James Hilton: Collected Novels by James Hilton
“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 canceled 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 businessmen 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 man 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
The letter arrived on a Friday; Charles answered it that same evening, enclosing a check for as large a round figure as he happened to have on hand, and promising more in a few days. But by the following morning the affairs of Rainier’s had already broken out of the financial columns and were invading the news pages of all the daily papers. Apparently the shares had crashed in the “Street” after the Stock Exchange closed the previous evening, the final price being a very nominal half-crown. Accompanying the collapse were wild rumors—some of them, according to a discreet reporter, “of a serious nature.”
That sent him to Bragg to ask for leave of absence; he then wired Sheldon and left immediately for Stourton, reaching the house in the late afternoon. From the cars outside he guessed there was a family conclave before Sheldon told him who had arrived. He found them assembled in the library, already in the midst of stormy argument. Bridget, who was near the door, said “Hello, Charlie,” but the others were too preoccupied to hear this, even to see him at first. It was curious to note the utter disintegration of formal manners in face of such a crisis; to watch a favored few, long accustomed to regard the family business as a rock of ages cleft for them, suddenly contemplating phenomena so normal in most people’s lives—the uncertainties of the future. Charles stayed close to the door, reluctant to intervene; so far as he could make out, the family had been heckling Chet for some time, for his temper was considerably frayed, and at one question he suddenly lost it and shouted: “Look here, I’m not going to shoulder the blame for everything! You were all damned glad to leave things in my hands as long as you thought they we’re going well—”
“As long as we thought you knew what you were up to—we never guessed you were monkeying like this—
“God damn it, Jill—what did you ever do except draw dividends and spend ’em on Riviera gigolos?”
“How dare you say that!”
“Well, if you can suggest there’s been anything crooked in the way I’ve—”
Jill was on the verge of hysteria. “I know my life isn’t stuffy and narrow-minded like yours—but did I have to travel all the way here just to be insulted? Julian knows what a lie it is—he lives there—he’s been at Cannes all the season except when we went to Aix for a month—Julian, I appeal to you—are you going to stay here and allow things like this to be said—Julian—”
George interposed feebly: “Steady now, steady—both of you.”
Julia said, with cold common sense: “I think we might as well stick to the point, which isn’t Jill’s morals, but our money.”
Jill was still screaming: “Julian can tell you—Julian—”
Everybody stared at Julian, who couldn’t think of a sufficiently clever remark and was consequently silent. Meanwhile Chet’s anger rose to white heat. “Look at me—don’t look at Julian! I haven’t had a decent sleep for weeks, while you’ve all been gallivanting about in Cannes or Aix or God knows where! Look at me! I’ve put on ten years—that’s what they say at the office!” And he added, pathetically: “To say nothing of it giving Lydia a breakdown.”
It was also pathetic that he should have asked them to look at him, for his claim was a clear exaggeration; he certainly looked tired—perhaps also in need of a Turkish bath and a shave; but his hair had failed to turn white after any number of sleepless nights. He was still expansive, even in self-pity. Charles felt suddenly sorry for him, as much because as in spite of this.
Julian, having now thought of something, intervened in his sly, high-pitched voice: “I’m afraid it wasn’t your looks we were all relying on, Chet …”
Then Julia, glancing towards the door, spotted Charles. “Ah, here’s the mystery man arrived! Hello, darling! How wise you were to sell Rainier’s at three pounds ten and buy War Loan, you shrewd man! Come to gloat over us?”
It was the interpretation Charles had feared. He stepped forward, nodded slightly to the general assembly. “You’re quite wrong, Julia. … How are you, Chet?”
Chet, on the verge of tears after his outburst, put out his hand rather as a dog extends an interceding paw; he murmured abjectly: “Hello, old chap—God bless. Caught us all at a bad moment. … And thanks for your letter—damn nice of you, but I’m afraid it’s a bit late—a sort of tide in the affairs of men, you know—”
Charles, not fully aware what Chet was talking about, answered for want of anything else to say: “I should have come earlier, but I just missed a train.”
“You missed Chet’s news, too,” Jill cried, still half-hysterical. “Such splendid news! I’ve been traveling all night to hear it—so has Julian—would somebody mind repeating it for Charles’s benefit?”
“I’ll tell him,” Julia interrupted, venomously. “We’re all on the rocks, and Chet’s just the most wonderful financier in the world!”
“Except,” added Julian, “a certain undergraduate who thoughtfully added a quarter of a million to Chet’s bank loan by demanding cash.”
Charles swung round on him. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
“Well, you sold your stuff to Chet, didn’t you?”
“He wanted to buy—I didn’t ask him to.”|
“But he paid you in cash.”|
“Naturally—what else?”
“Well, where d’you suppose he found the cash? In his pocket?”
“You mean he had to borrow from the bank to pay me?” Charles then turned on Chet. “Is this true?”
“’Fraid it is, Charlie. After all, you wanted the cash.”
“Well, you wanted the shares.”
“Wasn’t exactly that I wanted ’em, old chap, but I had to take ’em.”
“But—I don’t see that—surely I could have sold them to someone else?”
“Not at that price. You try dumping sixty thousand on the market and see what happens. I had to take ’em to keep the price firm. Isn’t that right, Truslove?”
Charles peered beyond the faces; Truslove was standing in the shadows, fingering the embroidery at the back of a chair; leaning forward he answered: “That was your motive, undoubtedly, Mr. Chetwynd. But I think we can hardly blame Mr. Charles for—”
“Is it a matter for blaming anybody?” Charles interrupted, with tightened lips. “I can only say that I—I—”
And then he stopped. What could he say? That he was sorry? That had he known Chet was having to borrow he would have insisted on selling in the market? That if he could have forecast a crisis like this, he would have held on to his shares, just to be one of the family in adversity? None of these things was true, except the first. He said, lamely: “I feel at a disadvantage—not having known of these things before.”
“Well, whose fault was that?” Jill shouted at him.
“My own, I’m perfectly well aware. I took no interest in them.”
“It doesn’t cost you anything to admit it now, does it?”
There was such bitterness in her voice that he stared with astonishment. “I—I don’t know what you mean, Jill.”
“Oh, don’t put on that Cambridge air—we’re not all fools! And we haven’t all got queer memories either! If you want my opinion, you can have it—you’re morally liable to return that cash—”
Truslove stepped forward with unexpected sprightliness. “I must say I consider that a most unfair and prejudiced remark—”
Jill screamed on: “I said morally, Truslove, not legally! Isn’t that the way you argued us all into the equity settlement with Charles after Father died? We didn’t have to do it then! He doesn’t have to do it now! But what he ought is another matter!”
Nobody said anything to that, but Julian stroked his chin thoughtfully, while Julia stared across at Jill with darkly shining eyes. It was as if the family were at last converging on a more satisfying emotion than that of blaming Chet, who, after all, was o
The room was silent as he and the lawyer passed through the French windows on to the terrace. They did not speak till they were well away from the house, halfway to the new and expensive tennis courts that Chet had had installed just before he decided to sell Stourton if he could. Truslove began by saying how distressed he was at such a scene, as well as at the events leading up to it; in all his experience with the family, over forty years … Charles cut him short. “I don’t think this is an occasion for sentiment, Truslove.”
“But perhaps, Mr. Charles, you’ll allow me to say that I warned Mr. Chetwynd a great many times during recent months, but in vain—he fancied he had the Midas touch—there was no arguing with him. … I only wish he had more of your own level-headedness.”
“No compliments either, please. I want facts, that’s all. First, is the firm bankrupt?”
“That’s hard to say, Mr. Charles. Many a firm would be bankrupt if its creditors all jumped at the same moment, and that’s just what often happens when things begin to go wrong. I daresay the firm’s still making profits, but there are loans of various kinds and if they’re called in just now, as they may be with the shares down to half a crown—”
“Is that a fair price for what they’re worth?”
“Well, there again it’s hard to say—always hard to separate price from worth.”
“What will happen if the loans are called in?”
“The company will have to look for new money—if it can find any.”
“And if it can’t?”
“Then, of course, there’d be nothing for it but a receivership, or at any rate some sort of arrangement with creditors.”
“May I ask you, though you needn’t answer if you don’t want—did Chet speculate with any of the firm’s money?”