To Let by John Galsworthy (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📖
- Author: John Galsworthy
Book online «To Let by John Galsworthy (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📖». Author John Galsworthy
'I've Overdone It!' He Thought: 'By Jove. I've Overdone It--After All!'
He Staggered Up Towards The Terrace, Dragged Himself Up The Steps, And
Fell Against The Wall Of The House. He Leaned There Gasping, His Face
Buried In The Honeysuckle That He And She Had Taken Such Trouble With
That It Might Sweeten The Air Which Drifted In. Its Fragrance Mingled
With Awful Pain. 'My Love!' He Thought; 'The Boy!' And With A Great
Effort He Tottered In Through The Long Window, And Sank Into Old
Jolyon's Chair. The Book Was There, A Pencil In It; He Caught It Up,
Scribbled A Word On The Open Page.... His Hand Dropped.... So It Was
Like This--Was It?...
There Was A Great Wrench; And Darkness....
Part III III (Irene!) Pg 70
When Jon Rushed Away With The Letter In His Hand, He Ran Along The
Terrace And Round The Corner Of The House, In Fear And Confusion.
Leaning Against The Creepered Wall He Tore Open The Letter. It Was
Long--Very Long! This Added To His Fear, And He Began Reading. When He
Came To The Underlined Words: "It Was Fleur's Father That She Married,"
Everything Swam Before Him. He Was Close To A Window, And Entering By
It, He Passed, Through Music-Room And Hall, Up To His Bedroom. Dipping
His Face In Cold Water, He Sat On His Bed, And Went On Reading,
Dropping Each Finished Page On The Bed Beside Him. His Father's Writing
Was Easy To Read--He Knew It So Well, Though He Had Never Had A Letter
From Him One Quarter So Long. He Read With A Dull Feeling--Imagination
Only Half At Work. He Best Grasped, On That First Reading, The Pain His
Father Must Have Had In Writing Such A Letter. He Let The Last Sheet
Fall, And In A Sort Of Mental, Moral Helplessness He Began To Read The
First Again. It All Seemed To Him Disgusting--Dead And Disgusting.
Then, Suddenly, A Hot Wave Of Horrified Emotion Tingled Through Him. He
Buried His Face In His Hands. His Mother! Fleur's Father! He Took Up
The Letter Again, And Read On Mechanically. And Again Came The Feeling
That It Was All Dead And Disgusting; His Own Love So Different! This
Letter Said His Mother--And Her Father! An Awful Letter!
Property! Could There Be Men Who Looked On Women As Their Property?
Faces Seen In Street And Countryside Came Thronging Up Before Him--Red,
Stock-Fish Faces; Hard, Dull Faces; Prim, Dry Faces; Violent Faces;
Hundreds, Thousands Of Them! How Could He Know What Men Who Had Such
Faces Thought And Did? He Held His Head In His Hands And Groaned. His
Mother! He Caught Up The Letter And Read On Again: "Horror And
Aversion--Alive In Her To-Day ... Your Children ... Grandchildren ...
Of A Man Who Once Owned Your Mother As A Man Might Own A Slave...." He
Got Up From His Bed. This Cruel Shadowy Past, Lurking There To Murder
His Love And Fleur's, Was True, Or His Father Could Never Have Written
It. 'Why Didn't They Tell Me The First Thing,' He Thought, 'The Day I
First Saw Fleur? They Knew I'd Seen Her.
Part III III (Irene!) Pg 71They Were Afraid,
And--Now--I've--Got It!' Overcome By Misery Too Acute For Thought Or
Reason, He Crept Into A Dusky Corner Of The Room And Sat Down On The
Floor. He Sat There, Like Some Unhappy Little Animal. There Was Comfort
In Dusk, And In The Floor--As If He Were Back In Those Days When He
Played His Battles Sprawling All Over It. He Sat There Huddled, His
Hair Ruffled, His Hands Clasped Round His Knees, For How Long He Did
Not Know. He Was Wrenched From His Blank Wretchedness By The Sound Of
The Door Opening From His Mother's Room. The Blinds Were Down Over The
Windows Of His Room, Shut Up In His Absence, And From Where He Sat He
Could Only Hear A Rustle, Her Footsteps Crossing, Till Beyond The Bed
He Saw Her Standing Before His Dressing-Table. She Had Something In Her
Hand. He Hardly Breathed, Hoping She Would Not See Him, And Go Away. He
Saw Her Touch Things On The Table As If They Had Some Virtue In Them,
Then Face The Window--Grey From Head To Foot Like A Ghost. The Least
Turn Of Her Head, And She Must See Him! Her Lips Moved: "Oh! Jon!" She
Was Speaking To Herself; The Tone Of Her Voice Troubled Jon's Heart. He
Saw In Her Hand A Little Photograph. She Held It Towards The Light,
Looking At It--Very Small. He Knew It--One Of Himself As A Tiny Boy,
Which She Always Kept In Her Bag. His Heart Beat Fast. And, Suddenly,
As If She Had Heard It, She Turned Her Eyes And Saw Him. At The Gasp
She Gave, And The Movement Of Her Hands Pressing The Photograph Against
Her Breast, He Said:
"Yes, It's Me."
She Moved Over To The Bed, And Sat Down On It, Quite Close To Him, Her
Hands Still Clasping Her Breast, Her Feet Among The Sheets Of The
Letter Which Had Slipped To The Floor. She Saw Them, And Her Hands
Grasped The Edge Of The Bed. She Sat Very Upright, Her Dark Eyes Fixed
On Him. At Last She Spoke.
"Well, Jon, You Know, I See."
"Yes."
Part III III (Irene!) Pg 72"You've Seen Father?"
"Yes."
There Was A Long Silence, Till She Said:
"Oh! My Darling!"
"It's All Right." The Emotions In Him Were So Violent And So Mixed That
He Dared Not Move--Resentment, Despair, And Yet A Strange Yearning For
The Comfort Of Her Hand On His Forehead.
"What Are You Going To Do?"
"I Don't Know."
There Was Another Long Silence, Then She Got Up. She Stood A Moment,
Very Still, Made A Little Movement With Her Hand, And Said: "My Darling
Boy, My Most Darling Boy, Don't Think Of Me--Think Of Yourself." And,
Passing Round The Foot Of The Bed, Went Back Into Her Room.
Jon Turned--Curled Into A Sort Of Ball, As Might A Hedgehog--Into The
Corner Made By The Two Walls.
He Must Have Been Twenty Minutes There Before A Cry Roused Him. It Came
From The Terrace Below. He Got Up, Scared. Again Came The Cry: "Jon!"
His Mother Was Calling! He Ran Out And Down The Stairs, Through The
Empty Dining-Room Into The Study. She Was Kneeling Before The Old
Armchair, And His Father Was Lying Back Quite White, His Head On His
Breast, One Of His Hands Resting On An Open Book, With A Pencil
Clutched In It--More Strangely Still Than Anything He Had Ever Seen.
Part III III (Irene!) Pg 73She Looked Round Wildly, And Said:
"Oh! Jon--He's Dead--He's Dead!"
Jon Flung Himself Down, And Reaching Over The Arm Of The Chair, Where
He Had Lately Been Sitting, Put His Lips To The Forehead. Icy Cold! How
Could--How Could Dad Be Dead, When Only An Hour Ago--His Mother's Arms
Were Round The Knees; Pressing Her Breast Against Them. "Why--Why
Wasn't I With Him?" He Heard Her Whisper. Then He Saw The Tottering
Word "Irene" Pencilled On The Open Page, And Broke Down Himself. It Was
His First Sight Of Human Death, And Its Unutterable Stillness Blotted
From Him All Other Emotion; All Else, Then, Was But Preliminary To
This! All Love And Life, And Joy, Anxiety, And Sorrow, All Movement,
Light And Beauty, But A Beginning To This Terrible White Stillness. It
Made A Dreadful Mark On Him; All Seemed Suddenly Little, Futile, Short.
He Mastered Himself At Last, Got Up, And Raised Her.
"Mother! Don't Cry--Mother!"
Some Hours Later, When All Was Done That Had To Be, And His Mother Was
Lying Down, He Saw His Father Alone, On The Bed, Covered With A White
Sheet. He Stood For A Long Time Gazing At That Face Which Had Never
Looked Angry--Always Whimsical, And Kind. "To Be Kind And Keep Your End
Up--There's Nothing Else In It," He Had Once Heard His Father Say. How
Wonderfully Dad Had Acted Up To That Philosophy! He Understood Now That
His Father Had Known For A Long Time Past That This Would Come
Suddenly--Known, And Not Said A Word. He Gazed With An Awed And
Passionate Reverence. The Loneliness Of It--Just To Spare His Mother
And Himself! His Own Trouble Seemed Small While He Was Looking At That
Face. The Word Scribbled On The Page! The Farewell Word! Now His Mother
Had No One But Himself! He Went Up Close To The Dead Face--Not Changed
At All, And Yet Completely Changed. He Had Heard His Father Say Once
That He Did Not Believe In Consciousness Surviving Death, Or That If It
Did It Might Be Just Survival Till The Natural Age-Limit Of The Body
Had Been Reached--The Natural Term Of Its Inherent Vitality; So That If
The Body Were Broken By Accident, Excess, Violent Disease,
Consciousness Might Still Persist Till, In The Course Of Nature
Uninterfered With, It Would Naturally Have Faded Out. The Whimsical
Conceit Had Struck Him.
Part III III (Irene!) Pg 74
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