Chapter XIII: James Is Told

A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the
air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the
room he had not left since the middle of September—and James was
in deep waters. A little cold, passing his little strength and
flying quickly to his lungs. “He mustn’t catch cold,” the doctor
had declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt
it in his throat he had said to his nurse—for he had one
now—“There, I knew how it would be, airing the room like that!”
For a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and went in
advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath
with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour.
Emily was not alarmed.

But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: “He won’t
have his temperature taken.”

Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said
softly, “How do you feel, James?” holding the thermometer to his
lips. James looked up at her.

“What’s the good of that?” he murmured huskily; “I don’t want to
know.”

Then she _was_ alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked
terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had
“had trouble” with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been
James for nearly fifty years; she couldn’t remember or imagine
life without James—James, behind all his fussiness, his
pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and
generous to them all!

All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was
in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his
face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope.
His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of
energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It
touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and
comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when she
was out of it.

About tea-time on the third day—she had just changed her dress,
keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed
everything—she saw a difference. “It’s no use; I’m tired,” was
written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to
him, he muttered: “Send for Soames.”

“Yes, James,” she said comfortably; “all right—at once.” And she
kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it
off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and
without hope now, she sent Soames the telegram.

When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was
still as a grave. Warmson’s broad face looked almost narrow; he
took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying:

“Will you have a glass of wine, sir?”

Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry.

Warmson’s lips twitched. “He’s asking for you, sir;” and suddenly
he blew his nose. “It’s a long time, sir,” he said, “that I’ve
been with Mr. Forsyte—a long time.”

Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs.
This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never
seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last
pilgrimage to his father’s room. It was not his taste; but in its
own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and
security. And the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold
and lonely!

He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned
the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived.
The light was shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the
far side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side
where was an empty chair. “For me!” thought Soames. As he moved
from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his
hand and they sat down again. He went up to the chair and stood
looking at his father. James’ breathing was as if strangled; his
eyes were closed. And in Soames, looking on his father so worn
and white and wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there
rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel,
inexorable Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body,
slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the
being who was dearest to him in the world. His father, of all
men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was
his reward—to have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him!
And, without knowing that he spoke, he said: “It’s cruel!”

He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face
towards the bed. Women! They put up with things so much better
than men. He took a step nearer to his father. For three days
James had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered
with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead. It softened his
face, gave it a queer look already not of this world. His eyes
opened. Soames went quite close and bent over. The lips moved.

“Here I am, Father:”

“Um—what—what news? They never tell....” the voice died, and a
flood of emotion made Soames’ face work so that he could not
speak. Tell him?—yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his
lips together, and said:

“Good news, dear, good—Annette, a son.”

“Ah!” It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful,
triumphant—like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. The
eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again.
Soames recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. The lie he had
told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct
that after death James would not know the truth, had taken away
all power of feeling for the moment. His arm brushed against
something. It was his father’s naked foot. In the struggle to
breathe he had pushed it out from under the clothes. Soames took
it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold.
What use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder
soon! He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his
father’s laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose
again within him. A little sob, quickly smothered, came from
Winifred, but his mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on
James. Soames signed to the nurse.

“Where’s the doctor?” he whispered.

“He’s been sent for.”

“Can’t you do anything to ease his breathing?”

“Only an injection; and he can’t stand it. The doctor said, while
he was fighting....”

“He’s not fighting,” whispered Soames, “he’s being slowly
smothered. It’s awful.”

James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying.
Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands,
and Soames took them.

“He wants to be pulled up,” whispered the nurse.

Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of
anger passed over James’ face. The nurse plumped the pillows.
Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father’s
forehead. As he was raising himself again, James’ eyes bent on
him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was
left within. “I’m done, my boy,” it seemed to say, “take care of
them, take care of yourself; take care—I leave it all to you.”

“Yes, Yes,” Soames whispered, “yes, yes.”

Behind him the nurse did he knew not what, for his father made a
tiny movement of repulsion as if resenting that interference; and
almost at once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay
very still. The strained expression on his face passed, a curious
white tranquillity took its place. His eyelids quivered, rested;
the whole face rested; at ease. Only by the faint puffing of his
lips could they tell that he was breathing. Soames sank back on
his chair, and fell to cherishing the foot again. He heard the
nurse quietly crying over there by the fire; curious that she, a
stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! He heard the
quiet lick and flutter of the fire flames. One more old Forsyte
going to his long rest—wonderful, they were!—wonderful how he had
held on! His mother and Winifred were leaning forward, hanging on
the sight of James’ lips. But Soames bent sideways over the feet,
warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder
though they grew. Suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful
sound such as he had never heard, was coming from his father’s
lips, as if an outraged heart had broken with a long moan. What a
strong heart, to have uttered that farewell! It ceased. Soames
looked into the face. No motion; no breath! Dead! He kissed the
brow, turned round and went out of the room. He ran upstairs to
the bedroom, his old bedroom, still kept for him; flung himself
face down on the bed, and broke into sobs which he stilled with
the pillow....

A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James
lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with
the gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the
worn fine gravity of old coins.

Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room
with windows thrown open to the London night.

“Good-bye!” he whispered, and went out.