“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, I can't!”
“Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without hesitation; you would have to! Can't you believe me?”