Indian Summer of a Forsyte | Page 8

of Delilah in her or in that music. A long
blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed. 'So we go out!' he
thought. 'No more beauty! Nothing?'
Again Irene stopped.
"Would you like some Gluck? He used to write his music in a sunlit
garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine beside him."
"Ah! yes. Let's have 'Orfeo.'" Round about him now were fields of gold
and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, bright birds
flying to and fro. All was summer. Lingering waves of sweetness and
regret flooded his soul. Some cigar ash dropped, and taking out a silk
handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a mingled scent as of snuff and
eau de Cologne. 'Ah!' he thought, 'Indian summer--that's all!' and he
said: "You haven't played me 'Che faro.'"
She did not answer; did not move. He was conscious of something--
some strange upset. Suddenly he saw her rise and turn away, and a
pang of remorse shot through him. What a clumsy chap! Like Orpheus,
she of course--she too was looking for her lost one in the hall of
memory! And disturbed to the heart, he got up from his chair. She had
gone to the great window at the far end. Gingerly he followed. Her
hands were folded over her breast; he could just see her cheek, very
white. And, quite emotionalized, he said:
"There, there, my love!" The words had escaped him mechanically, for
they were those he used to Holly when she had a pain, but their effect
was instantaneously distressing. She raised her arms, covered her face
with them, and wept.
Old Jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. The
passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike the
control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never
before broken down in the presence of another being.
"There, there--there, there!" he murmured, and putting his hand out
reverently, touched her. She turned, and leaned the arms which covered
her face against him. Old Jolyon stood very still, keeping one thin hand
on her shoulder. Let her cry her heart out--it would do her good.
And the dog Balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine them.
The window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the last of
daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the lamp

within; there was a scent of new-mown grass. With the wisdom of a
long life old Jolyon did not speak. Even grief sobbed itself out in time;
only Time was good for sorrow--Time who saw the passing of each
mood, each emotion in turn; Time the layer-to-rest. There came into his
mind the words: 'As panteth the hart after cooling streams'--but they
were of no use to him. Then, conscious of a scent of violets, he knew
she was drying her eyes. He put his chin forward, pressed his
moustache against her forehead, and felt her shake with a quivering of
her whole body, as of a tree which shakes itself free of raindrops. She
put his hand to her lips, as if saying: "All over now! Forgive me!"
The kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to where she
had been so upset. And the dog Balthasar, following, laid the bone of
one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet.
Anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think of
nothing better than china; and moving with her slowly from cabinet to
cabinet, he kept taking up bits of Dresden and Lowestoft and Chelsea,
turning them round and round with his thin, veined hands, whose skin,
faintly freckled, had such an aged look.
"I bought this at Jobson's," he would say; "cost me thirty pounds. It's
very old. That dog leaves his bones all over the place. This old
'ship-bowl' I picked up at the sale when that precious rip, the Marquis,
came to grief. But you don't remember. Here's a nice piece of Chelsea.
Now, what would you say this was?" And he was comforted, feeling
that, with her taste, she was taking a real interest in these things; for,
after all, nothing better composes the nerves than a doubtful piece of
china.
When the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last, he said:
"You must come again; you must come to lunch, then I can show you
these by daylight, and my little sweet--she's a dear little thing. This dog
seems to have taken a fancy to you."
For Balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing his side
against her leg. Going out under the porch with her, he said:
"He'll get you up in an hour and a quarter. Take this for