 Part 2. CHAPTER XI. OF INCHANCERY. The Foresight Saga. II. INCHANCERY. BY JOHN GALLSWORTHY. Part 2. CHAPTER XI. TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT. On Foresight Change, news of the enlistment spread fast, together with the report that June, not to be outdone, was going to become a Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of pure Foresightism as to have a binding effect upon the family, and Timothy's was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members trying to find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each other a sense of family credit. Giles and Jesse Heyman would no longer defend the coast, but go to South Africa quite soon. Jolly and Val would be following in April, as to June? Well, you never knew what she would really do. The retirement from Spion Cop, and the absence of any good news from the seat of war, imported an air of reality to all this. Clinched in startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old Foresights, scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble their father, Superior Dossett, even in his best known characteristic of drinking sherry, had been invisible for so many years that he was almost mythical. A long generation had elapsed since the risks of a publisher's business had worked on his nerves at the age of forty, so that he had got out with a mere thirty-five thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his living by careful investment. Putting by every year at compound interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years, without having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over money matters. He was now putting aside some two thousand a year, and with the care that he was taking of himself, expected, so Aunt Hester said, to double his capital again before he died. What he would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself dead, was often mockingly queried, by free spirits such as Francie, Euphemia, or young Nicholas II, Christopher, whose spirit was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage. All admitted, however, that this was best known to Timothy himself, and possibly to Soames, who never divulged a secret. Those few foresights who had seen him, reported a man of thick and robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion, grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature, with which most of the foresights had been endowed by Superior Dossett's wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was known that he had taken a surprising interest in the war, sticking flags into a map ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as to what would happen if the English were driven into the sea, when it would be almost impossible for him to put the flags in the right places. As to his knowledge of family movements, or his views about them, little was known, save that Aunt Hester was always declaring that he was very upset. It was then, in the nature of a portent, when foresights arriving on the Sunday after the evacuation of Spion Cop became conscious, one after the other of a presence seated in the only really comfortable armchair, back to the light concealing the lower part of his face with a large hand, and were greeted by the odd voice of Aunt Hester. Your Uncle Timothy, my dear! Timothy's greeting to them all was somewhat identical, and rather, as it were, passed over by him and expressed. How did you do? How did you do? Excuse me, get it up! Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car. Winifred had brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at Val's enlistment, and Marion Tweeterman with the last news of Giles and Jesse, these with Aunt Julie and Hester, young Nicholas, Euphemia, and, of all people, George, who had come with Eustace in the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family's pamiest days. There was not one chair vacant in the hold of the little drawing-room, and anxiety was felt lest someone else should arrive. The constraint, caused by Timothy's presence having worn off a little, conversation took a military turn. George asked Aunt Julie when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing her to a state of gaiety, whereon he turned to Nicholas, and said, Young Nick's a warrior-bold, isn't he? When's he going to don the wild car-key? Young Nicholas, smiling with the sort of sweet deprecation, intimated that, of course, his mother was very anxious. The dromeos are off, I hear, said George, turning to Marion Tweeterman. We shall all be there soon. On avant, the four sites, roll, bowl, or pitch. Who's for a cooler? Aunt Julie gurgled. George was so droll. Should Hester get Timothy's map, then he could show them all where they were. At a sound from Timothy, and interpreted as a scent, Aunt Hester left the room. George pursued his image of the four-site advance, addressing Timothy as field-martial and Imogen, whom he had noted at once for a pretty filly, as vivandiere, and holding his top hat between his knees he began to beat it, with imaginary drumsticks. The reception, according to his fancest, was mixed. All laughed. George was licensed. But all felt that the family was being rotted, and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it was going to give five of its members to the service of the Queen. George might go too far, and there was relief when he got up, offered his arm to Aunt Julie, marched up to Timothy, saluted him, kissed his arm with mock passion, said, Oh, what a treat! Dear Papa, come on, Eustace, and walked out, followed by the grave and fastidious Eustace, who had never smiled. Aunt Julie is bewildered. Fancy not waiting for the map. You mustn't mind him, Timothy. He's so droll, broke the hush, and Timothy removed the hand from his mouth. I don't know what things are coming to, he was heard to say. What's all this about going out there? That's not the way to beat those boars. Fancy alone had the hardy-hood to observe. What is then, Uncle Timothy? All this new-fangled volunteer in an expense, letting money out of the country? Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby with eruptions. With the assistance of Euphemia, it was laid on the piano, a small collward grand. Last played on, it was believed, the summer before Aunt Anne died, thirteen years ago. Timothy rose. He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at his map while they all gathered round. There you are! he said. That's the position up to date, and very poor it is. Yes, said Fancy, greatly daring. But how are you going to alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men? Men? said Timothy. You don't want men? Wasting the country's money? You want a Napoleon? He'd settle it in a month. But if you haven't got him, Uncle Timothy? That's their business, replied Timothy. What have we kept the army up for, to eat their heads off in time of peace? They ought to be ashamed of themselves coming on the country to help them like this. Let every man stick to his business, and we shall get on. And looking round him, he added, almost angrily, Volunteering, indeed, throwing good money after bad. We must save, conserve energy. That's the only way. And with the prolonged sound, not quite a sniff, and not quite a snort, he trod on Euphemia's toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint scent of barley sugar behind him. The effect of something said with conviction, by one who has evidently made a sacrifice to say it, is ever considerable. And the eight foresight left behind, all women, except young Nicholas, were silent for a moment round the map. Then, Fancy said, Really, I think he's right, you know. After all, what is the army for? They ought to have known. It's only encouraging them. My dear, cried Aunt Julie, but they've been so progressive. Think of their giving up their scarlet. They were always so proud of it, and now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much. Fancy what the iron duke would have said. The new colour's very smart, said Winifred. Val looked quite nice in his. Aunt Julie sighed. I do so wonder what Jolian's boy is like. To think we've never seen him. His father must be so proud of him. His father's in Paris, said Winifred. Aunt Hester's shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward off her sister's next remark, for Julie's crumpled cheeks had gushed. We had dear little Mrs. McCander here yesterday, just back from Paris, and whom do you think she saw there in the street? You'll never guess. We shan't try, auntie, said Euphemia. Irene, imagine, after all this time walking with a fair beard. Auntie, you'll kill me, a fair beard. I was going to say, said Aunt Julie severely, a fair bearded gentleman. And not a day older, she was always so pretty, she added, with a sort of lingering apology. Oh, tell us about her, auntie, cried Imogen. I can just remember her. She's the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn't she? And they're such fun. Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Julie had done it now. She wasn't much of a skeleton as I remember her, murmured Euphemia, extremely well covered. My dear, said Aunt Julie, what a peculiar way of putting it, not very nice. No, but what was she like? persisted Imogen. I'll tell you, my child, said Francie, a kind of modern Venus, very well dressed. Euphemia said sharply, Venus was never dressed, and she had blue eyes of melting sapphire. At this juncture Nicholas took his leave. Mrs. Nick is awfully straight, said Francie, with a laugh. She has six children, said Aunt Julie, it's very proper that she should be careful. Was Uncle Somes awfully fond of her? pursued the inexorable Imogen, moving her dark, luscious eyes from face to face. Aunt Hester made the gesture of despair, just as Aunt Julie answered, Yes, your Uncle Somes was very much attached to her. I suppose she ran off with someone. No, certainly not. That is not precisely. What did she do, then, auntie? Come along, Imogen, said Winifred, we must be getting back. But Aunt Julie interjected resolutely. She didn't behave at all well. Oh, bother, cried Imogen, that's as far as I ever get. Well, my dear, said Francie, she had a love affair which ended with the young man's death, and then she left your uncle. I always rather liked her. She used to give me chocolates, murmur and Imogen, and smell nice. Of course, remarked Euphemia. Not of course at all, replied Francie, who used a particularly expensive essence of jelly-flower herself. I can't think what we are about, said Aunt Julie, raising her hands, talking of such things. Was she divorced? asked Imogen from the door. Certainly not, cried Aunt Julie. That is certainly not. A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had re-entered the back drawing-room. Well, it's come for my map, he said. Who's been divorced? No one, uncle, replied Francie, with perfect truth. Timothy took his map off the piano. Don't let's have anything of that sort in the family, he said. All this enlisting is bad enough, the country's breaking up. I don't know what we're coming to. He shook a thick finger at the room. Too many women nowadays, and they don't know what they want. So, saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went out, as if afraid, of being answered. The seven women whom he had dressed, broke into a subdued murmur, out of which emerged Francie's really the foresight. And Aunt Julie's, he must have his feet in mustard and hot water to-night, Hester. Will you tell Jane the blood has gone to his head again, I'm afraid? That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and looked up. Hester, I can't think where I've heard that dear Somes wants Irene to come back to him again. Who was it told us that George had made a funny drawing of him with the words, He won't be happy till he gets it? He used us, answered Aunt Hester from behind the times. He had it in his pocket, but he wouldn't show it us. Aunt Julie was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked. The times crackled. The fire sent forth it, rustling pear. Aunt Julie dropped another stitch. Hester, she said, I have had such a dreadful thought. Then don't tell me, said Aunt Hester, quickly. Oh, but I must. We can't think how dreadful. The voice sank to a whisper. Jolian. Jolian, they say, has a fair beard now. End of Part 2, Chapter 11. Part 2, Chapter 12 of Inchansary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Recording by Andy Minter The Foresight Saga II Inchansary by John Gallsworthy Part 2, Chapter 12 Progress of the Chase Two days after the dinner at James's, Mr. Paltied provided soams with food for thought. A gentleman, he said, consulting the key, concealed in his left hand, a forty-seven, as we say, has been paying marked attention to seventeen during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in public places, without concealment, restaurants, the opera, the comic, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. As she has not yet been traced to his rooms nor vice versa, they went to Fontainebleau, but nothing of value. In short, the situation is promising, but requires patience. And, looking up suddenly, he added, a one rather curious point, forty-seven has the same name as thirty-one. The fellow knows I'm her husband, thought soams. A Christian name, an odd one, a joe-lion, continued Mr. Paltied. We know his address in Paris, and his residence here. We don't wish, of course, to be running a long hair. Go on with it, but be careful, said Soams doggedly. Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret made him all the more reticent. Excuse me, said Mr. Paltied, I'll just see if there is anything fresh in. He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at the envelopes. Yes, here's a personal one from nineteen to myself. Well, said Soams, said Mr. Paltied, she says, forty-seven left for England to-day. Address on his baggage Robin Hill. Partied from seventeen in Louvre, a gallery at three-thirty. Nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay and continue observation of seventeen. You will deal with forty-seven in England if you think dishonourable no doubt. And Mr. Paltied lifted an unprofessional glance on Soams, as though he might be storing material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of business. Very intelligent woman, nineteen, and the wonderful makeup. Not cheap, but earns her money well. There's no suspicion of being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people are liable to get the feeling of it without anything definite to go on. I should rather advise letting up on seventeen and keeping an eye on forty-seven. We can't get at correspondence without great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell your client that he's looking up very well. And again his narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer. No, said Soams suddenly. I prefer that you should keep the watch going discreetly in Paris and not concern yourself with this end. If any will, replied Mr. Paltied, we can do it. What is the manner between them? I'll read you what she says, said Mr. Paltied, unlocking a bureau draw and taking out a file of papers. She sums it up somewhere, confidentially. Yes, here it is. Seventeen very attractive. Conclude forty-seven, longer in the tooth, slaying for age, you know. Distinctly gone, awaiting his time. Seventeen perhaps holding off for terms. Impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined to think on the whole doesn't know her mind. Likely to act on impulse some day. Both have style. What does that mean? said Soams, between closed lips. Well, murmured Mr. Paltied with a smile, showing many white teeth, an expression we use. In other words, it's not likely to be a weekend business. They come together seriously, or not at all. Hmm, not at Soams. That's all, is it? Yes, said Mr. Paltied, but quite promising. Spider, thought Soams. Good day. He walked into the green park that he might cross to Victoria Station and take the underground into the city. For so late in January it was warm, sunlight through the haze sparkled on the frosty grass, an illumined cobweb of a day. Little spiders and great spiders, and the greatest spinner of all his own tenacity, forever wrapping its cocoon of threads round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging around Ireney for? Was it really, as Paltied suggested? Or was Jolian but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it, sentimental, radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as Paltied hinted, Soams stood still. It could not be. The fellow was seven years older than himself. No better looking, no richer. What attraction had he? Besides, he's come back, he thought. That doesn't look. I'll go and see him. And taking out a card, he wrote, If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall be at the connoisseurs any day between five thirty and six, or I could come to the Hodgepodge if you prefer it. I want to see you. Yes, F. He walked up St James's Street and confided it to the porter at the Hodgepodge. Give Mr Jolian foresight this as soon as he comes in, he said, and talk one of the new motor cabs into the city. Jolian received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face towards the connoisseurs. What did Soams want now? Had he got wind of Paris? And stepping across St James's Street, he determined to make no secret of his visit. But it won't do, he thought, to let him know she's there. Unless he knows already. In this complicated state of mind, he was conducted to where Soams was drinking tea in the small bay window. No tea, thanks, said Jolian, but I'll go on smoking, if I may. The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted. The two cousins sat waiting on each other. You've been in Paris, I hear, said Soams at last. Yes, just back. Young Val told me. He and your boy are going off, then. Jolian nodded. You didn't happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she's abroad somewhere. Jolian wreathed himself in smoke before he answered. Yes, I saw her. How was she? Very well. There was another silence. Then Soams roused himself in his chair. When I saw you last, he said, I was in two minds. We talked, and you expressed your opinion. I don't wish to reopen that discussion. I only wanted to say this. My position with her is extremely difficult. I don't want you to go using your influence against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I'm going to ask her to let bygones be bygones. You have asked her, you know. The idea was new to her, then. It came as a shock. But the more she thinks of it, the more she must see that it's the only way out for both of us. That's not my impression of her state of mind, said Jolian, with particular calm. And forgive me saying, you will misconceive the matter if you think reason comes into it at all. He saw his cousin's pale face grow paler. He had used, without knowing it, Irene's own words. Thanks, muttered soams, but I see things perhaps more plainly than you think. I only want to be sure that you won't try to influence her against me. I don't know what makes you think I have any influence, said Jolian. But if I have, I'm bound to use it in the direction of what I think is her happiness. I am what they call a feminist, I believe. Feminist? Repeated soams, as if seeking to gain time. Does that mean you're against me? Bluntly, said Jolian, I'm against any woman living with any man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten. And I suppose each time you see her, you point to her. I'm not likely to be seeing her. Not going back to Paris? Not so far as I know, said Jolian, conscious of the intent watchfulness in Soames's face. Well, that's all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility. Jolian, you know, I'm not going back to Paris. Anyone who comes between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility. Jolian rose and made a slight bow. Good-bye, he said. Without offering to shake hands, moved away, leaving Soames staring after him. We foresight, thought Jolian, hailing a cab, are very civilised. With simpler folk that might have come to a row. If it weren't for my boy going to the war, the war. A gust of his old doubt swept over him a precious war. Domination of peoples or of women attempts to master and possess those who did not want you. The negation of gentle decency, possession, vested rights, and any one again and outgast. Thank heaven, he thought, I always felt a guinem anyway. Yes. Even before his first disastrous marriage, he could remember fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed. Parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite different things. Penicious doctor in that. Body and soul could not thus be separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness. I ought to have told Soames, he thought, that I think him comic. Ah, but he's tragic, too. Was there anything indeed more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own possessive instinct, who couldn't see the sky for it, or even enter fully into what another person felt? I must write and warn her, he thought, he's going to have another try. And all the way home to Robin Hill, he rebelled at the strength of that duty to his son, which prevented him from posting back to Paris. But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing ache, a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of resistance to his way out. Does that mean that you're against me? He had got nothing out of that disingenuous question. Feminist. Frazy fellow. I mustn't rush things, he thought. I have some breathing space. He's not going back to Paris unless he was lying. I'll let the spring come. Though how the spring could serve him, save by adding to his ache he could not tell. And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from pool to pool of light from the high lamps, he thought, nothing seems any good. Nothing seems worthwhile. I'm lonely. That's the trouble. He closed his eyes, and at once he seemed to see Irene in a dark street below a church, passing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. He opened his eyes so vividly had he seen her. A woman was passing below, but not she. No, no. There was nothing there. End of Part 2 Chapter 12 Part 2 Chapter 13 of Inchansary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Part 2 Chapter 13 Here we are again. Imogen's frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of her mother and the purse of her grandfather all through the month of March. With foresight tenacity, Winifred quested for perfection. It took her mind off the slowly approaching rite, which would give her a freedom but doubtfully desired. Took her mind, too, of her boy and his fast approaching departure, for a war from which the news remained disquieting. Like bees busy on summer flowers or bright gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, she and her little daughter, tall nearly as herself, and with a bust measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent Street, the establishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street, lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. Dozens of young women of striking deportment and peculiar gate, paraded before Winifred and Imogen, draped in creations. The models, very new modern, quite the latest thing, which those too reluctantly turned down, would have filled a museum. The models which they were obliged to have nearly emptied James's bank. It was no good doing 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 the 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 Bakers, and stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, turned homewards through Barkley 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 too and drew a long savoring 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 the 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 two new cards, two with Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Tom, and one with Mr. Polegate Tom thereon. She sniffed them, but they smelt 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 ever 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 is 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 toe-cap. His chest and face were shadowy. Surely he was thin, or was it a trick of the light? He advanced, lighted now from toe-cap to the top of his dark head. Surely a little grizzled. His complexion had darkened, saloed. 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 toe-cap of his boot. Something big and relentless had been at him. Had turned and twisted, raped 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 his 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. Gared, 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? It was my key. Then the maids don't know. You can't stay here, Monty. He uttered a little sardonic laugh. Where, then? Anywhere? Look at me, 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 there. Only Imogen is at home. He lent 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 worthwhile. 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's 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 her. They looked half dead. Or was it that the folds in the lids had become heavier? He's not the same, she thought. He never would be quite the same again. But what would he be? All right, he said, and went towards the door. He even moved differently, like a man who has lost illusion and doubts whether it is worthwhile to move at all. When he was gone and she heard the water in the bath running, she put out a complete set of garments on the bed in his dressing room, then went downstairs and fetched up the biscuit box and whiskey. Putting on her coat again and listening a moment at the bathroom door, she went down a doubt. In the street she hesitated, past seven o'clock. Would Soames be at his club or at Park Lane? She turned towards the latter, back. Soames had always feared it. She had sometimes hoped it. Back. So like him, clown that he was with this, here we are again, to make fools of them all, of the law, of Soames, of herself. Yet to have done with the law, not to have that murky clown hanging over her and the children. What a relief. Ah, but how to accept his return? That woman had ravaged him, taken from him passion such as he had never bestowed on herself, such as she had not thought him capable of. There was the sting, that selfish, blatant clown of hers, whom she herself had never really stirred, had been swept and ungarnished by another woman. Insulting. Too insulting, not right, not decent to take him back. And yet she had asked for him. The law, perhaps, would make her now. He was as much her husband as ever. She had put herself out of court. And all he wanted, no doubt, was money, to keep him in cigars and lavender water. That sent. After all, I'm not old, she thought. Not old yet. But that woman who had reduced him to those words, I've been through it. I've been frightened, frightened, Freddie. She neared her father's house, driven this way and that, while all the time the foresight undertow was drawing her to deep conclusion, that after all he was her property, to be held against a robbing world. And so she came to James's, of Mr. Soames, in his room. I'll go up. Don't say I'm here. Her brother was dressing. She found him before a mirror, tying a black bow with an air of despising its ends. Hello, he said, contemplating her in the glass. What's wrong? Monty, said Winifred, stonily. Soames spun round. What? Back. Hoist, muttered Soames, with our own pitard. Why, the deuce, didn't you let me try cruelty? I always knew it was too much risk this way. Oh, don't talk about that. What shall I do? Soames answered with a deep, deep sound. Well, said Winifred, impatiently. What has he to say for himself? Nothing. Nothing. One of his boots is split across the toe. Soames stared at her. Ah, he said, of course, on his beam ends. So it begins again. This all about finished, father. Can't we keep it from him? Impossible. He has an idea. Impossible. He has an uncanny flair for anything that's worrying. And he brooded, with fingers hooked into his blue silk braces. There ought to be some way in law, he muttered, to make him safe. No, cried Winifred. I won't be made a fool of again. I'd sooner put up with him. The two stared at each other. Their hearts were full of feeling, but they could give it no expression. Four sights that they were. Father, where did you leave him? In the bath, and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh, the only thing he's brought back is lavender water. Steady, said Soames. You're thoroughly upset. I'll go back with you. What's the use? We ought to make terms with him. Terms, it'll always be the same, when he recovers cards and betting, drinking. She was silent, remembering the look on her husband's face. The burnt child. The burnt child. Perhaps. Recovers, replied Soames. Is he ill? No. Burnt out. That's all. Soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on. He took his coat and got into it. He scented his handkerchief with odour cologne. Threaded his watch-chain and said, We haven't any luck. And in the midst of her own trouble Winifred was sorry for him, as if in that little saying he had revealed deep trouble of his own. I'd like to see Mother, she said. She'll be with Father in their room. Come down quietly to the study. I'll get her. Winifred stole down to the little dark study, chiefly remarkable for a cannelletto too doubtful to be placed elsewhere, and a fine collection of law reports unopened for many years. Here she stood, with her back to maroon-coloured curtains, close drawn, staring at the empty grate, till her mother came in, followed by Soames. Oh, my poor dear, said Emily. How miserable you are looking here! This is too bad of him, really. As a family they had so guarded themselves from the expression of all unfashionable emotion, that it was impossible to go up and give her daughter a good hug. But there was comfort in her cushion voice, and her still dimple shoulders under some rare black lace. Summoning pride, I'm a desire not to distress her mother, Winifred said in her most offhand voice. It's all right, Mother, no good fussing. I don't see, said Emily, looking at Soames. Why, Winifred shouldn't tell him that she'll prosecute him, if he doesn't keep off the premises. He took her pearls, and if he's not brought them back, that's quite enough. Winifred smiled. They would all plunge about with suggestions of this and that, but she knew already what she would be doing, and that was nothing. The feeling that, after all, she had won a sort of victory, or retained her property, was every moment gaining ground in her. No, if she wanted to punish him, she could do it at home without the world knowing. Well, said Emily, come into the dining-room comfortably, you must say and have dinner with us. Leave it to me to tell your father. And as Winifred moved towards the door, she turned out the light. Not till then did they see the disaster in the corridor. There, attracted by light from a room never lighted, James was standing, with his done-covered camel-hair shawl folded about him, so that his arms were not free, and his silvered head looked cut off from his fashionably trousered legs, as if by an expanse of desert. He stood, inimitable, stork-like, with an expression as if he saw before him a frog too large to swallow. What's all this? he said. Tell your father, you'll never tell me anything. The moment found Emily without reply. It was Winifred who went up to him, and, laying one hand on each of his swathed, helpless arms, said, Mont is not gone, bankrupt father, he's only come back. They all three expected something serious to happen, and were glad that she had kept that grip of his arms, but they did not know the depth of root in that shadowy old foresight. Something rye occurred about his shaven mouth and chin, something scratchy between those long silvery whiskers. Then he said, with a sort of dignity, he'll be the death of me. I knew how it would be. You mustn't worry, father, said Winifred calmly. I mean to make him behave. Ah! said James. Take this thing off, I'm hot. They unwound the shawl. He turned and walked firmly to the dining-room. I don't want any soup, he said to Warmson, and sat down in his chair. They all sat down too. Winifred still in her hat, while Warmson laid the fourth place. When he left the room, James said, what's he brought back? Nothing, father. James concentrated his eyes on his own image in a tablespoon. Divorce! he muttered. Rubbish! what was I about? I ought to have paid him an allowance to stay out of England. Soams, you'll go and propose it to him. It seemed so right and simple a suggestion, that even Winifred was surprised when she said, No, I'll keep him now his back. He must just behave. That's all. They all looked at her. It had always been known that Winifred had pluck. Well, there, said James elliptically. Who knows what cutthroats? You look for his revolver. Don't go to bed without. You ought to have Warmson to sleep in the house. I'll see him myself to-morrow. They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said comfortably, That's right, James. We won't have any nonsense. Ah, muttered James, darkly. No, I can't tell. The advent of Warmson with fish diverted conversation. When, directly after dinner, Winifred went over to kiss her father good night, he looked up with eyes so full of question and distress, that she put all the comfort she could into her voice. It's all right, Daddy dear. Don't worry. I shall not need any one. He's quite bland. I shall only be upset if you worry. Good night. Bless you. James repeated the words, bless you, as if he did not quite know what they meant, and his eyes followed her to the door. She reached home before nine and went straight upstairs. Darty was lying on the bed in his dressing-room, fully redressed in a blue-surge suit and pumps. His arms were crossed behind his head, and an extinct cigarette drooped from his mouth. Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her window-boxes after a blazing summer day, the way they lay, or rather stood, parched, yet rested by the sun's retreat. It was as if a little dew had come already on her burnt-up husband. He said apathetically, I suppose you've been to Park Lane? How's the old man? Winifred could not help the bitter answer. Not dead. He winced. Actually, he winced. Understand, Monty. She said, I will not have him worried. If you aren't going to behave yourself, you may go back. You may go anywhere. Have you had dinner? No. Would you like some? He shrugged his shoulders. Imogen offered me some. I didn't want any. Imogen, in the plenitude of emotion, Winifred had forgotten her. But so you've seen her. What did she say? She gave me a kiss. With mortification, Winifred saw his dark, sardonic face relaxed. Yes, she thought. He cares for her, not for me a bit. Darty's eyes were moving from side to side. Does she know about me, he said? It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed. He minded their knowing. No, Val knows. The others don't. They only know you went away. She heard him sigh with relief. But they shall know, she said firmly, if you give me cause. All right, he muttered. Hit me, I'm down. Winifred went up to the bed. Look here, Monty. I don't want to hit you. I don't want to hurt you. I shan't hold you to anything. I'm not going to worry. What's the use? She was silent a moment. I can't stand any more, though, and I won't. You'd better know. You've made me suffer. But I used to be fond of you. For the sake of that. She met the heavy-lidded gaze of his brown eyes, with the downward stare of her green gray eyes. Touched his hand suddenly, turned her back and went into her room. She sat there a long time before her glass, fingering her rings, thinking of this subdued, dark man, almost a stranger to her, on the bed in the other room, resolutely not worrying, but gnawed by jealousy of what he had been through, and now and again just visited by pity. End of Part 2, Chapter 13 Part 2, Chapter 14 of Inchansary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org Recording by Andy Minter Part 2, Chapter 14 Outlandish Night Soames doggedly let the spring come. No easy task for one conscious that time was flying. His birds in the bush no nearer the hand, no issue from the web anywhere visible. Mr. Paul Teed reported nothing, except that his watch went on, costing a lot of money. Val and his cousin were gone to the war. Wents came news more favourable. Darty was behaving himself so far. James had retained his health. Business prospered almost terribly. There was nothing to worry soames, except that he was held up, could make no step in any direction. He did not exactly avoid Soho, for he could not afford to let them think that he had piped off, as James would have put it. He might want to pipe on again at any minute. But he had to be so restrained and cautious that he would often pass the door of the restaurant Retain without going in, and wander out of the perlews of that region, which always gave him the feeling of having been possessively irregular. He wandered thus one may night into Regent Street, and the most amazing crowd he had ever seen, a shrieking, whistling, dancing, jostling, grotesque, and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses and mouth-organs, penny-whistles and long feathers. Every a panage of idiocy, as it seemed to him. Maffer King, of course, it had been relieved. Good. But was that an excuse? Who were these people? What were they? Where had they come from into the West End? His face was tickled, his ears whistled into. Girls cried, Keep your head on, stucco! A youth so knocked off his top hat, that he recovered it with difficulty. Crackers were exploding beneath his nose, between his feet. He was bewildered, exasperated, offended. This stream of people came from every quarter, as if impulse had unlocked floodgates, let flow waters of whose existence he had heard, perhaps, but believed in never. This, then, was the populace, the innumerable living negation of gentility and foresightism. This was Higad democracy. It stank, yelled, was hideous. In the East End, or even Soho, perhaps, but here, in Regent Street, in Pickadilly, what were the police about? In 1900, Soames, with his foresight thousands, had never seen the cauldron with the lid off, and now, looking into it, could hardly believe his scorching eyes. The whole thing was unspeakable. These people had no restraint. They seemed to think him funny, such swarms of them, rude, coarse, laughing. And what laughter? Nothing sacred to them. He shouldn't be surprised if they began to break windows. In Palmao, past those august dwellings, to enter which people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, dancing, dervish of a crowd was swarming. From the club windows his own kind were looking out on them with regulated amusement. They didn't realise why this was serious, might come to anything. The crowd was cheerful, but Sunday they would come in different mood. He remembered there had been a mob in the late 80s. When he was at Brighton, they had smashed things and made speeches. But more than dread, he felt a deep surprise. They were hysterical, it wasn't English, and all about the relief of a little town as big as Watford, six thousand miles away. Restraint, reserve, those qualities to him more dear almost than life, those indispensable attributes of property and culture, where were they? It wasn't English. No, it wasn't English. So Soames brooded, threading his way on. It was as if he had suddenly caught sight of someone cutting the covenant for quiet possession out of his legal documents, or of a monster lurking and stalking out in the future, casting its shadow before. Their want of stolidity, their want of reverence, it was like discovering that nine tenths of the people of England were foreigners. And if that were so, then anything might happen. At Hyde Park Corner he ran into George Forsyte, very sunburned from racing, holding a false nose in his hand. Hello, Soames. He said, have a nose. Soames responded with a pale smile. Got this from one of those sportsmen, went on George, who had evidently been dining, had to lay him out for trying to bash my hat. I say, one of these days we shall have to fight these chaps. They're getting so damn cheeky, all radicals and socialists. They want our goods. You tell Uncle James that. It'll make him sleep. In Vino Veritas, thought Soames, but he only nodded and passed on up Hamilton Place. There was but a trickle of roisterers in Park Lane, not very noisy. And looking up at the houses he thought, after all, we're the backbone of the country. This won't upset us easily. Possessions nine points of the law. But as he closed the door of his father's house behind him, all that queer outlandish nightmare in the streets passed out of his mind, almost as completely as if, having dreamt it, he had awakened in the warm, clean morning comfort of his spring mattress bed. Walking into the centre of the great empty drawing-room, he stood still. A wife. Somebody to talk things over with. One had a right, damn it. One had a right. End of Part 2, Chapter 14. Part 3, Chapter 1 of Inchansary. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Recording by Andy Minter. The Foresight Saga. 2. Inchansary. By John Gorsworthy. Part 3, Chapter 1. Somes in Paris. Somes had travelled little. Age 19 he had made the Petit Tour, with his father, mother and Winifred, Brussels, the Rhine, Switzerland, and home by way of Paris. Age 27, just when he began to take an interest in pictures, he had spent five hot weeks in Italy, looking into the Renaissance, not so much in it as he had been led to expect, and a fortnight in Paris on his way back, looking into himself, as became a foresight surrounded by people so strongly self-centred and foreign as the French. His knowledge of their language, being derived from his public school, he did not understand them when they spoke. Silence he had found better for all parties, one did not make a fool of oneself. He had disliked the look of the men's clothes, the clothes in cabs, the theatres which looked like beehives, the galleries which smelled of beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore that side of Paris, supposed by foresight to constitute its attraction under the rose, and as for a collector's bargain, not want be had. As Nicholas might have put it, they were a grasping lot. He had come back uneasy, saying Paris was overrated. When therefore in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his third attempt on the centre of civilisation. This time, however, the mountain was going to Mohammed, for he felt by now more deeply civilised than Paris, and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had a definite objective. This was no mere genuflection to a shrine of taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. He went, indeed, because things were getting past a joke. The watch went on and on and nothing, nothing. Jolion had never returned to Paris, and no one else was suspect. Busy with new and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. But at night and in his leisure moments he was ravaged by the thought that time was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as much in irons as ever. Since mafficking night he had become aware that a young fool of a doctor was hanging round a net. Twice he had come across him, a cheerful young fool, not more than thirty. Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulness, an indecent extravagant sort of quality which had no relation to facts. The mixture of his desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming torture, and lately the thought had come to him that perhaps Irene knew she was being shadowed. It was this which finally decided him to go and see for himself, to go and, once more, try to break down her re-bugnance, her refusal to make her own and his path comparatively smooth once more. If he failed again, well, he would see what she did with herself anyway. He went to an hotel in the Rue Comatat, highly recommended to foresights, where practically nobody spoke French. He had formed no plan, he did not want to startle her, yet must contrive that she had no chance to evade him by flight. And next morning he set out in bright weather. Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star shape, which almost annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely, his nose lifted a little sideways in real curiosity. He desired now to understand things French, was not a net French. There was much to be got out of his visit, if he could only get it. In this laudable mood and the Place de la Concorde he was nearly run down three times. He came on the Cour la Reine, where Irene's hotel was situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed on his procedure. Crossing over to the riverside he noted the building, white and cheerful looking, with green sun-blinds, seen through a screen of plain tree leaves. And, conscious that it would be far better to meet her casually in some open place than to risk a call, he sat down on a bench whence he could watch the entrance. It was not quite eleven o'clock, and improbable that she had yet gone out. Some pigeons were strutting and preening their feathers in the pools of sunlight between the shadows of the plain trees. A workman in a blue blouse passed and threw them crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. A bong, coiffed with ribbon, shepherded two little girls with pigtails and frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose coche wore a blue coat and a black-glazed hat. To Soames a kind of affectation seemed to cling about it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date, a theatrical people of French. He lit one of his rare cigarettes with a sense of injury that fate should be casting his life into outlandish waters. He shouldn't wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this foreign life. She had never been properly English, even to look at. And he began considering which of those windows could be hers under the green sun-blinds. How could he word what he had come to say, so that it might pierce the defence of her proud obstinacy? He threw the fag end of his cigarette at a pigeon with the thought, I can't stay here forever twiddling my thumbs, better give it up and call on her in the late afternoon. But he still sat on, heard twelve strike, and then half-past. I'll wait till one, he thought, while I'm about it. But just then he started up, and shrinkingly sat down again. A woman had come out in a cream-coloured frock and was moving away under a fawn-covered parasol, Irene herself. He waited till she was too far away to recognise him, then set out after her. She was strolling, as though she had no particular objective, moving, if he remembered rightly, towards the Bois de Oloign. For half an hour at least, he kept his distance on the far side of the way, till she had passed into the Bois itself. Was she going to meet some on, after all, some confounded Frenchman, one of those Bellamy chaps, perhaps, who had nothing to do but hang about women? For he had read that book with difficulty in a sort of disgusted fascination. He followed doggedly along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then when the path curved, and it came back to him, how, long ago, one night in Hyde Park, he had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, hunting blindly, ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young Boisini. The path bent sharply, and hurrying, he came upon her, sitting in front of a small fountain, a little green bronze niobi, veiled in hair to her slender hips, gazing at the pool, she had wept. He came on her so suddenly that he was passed before he could turn and take off his hat. She did not start up. She had always had great self-command. It was one of the things he most admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against her, because he had never been able to tell what she was thinking. Had she realized that he was following? Her self-possession made him angry, and disdaining to explain his presence, he pointed to the mournful little niobi and said, That's rather a good thing. He could see then that she was struggling to preserve her composure. I didn't want to startle you. Is this one of your haunts? Yes. A little lonely, as he spoke, a lady strolling by paused to look at the fountain and passed on. Irene's eyes followed her. No, she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, never lonely. One has always one shadow. Somes understood, and looking at her hard, he exclaimed, Well, it's your own fault. You can be free of it at any moment. Irene, come back to me and be free. Irene laughed. Don't, cried Somes, stamping his foot. It's inhuman. Listen, is there any condition I can make, which will bring you back to me? If I promise you a separate house and just a visit now and then. Irene rose, something wild suddenly in her face and figure. Non, non, non, you may hunt me to the grave. I will not come. Out raged and on edge, Somes recoiled. Don't make a scene, he said sharply. And they both stood motionless, staring at the little Naiobi whose greenish flesh the sunlight was burnishing. That's your last word, then, muttered Somes, clenching his hands. You condemn us both. Irene bent her head. I can't come back. Goodbye. A feeling of monstrous injustice flared up in Somes. Stop, he said, and listen to me a moment. You gave me a sacred vow. You came to me without a penny. You had all I could give. You broke that vow without cause. You made me a byword. You refused me a child. You left me in prison. You still move me so that I want you. I want you. Well, what do you think of yourself? Irene turned. Her face was deadly pale. Her eyes burning dark. God made me as I am, she said, wicked if you like, but not so wicked that I'll give myself a gain to a man I hate. The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to lay a caress all down her clinging, cream-coloured frock. Somes could neither speak nor move. That word, hate, so extreme, so primitive, made all the foresight in him tremble. With a deep implication he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran almost into the arms of the lady sauntering back, the fool, the shadowing fool. He was soon dripping with perspiration in the depths of the poire. Well, he thought, I need have no consideration for her now. She hasn't got a grain of it for me. I'll show her this very day that she's my wife still. But on the way back to his hotel he was forced to the conclusion that he did not know what he meant. One could not make scenes in public, and short of scenes in public, what was there he could do? He almost cursed his own thin skin-ness. She might deserve no consideration, but he, alas, deserved some at his own hands. And sitting lunchless in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing every moment, by decker in hand, he was visited by black dejection. In irons. His whole life, with every natural instinct and every decent yearning, gagged and fettered, that all because fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon this woman. So utterly that even now he had no real heart to set on any other. Cursed was the day he had met her, and his eyes for seeing in her anything but the cruel venus she was. And yet still seeing her with the sunlight on the clean, shiny crepe of her gown, he uttered a little groan, so that a tourist who was passing thought, Man in pain, let's see, what did I have for lunch? Later, in front of a cafe near the opera, over a glass of cold tea, with lemon and the straw in it, he took the malicious resolution to go and dine at her hotel. If she were there, he would speak to her. If she were not, he would leave a note. He dressed carefully and wrote as follows, Your idyll with that fellow jollion foresight is known to me at all events. If you pursue it, understand that I will leave no stone unturned to make things unbearable for him. S. F. He sealed this note, but did not address it, refusing to write the maiden name which he had impudently resumed, or to put the word foresight on the envelope, lest she should tear it up unread. Then he went out and made his way through the glowing streets, abandoned to evening pleasure-seekers. Entering her hotel, he took his seat in a far corner of the dining-room, whence he could see all entrances and exits. She was not there. He ate little, quickly, watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge over his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy, but still she did not come. He went over to the keyboard and examined the names, number twelve on the first floor, and he determined to take the note up himself. He mounted red carpeted stairs past a little salon. Eight, ten, twelve. Should he knock, push the note under, or...? He looked furtively round and turned the handle. The door opened, but into a little space leading to another door. He knocked on that. No answer. The door was locked. It fitted very closely to the floor. The note would not go under. He thrust it back into his pocket and stood a moment listening. He felt somehow certain that she was not there. And suddenly he came away, passing the little salon down the stairs. He stopped at the bureau and said, will you kindly see that Mrs. Heron has this note? Madame Heron left today, monsieur, suddenly about three o'clock. There was illness in her family. Soames compressed his lips. Oh, he said, do you know her address? Enormous, your England, I think. Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed an open horse cab, which was passing. Drive me anywhere. The man who obviously did not understand smiled and waved his whip. And Soames was born along in that little yellow-wheeled Victoria, all over star-shaped Paris, with here and there a pause, and the question, c'est par ici, monsieur? No, go on. Till the man gave it up in despair, and the yellow-wheeled chariot continued to roll between the tall, flat-fronted, shuttered houses and plain-tree avenues a little flying Dutchman of a cab. Like my life, thought Soames, without object, on and on. End of Part 3, Chapter 1. Part 3, Chapter 2 of Inchansery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. The Foresight Saga Volume 2, Inchansery, by John Gorswersi. Part 3, Chapter 2. In the web. Soames returned to England the following day, and on the third morning received a visit from Mr. Paul Teed, who wore a flower and carried a brown billycock hat. Soames motioned him to a seat. The news from the war is not so bad, is it? said Mr. Paul Teed. I hope I see you well, sir. Thanks, quite. Mr. Paul Teed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into it, and sat softly. I think we have done your business for you at last. What? ejaculated Soames. Nineteen reports quite suddenly what I think we shall be justified in calling conclusive evidence. And Mr. Paul Teed paused. Well, on the tenth instant, after witnessing an interview between Seventeen and a party earlier in the day, Nineteen can swear to having seen him coming out of her bedroom in the hotel about ten o'clock in the evening. With a little care in the giving of the evidence, that will be enough. Especially as Seventeen has left Paris, no doubt with the party in question. In fact, they both slipped off, and we have not got on to them again, yet. But we shall, we shall. She has worked hard on the very difficult circumstances, and I'm glad she brought it off at last. Mr. Paul Teed took out the cigarette, tapped its end against the table, looked at Soames and put it back. The expression on his client's face was not encouraging. Who is this new person, said Soames abruptly. That we don't know. She will swear to the fact, and she has got his appearance pat. Mr. Paul Teed took out the letter and began reading. Middle aged, medium height, blue dittos in afternoon, evening dress at night, pale dark hair, small dark moustache, flat cheeks, good chin, gray eyes, small field, guilty look. Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic fury. Congenital idiot, spidery congenital idiot, seven months at 15 pounds a week to be tracked down as his own wife's lover, guilty look. He threw the window open. It is hot, he said, and came back to his seat. Crossing his knees, he bent a supercilious glance on Mr. Paul Teed. I doubt if that is quite good enough, he said, drawing the words with no name or address. I think you may let that lady have a rest and take up our friend 47 at this end. Where that Paul Teed had spotted him, he could not tell. But he had a mental vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in indistinguishable laughter. Guilty look, damn nation. Mr. Paul Teed said, in a tone of urgency, almost of patters. I assure you. We have put it through sometimes on less than that. It is Paris, you know, attractive woman living alone. Why not risk it, sir? We might screw it up a peg. Soams had sudden insight. The fellow's professional zeal was stirred. Greatest triumph of my career got a man his divorce through a visit to his own wife's bedroom. Something to talk of there when I retire. And for one wild moment he thought, why not? After all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet and a guilty look. I am not authorized to take any risk, he said shortly. Mr. Paul Teed looked up. Pity, he said, quite a pity. That other affair seemed very costive. Soams rose. Never mind that. Please watch 47 and take care not to find a mare's nest. Good morning. Mr. Paul Teed's eye glinted at the words, mare's nest. Very good. You shall be kept informed. And Soams was alone again. The spidery, dirty, ridiculous business. Laying his arms on the table, he leaned his forehead on them. Full ten minutes he rested thus till a managing clock roused him with the draught prospectus of a new issue of shares, very desirable, in many fold and toppings. That afternoon he left work early and made his way to the restaurant Retagne. Only Madame Lamotte was in. Would Monsieur have tea with her? Soams bowed. When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little room, he said abruptly, I want to talk with you, Madame. The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long expected such words. I have to ask you something first. That young doctor, what's his name? Is there anything between him and Annette? Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jet, clear-cut, black, hard, shining. Annette is young, she said. So is Monsieur the Doctor. Between young people, things move quickly. But Annette is a good daughter. Ah, what a jewel of a nature. The least little smile twisted Soams' lips. Nothing definite then. But definite? No, indeed. The young man is very nice. But what would you? There is no money at present. She raised her willow patterned teacup. Soams did the same. Their eyes met. I am a married man, he said, living apart from my wife for many years. I am seeking to divorce her. Madame Lamotte put down her cup. Indeed, what tragic things there were. The entire absence of sentiment in her inspired a queer species of contempt in Soams. I am a rich man, he added, fully conscious that the remark was not in good taste. It is useless to say more at present, but I think you understand. Madame's eyes so open that the white showed above them looked at him very straight. Ah, sa, me nous avons le tombe. Me nous avons le tombe, was all she said. Another little cup? Soams refused and taking his leave walked westward. He had got that of his mind. She would not let Annette commit herself with the cheerful young ass until. But what chance of his ever being able to say I am free? What chance? The future had lost all semblance of reality. He felt like a fly and tangled in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air with pitiful eyes. He was short of exercise and wandered onto Kensington Gardens and down Queensgate towards Chelsea. Perhaps she had gone back to her flat. That at all events, he could find out. For since that last and most ignominious repulse, his wounded self-respect had taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a lover. He arrived before the little mentions at the dinner hour. No need to inquire. A gray-haired lady was watering the flower boxes in her window. It was evidently lit. And he walked slowly past again along the river an evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony and comfort, except within his heart. End of part three, chapter two, recording by Ava Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. Chapter three of Inchancery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ava Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. The foresight saga, volume two, Inchancery by John Goldsworthy. Part three, chapter three, Richmond Park. On the afternoon that soams crossed to France, a cable-gram was received by Julian at Robin Hill. Your son, down with enteric, no immediate danger will cable again. It reached the household already agitated by the imminent departure of June, whose birth was booked for the following day. She was indeed in the act of confiding Eric Kobly and his family to her father's care when the message arrived. The resolution to become a Red Cross nurse taken on the stimulus of jollies and listment had been loyally fulfilled with the irritation and regret, which all foresights feel at what curtailed their individual liberties. Enthusiastic at first about the wonderfulness of the work, she had begun, after a month, to feel that she could train herself so much better than others could train her. And if Holly had not insisted on following her example and being trained too, she must inevitably have cried off. The departure of Jolly and Wilde with their troop in April had further stiffened her failing resolve. But now, on the point of departure, the thought of leaving Eric Kobly with a wife and two children adrift in the cold waters of an unappliciative word weighed on her so that she was still in danger of backing out. The reading of that cablegram with its disquieting reality clinched the matter. She had saw herself already nursing Jolly, for of course they would let her nurse her own brother. Jolly and Wilde, undoubtful, had no such hope. Poor June. Could any foresight of her generation grasp how rude and brutal life was? Ever since he knew of his boy's arrival at Cape Town, the sort of him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in Jolly. He could not get reconciled to the feeling that Jolly was in danger all the time. The cablegram, grave though it was, was almost a relief. He was now safe from bullets, anyway. And yet this enteric was a virulent disease. The times was full of deaths therefrom. Why could he not be lying out there in that up-country hospital and his boy safe at home? The unforciting self-sacrifice of his three children indeed had quite bewildered Jolly on. He would eagerly change places with Jolly because he loved his boy. But no such personal motive was influencing them. He could only think that it marked a decline of the foresight type. Late that afternoon, Jolly came out to him under the old oak tree. She had grown up very much during these last months of hospital training away from home. And seeing her approach, he thought, she has more sense than June. Child though she is, more wisdom. Thank God she isn't going out. She had seated herself in the swing very silent and still. She feels this, saw Jolly on, as much as I. And seeing her eyes fixed on him, he said, Don't take it to heart too much, my child. If he weren't ill, he might be in much greater danger. Jolly got out of the swing. I want to tell you something, dad. It was through me that Jolly enlisted and went out. How's that? When you were away in Paris, Valdati and I fell in love. We used to ride in Richmond Park. We got engaged. Jolly found it out and sought he ought to stop it. So he dared Vald to enlist. It was all my fault, dad. And I want to go out too. Because if anything happens to either of them, I should feel awful. Besides, I am just as much trained as June. Jolly engaged at her in a stupefaction that was tinged with irony. So this was the answer to the riddle he had been asking himself. And his three children were foresight after all. Surely Jolly might have told him all this before. But his mothered the sarcastic sayings on his lips. Tenderness to the young was perhaps the most sacred article of his belief. He had got no doubt what he deserved, engaged. So this was why he had so lost touch with her. And to young Valdati, nephew of Somes, in the other camp. It was all terribly distasteful. He closed his easel and set his drawing against the tree. Have you told June? Yes, she says she will get me into her cabin somehow. It is a single cabin, but one of us could sleep on the floor. If you consent, she will go up now and get permission. Consent, saw Jolly on, rather late in the day to ask for that. But again, he checked himself. You are too young, my dear. They won't let you. June knows some people that she helped to go to Cape Town. If they won't let me nurse yet, I could stay with them and go on training them. Let me go, dad. Julian smiled, because he could have cried. I never stop anyone from doing anything, he said. Holly flung her arms round his neck. Oh, dad, you are the best in the world. That means the worst, saw Julian. If he had ever doubted his greed of tolerance, he did so then. I am not friendly with Vow's family, he said, and I don't know Vow, but Jolly did not like him. Holly looked at the distance and said, I love him. That settles it, said Julian dryly, then catching up with him. Julian dryly, then catching the expression on her face, he kissed her with the sword. Is anything more pathetic than the face of the young? Unless he actually forbade her going, it was obvious that he must make the best of it, so he went up to town with June. Whether due to her persistence or the fact that the official they saw was an old school friend of Julian's, they obtained permission for Holly to share the single cabin. He took them to Serbeten station the following evening, and they duly slid away from him, provided with money, invalid foods, and those letters of credit without which foresight do not travel. He drove back to Robin Hill under a brilliant sky to his late dinner, served with an added care by servants, trying to show him that they sympathized, eaten with an added scrupulousness to show them that he appreciated their sympathy. But it was a real relief to get to his cigar on the terrace of Blackstones, cunningly chosen by young Boseney for shape and color, with night closing in around him so beautiful a night, hardly whispering in the trees, and smelling so sweet that it made him ache. The grass was drenched with dew, and he kept to those Blackstones up and down till presently it began to seem to him that he was one of three, not wheeling but turning right about each end, so that his father was always nearest to the house, and his son always nearest to the terrace edge. Each had an arm lightly within his arm. He dared not lift his hand to his cigar, lest he should disturb them, and it burned away, dripping ash on him till it dropped from his lips at last which were getting hot. They left him then, and his arms felt chilly. Three Jolians in one Jolian they had walked. He stood still, counting the sounds, a carriage passing on the high road, a distant train, the dog at Gage's farm, the whispering trees, the groom playing on his penny whistle, a multitude of stars up there, bright and silent, so far off, no moon as yet. Just enough light to show him the dark flanks and swords of the iris flowers along the terrace edge, his favorite flower that had the night's own color on its curving crumpled petals. He turned round to the house, big, unlighted, not a soul beside himself to live in all that part of it, stark loneliness. He could not go on living here alone, and yet, so long as there was beauty, why should a man feel lonely? The answer as to some idiot's riddle was, because he did. The greater the beauty, the greater the loneliness. For at the back of beauty was harmony, and at the back of harmony was union. Beauty could not comfort if the soul were out of it. The night, maddeningly lovely, with bloom of grapes on it in star shine, and the breath of grass and honey coming from it, he could not enjoy, while she, who was to him the life of beauty, its embodiment and essence was cut off from him, utterly cut off now he felt by honorable decency. He made a poor fist of sleeping, striving too hard after that resignation, which foresight's find difficult to reach, bred to their own way, and left so comfortably off by their fathers. But after dawn he dozed off, and soon was dreaming a strange dream. He was on a stage with immensely high, rich curtains, high as the very stars, stretching in a semi-circle from footlights to footlights. He himself was very small, a little black, restless figure roaming up and down, and the odd thing was that he was not altogether himself, but Somes as well, so that he was not only experiencing but watching. This figure of himself and Somes was trying to find a way out through the curtains, which heavy and dark kept him in. Several times he had crossed in front of them, before he saw with delight a sudden narrow rift, a tall chink of beauty, the color of iris flowers, like a glimpse of paradise, remote, ineffable. Stepping quickly forward to pass into it, he found the curtains closing before him. Bitterly disappointed he, or was it Somes, moved on, and there was the chink again, through the potted curtains, which again closed too soon. This went on and on, and he never got through till he woke with the word Irene on his lips. The dream disturbed him badly, especially that identification of himself with Somes. Next morning, finding it impossible to work, he spent hours riding Jolli's horse in search of fatigue, and on the second day he made up his mind to move to London and see if he could not get permission to follow his daughters to South Africa. He had just began to pack the following morning, when he received this letter. Green Hotel, June 13, Richmond My dear Julian, you will be surprised to see how near I am to you. Paris became impossible, and I have come here to be within reach of your advice. I would so love to see you again. Since you left Paris, I don't think I have met anyone I could really talk to. Is all well with you and with your boy? No one knows I think that I am here at present. Always your friend, Irene. Irene was in three miles of him, and again in flight. He stood with a very queer smile on his lips. This was more than he had bargained for. About noon he set out on foot across Richmond Park, and as he went along he saw Richmond Park by Jove. It suits us foresides. Not that foresides lived there. Nobody lived there, save royalty, dangers, and the deer. But in Richmond Park nature was allowed to go so far and no father, putting up a brave show of being natural, seeming to say, look at my instincts. They are almost passions, very nearly out of hand, but not quite, of course. The very hub of possession is to possess oneself. Yes, Richmond Park possessed itself. Even on that bright day of June, with arrowy cuckoos shifting the three points of their course and the wood doves announcing high summer. The Green Hotel, which Julian entered at one o'clock, stood nearly opposite that more famous hostelry, the Crown and Scepter. It was modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, gooseberry tart, and a dodger or two, so that a carriage and pair was almost always standing before the door. In a room draped in shins so slippery as to forbid all emotion, Irene was sitting on a piano stool covered with scrollwork, playing Hansel and Gretel out of an old score. Above her on a wall, not yet Maurice Papad, was a print of the Queen on a pony, amongst Dear Hunt's scotch caps and slain stags. Besides her, in a pot on the window sill, was a white and rosy fuchsia. The Victorianism of the room almost talked, and in her clinging frock, Irene seemed to Julian like Venus emerging from the shell of the past century. If the proprietor had eyes, he said, he would show you the door you have broken through his decorations. Thus lightly he smothered up an emotional moment. Having eaten cold beef, pickled walnut, gooseberry tart, and drunk stone-bottled ginger beer, they walked into the park, and light talk was succeeded by the silence Julian had dreaded. You haven't told me about Paris, he said at last. No, I have been shadowed for a long time. One gets used to that. But then soams came. By the little Naiobi the same story. Would I go back to him? Inc. Redibal. She had spoken without raising her eyes, but she looked up now. Those dark eyes clinging to his said as no words could have. I have come to an end. If you want me, here I am. For sheer emotional intensity had he ever, old as he was, passed through such a moment. The words Irene, I adore you, almost escaped him. Then, with a clearness of which he would not have believed mental vision capable, he saw Jolly lying with a white face turned to a white wall. My boy is very ill out there, he said quietly. Irene slipped her arms through his. Let us walk on, I understand. No miserable explanation to attempt. She had understood. And they walked on among the bracken knee high already, between the rabbit holes and the oak trees, talking of Jolly. He left her two hours later at the Richmond hill gate and turned towards home. She knows of my feeling for her then, he thought. Of course, one could not keep knowledge of that from such a woman. Part 3, Chapter 4 of Inchansary This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Recording by Andy Minter The Foresight Saga II Inchansary by John Gawlsworthy Part 3, Chapter 4 Over the River Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now to one and weak to dream again, left him to lie torpid, faintly remembering far-off things, just able to turn his eyes and gaze through the window near his cot at the trickle of river running by in the sands, at the straggling milk-bush of the Karoo beyond. He knew what the Karoo was now, even if he had not seen a boar roll over like a rabbit or heard the whine of flying bullets. This pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder. A thirsty day and a rash drink, or perhaps a tainted fruit, who knew? Not he who had not even strength left to grudge the evil thing its victory, just enough to know that there were many lying here with him, that he was sore with frenzied dreaming, just enough to watch that thread of river and be able to remember faintly those far away things. The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have liked to know the time to feel his old watch so butter-smooth to hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly, home-like. He had not even strength to remember that the old watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of his brain beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurses, doctors, orderlies, were indistinguishable. Just one indifferent face and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, and that almost nothing. Those things he used to do, though, far and faint, were more distinct. Walking past the foot of the old steps at Harrow Bill. Here, sir. Here, sir. Wrapping boots in the Westminster Gazette. Greenish paper. Shining boots. Grandfather coming from somewhere dark. A smell of earth. The mushroom house. Robin Hill. Bearing poor old Baltazar in the leaves. Dad. Home. Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water in it. Someone was speaking too. Want anything? No. What could one want? Too weak to want. Only to hear his watch strike. Holly. She wouldn't bowl properly. Oh, pitch them up. Not sneaks. Back her to and bow. He was too. Consciousness came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, under rising blood-red crescent moon. His eyes rested on it, fascinated. In the long minutes of brain-nothingness it went moving up and up. He's going, doctor. Not pack boots again. Never. Mind your form, too. Don't cry. Go quietly over the river. Sleep. Dark. If somebody would strike his watch. End of part three, chapter four. Part three, chapter five of Enchantsery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida. The Foresight Saga. Volume two, Enchantsery by John Gauseversi. Part three, chapter five. Somes Acts. A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Paul Teed remained unopened in Somes' pocket throughout two hours of sustained attention to the affairs of the new colliery company, which, declining almost from the moment of old Julian's retirement from the chairmanship, had lately run down so fast that there was now nothing for it but a winding up. He took the letter out to lunch at his city club, secret to him for the meals he had eaten there with his father in the early seventies, when James used to like him to come and see for himself the nature of his future life. Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed potato, he read, Dear Sir, in accordance with your suggestion, we have duly taken the matter up at the other end with gratifying results. Observation of 47 has enabled us to locate 17 at the Green Hotel Richmond. The two have been observed to meet daily during the past week in Richmond Park. Nothing absolutely crucial has so far been notified. But in conjunction with what we had from Paris at the beginning of the year, I am confident we could now satisfy the court. We shall, of course, continue to watch the matter until we hear from you, very facefully yours, clothed, bolted. Soam shredded through twice and beckoned to the waiter. Take this away, it is cold. Shall I bring you some more, Sir? No, get me some coffee in the other room. And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out passing two acquaintances without sign of recognition. Satisfied the court, he sought, sitting at a little round marble table with the coffee before him. That fellow Jolian. He poured out his coffee, sweetened and drank it. He would disgrace him in the eyes of his own children. And, rising with that resolution hot within him, he found for the first time the inconvenience of being his own solicitor. He could not treat this scandalous matter in his own office. He must commit the soul of his private dignity to a stranger. Some other professional dealer in family dishonor. Who was there he could go to? Linkman and Laver in Budge Row, perhaps reliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding acquaintances. But before he saw them, he must see ported again. But at this sort, Somes had a moment of sheer weakness. To part with his secret, how find the words? How subject himself to contempt and secret laughter? Yet, after all, the fellow knew already. Oh, yes, he knew. And feeling that he must finish with it now, he took a cab into the west end. In this hot weather, the window of Mr. Ported's room was positively open, and the only precaution was a wire goes, preventing the intrusion of flies. Two or three had tried to come in and been caught, so that they seemed to be clinging down with the intention of being devoured presently. Mr. Ported, following the direction of his client's eye, rose apologetically and closed the window, posing as sort Somes. Like all who fundamentally believe in themselves, he was rising to the occasion, and with his little sideways smile, he said, I have had your letter. I am going to act. I suppose you know who the lady you have been watching really is. Mr. Ported's expression at that moment was a masterpiece. It so clearly said, well, what do you think? But my professional knowledge, I assure you, pray, forgive it. He made a little half airy movement with his hand, as who should say such things, such things will happen to us all. Very well, then, said Somes, moistening his lips. There is no need to say more. I am instructing Linkman and Laver a budge row to act for me. I don't want to hear your evidence, but kindly make your report to them at five o'clock, and continue to observe the utmost secrecy. Mr. Ported half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. My dear sir, he said, are you convinced, as Somes, with certain energy, that there is enough? The faintest movement occurred to Mr. Ported's shoulders. You can risk it, he murmured. With what we have and human nature, you can risk it. Somes rose. You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks, don't get up. He could not bear Mr. Ported to slide as usual between him and the door. In the sunlight of Piccadilly, he wiped his forehead. This had been the worst of it. He could stand the strangers better. And he went back into the city to do what still lay before him. That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed by his old longing for a son. A son to watch him eat, as he went down the years. To be taken on his knee, as James on a time had been want to take him. A son of his own begetting, who could understand him, because he was the same flesh and blood. Understand and comfort him, and become more rich and cultured than himself, because he would start even better off. To get old, like that sin gray, fiery frail figure sitting there, and be quite alone with possessions heaping up around him. To take no interest in anything, because it had no future, and must pass away from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no God. No. He would force it through now, and be free to marry, and have a son to care for him, before he grow to be too like the old old man, his father, wistfully watching, now his sweet bread, now his son. In that mood he went up to bed. But lying warm between those fine linen sheets of Emily's providing, he was visited by memories and torture. Visions of Irene, almost the solid feeling of her body beset him. Why had he ever been full enough to see her again, and let this flood back on him, so that it was pain to think of her with that fellow? That stealing fellow. And of Part Three, Chapter Five, Somes Acts, Recording by Eva Harnick, Pontevedra, Florida.