Galsworthy, 1867-1933 - To Let

“So far as I’m concerned,” he said, “you may make your mind easy. I desire to see neither you nor your son if this marriage comes about. Young people in these days are — are unaccountable. But I can’t bear to see my daughter unhappy. What am I to say to her when I go back?”

“Please say to her, as I said to you, that it rests with Jon.”

“You don’t oppose it?”

“With all my heart; not with my lips.”

Soames stood, biting his finger.

“I remember an evening —” he said suddenly; and was silent. What was there — what was there in this woman that would not fit into the four comers of his hate or condemnation? “Where is he — your son?”

“Up in his father’s studio, I think.”

“Perhaps you’d have him down.”

He watched her ring the bell, he watched the maid come in.

“Please tell Mr. Jon that I want him.”

“If it rests with him,” said Soames hurriedly, when the maid was gone, “I suppose I may take it for granted that this unnatural marriage will take place: in that case there’ll be formalities. Whom do I deal with — Herring’s?” Irene nodded.

“You don’t propose to live with them?”

Irene shook her head.

“What happens to this house?”

“It will be as Jon wishes.”

“This house,” said Soames suddenly: “I had hopes when I began it. If THEY live in it — their children! They say there’s such a thing as Nemesis. Do you believe in it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! You do!” He had come back from the window, and was standing close to her, who, in the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed.

“I’m not likely to see you again,” he said slowly: “Will you shake hands,” his lip quivered, the words came out jerkily, “and let the past die?” He held out his hand. Her pale face grew paler, her eyes so dark, rested immovably on his, but her hands remained clasped in front of her. He heard a sound and turned. That boy was standing in the opening of the curtains. Very queer he looked, hardly recognisable as the young fellow he had seen in the Gallery off Cork Street — very queer; much older, no youth in the face at all — haggard, rigid, his hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head. Soames made an effort, and said with a lift of his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer:

“Well, young man! I’m here for my daughter; it rests with you, it seems — this matter. Your mother leaves it in your hands.”

The boy continued staring at his mother’s face, and made no answer.

“For my daughter’s sake I’ve brought myself to come,” said Soames. “What am I to say to her when I go back?”

Still looking at his mother, the boy said, quietly:

“Tell Fleur that it’s no good, please; I must do as my father wished before he died.”

“Jon!”

“It’s all right, Mother.”

In a kind of stupefaction Soames looked from one to the other; then, taking up hat and umbrella, which he had put down on a chair, he walked towards the curtains. The boy stood aside for him to go by. He passed through and heard the grate of the rings as the curtains were drawn behind him. The sound liberated something in his chest.

‘So that’s that!’ he thought, and passed out of the front door.

Last updated on Wed Jan 12 09:33:24 2011 for eBooks@Adelaide.

To Let, by John Galsworthy

VIII The Dark Tune

As Soames walked away from the house at Robin Hill the sun broke through the grey of that chill afternoon, in smoky radiance. So absorbed in landscape-painting that he seldom looked seriously for effects of Nature out-of-doors, he was struck by that moody effulgence — it mourned with a triumph suited to his own feeling. Victory in defeat! His embassy had come to naught. But he was rid of those people, had regained his daughter at the expense of — her happiness. What would Fleur say to him? Would she believe he had done his best? And under that sunlight flaring on the elms, hazels, hollies of the lane and those unexploited fields, Soames felt dread. She would be terribly upset! He must appeal to her pride. That boy had given her up, declared part and lot with the woman who so long ago had given her father up! Soames clenched his hands. Given him up, and why? What had been wrong with him? And once more he felt the malaise of one who contemplates himself as seen by another — like a dog who chances on his reflection in a mirror, and is intrigued and anxious at the unseizable thing.

Not in a hurry to get home, he dined in town at the Connoisseurs. While eating a pear it suddenly occurred to him that, if he had not gone down to Robin Hill, the boy might not have so decided. He remembered the expression on his face while his mother was refusing the hand he had held out. A strange, an awkward thought! Had Fleur cooked her own goose by trying to make too sure?

He reached home at half-past nine. While the car was passing in at one drive gate he heard the grinding sputter of a motor-cycle passing out by the other. Young Mont, no doubt, so Fleur had not been lonely. But he went in with a sinking heart. In the cream-panelled drawing-room she was sitting with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her clasped hands, in front of a white camellia plant which filled the fireplace. That glance at her before she saw him renewed his dread. What was she seeing among those white camellias?

“Well, Father!”

Soames shook his head. His tongue failed him. This was murderous work! He saw her eyes dilate, her lips quivering.

“What? What? Quick, Father!”

“My dear,” said Soames, “I— I did my best, but —” And again he shook his head.

Fleur ran to him and put a hand on each of his shoulders.

“She?”

“No,” muttered Soames; “he. I was to tell you that it was no use; he must do what his father wished before he died.” He caught her by the waist. “Come, child, don’t let them hurt you. They’re not worth your little finger.”

Fleur tore herself from his grasp.

“You didn’t — you couldn’t have tried. You — you betrayed me, Father!”

Bitterly wounded, Soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing there in front of him.

“You didn’t try — you didn’t — I was a fool — I won’t believe he could — he ever could! Only yesterday he —! Oh! why did I ask you?”

“Yes,” said Soames quietly, “why did you? I swallowed my feelings; I did my best for you, against my judgment — and this is my reward. Good-night!”

With every nerve in his body twitching he went towards the door.

Fleur darted after him.

“He 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.

“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!