Unhappily, however, he went up for his second year with longer whiskers and a more perfect capacity for enjoyment than ever. He had the best fellows in the world for friends, life was sweet, Schools still far off. He was liked and he liked being liked; he had, in fact, a habit of existence eminently unsuited to the drawing-in of horns.
Now his set were very pleasant young men from Eton and Harrow and Winchester, some of whom had more worldly knowledge than young Jolyon, and some of whom had more money, but none of whom had more sense of responsibility. It was in the rooms of ‘Cuffs’ Charwell (the name was pronounced Cherrell, who was taking Divinity Schools, and was afterwards the Bishop) that whist was first abandoned for baccarat, under the auspices of ‘Donny’ Covercourt. That young scion of the Shropshire Covercourts had discovered this exhilarating pastime, indissolubly connected with the figure Nine, at a French watering-place during the Long Vacation, and when he returned to Cambridge was brimming over with it, in his admirably impassive manner. Now, young Jolyon was not by rights a gambler; that is to say, he was self-conscious about the thing, never properly carried away. Moreover, in spite of Whyte Melville, he was by this time indubitably nervous about his monetary position–on all accounts, therefore, inclined to lose rather than to win. But when such cronies as ‘Cuffs’ Cherrell, ‘Feathers’ Totteridge, Guy Winlow, and ‘Donny’ himself–best fellows in the world–were bent on baccarat, who could be a ‘worm’ and wriggle away?
On the fourth evening his turn came to take the ‘bank.’ What with paying off his most pestiferous creditors and his College fees, so unfeelingly exacted in advance, he had just fifteen pounds left–the term being a fortnight spent. He was called on to take a ‘bank’ of one hundred. With a sinking heart and a marbled countenance, therefore, he sat down at the head of the green board. This was his best chance, so far, of living up to his whiskers–come what would, he must not fail the shades of ‘Digby Grand,’ ‘Daisy Waters,’ and the ‘Honble Crasher’!
He lost from the first moment; with one or two momentary flickers of fortune in his favour, his descent to Avernus was one of the steadiest ever made. He sat through it with his heart kept in by very straight lips. He rose languidly at the end of half an hour with the ‘bank’ broken, and, wanly smiling, signed his I.O.U’s, including one to ‘Donny’ Covercourt for a cool eighty. Restoring himself with mulled claret, he resumed his seat at the board, but, for the rest of the evening, neither won nor lost. He went across the Quad to his own rooms with a queasy feeling–he was seeing his father’s face. For this was his first unpayable debt of honour, so different from mere debts to tradesmen. And, sitting on his narrow bed in his six-foot by fifteen bedroom, he wrestled for the means of payment. Paid somehow it must be! Would his Bank let him overdraw to the amount? He could see the stolid faces behind that confounded counter. Not they! And if they didn’t! That brute Davids? Or–the Dad? Which was worse? Oh! the Dad was worse! For, suddenly, young Jolyon was perceiving that from the beginning he had lived up here a life that his father would not understand. With a sort of horror he visualised his effort to explain it to that high-domed forehead, and the straight glance that came from so deep behind. No! Davids was the ticket! After all, ‘Daisy Waters,’ ‘Digby Grand,’ the ‘Honble. Crasher,’ and the rest of the elect–had they jibbed at money-lenders? Not so! Did ‘Feathers,’ did ‘Donny’? What else were money-lenders for but lending money? Trying to cheer himself with that thought, he fell asleep from sheer unhappiness.
Next morning, at his Bank, very tight lips assured him that an overdraft without security was not in the day’s work. Young Jolyon arched his eyebrows, ran fingers through a best whisker, drawled the words: “It’s of no consequence!” and went away, stiffening his fallen crest. In front of him he saw again his father’s face, and he couldn’t stand it. He sought the rooms of ‘Feathers’ Totteridge. The engaging youth had just had his ‘tosh’ and was seated over devilled kidneys, in his dressing-gown.
Young Jolyon said:
“Feathers, old cock, give me a note to that brute Davids!”
Feathers stared. “What ho, friend!” he said. “Plucked? He’ll skin you, Jo.”
“Can’t be helped,” said young Jolyon, glumly.
He went away armed with the note, and in the afternoon sought the abode of Mr. Rufus Davids. The Hebraic benefactor read the note, and bent on young Jolyon the glance of criticism.
“How mutth do you want, Mithter Forthyte?” he said.
“One hundred and fifty.”
“That will cotht you two hundred thicth month from now. I give good termth.”
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.
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Now his set were very pleasant young men from Eton and Harrow and Winchester, some of whom had more worldly knowledge than young Jolyon, and some of whom had more money, but none of whom had more sense of responsibility. It was in the rooms of ‘Cuffs’ Charwell (the name was pronounced Cherrell, who was taking Divinity Schools, and was afterwards the Bishop) that whist was first abandoned for baccarat, under the auspices of ‘Donny’ Covercourt. That young scion of the Shropshire Covercourts had discovered this exhilarating pastime, indissolubly connected with the figure Nine, at a French watering-place during the Long Vacation, and when he returned to Cambridge was brimming over with it, in his admirably impassive manner. Now, young Jolyon was not by rights a gambler; that is to say, he was self-conscious about the thing, never properly carried away. Moreover, in spite of Whyte Melville, he was by this time indubitably nervous about his monetary position–on all accounts, therefore, inclined to lose rather than to win. But when such cronies as ‘Cuffs’ Cherrell, ‘Feathers’ Totteridge, Guy Winlow, and ‘Donny’ himself–best fellows in the world–were bent on baccarat, who could be a ‘worm’ and wriggle away?
On the fourth evening his turn came to take the ‘bank.’ What with paying off his most pestiferous creditors and his College fees, so unfeelingly exacted in advance, he had just fifteen pounds left–the term being a fortnight spent. He was called on to take a ‘bank’ of one hundred. With a sinking heart and a marbled countenance, therefore, he sat down at the head of the green board. This was his best chance, so far, of living up to his whiskers–come what would, he must not fail the shades of ‘Digby Grand,’ ‘Daisy Waters,’ and the ‘Honble Crasher’!
He lost from the first moment; with one or two momentary flickers of fortune in his favour, his descent to Avernus was one of the steadiest ever made. He sat through it with his heart kept in by very straight lips. He rose languidly at the end of half an hour with the ‘bank’ broken, and, wanly smiling, signed his I.O.U’s, including one to ‘Donny’ Covercourt for a cool eighty. Restoring himself with mulled claret, he resumed his seat at the board, but, for the rest of the evening, neither won nor lost. He went across the Quad to his own rooms with a queasy feeling–he was seeing his father’s face. For this was his first unpayable debt of honour, so different from mere debts to tradesmen. And, sitting on his narrow bed in his six-foot by fifteen bedroom, he wrestled for the means of payment. Paid somehow it must be! Would his Bank let him overdraw to the amount? He could see the stolid faces behind that confounded counter. Not they! And if they didn’t! That brute Davids? Or–the Dad? Which was worse? Oh! the Dad was worse! For, suddenly, young Jolyon was perceiving that from the beginning he had lived up here a life that his father would not understand. With a sort of horror he visualised his effort to explain it to that high-domed forehead, and the straight glance that came from so deep behind. No! Davids was the ticket! After all, ‘Daisy Waters,’ ‘Digby Grand,’ the ‘Honble. Crasher,’ and the rest of the elect–had they jibbed at money-lenders? Not so! Did ‘Feathers,’ did ‘Donny’? What else were money-lenders for but lending money? Trying to cheer himself with that thought, he fell asleep from sheer unhappiness.
Next morning, at his Bank, very tight lips assured him that an overdraft without security was not in the day’s work. Young Jolyon arched his eyebrows, ran fingers through a best whisker, drawled the words: “It’s of no consequence!” and went away, stiffening his fallen crest. In front of him he saw again his father’s face, and he couldn’t stand it. He sought the rooms of ‘Feathers’ Totteridge. The engaging youth had just had his ‘tosh’ and was seated over devilled kidneys, in his dressing-gown.
Young Jolyon said:
“Feathers, old cock, give me a note to that brute Davids!”
Feathers stared. “What ho, friend!” he said. “Plucked? He’ll skin you, Jo.”
“Can’t be helped,” said young Jolyon, glumly.
He went away armed with the note, and in the afternoon sought the abode of Mr. Rufus Davids. The Hebraic benefactor read the note, and bent on young Jolyon the glance of criticism.
“How mutth do you want, Mithter Forthyte?” he said.
“One hundred and fifty.”
“That will cotht you two hundred thicth month from now. I give good termth.”
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.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34