II
One Sunday Jack strolled in an hour early for tea. He had made a mistake, as one does sometimes when one sleeps in the afternoon. Gran was sitting by a little fire in the dark living room. She had to have a little fire to look at. It was like life to her.
“Come here, Jack Grant,” she said in her thin, imperious voice. He went on reluctant feet, for he had a dread of her years and her strange femaleness. What did she want of him?
“Did y’hear Mr. George get my son to promise to make a will, when y’were in Perth?”
“No, marm,” said Jack promptly.
“Well, take it from me, if he promised, he hasn’t done it. He never signed a paper in his life, unless it was his marriage register. And but for my driving, he’d never have signed that. Sit down!”
Jack sat on the edge of a chair, his heart in his boots.
“I told you before I’d ha’ married your grandfather, if he hadn’t been married already. I wonder where you’d ha’ been then! Just as well I didn’t, for he wouldn’t look at me after he took my leg off. Just come here a minute.”
Jack got up and went to her side. She put her soft, dry, dead old hand on his face and stroked it, pressing on the cheekbones.
“Ay,” she said. “I suppose those are his bones again. And my bones are in Monica. Don’t stand up, lad, take your seat.”
Jack sat down in extreme discomfort.
“Well,” she resumed, “I was very well off with old Ellis, so I won’t complain. But you’ve got your English father’s eyes. You’d have been better with mine. Those bones, those beautiful bones, and my sort of eyes.”
Gran’s eyes were queer and remote now. But they had been perhaps like Monica’s, only a darker grey, and with a darker, subtler cat look in them.
“I suppose it will be in the children’s children,” she resumed, her eyes going out like a candle. “For I married old Ellis, though to this day I never quite believe it. And one thing I do know. I won’t die in the dying room of his house. I won’t do it, not if it was the custom of a hundred families. Not if he was here himself to see me do it. I wouldn’t. Though he was kindness itself. But not if he was here himself, and had the satisfaction of seeing me do it. A dreadful room! I’d be frightened to death to die in it. I like me sheets sun-kissed, heat or no heat, and no sun ever gets into that room. But it’s better for a woman to marry, even if she marries the wrong man. I allus said so. An old maid, especially a decayed gentlewoman, is a blight on the face of the earth.”
“Why?” said Jack suddenly. The old woman was too authoritative.
“That’s why! What do you know about it,” she said contemptuously.
“I knew a nice old lady in England, who’d never been married,” he said, thinking of a really beautiful, gentle woman, Who had kept all her perfume and her charm, in spite of her fifty-odd years of single blessedness. But then she had a naturally deep and religious nature, not like this pagan old cat of a Gran.
“Did you!” said Gran, eying him severely. “What do you know at your age? I’ve got three unmarried daughters, and I’m ashamed of them. If I’d married your grandfather I never should have had them. Self-centred, and old as old boots, they are. I’d rather they’d gone wrong and died in the bush, like your Aunt who had a child by Mary’s father.”
Jack made round, English eyes of amazement at this speech. He disapproved thoroughly.
“You’ve got too much of your English father in you,” she said, “and not enough of your hard-hearted grandfather. Look at Lennie, what a beautiful boy he is.”
There was a pause. Jack sat in a torment while she baited him. He was full of antagonism towards her and her years.
“But I tell you, you never realise you’re old till you see your friends slipping away. One by one they go—over the border. That’s what makes you feel old. I tell you. Nothing else. Annie Brockman died the other day. I was at school with her. She wasn’t old, though you’d have thought so.”
The way Gran said this was quite spiteful. And Jack thought to himself: “What nonsense, she was old if she was at school with Gran. If she was as old as Gran, she was awfully old.”
“No, she wasn’t old—school girls and fellows laughing in the ball room, or breathing fast after a hard ride. You didn’t know Sydney in those days. And men grown old behind their beards for want of understanding; because they’re too dense to understand what living means. Men are dense. Are ye listening?”
The question came with such queer aged force that Jack started almost out of his chair.
“Yes, marm,” he said.
“‘Yes marm!’ he says!” she repeated, with a queer little grin of amusement. “Listen to this grandfather’s chit saying ‘Yes marm!’ to me! Well, they’ll have their way. My friends are nearly all gone, so I suppose I shall soon be going. Not but what there’s plenty of amusement here.”
She looked round in an odd way, as if she saw ghosts. Jack would have given his skin to escape her.
“Listen,” she said with sudden secrecy. “I want ye to do something for me. You love Lennie, don’t ye?”
Jack nodded.
“So do I! I’m going to help him.” Her voice became sharp with secrecy. “I’ve put by a stocking for him,” she hissed. “At least it’s not a stocking, it’s a tin box, but it’s the same thing. It’s up there!” She pointed with her stick at the wide black chimney. “D’ye understand?”
She eyed Jack with aged keenness, and he nodded, though his understanding was rather vague. Truth to tell, nothing she said seemed to him quite real. As if, poor Gran, her age put her outside of reason.
“That stocking is for Lennie. Tom’s mother was nobody knows who, though I’m not going to say Jacob never married her, if Jack says he did. But Tom’ll get everything. The same as Jacob did. That’s how it hits back at me. I wanted Jacob to have the place, and now it goes to Tom, and my little Lennie gets nothing. Alice has been a good woman, and a good wife to Jacob: better than he deserved. I’m going to stand by her. That stocking in there is for Lennie because he’s her eldest son. In a tin box. Y’understand?”
And she pointed again at the chimney.
Jack nodded, though he didn’t really take it in. He had a little horror of Gran at all times; but when she took on this witch-like portentousness, and whispered at him in a sharp, aged whisper, about money, hidden money, it all seemed so abnormal to him that he refused to take it for real. The queer, aged, female spirit that had schemed with money for the menfolk she chose, scheming to oust those she had not elected, was so strange and half-ghoulish, that he merely shrank from taking it in. When she pointed with her white-headed stick at the wide black mouth of the chimney, he glanced and looked quickly away again. He did not want to think of a hoard of sovereigns in a stocking—or a tin box—secreted in there. He did not want to think of the subtle, scheming, vindictive old woman reaching up into the soot, to add more gold to the hoard. It was all unnatural to him and to his generation.
But Gran despised him and his generation. It was as unreal to her as hers to him.
“Old George couldn’t even persuade that Jacob of mine to sign a marriage settlement,” she continued. “And I wasn’t going to force him. Would you believe a man could be such an obstinate fool?”
“Yes, marm,” said Jack automatically.
And Gran stamped her stick at him in sudden vicious rage.
The stamping of the stick brought Grace, and he fled.