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

"Tell Me About It, Father!"

Soames Became Very Still.

"What Should You Want To Know About Such Things, At Your Age?"

"Is She Alive?"

He Nodded.

 "And Married?"

"Yes."

"It's Jon Forsyte's Mother, Isn't It? And She Was Your Wife First."

 It Was Said In A Flash Of     Intuition. Surely His Opposition Came From

His Anxiety That She Should Not Know Of     That Old Wound To His Pride.

But She Was Startled. To See Some One So Old And Calm Wince As If

Struck, To Hear So Sharp A Note Of     Pain In His Voice!

"Who Told You That? If Your Aunt--! I Can't Bear The     Affair Talked Of."

"But, Darling," Said Fleur, Softly, "It's So Long Ago." 

"Long Ago Or Not, I--"

Fleur Stood Stroking His Arm.

"I've Tried To Forget," He Said Suddenly; "I Don't Wish To Be

Reminded." And Then, As If Venting Some Long And Secret Irritation, He

Added: "In These Days People Don't Understand. Grand Passion, Indeed!

No One Knows What It Is."

"I Do," Said Fleur, Almost In A Whisper.

Soames, Who Had Turned His Back On Her, Spun Round.

"What Are You Talking Of--A Child Like You!"

"Perhaps I've Inherited It, Father."

"What?"

"For Her Son, You See."

He Was Pale As A Sheet, And She Knew That She Was As Bad. They Stood

Staring At Each Other In The     Steamy Heat, Redolent Of     The     Mushy Scent

Of Earth, Of     Potted Geranium, And Of     Vines Coming Along Fast.

"This Is Crazy," Said Soames At Last, Between Dry Lips.

Scarcely Moving Her Own, She Murmured:

 "Don't Be Angry, Father. I Can't Help It." 

But She Could See He Wasn't Angry; Only Scared, Deeply Scared.

"I Thought That Foolishness," He Stammered, "Was All Forgotten."

"Oh, No! It's Ten Times What It Was."

Soames Kicked At The     Hot-Water Pipe. The     Hapless Movement Touched Her,

Who Had No Fear Of     Her Father--None.

"Dearest!" She Said: "What Must Be, Must, You Know."

"Must!" Repeated Soames. "You Don't Know What You're Talking Of. Has

That Boy Been Told?"

The Blood Rushed Into Her Cheeks.

"Not Yet."

He Had Turned From Her Again, And, With One Shoulder A Little Raised,

Stood Staring Fixedly At A Joint In The     Pipes.

"It's Most Distasteful To Me," He Said Suddenly; "Nothing Could Be More

So. Son Of     That Fellow--It's--It's--Perverse!"

 She Had Noted, Almost Unconsciously, That He Did Not Say "Son Of     That

Woman," And Again Her Intuition Began Working.

Did The     Ghost Of     That Grand Passion Linger In Some Corner Of     His Heart?

She Slipped Her Hand Under His Arm.

"Jon's Father Is Quite Ill And Old; I Saw Him."

"You--?"

"Yes, I Went There With Jon; I Saw Them Both."

"Well, And What Did They Say To You?"

"Nothing. They Were Very Polite."

 "They Would Be." He Resumed His Contemplation Of     The     Pipe-Joint, And

Then Said Suddenly: "I Must Think This Over--I'll Speak To You Again

To-Night."

She Knew This Was Final For The     Moment, And Stole Away, Leaving Him

Still Looking At The     Pipe-Joint. She Wandered Into The     Fruit-Garden,

Among The     Raspberry And Currant Bushes, Without Impetus To Pick And

Eat. Two Months Ago--She Was Light-Hearted! Even Two Days

Ago--Light-Hearted, Before Prosper Profond Told Her. Now She Felt

Tangled In A Web--Of Passions, Vested Rights, Oppressions And Revolts,

The Ties Of     Love And Hate. At This Dark Moment Of     Discouragement There

Seemed, Even To Her Hold-Fast Nature, No Way Out. 

How Deal With It--How

Sway And Bend Things To Her Will, And Get Her Heart's Desire? And,

Suddenly, Round The     Corner Of     The     High Box Hedge, She Came Plump On Her

Mother, Walking Swiftly, With An Open Letter In Her Hand. Her Bosom Was

Heaving, Her Eyes Dilated, Her Cheeks Flushed. Instantly Fleur Thought:

"The Yacht! Poor Mother!"

Annette Gave Her A Wide Startled Look, And Said:

"J'ai La Migraine."

"I'm Awfully Sorry, Mother."

"Oh; Yes! You And Your Father--Sorry!"

"But, Mother--I Am. I Know What It Feels Like."

Annette's Startled Eyes Grew Wide, Till The     Whites Showed Above Them.

"You Innocent!" She Said.

Her Mother--So Self-Possessed, And Commonsensical--To Look And Speak

Like This! It Was All Frightening! Her Father, Her Mother, Herself! And

Only Two Months Back They Had Seemed To Have Everything They Wanted In

This World.

 Annette Crumpled The     Letter In Her Hand. Fleur Knew That She Must

Ignore The     Sight.

"Can't I Do Anything For Your Head, Mother?"

Annette Shook That Head And Walked On, Swaying Her Hips.

'It's Cruel,' Thought Fleur, 'And I Was Glad! That Man! What Do Men

Come Prowling For, Disturbing Everything! I Suppose He's Tired Of     Her.

What Business Has He To Be Tired Of     My Mother? What Business!' And At

That Thought, So Natural And So Peculiar, She Uttered A Little Choked

Laugh.

She Ought, Of     Course, To Be Delighted, But What Was There To Be

Delighted At? Her Father Didn't Really Care! Her Mother Did, Perhaps?

She Entered The     Orchard, And Sat Down Under A Cherry-Tree. 

A Breeze

Sighed In The     Higher Boughs; The     Sky Seen Through Their Green Was Very

Blue And Very White In Cloud--Those Heavy White Clouds Almost Always

Present In River Landscape. Bees, Sheltering Out Of     The     Wind, Hummed

Softly, And Over The     Lush Grass Fell The     Thick Shade From Those

Fruit-Trees Planted By Her Father Five-And-Twenty Years Ago. Birds Were

Almost Silent, The     Cuckoos Had Ceased To Sing, But Wood-Pigeons Were

Cooing. The     Breath And Drone And Cooing Of     High Summer Were Not For

Long A Sedative To Her Excited Nerves. Crouched Over Her Knees She

Began To Scheme. Her Father Must Be Made To Back Her Up. Why Should He

Mind So Long As She Was Happy? She Had Not Lived For Nearly Nineteen

Years Without Knowing That Her Future Was All He Really Cared About.

She Had, Then, Only To Convince Him That Her Future Could Not Be Happy

Without Jon. He Thought It A Mad Fancy. How Foolish The     Old Were,

Thinking They Could Tell What The     Young Felt! Had Not He Confessed That

He--When Young--Had Loved With A Grand Passion! He Ought To Understand.

'He Piles Up His Money For Me,' She Thought; 'But What's The     Use, If

I'm Not Going To Be Happy?' Money, And All It Bought, Did Not Bring

Happiness. Love Only Brought That. The     Ox-Eyed Daisies In This Orchard,

Which Gave It Such A Moony Look Sometimes, Grew Wild And Happy, And Had

Their Hour. 'They Oughtn't To Have Called Me Fleur,' She Mused, 'If

They Didn't Mean Me To Have My Hour, And Be Happy While It Lasts.'

Nothing Real Stood In The     Way, Like Poverty, Or Disease--Sentiment

Only, A Ghost From The     Unhappy Past! Jon Was Right. They Wouldn't Let

You Live, These Old People! They Made Mistakes, Committed Crimes, And

Wanted Their Children To Go On Paying! The     Breeze Died Away; Midges

Began To Bite. She Got Up, Plucked A Piece Of     Honeysuckle, And Went In.

It Was Hot That Night. Both She And Her Mother Had Put On Thin, Pale

Low Frocks. The     Dinner Flowers Were Pale. Fleur Was Struck With The

Pale Look Of     Everything: Her Father's Face, Her Mother's Shoulders; The

Pale Panelled Walls, The     Pale-Grey Velvety Carpet, The     Lamp-Shade, Even

The Soup Was Pale. There Was Not One Spot Of     Colour In The     Room, Not

Even Wine In The     Pale Glasses, For No One Drank It. What Was Not Pale

Was Black--Her Father's Clothes, The     Butler's Clothes, Her Retriever

Stretched Out Exhausted In The     Window, The     Curtains Black With A Cream

Pattern. A Moth Came In, And That Was Pale. And Silent Was That

Half-Mourning Dinner In The     Heat.

Her Father Called Her Back As She Was Following Her Mother Out. 

She Sat Down Beside Him At The     Table, And, Unpinning The     Pale

Honeysuckle, Put It To Her Nose.

"I've Been Thinking," He Said.

"Yes, Dear?"

"It's Extremely Painful For Me To Talk, But There's No Help For It. I

Don't Know If You Understand How Much You Are To Me--I've Never Spoken

Of It, I Didn't Think It Necessary; But--But