The Forsyte Saga - Complete. Galsworthy John

as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish me to put that amendment, sir?”

      “I do.”

      Old Jolyon put the amendment.

      “Does anyone second this?” he asked, looking calmly round.

      And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power of will that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old Jolyon said:

      “I now move, ‘That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received and adopted.’ You second that? Those in favour signify the same in the usual way. Contrary — no. Carried. The next business, gentlemen...”

      Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!

      But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney.

      Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours.

      Irene’s visit to the house — but there was nothing in that, except that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell him anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away from London. Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong enough. That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again!

      The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of the lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. Little Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two hated each other like poison. There was some matter of a tar-contract between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it from the Board for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole’s head. Soames had heard that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid.

      Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was putting on his hat.

      “Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?”

      It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this interview.

      Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in general held old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or perhaps — as Hemmings would doubtless have said — to his chin, there was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the younger man and the old. It had lurked under their dry manner of greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and arose perhaps from old Jolyon’s perception of the quiet tenacity (’.bstinacy,’ he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him.

      Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects, possessed in their different ways — to a greater degree than the rest of the family — that essential quality of tenacious and prudent insight into ‘affairs,’ which is the highwater mark of their great class. Either of them, with a little luck and opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman, though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the influence of a cigar or of Nature — would have been capable of, not perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high position, while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not.

      Then, too, in old Jolyon’s mind there was always the secret ache, that the son of James — of James, whom he had always thought such a poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his own son...!

      And last, not least — for he was no more outside the radiation of family gossip than any other Forsyte — he had now heard the sinister, indefinite, but none the less disturbing rumour about Bosinney, and his pride was wounded to the quick.

      Characteristically, his irritation turned not against Irene but against Soames. The idea that his nephew’s wife (why couldn’t the fellow take better care of her — Oh! quaint injustice! as though Soames could possibly take more care!) — should be drawing to herself June’s lover, was intolerably humiliating. And seeing the danger, he did not, like James, hide it away in sheer nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his broader outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very attractive about Irene!

      He had a presentiment on the subject of Soames’ communication as they left the Board Room together, and went out into the noise and hurry of Cheapside. They walked together a good minute without speaking, Soames with his mousing, mincing step, and old Jolyon upright and using his umbrella languidly as a walking-stick.

      They turned presently into comparative quiet, for old Jolyon’s way to a second Board led him in the direction of Moorage Street.

      Then Soames, without lifting his eyes, began: “I’ve had this letter from Bosinney. You see what he says; I thought I’d let you know. I’ve spent a lot more than I intended on this house, and I want the position to be clear.”

      Old Jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: “What he says is clear enough,” he said.

      “He talks about ‘a free hand,’” replied Soames.

      Old Jolyon looked at him. The long-suppressed irritation and antagonism towards this young fellow, whose affairs were beginning to intrude upon his own, burst from him.

      “Well, if you don’t trust him, why do you employ him?”

      Soames stole a sideway look: “It’s much too late to go into that,” he said, “I only want it to be quite understood that if I give him a free hand, he doesn’t let me in. I thought if you were to speak to him, it would carry more weight!”

      “No,” said old Jolyon abruptly; “I’ll have nothing to do with it!”

      The words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of unspoken meanings, far more important, behind. And the look they interchanged was like a revelation of this consciousness.

      “Well,” said Soames; “I thought, for June’s sake, I’d tell you, that’s all; I thought you’d better know I shan’t stand any nonsense!”

      “What is that to me?” old Jolyon took him up.

      “Oh! I don’t know,” said Soames, and flurried by that sharp look he was unable to say more. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you,” he added sulkily, recovering his composure.

      “Tell me!” said old Jolyon; “I don’t know what you mean. You come worrying me about a thing like this. I don’t want to hear about your affairs; you must manage them yourself!”

      “Very well,” said Soames immovably, “I will!”

      “Good-morning, then,” said old Jolyon, and they parted.

      Soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated eating-house, asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of Chablis; he seldom ate much in the middle of the day, and generally ate standing, finding the position beneficial to his liver, which was very sound, but to which he desired to put down all his troubles.

      When he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent head, taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the pavements, who in their turn took no notice of him.

      The evening post carried the following reply to Bosinney:

      ‘FORSYTE, BUSTARD AND FORSYTE,

      ‘Commissioners for Oaths,

      ‘92001, BRANCH LANE, POULTRY, E.C.,

      ‘May 17, 1887.

      ‘DEAR BOSINNEY,

      ‘I have, received your letter, the terms of which not a little surprise me. I was under the impression that you had, and have had all along, a “free hand”; for I do not recollect that any suggestions