The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) 📖

he was sitting next his mother in the front row, with his back to it all, glad of her violette de Parme, and taking off his gloves for the last time. His mother was looking at him; he was suddenly conscious that she had really wanted him there next to her, and that he counted for something in this business.

All right! He would show them! Squaring his shoulders, he crossed his legs and gazed inscrutably at his spats. But just then an “old Johnny” in a gown and long wig, looking awfully like a funny raddled woman, came through a door into the high pew opposite, and he had to uncross his legs hastily, and stand up with everybody else.

“Dartie versus Dartie!”

It seemed to Val unspeakably disgusting to have one’s name called out like this in public! And, suddenly conscious that someone nearly behind him had begun talking about his family, he screwed his face round to see an old be-wigged buffer, who spoke as if he were eating his own words⁠—queer-looking old cuss, the sort of man he had seen once or twice dining at Park Lane and punishing the port; he knew now where they dug them up. All the same he found the old buffer quite fascinating, and would have continued to stare if his mother had not touched his arm. Reduced to gazing before him, he fixed his eyes on the Judge’s face instead. Why should that old “sportsman” with his sarcastic mouth and his quick-moving eyes have the power to meddle with their private affairs⁠—hadn’t he affairs of his own, just as many, and probably just as nasty? And there moved in Val, like an illness, all the deep-seated individualism of his breed. The voice behind him droned along: “Differences about money matters⁠—extravagance of the respondent” (What a word! Was that his father?)⁠—“strained situation⁠—frequent absences on the part of Mr. Dartie. My client, very rightly, your Ludship will agree, was anxious to check a course⁠—but lead to ruin⁠—remonstrated⁠—gambling at cards and on the racecourse⁠—” (“That’s right!” thought Val, “pile it on!”) “Crisis early in October, when the respondent wrote her this letter from his Club.” Val sat up and his ears burned. “I propose to read it with the emendations necessary to the epistle of a gentleman who has been⁠—shall we say dining, me Lud?”

“Old brute!” thought Val, flushing deeper; “you’re not paid to make jokes!”

“ ‘You will not get the chance to insult me again in my own house. I am leaving the country tomorrow. It’s played out’⁠—an expression, your Ludship, not unknown in the mouths of those who have not met with conspicuous success.”

“Sniggering owls!” thought Val, and his flush deepened.

“ ‘I am tired of being insulted by you.’ My client will tell your Ludship that these so-called insults consisted in her calling him ‘the limit’⁠—a very mild expression, I venture to suggest, in all the circumstances.”

Val glanced sideways at his mother’s impassive face, it had a hunted look in the eyes. “Poor mother,” he thought, and touched her arm with his own. The voice behind droned on.

“ ‘I am going to live a new life.⁠—M. D.’ ”

“And next day, me Lud, the respondent left by the steamship Tuscarora for Buenos Aires. Since then we have nothing from him but a cabled refusal in answer to the letter which my client wrote the following day in great distress, begging him to return to her. With your Ludship’s permission. I shall now put Mrs. Dartie in the box.”

When his mother rose, Val had a tremendous impulse to rise too and say: “Look here! I’m going to see you jolly well treat her decently.” He subdued it, however; heard her saying, “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” and looked up. She made a rich figure of it, in her furs and large hat, with a slight flush on her cheekbones, calm, matter-of-fact; and he felt proud of her thus confronting all these “confounded lawyers.” The examination began. Knowing that this was only the preliminary to divorce, Val followed with a certain glee the questions framed so as to give the impression that she really wanted his father back. It seemed to him that they were “foxing Old Bagwigs finely.”

And he received a most unpleasant jar when the Judge said suddenly:

“Now, why did your husband leave you⁠—not because you called him ‘the limit,’ you know?”

Val saw his uncle lift his eyes to the witness box, without moving his face; heard a shuffle of papers behind him; and instinct told him that the issue was in peril. Had Uncle Soames and the old buffer behind made a mess of it? His mother was speaking with a slight drawl.

“No, my Lord, but it had gone on a long time.”

“What had gone on?”

“Our differences about money.”

“But you supplied the money. Do you suggest that he left you to better his position?”

“The brute! The old brute, and nothing but the brute!” thought Val suddenly. “He smells a rat he’s trying to get at the pastry!” And his heart stood still. If⁠—if he did, then, of course, he would know that his mother didn’t really want his father back. His mother spoke again, a thought more fashionably.

“No, my Lord, but you see I had refused to give him any more money. It took him a long time to believe that, but he did at last⁠—and when he did.⁠ ⁠…”

“I see, you had refused. But you’ve sent him some since.”

“My Lord, I wanted him back.”

“And you thought that would bring him?”

“I don’t know, my Lord, I acted on my father’s advice.”

Something in the Judge’s face, in the sound of the papers behind him, in the sudden crossing of his uncle’s legs, told Val that she had made just the right answer. “Crafty!” he thought; “by Jove, what humbug it all is!”

The Judge was speaking:

“Just one more question, Mrs. Dartie. Are you still fond of your husband?”

Val’s hands, slack behind him, became fists. What business had that Judge to make things human