Random Harvest (15 page)

The letter arrived on a Friday; Charles answered it that same evening, enclosing a cheque 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 rumours—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 favoured 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 were 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 travelling 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 only one of themselves.  But Charles was different.  He took in their various glances, accepting—even had he never done so before— the position of utter outsider.  His own glance hardened as he answered quietly:  “I’m still rather hazy about what’s happened.  Can’t I talk to somebody:--alone, for preference, and without all this shouting?  How about you, Chet? . . .  Or you, Julian?”  Chet shifted weakly; Julian did not stir.  “Truslove, then?”

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, half-way 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?”

“Again, it’s hard to draw a line between speculation and legitimate business practice.  Mr. Chetwynd bought rather large quantities of raw materials, thinking prices would continue to rise.  In that he made the same mistake as a great many very shrewd and reputable people.”

“Will HE be forced into bankruptcy?”

“A good deal depends on what happens to the firm.  If it weathers the storm the bank would probably give him a chance—subject, of course, to mortgaging Stourton and cutting down personal expenses to the bone.  That applies to the others also.”

“I see. . . .  Now may I ask you one final question?  You were saying just now that the firm will need new money.  You know how much I have myself.  Would such a sum be any use in weathering the storm, as you put it?”

“That also is hard to say, Mr. Charles.  I hardly care to advise

you in—“

“I’m not asking for advice.  I want to know how much the firm needs, so that I can judge whether it’s even possible for me to save the situation at all.”

“I—I can’t say, Mr. Charles.  The whole matter’s very complicated.  We should have to see accountants, and find out certain things from the banks—it’s quite impossible for me to make an estimate offhand.”

“Well, thanks for telling me all you can.  Perhaps we could return by the side gate—I’d like to escape any more of the family wrangle if it’s still in progress. . . .”

He drove away from Stourton an hour later, without seeing the family again; but he left a note for Chet with Sheldon, saying he would get in touch within a day or two.  After a dash across London he was just in time to catch the last train from Liverpool Street and be in his rooms at St. Swithin’s by midnight.  He had already decided to help if his help could do any vital amount of good.  He couldn’t exactly say why he had come to this decision; it certainly wasn’t any sense of the moral obligation that Jill had tried to thrust on him.  And he didn’t think it could be any sentimental feeling about the family, whom (except for Chet and Bridget) he didn’t particularly like, and whose decline to the status of those who had to earn their own living would not wring from him a tear.  If sentiment touched him at all it was more for Sheldon and other servants whom he knew, as well as for the thousands of Rainier employees whom he didn’t know, but whom he could imagine in their little houses sleeping peacefully without knowledge that their future was being shaped by one man’s decision in a Cambridge college room.  That aspect of the thing was fantastic, but it was true, nevertheless.  But perhaps strongest of all the arguments was the fact that the money didn’t matter to him; even the income from it was more than he could ever spend; if he could put it to some act, however debatable, at least it would not be useless, as it was and always would be in his possession.  For his own personal future had already begun to mould itself; he would probably stay at Cambridge after obtaining a degree.  Werneth had once hinted at a fellowship, and if this should happen, he would be enabled to live frugally but quite comfortably on his own earnings.

End of term came a couple of days later; he returned to London and took a room at a hotel.  Having conveyed his conditional decision to Chet and to Truslove, he had now only to discover if his money had any chance to perform the necessary miracle.  This meant interviews in City offices with bank officials and chartered accountants, long scrutinies of balance-sheets and many wearisome hours in the Rainier Building, demanding documents and statements that took so long to unearth and were frequently so confusing that he soon realized how far Chet’s slackness had percolated downwards into all departments.

One of the accountants took him aside after an interview.  “It’s no business of mine, Mr. Rainier, but I know something of the situation and what you’re thinking of doing, and my advice to you would be to keep out of it—don’t send good money after bad!”

“Thanks for the tip,” Charles answered, with no other comment.