He looked round; the waiter came immediately; in a mere minute, as it seemed to Walter, he had paid the bill and they were speeding along the Hudley Road.
“What a man he is!” thought Walter, lost in admiration; this was the way to do business, without a doubt.
All the way back to Hudley Tasker talked, in the gruff tones which Walter now found so fascinating, of what was to be done in Heights Mill. Walter was quite dazed and exhausted with the effort to take it all in. Indeed presently he timidly drew out a scrap of paper and began to take notes, and Tasker’s glance approved the action.
They parted on the best of terms in the centre of Hudley having settled the sum (twice what he had earned with Messrs. Lumb) which Walter was to draw from the bank for himself weekly; and Walter at once rushed off in the direction of his home.
Scene 8. He Begins It
THE THUNDERSTORM was now a thing of the past; the sky was blue and the air fresh, the sun shone brilliantly, the whole earth seemed to sparkle.
Walter was so much excited that his feet flew over the ground. He longed to reach his home, to tell his father and mother and Rosamond of his good fortune—indeed he could scarcely refrain from bursting out with it to passers-by. It seemed years since he had left home that morning, a disgruntled and unimportant youth; he had now changed how entirely in social status, learned how much, been through how many exciting scenes! He was now a man familiar with the interior of bank managers’ sanctums and expensive hotels; he was the owner (or would be as soon as those certificates were deposited) of a prospectively flourishing business; he was Walter Haigh, Dyer and Finisher, of Heights Mill; lorries would run up and down the West Riding bearing his name. His thoughts took a rather anxious turn here, as he remembered all the work which would have to be put in before Heights Mill could really dye or finish cloth; there was the deuce of a lot to be done! Would he be able to sustain it, young and inexperienced as he was? Had he, in Rosamond’s words, the guts to carry the thing through? Yes, he rather thought he had, decided Walter in honest confidence, especially with his father to advise him. That was so fortunate. He, Walter, could provide the energy; his father, whose textile knowledge was universally respected, who had had nearly forty years’ experience with—here Walter stood still so abruptly that he almost lost his balance, and exclaimed aloud. He had just realised for the first time (so skilful were the blandishments of Tasker) that in his new position he would be in competition with Messrs. Lumb; would, indeed, necessarily rob them of their largest customer. An icy dismay ran through his veins; his heart seemed almost to stop beating. How could he have been so blind as not to see it before? How could he possibly reconcile becoming the Lumbs’ competitor with mere common decency, not to mention gratitude?
“Of course I can’t do it. And father would never help me against the Lumbs,” thought Walter in bitter disappointment. “But I’m committed!” he argued stubbornly. “I simply must deposit those certificates.”
The alternative, of looking the most helpless kind of fool in the eyes of the whole West Riding, of abandoning all his ambitions, resigning the Heights Mill key, sinking back to the postion of a mere underling in the pay of a small and unimportant firm, and never having the chance of meeting people like Henry Clay Crosland’s grand-daughter, aroused a hot resentment in Walter’s heart. He couldn’t do that—he simply couldn’t, Lumbs or no Lumbs. There came a point where a man had to look after himself. Besides, if he didn’t undertake the Heights Mill job, Tasker would get somebody else to do it. So Walter’s withdrawal would make no difference to the Lumbs, though all the difference in the world to Walter. He simply couldn’t give it all up. On the other hand, he simply dared not ask Dyson’s aid for such a scheme, a scheme which would operate adversely against the Lumbs—the very suggestion would be enough to kill the faithful old man.
Walter exclaimed again and walked on, frowning heavily.
He must lose the chance of his life, then, for a couple of ridiculous scruples?
His father’s investments would be perfectly safe.
The investments had been made as some provision for Mrs. Haigh; but if Walter succeeded at Heights Mill—and in the given conditions, why shouldn’t he?—Mrs. Haigh would still have the investments, and a rich son into the bargain.
Why condemn oneself always to a negative, timid, subordinate policy? What was life for, if not to be daring, determined, bold? To take a chance, to back yourself (as Tasker so inspiringly put it) in the struggle, and win? To … “Look here,” said Walter angrily to himself, “It all boils down to this: am I going to stay a silly, unimportant, third-rate fool all my life; or am I going to fetch those certificates?”
He glanced at his watch. It wanted but twenty minutes to four o’clock. He had barely time to reach Dyson’s bank before it closed for the day. Somehow this decided him; he turned and ran towards Hudley; and half an hour later was despatching the certificates by registered post to the Leeds bank. He then went soberly home, and for that night kept his own counsel about his new enterprise.
Next morning, however, action could no longer be deferred, for Walter was due at Heights Mill at eleven to meet Tasker. Fortunately, thought Walter—but then he caught himself up, and bit his lip on the word; still, perhaps it was fortunate, after all—Dyson had passed a poor night, and was not well enough to rise; so Walter was not under the necessity of explaining his movements to his father. But Arnold Lumb would have to be faced promptly. It was Thursday, when either Arnold or himself, in the absence of Dyson, must visit the Lumbs’ customers in Bradford; so Walter’s announcement must be made at once.
Accordingly Walter snatched his opportunity when old Mr. Lumb was absent from the inner office, and walked in upon Arnold, rather white about the mouth and conscious of the thudding of his heart. His employer was, as usual, standing at the wall desk with a serious expression, busy with figures and papers. Walter, allowing his courage no time to evaporate, blurted out at once that Mr. Tasker had offered him an appointment; then stood with averted eyes, waiting for the heavens to fall.
To his amazement nothing of that kind occurred. Arnold gave him a look of mingled regret and resignation, and nodded his head understandingly.
“I thought after you’d gone, yesterday, that it might be that,” he said in a sober tone. “Well, I’m sorry, of course, Walter, but on the other hand I’m rather glad.”
Walter, unable to believe his ears, stood gaping at him.
“Trade’s so bad, you know,” continued Arnold, “and really I don’t see any sign of improvement. And what with one thing and another, Walter, upon my word, I shall be quite glad to save your salary.” (To himself he thought grimly: “The bank’ll be glad, too.”) “I can take on all the travelling myself, I dare say,” he went on, and added slyly, with a smile: “I hope you won’t be too severe on our finishing, Walter, that’s all.”
Walter perceived with horror that his account of his new position, which he had phrased in that way out of sheer modesty (as he thought), had completely misled Arnold, who imagined that Walter was to be a mere employee at Victory Mills. He opened his mouth to undeceive him, gasped, and closed it again.
“I should advise you, Walter,” Arnold Lumb was saying kindly, “to get a service agreement out of Tasker if you can. He’s a tricky customer, you know. What does your father say about it, eh?”
“I haven’t told him yet,” said Walter, thankful to be able to speak candidly on any subject. “He’s rather bad to-day.”
“Think it might upset him, do you?” said Arnold, “severing your connection with the old firm, and all that? H’m—I dare say.”
Walter perceived in a flash that such a view, on Arnold’s part, might allow him a free hand with his explanation to his father, or at any rate give him time to think of a good way of explaining the truth to Dyson. He therefore nodded his head emphatically, and Arnold went on, in his kind homely tones, just as Walter had hoped he would:
“Well, I should take your own time and means of t
elling him. Father’s coming up to see him this afternoon—I’ll warn him not to say anything. When do you want to go?”
“Now, please,” stuttered Walter. He added, with scarlet cheeks: “I could repay you a week’s salary, as I haven’t given proper notice, if you liked.”
“Now don’t be silly, Walter,” said Arnold Lumb, colouring in his turn, annoyed. “Repay a week’s salary! Good heavens! What a daft idea! Be off with you whenever you like. And good luck to you.” He thought of offering Walter his hand, but couldn’t bring himself to do anything so sentimental at that hour of the morning, and turned back to his figures instead.
“I put that money back in the petty cash,” said Walter in a small voice, trying not to remember that in order to do so he had been obliged to borrow from Rosamond the price of his hair-cut yesterday.
Arnold snorted, as if repudiating any necessity for Walter to report on the subject of petty cash. He thought of asking Walter Rosamond’s opinion of his new post, but again felt the hour unsuitable, and said nothing.
Walter, left rather in the air by this negative farewell, sidled away into the outer office, collected his few personal belongings, and left Messrs. Lumb’s premises on his great adventure. As long as he was in the familiar building he felt ashamed, small, humiliated, and not a little sad; but once he had emerged into the sunshine, he drew a long breath of relief, and his spirits soared. That was over, at any rate, thought Walter, and well over, too. It was like going into the dentist’s to have a tooth out and being told it need only be stopped. And Arnold thought he ought to exercise discretion in telling his father, so that other unpleasant duty could be postponed at his pleasure.
“I can go to Heights Mill now with a clear conscience,” thought Walter, joyously boarding a moving tram—and mingled with his elation there was a touch, just a touch, of contempt for a man who could be fooled as easily as Arnold.
When Walter reached home that night, much later than usual, and tired out after a fascinating, but intensely harassed and busy day with Tasker, Rosamond met him in the hall with the news that their father was seriously ill. Mr. Lumb’s visit that afternoon had had disastrous results for Dyson. The two old men had talked, naturally enough, of the textile industry in general and Messrs. Lumb’s affairs in particular; and old Mr. Lumb painted such a depressing picture of the firm’s condition, giving especial prominence to the new overdraft, that poor Dyson in his weakened state was quite overcome by it. Rosamond had been recalled from school by a neighbour’s telephone, and the doctor had been sent for; he pronounced Dyson now out of danger, but the old man was not yet very comfortable. Mrs. Haigh was in the kitchen preparing him a light drink. There were tears in Rosamond’s eyes as she related this to her brother, and Walter, forgetting all his business affairs on the instant, ran upstairs in great anxiety, and went straight to Dyson’s side. His father was lying back on the pillows, panting a little, his light eyes staring, a painful expression of worry and distress on his haggard face. Walter, moved, took his hand, greeted him soothingly, and sat down beside him.
Dyson turned his head, and looked at him pathetically, then said in his thin feeble tones: “I’m afraid Lumb’s is in a bad way, Walter.”
“Oh, no, father,” Walter reassured him cheerfully. “You know what a pessimist old Mr. Lumb always is! Mr. Arnold doesn’t talk like that at all.”
“Aye—but do you think they’ll keep you on?” pressed the old man unhappily. “I’m done for, you know.”
“What nonsense, father,” said Walter in a warm, loving tone. He laid a hand on Dyson’s thin arm caressingly. “You’ll soon be about again,” he said.
“Has Mester Arnold ever said anything to you about leaving?” persisted Dyson, disregarding this. “They’ll be having to make economies, you know, with that overdraft. And what shall we do then?” His poor thin old voice rose into a wail.
“As a matter of fact, father,” said Walter in a rush, forgetting everything but the desire to relieve his father’s distress, “I’ve got another job already.”
But at this Dyson opened his eyes so wide, and stared so terribly, that Walter was alarmed. He went on hastily: “Mr. Arnold knows about it. I’ve begun to-day. It’s a good post, better than with the Lumbs.”
“Where is it?” gasped Dyson, still staring wildly.
“At Heights Mill,” replied the wretched Walter, cursing himself for his clumsiness as he saw in what he had involved himself and poor Dyson. His father would be sure to know that Heights Mill had a dyeing and finishing plant; a man of his experience could not be deceived as to that.
“Heights Mill,” murmured Dyson, closing his eyes, “That’s Dollam’s place, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s his place,” agreed Walter, breaking into a sweat of relief as he realised that his father’s illness had made him either ignorant or forgetful of the fact that Dollam’s firm had failed three months ago.
Dyson promptly dropped off into one of the short but deep dozes which were a symptom of his disease.
Walter, sitting on beside him with a heavy heart, perceived suddenly, with a pang, that without consciously meaning to do so, he had presented to Arnold Lumb, and to his father, separate and incomplete versions of his new position which in each case contained the elements least likely to irritate its recipient.
His father thought him employed, with Arnold’s consent and perhaps his help, in a subordinate position in a finishing works at Heights Mill, and considering his training found it natural; where a mention of Tasker, a manufacturer, would have excited him to question. Arnold Lumb, on the other hand, who might justly have been irritated by Walter’s voluntary departure to any competing firm, and who knew that Heights Mill was vacant unless a fresh competitor had occupied it, thought him only an employee in Tasker’s manufacturing establishment. Well, no doubt their pieces of knowledge would be put together some time, and then there would be an explosion highly disagreeable to Walter. But meanwhile the arrangement was a lucky one for him, and in any case there was nothing to be done about it. As long as his father was too ill to go to work, thought Walter, there was no danger, and he need not worry. He caught himself thinking thus, and blushed, ashamed.
Interlude
IT WAS the Monday of Hudley’s annual week of holiday, and a large proportion of its inhabitants were disporting themselves by the sea at Blackpool, in company with the operatives of many other northern industrial towns.
Walter and Rosamond Haigh were helping to swell the huge crowd at the favourite northern resort that day. The Haighs usually sought their pleasure in places quieter and more genteel; but this year, with Dyson ill, there was no possibility of the family leaving home together for a holiday, and Mrs. Haigh had urged her children to take a day trip by char-à-banc, in search of sea air and sunshine, and come back with roses in their cheeks if they could. Rosamond always experienced a natural fatigue after the strain of the midsummer examinations and reports, and this year nursing had been added to her other duties; while Walter, said his mother, had been working much too hard ever since he went to Heights, and was looking quite pale and worn; so Mrs. Haigh had made up her mind to send them out for the day every fine day this week, while Walter had holiday. Walter knew that Tasker would not expect him to take the whole week off, but dared not say too much in protest to his mother, lest some awkward revelations might occur, so he acquiesced when she insisted on his booking seats for this trip—she had an immense and touching faith in the efficacy of the air at Blackpool. So brother and sister were now making their way slowly along the packed promenade, jostled every moment by the thousands of their fellow northerners who were doing the same.
The sun shone so strongly that the tar melted beneath their feet, and their skins tanned almost perceptibly from minute to minute. The sea was a deep rich blue, flecked by the white sails of pleasure yachts, and edged by a paler band where some thousands of bathers were jumping and splashing. The miles of golden sands were scarcely visible, so thronged were they by holiday-mak
ers of every age in bright summer clothes, all laughing and chattering at the top of their vigorous northern voices, so that a loud, strident roar constantly filled the air. Children, looking very slim in bathing suits, or bunchy in waders, shrieked pleasurably as they dipped their toes into the gentle, pearly surf, or rushed screaming up the sands to announce some discovery of their own, or delinquency of their brothers, to their parents. Dogs of every breed known in England barked with persistent glee, and ran off with balls in their mouths, pursued by the indignant young cricketers whose game was thus impaired. Young persons in diaphanous garments bounced along the sands on the backs of grey donkeys, a look of alarmed ecstasy on their hot little faces, which deepened with every thwack administered by the donkey-boy to the posteriors of their steeds. Sand castles of every size and shape were in process of erection and destruction by buckets and spades of every colour and quality. Ices, shell-fish and soft drinks were consumed in millions. Far aloft, against the clear blue sky, the lacy ironwork of the Tower, and the superb curves of the Wheel, gazed down benevolently upon the spectacle of the north taking its rare pleasure in wild exhilaration.
The brother and sister came to the Pleasure Beach, and, holding tightly to each other lest the pressure of the crowd force them apart, passed in between rows of stalls urging them to throw wooden balls, or brightly coloured darts, at a variety of targets, in the hope of winning a prize. They were also asked to guess their weight, have their name engraved, shoot at artificial ducks (which as Walter found to his cost lived up to their names by ducking when this might have been least expected), take an under-ground journey through river caves, inspect a full-size Noah’s Ark, and descend towers rapidly by the aid of a fibre mat. Each of these amusements was thronged by a great hot crowd, jostling and pushing and shouting broad jokes in broad dialect—“The number of jokes made in Blackpool per diem must be enormous,” shouted Rosamond in Walter’s ear. She was obliged to shout, for the noise, a compound of the human and the mechanical, was deafening. Above their heads the white cars of the giant dipper hurtled madly through the air, accompanied by screams of delighted horror from their passengers. Walter showed a desire to try this violent switchback, and accordingly Rosamond and he pushed their way into the marble hall, beneath the immense pagoda with its gilded dome, where the white cars received their jesting, shouting load. But when the pair saw the length of the queue awaiting entrance, they decided to postpone the experience.
A Modern Tragedy Page 8