JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP
When those two were gone Jolyon did not return to his painting,for daylight was failing,but went to the study,craving unconsciously a revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old leather chair with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing up from under the dome of his massive brow.Often in this little room,cosiest in the house,Jolyon would catch a moment of communion with his father.Not,indeed,that he had definitely any faith in the persistence of the human spirit--the feeling was not so logical--it was,rather,an atmospheric impact,like a scent,or one of those strong animistic impressions from forms,or effects of light,to which those with the artist's eye are especially prone.
Here only--in this little unchanged room where his father had spent the most of his waking hours--could be retrieved the feeling that he was not quite gone,that the steady counsel of that old spirit and the warmth of his masterful lovability endured.
What would his father be advising now,in this sudden recrudescence of an old tragedy--what would he say to this menace against her to whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life?'Imust do my best for her,'thought Jolyon;'he left her to me in his will.But what is the best?'
And as if seeking to regain the sapience,the balance and shrewd common sense of that old Forsyte,he sat down in the ancient chair and crossed his knees.But he felt a mere shadow sitting there;nor did any inspiration come,while the fingers of the wind tapped on the darkening panes of the french-window.
'Go and see her?'he thought,'or ask her to come down here?
What's her life been?What is it now,I wonder?Beastly to rake up things at this time of day.'Again the figure of his cousin standing with a hand on a front door of a fine olive-green leaped out,vivid,like one of those figures from old-fashioned clocks when the hour strikes;and his words sounded in Jolyon's ears clearer than any chime:"I manage my own affairs.I've told you once,I tell you again:We are not at home."The repugnance he had then felt for Soames--for his flat-cheeked,shaven face full of spiritual bull-doggedness;for his spare,square,sleek figure slightly crouched as it were over the bone he could not digest--came now again,fresh as ever,nay,with an odd increase.'Idislike him,'he thought,'I dislike him to the very roots of me.
And that's lucky;it'll make it easier for me to back his wife.'
Half-artist,and half-Forsyte,Jolyon was constitutionally averse from what he termed 'ructions';unless angered,he conformed deeply to that classic deion of the she-dog,'Er'd ruther run than fight.'A little smile became settled in his beard.Ironical that Soames should come down here--to this house,built for himself!
How he had gazed and gaped at this ruin of his past intention;furtively nosing at the walls and stairway,appraising everything!
And intuitively Jolyon thought:'I believe the fellow even now would like to be living here.He could never leave off longing for what he once owned!Well,I must act,somehow or other;but it's a bore--a great bore.'
Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat,asking if Irene would see him.
The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms.
Rumours of war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at the close of the summer holidays.And the streets to Jolyon,who was not often up in town,had a feverish look,due to these new motor-cars and cabs,of which he disapproved aesthetically.He counted these vehicles from his hansom,and made the proportion of them one in twenty.'They were one in thirty about a year ago,'he thought;'they've come to stay.Just so much more rattling round of wheels and general stink'--for he was one of those rather rare Liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material form;and he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly,out of the traffic,desiring to look at the water through the mellowing screen of plane-trees.At the little block of flats which stood back some fifty yards from the Embankment,he told the cabman to wait,and went up to the first floor.
Yes,Mrs.Heron was at home!
The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent to him remembering the threadbare refinement in that tiny flat eight years ago when he announced her good fortune.Everything was now fresh,dainty,and smelled of flowers.The general effect was silvery with touches of black,hydrangea colour,and gold.'Awoman of great taste,'he thought.Time had dealt gently with Jolyon,for he was a Forsyte.But with Irene Time hardly seemed to deal at all,or such was his impression.She appeared to him not a day older,standing there in mole-coloured velvet corduroy,with soft dark eyes and dark gold hair,with outstretched hand and a little smile.
"Won't you sit down?"
He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of embarrassment.
"You look absolutely unchanged,"he said.
"And you look younger,Cousin Jolyon."
Jolyon ran his hands through his hair,whose thickness was still a comfort to him.
"I'm ancient,but I don't feel it.That's one thing about paint-ing,it keeps you young.Titian lived to ninety-nine,and had to have plague to kill him off.Do you know,the first time I ever saw you I thought of a picture by him?""When did you see me for the first time?"
"In the Botanical Gardens."
"How did you know me,if you'd never seen me before?""By someone who came up to you."He was looking at her hardily,but her face did not change;and she said quietly:
"Yes;many lives ago."
"What is your recipe for youth,Irene?"
"People who don't live are wonderfully preserved."H'm!a bitter little saying!People who don't live!But an opening,and he took it."You remember my Cousin Soames?"He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality,and at once went on:
"He came to see me the day before yesterday!He wants a divorce.
Do you?"
