List Of Contents | Contents of Indian Summer of a Forsyte, by John Galsworthy
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just back from school, and 'getting such a pretty girl, too,' so
that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about Annette.
Aunt Juley, however, summoned courage to enquire whether Winifred
had heard anything, and if Soames was anxious.

"Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie," interrupted Imogen; "he
can't be happy now he's got it."

The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley's ears.  Ah! yes; that
funny drawing of George's, which had not been shown them!  But what
did Imogen mean?  That her uncle always wanted more than he could
have?  It was not at all nice to think like that.

Imogen's voice rose clear and clipped:

"Imagine!  Annette's only two years older than me; it must be awful
for her, married to Uncle Soames."

Aunt Juley lifted her hands in horror.

"My dear," she said, "you don't know what you're talking about.
Your Uncle Soames is a match for anybody.  He's a very clever man,
and good-looking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, and
not at all old, considering everything."

Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the
'old dears,' only smiled.

"I hope," said Aunt Juley quite severely, "that you will marry as
good a man."

"I shan't marry a good man, Auntie," murmured Imogen; "they're

"If you go on like this," replied Aunt Juley, still very much
upset, "you won't marry anybody.  We'd better not pursue the
subject;" and turning to Winifred, she said: "How is Montague?"

That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured:

"I've told Smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet champagne,
Hester.  I think we ought to drink dear James' health, and--and the
health of Soames' wife; only, let's keep that quite secret.  I'll
Just say like this, 'And you know, Hester!'  and then we'll drink.
It might upset Timothy."

"It's more likely to upset us," said Aunt Nester.  "But we must, I
suppose; for such an occasion."

"Yes," said Aunt Juley rapturously, "it is an occasion!  Only fancy
if he has a dear little boy, to carry the family on!  I do feel it
so important, now that Irene has had a son.  Winifred says George
is calling Jolyon 'The Three-Decker,' because of his three
families, you know!  George is droll.  And fancy!  Irene is living
after all in the house Soames had built for them both.  It does
seem hard on dear Soames; and he's always been so regular."

That night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her glass
of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with her
prayer-book opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling yellowed
by the light from her reading-lamp.  Young things!  It was so nice
for them all!  And she would be so happy if she could see dear
Soames happy.  But, of course, he must be now, in spite of what
Imogen had said.  He would have all that he wanted: property, and
wife, and children!  And he would live to a green old age, like his
dear father, and forget all about Irene and that dreadful case.  If
only she herself could be here to buy his children their first
rocking-horse!  Smither should choose it for her at the stores,
nice and dappled.  Ah! how Roger used to rock her until she fell
off!  Oh dear! that was a long time ago!  It was!  'In my Father's
house are many mansions--'A little scrattling noise caught her ear-
-'but no mice!'  she thought mechanically.  The noise increased.
There! it was a mouse!  How naughty of Smither to say there wasn't!
It would be eating through the wainscot before they knew where they
were, and they would have to have the builders in.  They were such
destructive things!  And she lay, with her eyes just moving,
following in her mind that little scrattling sound, and waiting for
sleep to release her from it.



Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on
the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the
garden door, without having realised that he had moved.  The sound
of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed,
and the doctor gone.  What, exactly, had he said?

"This is the position, Mr. Forsyte.  I can make pretty certain of
her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead.  If I don't
operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it's a
great risk for the mother--a great risk.  In either case I don't
think she can ever have another child.  In her state she obviously
can't decide for herself, and we can't wait for her mother.  It's
for you to make the decision, while I'm getting what's necessary.
I shall be back within the hour."

The decision!  What a decision!  No time to get a specialist down!
No time for anything!

The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent; then,
suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river.  To come
before its time like this, with no chance to foresee anything, not
even to get her mother here!  It was for her mother to make that
decision, and she couldn't arrive from Paris till to-night!  If
only he could have understood the doctor's jargon, the medical
niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the chances properly;
but they were Greek to him--like a legal problem to a layman.  And
yet he must decide!  He brought his hand away from his brow wet,
though the air was chilly.  These sounds which came from her room!
To go back there would only make it more difficult.  He must be
calm, clear.  On the one hand life, nearly certain, of his young
wife, death quite certain, of his child; and--no more children
afterwards!  On the other, death perhaps of his wife, nearly
certain life for the child; and--no more children afterwards!
Which to choose?....  It had rained this last fortnight--the river
was very full, and in the water, collected round the little
house-boat moored by his landing-stage, were many leaves from the
woods above, brought off by a frost.  Leaves fell, lives drifted
down--Death!  To decide about death!  And no one to give him a
hand.  Life lost was lost for good.  Let nothing go that you could
keep; for, if it went, you couldn't get it back.  It left you bare,
like those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and barer until
you, too, withered and came down.  And, by a queer somersault of
thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying up there behind that
window-pane on which the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their
bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it might conceivably have been
her fate to lie, sixteen years ago.  Would he have hesitated then?
Not a moment!  Operate, operate!  Make certain of her life!  No
decision--a mere instinctive cry for help, in spite of his know-
ledge, even then, that she did not love him!  But this!  Ah! there
was nothing overmastering in his feeling for Annette!  Many times
these last months, especially since she had been growing fright-
ened, he had wondered.  She had a will of her own, was selfish in
her French way.  And yet--so pretty!  What would she wish--to take
the risk.  'I know she wants the child,' he thought.  'If it's born
dead, and no more chance afterwards--it'll upset her terribly.  No
more chance!  All for nothing!  Married life with her for years and
years without a child.  Nothing to steady her!  She's too young.
Nothing to look forward to, for her--for me!  For me!'  He struck
his hands against his chest!  Why couldn't he think without
bringing himself in--get out of himself and see what he ought to
do?  The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in
contact with a breastplate.  Out of oneself!  Impossible!  Out into
soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space!  The very idea
was ghastly, futile!  And touching there the bedrock of reality,
the 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

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?"


"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 to-morrow,' 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 nod 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

"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

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 hearts the doctor say, "and we shall
do.  When does the mother come?"

"To-night, between nine and ten, I hope."

"I'll stay till then.  Do you want to see them?"

"Not now," said Soames; "before you go.  I'll have dinner sent up
to you."  And he went downstairs.

Relief unspeakable, and yet--a daughter!  It seemed to him unfair.
To have taken that risk--to have been through this agony--and what
agony!--for a daughter!  He stood before the blazing fire of wood
logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust
himself.  'My father!' he thought.  A bitter disappointment, no
disguising it!  One never got all one wanted in this life!  And
there was no other--at least, if there was, it was no use!

While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him.

"Come up at once, your father sinking fast.

He read it with a choking sensation.  One would have thought he
couldn't feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this.
Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame's train,
if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty--he would meet that,
and go on.  He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically,
and went upstairs.  The doctor came out to him.

"They're sleeping."

"I won't go in," said Soames with relief.  "My father's dying; I
have to--go up.  Is it all right?"

The doctor's face expressed a kind of doubting admiration.  'If
they were all as unemotional' he might have been saying.

"Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind.  You'll be down soon?"

"To-morrow," said Soames.  "Here's the address."

The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy.

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