The Forsyte Saga - Complete. John Galsworthy

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      Bosinney took a glass; they all arose.

      “You want a cab?” asked Soames.

      June answered: “No! My cloaks please, Bilson.” Her cloak was brought.

      Irene, from the window, murmured: “Such a lovely night! The stars are coming out!”

      Soames added: “Well, I hope you'll both enjoy yourselves.”

      From the door June answered: “Thanks. Come, Phil.”

      Bosinney cried: “I'm coming.”

      Soames smiled a sneering smile, and said: “I wish you luck!”

      And at the door Irene watched them go.

      Bosinney called: “Good night!”

      “Good night!” she answered softly. …

      June made her lover take her on the top of a 'bus, saying she wanted air, and there sat silent, with her face to the breeze.

      The driver turned once or twice, with the intention of venturing a remark, but thought better of it. They were a lively couple! The spring had got into his blood, too; he felt the need for letting steam escape, and clucked his tongue, flourishing his whip, wheeling his horses, and even they, poor things, had smelled the spring, and for a brief half-hour spurned the pavement with happy hoofs.

      The whole town was alive; the boughs, curled upward with their decking of young leaves, awaited some gift the breeze could bring. New-lighted lamps were gaining mastery, and the faces of the crowd showed pale under that glare, while on high the great white clouds slid swiftly, softly, over the purple sky.

      Men in, evening dress had thrown back overcoats, stepping jauntily up the steps of Clubs; working folk loitered; and women—those women who at that time of night are solitary—solitary and moving eastward in a stream—swung slowly along, with expectation in their gait, dreaming of good wine and a good supper, or—for an unwonted minute, of kisses given for love.

      Those countless figures, going their ways under the lamps and the moving-sky, had one and all received some restless blessing from the stir of spring. And one and all, like those clubmen with their opened coats, had shed something of caste, and creed, and custom, and by the cock of their hats, the pace of their walk, their laughter, or their silence, revealed their common kinship under the passionate heavens.

      Bosinney and June entered the theatre in silence, and mounted to their seats in the upper boxes. The piece had just begun, and the half-darkened house, with its rows of creatures peering all one way, resembled a great garden of flowers turning their faces to the sun.

      June had never before been in the upper boxes. From the age of fifteen she had habitually accompanied her grandfather to the stalls, and not common stalls, but the best seats in the house, towards the centre of the third row, booked by old Jolyon, at Grogan and Boyne's, on his way home from the City, long before the day; carried in his overcoat pocket, together with his cigar-case and his old kid gloves, and handed to June to keep till the appointed night. And in those stalls—an erect old figure with a serene white head, a little figure, strenuous and eager, with a red-gold head—they would sit through every kind of play, and on the way home old Jolyon would say of the principal actor: “Oh, he's a poor stick! You should have seen little Bobson!”

      She had looked forward to this evening with keen delight; it was stolen, chaperone-less, undreamed of at Stanhope Gate, where she was supposed to be at Soames'. She had expected reward for her subterfuge, planned for her lover's sake; she had expected it to break up the thick, chilly cloud, and make the relations between them which of late had been so puzzling, so tormenting—sunny and simple again as they had been before the winter. She had come with the intention of saying something definite; and she looked at the stage with a furrow between her brows, seeing nothing, her hands squeezed together in her lap. A swarm of jealous suspicions stung and stung her.

      If Bosinney was conscious of her trouble he made no sign.

      The curtain dropped. The first act had come to an end.

      “It's awfully hot here!” said the girl; “I should like to go out.”

      She was very white, and she knew—for with her nerves thus sharpened she saw everything—that he was both uneasy and compunctious.

      At the back of the theatre an open balcony hung over the street; she took possession of this, and stood leaning there without a word, waiting for him to begin.

      At last she could bear it no longer.

      “I want to say something to you, Phil,” she said.

      “Yes?”

      The defensive tone of his voice brought the colour flying to her cheek, the words flying to her lips: “You don't give me a chance to be nice to you; you haven't for ages now!”

      Bosinney stared down at the street. He made no answer. …

      June cried passionately: “You know I want to do everything for you—that I want to be everything to you. …”

      A hum rose from the street, and, piercing it with a sharp 'ping,' the bell sounded for the raising of the curtain. June did not stir. A desperate struggle was going on within her. Should she put everything to the proof? Should she challenge directly that influence, that attraction which was driving him away from her? It was her nature to challenge, and she said: “Phil, take me to see the house on Sunday!”

      With a smile quivering and breaking on her lips, and trying, how hard, not to show that she was watching, she searched his face, saw it waver and hesitate, saw a troubled line come between his brows, the blood rush into his face. He answered: “Not Sunday, dear; some other day!”

      “Why not Sunday? I shouldn't be in the way on Sunday.”

      He made an evident effort, and said: “I have an engagement.”

      “You are going to take. …”

      His eyes grew angry; he shrugged his shoulders, and answered: “An engagement that will prevent my taking you to see the house!”

      June bit her lip till the blood came, and walked back to her seat without another word, but she could not help the tears of rage rolling down her face. The house had been mercifully darkened for a crisis, and no one could see her trouble.

      Yet in this world of Forsytes let no man think himself immune from observation.

      In the third row behind, Euphemia, Nicholas's youngest daughter, with her married-sister, Mrs. Tweetyman, were watching.

      They reported at Timothy's, how they had seen June and her fiance at the theatre.

      “In the stalls?” “No, not in the. …” “Oh! in the dress circle, of course. That seemed to be quite fashionable nowadays with young people!”

      Well—not exactly. In the. … Anyway, that engagement wouldn't last long. They had never seen anyone look so thunder and lightningy as that little June! With tears of enjoyment in their eyes, they related how she had kicked a man's hat as she returned to her seat in the middle of an СКАЧАТЬ