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

Waited In A Relaxed Stupor For Her Revelation. Life Was A Queer

Business. There He Was At Sixty-Five And No More In Command Of     Things

Than If He Had Not Spent Forty Years In Building Up Security--Always

Something One Couldn't Get On Terms With! In The     Pocket Of     His

Dinner-Jacket Was A Letter From Annette. She Was Coming Back In A

Fortnight. He Knew Nothing Of     What She Had Been Doing Out There. And He

Was Glad That He Did Not. Her Absence Had Been A Relief. Out Of     Sight

Was Out Of     Mind! And Now She Was Coming Back. Another Worry! And The

Bolderby Old Crome Was Gone--Dumetrius Had Got It--All Because That

Anonymous Letter Had Put It Out Of     His Thoughts. He Furtively Remarked

The Strained Look On His Daughter's Face, As If She Too Were Gazing At

A Picture That She Couldn't Buy. He Almost Wished The     War Back. Worries

Didn't Seem, Then, Quite So Worrying. From The     Caress In Her Voice, The

Look On Her Face, He Became Certain That She Wanted Something From Him,

Uncertain Whether It Would Be Wise Of     Him To Give It Her. He Pushed His

Savoury Away Uneaten, And Even Joined Her In A Cigarette.

After Dinner She Set The     Electric Piano-Player Going. And He Augured

The Worst When She Sat Down On A Cushion Footstool At His Knee, And Put

Her Hand On His.

"Darling, Be Nice To Me. I Had To See Jon--He Wrote To Me. He's Going

To Try What He Can Do With His Mother. But I've Been Thinking. But It's

Really In Your Hands, Father. If You'd Persuade Her That It Doesn't

Mean Renewing The     Past In Any Way! That I Shall Stay Yours, And Jon

Will Stay Hers; That You Need Never See Him Or Her, And She Need Never

See You Or Me! Only You Could Persuade Her, Dear, Because Only You

Could Promise. One Can't Promise For Other People. Surely It Wouldn't

Be Too Awkward For You To See Her Just This Once--Now That Jon's Father

Is Dead?"

"Too Awkward?" Soames Repeated. "The Whole Thing's Preposterous."

"You Know," Said Fleur, Without Looking Up, "You Wouldn't Mind Seeing

Her, Really."

Soames Was Silent. Her Words Had Expressed A Truth Too Deep For Him To

Admit. She Slipped Her Fingers Between His Own--Hot, Slim, Eager, They

Clung There. This Child Of     His Would Corkscrew Her Way Into A Brick

Wall!

"What Am I To Do, If You Won't, Father?" She Said Very Softly.

"I'll Do Anything For Your Happiness," Said Soames; "But This Isn't For

Your Happiness."

"Oh! It Is; It Is!"

"It'll Only Stir Things Up," He Said Grimly.

 "But They Are Stirred Up. The     Thing Is To Quiet Them. To Make Her Feel

That This Is Just Our Lives, And Has Nothing To Do With Yours Or Hers.

You Can Do It, Father, I Know You Can."

"You Know A Great Deal, Then," Was Soames' Glum Answer.

"If You Will, Jon And I Will Wait A Year--Two Years If You Like."

"It Seems To Me," Murmured Soames, "That You Care Nothing About What I

Feel."

 Fleur Pressed His Hand Against Her Cheek.

 "I Do, Darling. But You Wouldn't Like Me To Be Awfully Miserable."

How

She Wheedled To Get Her Ends! And Trying With All His Might To Think

She Really Cared For Him--He Was Not Sure--Not Sure. All She Cared For

Was This Boy! Why Should He Help Her To Get This Boy, Who Was Killing

Her Affection For Himself? Why Should He? By The     Laws Of     The     Forsytes

It Was Foolish! There Was Nothing To Be Had Out Of     It--Nothing! To Give

Her To That Boy! To Pass Her Into The     Enemy's Camp, Under The     Influence

Of The     Woman Who Had Injured Him So Deeply! Slowly--Inevitably--He

Would Lose This Flower Of     His Life! And Suddenly He Was Conscious That

His Hand Was Wet. His Heart Gave A Little Painful Jump. He Couldn't

Bear Her To Cry. He Put His Other Hand Quickly Over Hers, And A Tear

Dropped On That, Too. He Couldn't Go On Like This! "Well, Well," He

Said, "I'll Think It Over, And Do What I Can. Come, Come!" If She Must

Have It For Her Happiness--She Must; He Couldn't Refuse To Help Her.

And Lest She Should Begin To Thank Him He Got Out Of     His Chair And Went

Up To The     Piano-Player--Making That Noise! It Ran Down, As He Reached

It, With A Faint Buzz. That Musical Box Of     His Nursery Days: "The

Harmonious Blacksmith," "Glorious Port"--The Thing Had Always Made Him

Miserable When His Mother Set It Going On Sunday Afternoons. Here It

Was Again--The Same Thing, Only Larger, More Expensive, And Now It

Played: "The Wild Wild Women" And "The Policeman's Holiday," And He Was

No Longer In Black Velvet With A Sky-Blue Collar. 'Profond's Right,' He

Thought, 'There's Nothing In It! We're All Progressing To The     Grave!'

And With That Surprising Mental Comment He Walked Out.

He Did Not See Fleur Again That Night. But, At Breakfast, Her Eyes

Followed Him About With An Appeal He Could Not Escape--Not That He

Intended To Try. No! He Had Made Up His Mind To The     Nerve-Racking

Business. He Would Go To Robin Hill--To That House Of     Memories. A

Pleasant Memory--The Last! Of     Going Down To Keep That Boy's Father And

Irene Apart By Threatening Divorce. He Had Often Thought, Since, That

It Had Clenched Their Union. And, Now, He Was Going To Clench The     Union

Of That Boy With His Girl. 'I Don't Know What I've Done,' He Thought,

'To Have Such Things Thrust On Me!' He Went Up By Train And Down By

Train, And From The     Station Walked By The     Long Rising Lane, Still Very

Much As He Remembered It Over Thirty Years Ago. Funny--So Near London!

Some One Evidently Was Holding On To The     Land There. This Speculation

Soothed Him, Moving Between The     High Hedges Slowly, So As Not To Get

Overheated, Though The     Day Was Chill Enough. After All Was Said And

Done There Was Something Real About Land, It Didn't Shift. Land, And

Good Pictures! The     Values Might Fluctuate A Bit, But On The     Whole They

Were Always Going Up--Worth Holding On To, In A World Where There Was

Such A Lot Of     Unreality, Cheap Building, Changing Fashions, Such A

"Here To-Day And Gone To-Morrow" Spirit.

The     French Were Right,

Perhaps, With Their Peasant Proprietorship, Though He Had No Opinion Of

The French. One's Bit Of     Land! Something Solid In It! He Had Heard

Peasant-Proprietors Described As A Pig-Headed Lot; Had Heard Young Mont

Call His Father A Pig-Headed Morning Poster--Disrespectful Young Devil.

Well, There Were Worse Things Than Being Pig-Headed Or Reading The

Morning Post. There Was Profond And His Tribe, And All These Labour

Chaps, And Loud-Mouthed Politicians, And "Wild, Wild Women"! A Lot Of

Worse Things! And, Suddenly, Soames Became Conscious Of     Feeling Weak,

And Hot, And Shaky. Sheer Nerves At The     Meeting Before Him! As Aunt

Juley Might Have Said--Quoting "Superior Dosset"--His Nerves Were "In A

Proper Fantigue." He Could See The     House Now Among Its Trees, The     House

He Had Watched Being Built, Intending It For Himself And This Woman,

Who, By Such Strange Fate, Had Lived In It With Another After All! He

Began To Think Of     Dumetrius, Local Loans, And Other Forms Of

Investment. He Could Not Afford To Meet Her With His Nerves All

Shaking; He Who Represented The     Day Of     Judgment For Her On Earth As It

Was In Heaven; He, Legal Ownership, Personified, Meeting Lawless

Beauty, Incarnate. His Dignity Demanded Impassivity During This Embassy

Designed To Link Their Offspring, Who, If She Had Behaved Herself,

Would Have Been Brother And Sister. That Wretched Tune: "The Wild Wild

Women" Kept Running In His Head, Perversely, For Tunes Did Not Run

There As A Rule. Passing The     Poplars In Front Of     The     House, He Thought:

'How They've Grown; I Had Them Planted!'

A Maid Answered His Ring.

"Will You Say--Mr. Forsyte, On A Very Special Matter."

If She Realised Who He Was, Quite Probably She Would Not See Him. 'By

George!' He Thought, Hardening As The     Tug Came: 'It's A Topsyturvy

Affair!'

The Maid Came Back. Would The     Gentleman State His Business, Please?

"Say It Concerns Mr. Jon," Said Soames.

And Once More He Was Alone In That Hall With The     Pool Of     Grey-White

Marble Designed By Her First Lover.

Ah! She Had Been A Bad Lot--Had

Loved Two Men, And Not Himself! He Must Remember That When He Came Face

To Face With Her Once More. And Suddenly He Saw Her In The     Opening

Chink Between The     Long Heavy Purple Curtains, Swaying, As If In

Hesitation; The     Old Perfect Poise And Line, The     Old Startled Dark-Eyed

Gravity; The     Old Calm Defensive Voice: "Will You Come In, Please?"

He Passed Through That Opening. As In The     Picture-Gallery And The

Confectioner's Shop, She Seemed To Him Still Beautiful. And This Was

The First Time--The Very First--Since He Married Her Five And Thirty

Years Ago, That He Was Speaking To Her Without The     Legal Right To Call

Her His. She Was Not Wearing Black--One Of     That Fellow's Radical

Notions, He Supposed.

"I Apologise For Coming," He Said Glumly; "But This Business Must Be

Settled One Way Or The     Other."

"Won't You Sit Down?"

"No, Thank You."

Anger At His False Position, Impatience Of     Ceremony Between Them,

Mastered Him, And Words Came Tumbling Out:

"It's An Infernal Mischance; I've Done My Best To Discourage It. I

Consider My Daughter Crazy, But I've Got Into The     Habit Of     Indulging

Her; That's Why I'm Here. I Suppose You're Fond Of     Your Son."

"Devotedly."

"Well?"

"It Rests With Him."