Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir.
No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be dining out.
The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood on the carved oak rug chest in the hall.
Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher. Mrs. Septimus Small. Mrs. Baynes. Mr. Solomon Thornworthy. Lady Bellis. Miss Hermione Bellis. Miss Winifred Bellis. Miss Ella Bellis.
Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten all familiar things. The words no message a trunk, and a bag, played a hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his wifes room.
Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as though expecting her.
On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some mistake. What bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon Bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of where Irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and grope out the meaning for himself.
He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes.
Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror.
He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water, and began feverishly washing.
Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy seized him again.
Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street.
He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her at Bosinneys. But if he should? His power of decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her there.
It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he.
Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He went up with a dogged, white face.
The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he told the man to drive to Park Lane.
On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to live on for months! He tried to calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation unmade.
The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master had told him they were both expected to dinner.
Soames answered: No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold.
The butler was sorry.
Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: Anybody here to dinner, Warmson?
Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir.
Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously at him. His composure gave way.
What are you looking at? he said. Whats the matter with me, eh?
The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that sounded like: Nothing, sir, Im sure, sir, and stealthily withdrew.
Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, he went straight up to his mothers and fathers bedroom.
James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wifes bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason. He he himself had never never been asked to.
He heard his fathers voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth, saying: Whos that? Whos there? What dyou want? His mothers: Here, Felice, come and hook this; your masterll never get done.
He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely:
Its I Soames!
He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emilys: Well, my dear boy? and James, as he dropped the hook: What, Soames! Whats brought you up? Arent you well?
He answered mechanically: Im all right, and looked at them, and it seemed impossible to bring out his news.
James, quick to take alarm, began: You dont look well. I expect youve taken a chill its liver, I shouldnt wonder. Your motherll give you.
But Emily broke in quietly: Have you brought Irene?
Soames shook his head.
No, he stammered, she shes left me!
Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she came running over to Soames.
My dear boy! My dear boy!
She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand.
James, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked older.
Left you? he said. What dyou mean left you? You never told me she was going to leave you.
Soames answered surlily: How could I tell? Whats to be done?
James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like without a coat. Whats to be done! he muttered. How should I know whats to be done? Whats the good of asking me? Nobody tells me anything, and then they come and ask me whats to be done; and I should like to know how Im to tell them! Heres your mother, there she stands; she doesnt say anything. What I should say youve got to do is to follow her..
My dear boy! My dear boy!
She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand.
James, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked older.
Left you? he said. What dyou mean left you? You never told me she was going to leave you.
Soames answered surlily: How could I tell? Whats to be done?
James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like without a coat. Whats to be done! he muttered. How should I know whats to be done? Whats the good of asking me? Nobody tells me anything, and then they come and ask me whats to be done; and I should like to know how Im to tell them! Heres your mother, there she stands; she doesnt say anything. What I should say youve got to do is to follow her..
Soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before looked pitiable.
I dont know where shes gone, he said.
Dont know where shes gone! said James. How dyou mean, dont know where shes gone? Where dyou suppose shes gone? Shes gone after that young Bosinney, thats where shes gone. I knew how it would be.
Soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother pressing his hand. And all that passed seemed to pass as though his own power of thinking or doing had gone to sleep.
His fathers face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to cry, and words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some spasm in his soul.
Therell be a scandal; I always said so. Then, no one saying anything: And there you stand, you and your mother!
And Emilys voice, calm, rather contemptuous: Come, now, James! Soames will do all that he can.
And James, staring at the floor, a little brokenly: Well, I cant help you; Im getting old. Dont you be in too great a hurry, my boy.
And his mothers voice again: Soames will do all he can to get her back. We wont talk of it. Itll all come right, I dare say.
And James: Well, I cant see how it can come right. And if she hasnt gone off with that young Bosinney, my advice to you is not to listen to her, but to follow her and get her back.
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 Irenes 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 Jamess advice: Dont 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 Timothys. 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 Emilys 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, thats a clever little chap. I dont know whatll 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.