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

Enmity, But Dead Things Were Poisonous Till Time Had Cleaned Them Away.

Even His Love Felt Tainted, Less Illusioned, More Of     The     Earth, And

With A Treacherous Lurking Doubt Lest Fleur, Like Her Father, Might

Want To Own; Not Articulate, Just A Stealing Haunt, Horribly Unworthy,

Which Crept In And About The     Ardour Of     His Memories, Touched With Its

Tarnishing Breath The     Vividness And Grace Of     That Charmed Face And

Figure--A Doubt, Not Real Enough To Convince Him Of     Its Presence, Just

Real Enough To Deflower A Perfect Faith. And Perfect Faith, To Jon, Not

Yet Twenty, Was Essential. He Still Had Youth's Eagerness To Give With

Both Hands, To Take With Neither--To Give Lovingly To One Who Had His

Own Impulsive Generosity. Surely She Had! He Got Up From The

Window-Seat And Roamed In The     Big Grey Ghostly Room, Whose Walls Were

Hung With Silvered Canvas. This House--His Father Said In That

Death-Bed Letter--Had Been Built For His Mother To Live In--With

Fleur's Father! He Put Out His Hand In The     Half-Dark, As If To Grasp

The Shadowy Hand Of     The     Dead. He Clenched, Trying To Feel The     Thin

Vanished Fingers Of     His Father; To Squeeze Them, And Reassure Him That

He--He Was On His Father's Side. Tears, Prisoned Within Him, Made His

Eyes Feel Dry And Hot. He Went Back To The     Window. It Was Warmer, Not

So Eerie, More Comforting Outside, Where The     Moon Hung Golden, Three

Days Off Full; The     Freedom Of     The     Night Was Comforting. If Only Fleur

And He Had Met On Some Desert Island Without A Past--And Nature For

Their House! Jon Had Still His High Regard For Desert Islands, Where

Breadfruit Grew, And The     Water Was Blue Above The     Coral. The     Night Was

Deep, Was Free--There Was Enticement In It; A Lure, A Promise, A Refuge

From Entanglement, And Love! Milksop Tied To His Mother's--! His Cheeks

Burned. He Shut The     Window, Drew Curtains Over It, Switched Off The

Lighted Sconce, And Went Up-Stairs.

The Door Of     His Room Was Open, The     Light Turned Up; His Mother, Still

In Her Evening Gown, Was Standing At The     Window. She Turned, And Said:

"Sit Down, Jon; Let's Talk." She Sat Down On The     Window-Seat, Jon On

His Bed. She Had Her Profile Turned To Him, And The     Beauty And Grace Of

Her Figure, The     Delicate Line Of     The     Brow, The     Nose, The     Neck, The

Strange And As It Were Remote Refinement Of     Her, Moved Him. His Mother

Never Belonged To Her Surroundings. She Came Into Them From

Somewhere--As It Were! What Was She Going To Say To Him, Who Had In His

Heart Such Things To Say To Her?

"I Know Fleur Came To-Day. I'm Not Surprised." It Was As Though She Had

Added: "She Is Her Father's Daughter!" And Jon's Heart Hardened. Irene

Went On Quietly:

"I Have Father's Letter. I Picked It Up That Night And Kept It. Would

You Like It Back, Dear?"

Jon Shook His Head.

"I Had Read It, Of     Course, Before He Gave It To You. It Didn't Quite Do

Justice To My Criminality."

"Mother!" Burst From Jon's Lips.

"He Put It Very Sweetly, But I Know That In Marrying Fleur's Father

Without Love I Did A Dreadful Thing. An Unhappy Marriage, Jon, Can Play

Such Havoc With Other Lives Besides One's Own. You Are Fearfully Young,

My Darling, And Fearfully Loving.

Do You Think You Can Possibly Be

Happy With This Girl?"

Staring At Her Dark Eyes, Darker Now From Pain, Jon Answered:

"Yes; Oh! Yes--If You Could Be."

Irene Smiled.

"Admiration Of     Beauty, And Longing For Possession Are Not Love. If

Yours Were Another Case Like Mine, Jon--Where The     Deepest Things Are

Stifld; The     Flesh Joined, And The     Spirit At War!"

"Why Should It, Mother? You Think She Must Be Like Her Father, But

She's Not. I've Seen Him."

Again The     Smile Came On Irene's Lips, And In Jon Something Wavered;

There Was Such Irony And Experience In That Smile.

"You Are A Giver, Jon; She Is A Taker."

That Unworthy Doubt, That Haunting Uncertainty Again! He Said With

Vehemence:

"She Isn't--She Isn't. It's Only Because I Can't Bear To Make You

Unhappy, Mother, Now That Father--" He Thrust His Fists Against His

Forehead.

Irene Got Up.

"I Told You That Night, Dear, Not To Mind Me. I Meant It. Think Of

Yourself And Your Own Happiness! I Can Stand What's Left--I've Brought

It On Myself."

Again The     Word: "Mother!" Burst From Jon's Lips.

 She Came Over To Him And Put Her Hands Over His.

"Do You Feel Your Head, Darling?"

Jon Shook It. What He Felt Was In His Chest--A Sort Of     Tearing Asunder

Of The     Tissue There, By The     Two Loves.

"I Shall Always Love You The     Same, Jon, Whatever You Do. You Won't Lose

Anything." She Smoothed His Hair Gently, And Walked Away.

He Heard The     Door Shut; And, Rolling Over On The     Bed, Lay, Stifling His

Breath, With An Awful Held-Up Feeling Within Him.

Enquiring For Her At Tea Time Soames Learned That Fleur Had Been Out In

The Car Since Two. Three Hours! Where Had She Gone? Up To London

Without A Word To Him? He Had Never Become Quite Reconciled With Cars.

He Had Embraced Them In Principle--Like The     Born Empiricist, Or

Forsyte, That He Was--Adopting Each Symptom Of     Progress As It Came

Along With: "Well, We Couldn't Do Without Them Now." But In Fact He

Found Them Tearing, Great, Smelly Things.

Obliged By Annette To Have

One--A Rollhard With Pearl-Grey Cushions, Electric Light, Little

Mirrors, Trays For The     Ashes Of     Cigarettes, Flower Vases--All Smelling

Of Petrol And Stephanotis--He Regarded It Much As He Used To Regard His

Brother-In-Law, Montague Dartie. The     Thing Typified All That Was Fast,

Insecure, And Subcutaneously Oily In Modern Life. As Modern Life Became

Faster, Looser, Younger, Soames Was Becoming Older, Slower, Tighter,

More And More In Thought And Language Like His Father James Before Him.

He Was Almost Aware Of     It Himself. Pace And Progress Pleased Him Less

And Less; There Was An Ostentation, Too, About A Car Which He

Considered Provocative In The     Prevailing Mood Of     Labour. On One

Occasion That Fellow Sims Had Driven Over The     Only Vested Interest Of     A

Working Man. Soames Had Not Forgotten The     Behaviour Of     Its Master, When

Not Many People Would Have Stopped To Put Up With It. He Had Been Sorry

For The     Dog, And Quite Prepared To Take Its Part Against The     Car, If

That Ruffian Hadn't Been So Outrageous. With Four Hours Fast Becoming

Five, And Still No Fleur, All The     Old Car-Wise Feelings He Had

Experienced In Person And By Proxy Balled Within Him, And Sinking

Sensations Troubled The     Pit Of     His Stomach. At Seven He Telephoned To

Winifred By Trunk Call. No! Fleur Had Not Been To Green Street. Then

Where Was She? Visions Of     His Beloved Daughter Rolled Up In Her Pretty

Frills, All Blood-And-Dust-Stained, In Some Hideous Catastrophe, Began

To Haunt Him. He Went To Her Room And Spied Among Her Things. She Had

Taken Nothing--No Dressing-Case, No Jewellery. And This, A Relief In

One Sense, Increased His Fears Of     An Accident. Terrible To Be Helpless

When His Loved One Was Missing, Especially When He Couldn't Bear Fuss

Or Publicity Of     Any Kind! What Should He Do, If She Were Not Back By

Nightfall?

At A Quarter To Eight He Heard The     Car. A Great Weight Lifted From Off

His Heart; He Hurried Down. She Was Getting Out--Pale And

Tired-Looking, But Nothing Wrong. He Met Her In The     Hall.

"You've Frightened Me. Where Have You Been?"

"To Robin Hill. I'm Sorry, Dear. I Had To Go; I'll Tell You

Afterwards." And, With A Flying Kiss, She Ran Up-Stairs.

Soames Waited In The     Drawing-Room. To Robin Hill! What Did That Portend?

It Was Not A Subject They Could Discuss At Dinner--Consecrated To The

Susceptibilities Of     The     Butler. The     Agony Of     Nerves Soames Had Been

Through, The     Relief He Felt At Her Safety, Softened His Power To

Condemn What She Had Done, Or Resist What She