at house
which was to have been the home of him and her from whom he was now going
to seek release. He looked back once, up that endless vista of autumn
lane between the yellowing hedges. What an age ago! "I don't want to see
her," he had said to Jolyon. Was that true? 'I may have to,' he thought;
and he shivered, seized by one of those queer shudderings that they say
mean footsteps on one's grave. A chilly world! A queer world! And
glancing sidelong at his nephew, he thought: 'Wish I were his age! I
wonder what she's like now!'

CHAPTER VIII

JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP

When those two were gone Jolyon did not return to his painting, for
daylight was failing, but went to the study, craving unconsciously a
revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old leather
chair with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing up from under
the dome of his massive brow. Often in this little room, cosiest in the
house, Jolyon would catch a moment of communion with his father. Not,
indeed, that he had definitely any faith in the persistence of the human
spirit--the feeling was not so logical--it was, rather, an atmospheric
impact, like a scent, or one of those strong animistic impressions from
forms, or effects of light, to which those with the artist's eye are
especially prone. Here only--in this little unchanged room where his
father had spent the most of his waking hours--could be retrieved the
feeling that he was not quite gone, that the steady counsel of that old
spirit and the warmth of his masterful lovability endured.

What would his father be advising now, in this sudden recrudescence of an
old tragedy--what would he say to this menace against her to whom he had
taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life? 'I must do my best for
her,' thought Jolyon; 'he left her to me in his will. But what is the
best?'

And as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and shrewd common
sense of that old Forsyte, he sat down in the ancient chair and crossed
his knees. But he felt a mere shadow sitting there; nor did any
inspiration come, while the fingers of the wind tapped on the darkening
panes of the french-window.

'Go and see her?' he thought, 'or ask her to come down here? What's her
life been? What is it now, I wonder? Beastly to rake up things at this
time of day.' Again the figure of his cousin standing with a hand on a
front door of a fine olive-green leaped out, vivid, l