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

When The     Heart Failed Like This--Surely It Was

Not Quite Natural! Perhaps His Father's Consciousness Was In The     Room

With Him. Above The     Bed Hung A Picture Of     His Father's Father. Perhaps

His Consciousness, Too, Was Still Alive; And His Brother's--His

Half-Brother, Who Had Died In The     Transvaal. Were They All Gathered

Round This Bed? Jon Kissed The     Forehead, And Stole Back To His Own

Room. The     Door Between It And His Mother's Was Ajar; She Had Evidently

Been In--Everything Was Ready For Him, Even Some Biscuits And Hot Milk,

And The     Letter No Longer On The     Floor. He Ate And Drank, Watching The

Last Light Fade. He Did Not Try To See Into The     Future--Just Stared At

The Dark Branches Of     The     Oak-Tree, Level With His Window, And Felt As

If Life Had Stopped. Once In The     Night, Turning In His Heavy Sleep, He

Was Conscious Of     Something White And Still, Beside His Bed, And Started

Up. His Mother's Voice Said:

"It's Only I, Jon Dear!" Her Hand Pressed His Forehead Gently Back; Her

White Figure Disappeared.

Alone! He Fell Heavily Asleep Again, And Dreamed He Saw His Mother's

Name Crawling On His Bed.

The Announcement In The     Times Of     His Cousin Jolyon's Death Affected

Soames Quite Simply. So That Chap Was Gone! There Had Never Been A Time

In Their Two Lives When Love Had Not Been Lost Between Them. That

Quick-Blooded Sentiment Hatred Had Run Its Course Long Since In Soames'

Heart, And He Had Refused To Allow Any Recrudescence, But He Considered

This Early Decease A Piece Of     Poetic Justice.

For Twenty Years The

Fellow Had Enjoyed The     Reversion Of     His Wife And House, And--He Was

Dead! The     Obituary Notice, Which Appeared A Little Later, Paid

Jolyon--He Thought--Too Much Attention. It Spoke Of     That "Diligent And

Agreeable Painter Whose Work We Have Come To Look On As Typical Of     The

Best Late-Victorian Water-Colour Art." Soames, Who Had Almost

Mechanically Preferred Mole, Morpin, And Caswell Baye, And Had Always

Sniffed Quite Audibly When He Came To One Of     His Cousin's On The     Line,

Turned The     Times With A Crackle.

He Had To Go Up To Town That Morning On Forsyte Affairs, And Was Fully

Conscious Of     Gradman's Glance Sidelong Over His Spectacles. The     Old

Clerk Had About Him An Aura Of     Regretful Congratulation. He Smelled, As

It Were, Of     Old Days. One Could Almost Hear Him Thinking: "Mr. Jolyon,

Ye-Es--Just My Age, And Gone--Dear, Dear! I Dare Say She Feels It. She

Was A Naice-Lookin' Woman. Flesh Is Flesh! They've Given 'Im A Notice

In The     Papers. Fancy!" His Atmosphere In Fact Caused Soames To Handle

Certain Leases And Conversions With Exceptional Swiftness.

"About That Settlement On Miss Fleur, Mr. Soames?"

"I've Thought Better Of     That," Answered Soames Shortly.

"Aoh! I'm Glad Of     That. I Thought You Were A Little Hasty. The     Times Do

Change."

How This Death Would Affect Fleur Had Begun To Trouble Soames. He Was

Not Certain That She Knew Of     It--She Seldom Looked At The     Paper, Never

At The     Births, Marriages, And Deaths.

 He Pressed Matters On, And Made His Way To Green Street For Lunch.

Winifred Was Almost Doleful. Jack Cardigan Had Broken A Splashboard, So

Far As One Could Make Out, And Would Not Be "Fit" For Some Time. She

Could Not Get Used To The     Idea.

"Did Profond Ever Get Off?" He Said Suddenly.

"He Got Off," Replied Winifred, "But Where--I Don't Know."

Yes, There It Was--Impossible To Tell Anything! Not That He Wanted To

Know. Letters From Annette Were Coming From Dieppe, Where She And Her

Mother Were Staying.

 "You Saw That Fellow's Death, I Suppose?"

"Yes," Said Winifred. "I'm Sorry For His Children. He Was Very Amiable."

Soames Uttered A Rather Queer Sound. A Suspicion Of     The     Old Deep

Truth--That Men Were Judged In This World Rather By What They Were Than

By What They Did--Crept And Knocked Resentfully At The     Back Door Of     His

Mind.

"I Know There Was A Superstition To That Effect," He Muttered.

"One Must Do Him Justice Now He's Dead."

"I Should Like To Have Done Him Justice Before," Said Soames; "But I

Never Had The     Chance. Have You Got A 'Baronetage' Here?"

"Yes; In That Bottom Row."

Soames Took Out A Fat Red Book, And Ran Over The     Leaves.

"Mont--Sir Lawrence, 9th Bt. Cr. 1620. E.S. Of     Geoffrey 8th Bt. And

Lavinia Daur. Of     Sir Charles Muskham Bt. Of     Muskham Hall, Shrops: Marr.

1890 Emily, Daur. Of     Conway Charwell Esq. Of     Condaford Grange, Co.

Oxon; 1 Son, Heir Michael Conway, B. 1895, 2 Daurs. Residence:

Lippinghall Manor, Folwell, Bucks: Clubs: Snooks: Coffee House:

Aeroplane. See Bidlicott."

"H'm!" He Said: "Did You Ever Know A Publisher?"

"Uncle Timothy."

"Alive, I Mean."

"Monty Knew One At His Club. He Brought Him Here To Dinner Once. Monty

Was Always Thinking Of     Writing A Book, You Know, About How To Make

Money On The     Turf. He Tried To Interest That Man."

"Well?"

"He Put Him On To A Horse--For The     Two Thousand. We Didn't See Him

Again. He Was Rather Smart, If I Remember."

"Did It Win?"

"No; It Ran Last, I Think. You Know Monty Really Was Quite Clever In

His Way.".

"Was He?" Said Soames. "Can You See Any Connection Between A Sucking

Baronet And Publishing?"

"People Do All Sorts Of     Things Nowadays," Replied Winifred.

"The Great

Stunt Seems Not To Be Idle--So Different From Our Time. To Do Nothing

Was The     Thing Then. But I Suppose It'll Come Again."

"This Young Mont That I'm Speaking Of     Is Very Sweet On Fleur. If It

Would Put An End To That Other Affair I Might Encourage It."

"Has He Got Style?" Asked Winifred.

"He's No Beauty; Pleasant Enough, With Some Scattered Brains. There's A

Good Deal Of     Land, I Believe. He Seems Genuinely Attached. But I Don't

Know."

"No," Murmured Winifred; "It's Very Difficult. I Always Found It Best

To Do Nothing. It Is Such A Bore About Jack; Now We Shan't Get Away

Till After Bank Holiday. Well, The     People Are Always Amusing, I Shall

Go Into The     Park And Watch Them."

 "If I Were You," Said Soames, "I Should Have A Country Cottage, And Be

Out Of     The     Way Of     Holidays And Strikes When You Want."

"The Country Bores Me," Answered Winifred, "And I Found The     Railway

Strike Quite Exciting."

 Winifred Had Always Been Noted For Sang-Froid.

Soames Took His Leave. All The     Way Down To Reading He Debated Whether

He Should Tell Fleur Of     That Boy's Father's Death. It Did Not Alter The

Situation Except That He Would Be Independent Now, And Only Have His

Mother's Opposition To Encounter. He Would Come Into A Lot Of     Money, No

Doubt, And Perhaps The     House--The House Built For Irene And

Himself--The House Whose Architect Had Wrought His Domestic Ruin. His

Daughter--Mistress Of     That House! That Would Be Poetic Justice! Soames

Uttered A Little Mirthless Laugh.

He Had Designed That House To

Re-Establish His Failing Union, Meant It For The     Seat Of     His

Descendants, If He Could Have Induced Irene To Give Him One! Her Son

And Fleur! Their Children Would Be, In Some Sort, Offspring Of     The

Union Between Himself And Her!

The Theatricality In That Thought Was Repulsive To His Sober Sense. And

Yet--It Would Be The     Easiest And Wealthiest Way Out Of     The     Impasse, Now

That Jolyon Was Gone. The     Juncture Of     Two Forsyte Fortunes Had A Kind

Of Conservative Charm. And She--Irene--Would Be Linked To Him Once

More. Nonsense! Absurd! He Put The     Notion From His Head.

On Reaching Home He Heard The     Click Of     Billiard-Balls; And Through The

Window Saw Young Mont Sprawling Over The     Table. Fleur, With Her Cue

Akimbo, Was Watching With A Smile. How Pretty She Looked! No Wonder

That Young Fellow Was Out Of     His Mind About Her. A Title--Land! There

Was Little Enough In Land, These Days; Perhaps Less In A Title. The     Old

Forsytes Had Always Had A Kind Of     Contempt For Titles, Rather Remote

And Artificial Things--Not Worth The     Money They Cost,