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 I
shan'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 paroxysm, 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. But, Jon,
you know her and me well enough to be sure we wouldn't wish to spoil
your happiness lightly. Why, my dear boy, we don't care for anything but
your happiness--at least, with me it's just yours and Mother's and with
her just yours. It's all the future for you both that's at stake."
Jon turned. His face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, seemed
to burn.
"What is it? What is it? Don't keep me like this!"
Jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into his
breast pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, his
eyes closed. The thought passed through his mind: 'I've had a good long
innings--some pretty bitter moments--this is the worst!' Then he brought
his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of fatigue: "Well,
Jon, if you hadn't come to-day, I was going to send you this. I wanted
to spare you--I wanted to spare your mother and myself, but I see it's
no good. Read it, and I think I'll go into the garden." He reached
forward to get up.
Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, "No, I'll go"; and was
gone.
Jolyon sank back in his chair. A blue-bottle chose that moment to come
buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better
than nothing.... Where had the boy gone to read his letter? The
wretched letter--the wretched story! A cruel business--cruel to her--to
Soames--to those two children--to himself!... His heart thumped and
pained him. Life--its loves--its work--its beauty--its aching, and--its
end! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until--you regretted that
you had ever been born. Life--it wore you down, yet did not make you
want to die--that was the cunning evil! Mistake to have a heart! Again
the blue-bottle came buzzing--bringing in all the heat and hum and scent
of summer--yes, even the scent--as of ripe fruits, dried grasses, sappy
shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. And out there somewhere in the
fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turning and twisting its
pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and trouble--breaking his heart
about it! The thought made Jolyon acutely miserable. Jon was such a
tender-hearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious,
too--it was so unfair, so damned unfair! He remembered Irene saying to
him once: "Never was any one born more loving and lovable than Jon."
Poor little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all of a summer afternoon!
Youth took things so hard! And stirred, tormented by that vision of
Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of his chair, and went to the
window. The boy was nowhere visible. And he passed out. If one could
take any help to him now--one must!