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Updated: May 7, 2025
I can bear anything but that. But I wish he'd take more interest in Nature." "He's imaginative, Jolyon." "Yes, in a sanguinary way. Does he love anyone just now?" "No; only everyone. There never was anyone born more loving or more lovable than Jon." "Being your boy, Irene."
His visions commingle his objective and his memories ... CONCHA! ... The snowy steppes and the inky rivers.... His servant enters the room in the inn ... Why ... "Where has Jon found Castilian roses in this barren land?" ... "and his unconquerably sanguine spirit flared high before a vision of eternal and unthinkable happiness" ... Castilian roses!
Jon stood where she had left him, with his forehead against that pink cluster. Gone! For an eternity for seven weeks all but two days! And here he was, wasting the last sight of her! He rushed to the gate. She was walking swiftly on the heels of the straggling children.
After the fall of that place and the captivity of its defender, Sir Jon Monteith had retired to Douglas Castle, in the vicinity of Lanark, and was now the sole master of that princely residence: James Douglas, the only son of its veteran lord, being still at Paris, whither he had been dispatched, before the defeat at Dunbar, to negotiate a league between the French monarch and the then King of Scots.
And thus I left them; the old man calling down the blessing of Jon upon me for having saved his life, and the chit glaring after me as though no curses would suffice. A right queer matter, I thought at the time. I guessed not what would come of it; not then. 'Twas a fortnight later, more or less, when next I saw Maka.
She pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her face. Jon stood feeling exactly as he used to when he was a naughty little boy; sore because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his own eyes. But Irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room, passed through the dressing-room between it and her husband's. "Well?" "He will think it over, Jolyon."
Both Jon and his mother had felt that if she took his portfolios, unexhibited drawings and unfinished matter, away with her, the work would encounter such icy blasts from Paul Post and other frequenters of her studio, that it would soon be frozen out even of her warm heart.
Enough has been said about Jon Forsyte here and in another place to show what long marches lay between him and his great-great-grandfather, the first Jolyon, in Dorset down by the sea.
She ate hardly any breakfast, and went back to Whitaker. The more she studied the less sure she became; till, idly turning the pages, she came to Scotland. People could be married there without any of this nonsense. She had only to go and stay there twenty-one days, then Jon could come, and in front of two people they could declare themselves married. And what was more they would be!
He gave the impression of one who has lived actively with horses in a sunny climate. Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said: "When is young Jon coming?" "To-day." "Is there anything you want for him? I could bring it down on Saturday." "No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur one-forty."
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