The letter was therefore brought to Brigg in his private office by the head of the Syke Mill office staff next morning, with apologies for its slit envelope—all letters were opened in the outer office, and it was not realised that this was a private one till the first three words were read—and this trivial circumstance exacerbated Brigg’s feeling towards it. He hated to think that Henry’s reference to their “rivalry” had come beneath some clerk’s eye and recalled the whole affair to his mind as it recalled it to Brigg’s. For that wretched business was now recalled, vividly and terribly, to Brigg; although he was comfortably and happily settled in life, and proud of the position he occupied in society thanks to his connection with the Stancliffes, the anguish of his thwarted longing for Janie became dreadfully present to his mind. He remembered the pain of his last interview with Henry. The interview had taken place in this very same room, and the room was scarcely changed at all; the solid mahogany table and chairs, the marble clock, were the ones Brigg’s eyes had rested upon when he learned of Janie’s marriage to Charley Mellor. (Where were those two, by the way? He had heard nothing of them from that day to this.) Brigg got up and began to pace about the room. He had not felt so wretched for years; he was in a turmoil of grief and anger; the agreeable surface of his life seemed to have cracked, revealing bleeding sores beneath. How that girl had made him suffer! And now that confounded supercilious Henry invited him to remember all that, to resume relations with the Bamforths through his son. “He has a daughter he wants to marry, I’ll be bound,” thought Brigg shrewdly. Send Francis into the lion’s den like that? The light-hearted, handsome, susceptible Francis, who was fond of girls and had a conquering way with him? Expose his boy to the danger of that racking anguish which Brigg had suffered at Janie’s hands? No fear! “No, Mr. Henry Singleton Bamforth,” said Brigg aloud: “Not this time, thank you.” He sat down and wrote, pressing the pen quite savagely into the notepaper with the Syke Mill heading: Dear Bamforth, I am obliged to you, for your good wishes, but I think, the less my family, have to do with yours, the better. Tours faithfully, W. B. Oldroyd.
Thus Henry was disappointed of his plan for bringing Francis and Carmine together under his roof.
2
Carmine, returning home for Christmas, was a very different young person from the one who had left Booth Bank a few months before. Though she was not yet in full flower, she was certainly blossoming in the sunshine of happiness; her sensation of being cramped and caged and thwarted was gone, her resentful feeling of inferiority almost lulled to rest.
For she was profoundly happy in Camden Town. It was not only that after the toil of teaching the work required of her by her uncle seemed light and easy; it was not only that in his house were books and pictures and music, and outside it the lights and the theatres and the shops of London. It was not only that she was the mistress of her uncle’s household, with authority at her back and money in her pocket. It was that Henry daily put forth all the skill and subtlety he owned, to soothe and flatter her. Henry found Carmine a deeply pathetic, almost a tragic, figure, with her thwarted longings, her sullen resentments, her passionate response to beauty, her almost tigerish clutch on enjoyment, her sombre withdrawals into herself at the first breath of criticism, her smouldering rebellion against all authority, her almost agonised compassion for those who felt, as she did, inferior, and her childish longing to be admired and loved. Henry’s heart ached for her as it had never done for his bright wilful Janie; he studied her moods, and knew when to joke with her and when to be serious, when to tell her to run out and buy herself a new hat and when such a suggestion would be regarded as an insult. On the lookout for everything which might legitimately make her pleased with herself, he remembered Janie’s voice and offered her singing lessons; she was not very successful as a performer, for her ear was defective, but her deep, husky voice had a thrilling quality of youth and love which the distinguished elderly litterateurs who frequented Henry’s drawing-room listened to with benevolent enjoyment. That they were mostly elderly was perhaps rather an advantage, for thanks to her uncle’s skilful suggestion on the day of her arrival, Carmine was now always conscious that she had something they lacked, and this knowledge made her kind and radiant. So the shadow gradually cleared from her brows, and Henry found that she was warm-hearted, loving; he was immensely touched, though rather alarmed, by her excitement when she discovered he had written to Janie to say what an excellent housekeeper-secretary she was; she threw her arms round him and kissed him for this, and told him he was a darling. The lonely Henry liked being told he was a darling, especially with such a beautiful young cheek next to his; he hugged her in return, and their friendship was cemented.
So as Carmine stood on the lighted bustling platform, waiting for the later of the two good daily trains to Annotsfield, she felt happy, and agreebly conscious of her ownimportance. She had been obliged to wait for this train by the press of her uncle’s work, and Henry had been quite bad-tempered about her leaving him at all, which was complimentary. Also, he had given her a five-pound note as a Christmas present; and some odd silver, with instructions to have dinner on the train. This seemed the height of sophistication to Carmine, and altogether she felt very metropolitan and attractive and experienced, and looked forward joyously to the impression she would make on them all at home.
The long train backed slowly in; Carmine asked for the Annotsfield coach and secured a corner seat. As the hour of departure drew near, a great commotion arose around the first class compartment next door; a group of young men were “seeing off” one of their number; there was a great deal of laughing and lively talking, and even an occasional snatch of song. Carmine, interested and amused, got up and looked out of the window. She looked in the other direction first, just to show that she was really indifferent, then allowed her eyes to sweep nonchalantly round and rest for a moment upon the young men. They all looked rich and jolly, and one was definitely handsome—Carmine hoped that he was the one who was travelling north. But now one or two of them had noticed her (including the handsome one) and gave her amused glances; Carmine drew in her head at once and sat down, scarlet. “Pity you’re travelling first, my lad,” she heard a young man’s voice say meaningly, and another replied: “Oh, shut up,” in a good-natured easy tone. The train now began to move, and there was a burst of cheering from the platform; as it was Christmas time the passengers and porters all smiled benevolently. The young men left behind showed a disposition to announce vocally that their companion was a jolly good fellow, but this was not altogether a success, and ended in laughter; the traveller—it was the fair handsome one, Carmine saw, irrelevantly feeling glad that she was wearing her new coat—leant out and waved a cheerful hand. The train gathered speed and began to pass beneath a succession of bridges, and Carmine’s fellow-passengers pulled up the windows.
The incident of the young man was not, however, closed. He showed a disposition to wander up and down the corridor and glance into Carmine’s compartment. “Of course if he’s nothing better to do than stare at girls,” thought Carmine angrily—and then smiled a little, for it was so obvious, so delightfully obvious, that he thought her worth staring at. Mindful of Janie’s precepts, ho wever, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her book, and saw him only from beneath lowered lashes. When the time came to walk along the train to the restaurant car Carmine, leaving her hat and luggage behind, set off gaily; she had just passed his door when the fair young man came out too, and they stumbled along almost the entire length of the swaying train together. The young man hung back politely and could in no sense be said to be annoying her or impertinent to her, but he was there behind her all the time, and Carmine was nervously conscious of his presence; moreover, he came to her rescue once or twice at awkward doorways, and had to be thanked. Carmine, murmuring a word with averted head, gradually became aware that he was taller than she, strongly made, of a reddish fairness, with a cheerful conquering air; the only part of him she really saw was his right arm, as
he held it above her shoulder to push open doors; she perceived that his blue suit was of excellent cloth and cut, his linen fine, his cuff-links superlative, and his hand, which gleamed a little in the light from the fine golden hairs which covered it, strong and firm, but not that of a man used to manual labour. By the time she reached the dining car she was so fluttered that she dropped into the first vacant seat she saw. The young man went a few yards further, but when seated was still well in sight. Carmine furtively used him as a guide through the unfamiliar processes of dining on a train; it was not until the meal was nearly over that it occurred to her that he had no business to be there at all, for he was travelling first class and this was the third class diner. At least she presumed so; the case might, of course, be the reverse, and she the one misplaced. A burning blush covered her cheek at the mere thought of such a contretemps, and she longed to escape; while, however, she was summoning courage to call the waiter, pay him and depart, the young man did this himself, disappearing rather hastily. Carmine was thus obliged to remain where she was for some moments, for she felt that another journey along the train in his company was quite out of the question. She sat on stubbornly, controlling her burning impatience to be gone as well as she could, and not without anxiety lest some thieving person should steal her luggage in her absence, for the train had now stopped at a large station.
A persistent thudding and knocking now seemed to be coming from somewhere by her right shoulder; she took no notice of it, and sat gazing steadily in front of her, till the waiter making out her bill nodded towards the window with the remark: “Someone seems to wish to speak to you, madam.” She turned to look, and to her horror saw the fair young man leaning out of the open window of a train on the next line, laughing, heartily and balancing her portmanteau on the window ledge. In his other hand he held her hat and gloves, and seemed to be shouting to her urgently. Carmine, utterly bewildered, gave the waiter a perplexed imploring look; he leaned over her and opened the window at her side.
“Take these,” cried the young man, laughing and holding out her belongings. “This part of the train has been cut off and shunted.”
“Cut off!” cried Carmine in a panic. “But I ought to be in it!” She sprang to her feet.
“Come across the line,” shouted the young man, his face now tense and alert. “You haven’t time to go round. We’re just going.”
He threw her bag behind him and opened the door. Carmine pushed past the waiter into the corridor, opened the first door she saw and sprang impetuously down to the metals. For one alarming moment she stood there bareheaded in the cold wind, while trains towered on either side and everyone in the world seemed to be shouting at her; then the young man had seized her by the hand, she sprang to the step, his fingers dug painfully into her arm, he gave a violent backward jerk, the train started, and the pair fell into safety in a confused heap on the seat of an empty compartment. Behind them the door banged and flapped; Carmine’s face lay against the young man’s shoulder and his arm was round her waist; the feeling each had already experienced towards the other flamed. With burning cheeks Carmine disentangled herself and moved away, leaving her rescuer to lean out and close the door.
“Now, then, missy, what’s all this?” demanded the guard in a cross tone, appearing unexpectedly in the corridor.
“It’s criminal negligence on the part of the railway company, that’s what it is,” said the young man, coming forward to defend her, with a great air of severity. “Here this young lady might have been carried off to goodness knows where without her hat and luggage. Why don’t you warn people when this coach is to be cut off, you old fathead?”
“Well, sir, that’s as may be,” said the guard in a milder tone. “But we can’t have people crossing the lines like that, you know—I shall have to report it.” He produced a notebook.
“Nothing of the sort!” said the young man commandingly. “You didn’t see anything, so you can’t report it.” He laughed and patted the guard on the arm; there was a chink of coin, and the man went away smiling. Carmine, collecting her belongings, which were strewn all over the carriage, marvelled at this termination to the dispute; with her father or Matthew there would certainly have been a disagreeable scene, ending in reports and names and addresses.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” said the young man politely, proffering her umbrella.
“Not at all,” mumbled Carmine. She blushed still deeper as she said this, for it was a lie; his fingermarks still burnt on the flesh of her upper arm.
“I’ve done the journey on this train pretty often now,” continued the young man: “So I know their tricks with this Annotsfield coach pretty well. I hope you are going to Annotsfield?” he finished with a laugh.
“Yes,” murmured Carmine. She had already noticed that this was a third class carriage, and as her luggage was now properly disposed upon the rack, she sat down and said in a dismissing voice: “Thank you very much for helping me; it was most kind of you.”
“Not at all,” said the young man, sitting down in the opposite corner. He smiled at her cheerfully; his expression seemed to say that it was Christmas, and why should they not have some fun together? Against her will Carmine’s rich lips parted in a reluctant smile. Francis thought he had never seen anything quite so lovely as this dark slender child who had sprung so boldly out of a train and then stood looking up at him with lips trembling and eyes starry from tears and fright. Her speech and manner had betrayed to him, of course, that she was not what Emsley Hall regarded as a lady; but what of that? It was Christmas and he had sat for four solid hours alone in a train with nothing to do but look at this girl; why should they not have an agreeable chat? He had held her in his arms, too, and his blood was agreeably stirred.
“Do you travel much?” he began conversationally.
“No,” said Carmine.
She had remembered Janie’s teaching with regard to strange young men, and her manner was its most farouche. Sulky little thing, thought Francis delightedly, noticing how the very curves of her chin and brow took on a haughty air, and her arm and shoulder seemed to reject him. He had gripped that arm in his hand, and knew its roundness, felt that soft young breast against his own—a pretty piece! That dark cloud of hair, that noble sullen profile! If she thought she was going to get rid of him without another smile, she was mistaken.
“I’m afraid I did hurt you,” murmured Francis in his most wooing tone.
“No, really,” protested Carmine, blushing more deeply than before.
He began to explain to her the details of his discovery that she was likely to be bereft of her hat and bag, and the steps he had taken to attract her attention. Seen through his eyes the incident became a joyous adventure, and when he expressed his admiration for her prompt courage in jumping from the train, Carmine could not but half turn to him and smile. It was agreeable to be complimented on a quality in which she usually felt herself deficient. After all, why not talk to him? All those notions about not speaking to strangers were silly and out-of-date—uncle Henry laughed at them.
“I think you make more of my jump than the distance warrants,” she murmured in her low husky tones.
Francis smiled into her eyes, and a delicious feeling of well-being and happiness invaded Carmine’s heart. He was so handsome! So young! (Carmine had seen so few young men lately.) He had saved her from a wretched journey in slow trains without a hat. He must have noticed her rather particularly, before, or he would not have taken any interest in her luggage. It was all so flattering, so agreeable; and he was so good-looking.
In half an hour they were chattering with great animation. Carmine, who thought she knew what subjects appealed to men, spoke of the Trade Disputes Act and the railway strike. Francis, dismissing these with a shrug as subjects not fit for decent society, discoursed instead on Lord Haldane and the reorganisation of the Volunteers. They agreed that it was cold, that it had not snowed yet but might do so at any moment, that snow made things very bad for the Christ
mas traffic but not as bad as fog, and that both in snow and fog the Oldham Road was very steep and dangerous, for a main thoroughfare—though not, said Carmine, as steep as Booth Bank, which was really dreadful. Francis seized this opportunity to secure her name and approximate address.
“Do you like motoring, Miss Mellor?” he said.
“I’ve never done any,” said Carmine, who had learned from Henry the value of social frankness.
Francis was nodding thoughtfully over this reply when the train dashed into Marthwaite tunnel, dashed out again and stopped abruptly.
“The signals are against us,” suggested Carmine.
“They always are, here,” grumbled Francis. “It’s something to do with the gradient, I believe.”
He let down the window, looked out and announced that the signal had just changed to green; and almost at once the train shook itself and thudded slowly downhill, presenting to the travellers the magnificent spectacle of the Ire Valley on a winter’s night. On either side the line were set, at different angles and varying levels, like a tumbled boxful of gargantuan children’s bricks, great blocks of brilliant light, row upon row of gleaming yellow squares—the mills, looking as though they were on fire within. Above them towered the tall slender chimneys, pouring forth plumes of smoke; behind rose the sombre heights of Scape Scar and Emsley Brow.
“The mills are on night work,” murmured Carmine, looking at her watch.
“Yes,” agreed Francis, absently. He was preoccupied by the thought of his father, for by force of habit his eyes had sought the Syke Mill buildings, which blazed with light, and the transition to Brigg was a natural one. He moved his shoulders impatiently, for he did not want to remember his father just then; his father was not the sort of man to approve of a tête-à-tête in a railway carriage with an unknown girl. “Well, what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve at,” thought Francis cheerfully, dismissing his father from his mind and fixing his own eyes on the long dark lashes sweeping Carmine’s pale pure cheek. A lovely thing! He smiled at her again, and won her shy sulky smile in return.
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