A Modern Tragedy

by Phyllis Bentley

  At last the fatal day arrived. Walter had little sleep the night before, and when he had dressed with special care, and tried to eat, he experienced such a terrible restlessness, such a fearfully intense yearning for the clock to move on, that he could not imagine how he was going to get through the morning—he was due at Grey Garth for lunch at one, this being the first invitation of the kind he had ever received from Tasker. But half an hour’s driving or so would take him to Tasker’s; even allowing a little longer so that he might have time to find the house, which was unknown to him, he could not reasonably start before noon.

  In this vacuum of occupation, the notion seized him to go and look at Heights, and he indulged it. At first he almost wished he had not done so, for in its Sunday hush the place looked very much as it had when he first saw it, except that to-day the May sunshine made it bright, and Walter’s heart was wrung to think that it might soon be allowed to relapse again into the stillness of decay. All the slight improvements he had introduced, and was honestly proud of, would be wasted; the machines which now ran so skilfully would rust and spoil. But presently, as he wandered about the various departments of the mill, now so familiar and so beloved, he made a passionate resolve that his work should not thus be wrested from him; he would fight to the last for Heights and for Elaine. He laid his hand on top of a pile of pieces which had come in on Saturday morning, and boyishly swore it; and thus fortified, drove off with set face, his whole mind strung to its highest pitch of awareness and determination, to Tasker’s home on the further side of Ashworth.

  He had no difficulty in finding the house, as it chanced, for as he passed the turning for Victory Mills, he was startled to observe Tasker walking thoughtfully towards the main street. Obviously the manufacturer had been visiting his works, and this coincidence between Tasker’s Sunday morning occupation and his own somehow brought the blood to Walter’s cheeks. He hailed Tasker, who seemed pleased to see him, and not without a boyish feeling of pride, drove his employer safely to his home.

  He looked about him with interest as they reached Grey Garth. The sizable open garden, on the upper slope of a steep hill, was very much divided by pieces of crazy paving, sundials, rock gardens and so on; the numerous flower-beds were all carefully arranged with bedding-out plants in neat rows; these were obviously only recently put in, and in the bright sunshine had an air at once pretentious and disconsolate. A very glossy summer-house of varnished wood, on a pivot, stood in the centre of the only unbroken piece of grass; in this could be discerned the figure of a woman who, as the car turned into the short sandy drive, hastily arose and sidled away into the house by a side door.

  “My wife’s a bit of an invalid,” explained Tasker awkwardly.

  Walter looked gravely sympathetic, but inwardly felt a startled surprise. He had not hitherto formulated to himself any clear idea of Mrs. Tasker, for he had only recently learned of her existence, and the idea of Tasker having a wife and a home at all seemed to him so incongruous as to be incredible; but now that these adjuncts turned out to be real after all, he followed his host into the house with some curiosity. He was impressed, less by the richness of the furnishings than by their tasteful and modern aspect; he had somehow expected Tasker to live in a domestic interior arranged on the lines of Moorside Place, only much more expensively, and was struck yet again, as so often previously, by Tasker’s initiative and resource.

  He did not see his hostess till a gong had sounded and the two men had made their way to a small room in the rear—“We’re keeping the dining room for the meeting,” explained Tasker, who seemed silent, and even a little ill at ease.

  Marian Tasker then entered in an evidently expensive but ill-fitting black and white frock of much too dazzling pattern, and greeted Walter with an effusiveness which he suspected to be tinged with sarcasm, and resented accordingly. Indeed, he took a dislike to Marian at once. She was worn and ugly, and Walter had a young man’s unthinkingly cruel aversion to ugly fading women; he disliked, too, her tinny voice, and the way her scanty hair was too tightly secured under an old-fashioned net. Also, she fussed over the service, and this habit Walter, in common with the youth of every generation, heartily detested. The meal was rich and admirably cooked, though of few courses. Tasker as usual ate and drank with gusto but without excess; his wife took a few morsels without appetite, but with the interest of a connoisseur. Walter found himself not hungry; he was too sick with suspense to eat. Besides, he was conscious of discomfort in the presence of Tasker and his wife. To Walter, who had been brought up in a home based on decent respect and mutual affection, if also on a rather narrow and stupid code, there seemed something not quite as it should be in their relationship—he did not know what was wrong, but felt uneasy, and his feeling was reflected in his candid face.

  As Tasker was persistently silent, Walter made artificial conversation with Marian, and found it hard going. He did not suspect the truth, that his hostess disliked him as much as he disliked her. Because he ate little, and was not enjoying himself at her table, Marian concluded that he despised the food she had provided, and thought him supercilious and arrogant; his manners, too (which now had a definite Clay Hall tinge) were of the “fine” type which she resented.

  Twice during the meal Tasker was called to the telephone; on one of these occasions Walter could not resist blurting out anxiously to Marian, who seemed to take her husband’s departure from the table as a commonplace:

  “I do hope our meeting this afternoon will be successful, Mrs. Tasker.”

  She replied sharply: “If Leonard has anything to do with it, it will be.”

  Her tone almost implied that the whole affair was Walter’s fault, and that her husband out of the sheer goodness of his heart was coming to the young man’s rescue, and though Walter knew the case was otherwise, he blushed and looked guilty. It occurred to him that Marian took the idea of bankruptcy very lightly, but he had not the temerity to say so.

  It was a great relief to Walter when the meal was at length over; Marian disappeared, and Tasker proposed they should smoke in the garden.

  They walked round the house silently together. Tasker occasionally paused and looked carefully at some part of the garden, not with a gardener’s eye, like Elaine’s mother, but as if to see whether his orders had been carried out there; but he made no comment, and Walter was glad of this, for he was in too nervous a state to make sensible replies. Outside a large French window Tasker paused again, and with a muttered excuse to Walter went within. Walter perceived that this was the room reserved for the meeting, for chairs were arranged about the long polished table, and sheets of paper and pencils had been laid out.

  Tasker went to the sideboard, and examined the drinks, the glasses, the boxes of cigars; opened a drawer and closed it again, took a comprehensive glance about him, then rejoined Walter by the window.

  The young man involuntarily gave a long nervous sigh.

  Tasker glanced at him and chuckled. His blue eyes were more widely opened than usual, and sparkling with what Walter would, in happier circumstances, have diagnosed as glee. Indeed, Tasker’s whole person had now an air of joyous tensity, like that of a fine athlete going in to bat, thought Walter, hardly believing his eyes; he gazed at the older man reproachfully. Tasker laughed again, took Walter by the arm, and seemed about to say something; but suddenly observing that a shaft of light fell awkwardly across the table, with perfect seriousness readjusted the window curtain so that the room was completely, though not gloomily, in shade.

  When he had done this to his satisfaction, he turned back to Walter, and gently urging him away by a hand on his elbow, said kindly: “Cheer up. It’ll be all right, you know. Only stand by me.”

  Walter, hanging his head and blushing, muttered that of course he would.

  The hour appointed for the meeting now drew near. Tasker and Walter, still slowly perambulating the garden in the brilliant sunshine, heard the sound of a car approaching up the hill. They both watched the entrance inten
tly; the gate (painted black and white, very new and glossy) had long since been set open, and Tasker’s chauffeur was on duty by the house to give advice on the best means of turning and parking.

  This car, however, which Walter instantly recognised as Elaine’s sports model, drew up abruptly in the road outside, and Henry Clay Crosland slowly dismounted.

  Sunday was a day of rest for the Croslands’ chauffeur, and it was not possible that Henry Clay Crosland should ever deprive a servant of his of a holiday for his own convenience; Elaine, therefore, was driving for him. But it was equally impossible for Mr. Crosland to allow his grand-daughter to enter Tasker’s premises. He preferred the outward indignity but inward integrity of dismounting outside.

  Tasker at once perceived the insult; he compressed his lips and turned white with anger. Walter, on the other hand, saw nothing but Elaine; he exclaimed and sprang forward, then stopped in confusion as Elaine drove off without turning her car—she was an extremely efficient driver, well-versed in all local routes.

  Tasker, with his usual acuteness, observed Walter’s start, his blush, his rapid change of expression through eager hope to disappointment; added them rapidly to his note of Walter’s embarrassment whenever his friendship with the Croslands was mentioned, and in a flash knew the whole situation. He smiled sardonically; it was an added weapon in his armoury. He decided at once how to use it. Repressing his anger at the indignity put upon his house in the presence of his chauffeur (who looked perplexed and rather scornful; these driving manners were not what he thought correct), Tasker advanced, greeted Henry Clay Crosland with a grave dignity, without offering his hand, and led him slowly up the sandy drive towards the house.

  “Walter,” he said, over his shoulder: “Just open that gate a little wider, will you? And wedge it with a stone.”

  The gate was already completely open, but a year of association with Tasker had taught Walter to take a hint, and he remained behind and busied himself as directed. The implication that the Crosland car had not driven in because of possible difficulty with the gate, was both skilful and courteous. Henry Clay Crosland felt it so, and his manner slightly relaxed.

  “I didn’t know young Haigh was concerned in this affair,” he said. “He is?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” replied Tasker clearly—these details were meant for Crosland to hear. “He’s one of the largest shareholders. I’m sorry for Walter. Indeed,” he went on in a serious, musing tone, “I’m sorry for all the young men of this generation. With everything so bad, they can’t have any ambition; they’ve no prospects, no hope of marriage, nothing.”

  Henry Clay Crosland, who had not expected a reflection so just, impersonal, and sympathetic from Tasker, was favourably impressed, and with his customary good feeling, began to wonder if, after all, he had misjudged the man. Tasker’s remark was, he mused, singularly appropriate to the present situation, though of course, thought Crosland, Tasker could not know that.

  Henry Clay Crosland had naturally observed Walter’s feeling for Elaine; he had taken the care to ascertain that Walter was of decent parentage and upbringing, and though he did not quite see why the young man was living away from his home, and did not altogether approve of it, he liked Walter, thought him good and honest. And now apparently he was involved, innocently of course, in this large bankruptcy. Mr. Crosland’s heart grieved for Walter, which was exactly what Tasker intended.

  Other cars now followed each other in rapid succession up the drive. Walter left the gate, and entered the meeting room nervously by the French window.

  Immediately he felt he understood why the venue of international conferences was regarded as important. It really was not possible to be as rude to a man in his own house, while sitting on his chairs, as elsewhere, even if you sternly rejected drinks and smokes, as Henry Clay Crosland was now doing.

  Walter now understood Tasker’s triumph in securing that the meeting should be held here, for the mere fact of its scene implied that its tone was meant to be friendly; he understood, too, that the choice of day had been made as an excuse to secure the desired setting.

  He timidly offered Mr. Crosland a cigarette—which Tasker, in a sideways glance from beneath his bushy eyebrows, was pleased to observe accepted—and sat down meekly at a seat which he hoped was unimportant, midway between Tasker and Crosland, who occupied opposite ends of the long table.

  Walter was surprised, and Henry Clay Crosland dissatisfied, by the company in which they found themselves. Among the men present was Dollam, the former owner of Heights; this Walter found distinctly odd. He knew few of the other men, but put this down to his own inexperience; Henry Clay Crosland, on the other hand, who knew most of them by name, had no desire whatever to know them in person, and felt a steady anger against himself for having allowed the firm of Crosland to become mixed up with such a collection of new, shaky and under-capitalised firms. “Just the sort of people one would expect Tasker to have dealings with,” he thought with bitterness. “They’ve no reserves and enormous overdrafts, every man-jack of them. No doubt many of his customers are the same, and that’s why he’s in this difficulty.”

  The proceedings began with a dry statement from Tasker to the effect that this informal meeting had been called to discuss the financial position of Leonard Tasker 1925 Limited, and to see what steps could be taken to satisfy that firm’s creditors.

  Everybody but Henry Clay Crosland immediately began to speak at once, to make claims, and to explain what was owed to them. The words “informal meeting” were reiterated so often that they began to make Walter feel quite sick; he imagined that they were repeated so that these proceedings might be disowned later if necessary.

  Walter could not take his eyes from Tasker, who seemed to him like a bear attacked by numerous dogs. The young man’s neck muscles ached from the strain of keeping his head motionless so long in one position, and he was drenched in sweat.

  The tone of the meeting was decidedly unfavourable to Tasker; accusations were freely brought against him that his assets were exhausted and he ought to have gone bankrupt long ago; voices were raised in anger; men threw out, hotly, remarks so insulting that Walter simply had never imagined them possible, while the sums mentioned seemed to him so huge as to be terrifying.

  Through all this Tasker sat unmoved, lounging in his chair with a careless smile on his lips, his eyes fixed on a pencil which he slowly and casually tapped on the table. Walter could not but strongly admire his control, and in a burst of loyalty he cried out suddenly in his clear young voice:

  “You talk as if the slump were Mr. Tasker’s fault!”

  The men fell silent, looking at him with curiosity and amusement, and one observed in a patronising tone:

  “I don’t quite know what your interest here is, Mr.—er——?”

  “Mr. Walter Haigh, who is son to Mr. Dyson Haigh, is one of the largest shareholders in Messrs. Tasker, and the manager of one of the firm’s properties,” said Tasker swiftly. “A very able manager I think you’ll agree, gentlemen, when you see the figures for the last three months.”

  Walter blushed with pleasure, and the others, looking at him with more consideration, sized him up rapidly as honest and able, and thought the better of Tasker for employing him.

  Henry Clay Crosland, who was listening with one hand to his ear, sighed deeply.

  The meeting had now been going on for nearly two hours, and the first virulence of attack was exhausted.

  “Well, look here, Tasker,” said one of the creditors wearily: “It’s no use going on like this any more. We’ve all said what we think. Now what’s your side? Have you any alternative to liquidation? If you have, now’s the time to put it forward.”

  “I should first like to hear what Mr. Crosland has to say,” said Tasker, looking down the table into Henry Clay Crosland’s eyes. “He’s the principal creditor.”

  Mr. Crosland, sighing, observed in his quiet sad tones: “I regret the necessity greatly, but I see no other alternative but t
o apply for a receiving order.”

  “If you do that, Mr. Crosland,” said Tasker with sudden emphasis, “you won’t get ten per cent. None of you will,” he continued, glaring round the table.

  Henry Clay Crosland blenched, and from the others came outcries of protest.

  “Well, you won’t,” said Tasker roughly. He now sat erect, his blue eyes gleaming. With a tingle of his nerves Walter realised that he was at last coming into action.

  “You know perfectly well the prices machinery and buildings are going at to-day. If you close me down, you won’t get ten per cent, and you won’t get that for months, perhaps years. And even when you do get it, when all’s said and done, your best customer’s gone.”

  “There’s no need to close Messrs. Tasker down, as you put it,” contended Henry Clay Crosland in his tired voice. “We can continue to run it, but for the benefit of the creditors.”

  “And do you imagine that any man in the West Riding can run my business better than I can?” demanded Tasker with flashing eyes. “If you do, you’re mistaken.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that any other man should run it, Mr. Tasker,” said Henry Clay Crosland courteously. “I imagined you still there, acting as manager, on our behalf.”

  “You won’t catch me doing that,” muttered Tasker defiantly.

  Mr. Crosland did not hear this. He looked about the table to see if he could gather the purport of the remark from his associates’ faces, and seeing there doubt and hesitation, imagined that Tasker had produced some cogent argument against the course he proposed.