Chapter VIII I. Life at First-Hand
Pip reached London that evening to find the great gloomy house in Westock Square shuttered and silent. His father’s brougham had driven up as usual at lunch-time, after the morning round, and its owner had been discovered lying in a dead faint inside it. He had been carried into the house, to die—not even in his bed. Death, with whom he had waged a vicarious and more than commonly successful warfare for thirty-one years, had conquered at last, and that, too, with grim irony, in the very arena of the dead man’s triumphs—his own consulting-room. The great physician lay peacefully on an operating-couch near the darkened window, surrounded by life-saving appliances and books that tell how death may be averted.
His affairs were in a hopeless tangle. He had risked almost every penny he possessed in an ill-judged effort to “get rich quick,” and so provide for himself, or at any rate for his family, however sudden and direct the course that his malady might take. Half his capital had been sunk in unremunerative investments, which might or might not pay fifty per cent some day; and the other half was gone beyond recall on an unrealised anticipation of a fall in copper shares.
A week later Pip, Pipette, and Mr. Hanbury—the latter ten years older than when we last heard of him, but not much changed except for a little reasonable adiposity—sat at dinner. It was almost the last meal they were to take in the old house, for now res angustæ were to be the order of the day.
The meal ended, and coffee having been served, Pipette, looking pale and pretty in her black evening frock, gave each of the men a cigar, snipping the ends herself, as she had been accustomed to do for her father; and the trio composed themselves to conversation.
“I saw Crampton to-day,” said Pip. (Crampton was the family lawyer.) “He gave me the facts and figures about things. I couldn’t follow all the stuff on blue paper, but I asked him questions and jotted down what I wanted.”
“How does it work out?” inquired Hanbury.
“By putting what money there is in the bank into Consols, and adding the interest on the few investments that are paying anything at all, the total income of the estate comes to exactly one hundred and fifty a year,” said Pip.
“So long as the capital sunk in the other investments produces nothing, that is?”
“Yes. There is a matter of fifteen thousand pounds buried in some Australian mining group: it might as well be sunk in the sea for all the good it is doing us. Of course it may turn up trumps some day, but not at present, Crampton says. So Pipette and I are worth just a hundred and fifty a year between us.”
There was a silence, and the ash on Pip’s cigar was perceptibly longer when he spoke again.
“A hundred and fifty,” he said, “is not much use for two, but it’s a comfortable little sum for one; so Pipette is going to take it all.”
Pipette came round and sat on the arm of Pip’s chair with the air of one who wishes to argue the point, and Pip continued hurriedly,—
“We talked it over with her this afternoon, Ham, and she agreed with me that for the present it will be best for her to accept the Rossiters’ invitation to join them on their visit to Spain and Algiers, which is to last about a year. Pipette will be able to pay her full share of the expenses, so she won’t be dependent on anybody. At the same time she will be having a good time with really nice people instead of—instead of—”
“Instead of sitting all day in a two-pair-back in London?” said Hanbury.
“That’s it, exactly,” said Pip, grateful for this moral support. “Of course it would be ripping”.—Pipette was beginning to shake, and he put his arm clumsily round her—“it would be ripping to have remained together, but it can’t be done at present. In a year, perhaps. The old lady has been very sensible about it.”
Apparently being “sensible” did not include abstinence from tears, for Pipette was now weeping softly. She had lost her father only a week, and now she was to lose her beloved brother.
Hanbury, who, like most strong men, was helpless against feminine tears, coughed self-consciously.
“It sounds a good arrangement,” he said. “I suppose it is quite impossible for you two to live together? With the hundred and fifty, and what you could make yourself, Pip—”
“How am I going to make it?” inquired Pip.
“What are your prospects?”
“What are my accomplishments? I am just twenty-five; I am sound in wind and limb; and I sometimes take wickets. Can you suggest anything else?”
“Yes; you possess a stout heart and a hard head.”
“If by hard you mean thick, I do,” agreed Pip dismally.
“Thick heads have their market like everything else. Where are you going to take yours?”
“Where would you suggest? I have my own ideas on the subject, of course, but I should like to hear yours, Ham.”
Hanbury looked across at him quizzically.
“My young friend,” he said, with a flash of his old pedagogic manner, “long experience of your character warns me that you have determined on some crack-brained scheme, and are now prepared to defend it against all comers. Proceed.”
Pip grinned.
“As you like,” he said. “But I think a discussion would clear the air. Here goes! Pipette is appointed chairman. The subject for debate is ‘The Choice of a Career for a Young Man without Education, Ability, or Prospects.’ Fire away, Ham, and bear in mind that all the learned professions are barred to me.”
“I’m not sure of that. How about school-mastering?”
“At a Preparatory?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recommend the billet?”
“Frankly—no. Preparatory work is all right provided that you don’t mind a berth in which your real work only begins at playtime, and which, unless you can afford ultimately to set up for yourself, offers you an absolutely maximum screw of about two hundred a year.”
“I know the sort of thing,” said Pip. “You start on about eighty, with board—”
“Which means a poky dust-hole to sleep in, meat-tea, and—”
“‘The post is one we can unreservedly recommend’—I know.”
“‘Write promptly yet carefully,’” chanted Ham, “‘to the Principal, the Rev. Adolphus Buggins—’”
“‘Explaining that you have heard of this vacancy through our agency—’”
“‘Stating your degree and previous experience (if any)—’”
“‘If a member of the Church of England—’”
“‘Your willingness to participate in school games—’”
“‘If musical—’”
“‘If possible, a photograph’—yah!”
“Don’t you think we are rather wandering from the point?” inquired the mystified chairwoman.
The rhapsodists ceased their antistrophes and apologised.
“True,” said Ham. “Suggestion number one is negatived without a division. Let us try a fresh cast. Have you any influence with business firms?”
“No, thank God!” said Pip simply. “An office would just kill me. If I had any chance of a post I should of course have to apply; but I haven’t, so I needn’t.”
There was another pause.
“If,” said Ham reflectively, “there was any prospect of your sunken capital rising to the surface again, say in two or three years’ time, and it was simply a matter of hanging on till then, you could afford to spend the intervening period in a very interesting fashion.”
“As how?”
“Go and see the world for yourself, above and below, inside and out. Knock about and rub shoulders with all sorts of folk. Plunge beneath the surface and see things as they are. Make your way everywhere, and if possible live by the work of your own two hands. You would acquire a knowledge of mankind that few men possess. At the worst you could hang on and make a living somehow until your ship came in—if it were only as a dock-hand or a railway porter. It would be a grand chance, Pip. Most men are so unenterprising. Those at the top never want to see what things are like below, and those below are so afraid of staying there forever that their eyes are constantly turned upwards and they miss a lot. I’d give something to be a vagabond for a year or two.”
“What fearful sentiments for a respectable house-master!” said Pipette severely; but Pip’s eyes glowed.
“However,” continued Hanbury more soberly, “Pip can’t afford to waste time observing life in a purely academic way down in the basement. He must start getting upstairs at once.”
“Hear, hear!” said the chairwoman.
“As a matter of fact,” said Pip, “the scheme I have in my eye rather meets the case, I think.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I made a list of all the careers open to me. I’ll go through them.”
Though his final choice was all they wished to know, his audience settled themselves patiently to listen. They knew it was useless to hurry Pip.
“The things I thought of,” continued the orator, “are—cricket-pro, gamekeeper, policeman, emigrant to Canada, and Tommy.”
He smiled genially upon his gaping companions. “They are all good open-air jobs,” he explained.
Pipette stiffened in her chair.
“But they will none of them do,” he added.
Pipette relaxed again.
“This,” said Hanbury, “is interesting and human. We must have your reasons for rejecting these noble callings, seriatim. A cricket-pro, for instance?”
“Once a ‘pro’ always a ’pro,’” said Pip. “I hope some day to play as an amateur again. And while we are on the subject, I may as well say that I’m not going to be a professional-amateur. No two hundred a year as assistant-deputy-under-secretary to a county club for me, please!”
“Good boy,” said Hanbury. “Now, please—gamekeeper?”
“I’m too old. A gamekeeper requires to be born to the job. I have the ordinary sporting man’s knowledge of game and sport generally, but I should be a hundred before I learned as much about the real ins and outs of the business as—a poacher’s baby.”
“Quite so. Policeman?”
“The only chance of promotion in the police force is in the detective direction, and I—I think detection comes under the head of learned professions.”
“Tommy, then?”
“A Tommy’s would be a grand life if there was always a war. But, Ham, think what the existence of a gentleman-ranker must be in time of peace. A few hours’ duty a day, and the rest—beer and nursemaids! Help!”
“You have been devoting much time to reflection, Pip. Well, to continue. How about emigrating?”
“Emigration is such a tremendously big step. If one is prepared for it, well and good. But I’m not ripe yet. You see, Canada and Australia are so far away, and I’m not quite prepared to give up—”
“England, home, and beauty—eh, Pip? Is that how the wind blows?”
“Dry up!” said Pip, hastily passing on to his peroration. “Before I try any of these things I am going to see how my own pet scheme pans out.”
“And that is—?” said Pipette breathlessly.
“I can use my hands a bit, and have a sort of rough knowledge of mechanics,” continued Pip, staring into the fire and stating his case with maddening deliberation, “and I don’t mind hard work. Mind you—”
“Pip, do get on!” almost screamed poor Pipette.
Pip, looking slightly surprised, came to the point.
“I am going to try for a job,” said he, “at a big motor works I know of. I will start as a cleaner, or greaser, or anything they please, if they’ll take me; and when I have got a practical knowledge of the ins and outs of the business, I shall try to set up as a chauffeur.”
He broke off, and scanned his hearers’ faces rather defiantly.
“How do you like the idea?” he asked.
“You’d get horribly dirty, Pip,” said practical Pipette. “Think of the oil!”
Pip laughed. “I’ll get used to that.”
“And how long would you stick to it?”
“What, the oil?”
“No, the trade.”
“That depends. If I find the life absolutely unbearable for any reason—Trades Unions, for instance—I shall jack it up. But I don’t think it is very likely.”
“Neither do I,” said Hanbury, who had had exceptional opportunities for studying Pip’s character.
“Then,” continued Pip, with something like enthusiasm, “if those sunken shares took up, and there was money to be had, I might buy myself a partnership in a motor business. If they don’t take up, I must just save my wages till I can afford to go out and farm in Canada. I’ll take you with me, Pipette, if I go,” he added reassuringly.