He waited till evening, till after their almost silent dinner, till his mother had played to him — and still he waited, feeling that she knew what he was waiting to say. She kissed him and went up-stairs, and still he lingered, watching the moonlight and the moths, and that unreality of colouring which steals along and stains a summer night. And he would have given anything to be back in the past — barely three months back; or away forward, years, in the future. The present with this stark cruelty of a decision, one way or the other, seemed impossible. He realised now so much more keenly what his mother felt than he had at first; as if the story in that letter had been a poisonous germ producing a kind of fever of partisanship, so that he really felt there were two camps, his mother’s and his — Fleur’s and her father’s. It might be a dead thing, that old tragic ownership and enmity, but dead things were poisonous till Time had cleaned them away. Even his love felt tainted, less illusioned, more of the earth, and with a treacherous lurking doubt lest Fleur, like her father, might want to OWN; not articulate, just a stealing haunt, horribly unworthy, which crept in and about the ardour of his memories, touched with its tarnishing breath the vividness and grace of that charmed face and figure — a doubt, not real enough to convince him of its presence, just real enough to deflower a perfect faith. And perfect faith, to Jon, not yet twenty, was essential. He still had Youth’s eagerness to give with both hands, to take with neither — to give lovingly to one who had his own impulsive generosity. Surely she had! He got up from the window-seat and roamed in the big grey ghostly room, whose walls were hung with silvered canvas. This house — his father said in that death-bed letter — had been built for his mother to live in-with Fleur’s father! He put out his hand in the half-dark, as if to grasp the shadowy hand of the dead. He clenched, trying to feel the thin vanished fingers of his father; to squeeze them, and reassure him that he — he was on his father’s side. Tears, prisoned within him, made his eyes feel dry and hot. He went back to the window. It was warmer, not so eerie, more comforting outside, where the moon hung golden, three days off full; the freedom of the night was comforting. If only Fleur and he had met on some desert island without a past — and Nature for their house! Jon had still his high regard for desert islands, where breadfruit grew, and the water was blue above the coral. The night was deep, was free — there was enticement in it; a lure, a promise, a refuge from entanglement, and love! Milksop tied to his mother’s —! His cheeks burned. He shut the window, drew curtains over it, switched off the lighted sconce, and went up-stairs.
The door of his room was open, the light turned up; his mother, still in her evening gown, was standing at the window. She turned, and said:
“Sit down, Jon; let’s talk.” She sat down on the window-seat, Jon on his bed. She had her profile turned to him, and the beauty and grace of her figure, the delicate line of the brow, the nose, the neck, the strange and as it were remote refinement of her, moved him. His mother never belonged to her surroundings. She came into them from somewhere — as it were! What was she going to say to him, who had in his heart such things to say to her?
“I know Fleur came today. I’m not surprised.” It was as though she had added: “She is her father’s daughter!” And Jon’s heart hardened. Irene went on quietly:
“I have Father’s letter. I picked it up that night and kept it. Would you like it back, dear?”
Jon shook his head.
“I had read it, of course, before he gave it to you. It didn’t quite do justice to my criminality.”
“Mother!” burst from Jon’s lips.
“He put it very sweetly, but I know that in marrying Fleur’s father without love I did a dreadful thing. An unhappy marriage, Jon, can play such havoc with other lives besides one’s own. You are fearfully young, my darling, and fearfully loving. Do you think you can possibly be happy with this girl?”
Staring at her dark eyes, darker now from pain, Jon answered:
“Yes; oh! yes — if YOU could be.”
Irene smiled.
“Admiration of beauty, and longing for possession are not love. If yours were another case like mine, Jon — where the deepest things are stifled; the flesh joined, and the spirit at war!”
“Why should it, Mother? You think she must be like her father, but she’s not. I’ve seen him.”
Again the smile came on Irene’s lips, and in Jon something wavered; there was such irony and experience in that smile.
“You are a giver, Jon; she is a taker.”
That unworthy doubt, that haunting uncertainty again! He said with vehemence:
“She isn’t — she isn’t. It’s only because I can’t bear to make you unhappy, Mother, now that Father —” He thrust his fists against his forehead.
Irene got up.
“I told you that night, dear, not to mind me. I meant it. Think of yourself and your own happiness! I can stand what’s left — I’ve brought it on myself.”
Again the word: “Mother!” burst from Jon’s lips.
She came over to him and put her hands over his.
“Do you feel your head, darling?”
Jon shook it. What he felt was in his chest — a sort of tearing asunder of the tissue there, by the two loves.
“I shall always love you the same, Jon, whatever you do. You won’t lose anything.” She smoothed his hair gently, and walked away.
He heard the door shut; and, rolling over on the bed, lay, stifling his breath, with an awful held-up feeling within him.
Last updated on Wed Jan 12 09:33:24 2011 for eBooks@Adelaide.
To Let, by John Galsworthy
VII Embassy
Enquiring for her at tea time Soames learned that Fleur had been out in the car since two. Three hours! Where had she gone? Up to London without a word to him? He had never become quite reconciled with cars. He had embraced them in principle — like the born empiricist, or Forsyte, that he was — adopting each symptom of progress as it came along with: “Well, we couldn’t do without them now.” But in fact he found them tearing, great, smelly things. Obliged by Annette to have one — a Rollhard with pearl-grey cushions, electric light, little mirrors, trays for the ashes of cigarettes, flower vases — all smelling of petrol and stephanotis — he regarded it much as he used to regard his brother-inlaw, Montague Dartie. The thing typified all that was fast, insecure, and subcutaneously oily in modern life. As modern life became faster, looser, younger, Soames was becoming older, slower, tighter, more and more in thought and language like his father James before him. He was almost aware of it himself. Pace and progress pleased him less and less; there was an ostentation, too, about a car which he considered provocative in the prevailing mood of Labour. On one occasion that fellow Sims had driven over the only vested interest of a working man. Soames had not forgotten the behaviour of its master, when not many people would have stopped to put up with it. He had been sorry for the dog, and quite prepared to take its part against the car, if that ruffian hadn’t been so outrageous. With four hours fast becoming five, and still no Fleur, all the old car-wise feelings he had experienced in person and by proxy balled within him, and sinking sensations troubled the pit of his stomach. At seven he telephoned to Winifred by trunk call. No! Fleur had not been to Green Street. Then where was she? Visions of his beloved daughter rolled up in her pretty frills, all blood-and-dust-stained, in some hideous catastrophe, began to haunt him. He went to her room and spied among her things. She had taken nothing — no dressing-case, no jewellery. And this, a relief in one sense, increased his fears of an accident. Terrible to be helpless when his loved one was missing, especially when he couldn’t bear fuss or publicity of any kind! What should he do, if she were not back by nightfall?