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

things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for making this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success. Their patience in trying the patience of those impersonal creatures who swam about before them could alone have been displayed by such as were moved by faith. It was for Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess Fashion, fervent as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for Imogen an experience by no means too unpleasant⁠—she often looked so nice, and flattery was implicit everywhere: in a word it was “amusing.”

On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted Skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at Caramel and Baker’s, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, turned homewards through Berkeley Square of an evening touched with spring. Opening the door⁠—freshly painted a light olive-green; nothing neglected that year to give Imogen a good send-off⁠—Winifred passed towards the silver basket to see if anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched. What was that scent?

Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood absorbed. Rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her breast, Winifred said:

“Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.”

Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath. Was it spring tickling her senses⁠—whipping up nostalgia for her “clown,” against all wisdom and outraged virtue? A male scent! A faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him “the limit.” Whence came it, or was it ghost of scent⁠—sheer emanation from memory? She looked round her. Nothing⁠—not a thing, no tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the dining-room. A little daydream of a scent⁠—illusory, saddening, silly! In the silver basket were new cards, two with “Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,” and one with “Mr. Polegate Thom” thereon; she sniffed them, but they smelled severe. “I must be tired,” she thought, “I’ll go and lie down.” Upstairs the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom. This, too, was half-curtained and dim, for it was six o’clock. Winifred threw off her coat⁠—that scent again!⁠—then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail. Something dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner. A word of horror⁠—in her family⁠—escaped her: “God!”

“It’s I⁠—Monty,” said a voice.

Clutching the bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch of the light hanging above her dressing-table. He appeared just on the rim of the light’s circumference, emblazoned from the absence of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown, but⁠—yes!⁠—split at the toecap. His chest and face were shadowy. Surely he was thin⁠—or was it a trick of the light? He advanced, lighted now from toecap to the top of his dark head⁠—surely a little grizzled! His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black moustache had lost boldness, become sardonic; there were lines which she did not know about his face. There was no pin in his tie. His suit⁠—ah!⁠—she knew that⁠—but how unpressed, unglossy! She stared again at the toecap of his boot. Something big and relentless had been “at him,” had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him. And she stayed, not speaking, motionless, staring at that crack across the toe.

“Well!” he said, “I got the order. I’m back.”

Winifred’s bosom began to heave. The nostalgia for her husband which had rushed up with that scent was struggling with a deeper jealousy than any she had felt yet. There he was⁠—a dark, and as if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self! What force had done this to him⁠—squeezed him like an orange to its dry rind! That woman!

“I’m back,” he said again. “I’ve had a beastly time. By God! I came steerage. I’ve got nothing but what I stand up in, and that bag.”

“And who has the rest?” cried Winifred, suddenly alive. “How dared you come? You knew it was just for divorce that you got that order to come back. Don’t touch me!”

They held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so many years of nights together. Many times, yes⁠—many times she had wanted him back. But now that he had come she was filled with this cold and deadly resentment. He put his hand up to his moustache; but did not frizz and twist it in the old familiar way, he just pulled it downwards.

“Gad!” he said: “If you knew the time I’ve had!”

“I’m glad I don’t!”

“Are the kids all right?”

Winifred nodded. “How did you get in?”

“With my key.”

“Then the maids don’t know. You can’t stay here, Monty.”

He uttered a little sardonic laugh.

“Where then?”

“Anywhere.”

“Well, look at me! That⁠—that damned.⁠ ⁠…”

“If you mention her,” cried Winifred, “I go straight out to Park Lane and I don’t come back.”

Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it moved her. He shut his eyes. It was as if he had said: “All right! I’m dead to the world!”

“You can have a room for the night,” she said; “your things are still here. Only Imogen is at home.”

He leaned back against the bed-rail. “Well, it’s in your hands,” and his own made a writhing movement. “I’ve been through it. You needn’t hit too hard⁠—it isn’t worth while. I’ve been frightened; I’ve been frightened, Freddie.”

That old pet name, disused for years and years, sent a shiver through Winifred.

“What am I to do with him?” she thought. “What in God’s name am I to do with him?”

“Got a cigarette?”

She gave him one from a little box she kept up there for when she couldn’t sleep at night, and lighted it. With that action the matter-of-fact side of her nature came to life again.

“Go and have a hot bath. I’ll put some clothes out for you in the dressing-room. We can talk later.”

He nodded, and fixed his eyes on