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

“Yes,” said Fleur; “I was holding it.”

The train moved out, and Jon fell on his knees.

“Look out for the corridor,” she whispered; “and⁠—quick!”

Her lips met his. And though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten seconds, Jon’s soul left his body and went so far beyond, that, when he was again sitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as death. He heard her sigh, and the sound seemed to him the most precious he had ever heard⁠—an exquisite declaration that he meant something to her.

“Six weeks isn’t really long,” she said; “and you can easily make it six if you keep your head out there, and never seem to think of me.”

Jon gasped.

“This is just what’s really wanted, Jon, to convince them, don’t you see? If we’re just as bad when you come back they’ll stop being ridiculous about it. Only, I’m sorry it’s not Spain; there’s a girl in a Goya picture at Madrid who’s like me, Father says. Only she isn’t⁠—we’ve got a copy of her.”

It was to Jon like a ray of sunshine piercing through a fog. “I’ll make it Spain,” he said, “Mother won’t mind; she’s never been there. And my Father thinks a lot of Goya.”

“Oh! yes, he’s a painter⁠—isn’t he?”

“Only watercolour,” said Jon, with honesty.

“When we come to Reading, Jon, get out first and go down to Caversham lock and wait for me. I’ll send the car home and we’ll walk by the towing-path.”

Jon seized her hand in gratitude, and they sat silent, with the world well lost, and one eye on the corridor. But the train seemed to run twice as fast now, and its sound was almost lost in that of Jon’s sighing.

“We’re getting near,” said Fleur; “the towing-path’s awfully exposed. One more! Oh! Jon, don’t forget me.”

Jon answered with his kiss. And very soon, a flushed, distracted-looking youth could have been seen⁠—as they say⁠—leaping from the train and hurrying along the platform, searching his pockets for his ticket.

When at last she rejoined him on the towing-path a little beyond Caversham lock he had made an effort, and regained some measure of equanimity. If they had to part, he would not make a scene! A breeze by the bright river threw the white side of the willow leaves up into the sunlight, and followed those two with its faint rustle.

“I told our chauffeur that I was train-giddy,” said Fleur. “Did you look pretty natural as you went out?”

“I don’t know. What is natural?”

“It’s natural to you to look seriously happy. When I first saw you I thought you weren’t a bit like other people.”

“Exactly what I thought when I saw you. I knew at once I should never love anybody else.”

Fleur laughed.

“We’re absurdly young. And love’s young dream is out of date, Jon. Besides, it’s awfully wasteful. Think of all the fun you might have. You haven’t begun, even; it’s a shame, really. And there’s me. I wonder!”

Confusion came on Jon’s spirit. How could she say such things just as they were going to part?

“If you feel like that,” he said, “I can’t go. I shall tell Mother that I ought to try and work. There’s always the condition of the world!”

“The condition of the world!”

Jon thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

“But there is,” he said; “think of the people starving!”

Fleur shook her head. “No, no, I never, never will make myself miserable for nothing.”

“Nothing! But there’s an awful state of things, and of course one ought to help.”

“Oh! yes, I know all that. But you can’t help people, Jon; they’re hopeless. When you pull them out they only get into another hole. Look at them, still fighting and plotting and struggling, though they’re dying in heaps all the time. Idiots!”

“Aren’t you sorry for them?”

“Oh! sorry⁠—yes, but I’m not going to make myself unhappy about it; that’s no good.”

And they were silent, disturbed by this first glimpse of each other’s natures.

“I think people are brutes and idiots,” said Fleur stubbornly.

“I think they’re poor wretches,” said Jon. It was as if they had quarrelled⁠—and at this supreme and awful moment, with parting visible out there in that last gap of the willows!

“Well, go and help your poor wretches, and don’t think of me.”

Jon stood still. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbs trembled. Fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river.

“I must believe in things,” said Jon with a sort of agony; “we’re all meant to enjoy life.”

Fleur laughed. “Yes; and that’s what you won’t do, if you don’t take care. But perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make yourself wretched. There are lots of people like that, of course.”

She was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. Was it Fleur thus staring at the water? Jon had an unreal feeling as if he were passing through the scene in a book where the lover has to choose between love and duty. But just then she looked round at him. Never was anything so intoxicating as that vivacious look. It acted on him exactly as the tug of a chain acts on a dog⁠—brought him up to her with his tail wagging and his tongue out.

“Don’t let’s be silly,” she said, “time’s too short. Look, Jon, you can just see where I’ve got to cross the river. There, round the bend, where the woods begin.”

Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the trees⁠—and felt his heart sink.

“I mustn’t dawdle any more. It’s no good going beyond the next hedge, it gets all open. Let’s get on to it and say goodbye.”

They went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, where the mayflower, both pink and white, was in full bloom.

“My Club’s the Talisman, Stratton Street, Piccadilly. Letters there will be quite safe, and I’m almost always up once a week.”

Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straight before him.

“Today’s the twenty-third of May,” said Fleur; “on the ninth of July I