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

Mother--" He Paused, Staring At His Finger-Bowl Of     Venetian Glass.

"Yes?"

"I've Only You To Look To. I've Never Had--Never Wanted Anything Else,

Since You Were Born."

"I Know," Fleur Murmured.

Soames Moistened His Lips.

"You May Think This A Matter I Can Smooth Over And Arrange For You.

You're Mistaken. I--I'm Helpless."

Fleur Did Not Speak.

 "Quite Apart From My Own Feelings," Went On Soames With More

Resolution, "Those Two Are Not Amenable To Anything I Can Say.

They--They Hate Me, As People Always Hate Those Whom They Have Injured.

"But He--Jon--"

"He's Their Flesh And Blood, Her Only Child. Probably He Means To Her

What You Mean To Me. It's A Deadlock."

"No," Cried Fleur, "No, Father!"

Soames Leaned Back, The     Image Of     Pale Patience, As If Resolved On The

Betrayal Of     No Emotion.

"Listen!" He Said. "You're Putting The     Feelings Of     Two Months--Two

Months--Against The     Feelings Of     Thirty-Five Years! What Chance Do You

Think You Have? Two Months--Your Very First Love-Affair, A Matter Of

Half A Dozen Meetings, A Few Walks And Talks, A Few Kisses--Against,

Against What You Can't Imagine, What No One Could Who Hasn't Been

Through It. Come, Be Reasonable, Fleur! It's Midsummer Madness!"

Fleur Tore The     Honeysuckle Into Little, Slow Bits. "The Madness Is In

Letting The     Past Spoil It All. What Do We Care About The     Past? It's Our

Lives, Not Yours."

Soames Raised His Hand To His Forehead, Where Suddenly She Saw Moisture

Shining.

"Whose Child Are You?" He Said. "Whose Child Is He? The     Present Is

Linked With The     Past, The     Future With Both. There's No Getting Away

From That."

She Had Never Heard Philosophy Pass Those Lips Before. Impressed Even

In Her Agitation, She Leaned Her Elbows On The     Table, Her Chin On Her

Hands.

"But, Father, Consider It Practically. We Want Each Other. There's Ever

So Much Money, And Nothing Whatever In The     Way But Sentiment. Let's

Bury The     Past, Father."

Soames Shook His Head. "Impossible!"

"Besides," Said Fleur Gently, "You Can't Prevent Us."

 "I Don't Suppose," Said Soames, "That If Left To Myself I Should Try To

Prevent You; I Must Put Up With Things, I Know, To Keep Your Affection.

But It's Not I Who Control This Matter. That's What I Want You To

Realise Before It's Too Late. If You Go On Thinking You Can Get Your

Way, And Encourage This Feeling, The     Blow Will Be Much Heavier When You

Find You Can't."

"Oh!" Cried Fleur, "Help Me, Father; You Can Help Me, You Know."

Soames Made A Startled Movement Of     Negation.

"I?" He Said Bitterly. "Help? I Am The     Impediment--The Just Cause And

Impediment--Isn't That The     Jargon? You Have My Blood In Your Veins."

 He Rose.

 "Well, The     Fat's In The     Fire. If You Persist In Your Wilfulness You'll

Have Yourself To Blame. Come! Don't Be Foolish, My Child--My Only

Child!"

Fleur Laid Her Forehead Against His Shoulder.

All Was In Such Turmoil Within Her. But No Good To Show It! No Good At

All! She Broke Away From Him, And Went Out Into The     Twilight,

Distraught, But Unconvinced. All Was Indeterminate And Vague Within

Her, Like The     Shapes And Shadows In The     Garden, Except--Her Will To

Have. A Poplar Pierced Up Into The     Dark-Blue Sky And Touched A White

Star There. The     Dew Wetted Her Shoes, And Chilled Her Bare Shoulders.

She Went Down To The     River Bank, And Stood Gazing At A Moonstreak On

The Darkening Water. Suddenly She Smelled Tobacco Smoke, And A White

Figure Emerged As If Created By The     Moon. It Was Young Mont In

Flannels, Standing In His Boat. She Heard The     Tiny Hiss Of     His

Cigarette Extinguished In The     Water.

"Fleur," Came His Voice, "Don't Be Hard On A Poor Devil! I've Been

Waiting Hours."

"For What?"

"Come In My Boat!"

"Not I."

"Why Not?"

"I'm Not A Water-Nymph."

"Haven't You Any Romance In You? Don't Be Modern, Fleur!"

He Appeared On The     Path Within A Yard Of     Her. 

"Go Away!"

"Fleur, I Love You. Fleur!"

Fleur Uttered A Short Laugh.

"Come Again," She Said, "When I Haven't Got My Wish."

"What Is Your Wish?"

"Ask Another."

"Fleur," Said Mont, And His Voice Sounded Strange, "Don't Mock Me! Even

Vivisected Dogs Are Worth Decent Treatment Before They're Cut Up For

Good."

Fleur Shook Her Head; But Her Lips Were Trembling.

"Well, You Shouldn't Make Me Jump. Give Me A Cigarette."

Mont Gave Her One, Lighted It, And Another For Himself.

"I Don't Want To Talk Rot," He Said, "But Please Imagine All The     Rot

That All The     Lovers That Ever Were Have Talked, And All My Special Rot

Thrown In."

"Thank You, I Have Imagined It. Good-Night!"

 They Stood For A Moment Facing Each Other In The     Shadow Of     An

Acacia-Tree With Very Moonlit Blossoms, And The     Smoke From Their

Cigarettes Mingled In The     Air Between Them. 

"Also Ran: 'Michael Mont'?" He Said. Fleur Turned Abruptly Towards The

House. On The     Lawn She Stopped To Look Back. Michael Mont Was Whirling

His Arms Above Him; She Could See Them Dashing At His Head, Then Waving

At The     Moonlit Blossoms Of     The     Acacia. His Voice Just Reached Her.

"Jolly--Jolly!" Fleur Shook Herself. She Couldn't Help Him, She Had Too

Much Trouble Of     Her Own! On The     Verandah She Stopped Very Suddenly

Again. Her Mother Was Sitting In The     Drawing-Room At Her Writing

Bureau, Quite Alone. There Was Nothing Remarkable In The     Expression Of

Her Face Except Its Utter Immobility. But She Looked Desolate! Fleur

Went Up-Stairs. At The     Door Of     Her Room She Paused. She Could Hear Her

Father Walking Up And Down, Up And Down The     Picture-Gallery.

'Yes,' She Thought, Jolly! Oh, Jon!'

When Fleur Left Him Jon Stared At The     Austrian. She Was A Thin Woman

With A Dark Face And The     Concerned Expression Of     One Who Has Watched

Every Little Good That Life Once Had Slip From Her, One By One.

"No Tea?" She Said.

Susceptible To The     Disappointment In Her Voice, Jon Murmured:

"No, Really; Thanks."

"A Lil Cup--It Ready. A Lil Cup And Cigarette."

Fleur Was Gone! Hours Of     Remorse And Indecision Lay Before Him! And

With A Heavy Sense Of     Disproportion He Smiled, And Said:

"Well--Thank You!"

She Brought In A Little Pot Of     Tea With Two Cups, And A Silver Box Of

Cigarettes On A Little Tray.

"Sugar? Miss Forsyte Has Much Sugar--She Buy My Sugar, My Friend's

Sugar Also. Miss Forsyte Is A Veree Kind Lady. I Am Happy To Serve Her.

You Her Brother?"

"Yes," Said Jon, Beginning To Puff The     Second Cigarette Of     His Life.

"Very Young Brother," Said The     Austrian, With A Little Anxious Smile,

Which Reminded Him Of     The     Wag Of     A Dog's Tail.

"May I Give You Some?" He Said. "And Won't You Sit Down?"

The Austrian Shook Her Head.

"Your Father A Very Nice Man--The Most Nice Old Man I Ever See. Miss

Forsyte Tell Me All About Him. Is He Better?"

Her Words Fell On Jon Like A Reproach. "Oh! I Think He's All Right."

"I Like To See Him Again," Said The     Austrian, Putting A Hand On Her

Heart; "He Have Veree Kind Heart.