To Let by John Galsworthy (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📕

The Grandchildren Of     Soames, As Much As Of     Your Mother, Of     A Man Who

Once Owned Your Mother As A Man Might Own A Slave. Think What That

Would Mean. By Such A Marriage You Enter The     Camp Which Held Your

Mother Prisoner And Wherein She Ate Her Heart Out. You Are Just On The

Threshold Of     Life, You Have Only Known This Girl Two Months, And

However Deeply You Think You Love Her, I Appeal To You To Break It Off

At Once. Don't Give Your Mother This Rankling Pain And Humiliation

During The     Rest Of     Her Life. Young Though She Will Always Seem To Me,

She Is Fifty-Seven. Except For Us Two She Has No One In The     World. She

Will Soon Have Only You. Pluck Up Your Spirit, Jon, And Break Away.

Don't Put This Cloud And Barrier Between You. Don't Break Her Heart!

Bless You, My Dear Boy, And Again Forgive Me For All The     Pain This

Letter Must Bring You--We Tried To Spare It You, But Spain--It

Seems--Was No Good.

Ever Your Devoted Father

Jolyon Forsyte."

Having Finished His Confession, Jolyon Sat With A Thin Cheek On His

Hand, Re-Reading. There Were Things In It Which Hurt Him So Much, When

He Thought Of     Jon Reading Them--That He Nearly Tore The     Letter Up. To

Speak Of     Such Things At All To A Boy--His Own Boy--To Speak Of     Them In

Relation To His Own Wife And The     Boy's Own Mother, Seemed Dreadful To

The Reticence Of     His Forsyte Soul. And Yet Without Speaking Of     Them How

Make Jon Understand The     Reality, The     Deep Cleavage, The     Ineffaceable

Scar? Without Them, How Justify This Stifling Of     The     Boy's Love? He

Might Just As Well Not Write At All!

He Folded The     Confession, And Put It In His Pocket. It Was--Thank

Heaven!--Saturday; He Had Till Sunday Evening To Think It Over; For

Even If Posted Now It Could Not Reach Jon Till Monday. He Felt A

Curious Relief At This Delay, And At The     Fact That, Whether Sent Or

Not, It Was Written.

 In The     Rose Garden, Which Had Taken The     Place Of     The     Old Fernery, He

Could See Irene Snipping And Pruning, With A Little Basket On Her Arm.

She Was Never Idle, It Seemed To Him, And He Envied Her Now That He

Himself Was Idle Nearly All His Time. He Went Down To Her. She Held Up

A Stained Glove And Smiled. A Piece Of     Lace Tied Under Her Chin

Concealed Her Hair, And Her Oval Face With Its Still Dark Brows Looked

Very Young.

"The Green Fly Are Awful This Year, And Yet It's Cold. You Look Tired,

Jolyon."

Jolyon Took The     Confession From His Pocket. "I've Been Writing This.

I

Think You Ought To See It."

 "To Jon?" Her Whole Face Had Changed, In That Instant, Becoming Almost

Haggard.

 "Yes; The     Murder's Out."

He Gave It Her, And Walked Away Among The     Roses. Presently, Seeing That

She Had Finished Reading And Was Standing Quite Still With The     Sheets

Of The     Letter Against Her Skirt, He Came Back To Her.

"Well?"

 "It's Wonderfully Put. I Don't See How It Could Be Put Better. Thank

You, Dear."

"Is There Anything You Would Like Left Out?"

She Shook Her Head.

"No; He Must Know All, If He's To Understand."

"That's What I Thought, But I Hate It Like The     Devil!"

He Had The     Feeling That He Hated It More Than She--To Him Sex Was So

Much Easier To Mention Between Man And Woman Than Between Man And Man;

And She Had Always Been More Natural And Frank, Not Deeply Secretive

Like His Forsyte Self.

"I Wonder If He Will Understand, Even Now, Jolyon? He's So Young; And

He Shrinks From The     Physical."

"He Gets That Shrinking From My Father, He Was As Fastidious As A Girl

In All Such Matters. Would It Be Better To Rewrite The     Whole Thing, And

Just Say You Hated Soames?"

Irene Shook Her Head.

"Hate's Only A Word. It Conveys Nothing. No, Better As It Is."

"Very Well. It Shall Go To-Morrow."

Late That Same Afternoon, Jolyon Had A Nap In The     Old Armchair. Face

Down On His Knee Was La Rotisserie De La Reine Pedaugue, And Just

Before He Fell Asleep He Had Been Thinking: 'As A People Shall We Ever

Really Like The     French? Will They Ever Really Like Us?' He Himself Had

Always Liked The     French, Feeling At Home With Their Wit, Their Taste,

Their Cooking. Irene And He Had Paid Many Visits To France Before The

War, When Jon Had Been At His Private School. His Romance With Her Had

Begun In Paris--His Last And Most Enduring Romance. But The     French--No

Englishman Could Like Them Who Could Not See Them In Some Sort With The

Detached Aesthetic Eye! And With That Melancholy Conclusion He Had

Nodded Off.

When He Woke He Saw Jon Standing Between Him And The     Window.

The     Boy

Had Evidently Come In From The     Garden And Was Waiting For Him To Wake.

Jolyon Smiled, Still Half Asleep. How Nice The     Chap Looked-Sensitive,

Affectionate, Straight! Then His Heart Gave A Nasty Jump; And A Quaking

Sensation Overcame Him. That Confession! He Controlled Himself With An

Effort. "Why, Jon, Where Did You Spring From?"

Jon Bent Over And Kissed His Forehead.

Only Then He Noticed The     Look On The     Boy's Face.

"I Came Home To Tell You Something, Dad."

With All His Might Jolyon Tried To Get The     Better Of     The     Jumping,

Gurgling Sensations Within His Chest.

 "Well, Sit Down, Old Man. Have You Seen Your Mother?"

"No." The     Boy's Flushed Look Gave Place To Pallor; He Sat Down On The

Arm Of     The     Old Chair, As, In Old Days, Jolyon Himself Used To Sit

Beside His Own Father, Installed In Its Recesses. Right Up To The     Time

Of The     Rupture In Their Relations He Had Been Wont To Perch There--Had

He Now Reached Such A Moment With His Own Son? All His Life He Had

Hated Scenes Like Poison, Avoided Rows, Gone On His Own Way Quietly And

Let Others Go On Theirs. But Now--It Seemed--At The     Very End Of     Things,

He Had A Scene Before Him More Painful Than Any He Had Avoided. He Drew

A Visor Down Over His Emotion, And Waited For His Son To Speak.

"Father," Said Jon Slowly, "Fleur And I Are Engaged."

'Exactly!' Thought Jolyon, Breathing With Difficulty.

"I Know That You And Mother Don't Like The     Idea. Fleur Says That Mother

Was Engaged To Her Father Before You Married Her. Of     Course I Don't

Know What Happened, But It Must Be Ages Ago. I'm Devoted To Her, Dad,

And She Says She Is To Me."

Jolyon Uttered A Queer Sound, Half Laugh, Half Groan.

"You Are Nineteen, Jon, And I Am Seventy-Two. How Are We To Understand

Each Other In A Matter Like This, Eh?"

"You Love Mother, Dad; You Must Know What We Feel. It Isn't Fair To Us

To Let Old Things Spoil Our Happiness, Is It?"

Brought Face To Face With His Confession, Jolyon Resolved To Do Without

It If By Any Means He Could. He Laid His Hand On The     Boy's Arm.

"Look, Jon! I Might Put You Off With Talk About Your Both Being Too

Young And Not Knowing Your Own Minds, And All That, But You Wouldn't

Listen; Besides, It Doesn't Meet The     Case--Youth, Unfortunately, Cures

Itself. You Talk Lightly About 'Old Things Like That,' Knowing

Nothing--As You Say Truly--Of What Happened. Now, Have I Ever Given You

Reason To Doubt My Love For You, Or My Word?"

At A Less Anxious Moment He Might Have Been Amused By The     Conflict His

Words Aroused--The Boy's Eager Clasp, To Reassure Him On These Points,

The Dread On His Face Of     What That Reassurance Would Bring Forth; But

He Could Only Feel Grateful For The     Squeeze.

"Very Well, You Can Believe What I Tell You. If You Don't Give Up This

Love Affair,