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Updated: May 8, 2025
It's only because I can't bear to make you unhappy, Mother, now that Father " He thrust his fists against his forehead. Irene got up. "I told you that night, dear, not to mind me. I meant it. Think of yourself and your own happiness! I can stand what's left I've brought it on myself." Again the word "Mother!" burst from Jon's lips. She came over to him and put her hands over his.
When she looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the poppies with her gloved finger. June licked a stamp. "Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky." Fleur took the note. "Thanks awfully!" 'Cold-blooded little baggage! thought June. Jon, son of her father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of Soames!
"Grape colour," came the whisper, "all grapes La Vendimia the vintage." Jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he looked up, with adoring eyes. "Oh! Jon," it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouetted again, and, gliding out, was gone. Jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against the bed. How long he stayed like that he did not know.
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."
"The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with their heads, they say smash their idols! And let's get back to-nothing! And, by Jove, they've done it! Jon's a poet. He'll be going in, too, and stamping on what's left of us. Property, beauty, sentiment all smoke. We mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. They stand in the way of Nothing."
"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.
He saw her touch things on the table as if they had some virtue in them, then face the window grey from head to foot like a ghost. The least turn of her head, and she must see him! Her lips moved: "Oh! Jon!" She was speaking to herself; the tone of her voice troubled Jon's heart. He saw in her hand a little photograph. She held it towards the light, looking at it very small.
Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy and unrested, and went at once to the study of Whitaker's Almanac. A Forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of any situation. She might conquer Jon's prejudice, but without exact machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing would happen.
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."
They discussed the nature of their homes and previous existences, which had a kind of fascinating unreality up on that lonely height. There remained but one thing solid in Jon's past his mother; but one thing solid in Fleur's her father; and of these figures, as though seen in the distance with disapproving faces, they spoke little.
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