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

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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!




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