To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. More of a man altogether, was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that sons face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years.
To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a shock he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed.
You look well, Dad.
Middling, old Jolyon answered.
He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know what was his financial position.
Jo, he said, I should like to hear what sort of water youre in. I suppose youre in debt?
He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess.
Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice:
No! Im not in debt!
Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been sulky with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to Stanhope Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook his head.
Junes not here, said his father hastily: went of to-day on a visit. I suppose you know that shes engaged to be married?
Already? murmured young Jolyon.
Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for a shilling.
Placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse secretly on the underneath and hurried away.
Old Jolyon turned the key softly in the lock, pushed open the door, and beckoned. His son saw him gravely hanging up his coat, with an expression on his face like that of a boy who intends to steal cherries.
The door of the dining-room was open, the gas turned low; a spirit-urn hissed on a tea-tray, and close to it a cynical looking cat had fallen asleep on the dining-table. Old Jolyon shood her off at once. The incident was a relief to his feelings; he rattled his opera hat behind the animal.
Shes got fleas, he said, following her out of the room. Through the door in the hall leading to the basement he called Hssst! several times, as though assisting the cats departure, till by some strange coincidence the butler appeared below.
You can go to bed, Parfitt, said old Jolyon. I will lock up and put out.
When he again entered the dining-room the cat unfortunately preceded him, with her tail in the air, proclaiming that she had seen through this manouevre for suppressing the butler from the first.
A fatality had dogged old Jolyons domestic stratagems all his life.
Young Jolyon could not help smiling. He was very well versed in irony, and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. The episode of the cat; the announcement of his own daughters engagement. So he had no more part or parcel in her than he had in the Puss! And the poetical justice of this appealed to him.
What is June like now? he asked.
Shes a little thing, returned old Jolyon; they say shes like me, but thats their folly. Shes more like your mother the same eyes and hair.
Ah! and she is pretty?
Old Jolyon was too much of a Forsyte to praise anything freely; especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration.
Not bad looking a regular Forsyte chin. Itll be lonely here when shes gone, Jo.
The look on his face again gave young Jolyon the shock he had felt on first seeing his father.
What will you do with yourself, Dad? I suppose shes wrapped up in him?
Do with myself? repeated old Jolyon with an angry break in his voice. Itll be miserable work living here alone. I dont know how its to end. I wish to goodness. He checked himself, and added: The question is, what had I better do with this house?
Young Jolyon looked round the room. It was peculiarly vast and dreary, decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that he remembered as a boy sleeping dogs with their noses resting on bunches of carrots, together with onions and grapes lying side by side in mild surprise. The house was a white elephant, but he could not conceive of his father living in a smaller place; and all the more did it all seem ironical.
In his great chair with the book-rest sat old Jolyon, the figurehead of his family and class and creed, with his white head and dome-like forehead, the representative of moderation, and order, and love of property. As lonely an old man as there was in London.
There he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the power of great forces that cared nothing for family or class or creed, but moved, machine-like, with dread processes to inscrutable ends. This was how it struck young Jolyon, who had the impersonal eye.
The poor old Dad! So this was the end, the purpose to which he had lived with such magnificent moderation! To be lonely, and grow older and older, yearning for a soul to speak to!