Indian Summer of a Forsyte | Page 3

had
seen at that opera three weeks ago--Irene, the wife of his precious
nephew Soames, that man of property! Though he had not met her
since the day of the 'At Home' in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which
celebrated his granddaughter June's ill-starred engagement to young
Bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired
her--a very pretty creature. After the death of young Bosinney, whose
mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had
left Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been doing
since. That sight of her face--a side view--in the row in front, had been
literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. No

one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told him something
once--something which had upset him completely. The boy had got it
from George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney in the fog
the day he was run over--something which explained the young fellow's
distress--an act of Soames towards his wife--a shocking act. Jo had
seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a
moment, and his description had always lingered in old Jolyon's
mind--'wild and lost' he had called her. And next day June had gone
there--bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried
and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished.
A tragic business altogether! One thing was certain--Soames had never
been able to lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and
journeying up and down--a fitting fate, the man of property! For when
he once took a dislike to anyone--as he had to his nephew--old Jolyon
never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief with which he
had heard the news of Irene's disappearance. It had been shocking to
think of her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered
back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a moment--like a wounded
animal to its hole after seeing that news, 'Tragic death of an Architect,'
in the street. Her face had struck him very much the other night--more
beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something
going on beneath it. A young woman still--twenty-eight perhaps. Ah,
well! Very likely she had another lover by now. But at this subversive
thought--for married women should never love: once, even, had been
too much--his instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar's head. The
sagacious animal stood up and looked into old Jolyon's face. 'Walk?' he
seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered: "Come on, old chap!"
Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of
buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. This feature, where
very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of
the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn
and give the impression of irregularity, so important in horticulture. Its
rocks and earth were beloved of the dog Balthasar, who sometimes
found a mole there. Old Jolyon made a point of passing through it
because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be,
some day, and he would think: 'I must get Varr to come down and look
at it; he's better than Beech.' For plants, like houses and human

complaints, required the best expert consideration. It was inhabited by
snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one
and tell them the story of the little boy who said: 'Have plummers got
leggers, Mother? 'No, sonny.' 'Then darned if I haven't been and
swallowed a snileybob.' And when they skipped and clutched his hand,
thinking of the snileybob going down the little boy's 'red lane,' his eyes
would twinkle. Emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate,
which just there led into the first field, a large and park-like area, out of
which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. Old
Jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the
hill towards the pond. Balthasar, who knew a water-rat or two,
gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an oldish dog who takes the
same walk every day. Arrived at the edge, old Jolyon stood, noting
another water-lily opened since yesterday; he would show it to Holly
to-morrow, when 'his little sweet' had got over the upset which had
followed on her eating a tomato at lunch--her little arrangements were
very delicate. Now that Jolly had gone to school--his first term--Holly
was with him nearly all day long, and he missed her badly. He felt that
pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at