The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ
- Author: John Galsworthy
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In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork of a pint-bottle of champagne. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at Bosinney, said: âWhy, youâre quite a Monte Cristo!â This celebrated novelâ âone of the half-dozen he had readâ âhad produced an extraordinary impression on his mind.
Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to scrutinize the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that he was going to drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he took a sip.
âA very nice wine,â he said at last, passing it before his nose; ânot the equal of my Heidsieck!â
It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he afterwards imparted at Timothyâs in this nutshell: âI shouldnât wonder a bit if that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!â
And from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge with the interest of his discovery.
âThe fellow,â he said to Mrs. Septimus, âfollows her about with his eyes like a dogâ âthe bumpy beggar! I donât wonder at itâ âsheâs a very charming woman, and, I should say, the pink of discretion!â A vague consciousness of perfume caging about Irene, like that from a flower with half-closed petals and a passionate heart, moved him to the creation of this image. âBut I wasnât sure of it,â he said, âtill I saw him pick up her handkerchief.â
Mrs. Smallâs eyes boiled with excitement.
âAnd did he give it her back?â she asked.
âGive it back?â said Swithin: âI saw him slobber on it when he thought I wasnât looking!â
Mrs. Small gaspedâ âtoo interested to speak.
âBut she gave him no encouragement,â went on Swithin; he stopped, and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed Aunt Hester soâ âhe had suddenly recollected that, as they were starting back in the phaeton, she had given Bosinney her hand a second time, and let it stay there too.â ââ ⊠He had touched his horses smartly with the whip, anxious to get her all to himself. But she had looked back, and she had not answered his first question; neither had he been able to see her faceâ âshe had kept it hanging down.
There is somewhere a picture, which Swithin has not seen, of a man sitting on a rock, and by him, immersed in the still, green water, a sea-nymph lying on her back, with her hand on her naked breast. She has a half-smile on her faceâ âa smile of hopeless surrender and of secret joy.
Seated by Swithinâs side, Irene may have been smiling like that.
When, warmed by champagne, he had her all to himself, he unbosomed himself of his wrongs; of his smothered resentment against the new chef at the club; his worry over the house in Wigmore Street, where the rascally tenant had gone bankrupt through helping his brother-in-law as if charity did not begin at home; of his deafness, too, and that pain he sometimes got in his right side. She listened, her eyes swimming under their lids. He thought she was thinking deeply of his troubles, and pitied himself terribly. Yet in his fur coat, with frogs across the breast, his top hat aslant, driving this beautiful woman, he had never felt more distinguished.
A coster, however, taking his girl for a Sunday airing, seemed to have the same impression about himself. This person had flogged his donkey into a gallop alongside, and sat, upright as a waxwork, in his shallopy chariot, his chin settled pompously on a red handkerchief, like Swithinâs on his full cravat; while his girl, with the ends of a flyblown boa floating out behind, aped a woman of fashion. Her swain moved a stick with a ragged bit of string dangling from the end, reproducing with strange fidelity the circular flourish of Swithinâs whip, and rolled his head at his lady with a leer that had a weird likeness to Swithinâs primeval stare.
Though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffianâs presence, Swithin presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. He laid his whiplash across the mareâs flank. The two chariots, however, by some unfortunate fatality continued abreast. Swithinâs yellow, puffy face grew red; he raised his whip to lash the costermonger, but was saved from so far forgetting his dignity by a special intervention of Providence. A carriage driving out through a gate forced phaeton and donkey-cart into proximity; the wheels grated, the lighter vehicle skidded, and was overturned.
Swithin did not look round. On no account would he have pulled up to help the ruffian. Serve him right if he had broken his neck!
But he could not if he would. The greys had taken alarm. The phaeton swung from side to side, and people raised frightened faces as they went dashing past. Swithinâs great arms, stretched at full length, tugged at the reins. His cheeks were puffed, his lips compressed, his swollen face was of a dull, angry red.
Irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch she gripped it tightly. Swithin heard her ask:
âAre we going to have an accident, Uncle Swithin?â
He gasped out between his pants: âItâs nothing; aâ âlittle fresh!â
âIâve never been in an accident.â
âDonât you move!â He took a look at her. She was smiling, perfectly calm. âSit still,â he repeated. âNever fear, Iâll get you home!â
And in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to hear her answer in a voice not like her own:
âI donât care if I never get home!â
The carriage giving a terrific lurch, Swithinâs exclamation was jerked back into his throat. The horses, winded by the rise of a hill, now steadied to a trot, and finally stopped of their own accord.
âWhenââ âSwithin described it at Timothyâsâ ââI pulled âem up, there she was
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