“Didn’t you think we were all awful, grandfather?” demanded Elaine, laughing as loudly as she could, her brilliant eyes searching his in anguished question. “Do say you did!”
“Why, my dear,” Henry Clay Crosland was beginning, rather at a loss, when Walter, who was still standing at his side, cried out impulsively:
“I thought you were superb!”
Elaine experienced a moment’s rapturous joy. (And this joy she remembered all her life.) Then in spite of all her difficulties she had acted well, and the evening was a splendid triumph! But who was this young man after all, with the not-too-good clothes and the not-too-good accent? Handsome, rather, with kind eyes, and he obviously rather admired her; but not quite out of the top drawer, I think, decided Elaine scornfully, not a person whose opinion mattered—in fact, she would probably make herself ridiculous by accepting it. So absurdly fervent, too! “Superb!” How naive! Oh, no, he was quite impossible. All this flashed through her mind in the moment while her grandfather was murmuring: “Mr. Haigh, my dear; he is staying at Heights Cottage with our Mrs. Lewry, you know,” and she replied in her most drawling, biting, icily sarcastic and sneering tones:
“Oh, you’re too kind, Mr. Haigh. You really mustn’t be so sentimental—you’ll turn our heads. We shall become unbearably conceited.”
Walter winced as though he had been struck, blushed painfully, and learned on the instant that enthusiasm was at a discount among Miss Clay Crosland’s friends.
Elaine had turned away, and now flew after the other actors to remind them that they were to stay for supper.
Mr. Crosland, feeling perhaps a little sorry for the young man, invited him with Mrs. Lewry to share the meal which he had ordered for the performers at the café of the Christmas Fair, and gazing about for Ralph, who in a fit of abstraction had allowed himself to be swept away from his party by the out-going crowd, asked Walter if he could see the lad anywhere about.
Walter at once went off to look for him, and duly presented him at the long table within the lattice-work of paper flowers where Elaine and her friends, still in their stage dress and make-up in spite (or perhaps because) of their elders’ mild remonstrances, were sharpening their wits on the homely supper menu.
“Oh, there you are, Ralph!” cried Elaine at once. “Just in time to choose what you’ll have to eat. There’s cold chicken, ham, tongue—all sorts of good things!”
Her tone condemned every eatable she mentioned as not fit for any young person to eat, but Ralph was school-boy enough to say eagerly: “Chicken—jolly!”
“He really thinks it will be jolly here” cried Elaine, inviting attention by her exaggerated tone of compassion. “What it is to be young!”
Without intending it, Walter laughed—the remark, from one so young and brilliant, sounded so absurd—and Elaine, looking up, found his brown eyes fixed upon her in a look of warmth and love. She was struck out of herself, or perhaps into herself, by his expression; and bending towards her brother, said with a sweet and natural tenderness:
“Of course it will be jolly, Ralph. You eat as much as you can. There’s some trifle too—I hope it’s of Mrs. Lewry’s making, because hers are always so good.”
The gratified Mrs. Lewry admitted that the sweet had, indeed, come from the Heights Cottage kitchen; and Walter smiled and felt happy—he was already so intimately connected with Elaine in spirit that he felt proud when she was good, sorrowful when she was naughty.
While they were still at supper, dancing began in the entertainment room, where the platform had been rapidly dismantled. Elaine led the chorus of joking depreciation about the music—she felt especially impelled to criticism this evening because Clay Green was her own village, and the others might think she approved its arrangements.
Henry Clay Crosland listened with an expression of perplexity, and Mrs. Richard (whose pretty face Walter found kind and sweet if not very intelligent) ventured the timid hope that Elaine would not let the Sunday School teacher who was performing on the piano, hear her adverse comment.
“Mother, of course not!” said Elaine impatiently, vexed, not at the imputation of unkindness, but of being thought capable of a social gaucherie.
“Will you dance with me, Elaine?” demanded Ralph, who, having perceived that the others were waiting for him, was scooping up custard rapidly, unable to leave his portion unfinished, but anxious not to be a burden on his sister’s friends.
“Oh, Ralph!” protested Elaine, laughing. “You don’t want to dance with your sister.”
“Yes, I do,” said Ralph firmly, suspending operations with his spoon to give his wish more emphasis. “I do.”
A lovely look of content fleeted across Elaine’s beautiful face. “All right, Ralph, you shall,” she said decisively. “Only hurry up with that trifle, or the dancing will be over before we can begin.”
“I don’t want any more,” disclaimed Ralph at this, dropping his spoon hurriedly.
As it chanced, the acting party was not evenly divided between the sexes, and Walter was from this point of view a welcome addition. So it came to pass presently that he held Elaine within his arms, and guided her round the crowded little room. By the Haighs’ standard, Walter was a good dancer, and though these standards were not Elaine’s, he yet knew enough to pick up quickly the right arrangements of hands and feet and the rhythm considered fashionable, just as at supper he had already picked up from the darting talk the details of the general routine of his young companions’ lives, and noted them for future attention. So after a few stumbles, when his partner’s look of scorn made him wince and quiver, Walter found his steps adjusting themselves to Elaine’s, and even Elaine found herself with little to cavil at in their progress. As for Walter, he was in an ecstasy. Could he really be clasping Elaine Crosland’s exquisite body, so soft and small and slender, breathing her subtle and exciting perfume, looking down—he was just the right height for her—upon her pale gleaming hair, her long golden lashes and delicious pearly cheek, the red bow of her lovely mouth, the perfect curves of her snowy throat and breast? He danced with her whenever chance offered, and his eyes followed her hungrily when it did not.
“Definitely empressé, our new young friend?” murmured the lad who had played the hero, in Elaine’s ear.
Elaine grimaced in derision, but she was flattered; and the next time she danced with Walter she surrendered herself to the pleasure of being in his arms. Walter felt the difference in her, knew she was no longer repelling him with her mind, and held her closer; at this Elaine smiled a cool, remote little smile, and gave him one provocative upward glance from her brilliant eyes. Walter responded with a burning look. They danced, and knew nothing of those about them.
When the music ceased, Elaine suddenly asked Walter if he would care to join a treasure hunt which she had arranged for that night when the bazaar should close. Walter said ardently that he would, but did not know enough of treasure hunts to beg that he might drive her. At this omission Elaine pouted, and took care to reveal to him, by a question called across the room, where he had blundered. Walter, whose every sense was sharpened in her presence, understood at once, and quickly asked her to share his car—taking care to disparage it in the new style he had learned that night.
Elaine shook her head and declined as if amazed at his presumption. “But I’ll find you someone else,” she told him brightly: “Someone really nice.”
In the event he drove alone through the splashing rain. There were some titters at his plight, and he felt himself that it was ridiculous; but he was prepared to endure much in the way of snubbing and ridicule to be near Elaine. It was discovered that he was a decent fellow, unobtrusive in manner and generous about clues; Elaine seemed to tolerate, while Ralph, who was fastidious in his friendships, positively liked, him. By the time the members of the treasure hunt party had separated, on the steps of Clay Hall whither the final clue had led them, after a lively supper eaten in the early hours of the following day, Walter was more or les
s accepted as a possible permanency in their circle of acquaintance. Other meetings had, indeed, been planned, in which Walter was vaguely included.
He took pains to be present, and when there to dress and speak and act as fashion dictated; and gradually struggled into living the life of Elaine’s social clique, as far as his work and his income allowed.
Scene 4. Economies of a Business Man
IT WAS New Year’s Day, and Messrs. Lumb were taking advantage of this irregularly observed holiday to “stand” their mill.
In pursuance of a New Year’s resolution he had formed, Arnold Lumb let himself soberly into the empty premises. He unlocked the office door, cast a gloomy eye on the letters and circulars which lay on the floor behind the letter slit, but did not pick them up lest he should be diverted from his purpose; hung up his hat—it was too cold to remove his coat, for a north-easterly gale was driving bitter snow showers before it across Yorkshire—and crossing the room to the small wall safe, began to make the adjustments necessary to open it.
His aspect was vexed and dreary; indeed he was feeling thoroughly disheartened and depressed. Life was not agreeable for him at present, either in business or at home, and the scene at the breakfast-table that morning had emphasised its dissatisfactions. He had rashly suggested that Reetha (who seemed at a loose end during her holidays) should accompany him to the mill for a walk, and been refused with a sulky irritation which, when it was very properly reproved by Reetha’s grandfather, had turned into an angry storm.
There was one thing about it, reflected Arnold sardonically, swinging back the heavy safe door, if he had ever entertained any doubts about Reetha being his daughter (as he very easily might), scenes like that of this morning would have removed them, for Reetha and her grandfather were so exactly alike when they quarrelled, even to toss of head and turn of speech, that the evidence of the child’s descent was quite overwhelming. He promptly laid aside this thought as unworthy of a decent middle-aged man, and tried to consider the matter from Reetha’s point of view.
It was hard on the child, certainly, to be snatched from all her lively companions, and a mode of life as nearly resembling that of famous public schools as difference of sex allowed, and made to attend a Hudley day-school which she thought beneath her, and was certainly not what he himself had hoped for his daughter. But Arnold found it a little hard on him that Reetha should blame him for it—he read in her mind the thought that other people’s fathers didn’t have these financial difficulties, and that they must be his fault, and it was tiresome of him. This alternated, however, in Reetha with violent bursts of affection for her father, when she declared with passionate loyalty that Arnold’s difficulties were all the Haighs’ fault, and she hated them. But neither did Arnold find this particularly comfortable. The trouble with Reetha was simply that she required a home away from the rather exacting requirements of her grandparents, and a mother; and though everything, of course, was over between himself and Rosamond, and he was deeply angry with her, still he vaguely continued to expect that somehow everything would be all right again some day and they would marry.
Meanwhile everything was altogether wrong, and highly disagreeable. And what had he done, after all, to deserve all this discomfort, this everlasting harassing business worry, this loneliness and disappointment, demanded Arnold?
He was a decent man, a kind employer, a faithful husband, an affectionate son and father, a good citizen. He had fought for his country during the war, voluntarily, steadily and with integrity, if with no particular distinction. He sighed now as he remembered the war period, and found it in his heart to wish himself back in it—he was young and strong and passably good-looking in those days, wore his cap at an angle, swaggered about and felt on top of the world, and was passionately in love with his silly naughty little wife. There was some fun in life then! But now there was none. He was sick to death, thought Arnold disgustedly, of the whole blooming show. He was sick of cloth, of Reetha, of interviews with the bank, of the everlasting round of customers with long faces who complained of the times and tried to cut his prices down; he was sick of insurance cards, coal bills, wages, rates and income tax; he was sick of standing his mill on Wednesday at the shop-steward’s request, in order that his workmen might have three consecutive days’ unemployment in a week and draw the dole, when he really wanted to work Wednesday and stand on Thursday; he was sick, in fact, of being Arnold Lumb, widower, dyer and finisher, of Valley Mill and Beech Lea, The Crescent, in the Borough of Hudley in the West Riding of Yorkshire, during the economic depression of the post-war twentieth century. But what could he do about it? Nothing! He must just go on. It was all very well for people outside business to have these high-falutin’ notions about a changing social order, a disintegrating economic system, the beginning of a new world, and so on; irresponsible people were at liberty to have such notions, because they were never called upon to put them into practice, reflected Arnold bitterly; but he was a practical man; he had his father and mother, Reetha, a widowed sister in the south with a couple of children, a handful of the old and invalid relatives who always form part of every family, and his commitments to the bank, not to mention his men, all wholly or partially dependent on his efforts, all weighing on his shoulders like an Old Man of the Sea. If somebody would take them off him, then he might start doing something original and striking, but at the moment his hands were too full, he couldn’t give up his ordinary routine for a moment, or the whole thing would come crashing down on his head. And then what would happen to all the people concerned? Tell me that, said Arnold.
At this point he became aware that, though he was apparently thinking in an empty room, he was really arguing with Rosamond; and with an exclamation of fatigue and disgust, he turned to the safe, and drew out the Valley Mill books.
Ever since his return from the war it had been Arnold’s habit to prepare a rough weekly balance sheet for his own guidance; but these left a certain margin for error, and Arnold had resolved to secure an accurate estimate of his position now, before the time of the official yearly stocktaking. Valley Mill had now been three months without Tasker’s trade; he wanted to know how far the few additional customers whom he had secured by strenuous effort, supplied the deficiency. For a couple of hours he wrestled with receipts, estimates, payments; and at length sat back and surveyed the resultant figure.
It was appalling. Losing at such a rate, he gave Messrs. Lumb twelve months at most before the complete exhaustion of their assets, and forced liquidation.
For a long moment the abyss yawned before him, and cold fear gripped his heart.
Slowly he rallied, began to breathe less heavily, and felt the blood return to his numbed cheek.
Well, expenses would have to be cut down somehow, that was all, decided Arnold, pretending hard to himself that the situation was quite ordinary, that he was equal to it and it had not shaken him. Setting his jaw, he bent over his figures again and applied himself to the problem. At first he found he could not perform the simplest operations of addition and subtraction, but he forced his reluctant mind to the task, and presently it seemed to function much as usual. His own salary and his father’s, as directors of the Limited Company of Messrs. Lumb, had already suffered drastic reductions—they had economised on the household, on maids; on Reetha’s schooling, on his sister’s allowance; on their sober pleasures, on dress. He had deposited his largest insurance policy as cover for a further overdraft and surrendered another for immediate expenses. The office staff had volunteered to accept lower pay rather than be discharged, and this had already been arranged. But further severe cuts were obviously necessary. Dyson Haigh’s salary must go at once, ought to have gone long ago, thought Arnold, scowling; let that young whippersnapper up at Heights keep his father—do him good. And Rosamond, too—she’s earning. They’re better off than we are. Indignation against the Haighs warmed his blood, and he proceeded more cheerfully. He went over all his calculations again, twice; because at the bottom of his hea
rt he knew the conclusion which he must reach, had indeed already hinted it to his father; and they both disliked it so much that he wished to avoid reaching that conclusion if it could possibly be avoided. Action of too disagreeable a nature was involved. But it was no use shirking it; the economy seemed to Arnold inevitable and justified. The men’s piece-work rates must go.
He did not wish to have to propose a cut in the rate, partly on general principles, and partly because the last time he had been forced to a cut, eighteen months ago when business began to be so bad, though the union officials themselves had been very decent about it, he had had a fearful row with the Valley Mill shop-steward, Milner Schofield, who accused him of the most abominable crimes and asked him sarcastically how soon they might expect another lowering in the rate. “You cut it when we earn too much, you cut it when we earn too little,” he said. Arnold, in a fury, had practically promised that he wouldn’t ask for another cut—and now here he was faced with the necessity, as it seemed to him.
He had been so exasperated by Milner at the time that he had made up his mind to get rid of him as soon as he could without being accused of victimisation. But after the fuss had died down and he had regained his temper, he remembered what a good workman Milner was—he had a head on him, could think for himself; and then old Mr. Lumb had kept on reminding him how Milner was the son of Isaiah Schofield, who had married one of the Lumb’s menders on the very same day as his employer’s wedding to Arnold’s mother, and been the Valley Mill foreman for thirty years; and how the lad Milner had come straight to the Lumbs from school, as a half-timer, and stayed there ever since, and so on. And then Arnold had bethought himself that Harry was a decent reliable chap, if not too bright, and he would be awfully upset if Milner left—and so, taking one thing with another, Arnold had just let the thing slide, and Milner was still at Valley Mill, tentering. But now Arnold wished he had got rid of the Schofields. For one thing, one man and a boy could do the Schofields’ work at the tentering easily; two men did it now—at full union wages and piece rates—only because Milner and Harry had grown up at Valley Mill, and Arnold didn’t like to sack them.
A Modern Tragedy Page 14