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

'I've Overdone It!' He Thought: 'By Jove. I've Overdone It--After All!'

He Staggered Up Towards The     Terrace, Dragged Himself Up The     Steps, And

Fell Against The     Wall Of     The     House. He Leaned There Gasping, His Face

Buried In The     Honeysuckle That He And She Had Taken Such Trouble With

That It Might Sweeten The     Air Which Drifted In. Its Fragrance Mingled

With Awful Pain. 'My Love!' He Thought; 'The Boy!' And With A Great

Effort He Tottered In Through The     Long Window, And Sank Into Old

Jolyon's Chair. The     Book Was There, A Pencil In It; He Caught It Up,

Scribbled A Word On The     Open Page.... His Hand Dropped.... So It Was

Like This--Was It?...

There Was A Great Wrench; And Darkness....

When Jon Rushed Away With The     Letter In His Hand, He Ran Along The

Terrace And Round The     Corner Of     The     House, In Fear And Confusion.

Leaning Against The     Creepered Wall He Tore Open The     Letter. It Was

Long--Very Long! This Added To His Fear, And He Began Reading. When He

Came To The     Underlined Words: "It Was Fleur's Father That She Married,"

Everything Swam Before Him. He Was Close To A Window, And Entering By

It, He Passed, Through Music-Room And Hall, Up To His Bedroom. Dipping

His Face In Cold Water, He Sat On His Bed, And Went On Reading,

Dropping Each Finished Page On The     Bed Beside Him. His Father's Writing

Was Easy To Read--He Knew It So Well, Though He Had Never Had A Letter

From Him One Quarter So Long. He Read With A Dull Feeling--Imagination

Only Half At Work. He Best Grasped, On That First Reading, The     Pain His

Father Must Have Had In Writing Such A Letter. He Let The     Last Sheet

Fall, And In A Sort Of     Mental, Moral Helplessness He Began To Read The

First Again. It All Seemed To Him Disgusting--Dead And Disgusting.

Then, Suddenly, A Hot Wave Of     Horrified Emotion Tingled Through Him. He

Buried His Face In His Hands. His Mother! Fleur's Father! He Took Up

The Letter Again, And Read On Mechanically. And Again Came The     Feeling

That It Was All Dead And Disgusting; His Own Love So Different! This

Letter Said His Mother--And Her Father! An Awful Letter!

Property! Could There Be Men Who Looked On Women As Their Property?

Faces Seen In Street And Countryside Came Thronging Up Before Him--Red,

Stock-Fish Faces; Hard, Dull Faces; Prim, Dry Faces; Violent Faces;

Hundreds, Thousands Of     Them! How Could He Know What Men Who Had Such

Faces Thought And Did? He Held His Head In His Hands And Groaned. His

Mother! He Caught Up The     Letter And Read On Again: "Horror And

Aversion--Alive In Her To-Day ... Your Children ... Grandchildren ...

Of A Man Who Once Owned Your Mother As A Man Might Own A Slave...." He

Got Up From His Bed. This Cruel Shadowy Past, Lurking There To Murder

His Love And Fleur's, Was True, Or His Father Could Never Have Written

It. 'Why Didn't They Tell Me The     First Thing,' He Thought, 'The Day I

First Saw Fleur? They Knew I'd Seen Her.

They Were Afraid,

And--Now--I've--Got It!' Overcome By Misery Too Acute For Thought Or

Reason, He Crept Into A Dusky Corner Of     The     Room And Sat Down On The

Floor. He Sat There, Like Some Unhappy Little Animal. There Was Comfort

In Dusk, And In The     Floor--As If He Were Back In Those Days When He

Played His Battles Sprawling All Over It. He Sat There Huddled, His

Hair Ruffled, His Hands Clasped Round His Knees, For How Long He Did

Not Know. He Was Wrenched From His Blank Wretchedness By The     Sound Of

The Door Opening From His Mother's Room. The     Blinds Were Down Over The

Windows Of     His Room, Shut Up In His Absence, And From Where He Sat He

Could Only Hear A Rustle, Her Footsteps Crossing, Till Beyond The     Bed

He Saw Her Standing Before His Dressing-Table. She Had Something In Her

Hand. He Hardly Breathed, Hoping She Would Not See Him, And Go Away. He

Saw Her Touch Things On The     Table As If They Had Some Virtue In Them,

Then Face The     Window--Grey From Head To Foot Like A Ghost. The     Least

Turn Of     Her Head, And She Must See Him! Her Lips Moved: "Oh! Jon!" She

Was Speaking To Herself; The     Tone Of     Her Voice Troubled Jon's Heart. He

Saw In Her Hand A Little Photograph. She Held It Towards The     Light,

Looking At It--Very Small. He Knew It--One Of     Himself As A Tiny Boy,

Which She Always Kept In Her Bag. His Heart Beat Fast. And, Suddenly,

As If She Had Heard It, She Turned Her Eyes And Saw Him. At The     Gasp

She Gave, And The     Movement Of     Her Hands Pressing The     Photograph Against

Her Breast, He Said:

"Yes, It's Me."

She Moved Over To The     Bed, And Sat Down On It, Quite Close To Him, Her

Hands Still Clasping Her Breast, Her Feet Among The     Sheets Of     The

Letter Which Had Slipped To The     Floor. She Saw Them, And Her Hands

Grasped The     Edge Of     The     Bed. She Sat Very Upright, Her Dark Eyes Fixed

On Him. At Last She Spoke.

"Well, Jon, You Know, I See."

"Yes."

"You've Seen Father?"

"Yes."

There Was A Long Silence, Till She Said:

"Oh! My Darling!"

"It's All Right." The     Emotions In Him Were So Violent And So Mixed That

He Dared Not Move--Resentment, Despair, And Yet A Strange Yearning For

The Comfort Of     Her Hand On His Forehead.

"What Are You Going To Do?"

"I Don't Know."

There Was Another Long Silence, Then She Got Up. She Stood A Moment,

Very Still, Made A Little Movement With Her Hand, And Said: "My Darling

Boy, My Most Darling Boy, Don't Think Of     Me--Think Of     Yourself." And,

Passing Round The     Foot Of     The     Bed, Went Back Into Her Room.

Jon Turned--Curled Into A Sort Of     Ball, As Might A Hedgehog--Into The

Corner Made By The     Two Walls.

He Must Have Been Twenty Minutes There Before A Cry Roused Him. It Came

From The     Terrace Below. He Got Up, Scared. Again Came The     Cry: "Jon!"

His Mother Was Calling! He Ran Out And Down The     Stairs, Through The

Empty Dining-Room Into The     Study. She Was Kneeling Before The     Old

Armchair, And His Father Was Lying Back Quite White, His Head On His

Breast, One Of     His Hands Resting On An Open Book, With A Pencil

Clutched In It--More Strangely Still Than Anything He Had Ever Seen.

She Looked Round Wildly, And Said:

"Oh! Jon--He's Dead--He's Dead!"

Jon Flung Himself Down, And Reaching Over The     Arm Of     The     Chair, Where

He Had Lately Been Sitting, Put His Lips To The     Forehead. Icy Cold! How

Could--How Could Dad Be Dead, When Only An Hour Ago--His Mother's Arms

Were Round The     Knees; Pressing Her Breast Against Them. "Why--Why

Wasn't I With Him?" He Heard Her Whisper. Then He Saw The     Tottering

Word "Irene" Pencilled On The     Open Page, And Broke Down Himself. It Was

His First Sight Of     Human Death, And Its Unutterable Stillness Blotted

From Him All Other Emotion; All Else, Then, Was But Preliminary To

This! All Love And Life, And Joy, Anxiety, And Sorrow, All Movement,

Light And Beauty, But A Beginning To This Terrible White Stillness. It

Made A Dreadful Mark On Him; All Seemed Suddenly Little, Futile, Short.

He Mastered Himself At Last, Got Up, And Raised Her.

"Mother! Don't Cry--Mother!"

Some Hours Later, When All Was Done That Had To Be, And His Mother Was

Lying Down, He Saw His Father Alone, On The     Bed, Covered With A White

Sheet. He Stood For A Long Time Gazing At That Face Which Had Never

Looked Angry--Always Whimsical, And Kind. "To Be Kind And Keep Your End

Up--There's Nothing Else In It," He Had Once Heard His Father Say. How

Wonderfully Dad Had Acted Up To That Philosophy! He Understood Now That

His Father Had Known For A Long Time Past That This Would Come

Suddenly--Known, And Not Said A Word. He Gazed With An Awed And

Passionate Reverence. The     Loneliness Of     It--Just To Spare His Mother

And Himself! His Own Trouble Seemed Small While He Was Looking At That

Face. The     Word Scribbled On The     Page! The     Farewell Word! Now His Mother

Had No One But Himself! He Went Up Close To The     Dead Face--Not Changed

At All, And Yet Completely Changed. He Had Heard His Father Say Once

That He Did Not Believe In Consciousness Surviving Death, Or That If It

Did It Might Be Just Survival Till The     Natural Age-Limit Of     The     Body

Had Been Reached--The Natural Term Of     Its Inherent Vitality; So That If

The Body Were Broken By Accident, Excess, Violent Disease,

Consciousness Might Still Persist Till, In The     Course Of     Nature

Uninterfered With, It Would Naturally Have Faded Out. The     Whimsical

Conceit Had Struck Him.