Part 51 (1/2)
”MY DEAR IRENE,--I have to be up in town to-morrow. If you would like to have a look in at the opera, come and dine with me quietly ....”
But where? It was decades since he had dined anywhere in London save at his Club or at a private house. Ah! that new-fangled place close to Covent Garden....
”Let me have a line to-morrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel whether to expect you there at 7 o'clock.”
”Yours affectionately,
”JOLYON FORSYTE.”
She would understand that he just wanted to give her a little pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he had this itch to see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should go out of his way to see beauty, especially in a woman.
The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer's, tired him. It was hot too, and after dressing for dinner he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. He must have had a sort of fainting fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the bell. Why! it was past seven! And there he was and she would be waiting. But suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he was obliged to relapse on the sofa. He heard the maid's voice say:
”Did you ring, sir?”
”Yes, come here”; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of his eyes. ”I'm not well, I want some sal volatile.”
”Yes, sir.” Her voice sounded frightened.
Old Jolyon made an effort.
”Don't go. Take this message to my niece--a lady waiting in the hall--a lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not well--the heat. He is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner.”
When she was gone, he thought feebly: 'Why did I say a lady in grey--she may be in anything. Sal volatile!' He did not go off again, yet was not conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling salts to his nose, and pus.h.i.+ng a pillow up behind his head. He heard her say anxiously: ”Dear Uncle Jolyon, what is it?” was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of smelling salts, suddenly discovered strength in them, and sneezed.
”Ha!” he said, ”it's nothing. How did you get here? Go down and dine--the tickets are on the dressing-table. I shall be all right in a minute.”
He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided between a sort of pleasure and a determination to be all right.
”Why! You are in grey!” he said. ”Help me up.” Once on his feet he gave himself a shake.
”What business had I to go off like that!” And he moved very slowly to the gla.s.s. What a cadaverous chap! Her voice, behind him, murmured:
”You mustn't come down, Uncle; you must rest.”
”Fiddlesticks! A gla.s.s of champagne'll soon set me to rights. I can't have you missing the opera.”
But the journey down the corridor was troublesome. What carpets they had in these newfangled places, so thick that you tripped up in them at every step! In the lift he noticed how concerned she looked, and said with the ghost of a twinkle:
”I'm a pretty host.”
When the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent its slipping under him; but after soup and a gla.s.s of champagne he felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought such solicitude into her manner towards him.
”I should have liked you for a daughter,” he said suddenly; and watching the smile in her eyes, went on:
”You mustn't get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; plenty of that when you get to my age. That's a nice dress--I like the style.”
”I made it myself.”
Ah! A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her interest in life.
”Make hay while the sun s.h.i.+nes,” he said; ”and drink that up. I want to see some colour in your cheeks. We mustn't waste life; it doesn't do.
There's a new Marguerite to-night; let's hope she won't be fat. And Mephisto--anything more dreadful than a fat chap playing the Devil I can't imagine.”
But they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up from dinner the dizziness came over him again, and she insisted on his staying quiet and going to bed early. When he parted from her at the door of the hotel, having paid the cabman to drive her to Chelsea, he sat down again for a moment to enjoy the memory of her words: ”You are such a darling to me, Uncle Jolyon!” Why! Who wouldn't be! He would have liked to stay up another day and take her to the Zoo, but two days running of him would bore her to death. No, he must wait till next Sunday; she had promised to come then. They would settle those lessons for Holly, if only for a month. It would be something. That little Mam'zelle Beauce wouldn't like it, but she would have to lump it. And crus.h.i.+ng his old opera hat against his chest he sought the lift.