he were not told, he would be against her! Yet,
how dreadful to be told such things of his own father! Clenching her
lips, she nodded.
Soames spoke in a rapid, even voice:
"He has always been a burden round your mother's neck. She has paid
his debts over and over again; he has often been drunk, abused and
threatened her; and now he is gone to Buenos Aires with a dancer." And,
as if distrusting the efficacy of those words on the boy, he went on
quickly:
"He took your mother's pearls to give to her."
Val jerked up his hand, then. At that signal of distress Winifred cried
out:
"That'll do, Soames--stop!"
In the boy, the Dartie and the Forsyte were struggling. For debts,
drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy; but the pearls--no! That was
too much! And suddenly he found his mother's hand squeezing his.
"You see," he heard Soames say, "we can't have it all begin over again.
There's a limit; we must strike while the iron's hot."
Val freed his hand.
"But--you're--never going to bring out that about the pearls! I couldn't
stand that--I simply couldn't!"
Winifred cried out:
"No, no, Val--oh no! That's only to show you how impossible your father
is!" And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a
cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! it was
unbearable--just as he was going up to Oxford!
"Can't mother be protected without?" he said. "I could look after her.
It could always be done later if it was really necessary."
A smile played for a moment round Soames' lips, and became bitter.
"You don't know what you're talking of; nothing's so fatal as delay in
such matters."
"Why?"
"I tell you, boy, nothing's so fatal. I know from experience."
His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him round-eyed,
never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. Oh! Yes--he
remembered now--there had been an Aunt Irene, and something had
happened--something which people kept dark; he had heard his father once
use an unmentionable word of her.
"I don't want to speak ill of your father," Soames went on doggedly,
"but I know him well enough to be sure that he'll be back on your
mother's hands before a year's over. You can imagine what that will mean
to her and to all of you after this. The only thing is to cut the knot
for good."