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<h2> CHAPTER XII—JUNE PAYS SOME CALLS </h2>
<p>Jolyon stood in the narrow hall at Broadstairs, inhaling that odour of
oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable seaside
lodging-houses. On a chair—a shiny leather chair, displaying its
horsehair through a hole in the top left-hand corner—stood a black
despatch case. This he was filling with papers, with the Times, and a
bottle of Eau-de Cologne. He had meetings that day of the 'Globular Gold
Concessions' and the 'New Colliery Company, Limited,' to which he was
going up, for he never missed a Board; to 'miss a Board' would be one more
piece of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous Forsyte
spirit could not bear.</p>
<p>His eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at any
moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of a schoolboy,
baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls himself, deterred by
the fearful odds against him. And old Jolyon controlled himself, keeping
down, with his masterful restraint now slowly wearing out, the irritation
fostered in him by the conditions of his life.</p>
<p>He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by rambling
generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of answering a plain
question. 'I've seen Bosinney,' he said; 'he is not a criminal. The more I
see of people the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad—merely
comic, or pathetic. You probably don't agree with me!'</p>
<p>Old Jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express oneself; he had
not yet reached that point of old age when even Forsytes, bereft of those
illusions and principles which they have cherished carefully for practical
purposes but never believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment,
stricken to the very heart by having nothing left to hope for—break
through the barriers of reserve and say things they would never have
believed themselves capable of saying.</p>
<p>Perhaps he did not believe in 'goodness' and 'badness' any more than his
son; but as he would have said: He didn't know—couldn't tell; there
might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary expression of
disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage?</p>
<p>Accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though (like a true
Forsyte) he had never attempted anything too adventurous or too foolhardy,
he had been passionately fond of them. And when the wonderful view
(mentioned in Baedeker—'fatiguing but repaying')—was disclosed
to him after the effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence
of some great, dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the
petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was as near
to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever gone.</p>
<p>But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had taken
June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and had realized
bitterly that his walking days were over.</p>
<p>To that old mountain—given confidence in a supreme order of things
he had long been a stranger.</p>
<p>He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled him. It
troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had always been so
careful, should be father and grandfather to such as seemed born to
disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo—who could say anything
against the boy, an amiable chap?—but his position was deplorable,
and this business of June's nearly as bad. It seemed like a fatality, and
a fatality was one of those things no man of his character could either
understand or put up with.</p>
<p>In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would come of
it. Since the ball at Roger's he had seen too clearly how the land lay—he
could put two and two together quicker than most men—and, with the
example of his own son before his eyes, knew better than any Forsyte of
them all that the pale flame singes men's wings whether they will or no.</p>
<p>In the days before June's engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames were always
together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the spell she cast over men.
She was not a flirt, not even a coquette—words dear to the heart of
his generation, which loved to define things by a good, broad, inadequate
word—but she was dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of a
quality innate in some women—a seductive power beyond their own
control! He would but answer: 'Humbug!' She was dangerous, and there was
an end of it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it
was; he did not want to hear any more about it—he only wanted to
save June's position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she might once
more become a comfort to himself.</p>
<p>And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As to what
young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was practically only the
queer sentence: 'I gather that he's in the stream.' The stream! What
stream? What was this new-fangled way of talking?</p>
<p>He sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of the bag; he
knew well enough what was meant.</p>
<p>June came out of the dining-room, and helped him on with his summer coat.
From her costume, and the expression of her little resolute face, he saw
at once what was coming.</p>
<p>"I'm going with you," she said.</p>
<p>"Nonsense, my dear; I go straight into the City. I can't have you
racketting about!"</p>
<p>"I must see old Mrs. Smeech."</p>
<p>"Oh, your precious 'lame ducks!" grumbled out old Jolyon. He did not
believe her excuse, but ceased his opposition. There was no doing anything
with that pertinacity of hers.</p>
<p>At Victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered for
himself—a characteristic action, for he had no petty selfishnesses.</p>
<p>"Now, don't you go tiring yourself, my darling," he said, and took a cab
on into the city.</p>
<p>June went first to a back-street in Paddington, where Mrs. Smeech, her
'lame duck,' lived—an aged person, connected with the charring
interest; but after half an hour spent in hearing her habitually
lamentable recital, and dragooning her into temporary comfort, she went on
to Stanhope Gate. The great house was closed and dark.</p>
<p>She had decided to learn something at all costs. It was better to face the
worst, and have it over. And this was her plan: To go first to Phil's
aunt, Mrs. Baynes, and, failing information there, to Irene herself. She
had no clear notion of what she would gain by these visits.</p>
<p>At three o'clock she was in Lowndes Square. With a woman's instinct when
trouble is to be faced, she had put on her best frock, and went to the
battle with a glance as courageous as old Jolyon's itself. Her tremors had
passed into eagerness.</p>
<p>Mrs. Baynes, Bosinney's aunt (Louisa was her name), was in her kitchen
when June was announced, organizing the cook, for she was an excellent
housewife, and, as Baynes always said, there was 'a lot in a good dinner.'
He did his best work after dinner. It was Baynes who built that remarkably
fine row of tall crimson houses in Kensington which compete with so many
others for the title of 'the ugliest in London.'</p>
<p>On hearing June's name, she went hurriedly to her bedroom, and, taking two
large bracelets from a red morocco case in a locked drawer, put them on
her white wrists—for she possessed in a remarkable degree that
'sense of property,' which, as we know, is the touchstone of Forsyteism,
and the foundation of good morality.</p>
<p>Her figure, of medium height and broad build, with a tendency to
embonpoint, was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood wardrobe, in a
gown made under her own organization, of one of those half-tints,
reminiscent of the distempered walls of corridors in large hotels. She
raised her hands to her hair, which she wore a la Princesse de Galles, and
touched it here and there, settling it more firmly on her head, and her
eyes were full of an unconscious realism, as though she were looking in
the face one of life's sordid facts, and making the best of it. In youth
her cheeks had been of cream and roses, but they were mottled now by
middle-age, and again that hard, ugly directness came into her eyes as she
dabbed a powder-puff across her forehead. Putting the puff down, she stood
quite still before the glass, arranging a smile over her high, important
nose, her, chin, (never large, and now growing smaller with the increase
of her neck), her thin-lipped, down-drooping mouth. Quickly, not to lose
the effect, she grasped her skirts strongly in both hands, and went
downstairs.</p>
<p>She had been hoping for this visit for some time past. Whispers had
reached her that things were not all right between her nephew and his
fiancee. Neither of them had been near her for weeks. She had asked Phil
to dinner many times; his invariable answer had been 'Too busy.'</p>
<p>Her instinct was alarmed, and the instinct in such matters of this
excellent woman was keen. She ought to have been a Forsyte; in young
Jolyon's sense of the word, she certainly had that privilege, and merits
description as such.</p>
<p>She had married off her three daughters in a way that people said was
beyond their deserts, for they had the professional plainness only to be
found, as a rule, among the female kind of the more legal callings. Her
name was upon the committees of numberless charities connected with the
Church-dances, theatricals, or bazaars—and she never lent her name
unless sure beforehand that everything had been thoroughly organized.</p>
<p>She believed, as she often said, in putting things on a commercial basis;
the proper function of the Church, of charity, indeed, of everything, was
to strengthen the fabric of 'Society.' Individual action, therefore, she
considered immoral. Organization was the only thing, for by organization
alone could you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money.
Organization—and again, organization! And there is no doubt that she
was what old Jolyon called her—"a 'dab' at that"—he went
further, he called her "a humbug."</p>
<p>The enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so admirably
that by the time the takings were handed over, they were indeed skim milk
divested of all cream of human kindness. But as she often justly remarked,
sentiment was to be deprecated. She was, in fact, a little academic.</p>
<p>This great and good woman, so highly thought of in ecclesiastical circles,
was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of Forsyteism, keeping
alive day and night a sacred flame to the God of Property, whose altar is
inscribed with those inspiring words: 'Nothing for nothing, and really
remarkably little for sixpence.'</p>
<p>When she entered a room it was felt that something substantial had come
in, which was probably the reason of her popularity as a patroness. People
liked something substantial when they had paid money for it; and they
would look at her—surrounded by her staff in charity ballrooms, with
her high nose and her broad, square figure, attired in an uniform covered
with sequins—as though she were a general.</p>
<p>The only thing against her was that she had not a double name. She was a
power in upper middle-class society, with its hundred sets and circles,
all intersecting on the common battlefield of charity functions, and on
that battlefield brushing skirts so pleasantly with the skirts of Society
with the capital 'S.' She was a power in society with the smaller 's,'
that larger, more significant, and more powerful body, where the
commercially Christian institutions, maxims, and 'principle,' which Mrs.
Baynes embodied, were real life-blood, circulating freely, real business
currency, not merely the sterilized imitation that flowed in the veins of
smaller Society with the larger 'S.' People who knew her felt her to be
sound—a sound woman, who never gave herself away, nor anything else,
if she could possibly help it.</p>
<p>She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney's father, who had
not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable ridicule. She
alluded to him now that he was gone as her 'poor, dear, irreverend
brother.'</p>
<p>She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a mistress, a
little afraid of her as far as a woman of her eminence in the commercial
and Christian world could be afraid—for so slight a girl June had a
great dignity, the fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs.
Baynes, too, shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness
of June's manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been
merely frank and courageous, Mrs. Baynes would have thought her 'cranky,'
and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte, like Francie—let
us say—she would have patronized her from sheer weight of metal; but
June, small though she was—Mrs. Baynes habitually admired quantity—gave
her an uneasy feeling; and she placed her in a chair opposite the light.</p>
<p>There was another reason for her respect which Mrs. Baynes, too good a
churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to admit—she
often heard her husband describe old Jolyon as extremely well off, and was
biassed towards his granddaughter for the soundest of all reasons. To-day
she felt the emotion with which we read a novel describing a hero and an
inheritance, nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the
novelist, the young man should be left without it at the end.</p>
<p>Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how
distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old Jolyon's
health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and young looking, and
how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never have thought it! They were at
the sea! Very nice for them; she supposed June heard from Phil every day?
Her light grey eyes became more prominent as she asked this question; but
the girl met the glance without flinching.</p>
<p>"No," she said, "he never writes!"</p>
<p>Mrs. Baynes's eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they
did. They recovered immediately.</p>
<p>"Of course not. That's Phil all over—he was always like that!"</p>
<p>"Was he?" said June.</p>
<p>The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes's bright smile a moment's
hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her skirts
afresh, said: "Why, my dear—he's quite the most harum-scarum person;
one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!"</p>
<p>The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time; even
were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out
of this woman.</p>
<p>'Do you see him?' she asked, her face crimsoning.</p>
<p>The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes' forehead beneath the powder.</p>
<p>"Oh, yes! I don't remember when he was here last—indeed, we haven't
seen much of him lately. He's so busy with your cousin's house; I'm told
it'll be finished directly. We must organize a little dinner to celebrate
the event; do come and stay the night with us!"</p>
<p>"Thank you," said June. Again she thought: 'I'm only wasting my time. This
woman will tell me nothing.'</p>
<p>She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too; her lips
twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was evidently very wrong, and
she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim, straight
little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She
was not accustomed to be afraid of asking question's—all
organization was based on the asking of questions!</p>
<p>But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly
shaken; only that morning her husband had said: "Old Mr. Forsyte must be
worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!"</p>
<p>And this girl stood there, holding out her hand—holding out her
hand!</p>
<p>The chance might be slipping away—she couldn't tell—the chance
of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.</p>
<p>Her eyes followed June to the door.</p>
<p>It closed.</p>
<p>Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky frame
from side to side, and opened it again.</p>
<p>Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression
of real anger and mortification on her face.</p>
<p>June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She detested that
woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so kind.
Was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this torturing
suspense?</p>
<p>She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had the right
to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she came to Bosinney's
number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the stairs, her
heart thumping painfully.</p>
<p>At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to
the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above.</p>
<p>With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the door, with
his name on the plate. And the resolution that had brought her so far
evaporated.</p>
<p>The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all over; the
palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her
gloves.</p>
<p>She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against the rail
she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at the
door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she refused to go down. Did it
matter what people thought of her? They would never know! No one would
help her if she did not help herself! She would go through with it.</p>
<p>Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang the
bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned
her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its emptiness she
could drag some response out of that closed room, some recompense for the
shame and fear that visit had cost her. It did not open; she left off
ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in
her hands.</p>
<p>Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though she had
passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as
quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to know where she had
been, what she had been doing; and suddenly—over on the opposite
side, going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpellier Square—she
saw Bosinney himself.</p>
<p>She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, and he
raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the edge
of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking on.</p>
<p>And June stood motionless, looking after him.</p>
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