None from Irene!
He went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his chair drawn
up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven cigarette box on the
table; but after staring at it all for a minute or two, he turned out
the light and went upstairs. There was a fire too in his dressing-room,
but her room was dark and cold. It was into this room that Soames went.
He made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time continued
pacing up and down between the bed and the door. He could not get
used to the thought that she had really left him, and as though still
searching for some message, some reason, some reading of all the mystery
of his married life, he began opening every recess and drawer.
There were her dresses; he had always liked, indeed insisted, that she
should be well-dressed--she had taken very few; two or three at most,
and drawer after drawer; full of linen and silk things, was untouched.
Perhaps after all it was only a freak, and she had gone to the seaside
for a few days' change. If only that were so, and she were really coming
back, he would never again do as he had done that fatal night before
last, never again run that risk--though it was her duty, her duty as a
wife; though she did belong to him--he would never again run that risk;
she was evidently not quite right in her head!
He stooped over the drawer where she kept her jewels; it was not locked,
and came open as he pulled; the jewel box had the key in it. This
surprised him until he remembered that it was sure to be empty. He
opened it.
It was far from empty. Divided, in little green velvet compartments,
were all the things he had given her, even her watch, and stuck into
the recess that contained--the watch was a three-cornered note addressed
'Soames Forsyte,' in Irene's handwriting:
'I think I have taken nothing that you or your people have given me.'
And that was all.
He looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at the
little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires, at the
chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed up in his eyes
and dropped upon them.
Nothing that she could have done, nothing that she had done, brought
home to him like this the inner significance of her act. For the moment,
perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to understand--understood
that she loathed him, that she had loathed him for years, that for all
intents and purposes they were like people living in different worlds,
that there was no hope for him, never had been; even, that she had
suffered--that she was to be pitied.