The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ
- Author: John Galsworthy
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After dinner she set the electric piano-player going. And he augured the worst when she sat down on a cushion footstool at his knee, and put her hand on his.
âDarling, be nice to me. I had to see Jonâ âhe wrote to me. Heâs going to try what he can do with his mother. But Iâve been thinking. Itâs really in your hands, Father. If youâd persuade her that it doesnât mean renewing the past in any way! That I shall stay yours, and Jon will stay hers; that you need never see him or her, and she need never see you or me! Only you could persuade her, dear, because only you could promise. One canât promise for other people. Surely it wouldnât be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that Jonâs father is dead?â
âToo awkward?â Soames repeated. âThe whole thingâs preposterous.â
âYou know,â said Fleur, without looking up, âyou wouldnât mind seeing her, really.â
Soames was silent. Her words had expressed a truth too deep for him to admit. She slipped her fingers between his ownâ âhot, slim, eager, they clung there. This child of his would corkscrew her way into a brick wall!
âWhat am I to do if you wonât, Father?â she said very softly.
âIâll do anything for your happiness,â said Soanies; âbut this isnât for your happiness.â
âOh! it is; it is!â
âItâll only stir things up,â he said grimly.
âBut they are stirred up. The thing is to quiet them. To make her feel that this is just our lives, and has nothing to do with yours or hers. You can do it, Father, I know you can.â
âYou know a great deal, then,â was Soamesâ glum answer.
âIf you will, Jon and I will wait a yearâ âtwo years if you like.â
âIt seems to me,â murmured Soames, âthat you care nothing about what I feel.â
Fleur pressed his hand against her cheek.
âI do, darling. But you wouldnât like me to be awfully miserable.â
How she wheedled to get her ends! And trying with all his might to think she really cared for himâ âhe was not sureâ ânot sure. All she cared for was this boy! Why should he help her to get this boy, who was killing her affection for himself? Why should he? By the laws of the Forsytes it was foolish! There was nothing to be had out of itâ ânothing! To give her to that boy! To pass her into the enemyâs camp, under the influence of the woman who had injured him so deeply! Slowlyâ âinevitablyâ âhe would lose this flower of his life! And suddenly he was conscious that his hand was wet. His heart gave a little painful jump. He couldnât bear her to cry. He put his other hand quickly over hers, and a tear dropped on that, too. He couldnât go on like this! âWell, well,â he said, âIâll think it over, and do what I can. Come, come!â If she must have it for her happinessâ âshe must; he couldnât refuse to help her. And lest she should begin to thank him he got out of his chair and went up to the piano-playerâ âmaking that noise! It ran down, as he reached it, with a faint buzz. That musical box of his nursery days: âThe Harmonious Blacksmith,â âGlorious Portââ âthe thing had always made him miserable when his mother set it going on Sunday afternoons. Here it was againâ âthe same thing, only larger, more expensive, and now it played âThe Wild, Wild Women,â and âThe Policemanâs Holiday,â and he was no longer in black velvet with a sky blue collar. âProfondâs right,â he thought, âthereâs nothing in it! Weâre all progressing to the grave!â And with that surprising mental comment he walked out.
He did not see Fleur again that night. But, at breakfast, her eyes followed him about with an appeal he could not escapeâ ânot that he intended to try. No! He had made up his mind to the nerve-racking business. He would go to Robin Hillâ âto that house of memories. Pleasant memoryâ âthe last! Of going down to keep that boyâs father and Irene apart by threatening divorce. He had often thought, since, that it had clinched their union. And, now, he was going to clinch the union of that boy with his girl. âI donât know what Iâve done,â he thought, âto have such things thrust on me!â He went up by train and down by train, and from the station walked by the long rising lane, still very much as he remembered it over thirty years ago. Funnyâ âso near London! Someone evidently was holding on to the land there. This speculation soothed him, moving between the high hedges slowly, so as not to get overheated, though the day was chill enough. After all was said and done there was something real about land, it didnât shift. Land, and good pictures! The values might fluctuate a bit, but on the whole they were always going upâ âworth holding on to, in a world where there was such a lot of unreality, cheap building, changing fashions, such a âHere today
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