“We’re ordered out, you know--”
“No, I didn’t know. How could I? You never write--”
Mr. Reiss consolidates his defence with the pretence of a grievance.
“I didn’t know myself until yesterday. They don’t give one much time,
you know.”
“They--who?”
“The War Office people. You see, our first battalion has had a lot
of casualties and three of us subs are being taken from the third.
We’ve got to join the day after to-morrow. Bit of a rush. And I’ve
got things to get. I’m afraid I must ask you to give me a leg up, uncle.
I’m a bit short--”
“Short? Why, you’ve got an ample allowance besides your pay and the
Government pays for your outfit at an extravagant rate.” Mr. Reiss
never ceases denouncing the extravagance of the Government. He now
adjusts his glasses and glowers at the youngster, who fidgets under
the scrutiny. “Yes, I know. I--” he stammers.
“Well--well?”
“The fact is--when Staples, our captain, went back--he--I--”
A grunt. Then, “Eh--what?”
“He was engaged, you know.”
“Well--well?” irritably.
“I can’t explain, uncle, if you don’t give me a chance.”
Another grunt.
“Jimmie--I mean Staples--wanted to give his girl a ring before he went
back. He hadn’t enough money--so I lent him fifty pounds.”
Mr. Reiss drops his glasses, gets up from his chair, and stands before
the fire, facing his nephew.
“So you lent him fifty pounds, did you? A third of your annual allowance.
You had no business to--and if Captain Whatever’s-his-name were a
respectable man, he would have saved the money to pay for the ring.
Instead of that _I_ have to pay for it.”
“Oh no, uncle.”
“How d’you mean--‘no, uncle’? Aren’t you asking me for money? It’s
always the same story with the lot of you. You like to be generous
at other people’s expense. I’ve told you I’m a ruined man. The fortune
which was the result of my hard work all my life has disappeared. I’m
a poor man. I spend nothing on myself. I’ve given up my car. I’ve put
down everything. I’m trying to dispose of my pictures and to sell the
lease of this place. You don’t seem to understand what this infernal
war means to people like myself. _You_ don’t have to pay for it.
Do you realize that one-third of my entire income goes for income
tax? I’ve paid your bills over and over again, but I can’t do it any
more. For this once I’ll--” The boy holds up his hand.
“Look here, uncle. I’d better tell you at once. I shall need another
fifty to make me square. But I’ll pay you back--on my honour--”
“Bah! Your honour! Pay me back. I know what that means. So it’s a hundred
pounds you want. Very well. You shall have your hundred pounds. But
I solemnly warn you that it’s the last penny I intend to pay for your
extravagance. As for that waster of a Captain What’s-his--”
The boy flushes to the roots of his light, wavy hair.
“I say, uncle. He’s not a waster. He’s the finest fellow in the regiment.
I can’t allow you--Look here--never mind the money. The jeweller knows
it’s all right. I’d rather--”
He stops. The words won’t come. He gazes at his uncle helplessly. Mr.
Reiss goes slowly to the writing-table and sits down. Taking a blank
cheque from a pocket-book he always carries, he fills it in and passes
it to the boy without speaking.
“I don’t like taking it, uncle. I don’t, really--”
Mr. Reiss half turns round. He still says nothing, he does not even
grunt. He knows that there are times when silence is golden. Moreover,
he knows that money talks.
A few minutes later Mr. Adolf Reiss is again sitting alone, gazing
into the fire. And he has another grievance against Life.
* * * * *
The philosophy of Mr. Reiss is a natural result of his early environment.
In Magdeburg, where he was born and brought up, education in business
principles is combined with the theory of family duty. Whether this
theory takes the place of affection or not, its application in the
case of Mr. Reiss resulted in his migration at an early age to England,
where he soon found a market for his German industry, his German
thriftiness, and his German astuteness. He established a business and
took out naturalization papers. Until the War came Mr. Reiss was growing
richer and richer. His talent for saving kept pace with his gift for
making.
He spent evening after evening, when he came home from the
City, thinking out different ways of tying up his fortune on Percy,
so that it could remain intact as long as possible. Some of his schemes
for insuring the safety of his capital, for the resettlement of the
greater part of the income by trustees--for combining, in fact, a maximum
of growing power for the fortune with a minimum of enjoyment for the
heir--were really marvels of ingenuity.
But since the War his thoughts have taken a different turn. Half his
fortune has gone. He is too old now to catch up again. It’s all over
with money-making. The most he can hope for is to keep “the little
that is left.” If only Percy had been older and had a son, he could
settle the money upon his great-nephew. Then there would have been
time for the money to accumulate again.
And now he’s gone to the Front. He might be killed. It doesn’t bear
thinking about. He has toiled all his life. Surely after _all_
his self-sacrifice and self-denial he is not to be robbed of the one
satisfaction he asks for, to know that the beggarly remains of his
wealth shall be safe after his own death.
Every day he scans the papers anxiously. His one preoccupation is the
daily casualty list.
* * * * *
Spring is at hand, and though there is chill in the air Mr. Reiss is
economical and sits before an empty grate. Self-mortification always
seems to him to be evidence of moral superiority and to confirm his
right to special grievances. He is reading a letter over again received
that morning from Percy. It bears the stamp of the Base Censor and
is some days old.