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

Believe Me, My Dear, The     Past, Whatever It Was, Can't Be Buried--It

Can't Indeed."

Jon Got Off The     Arm Of     The     Chair.

'The Girl--' Thought Jolyon--'There She Goes--Starting Up Before

Him--Life Itself--Eager, Pretty, Loving!'

"I Can't, Father; How Can I--Just Because You Say That? Of     Course I

Can't!"

"Jon, If You Knew The     Story You Would Give This Up Without Hesitation;

You Would Have To! Can't You Believe Me?"

"How Can You Tell What I Should Think? Why, I Love Her Better Than

Anything In The     World."

Jolyon's Face Twitched, And He Said With Painful Slowness:

"Better Than Your Mother, Jon?"

From The     Boy's Face, And His Clenched Fists Jolyon Realised The     Stress

And Struggle He Was Going Through.

"I Don't Know," He Burst Out, "I Don't Know! But To Give Fleur Up For

Nothing--For Something I Don't Understand, For Something That I Don't

Believe Can Really Matter Half So Much, Will Make Me--Make Me--"

"Make You Feel Us Unjust, Put A Barrier--Yes. But That's Better Than

Going On With This."

"I Can't. Fleur Loves Me, And I Love Her. You Want Me To Trust You; Why

Don't You Trust Me, Father? We Wouldn't Want To Know Anything--We

Wouldn't Let It Make Any Difference. It'll Only Make Us Both Love You

And Mother All The     More."

Jolyon Put His Hand Into His Breast Pocket, But Brought It Out Again

Empty, And Sat, Clucking His Tongue Against His Teeth.

"Think What Your Mother's Been To You, Jon! She Has Nothing But You; I

Shan't Last Much Longer."

"Why Not? It Isn't Fair To--Why Not?"

"Well," Said Jolyon, Rather Coldly, "Because The     Doctors Tell Me I

Shan't; That's All."

"Oh! Dad!" Cried Jon, And Burst Into Tears.

This Downbreak Of     His Son, Whom He Had Not Seen Cry Since He Was Ten,

Moved Jolyon Terribly. He Recognised To The     Full How Fearfully Soft The

Boy's Heart Was, How Much He Would Suffer In This Business, And In Life

Generally. And He Reached Out His Hand Helplessly--Not Wishing, Indeed

Not Daring To Get Up.

"Dear Man," He Said, "Don't--Or You'll Make Me!"

Jon Smothered Down His Paroxysm, And Stood With Face Averted, Very

Still.

'What Now?' Thought Jolyon; 'What Can I Say To Move Him?'

"By The     Way, Don't Speak Of     That To Mother," He Said; "She Has Enough

To Scare Her With This Affair Of     Yours. I Know How You Feel. But, Jon,

You Know Her And Me Well Enough To Be Sure We Wouldn't Wish To Spoil

Your Happiness Lightly.

Why, My Dear Boy, We Don't Care For Anything

But Your Happiness--At Least, With Me It's Just Yours And Mother's And

With Her Just Yours. It's All The     Future For You Both That's At Stake."

Jon Turned. His Face Was Deadly Pale; His Eyes, Deep In His Head,

Seemed To Burn.

"What Is It? What Is It? Don't Keep Me Like This!"

Jolyon, Who Knew That He Was Beaten, Thrust His Hand Again Into His

Breast Pocket, And Sat For A Full Minute, Breathing With Difficulty,

His Eyes Closed. The     Thought Passed Through His Mind: 'I've Had A Good

Long Innings--Some Pretty Bitter Moments--This Is The     Worst!' Then He

Brought His Hand Out With The     Letter, And Said With A Sort Of     Fatigue:

"Well, Jon, If You Hadn't Come To-Day, I Was Going To Send You This. I

Wanted To Spare You--I Wanted To Spare Your Mother And Myself, But I

See It's No Good. Read It, And I Think I'll Go Into The     Garden." He

Reached Forward To Get Up.

Jon, Who Had Taken The     Letter, Said Quickly: "No, I'll Go"; And Was

Gone.

Jolyon Sank Back In His Chair. A Blue-Bottle Chose That Moment To Come

Buzzing Round Him With A Sort Of     Fury; The     Sound Was Homely, Better

Than Nothing.... Where Had The     Boy Gone To Read His Letter? The

Wretched Letter--The Wretched Story! A Cruel Business--Cruel To Her--To

Soames--To Those Two Children--To Himself!... His Heart Thumped And

Pained Him. Life--Its Loves--Its Work--Its Beauty--Its Aching, And--Its

End! A Good Time; A Fine Time In Spite Of     All; Until--You Regretted

That You Had Ever Been Born. Life--It Wore You Down, Yet Did Not Make

You Want To Die--That Was The     Cunning Evil! Mistake To Have A Heart!

Again The     Blue-Bottle Came Buzzing--Bringing In All The     Heat And Hum

And Scent Of     Summer--Yes, Even The     Scent--As Of     Ripe Fruits, Dried

Grasses, Sappy Shrubs, And The     Vanilla Breath Of     Cows. And Out There

Somewhere In The     Fragrance Jon Would Be Reading That Letter, Turning

And Twisting Its Pages In His Trouble, His Bewilderment And

Trouble-Breaking His Heart About It! The     Thought Made Jolyon Acutely

Miserable.

Jon Was Such A Tender-Hearted Chap, Affectionate To His

Bones, And Conscientious, Too--It Was So Damned Unfair! He Remembered

Irene Saying To Him Once: "Never Was Any One Born More Loving And

Lovable Than Jon." Poor Little Jon! His World Gone Up The     Spout, All Of

A Summer Afternoon! Youth Took Things So Hard! And Stirred, Tormented

By That Vision Of     Youth Taking Things Hard, Jolyon Got Out Of     His

Chair, And Went To The     Window. The     Boy Was Nowhere Visible. And He

Passed Out. If One Could Take Any Help To Him Now--One Must!

 He Traversed The     Shrubbery, Glanced Into The     Walled Garden--No Jon! Nor

Where The     Peaches And The     Apricots Were Beginning To Swell And Colour.

He Passed The     Cupressus-Trees, Dark And Spiral, Into The     Meadow. Where

Had The     Boy Got To? Had He Rushed Down To The     Coppice--His Old

Hunting-Ground? Jolyon Crossed The     Rows Of     Hay. They Would Cock It On

Monday And Be Carrying The     Day After, If Rain Held Off. Often They Had

Crossed This Field Together--Hand In Hand, When Jon Was A Little Chap.

Dash It! The     Golden Age Was Over By The     Time One Was Ten! He Came To

The Pond, Where Flies And Gnats Were Dancing Over A Bright Reedy

Surface; And On Into The     Coppice. It Was Cool There, Fragrant Of

Larches. Still No Jon! He Called. No Answer! On The     Log Seat He Sat

Down, Nervous, Anxious, Forgetting His Own Physical Sensations. He Had

Been Wrong To Let The     Boy Get Away With That Letter; He Ought To Have

Kept Him Under His Eye From The     Start! Greatly Troubled, He Got Up To

Retrace His Steps. At The     Farm-Buildings He Called Again, And Looked

Into The     Dark Cow-House. There In The     Cool, And The     Scent Of     Vanilla

And Ammonia, Away From Flies, The     Three Alderneys Were Chewing The

Quiet Cud; Just Milked, Waiting For Evening, To Be Turned Out Again

Into The     Lower Field. One Turned A Lazy Head, A Lustrous Eye; Jolyon

Could See The     Slobber On Its Grey Lower Lip. He Saw Everything With

Passionate Clearness, In The     Agitation Of     His Nerves--All That In His

Time He Had Adored And Tried To Paint--Wonder Of     Light And Shade And

Colour. No Wonder The     Legend Put Christ Into A Manger--What More

Devotional Than The     Eyes And Moon-White Horns Of     A Chewing Cow In The

Warm Dusk! He Called Again. No Answer! And He Hurried Away Out Of     The

Coppice, Past The     Pond, Up The     Hill. Oddly Ironical--Now He Came To

Think Of     It--If Jon Had Taken The     Gruel Of     His Discovery Down In The

Coppice Where His Mother And Bosinney In Those Old Days Had Made The

Plunge Of     Acknowledging Their Love.

Where He Himself, On The     Log Seat

The Sunday Morning He Came Back From Paris, Had Realised To The     Full

That Irene Had Become The     World To Him. That Would Have Been The     Place

For Irony To Tear The     Veil From Before The     Eyes Of     Irene's Boy! But He

Was Not Here! Where Had He Got To? One Must Find The     Poor Chap!

 A Gleam Of     Sun Had Come, Sharpening To His Hurrying Senses All The

Beauty Of     The     Afternoon, Of     The     Tall Trees And Lengthening Shadows, Of

The Blue, And The     White Clouds, The     Scent Of     The     Hay, And The     Cooing Of

The Pigeons; And The     Flower Shapes Standing Tall. He Came To The

Rosary, And The     Beauty Of     The     Roses In That Sudden Sunlight Seemed To

Him Unearthly. "Rose, You Spaniard!" Wonderful Three Words! There She

Had Stood By That Bush Of     Dark Red Roses; Had Stood To Read And Decide

That Jon Must Know It All! He Knew All Now! Had She Chosen Wrong? He

Bent And Sniffed A Rose, Its Petals Brushed His Nose And Trembling

Lips; Nothing So Soft As A Rose-Leaf's Velvet, Except Her Neck--Irene!

On Across The     Lawn He Went, Up The     Slope, To The     Oak-Tree. Its Top

Alone Was Glistening, For The     Sudden Sun Was Away Over The     House; The

Lower Shade Was Thick, Blessedly Cool--He Was Greatly Overheated. He

Paused A Minute With His Hand On The     Rope Of     The     Swing--Jolly,

Holly--Jon! The     Old Swing! And, Suddenly, He Felt