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

bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there’d be nothing in it!

He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. He must decide! If against the operation and she died, how face her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? It was his child that she was having. If for the operation⁠—then he condemned them both to childlessness. And for what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir? And his father⁠—at death’s door, waiting for the news! “It’s cruel!” he thought; “I ought never to have such a thing to settle! It’s cruel!” He turned towards the house. Some deep, simple way of deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he knew he would not abide by what came up! He went into the dining-room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds issued. The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked the tantalus. He hardly ever touched spirits, but now⁠—he poured himself out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. “That fellow Jolyon,” he thought; “he had children already. He has the woman I really loved; and now a son by her! And I⁠—I’m asked to destroy my only child! Annette can’t die; it’s not possible. She’s strong!”

He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the doctor’s carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to come downstairs.

“Well, doctor?”

“The situation’s the same. Have you decided?”

“Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!”

“Not? You understand⁠—the risk’s great?”

In Soames’ set face nothing moved but the lips.

“You said there was a chance?”

“A chance, yes; not much of one.”

“You say the baby must be born dead if you do?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?”

“One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.”

“She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the risk.”

The doctor looked at him very gravely. “It’s on your shoulders,” he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.”

Soames’ chin jerked up as if someone had hit him.

“Am I of any use up there?” he asked.

“No; keep away.”

“I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where.”

The doctor nodded, and went upstairs.

Soames continued to stand, listening. “By this time tomorrow,” he thought, “I may have her death on my hands.” No! it was unfair⁠—monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him again, and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour, glowing, burnished-an early autumn. If it were his own life, would he be taking that risk? “But she’d take the risk of losing me,” he thought, “sooner than lose her child! She doesn’t really love me!” What could one expect⁠—a girl and French? The one thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and their futures, was a child! “I’ve been through a lot for this,” he thought, “I’ll hold on⁠—hold on. There’s a chance of keeping both⁠—a chance!” One kept till things were taken⁠—one naturally kept! He began walking round the gallery. He had made one purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it⁠—a girl with dull gold hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made⁠—admire the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster. Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if⁠—! He turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window. Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came into his throat. She would not⁠—could not die! She was too⁠—too sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in spite of her fair prettiness.

It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly:

“The doctor wants to see you, sir.”

He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and said:

“Oh, sir! it’s over.”

“Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you mean?”

“It’s born, sir.”

He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow.

“Well?” he said; “quick!”

“Both living; it’s all right, I think.”

Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes.

“I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was touch and go.”

Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face.

“Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?”

“Daughter⁠—luckily; a son would have killed her⁠—the head.”

A daughter!

“The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and we shall do. When does the mother come?”

“Tonight, between