We were torn apart by a financial accident to my uncle of which I did
not at first grasp the full bearings. He had developed what I regarded
as an innocent intellectual recreation which he called stock-market
meteorology. I think he got the idea from one use of curves in the
graphic presentation of associated variations that he saw me plotting.
He secured some of my squared paper and, having cast about for a time,
decided to trace the rise and fall of certain lines and railways.
“There’s something in this, George,” he said, and I little dreamt that
among other things that were in it, was the whole of his spare money
and most of what my mother had left to him in trust for me.
“It’s as plain as can be,” he said. “See, here’s one system of waves
and here’s another! These are prices for Union Pacifics—extending over
a month. Now next week, mark my words, they’ll be down one whole point.
We’re getting near the steep part of the curve again. See? It’s
absolutely scientific. It’s verifiable. Well, and apply it! You buy in
the hollow and sell on the crest, and there you are!”
I was so convinced of the triviality of this amusement that to find at
last that he had taken it in the most disastrous earnest overwhelmed
me.
He took me for a long walk to break it to me, over the hills towards
Yare and across the great gorse commons by Hazelbrow.
“There are ups and downs in life, George,” he said—halfway across that
great open space, and paused against the sky.... “I left out one factor
in the Union Pacific analysis.”
“_Did_ you?” I said, struck by the sudden chance in his voice. “But you
don’t mean?”
I stopped and turned on him in the narrow sandy rut of pathway and he
stopped likewise.
“I do, George. I _do_ mean. It’s bust me! I’m a bankrupt here and now.”
“Then—?”
“The shop’s bust too. I shall have to get out of that.”
“And me?”
“Oh, you!—_you’re_ all right. You can transfer your apprenticeship,
and—er—well, I’m not the sort of man to be careless with trust funds,
you can be sure. I kept that aspect in mind. There’s some of it left
George—trust me!—quite a decent little sum.”
“But you and aunt?”
“It isn’t _quite_ the way we meant to leave Wimblehurst, George; but we
shall have to go. Sale; all the things shoved about and ticketed—lot a
hundred and one. Ugh!... It’s been a larky little house in some ways.
The first we had. Furnishing—a spree in its way.... Very happy...” His
face winced at some memory. “Let’s go on, George,” he said shortly,
near choking, I could see.
I turned my back on him, and did not look round again for a little
while.
“That’s how it is, you see, George.” I heard him after a time.
When we were back in the high road again he came alongside, and for a
time we walked in silence.
“Don’t say anything home yet,” he said presently. “Fortunes of War. I
got to pick the proper time with Susan—else she’ll get depressed. Not
that she isn’t a first-rate brick whatever comes along.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll be careful”; and it seemed to me for the
time altogether too selfish to bother him with any further inquiries
about his responsibility as my trustee. He gave a little sigh of relief
at my note of assent, and was presently talking quite cheerfully of his
plans.... But he had, I remember, one lapse into moodiness that came
and went suddenly. “Those others!” he said, as though the thought had
stung him for the first time.
“What others?” I asked.
“Damn them!” said he.
“But what others?”
“All those damned stick-in-the-mud-and-die-slowly tradespeople: Ruck,
the butcher, Marbel, the grocer. Snape! Gord! George, _how_ they’ll
grin!”
I thought him over in the next few weeks, and I remember now in great
detail the last talk we had together before he handed over the shop and
me to his successor. For he had the good luck to sell his business,
“lock, stock, and barrel”—in which expression I found myself and my
indentures included. The horrors of a sale by auction of the furniture
even were avoided.
I remember that either coming or going on that occasion, Ruck, the
butcher, stood in his doorway and regarded us with a grin that showed
his long teeth.
“You half-witted hog!” said my uncle. “You grinning hyaena”; and then,
“Pleasant day, Mr. Ruck.”
“Goin’ to make your fortun’ in London, then?” said Mr. Ruck, with slow
enjoyment.
That last excursion took us along the causeway to Beeching, and so up
the downs and round almost as far as Steadhurst, home. My moods, as we
went, made a mingled web. By this time I had really grasped the fact
that my uncle had, in plain English, robbed me; the little
accumulations of my mother, six hundred pounds and more, that would
have educated me and started me in business, had been eaten into and
was mostly gone into the unexpected hollow that ought to have been a
crest of the Union Pacific curve, and of the remainder he still gave no
account. I was too young and inexperienced to insist on this or know
how to get it, but the thought of it all made streaks of decidedly
black anger in that scheme of interwoven feelings. And you know, I was
also acutely sorry for him—almost as sorry as I was for my aunt Susan.
Even then I had quite found him out. I knew him to be weaker than
myself; his incurable, irresponsible childishness was as clear to me
then as it was on his deathbed, his redeeming and excusing imaginative
silliness. Through some odd mental twist perhaps I was disposed to
exonerate him even at the cost of blaming my poor old mother who had
left things in his untrustworthy hands.
I should have forgiven him altogether, I believe, if he had been in any
manner apologetic to me; but he wasn’t that. He kept reassuring me in a
way I found irritating. Mostly, however, his solicitude was for Aunt
Susan and himself.
“It’s these Crises, George,” he said, “try Character. Your aunt’s come
out well, my boy.”
He made meditative noises for a space.
“Had her cry of course,”—the thing had been only too painfully evident
to me in her eyes and swollen face—“who wouldn’t? But now—buoyant
again!... She’s a Corker.
“We’ll be sorry to leave the little house of course. It’s a bit like
Adam and Eve, you know. Lord! what a chap old Milton was!
“‘The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.’
“It sounds, George.... Providence their guide!... Well—thank goodness
there’s no imeedgit prospect of either Cain or Abel!”
“After all, it won’t be so bad up there. Not the scenery, perhaps, or
the air we get here, but—_Life!_ We’ve got very comfortable little
rooms, very comfortable considering, and I shall rise. We’re not done
yet, we’re not beaten; don’t think that, George. I shall pay twenty
shillings in the pound before I’ve done—you mark my words,
George,—twenty—five to you.... I got this situation within twenty-four
hours—others offered. It’s an important firm—one of the best in London.
I looked to that. I might have got four or five shillings a week
more—elsewhere. Quarters I could name. But I said to them plainly,
wages to go on with, but opportunity’s my game—development. We
understood each other.”
He threw out his chest, and the little round eyes behind his glasses
rested valiantly on imaginary employers.
We would go on in silence for a space while he revised and restated
that encounter. Then he would break out abruptly with some banal
phrase.
“The Battle of Life, George, my boy,” he would cry, or “Ups and Downs!”
He ignored or waived the poor little attempts I made to ascertain my
own position. “That’s all right,” he would say; or, “Leave all that to
me. _I’ll_ look after them.” And he would drift away towards the
philosophy and moral of the situation. What was I to do?
“Never put all your resources into one chance, George; that’s the
lesson I draw from this. Have forces in reserve. It was a hundred to
one, George, that I was right—a hundred to one. I worked it out
afterwards. And here we are spiked on the off-chance. If I’d have only
kept back a little, I’d have had it on U.P. next day, like a shot, and
come out on the rise. There you are!”
His thoughts took a graver turn.
“It’s where you’ll bump up against Chance like this, George, that you
feel the need of religion. Your hard-and-fast scientific men—your
Spencers and Huxleys—they don’t understand that. I do. I’ve thought of
it a lot lately—in bed and about. I was thinking of it this morning
while I shaved. It’s not irreverent for me to say it, I hope—but God
comes in on the off-chance, George. See? Don’t you be too cocksure of
anything, good or bad. That’s what I make out of it. I could have
sworn. Well, do you think I—particular as I am—would have touched those
Union Pacifics with trust money at all, if I hadn’t thought it a
thoroughly good thing—good without spot or blemish?... And it was bad!
“It’s a lesson to me. You start in to get a hundred percent. and you
come out with that. It means, in a way, a reproof for Pride. I’ve
thought of that, George—in the Night Watches. I was thinking this
morning when I was shaving, that that’s where the good of it all comes
in. At the bottom I’m a mystic in these affairs. You calculate you’re
going to do this or that, but at bottom who knows at all _what_ he’s
doing? When you most think you’re doing things, they’re being done
right over your head. _You’re_ being done—in a sense. Take a hundred-to
one chance, or one to a hundred—what does it matter? You’re being Led.”
It’s odd that I heard this at the time with unutterable contempt, and
now that I recall it—well, I ask myself, what have I got better?
“I wish,” said I, becoming for a moment outrageous, “_you_ were being
Led to give me some account of my money, uncle.”
“Not without a bit of paper to figure on, George, I can’t. But you
trust me about that never fear. You trust me.”
And in the end I had to.
I think the bankruptcy hit my aunt pretty hard. There was, so far as I
can remember now, a complete cessation of all those cheerful outbreaks
of elasticity, no more skylarking in the shop nor scampering about the
house. But there was no fuss that I saw, and only little signs in her
complexion of the fits of weeping that must have taken her. She didn’t
cry at the end, though to me her face with its strain of
self-possession was more pathetic than any weeping. “Well” she said to
me as she came through the shop to the cab, “Here’s old orf, George!
Orf to Mome number two! Good-bye!” And she took me in her arms and
kissed me and pressed me to her. Then she dived straight for the cab
before I could answer her.
My uncle followed, and he seemed to me a trifle too valiant and
confident in his bearing for reality. He was unusually white in the
face. He spoke to his successor at the counter. “Here we go!” he said.
“One down, the other up. You’ll find it a quiet little business so long
as you run it on quiet lines—a nice quiet little business. There’s
nothing more? No? Well, if you want to know anything write to me. I’ll
always explain fully. Anything—business, place or people. You’ll find
Pil Antibil. a little overstocked by-the-by, I found it soothed my mind
the day before yesterday making ’em, and I made ’em all day. Thousands!
And where’s George? Ah! there you are! I’ll write to you, George,
_fully_, about all that affair. Fully!”
It became clear to me as if for the first time, that I was really
parting from my aunt Susan. I went out on to the pavement and saw her
head craned forward, her wide-open blue eyes and her little face intent
on the shop that had combined for her all the charms of a big doll’s
house and a little home of her very own. “Good-bye!” she said to it and
to me. Our eyes met for a moment—perplexed. My uncle bustled out and
gave a few totally unnecessary directions to the cabman and got in
beside her. “All right?” asked the driver. “Right,” said I; and he woke
up the horse with a flick of his whip. My aunt’s eyes surveyed me
again. “Stick to your old science and things, George, and write and
tell me when they make you a Professor,” she said cheerfully.
She stared at me for a second longer with eyes growing wider and
brighter and a smile that had become fixed, glanced again at the bright
little shop still saying “Ponderevo” with all the emphasis of its
fascia, and then flopped back hastily out of sight of me into the
recesses of the cab. Then it had gone from before me and I beheld Mr.
Snape, the hairdresser, inside his store regarding its departure with a
quiet satisfaction and exchanging smiles and significant headshakes
with Mr. Marbel.