The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ
- Author: John Galsworthy
Book online «The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ». Author John Galsworthy
âNo,â she said, âhe never writes!â
Mrs. Baynesâs eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they did. They recovered immediately.
âOf course not. Thatâs Phil all overâ âhe was always like that!â
âWas he?â said June.
The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynesâs bright smile a momentâs hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her skirts afresh, said: âWhy, my dearâ âheâs quite the most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!â
The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out of this woman.
âDo you see him?â she asked, her face crimsoning.
The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynesâ forehead beneath the powder.
âOh, yes! I donât remember when he was here lastâ âindeed, we havenât seen much of him lately. Heâs so busy with your cousinâs house; Iâm told itâll be finished directly. We must organize a little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night with us!â
âThank you,â said June. Again she thought: âIâm only wasting my time. This woman will tell me nothing.â
She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too; her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to be afraid of asking questionsâ âall organization was based on the asking of questions!
But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: âOld Mr. Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!â
And this girl stood there, holding out her handâ âholding out her hand!
The chance might be slipping awayâ âshe couldnât tellâ âthe chance of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.
Her eyes followed June to the door.
It closed.
Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again.
Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression of real anger and mortification on her face.
June went along the Square with her birdlike quickness. She detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so kind. Was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this torturing suspense?
She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had the right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she came to Bosinneyâs number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully.
At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above.
With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the door, with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had brought her so far evaporated.
The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her gloves.
She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she refused to go down. Did it matter what people thought of her? They would never know! No one would help her if she did not help herself! She would go through with it.
Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her. It did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands.
Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to know where she had been, what she had been doing; and suddenlyâ âover on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpellier Squareâ âshe saw Bosinney himself.
She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking on.
And June stood motionless, looking after him.
XIII Perfection of the HouseâOne mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.â
In the upper room at Frenchâs, where a Forsyte could still get heavy English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch.
Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that would increase, he still hankered in quiet City moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, prime chump, with
Comments (0)