“You were just trying to fill her head with nonsense. A desert island. Fiddlesticks!”
There was naturally a pause after this, but I was glad to see Uncle was not completely down. I watched his face, rejoicing at the evident signs of consideration before a new assault.
“I once knew a politician who came from Alberta. He made a lot of money, his enemies said by shady means, but I believe by his native cleverness in land speculation. His was a happy home, the family united by affection. And then all went society mad. Paterfamilias took to horses and the boys followed suit. To make a long story short, with the advent of riches and horses, happiness flew out of the window, and there was ruin.”
Uncle was now cracking nuts; in a minute he would be rising and going to his den, and I had not yet heard about Mrs. Mount. So, I asked again.
“Mrs. Mount, my child, was the daughter of old Bustard, who—how wonderful when we go back to the beginnings—kept a tavern at a crossroads in the country. First he sold butter and sugar openly, and grog on the sly; then he blossomed into keeping a tavern. He made money fast and speculated. He dabbled in the Chicago wheat pit, and in real estate. He appreciated the lessons of history and got out at the top of several booms. In short, he was a successful money-maker, and collected a pile, and then died. Mount, who was, what out west they call a shyster, married the girl, Miss Bustard. That’s all.”
“And how did she with those disadvantages manage to climb into society?” I asked.
“Money first; then the Church. She gave to charities, tinted her hair a golden yellow, drove a fine pair of horses before the motor came chu-ing along, carried impecunious dowagers home from meetings of the Women’s Auxiliary. Oh, it was all easy, only a matter of persistence. The dowagers had to ask her to tea, and when she was able to pay them back, she took care that the papers made a splash of it. So Mrs. Mount got thick with the old families.”
“But,” I objected (I can’t help asking questions), “if she was so generous to charities, why did she wish to limit Mumsie to two heads of lettuce?”
Uncle was, I think, needlessly scornful as he replied: “You don’t feed a fish bait after you have caught him.”
That was all.