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Updated: May 8, 2025
And she took out Jon's letters not flowery effusions, but haunted in their recital of things seen and done by a longing very agreeable to her, and all ending "Your devoted J." Fleur was not sentimental, her desires were ever concrete and concentrated, but what poetry there was in the daughter of Soames and Annette had certainly in those weeks of waiting gathered round her memories of Jon.
Like that passage of the Cesar Franck Sonata so had been his life with her, a divine third movement. And now this business of Jon's this bad business! Drifted to the edge of consciousness, he hardly knew if it were in sleep that he smelled the scent of a cigar, and seemed to see his father in the blackness before his closed eyes.
Only you could persuade her, dear, because only you could promise. One can't promise for other people. Surely it wouldn't be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that Jon's father is dead?" "Too awkward?" Soames repeated. "The whole thing's preposterous." "You know," said Fleur, without looking up, "you wouldn't mind seeing her, really." Soames was silent.
She had received a letter from him only that morning which had made her smile and say: "Jon's in British Columbia, Val, because he wants to be in California. He thinks it's too nice there." "Oh!" said Val, "so he's beginning to see a joke again." "He's bought some land and sent for his mother." "What on earth will she do out there?" "All she cares about is Jon.
Jon's horse set off at a brisk pace, eager to reach home, and galloped swiftly over the hard, frozen ground. After the sun had gone down, the wind rose and a searing cold settled over the valley, whitening Jon's moustache where his breath passed over it. Jon's anger grew as he sped along. Naturally hightempered, he had lately had many reasons for anger since he took over his official duties.
Fleur slipped out of his arms. "Oh! Very well!" And suddenly she burst into tears of disappointment, shame, and overstrain. Followed five minutes of acute misery. Jon's remorse and tenderness knew no bounds; but he did not promise. Despite her will to cry, "Very well, then, if you don't love me enough-goodbye!" she dared not.
They had been out five weeks when they turned towards home. Jon's head was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a hat lined by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk, and he still walked from choice in the shade.
"I had read it, of course, before he gave it to you. It didn't quite do justice to my criminality." "Mother!" burst from Jon's lips. "He put it very sweetly, but I know that in marrying Fleur's father without love I did a dreadful thing. An unhappy marriage, Jon, can play such havoc with other lives besides one's own. You are fearfully young, my darling, and fearfully loving.
This girl is the daughter of the man who once owned Jon's mother as a negro-slave was owned. You can't lay that ghost; don't try to, June! It's asking us to see Jon joined to the flesh and blood of the man who possessed Jon's mother against her will. It's no good mincing words; I want it clear once for all. And now I mustn't talk any more, or I shall have to sit up with this all night."
She even kept Jon's letters, covered with pink silk, on her heart, than which in days when corsets were so low, sentiment so despised, and chests so out of fashion, there could, perhaps, have been no greater proof of the fixity of her idea. After hearing of his father's death, she wrote to Jon, and received his answer three days later on her return from a river picnic.
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