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

“You love Mother, Dad; you must know what we feel. It isn’t fair to us to let old things spoil our happiness, is it?”

Brought face to face with his confession, Jolyon resolved to do without it if by any means he could. He laid his hand on the boy’s arm.

“Look, Jon! I might put you off with talk about your both being too young and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn’t listen, besides, it doesn’t meet the case⁠—Youth, unfortunately, cures itself. You talk lightly about ‘old things like that,’ knowing nothing⁠—as you say truly⁠—of what happened. Now, have I ever given you reason to doubt my love for you, or my word?”

At a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict his words aroused⁠—the boy’s eager clasp, to reassure him on these points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring forth; but he could only feel grateful for the squeeze.

“Very well, you can believe what I tell you. If you don’t give up this love affair, you will make Mother wretched to the end of her days. Believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can’t be buried⁠—it can’t indeed.”

Jon got off the arm of the chair.

“The girl”⁠—thought Jolyon⁠—“there she goes⁠—starting up before him⁠—life itself⁠—eager, pretty, loving!”

“I can’t, Father; how can I⁠—just because you say that? Of course, I can’t!”

“Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without hesitation; you would have to! Can’t you believe me?”

“How can you tell what I should think? Father, I love her better than anything in the world.”

Jolyon’s face twitched, and he said with painful slowness:

“Better than your mother, Jon?”

From the boy’s face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the stress and struggle he was going through.

“I don’t know,” he burst out, “I don’t know! But to give Fleur up for nothing⁠—for something I don’t understand, for something that I don’t believe can really matter half so much, will make me⁠—make me.⁠ ⁠…”

“Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier⁠—yes. But that’s better than going on with this.”

“I can’t. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust you; why don’t you trust me, Father? We wouldn’t want to know anything⁠—we wouldn’t let it make any difference. It’ll only make us both love you and Mother all the more.”

Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth.

“Think what your mother’s been to you, Jon! She has nothing but you; I shan’t last much longer.”

“Why not? It isn’t fair to⁠—Why not?”

“Well,” said Jolyon, rather coldly, “because the doctors tell me I shan’t; that’s all.”

“Oh, Dad!” cried Jon, and burst into tears.

This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, moved Jolyon terribly. He recognised to the full how fearfully soft the boy’s heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in life generally. And he reached out his hand helplessly⁠—not wishing, indeed not daring to get up.

“Dear man,” he said, “don’t⁠—or you’ll make me!”

Jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, very still.

“What now?” thought Jolyon. “What can I say to move him?”

“By the way, don’t speak of that to Mother,” he said; “she has enough to frighten her with this affair of yours. I know how you feel. But, Jon, you know her and me well enough to be sure we wouldn’t wish to spoil your happiness lightly. Why, my dear boy, we don’t care for anything but your happiness⁠—at least, with me it’s just yours and Mother’s and with her just yours. It’s all the future for you both that’s at stake.”

Jon turned. His face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, seemed to burn.

“What is it? What is it? Don’t keep me like this!”

Jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into his breast pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, his eyes closed. The thought passed through his mind: “I’ve had a good long innings⁠—some pretty bitter moments⁠—this is the worst!” Then he brought his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of fatigue: “Well, Jon, if you hadn’t come today, I was going to send you this. I wanted to spare you⁠—I wanted to spare your mother and myself, but I see it’s no good. Read it, and I think I’ll go into the garden.” He reached forward to get up.

Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, “No, I’ll go”; and was gone.

Jolyon sank back in his chair. A bluebottle chose that moment to come buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better than nothing.⁠ ⁠… Where had the boy gone to read his letter? The wretched letter⁠—the wretched story! A cruel business⁠—cruel to her⁠—to Soames⁠—to those two children⁠—to himself!⁠ ⁠… His heart thumped and pained him. Life⁠—its loves⁠—its work⁠—its beauty⁠—its aching, and⁠—its end! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until⁠—you regretted that you had ever been born. Life⁠—it wore you down, yet did not make you want to die⁠—that was the cunning evil! Mistake to have a heart! Again the bluebottle came buzzing⁠—bringing in all the heat and hum and scent of summer⁠—yes, even the scent⁠—as of ripe fruits, dried grasses, sappy shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. And out there somewhere in the fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turning and twisting its pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and trouble⁠—breaking his heart about it! The thought made Jolyon acutely miserable. Jon was such a tenderhearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious, too⁠—it was so unfair, so damned unfair! He remembered Irene saying to him once: “Never was anyone born more loving and lovable than Jon.” Poor little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all of a summer afternoon! Youth took things so