"Hate's only a word. It conveys nothing. No, better as it is.""Very well. It shall go to-morrow."She raised her face to his, and in sight of the big house's many creepered windows, he kissed her.
II
CONFESSION
Late that same afternoon, Jolyon had a nap in the old armchair.
Face down on his knee was La Rotisserie de la Refine Pedauque, and just before he fell asleep he had been thinking: 'As a people shall we ever really like the French? Will they ever really like us!' He himself had always liked the French, feeling at home with their wit, their taste, their cooking. Irene and he had paid many visits to France before the War, when Jon had been at his private school. His romance with her had begun in Paris--his last and most enduring romance. But the French--no Englishman could like them who could not see them in some sort with the detached aesthetic eye! And with that melancholy conclusion he had nodded off.
When he woke he saw Jon standing between him and the window. The boy had evidently come in from the garden and was waiting for him to wake. Jolyon smiled, still half asleep. How nice the chap looked--sensitive, affectionate, straight! Then his heart gave a nasty jump;and a quaking sensation overcame him. Jon! That confession! He controlled himself with an effort. "Why, Jon, where did you spring from?"Jon bent over and kissed his forehead.
Only then he noticed the look on the boy's face.
"I came home to tell you something, Dad."With all his might Jolyon tried to get the better of the jumping, gurgling sensations within his chest.
"Well, sit down, old man. Have you seen your mother?""No." The boy's flushed look gave place to pallor; he sat down on the arm of the old chair, as, in old days, Jolyon himself used to sit beside his own father, installed in its recesses. Right up to the time of the rupture in their relations he had been wont to perch there--had he now reached such a moment with his own son? All his life he had hated scenes like poison, avoided rows, gone on his own way quietly and let others go on theirs. But now--it seemed--at the very end of things, he had a scene before him more painful than any he had avoided. He drew a visor down over his emotion, and waited for his son to speak.
"Father," said Jon slowly, "Fleur and I are engaged."'Exactly!' thought Jolyon, breathing with difficulty.
"I know that you and Mother don't like the idea. Fleur says that Mother was engaged to her father before you married her. Of course Idon't know what happened, but it must be ages ago. I'm devoted to her, Dad, and she says she is to me."Jolyon uttered a queer sound, half laugh, half groan.
"You are nineteen, Jon, and I am seventy-two. How are we to understand each other in a matter like this, eh?""You love Mother, Dad; you must know what we feel. It isn't fair to us to let old things spoil our happiness, is it?"Brought face to face with his confession, Jolyon resolved to do without it if by any means he could. He laid his hand on the boy's arm.
"Look, Jon! I might put you off with talk about your both being too young and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn't listen, besides, it doesn't meet the case--Youth, unfortunately, cures itself. You talk lightly about 'old things like that,' knowing nothing--as you say truly--of what happened. Now, have I ever given you reason to doubt my love for you, or my word?"At a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict his words aroused--the boy's eager clasp, to reassure him on these points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring forth; but he could only feel grateful for the squeeze.
"Very well, you can believe what I tell you. If you don't give up this love affair, you will make Mother wretched to the end of her days. Believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can't be buried--it can't indeed."Jon got off the arm of the chair.
'The girl'--thought Jolyon--'there she goes--starting up before him--life itself--eager, pretty, loving!'
"I can't, Father; how can I--just because you say that? Of course, Ican't!""Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without hesitation; you would have to! Can't you believe me?""How can you tell what I should think? Father, I love her better than anything in the world."Jolyon's face twitched, and he said with painful slowness:
"Better than your mother, Jon?"
>From the boy's face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the stress and struggle he was going through.
"I don't know," he burst out, "I don't know! But to give Fleur up for nothing--for something I don't understand, for something that Idon't believe can really matter half so much, will make me--make me""Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier--yes. But that's better than going on with this.""I can't. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust you;why don't you trust me, Father? We wouldn't want to know anything--we wouldn't let it make any difference. It'll only make us both love you and Mother all the more."Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth.
"Think what your mother's been to you, Jon! She has nothing but you;I shan't last much longer.""Why not? It isn't fair to-- Why not?"
"Well," said Jolyon, rather coldly, "because the doctors tell me Ishan't; that's all.""Oh, Dad!" cried Jon, and burst into tears.
This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, moved Jolyon terribly. He recognised to the full how fearfully soft the boy's heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in life generally. And he reached out his hand helplessly--not wishing, indeed not daring to get up.
"Dear man," he said, "don't--or you'll make me!"Jon smothered down his paroxy**, and stood with face averted, very still.
'What now?' thought Jolyon. 'What can I say to move him?'
'By the way, don't speak of that to Mother," he said; "she has enough to frighten her with this affair of yours. I know how you feel.