During the Long Vacation he stayed in Cambridge, putting in mornings and evenings of study interspersed with afternoons on the river or walks to Granchester through the meadows; he liked Cambridge during vacation time—the quieter streets, the air of perpetual Sunday, the August sunlight bleaching the blinds in many a shop that would not pull them up until term-time. Most of the bookshops remained open, however, and there were a few good concerts. The two months passed very quickly.
Sheldon wrote to him every week, but with no news except of domestic trouble at Stourton—an outbreak of petty thefts due (Charles could judge) to Chet’s refusal to back up Sheldon in some earlier trouble with one of the gardeners. Now that it was too late, Chet seemed to be handling the matter rather unfortunately, dealing out wholesale dismissals to servants who had given years of service, and leaving a staff both too small and too disgruntled to work well. Chet also wrote, giving his side of the question, casting doubts on Sheldon’s efficiency, and asking how Charles, as one of the family, would feel about selling the place. Charles replied instantly that Chet should sell by all means; Stourton was far too big for any modern uses, and family sentiment should not weigh against common sense. Chet did not reply to that, but a few weeks later, at Cambridge, Charles heard from Truslove that Stourton was on the market, but wouldn’t be easy to sell “in these days.”
Then one Saturday, returning to his rooms from a lecture, he found Kitty sprawled on a sofa and Herring teetering doubtfully in the pantry. “Hello, Uncle Charles,” she cried loudly, and then added in a whisper: “That’s for HIS benefit. He didn’t believe me—I could see that.”
“But why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Charles began, trying to infuse a note of mild pleasure into his astonishment.
“Because you’d probably have told me not to,” she answered promptly.
He admitted he probably would, and then asked why she HAD come.
“It’s my birthday.”
“Is it? But—well, many happy returns—but—“
“Uncle Chet promised me a big party at Stourton, but he cancelled it at the last moment because he said Aunt Lydia wasn’t very well, and as I’d already got leave of absence from Kirby I didn’t feel I could WASTE the week-end.”
“But you’re not intending to stay here for the whole week-end, are you?”
“Oh yes, I’ve taken a room at the Bull. Surprising what a girl can do by herself these days.”
“But if they find out—at Kirby—“
“That I’ve been visiting one uncle instead of another? Will it matter? And I don’t really care if they DO find out—I’m tired of school anyway. I’d like to go to Newnham.”
“Anything wrong with Somerville at Oxford?”
“Oh, how you’d loathe to have me anywhere around, wouldn’t you?”
He began to laugh and suggested taking her to lunch.
“Can’t I have lunch here—in the college?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s better than the little German at our school who pretends to be French and gives us art lessons—he gets in an awful temper and then says, ‘In one word I vill not have it.’”
They lunched at Buol’s, in King’s Parade, and afterwards he said:
“Now, young lady, having invited yourself here, you’ll have to take the consequences. My usual way of spending an afternoon is to punt up the river, and I don’t care how dull you find it, it’s either that or off you go on your own.”
“But I don’t mind at all—I can punt awfully well.”
“You won’t get the chance—I’LL do the punting.”
But she lazed quite happily during the hour-long journey, chatting all the time about school, life, the family, herself, and himself. “It’s made a great difference, you passing that examination, Uncle Charles. I believe the family had an idea you were a bit queer till you did that—now they still think you’re queer, but a marvel too. You’ve quite pushed Uncle Julian off the shelf as the one in the family with brains.”
He made no comment; the effort of digging the pole in and out of the river-bed gave him an easy excuse for silence. He didn’t dislike Kitty, indeed there were certain qualities in her—or perhaps there was only one quality—that definitely attracted him.
She went on: “Of course the family don’t really RESPECT brains— they just have a scared feeling that brains might come in handy some day.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know—just the general atmosphere before Mother went away. She’s at Cannes, you know—staying with Uncle Julian.”
They had tea at the Orchard and then returned to her hotel for dinner. “I’m glad you’re showing up with me here,” she said, as they entered the lobby, he in cap and gown as prescribed by University regulations for all undergraduates after dark. “It lets them know I’m respectable even if I AM only fifteen. . . . By the way, how old are YOU?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Do you FEEL twenty-six?”
“Sometimes I feel ninety-six—so I try not to bother about how I feel.”
“Are you HAPPY?”
“Oh, happy enough.”
“Can you remember ever being TERRIBLY happy?”
He pondered. “Once when I was a small boy and Sheldon visited us at Brighton for some reason, and HE took me for a walk along the Promenade instead of Miss Ponsonby.” He laughed. “Such a thrill.”
She laughed also. “And I was happiest once when I’d had a toothache and it began to stop. Before it FINISHED stopping. I really enjoyed the last bit of the pain.”
“Morbid creature.”
“But pain is part of love, isn’t it?”
He was studying the menu. “At the moment I’m rather more concerned with the question of steak versus lamb chops.”
“You WOULD say that, but you don’t really mean it. . . . Oh, and another time I was happy was Armistice Night, at school. So wonderful, to think the war was all over, wasn’t it? Like waking up on end-of-term morning and realizing it’s really come. But somehow everything’s been a bit of a let-down since, don’t you think? I mean, if you stop now and say to yourself, the war’s over, the war’s over, it can’t keep on making you happy as it did that first night, can it?”
“I’ve practically decided on steak. What about you?”
“Uncle Charles, are you sorry I came here to see you?”
“Well, I’m a little puzzled about what to do with you tomorrow.”
“I’d like to do whatever you were going to do.”
“That’s well meant, but I don’t think it would work. I intended to read most of the day and go to a concert in the afternoon.”
“I’d love the concert.”
“I don’t expect you would. Beethoven Quartets make no attempt to be popular.”
“Neither do you, Uncle Charles, but
I
don’t mind.”
He smiled, appreciating the repartee whilst resolute to make no concessions throughout the rest of the evening and the following day; he would teach her to play truant from school and fasten herself on him like that. After a long and, he hoped, exhausting walk on Sunday morning, he took her to the concert in the afternoon, and in the evening saw her off on the train with much relief and a touch of wry amusement.
“Uncle Charles, you’ve been so SWEET to me.”
“I haven’t been aware of it.”
“Would you really mind if I were to come to Newnham?”
“It isn’t in my power to stop you. But don’t imagine you’d see much of me—the Newnham rules wouldn’t allow it, for one thing.”
“Do you think Newnham would be good for me?”
“Another question is would you be good for Newnham?”
“Won’t you be serious a moment? I wish you’d write to Mother and tell her it would be good for me.”
“Oh, I don’t know that I could do that. It’s for her and you to decide.”
“She says she doesn’t think she can afford it these days.”
“Not AFFORD it? Surely—“ But that, after all, wasn’t his business either. If Jill thought she could afford expensive cruises and winterings abroad, and yet decided to economize on her daughter’s education—well, it still remained outside his province.
The girl added, as the train came in: “It’s because trade’s not so good, or something. I think that’s really why Uncle Chet cancelled my party, not because of Aunt Lydia.” She mimicked Chet as she added: “Time for economies, old chap.”
“I don’t think you really know anything about it. After all, a
party wouldn’t cost—“
“I know, but Uncle Chet wouldn’t think of that. There’s nobody worse than a scared optimist.” She gave him a look, then added:
“I suppose you think I heard somebody say that? Well, I didn’t—I thought it out myself. I’m not the fool you think I am.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool at all. But I don’t see how you can know much about financial matters.”
“Oh, can’t I? Uncle Chet used to rave so much about Rainier shares whenever I saw him that I and a lot of other girls at Kirby clubbed together and bought some. We look at the price every morning.”
He said sternly: “I think you’re very foolish. You and your friends should have something better to spend your time on—and perhaps your money, too. . . . Good-bye.”
The train was moving. “Good-bye, Uncle Charles.”
Returning to St. Swithin’s in the mellow October twilight he pondered on that phrase “in these days.” Truslove had used it in connection with the possible sale of Stourton, and now Jill also, about the expense of sending Kitty to college. Always popular as an excuse for action or inaction, and uttered by Englishmen in 1918 and 1919 with a hint of victorious pride, it had lately—during 1920--turned downwards from the highest notes. There was nothing gloomy yet, nothing in the nature of a dirge; just an allegro simmering down to andante among business men and stockbrokers. Trade, of course, had been so outrageously and preposterously good that there was nothing for the curve to do except flatten; the wild boom on the markets could not continue indefinitely. Charles looked up Rainier shares in The Times when he got back to his rooms; he found they stood at four pounds after having been higher— which, allowing for the bonus, really meant that the shares he had sold to Chet for seventy shillings were now more than twice the price. Chet shouldn’t worry—and yet, according to Kitty, he WAS worrying—doubtless because there had been a small fall from the peak. Her comment had been shrewd—nobody like a scared optimist.
The next morning at breakfast his thoughts were enough on the subject for him to glance at the later financial news, which informed him by headline that Rainier’s had announced an interim dividend of 10 per cent, as against 15 the previous year. It seemed to him good enough, and nothing for anyone to worry about, but by evening as he walked along Petty Cury the newsboys were carrying placards, “Slump on ‘Change” and “Rainier Jolts Markets.” He found that the reduced dividend had tipped over prices rather as an extra brick on a child’s toy tower will send half of it toppling. Rainier’s had fallen thirty shillings during the day’s trading, and other leading shares proportionately. It had been something that sensational journalism delighted to call a “Black Monday.”
Still he did not think there was anything much to worry about. The theoretical study of economics was far removed from the practical guesswork of Throgmorton Street, and his reading of Marshall and Pigou had given him no insight into the psychology of speculation. For a week afterwards he ignored the financial pages, being temperamentally as well as personally disinterested in them; not till he received an alarming letter from Sheldon did he search the financial lists again to discover that in the interval Rainier ordinaries had continued their fall from two pounds ten to seventeen shillings. And even then his first thought was a severely logical one—that they were either worth more than that, or else had never been worth the higher prices at all.
Sheldon wrote that Chet was terribly worried, had been having long consultations with bank and Stock Exchange people, and had stayed all night in his City office on several occasions. Charles could not understand that; what had bank or Stock Exchange people got to do with the firm? Surely the Rainier business was principally carried on at Cowderton and other places, not in the City of London; and as for the falling price of the shares, what did it matter what the price of something was, if you didn’t have either to buy or to sell? He replied to Sheldon somewhat on these lines, half wishing he could write a similar note to Chet, but as Chet had not approached him, he did not care to offer comment or advice.
But towards the beginning of December a letter from Chet did arrive; and it was, when one reached the last page, an appeal for a loan. He didn’t say how much, but no sum, it appeared, would be either too small or too great; he left the choice to Charles with a touch of his vague expansiveness, assuring him that it was a merely temporary convenience and would soon be repaid. Charles was puzzled, unable to imagine how much Chet needed—surely it couldn’t be a small sum, a few hundreds, and if it were a matter of thousands, what could he possibly want it for? He felt he had a right to inquire, and did so. Back came a franker, longer, and much more desperate appeal, again saving its pith until the last page, wherein Chet admitted he had been speculating heavily in the shares of the firm, borrowing from banks in order to do so. At first the result had been highly successful; his own constant buying on a rising market had given him huge profits, and with those (uncashed, of course) as security he had borrowed and purchased more. Then the inevitable had happened. Chet didn’t put it in this way; he seemed to think that a conjunction of bad trade, falling share prices, and a request by the bank for him to begin repayment of loans was some malign coincidence instead of a series of causes and effects. If only Charles could help him out with ten or twelve thousand—he’d pay interest, let’s call it a short-term investment, old chap, the badness of trade could only be exceptional, Rainier shares were destined to far higher levels eventually—hadn’t they once been “talked” to twenty pounds? And Chet added that he hated making such a request, and only did so because there was much more at stake than his own personal affairs;
Rainier’s was a family concern, there were Julian and Jill and Bridget and Julia and all the others to think about. If he threw his own shares on the market, it would make for a further fall in the price, and that would be bad for the firm itself and so affect the stability of the family property and livelihood.