Good terms! Young Jolyon checked the opening of his lips. One didn’t chaffer.
“I like to know my cuthtomerth, you know, Mithter Forthyte. I athk a little bird or two. Come in tomorrow.”
“You can take me or leave me,” said young Jolyon.
“Thatth all right, Mithter Forthyte. To-morrow afternoon.”
Young Jolyon nodded, and went out.
It hadn’t been so bad, after all; and, cantering over to Newmarket, he almost forgot how ‘Post equitem sedet atra cura.’
In the afternoon of the following day he received one hundred and fifty pounds for his autograph, and seeking out ‘Donny’ and the others who held his I.O.U’s, discharged the lot. Not without a sense of virtue did he sit down to an evening collation in his rooms. He was eating cold wild duck, when his door was knocked on.
“Come in!” he shouted. And, there—in overcoat, top hat in hand—his father stood…
Sitting in the City offices of those great tea-men, ‘Forsyte and Treffry,’ old Jolyon had been handed, with the country post, a communication marked: ‘Confidential.’
“Great Cury,
“Cambridge.
“DEAR SIR,—
“In accordance with your desire that we should advise you of anything unusual, expressed to us when you opened your son’s account a year ago, we beg to notify you that Mr. Jolyon Forsyte, Junr., made application to us today for an overdraft of one hundred pounds. We did not feel justified in granting this without your permission, but shall be happy to act in accordance with your decision in this matter.
“We are, dear Sir, with the compliments of the season,
“Your faithful servants,
“BROTHERTON AND DARNETT.”
Old Jolyon had sat some time regarding this missive with grave and troubled eyes. He had then placed it in the breast pocket of his frock coat, and taking out a little comb, had passed it through his grey Dundrearys and moustachios.
“I am going down to Cambridge, Timming. Get me a cab.”
In the cab and in the train, and again in the cab from the station at Cambridge, he had brooded, restless and unhappy. Why had the boy not come to HIM? What had he been doing to require an overdraft like that? He had a good allowance. He had never said anything about being pressed for money. This way and that way he turned it in his mind, and whichever way he turned it, the conclusion was that it showed weakness—weakness to want the money; above all, weakness not to have come to his father first. Of all things, Old Jolyon disliked weakness. And so there he stood, tall and grey-headed, in the doorway.
“I’ve come down, Jo. I’ve had a letter I don’t like.”
Through young Jolyon raced the thought: ‘Davids!’ and his heart sank into his velvet slippers. He said, however, drawling:
“Charmed to see you, Sir. You haven’t had dinner? Can you eat wild duck? This claret’s pretty good.”
Taking his father’s hat and coat, he placed him with his back to the fire, plied the bellows, and bawled down the stairway for forks and another wild duck. And while he bawled he felt as if he could be sick, for he had a great love for his father, and this was why he was afraid of him. And old Jolyon, who had a great love for his son, was not sorry to stand and warm his legs and wait.
They ate the wild duck, drank the claret, talking of the weather, and small matters. They finished, and Young Jolyon said:
“Take that ‘froust,’ Dad;” and his heart tried to creep from him into the floor.
Old Jolyon clipped a cigar, handed another to his son, and sat down in the old leather chair on one side of the fire; young Jolyon sat in another old leather chair on the other side, and they smoked in silence, till old Jolyon took the letter from his pocket and handed it across.
“What’s the meaning of it, Jo? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Young Jolyon read the letter with feelings of relief, dismay, and anger with his Bank. Why on earth had they written? He felt his whiskers, and said:
“Oh! That!”
Old Jolyon sat looking at him with a sharp deep gravity.
“I suppose it means that you’re in debt?” he said, at last.
Young Jolyon shrugged: “Oh! well, naturally. I mean, one must—”
“Must what?”
“Live like other fellows, Dad.”
“Other fellows? Haven’t you at least the average allowance?”
Young Jolyon had. “But that’s just it,” he said eagerly. “I’m not in an average set.”
“Then why did you get into such a set, Jo?”
“I don’t know, Sir. School and one thing and another. It’s an awfully good set.”
“H’m!” said old Jolyon, deeply. “Would this hundred pounds have cleared you?”
“Cleared me! Oh! well—yes, of what matters.”
“What matters?” repeated old Jolyon. “Doesn’t every debt matter?”
“Of course, Dad; but everybody up here owes money to tradesmen. I mean, they expect it.”
Old Jolyon’s eyes narrowed and sharpened.
“Tradesmen? What matters are not tradesmen? What then? A woman?” The word came out hushed and sharp.
Young Jolyon shook his head. “Oh! No.”
Old Jolyon’s attitude relaxed a little, as if with some intimate relief. He flipped the ash off his cigar.
“Have you been gambling, then, Jo?”
Struggling to keep his face calm and his eyes on his father’s, young Jolyon answered:
“A little.”
“Gambling!” Something of distress and consternation in the sound young Jolyon couldn’t bear, and hastened on:
“Well, Dad, I don’t mean to go on with it. But Newmarket, you know, and—and—one doesn’t like to be a prig.”
“Prig? For not gambling? I don’t understand. A gambler!”
And, again, at that note in his voice, young Jolyon cried:
“I really don’t care for it, Dad; I mean I’m just as happy without.”
“Then why do you do it? It’s weak. I don’t like weakness, Jo.”
Young Jolyon’s face hardened. The Dad would never understand. To be a swell—superior to Fate! Hopeless to explain! He said lamely:
“All the best chaps—”
Old Jolyon averted his eyes. For at least two minutes he sat staring at the fire.
“I’ve never gambled, or owed money,” he said at last, with no pride in the tone of his voice, but with deep conviction. “I must know your position, Jo. What is it? Speak the truth. How much do you owe, and to whom?”
Young Jolyon had once been discovered cribbing. This was worse. It was as little possible as it had been then to explain that everybody did it. He said sullenly:
“I suppose—somewhere about three hundred, to tradesmen.”
Old Jolyon’s glance went through and through him.
“And that doesn’t matter? What else?”
“I did owe about a hundred to fellows, but I’ve paid them.”
“That’s what you wanted the overdraft for, then?”
“Debts of honour—yes.”
“Debts of honour,” repeated old Jolyon. “And where did you get the hundred from?”
“I borrowed it.”
“When?”
“To-day.”
“Who from?”
“A man called Davids.”
“Money-lender?”
Young Jolyon bowed his head.
“And you preferred to go to a money-lender than to come to me?”
Young Jolyon’s lips quivered; he pitched his cigar into the fire, not strong enough to bear it.
“I—I—knew you’d—you’d hate it so, Dad.”
“I hate this more, Jo.”
To both of them it seemed the worst moment they had ever been through, and it lasted a long time. Then old Jolyon said:
“What did you sign?”
“I borrowed a hundred and fifty, and promised to pay two hundred in six months.”
“And how were you going to get that?”
“I don’t know.”
Old Jolyon, too, pitched his cigar into the fire, and passed his hand over his forehead.
Impulsively young Jolyon rose, and, oblivious of his whiskers, sat down on the arm of his father’s chair, precisely as if he were not a swell. There were tears in his eyes.
“I’m truly sorry, Dad; only, you don’t understand.” Old Jolyon shook his head.