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

Both Jon And His Mother Had Felt That If She Took His

Portfolios, Unexhibited Drawings And Unfinished Matter, Away With Her,

The Work Would Encounter Such Icy Blasts From Paul Post And Other

Frequenters Of     Her Studio, That It Would Soon Be Frozen Out Even Of     Her

Warm Heart. On Its Old-Fashioned Plane And Of     Its Kind The     Work Was

Good, And They Could Not Bear The     Thought Of     Its Subjection To

Ridicule. A One-Man Exhibition Of     His Work Was The     Least Testimony They

Could Pay To One They Had Loved; And On Preparation For This They Spent

Many Hours Together. Jon Came To Have A Curiously Increased Respect For

His Father. The     Quiet Tenacity With Which He Had Converted A Mediocre

Talent Into Something Really Individual Was Disclosed By These

Researches. There Was A Great Mass Of     Work With A Rare Continuity Of

Growth In Depth And Reach Of     Vision. Nothing Certainly Went Very Deep,

Or Reached Very High--But Such As The     Work Was, It Was Thorough,

Conscientious, And Complete. And, Remembering His Father's Utter

Absence Of     "Side" Or Self-Assertion, The     Chaffing Humility With Which

He Had Always Spoken Of     His Own Efforts, Ever Calling Himself "An

Amateur," Jon Could Not Help Feeling That He Had Never Really Known His

Father. To Take Himself Seriously, Yet Never Bore Others By Letting

Them Know That He Did So, Seemed To Have Been His Ruling Principle.

There Was Something In This Which Appealed To The     Boy, And Made Him

Heartily Indorse His Mother's Comment: "He Had True Refinement; He

Couldn't Help Thinking Of     Others, Whatever He Did. And When He Took A

Resolution Which Went Counter, He Did It With The     Minimum Of

Defiance--Not Like The     Age, Is It? Twice In His Life He Had To Go

Against Everything; And Yet It Never Made Him Bitter." Jon Saw Tears

Running Down Her Face, Which She At Once Turned Away From Him. She Was

So Quiet About Her Loss That Sometimes He Had Thought She Didn't Feel

It Much. Now, As He Looked At Her, He Felt How Far He Fell Short Of     The

Reserve Power And Dignity In Both His Father And His Mother. And,

Stealing Up To Her, He Put His Arm Round Her Waist. She Kissed Him

Swiftly, But With A Sort Of     Passion, And Went Out Of     The     Room.

The Studio, Where They Had Been Sorting And Labelling, Had Once Been

Holly's Schoolroom, Devoted To Her Silk-Worms, Dried Lavender, Music,

And Other Forms Of     Instruction. Now, At The     End Of     July, Despite Its

Northern And Eastern Aspects, A Warm And Slumberous Air Came In Between

The Long-Faded Lilac Linen Curtains. To Redeem A Little The     Departed

Glory, As Of     A Field That Is Golden And Gone, Clinging To A Room Which

Its Master Has Left, Irene Had Placed On The     Paint-Stained Table A Bowl

Of Red Roses. This, And Jolyon's Favourite Cat, Who Still Clung To The

Deserted Habitat, Were The     Pleasant Spots In That Dishevelled, Sad

Workroom. Jon, At The     North Window, Sniffing Air Mysteriously Scented

With Warm Strawberries, Heard A Car Drive Up. The     Lawyers Again About

Some Nonsense! Why Did That Scent So Make One Ache? And Where Did It

Come From--There Were No Strawberry Beds On This Side Of     The     House.

Instinctively He Took A Crumpled Sheet Of     Paper From His Pocket, And

Wrote Down Some Broken Words. A Warmth Began Spreading In His Chest; He

Rubbed The     Palms Of     His Hands Together. Presently He Had Jotted This:

    "If I Could Make A Little Song--

    A Little Song To Soothe My Heart!

    I'd Make It All Of     Little Things--

    The     Plash Of     Water, Rub Of     Wings,

    The     Puffing-Off Of     Dandie's Crown,

    The     Hiss Of     Raindrop Spilling Down,

    The     Purr Of     Cat, The     Trill Of     Bird,

    And Ev'ry Whispering I've Heard

    From Willy Wind In Leaves And Grass,

    And All The     Distant Drones That Pass.

    A Song, As Tender And As Light

    As Flower, Or Butterfly In Flight;

    And When I Saw It Opening

    I'd Let It Fly, And Sing!"

He Was Still Muttering It Over To Himself At The     Window, When He Heard

His Name Called, And, Turning Round, Saw Fleur. At That Amazing

Apparition, He Made At First No Movement And No Sound, While Her Clear

Vivid Glance Ravished His Heart. Then He Went Forward To The     Table,

Saying: "How Nice Of     You To Come!" And Saw Her Flinch As If He Had

Thrown Something At Her.

"I Asked For You," She Said, "And They Showed Me Up Here. But I Can Go

Away Again."

Jon Clutched The     Paint-Stained Table. Her Face And Figure In Its Frilly

Frock, Photographed Itself With Such Startling Vividness Upon His Eyes,

That If She Had Sunk Through The     Floor He Must Still Have Seen Her.

"I Know I Told You A Lie, Jon. But I Told It Out Of     Love."

"Oh! Yes! That's Nothing!"

"I Didn't Answer Your Letter. What Was The     Use--There Wasn't Anything

To Answer. I Wanted To See You Instead." She Held Out Both Her Hands,

And Jon Grasped Them Across The     Table. He Tried To Say Something, But

All His Attention Was Given To Trying Not To Hurt Her Hands. His Own

Felt So Hard And Hers So Soft. She Said Almost Defiantly:

 "That Old Story--Was It So Very Dreadful?"

"Yes." In His Voice, Too, There Was A Note Of     Defiance.

She Dragged Her Hands Away. "I Didn't Think In These Days Boys Were

Tied To Their Mothers' Apron-Strings."

Jon's Chin Went Up As If He Had Been Struck.

"Oh! I Didn't Mean It, Jon. What A Horrible Thing To Say!" Swiftly She

Came Close To Him. "Jon, Dear; I Didn't Mean It."

"All Right."

She Had Put Her Two Hands On His Shoulder, And Her Forehead Down On

Them; The     Brim Of     Her Hat Touched His Neck, And He Felt It Quivering.

But, In A Sort Of     Paralysis, He Made No Response. She Let Go Of     His

Shoulder And Drew Away.

"Well, I'll Go, If You Don't Want Me. But I Never Thought You'd Have

Given Me Up."

"I Haven't," Cried Jon, Coming Suddenly To Life. "I Can't.

I'll Try

Again."

She Swayed Towards Him. "Jon--I Love You! Don't Give Me Up! If You Do,

I Don't Know What I Shall Do--I Feel So Desperate. What Does It

Matter--All That Past--Compared With This?"

She Clung To Him. He Kissed Her Eyes, Her Cheeks, Her Lips. But While

He Kissed Her He Saw The     Sheets Of     That Letter Fallen Down On The     Floor

Of His Bedroom--His Father's White Dead Face--His Mother Kneeling

Before It. Fleur's Whisper: "Make Her! Promise! Oh! Jon, Try!" Seemed

Childish In His Ear. He Felt Curiously Old.

"I Promise!" He Muttered. "Only, You Don't Understand."

"She Wants To Spoil Our Lives, Just Because--"

"Yes, Of     What?"

Again That Challenge In His Voice, And She Did Not Answer. Her Arms

Tightened Round Him, And He Returned Her Kisses; But Even While He

Yielded, The     Poison Worked In Him, The     Poison Of     The     Letter. Fleur Did

Not Know, She Did Not Understand--She Misjudged His Mother; She Came

From The     Enemy's Camp! So Lovely, And He Loved Her So--Yet, Even In Her

Embrace, He Could Not Help The     Memory Of     Holly's Words: "I Think She

Has A 'Having' Nature," And His Mother's: "My Darling Boy; Don't Think

Of Me--Think Of     Yourself."

When She Was Gone Like A Passionate Dream, Leaving Her Image On His

Eyes, Her Kisses On His Lips, Such An Ache In His Heart, Jon Leaned In

The Window, Listening To The     Car Bearing Her Away. Still The     Scent As

Of Warm Strawberries, Still The     Little Summer Sounds That Should Make

His Song; Still All The     Promise Of     Youth And Happiness In Sighing,

Floating, Fluttering July--And His Heart Torn; Yearning Strong In Him;

Hope High In Him, Yet With Its Eyes Cast Down, As If Ashamed. The

Miserable Task Before Him! If Fleur Was Desperate, So Was He--Watching

The Poplars Swaying, The     White Clouds Passing, The     Sunlight On The

Grass.

He Waited Till Evening, Till After Their Almost Silent Dinner, Till His

Mother Had Played To Him--And Still He Waited, Feeling That She Knew

What He Was Waiting To Say. She Kissed Him And Went Up-Stairs, And

Still He Lingered, Watching The     Moonlight And The     Moths, And That

Unreality Of     Colouring Which Steals Along And Stains A Summer Night.

And He Would Have Given Anything To Be Back In The     Past--Barely Three

Months Back; Or Away Forward, Years, In The     Future. The     Present With

This Stark Cruelty Of     A Decision, One Way Or The     Other, Seemed

Impossible. He Realised Now So Much More Keenly What His Mother Felt

Than He Had At First; As If The     Story In That Letter Had Been A

Poisonous Germ Producing A Kind Of     Fever Of     Partisanship, So That He

Really Felt There Were Two Camps, His Mother's And His--Fleur's And Her

Father's. It Might Be A Dead Thing, That Old Tragic