Awakening & To Let [68]
father best."
"But suppose they were engaged?"
"If we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, I might go cracked, but I shouldn't grudge it you."
"I should. You mustn't ever do that with me, Jon.
"My God! Not much!"
"I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother."
Jon was silent. Val's words--the two past masters in the Club!
"You see, we don't know," went on Fleur; "it may have been a great shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do."
"My mother wouldn't."
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think we know much about our fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way they treat us; but they've treated other people, you know, before we were born-plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your father, with three separate families!"
"Isn't there any place," cried Jon, "in all this beastly London where we can be alone?"
"Only a taxi."
"Let's get one, then."
When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly: "Are you going back to Robin Hill? I should like to see where you live, Jon. I'm staying with my aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for dinner. I wouldn't come to the house, of course."
Jon gazed at her enraptured.
"Splendid! I can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet anybody. There's a train at four."
The god of property and his Forsytes great and small, leisured, official, commercial, or professional, like the working classes, still worked their seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourth generation travelled down to Robin Hill in an empty first-class carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. They travelled in blissful silence, holding each other's hands.
At the station they saw no one except porters, and a villager or two unknown to Jon, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust and honeysuckle.
For Jon--sure of her now, and without separation before him--it was a miraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the Downs, or along the river Thames. It was love-in-a-mist--one of those illumined pages of Life, where every word and smile, and every light touch they gave each other were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and flowers and birds scrolled in among the text--a happy communing, without afterthought, which lasted thirty-seven minutes. They reached the coppice at the milking hour. Jon would not take her as far as the farmyard; only to where she could see the field leading up to the gardens, and the house beyond. They turned in among the larches, and suddenly, at the winding of the path, came on Irene, sitting on an old log seat.
There are various kinds of shocks: to the vertebrae; to the nerves; to moral sensibility; and, more potent and permanent, to personal dignity. This last was the shock Jon received, coming thus on his mother. He became suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate thing. To have brought Fleur down openly--yes! But to sneak her in like this! Consumed with shame, he put on a front as brazen as his nature would permit.
Fleur was smiling, a little defiantly; his mother's startled face was changing quickly to the impersonal and gracious. It was she who uttered the first words:
"I'm very glad to see you. It was nice of Jon to think of bringing you down to us."
"We weren't coming to the house," Jon blurted out. "I just wanted Fleur to see where I lived."
His mother said quietly:
"Won't you come up and have tea?"
Feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heard Fleur answer:
"Thanks very much; I have to get back to dinner. I met Jon by accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly just to see his home."
How self-possessed she was!
"Of course; but you must have tea. We'll send you down to the station. My husband will enjoy seeing you."
The expression of his mother's eyes, resting on him for a moment, cast Jon down level with the ground--a true worm. Then she led on, and Fleur followed her. He felt like a child, trailing after those two, who
"But suppose they were engaged?"
"If we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, I might go cracked, but I shouldn't grudge it you."
"I should. You mustn't ever do that with me, Jon.
"My God! Not much!"
"I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother."
Jon was silent. Val's words--the two past masters in the Club!
"You see, we don't know," went on Fleur; "it may have been a great shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do."
"My mother wouldn't."
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think we know much about our fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way they treat us; but they've treated other people, you know, before we were born-plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your father, with three separate families!"
"Isn't there any place," cried Jon, "in all this beastly London where we can be alone?"
"Only a taxi."
"Let's get one, then."
When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly: "Are you going back to Robin Hill? I should like to see where you live, Jon. I'm staying with my aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for dinner. I wouldn't come to the house, of course."
Jon gazed at her enraptured.
"Splendid! I can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet anybody. There's a train at four."
The god of property and his Forsytes great and small, leisured, official, commercial, or professional, like the working classes, still worked their seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourth generation travelled down to Robin Hill in an empty first-class carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. They travelled in blissful silence, holding each other's hands.
At the station they saw no one except porters, and a villager or two unknown to Jon, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust and honeysuckle.
For Jon--sure of her now, and without separation before him--it was a miraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the Downs, or along the river Thames. It was love-in-a-mist--one of those illumined pages of Life, where every word and smile, and every light touch they gave each other were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and flowers and birds scrolled in among the text--a happy communing, without afterthought, which lasted thirty-seven minutes. They reached the coppice at the milking hour. Jon would not take her as far as the farmyard; only to where she could see the field leading up to the gardens, and the house beyond. They turned in among the larches, and suddenly, at the winding of the path, came on Irene, sitting on an old log seat.
There are various kinds of shocks: to the vertebrae; to the nerves; to moral sensibility; and, more potent and permanent, to personal dignity. This last was the shock Jon received, coming thus on his mother. He became suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate thing. To have brought Fleur down openly--yes! But to sneak her in like this! Consumed with shame, he put on a front as brazen as his nature would permit.
Fleur was smiling, a little defiantly; his mother's startled face was changing quickly to the impersonal and gracious. It was she who uttered the first words:
"I'm very glad to see you. It was nice of Jon to think of bringing you down to us."
"We weren't coming to the house," Jon blurted out. "I just wanted Fleur to see where I lived."
His mother said quietly:
"Won't you come up and have tea?"
Feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heard Fleur answer:
"Thanks very much; I have to get back to dinner. I met Jon by accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly just to see his home."
How self-possessed she was!
"Of course; but you must have tea. We'll send you down to the station. My husband will enjoy seeing you."
The expression of his mother's eyes, resting on him for a moment, cast Jon down level with the ground--a true worm. Then she led on, and Fleur followed her. He felt like a child, trailing after those two, who