To Let, John Galsworthy [good non fiction books to read txt] 📗

Gives Me Up? You Mean That? Father!"

 

  

Soames Turned And Forced Himself To Answer:

  

 

"Yes."

 

  

"Oh!" Cried Fleur. "What Did You--What Could You Have Done In Those Old

Days?"

 

  

The Breathless Sense Of     Really Monstrous Injustice Cut The     Power Of

Speech In Soames' Throat. What Had He Done! What Had They Done To Him!

And With Quite Unconscious Dignity He Put His Hand On His Breast, And

Looked At Her.

Part III VIII (The Dark Tune) Pg 114

"It's A Shame!" Cried Fleur Passionately.

 

  

Soames Went Out. He Mounted, Slow And Icy, To His Picture-Gallery, And

Paced Among His Treasures. Outrageous! Oh! Outrageous! She Was Spoiled!

Ah! And Who Had Spoiled Her? He Stood Still Before The     Goya Copy.

Accustomed To Her Own Way In Everything--Flower Of     His Life! And Now

That She Couldn't Have It. He Turned To The     Window For Some Air.

Daylight Was Dying, The     Moon Rising, Gold Behind The     Poplars! What

Sound Was That? Why! That Piano Thing! A Dark Tune, With A Thrum And A

Throb! She Had Set It Going--What Comfort Could She Get From That? His

Eyes Caught Movement Down There Beyond The     Lawn, Under The     Trellis Of

Rambler Roses And Young Acacia-Trees, Where The     Moonlight Fell. There

She Was, Roaming Up And Down. His Heart Gave A Little Sickening Jump.

What Would She Do Under This Blow? How Could He Tell? What Did He Know

Of Her--He Had Only Loved Her All His Life--Looked On Her As The     Apple

Of His Eye! He Knew Nothing--Had No Notion. There She Was--And That

Dark Tune--And The     River Gleaming In The     Moonlight!

 

  

'I Must Go Out,' He Thought. He Hastened Down To The     Drawing-Room,

Lighted Just As He Had Left It, With The     Piano Thrumming Out That

Waltz, Or Fox-Trot, Or Whatever They Called It In These Days, And

Passed Through On To The     Verandah. Where Could He Watch, Without Her

Seeing Him? And He Stole Down Through The     Fruit Garden To The

Boat-House. He Was Between Her And The     River Now, And His Heart Felt

Lighter. She Was His Daughter, And Annette's--She Wouldn't Do Anything

Foolish; But There It Was--He Didn't Know! From The     Boat-House Window

He Could See The     Last Acacia And The     Spin Of     Her Skirt When She Turned

In Her Restless March. That Tune Had Run Down At Last--Thank Goodness!

He Crossed The     Floor And Looked Through The     Farther Window At The     Water

Slow-Flowing Past The     Lilies. It Made Little Bubbles Against Them,

Bright Where A Moon-Streak Fell. He Remembered Suddenly That Early

Morning When He Had Slept In This Boat-House After His Father Died, And

She Had Just Been Born--Nearly Nineteen Years Ago! Even Now He Recalled

The Unaccustomed World When He Woke Up, The     Strange Feeling It Had

Given Him. That Day The     Second Passion Of     His Life Began--For This Girl

Of His, Roaming Under The     Acacias. What A Comfort She Had Been To Him!

And All The     Soreness And Sense Of     Outrage Left Him. If He Could Make

Her Happy Again, He Didn't Care! An Owl Flew, Queeking, Queeking; A Bat

Flitted By; The     Moonlight Brightened And Broadened On The     Water.

Part III VIII (The Dark Tune) Pg 115

How

Long Was She Going To Roam About Like This! He Went Back To The     Window,

And Suddenly Saw Her Coming Down To The     Bank. She Stood Quite Close, On

The Landing-Stage. And Soames Watched, Clenching His Hands. Should He

Speak To Her? His Excitement Was Intense. The     Stillness Of     Her Figure,

Its Youth, Its Absorption In Despair, In Longing, In--Itself. He Would

Always Remember It, Moonlit Like That; And The     Faint Sweet Reek Of     The

River And The     Shivering Of     The     Willow Leaves. She Had Everything In The

World That He Could Give Her, Except The     One Thing That She Could Not

Have Because Of     Him! The     Perversity Of     Things Hurt Him At That Moment,

As Might A Fish-Bone In His Throat. Then, With An Infinite Relief, He

Saw Her Turn Back Towards The     House. What Could He Give Her To Make

Amends? Pearls, Travel, Horses, Other Young Men--Anything She

Wanted--That He Might Lose The     Memory Of     Her Young Figure Lonely By The

Water! There! She Had Set That Tune Going Again! Why--It Was A Mania!

Dark, Thrumming, Faint, Travelling From The     House. It Was As Though She

Had Said: "If I Can't Have Something To Keep Me Going, I Shall Die Of

This!" Soames Dimly Understood. Well, If It Helped Her, Let Her Keep It

Thrumming On All Night! And, Mousing Back Through The     Fruit Garden, He

Regained The     Verandah. Though He Meant To Go In And Speak To Her Now,

He Still Hesitated, Not Knowing What To Say, Trying Hard To Recall How

It Felt To Be Thwarted In Love. He Ought To Know, Ought To

Remember--And He Could Not! Gone--All Real Recollection; Except That It

Had Hurt Him Horribly. In This Blankness He Stood Passing His

Handkerchief Over Hands And Lips, Which Were Very Dry. By Craning His

Head He Could Just See Fleur, Standing With Her Back To That Piano

Still Grinding Out Its Tune, Her Arms Tight Crossed On Her Breast, A

Lighted Cigarette Between Her Lips, Whose Smoke Half Veiled Her Face.

The Expression On It Was Strange To Soames, The     Eyes Shone And Stared,

And Every Feature Was Alive With A Sort Of     Wretched Scorn And Anger.

Once Or Twice He Had Seen Annette Look Like That--The Face Was Too

Vivid, Too Naked, Not His Daughter's At That Moment. And He Dared Not

Go In, Realising The     Futility Of     Any Attempt At Consolation. He Sat

Down In The     Shadow Of     The     Ingle-Nook. Monstrous Trick, That Fate Had

Played Him! Nemesis! That Old Unhappy Marriage! And In God's Name--Why?

How Was He To Know, When He Wanted Irene So Violently, And She

Consented To Be His, That She Would Never Love Him? The     Tune Died And

Was Renewed, And Died Again, And Still Soames Sat In The     Shadow,

Waiting For He Knew Not What. The     Fag Of     Fleur's Cigarette, Flung

Through The     Window, Fell On The     Grass; He Watched It Glowing, Burning

Itself Out.

Part III VIII (The Dark Tune) Pg 116

The     Moon Had Freed Herself Above The     Poplars, And Poured

Her Unreality On The     Garden. Comfortless Light, Mysterious,

Withdrawn--Like The     Beauty Of     That Woman Who Had Never Loved

Him--Dappling The     Nemesias And The     Stocks With A Vesture Not Of     Earth.

Flowers! And His Flower So Unhappy! Ah, Why Could One Not Put Happiness

Into Local Loans, Gild Its Edges, Insure It Against Going Down? Light

Had Ceased To Flow Out Now From The     Drawing-Room Window. All Was Silent

And Dark In There. Had She Gone Up? He Rose, And, Tiptoeing, Peered In.

It Seemed So! He Entered. The     Verandah Kept The     Moonlight Out; And At

First He Could See Nothing But The     Outlines Of     Furniture Blacker Than

The Darkness. He Groped Towards The     Farther Window To Shut It. His Foot

Struck A Chair, And He Heard A Gasp. There She Was, Curled And Crushed

Into The     Corner Of     The     Sofa! His Hand Hovered. Did She Want His

Consolation? He Stood, Gazing At That Ball Of     Crushed Frills And Hair

And Graceful Youth, Trying To Burrow Its Way Out Of     Sorrow. How Leave

Her There? At Last He Touched Her Hair, And Said: "Come, Darling,

Better Go To Bed. I'll Make It Up To You, Somehow." How Fatuous! But

What Could He Have Said?

Part III IX (Under The Oak-Tree) Pg 117

 

 

 

When Their Visitor Had Disappeared Jon And His Mother Stood Without

Speaking, Till He Said Suddenly: "I Ought To Have Seen Him Out." But

Soames Was Already Walking Down The     Drive, And Jon Went Up-Stairs To

His Father's Studio, Not Trusting Himself To Go Back. The     Expression On

His Mother's Face Confronting The     Man She Had Once Been Married To, Had

Sealed A Resolution Growing Within Him Ever Since She Left Him The

Night Before. It Had Put The     Finishing Touch Of     Reality. To Marry Fleur

Would Be To Hit His Mother In The     Face; To Betray His Dead Father! It

Was No Good! Jon Had The     Least Resentful Of     Natures. He Bore His

Parents No Grudge In This Hour Of     His Distress.

Part III IX (Under The Oak-Tree) Pg 118

For One So Young There

Was A Rather Strange Power In Him Of     Seeing Things In Some Sort Of

Proportion. It Was Worse For Fleur, Worse For His Mother Even, Than It

Was For Him. Harder Than To Give Up Was To Be Given Up, Or To Be The

Cause Of     Some One You Loved Giving Up For You. He Must Not, Would Not

Behave Grudgingly! While He Stood Watching The     Tardy Sunlight, He Had

Again That Sudden Vision Of     The     World Which Had Come To Him The     Night

Before. Sea On Sea, Country On Country, Millions On Millions Of     People,

All With Their Own Lives, Energies, Joys, Griefs, And Suffering--All

With Things They Had To Give Up, And Separate Struggles For