The door of his room was open, the light turned up; his mother, still in
her evening gown, was standing at the window. She turned and said:
"Sit down, Jon; let's talk." She sat down on the window-seat, Jon on his
bed. She had her profile turned to him, and the beauty and grace of her
figure, the delicate line of the brow, the nose, the neck, the strange
and as it were remote refinement of her, moved him. His mother never
belonged to her surroundings. She came into them from somewhere--as it
were! What was she going to say to him, who had in his heart such things
to say to her?
"I know Fleur came to-day. I'm not surprised." It was as though she had
added: "She is her father's daughter!" And Jon's heart hardened. Irene
went on quietly:
"I have Father's letter. I picked it up that night and kept it. Would
you like it back, dear?"
Jon shook his head.
"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. Do you think you can possibly be happy
with this girl?"
Staring at her dark eyes, darker now from pain, Jon answered
"Yes; oh! yes--if you could be."
Irene smiled.
"Admiration of beauty and longing for possession are not love. If yours
were another case like mine, Jon--where the deepest things are stifled;
the flesh joined, and the spirit at war!"
"Why should it, Mother? You think she must be like her father, but she's
not. I've seen him."
Again the smile came on Irene's lips, and in Jon something wavered;
there was such irony and experience in that smile.
"You are a giver, Jon; she is a taker."
That unworthy doubt, that haunting uncertainty again! He said with
vehemence:
"She isn't--she isn't. 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.
"Do you feel your head, darling?"
Jon shook it. What he felt was in his chest--a sort of tearing asunder
of the tissue there, by the two loves.