Of Human Bondage (93 page)

  "I'm going to put my shirt on it myself," he
said.

  The shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. He
advised Philip not to be greedy, but to be satisfied with a
ten-shilling rise. He was buying three hundred for himself and
suggested that Philip should do the same. He would hold them and
sell when he thought fit. Philip had great faith in him, partly
because he was a Scotsman and therefore by nature cautious, and
partly because he had been right before. He jumped at the
suggestion.

  "I daresay we shall be able to sell before the
account," said Macalister, "but if not, I'll arrange to carry them
over for you."

  It seemed a capital system to Philip. You held on
till you got your profit, and you never even had to put your hand
in your pocket. He began to watch the Stock Exchange columns of the
paper with new interest. Next day everything was up a little, and
Macalister wrote to say that he had had to pay two and a quarter
for the shares. He said that the market was firm. But in a day or
two there was a set-back. The news that came from South Africa was
less reassuring, and Philip with anxiety saw that his shares had
fallen to two; but Macalister was optimistic, the Boers couldn't
hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that
Roberts would march into Johannesburg before the middle of April.
At the account Philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. It
worried him considerably, but he felt that the only course was to
hold on: in his circumstances the loss was too great for him to
pocket. For two or three weeks nothing happened; the Boers would
not understand that they were beaten and nothing remained for them
but to surrender: in fact they had one or two small successes, and
Philip's shares fell half a crown more. It became evident that the
war was not finished. There was a lot of selling. When Macalister
saw Philip he was pessimistic.

  "I'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut
the loss. I've been paying out about as much as I want to in
differences."

  Philip was sick with anxiety. He could not sleep at
night; he bolted his breakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and
butter, in order to get over to the club reading-room and see the
paper; sometimes the news was bad, and sometimes there was no news
at all, but when the shares moved it was to go down. He did not
know what to do. If he sold now he would lose altogether hard on
three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave him only
eighty pounds to go on with. He wished with all his heart that he
had never been such a fool as to dabble on the Stock Exchange, but
the only thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any
day and the shares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit,
but he wanted to make good his loss. It was his only chance of
finishing his course at the hospital. The Summer session was
beginning in May, and at the end of it he meant to take the
examination in midwifery. Then he would only have a year more; he
reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he could
manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that
was the least it could possibly be done on.

  Early in April he went to the tavern in Beak Street
anxious to see Macalister. It eased him a little to discuss the
situation with him; and to realise that numerous people beside
himself were suffering from loss of money made his own trouble a
little less intolerable. But when Philip arrived no one was there
but Hayward, and no sooner had Philip seated himself than he
said:

  "I'm sailing for the Cape on Sunday."

  "Are you!" exclaimed Philip.

  Hayward was the last person he would have expected
to do anything of the kind. At the hospital men were going out now
in numbers; the Government was glad to get anyone who was
qualified; and others, going out as troopers, wrote home that they
had been put on hospital work as soon as it was learned that they
were medical students. A wave of patriotic feeling had swept over
the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of
society.

  "What are you going as?" asked Philip.

  "Oh, in the Dorset Yeomanry. I'm going as a
trooper."

  Philip had known Hayward for eight years. The
youthful intimacy which had come from Philip's enthusiastic
admiration for the man who could tell him of art and literature had
long since vanished; but habit had taken its place; and when
Hayward was in London they saw one another once or twice a week. He
still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. Philip was
not yet tolerant, and sometimes Hayward's conversation irritated
him. He no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was
of consequence but art. He resented Hayward's contempt for action
and success. Philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early
friendship and his ardent expectation that Hayward would do great
things; it was long since he had lost all such illusions, and he
knew now that Hayward would never do anything but talk. He found
his three hundred a year more difficult to live on now that he was
thirty-five than he had when he was a young man; and his clothes,
though still made by a good tailor, were worn a good deal longer
than at one time he would have thought possible. He was too stout
and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could conceal the fact
that he was bald. His blue eyes were dull and pale. It was not hard
to guess that he drank too much.

  "What on earth made you think of going out to the
Cape?" asked Philip.

  "Oh, I don't know, I thought I ought to."

  Philip was silent. He felt rather silly. He
understood that Hayward was being driven by an uneasiness in his
soul which he could not account for. Some power within him made it
seem necessary to go and fight for his country. It was strange,
since he considered patriotism no more than a prejudice, and,
flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had looked upon
England as a place of exile. His countrymen in the mass wounded his
susceptibilities. Philip wondered what it was that made people do
things which were so contrary to all their theories of life. It
would have been reasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch
with a smile while the barbarians slaughtered one another. It
looked as though men were puppets in the hands of an unknown force,
which drove them to do this and that; and sometimes they used their
reason to justify their actions; and when this was impossible they
did the actions in despite of reason.

  "People are very extraordinary," said Philip. "I
should never have expected you to go out as a trooper."

  Hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said
nothing.

  "I was examined yesterday," he remarked at last. "It
was worth while undergoing the gene of it to know that one was
perfectly fit."

  Philip noticed that he still used a French word in
an affected way when an English one would have served. But just
then Macalister came in.

  "I wanted to see you, Carey," he said. "My people
don't feel inclined to hold those shares any more, the market's in
such an awful state, and they want you to take them up."

  Philip's heart sank. He knew that was impossible. It
meant that he must accept the loss. His pride made him answer
calmly.

  "I don't know that I think that's worth while. You'd
better sell them."

  "It's all very fine to say that, I'm not sure if I
can. The market's stagnant, there are no buyers."

  "But they're marked down at one and an eighth."

  "Oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You can't
get that for them."

  Philip did not say anything for a moment. He was
trying to collect himself.

  "D'you mean to say they're worth nothing at
all?"

  "Oh, I don't say that. Of course they're worth
something, but you see, nobody's buying them now."

  "Then you must just sell them for what you can
get."

  Macalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered
whether he was very hard hit.

  "I'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the
same boat. No one thought the war was going to hang on this way. I
put you into them, but I was in myself too."

  "It doesn't matter at all," said Philip. "One has to
take one's chance."

  He moved back to the table from which he had got up
to talk to Macalister. He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began
to ache furiously; but he did not want them to think him unmanly.
He sat on for an hour. He laughed feverishly at everything they
said. At last he got up to go.

  "You take it pretty coolly," said Macalister,
shaking hands with him. "I don't suppose anyone likes losing
between three and four hundred pounds."

  When Philip got back to his shabby little room he
flung himself on his bed, and gave himself over to his despair. He
kept on regretting his folly bitterly; and though he told himself
that it was absurd to regret for what had happened was inevitable
just because it had happened, he could not help himself. He was
utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He remembered all the ways
he had wasted money during the last few years. His head ached
dreadfully.

  The following evening there came by the last post
the statement of his account. He examined his pass-book. He found
that when he had paid everything he would have seven pounds left.
Seven pounds! He was thankful he had been able to pay. It would
have been horrible to be obliged to confess to Macalister that he
had not the money. He was dressing in the eye-department during the
summer session, and he had bought an ophthalmoscope off a student
who had one to sell. He had not paid for this, but he lacked the
courage to tell the student that he wanted to go back on his
bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about five pounds
to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle
a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to
the war he had had grave losses and could not go on with his
studies unless his uncle came to his help. He suggested that the
Vicar should lend him a hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next
eighteen months in monthly instalments; he would pay interest on
this and promised to refund the capital by degrees when he began to
earn money. He would be qualified in a year and a half at the
latest, and he could be pretty sure then of getting an
assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back that he
could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out when
everything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his
duty to himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of
illness. He ended the letter with a little homily. He had warned
Philip time after time, and Philip had never paid any attention to
him; he could not honestly say he was surprised; he had long
expected that this would be the end of Philip's extravagance and
want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read this. It had
never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he burst
into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if
his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital.
Panic seized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to
the Vicar of Blackstable, placing the case before him more
urgently; but perhaps he did not explain himself properly and his
uncle did not realise in what desperate straits he was, for he
answered that he could not change his mind; Philip was twenty-five
and really ought to be earning his living. When he died Philip
would come into a little, but till then he refused to give him a
penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who for
many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself
justified.

  XCIX

  Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his
expenses by eating only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he
ate it, bread and butter and cocoa, at four so that it should last
him till next morning. He was so hungry by nine o'clock that he had
to go to bed. He thought of borrowing money from Lawson, but the
fear of a refusal held him back; at last he asked him for five
pounds. Lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did so, said:

  "You'll let me have it back in a week or so, won't
you? I've got to pay my framer, and I'm awfully broke just
now."

  Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and
the thought of what Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in
a couple of days he took the money back untouched. Lawson was just
going out to luncheon and asked Philip to come too. Philip could
hardly eat, he was so glad to get some solid food. On Sunday he was
sure of a good dinner from Athelny. He hesitated to tell the
Athelnys what had happened to him: they had always looked upon him
as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they would
think less well of him if they knew he was penniless.

  Though he had always been poor, the possibility of
not having enough to eat had never occurred to him; it was not the
sort of thing that happened to the people among whom he lived; and
he was as ashamed as if he had some disgraceful disease. The
situation in which he found himself was quite outside the range of
his experience. He was so taken aback that he did not know what
else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope that
something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was
happening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first
term at school he had often thought his life was a dream from which
he would awake to find himself once more at home. But very soon he
foresaw that in a week or so he would have no money at all. He must
set about trying to earn something at once. If he had been
qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to the
Cape, since the demand for medical men was now great. Except for
his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the yeomanry
regiments which were constantly being sent out. He went to the
secretary of the Medical School and asked if he could give him the
coaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no
hope of getting him anything of the sort. Philip read the
advertisement columns of the medical papers, and he applied for the
post of unqualified assistant to a man who had a dispensary in the
Fulham Road. When he went to see him, he saw the doctor glance at
his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip was only in his fourth
year at the hospital he said at once that his experience was
insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an excuse; the
man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as he
wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning
money. He knew French and German and thought there might be some
chance of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart
sink, but he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though
too shy to answer the advertisements which demanded a personal
application, he replied to those which asked for letters; but he
had no experience to state and no recommendations: he was conscious
that neither his German nor his French was commercial; he was
ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew neither shorthand
nor typewriting. He could not help recognising that his case was
hopeless. He thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his
father's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was
contrary to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in
which his money had been invested. He knew from his uncle that Mr.
Nixon thoroughly disapproved of him. He had gathered from Philip's
year in the accountant's office that he was idle and
incompetent.