weather was like the music of ‘Orfeo,’
which he had recently heard at Covent Garden.
A beautiful opera, not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite
Mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more lovely;
something classical and of the Golden Age about it,
chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli ’almost worthy
of the old days’—highest praise he
could bestow. The yearning of Orpheus for the
beauty he was losing, for his love going down to Hades,
as in life love and beauty did go—the yearning
which sang and throbbed through the golden music,
stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world
that evening. And with the tip of his cork-soled,
elastic-sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs
of the dog Balthasar, causing the animal to wake and
attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have
none, nothing could persuade him of the fact.
When he had finished he rubbed the place he had been
scratching against his master’s calf, and settled
down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing
boot. And into old Jolyon’s mind came a
sudden recollection—a face he had seen
at that opera three weeks ago—Irene, the
wife of his precious nephew Soames, that man of property!
Though he had not met her since the day of the ‘At
Home’ in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which
celebrated his granddaughter June’s ill-starred
engagement to young Bosinney, he had remembered her
at once, for he had always admired her—a
very pretty creature. After the death of young
Bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become,
he had heard that she had left Soames at once.
Goodness only knew what she had been doing since.
That sight of her face—a side view—in
the row in front, had been literally the only reminder
these three years that she was still alive.
No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told
him something once—something which had
upset him completely. The boy had got it from
George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney
in the fog the day he was run over—something
which explained the young fellow’s distress—an
act of Soames towards his wife—a shocking
act. Jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after
the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description
had always lingered in old Jolyon’s mind—’wild
and lost’ he had called her. And next
day June had gone there—bottled up her
feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and
told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night
and vanished. A tragic business altogether!
One thing was certain—Soames had never been
able to lay hands on her again. And he was living
at Brighton, and journeying up and down—a
fitting fate, the man of property! For when he
once took a dislike to anyone—as he had
to his nephew—old Jolyon never got over
it. He remembered still the sense of relief with
which he had heard the news of Irene’s disappearance.
It had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in
that house to which she must have wandered back, when
Jo saw her, wandered back for a moment—like