The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (acx book reading txt) 📕

the trunk at last, and knelt down in front of him.

“Have you missed us, Jon?”

Little Jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings, continued to nod.

“But you had Auntie June?”

“Oh! she had a man with a cough.”

His mother’s face changed, and looked almost angry. He added hastily:

“He was a poor man, Mum; he coughed awfully; I⁠—I liked him.”

His mother put her hands behind his waist.

“You like everybody, Jon?”

Little Jon considered.

“Up to a point,” he said: “Auntie June took me to church one Sunday.”

“To church? Oh!”

“She wanted to see how it would affect me.”

“And did it?”

“Yes. I came over all funny, so she took me home again very quick. I wasn’t sick after all. I went to bed and had hot brandy and water, and read The Boys of Beechwood. It was scrumptious.”

His mother bit her lip.

“When was that?”

“Oh! about⁠—a long time ago⁠—I wanted her to take me again, but she wouldn’t. You and Daddy never go to church, do you?”

“No, we don’t.”

“Why don’t you?”

His mother smiled.

“Well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. Perhaps we went when we were too little.”

“I see,” said little Jon, “it’s dangerous.”

“You shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow up.”

Little Jon replied in a calculating manner:

“I don’t want to grow up, much. I don’t want to go to school.” A sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say what he really felt, turned him red. “I⁠—I want to stay with you, and be your lover, Mum.”

Then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly “I don’t want to go to bed tonight, either. I’m simply tired of going to bed, every night.”

“Have you had any more nightmares?”

“Only about one. May I leave the door open into your room tonight, Mum?”

“Yes, just a little.” Little Jon heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

“What did you see in Glensofantrim?”

“Nothing but beauty, darling.”

“What exactly is beauty?”

“What exactly is⁠—Oh! Jon, that’s a poser.”

“Can I see it, for instance?” His mother got up, and sat beside him.

“You do, every day. The sky is beautiful, the stars, and moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the trees⁠—they’re all beautiful. Look out of the window⁠—there’s beauty for you, Jon.”

“Oh! yes, that’s the view. Is that all?”

“All? no. The sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with their foam flying back.”

“Did you rise from it every day, Mum?”

His mother smiled. “Well, we bathed.”

Little Jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands.

“I know,” he said mysteriously, “you’re it, really, and all the rest is make-believe.”

She sighed, laughed, said: “Oh! Jon!”

Little Jon said critically:

“Do you think Bella beautiful, for instance? I hardly do.”

“Bella is young; that’s something.”

“But you look younger, Mum. If you bump against Bella she hurts.”

“I don’t believe Da was beautiful, when I come to think of it; and Mademoiselle’s almost ugly.”

“Mademoiselle has a very nice face.”

“Oh! yes; nice. I love your little rays, Mum.”

“Rays?”

Little Jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye.

“Oh! Those? But they’re a sign of age.”

“They come when you smile.”

“But they usen’t to.”

“Oh! well, I like them. Do you love me, Mum?”

“I do⁠—I do love you, darling.”

“Ever so?”

“Ever so!”

“More than I thought you did?”

“Much⁠—much more.”

“Well, so do I; so that makes it even.”

Conscious that he had never in his life so given himself away, he felt a sudden reaction to the manliness of Sir Lamorac, Dick Needham, Huck Finn, and other heroes.

“Shall I show you a thing or two?” he said; and slipping out of her arms, he stood on his head. Then, fired by her obvious admiration, he mounted the bed, and threw himself head foremost from his feet on to his back, without touching anything with his hands. He did this several times.

That evening, having inspected what they had brought, he stayed up to dinner, sitting between them at the little round table they used when they were alone. He was extremely excited. His mother wore a French-grey dress, with creamy lace made out of little scriggly roses, round her neck, which was browner than the lace. He kept looking at her, till at last his father’s funny smile made him suddenly attentive to his slice of pineapple. It was later than he had ever stayed up, when he went to bed. His mother went up with him, and he undressed very slowly so as to keep her there. When at last he had nothing on but his pyjamas, he said:

“Promise you won’t go while I say my prayers!”

“I promise.”

Kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little Jon hurried up, under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to see her standing perfectly still with a smile on her face. “Our Father”⁠—so went his last prayer, “which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Mum, thy Kingdom Mum⁠—on Earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily Mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as it is in heaven and trespass against us, for thine is the evil the power and the glory forever and ever. Amum! Look out!” He sprang, and for a long minute remained in her arms. Once in bed, he continued to hold her hand.

“You won’t shut the door any more than that, will you? Are you going to be long, Mum?”

“I must go down and play to Daddy.”

“Oh! well, I shall hear you.”

“I hope not; you must go to sleep.”

“I can sleep any night.”

“Well, this is just a night like any other.”

“Oh! no⁠—it’s extra special.”

“On extra special nights one always sleeps soundest.”

“But if I go to sleep, Mum, I shan’t hear you come up.”

“Well, when I do, I’ll come in and give you a kiss, then if you’re awake you’ll know, and if you’re not you’ll still know you’ve had one.”

Little Jon sighed, “All right!” he said: “I suppose I must put up with that. Mum?”

“Yes?”

“What was her name that Daddy believes in? Venus Anna Diomedes?”

“Oh! my angel! Anadyomene.”

“Yes! but I like my name for you much better.”

“What is yours,