"But you know," said Winifred, "he must do something."
Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, because
if he didn't buy a farm it couldn't turn out badly.
"But Val loves horses," said Winifred. "It'd be such an occupation for
him."
Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not Montague
found them so?
"Val's different," said Winifred; "he takes after me."
Aunt Juley was sure that dear Val was very clever. "I always remember,"
she added, "how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. His dear grandfather
was so pleased. He thought it showed such presence of mind. I remember
his saying that he ought to go into the Navy."
Aunt Hester chimed in: Did not Winifred think that it was much better
for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at their age?
"Well," said Winifred, "if they were in London, perhaps; in London it's
amusing to do nothing. But out there, of course, he'll simply get bored
to death."
Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he were
quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as if they had no money.
Timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. Aunt Juley wanted to
know what Montague had said.
Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked: "Wait till
the old man dies."
At this moment Francie was announced. Her eyes were brimming with a
smile.
"Well," she said, "what do you think of it?"
"Of what, dear?"
"In The Times this morning."
"We haven't seen it, we always read it after dinner; Timothy has it till
then."
Francie rolled her eyes.
"Do you think you ought to tell us?" said Aunt Juley. "What was it?"
"Irene's had a son at Robin Hill."
Aunt Juley drew in her breath. "But," she said, "they were only married
in March!"
"Yes, Auntie; isn't it interesting?"
"Well," said Winifred, "I'm glad. I was sorry for Jolyon losing his boy.
It might have been Val."
Aunt Juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. "I wonder," she murmured,
"what dear Soames will think? He has so wanted to have a son himself. A
little bird has always told me that."
"Well," said Winifred, "he's going to--bar accidents."
Gladness trickled out of Aunt Juley's eyes.
"How delightful!" she said. "When?"
"November."
Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a long
time for James to wait, at his age!
To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it themselves.
Indeed, it was their great distraction. To wait! For The Times to read;
for one or other of their nieces or nephews to come in and cheer them
up; for news of Nicholas' health; for that decision of Christopher's
about going on the stage; for information concerning the mine of Mrs.
MacAnder's nephew; for the doctor to come about Hester's inclination
to wake up early in the morning; for books from the library which were
always out; for Timothy to have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not
too hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait, one
on each side of the hearth in the drawing-room, for the clock
between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying
knitting-needles and crochet-hooks, their hair ordered to stop--like
Canute's waves--from any further advance in colour. To wait in their
black silks or satins for the Court to say that Hester might wear her
dark green, and Juley her darker maroon. To wait, slowly turning over
and over, in their old minds the little joys and sorrows, events and
expectancies, of their little family world, as cows chew patient cuds
in a familiar field. And this new event was so well worth waiting
for. Soames had always been their pet, with his tendency to give them
pictures, and his almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and
his need for their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage.
This new event--the birth of an heir to Soames--was so important for
him, and for his dear father, too, that James might not have to die
without some certainty about things. James did so dislike uncertainty;
and with Montague, of course, he could not feel really satisfied to
leave no grand-children but the young Darties. After all, one's own name
did count! And as James' ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what
precautions he was taking. He would be the first of the Forsytes to
reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to
life. That was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty-seven and
eighty-five; though they did not want to think of themselves when they
had Timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to think of. There was, of
course, a better world. 'In my Father's house are many mansions' was
one of Aunt Juley's favourite sayings--it always comforted her, with its
suggestion of house property, which had made the fortune of dear Roger.
The Bible was, indeed, a great resource, and on very fine Sundays
there was church in the morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into
Timothy's study when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New
Testament casually among the books on his little table--he was a great
reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed that
Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. And Smither had told
her more than once that she had picked books off the floor in doing the
room. Still, with all that, they did feel that heaven could not be quite
so cosy as the rooms in which they and Timothy had been waiting so long.
Aunt Hester, especially, could not bear the thought of the exertion.
Any change, or rather the thought of a change--for there never was
any--always upset her very much. Aunt Juley, who had more spirit,
sometimes thought it would be quite exciting; she had so enjoyed that
visit to Brighton the year dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew
was nice, and it was so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, so
on the whole she was more than content to wait.