Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on the
path above the river, turned round and walked back to the garden door,
without having realised that he had moved. The sound of wheels crunching
the drive convinced him that time had passed, and the doctor gone. What,
exactly, had he said?
"This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of her
life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don't operate,
the baby will most probably be born alive, but it's a great risk for
the mother--a great risk. In either case I don't think she can ever have
another child. In her state she obviously can't decide for herself, and
we can't wait for her mother. It's for you to make the decision, while
I'm getting what's necessary. I shall be back within the hour."
The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down! No time
for anything!
The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent; then,
suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To come before
its time like this, with no chance to foresee anything, not even to get
her mother here! It was for her mother to make that decision, and
she couldn't arrive from Paris till to-night! If only he could have
understood the doctor's jargon, the medical niceties, so as to be sure
he was weighing the chances properly; but they were Greek to him--like
a legal problem to a layman. And yet he must decide! He brought his hand
away from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which
came from her room! To go back there would only make it more difficult.
He must be calm, clear. On the one hand life, nearly certain, of his
young wife, death quite certain, of his child; and--no more children
afterwards! On the other, death perhaps of his wife, nearly certain life
for the child; and--no more children afterwards! Which to choose?....
It had rained this last fortnight--the river was very full, and in
the water, collected round the little house-boat moored by his
landing-stage, were many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a
frost. Leaves fell, lives drifted down--Death! To decide about death!
And no one to give him a hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing
go that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn't get it back. It
left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and
barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a queer somersault
of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying up there behind that
window-pane on which the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their
bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it might conceivably have been her
fate to lie, sixteen years ago. Would he have hesitated then? Not a
moment! Operate, operate! Make certain of her life! No decision--a mere
instinctive cry for help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she
did not love him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his
feeling for Annette! Many times these last months, especially since she
had been growing frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of her
own, was selfish in her French way. And yet--so pretty! What would she
wish--to take the risk. 'I know she wants the child,' he thought. 'If
it's born dead, and no more chance afterwards--it'll upset her terribly.
No more chance! All for nothing! Married life with her for years and
years without a child. Nothing to steady her! She's too young. Nothing
to look forward to, for her--for me! For me!' He struck his hands
against his chest! Why couldn't he think without bringing himself
in--get out of himself and see what he ought to do? The thought hurt
him, then lost edge, as if it had come in contact with a breastplate.
Out of oneself! Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless,
sightless space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And touching there
the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested
for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on, but there'd
be nothing in it!