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Updated: May 8, 2025
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.
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.
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.
One day Herr Jon's housekeeper entered a room where Gustavus was washing, the priest standing by, towel in hand. "Why are you holding the towel for this common fellow?" she asked. "That is none of your affairs," said the priest.
Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research, when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway: "Come along, you two," and he rose, his heart pushing him toward something far more modern. Fleur having declared that it was "simply too wonderful to stay indoors," they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old sundial threw a long shadow.
Surely surely Jon's mother! The conviction came as a shock. And she stood still in a flurry of thought. Why, of course! Jon's father had married the woman her father had wanted to marry, had cheated him out of her, perhaps. Then, afraid of showing by her manner that she had lighted on his secret, she refused to think further, and, shaking out the silk handkerchief, entered the dining-room.
Irene pressed his arm, and said as casually: "It would be very nice; but I've been thinking you ought to see and do more than you would if I were with you." "But then you'd be alone." "I was once alone for more than twelve years. Besides, I should like to be here for the opening of Father's show." Jon's grip tightened round her arm; he was not deceived.
"If you were, I don't believe I should like you." Jon slipped his hand tremulously under her arm. Fleur looked straight before her and chanted: "Jon, Jon, the farmer's son, Stole a pig, and away he run!" Jon's arm crept round her waist. "This is rather sudden," said Fleur calmly; "do you often do it?" Jon dropped his arm.
In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance. She dragged her hands away. "I didn't think in these days boys were tied to their mothers' apron-strings." Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck. "Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!" Swiftly she came close to him. "Jon, dear; I didn't mean it." "All right."
No wonder her father had hidden that photograph so secretly behind her own ashamed of having kept it! But could he hate Jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they told Jon had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him? Everything now turned on that! She knew, they all knew, except perhaps Jon!
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