Indian Summer of a Forsyte | Page 4

his left side.
He looked back up the hill. Really, poor young Bosinney had made an
uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well for
himself if he had lived! And where was he now? Perhaps, still haunting
this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love affair. Or was Philip
Bosinney's spirit diffused in the general? Who could say? That dog was
getting his legs muddy! And he moved towards the coppice. There had
been the most delightful lot of bluebells, and he knew where some still
lingered like little patches of sky fallen in between the trees, away out
of the sun. He passed the cow-houses and the hen-houses there installed,
and pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, making for one of the
bluebell plots. Balthasar, preceding him once more, uttered a low growl.
Old Jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless,
just where there was no room to pass, and the hair rose slowly along
the centre of his woolly back. Whether from the growl and the look of
the dog's stivered hair, or from the sensation which a man feels in a
wood, old Jolyon also felt something move along his spine. And then
the path turned, and there was an old mossy log, and on it a woman
sitting. Her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: 'She's

trespassing--I must have a board put up!' before she turned. Powers
above! The face he had seen at the opera--the very woman he had just
been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if
a spirit--queer effect--the slant of sunlight perhaps on her violet-grey
frock! And then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one side.
Old Jolyon thought: 'How pretty she is!' She did not speak, neither did
he; and he realized why with a certain admiration. She was here no
doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of
it by vulgar explanation.
"Don't let that dog touch your frock," he said; "he's got wet feet. Come
here, you!"
But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand
down and stroked his head. Old Jolyon said quickly:
"I saw you at the opera the other night; you didn't notice me."
"Oh, yes! I did."
He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'Do you think
one could miss seeing you?'
"They're all in Spain," he remarked abruptly. "I'm alone; I drove up for
the opera. The Ravogli's good. Have you seen the cow- houses?"
In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion
he moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and she moved
beside him. Her figure swayed faintly, like the best kind of French
figures; her dress, too, was a sort of French grey. He noticed two or
three silver threads in her amber-coloured hair, strange hair with those
dark eyes of hers, and that creamy-pale face. A sudden sidelong look
from the velvety brown eyes disturbed him. It seemed to come from
deep and far, from another world almost, or at all events from some one
not living very much in this. And he said mechanically:
"Where are you living now?"
"I have a little flat in Chelsea."
He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear
anything; but the perverse word came out:
"Alone?"
She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his mind that,
but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of this coppice,
showing these cow-houses to him, a visitor.
"All Alderneys," he muttered; "they give the best milk. This one's a

pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle!"
The fawn-coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene's own,
was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. She looked
round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes,
and from her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards
the straw. The scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim
light of the cool cow-house; and old Jolyon said:
"You must come up and have some dinner with me. I'll send you home
in the carriage."
He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her
memories. But he wanted her company; a pretty face, a charming figure,
beauty! He had been alone all the afternoon. Perhaps his eyes were
wistful, for she answered: "Thank you, Uncle Jolyon. I should like to."
He rubbed his hands, and said:
"Capital! Let's go up, then!" And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, they
ascended through