What on earth is the chap about–weak-kneed beggar–gambling for a rise! Mark my words, Ann, he’ll be in Queer Street in no time!’”
Aunt Ann paused, recalling that far scene. The stocky figure of her father bent forward over the mahogany of the old dining table now in the room below, his broad, short-fingered hand suddenly clenching, the flush of blood below his eyes, screwed up in the visioning of Queer Street.
“And was he, Auntie?”
“Yes, dear. It was that dreadful year when everything went down suddenly, especially jute. Poor Uncle Edgar was so amiable that he never seemed to realise that other people could be hard and greedy.”
“Was he ruined, Auntie?”
“I was going to tell you. As I said, your grandfather was not in partnership with Uncle Edgar, and as soon as he heard what Uncle had done, he sold his investment and saved his bacon, as he would have called it. And then jute went down instead of up, and Uncle Edgar was threatened with bankruptcy. Your grandfather went through a dreadful time making up his mind whether to help him or not. You see, he knew it would mean years of set-back for him in his building business, and for all of us great economy and going without things that we were accustomed to. And he felt your uncle’s conduct in not consulting him very much–he used to say bitter things about him. It all came to a head one evening when your Uncle Edgar cried–he was not a strong character. I can see him now: he had large red bandana handkerchiefs, and he sat there with his face all buried in one. Your grandfather was walking up and down talking about his expecting him to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him, and he wasn’t going to, not he. I thought he would have had a fit. And then, suddenly, he stopped and looked a long time at Uncle Edgar. ‘Edgar,’ he said, ‘you’re a poor fish. But I’m the head of the family, and I’m not going to see the name dishonoured. Here, get out, and tomorrow I’ll see you through.’”
“And did he, Auntie?”
“Yes, Jo. It was a terrible sacrifice. But I think we were all glad; we were fond of Uncle Edgar, and it would have made such a scandal to have him go bankrupt, especially as he had not been quite straight. We never saw very much of him after, but he died better off than ever, entirely owing to your grandfather. So you see, dear, it doesn’t do to take responsibility lightly.” Her nephew had ceased to look at her, as if he had suddenly perceived why he had been told the story.
“I should have thought it did, Auntie, if he died better off than ever.”
Aunt Ann smiled. Really, the dear boy was very naughty!
“Jo,” she said, grave again, “I can tell you another story of your grandfather.”
“Oh! do, Auntie!”
“This was in the thirties, very hard years for everybody; and your grandfather was building some houses in Brighton. He was always a man who cut his coat to fit his cloth; but he used to tell me that if he made five per cent. on his money with those houses, it would be all he could hope for. I remember it all very clearly because just then I was SO hoping he would do well, I had a special reason.” Aunt Ann paused, seeing again her special reason in pegtop trousers looking down at her all braided and crinolined on the sofa; hearing again his voice, so manly, saying: ‘Dear Ann, may I speak to your father?’ hearing again her own answer: ‘Please wait, dear Edward, Papa is so preoccupied just now. But if, as I hope, things go well–next year I shall, I trust, be able to leave him and the dear children.’
“What special reason, Auntie?”
“Oh! never mind that, dear. As I was saying, your grandfather was extremely anxious because those houses meant turning the corner of all his difficulties. It was a dreadful year, and I am sorry to say there was a great deal of chicanery.”
“What is chicanery?”
“Chicanery, dear, means trying to get the better of your neighbour at all costs.”
“Did grandfather get the better of anyone?”
Aunt Ann looked at her nephew sharply.
“No,” she said, “they got the better of him, Jo.”
“Oh! Go on, Auntie. How interesting! I do want to hear.”
“Well, one day your grandfather came home from Brighton in a dreadful taking. It was a long time before I could quieten him down to tell me what had happened. It seems that three of those houses wouldn’t dry. The first houses were all right, so of course your grandfather never suspected anything. But the man who supplied the building material had taken advantage to mix some of it with sea water instead of fresh. I could never make out what he gained by it, or whether he had done it out of ignorance, but your grandfather was convinced that he was a rascal. ‘They won’t dry, they won’t dry,’ he kept on saying. I think if he had died that moment those words would have been printed on his heart. You see, it meant ruination to his reputation as a builder. And then it seems somebody showed him a way by which he could make the houses seem dry although in wet weather they never really would be. That night I heard him, long after I went to bed, walking about in his room next door; but in the morning I heard him mutter: ‘No, I’m jiggered if I will!’ He had made up his mind, after a dreadful struggle, not to be party to any trick.”
“And what happened then, Auntie?”
“Well, he just took those three houses down and built them afresh–it cost him thousands.”
“Didn’t he make the man who used the sea water pay?”
“He tried to, Jo; but the man went bankrupt. It aged your grandfather very much. We ALL felt it dreadfully.”
Aunt Ann was silent, lost in memory of how she had felt it. Edward!… Her nephew’s voice recalled her.
“Grandfather didn’t go bankrupt himself, did he, Auntie?”
“No, Jo; but very nearly. Perhaps it was all for the best. It made him very respected, and in after years he was always glad that he had been so above-board.”
She looked up startled; young Jolyon was examining her face in a peculiar manner.
“I expect YOU had a sad time, Auntie.”
Aunt Ann’s lips firmed themselves against the suspicion of being pitied.
“So you see, dear,” she said, “your grandfather had good principles, and that is the great thing.”
“Did he go to Church, and that?”
“Not very much. He was brought up to be a Wesleyan, so he never quite approved of Church. He used to say the service was full of fallals. Of course, WE all liked Church much better than Chapel, and he never interfered with our going.”
“I expect he was glad not to go at all, really.”
Aunt Ann covered her mouth with a little paper fan.
“You mustn’t be flippant, dear.”
“Oh! no, Auntie; I meant it.”
“Well, Jo, I don’t think I should call your grandfather a very religious man after our dear mother’s death. He always grudged that so much.”
“Did my father get on well with him?”
“Not very. Your father was so much our mother’s boy.”
“I see.”
“Yes, dear, your grandfather was always so occupied that he hadn’t much time for us children. I think he was perhaps fonder of me than of any of us.”
“I expect that was because you were so good, Auntie.”
“Hssh! Jo. You mustn’t make fun of me. I was the only one old enough to talk to when our mother died.”
“I thought you said my father was my age.”
“Yes but in those days people did not talk to children as they do now.”
Young Jolyon did not reply, but he tilted his chin slightly. Children!
“How much money did he leave, Auntie, after all that?”
“Thirty thousand pounds, dear, divided equally amongst the ten of us–he was very just.”
Young Jolyon took out his watch; it was an old one of his father’s, and he liked to take it out.
“I must go now, Auntie; I’m meeting a man at Madame Tussaud’s. Oh! might I have those buckles?”
Aunt Ann’s eyes lingered on him; he was her favourite, though to admit it was not in her character.
“Are you to be trusted with them, dear?”
“Of course I am.”
“They’re an heirloom, Jo. Don’t you think we’d better wait till you’re older?”
“Oh! Auntie, as if I wasn’t–!”
Aunt Ann’s fingers rummaged in the little drawer.
“Well, on condition that you take the greatest care of them. And you mustn’t ever wear them, until you go to Court.”
“Do they wear buckles at Court?”
“I believe so, dear. I have never been. Here they are.”
From folds of tissue paper she took them out–of old blackish paste set in silver. Very discreetly, on the bit of black velvet to which they were attached, the two buckles gleamed.
Young Jolyon took them in his hand. Into which of his pockets would they go without spoiling a man’s figure?
“I like them, Auntie.”
“Yes, dear, they are genuine old paste. Have you somewhere safe to keep them?”
“Oh! yes, I’ve got lots of drawers.” He placed the buckles in his tail coat pocket, and bent over to kiss his Aunt.
“You won’t sit on them, Jo?
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