The Master of Liversedge

by Ley, Alice Chetwynd

  He broke off, brooding. She was silent, realizing that he was mentally reviewing the past, and had almost forgotten her presence.

  ‘I wouldn’t go back, if I could.’ The quiet words were tinged with bitterness. ‘I see now that I would always have remained something of an outsider. Oh, yes, I was popular enough — but there were the vague hints, the small but significant occurrences — the kind of thing that crops up when the Greys are here. At present, I can be useful in that quarter, therefore I’m being tolerated; but I’ve been warned not to get above myself.’ The bitterness was sharper now, so that the silent governess wondered how deep a hurt it revealed. ‘It was the same in the past — at school. Except that schoolboys don’t favour vague hints. But I was like Caroline in those days, ready to trust, to laugh, and to forget injuries. And I was young, of course — young enough to believe that a man could be accepted for himself, regardless of his parentage.’

  Mary was startled into speech. ‘Parentage? But surely — ’

  He gave a short, mirthless laugh. He seemed to have forgotten that he was talking to one of his employees, a female to whom he paid a pittance of twenty pounds a year.

  ‘Ay, parentage. Oh, nothing shocking, I assure you — at least, not to our way of thinking. But to gentlefolk, what can be more of a stigma than any connection with trade?’

  A quick vision flashed across her mind’s eye of the schoolboy that he had once been, with Caroline’s dark curls and laughing face, and the bright eyes that looked eagerly out on the world. She heard in fancy the taunts he had suffered until he had learnt to check his homely Northern accent and avoid all mention of his father’s mill. He might have suffered greatly, that boy, under the subtle tortures that schoolboys know only too well how to inflict on each other. Was this dark visaged, grim man who stood before her now the natural outcome of all that had gone before?

  He rose abruptly, and began to pace the room in a way she was coming to recognize. It was as though he tried to keep pace with his thronging, urgent thoughts.

  ‘One day they’ll have to accept us,’ he said, his eyes kindling. ‘This is no longer a country given over solely to agriculture: and the possession of land which has been handed down from generations back will — in time — count for less than it has done in the past. The manufactories are fast becoming the country’s life-blood, and we — the men who manage them — must eventually achieve social recognition.’

  He broke off, pausing in his stride: his eyes held a far-off look.

  ‘What matters is that I should make a success of the mill,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot — must not — fail. Nothing must stand in the way — ’

  She understood. The schoolboy had given place to the man, but still William Arkwright strove to prove himself. She turned her head away, ashamed to have penetrated so far into his hidden consciousness, a deep compassion stirring within her.

  Suddenly he turned, fixing her with a look of full awareness and slight dismay.

  ‘Why the devil am I talking to you like this? You must think me mad.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not mad — lonely, perhaps?’

  ‘Lonely, indeed. There has been no one — ’

  He broke off, and gave a short bitter laugh. When he spoke again, his voice had changed.

  ‘I see you’re a dangerous woman. Miss Lister — unwittingly, you lead people on to confide in you. I shall have to be on my guard.’

  Before she could answer, he strode from the room.

  Throughout the rest of the day, Mary was unable to shake off the effect of this extraordinary conversation. She found herself returning to it again and again in the intervals between her lessons with Caroline. It was almost a relief to be able to ponder over it at leisure during the solitude of her short walk home through the gathering dusk.

  Arrived at the Vicarage, she removed her outdoor clothes and went in search of the housekeeper. A fragrant smell of baking led her to the kitchen. Mrs. Duckworth, sleeves rolled up to her rounded elbows, was just placing a large pie on a shelf in the oven, which shone like polished ebony. A diminutive urchin was standing meekly beside the white-scrubbed table, his whole being in his round eyes as he stared hungrily at the trays of pies and tarts which had been set out to cool.

  Mrs. Duckworth finished her task, shut the oven door, and turned to greet Mary. Then she took a fair-sized meat pie from one of the trays, put it on a plate, and set it before the boy.

  ‘There, lad! Get outside o’ that.’

  He gabbled his thanks, seizing the pie in both hands and cramming it into his mouth as though the very process of eating took too long for the demands of his ravening appetite. But after a moment, he forced his hands to set it down again on the plate, while he groped for something in his pocket.

  ‘What’s up?’ queried the housekeeper. ‘Bain’t it to tha liking?’

  He shook his tousled head vigorously, and produced a very dirty red kerchief.

  ‘It’s champion!’ he replied, earnestly. ‘Reight champion, thank ’ee, ma’am! But’ he hesitated — ‘there’s t’ others. Reckon I’ve had my share.’

  She put out a plump, capable hand just in time to prevent him from wrapping the remainder of the pie in his handkerchief.

  ‘Nay, lad! There’s no occasion for that. Eat up, do. I’ve these for t’ rest of t’ family.’

  She indicated the contents of one large tray.

  His eyes goggled, but his mouth was too full of pie for speech to be possible. Mary looked inquiringly at the housekeeper.

  ‘It’s Sam Hartley’s eldest lad,’ explained Mrs. Duckworth. ‘Works at a mill over in Huddersfield — he’s just got back from work. I asked him to call in on his way home, for Sam’s that independent, I daren’t put my nose in t’ cottage with any food. T’ lad will find a way to sneak it in, somehow, without his father finding out. But them poor brats are clemmed, leave alone Bess, who’ll be brought to bed wi’ another any day, now. Sam can get nowt, though he’s tramped all over, asking for work. He’s been out a fortnight, now, think on, Miss Mary. Things are bad there — very bad.’

  She shook her head, and began to parcel up the food for the boy. Mary studied him; he was not an attractive child, but she did not notice this. What she did see was the pallor of his face, accentuated by the effect of a pair of large eyes which were dark-ringed with weariness; and the frail body to which too little nourishment was offered in return for too much effort.

  ‘How old is he?’ she asked, unsteadily.

  ‘Eleven, I think,’ replied Mrs. Duckworth, expertly tying her parcel. ‘He don’t earn much, of course, but it’s all they’ve got coming in.’

  ‘But — it’s six miles to Huddersfield,’ said Mary. ‘How does he get there — does he go every day?’

  ‘Shanks’ mare, most often.’ The housekeeper saw that the last crumb was just being swallowed, and filled a mug to the brim with milk. She placed it before the boy, who drank eagerly. ‘Happen he might get taken up, now and then, if t’ waggons are on t’ road.’

  Mary swallowed, and blinked her eyes. ‘He needs boots,’ she said, in a strained voice. ‘I think — keep him here a moment longer, will you?’

  She almost ran from the kitchen to her bedroom. Once there, she leaned against the door for a moment, fighting back the tears. She had thought she knew poverty. There was little to spare in her own home, and her uncle’s scanty living had to be eked out by John’s earnings at a saddler’s. But poverty such as this, when the few shillings earned by a frail, weary child of eleven years old must serve to keep a whole family — this was something outside her personal experience.

  After a moment, she pulled herself together, and went to a drawer in the big chest by the window. Opening a box, she took from it the remainder of the scanty hoard of money she had brought with her when she came to Liversedge. Her salary was due in a few days’ time; she could manage until then.

  She went back into the kitchen. The boy was waiting on a stool by the fire, his pinched cheeks for onc
e aglow with warmth and repletion.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.

  He bobbed his head. ‘Tom, ma’am, please, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, Tom, I want you to do as I say. Take this’ She handed him the money — ‘give some of it to your Mama, and with the rest buy yourself a pair of boots.’ She saw a look of doubt on the child’s face, and pressed home her instruction. ‘You must have boots, Tom, for just now you are the family’s wage-earner. You have that long walk to make every day, while the others may stay at home, you know. They are depending on you, so you must do everything to keep yourself well and strong.’

  He shook his head, and muttered words to the effect that his father would not like it, and would very likely leather him if ever it came to light.

  Mary looked to Mrs. Duckworth for guidance, not caring to direct a child to deceive his own father.

  ‘You do as t’ lady says,’ insisted the housekeeper, firmly. ‘If tha father finds out, tell him as I told thee to do it, and threatened thee what I’d do, else. Sam knows all reight,’ she continued, turning to Mary, ‘that I don’t stand no nonsense from any on ’em, child or man, it makes no odds.’

  She signalled to the boy to get down from the stool, and handed him the parcel.

  ‘But if tha’s got thy head screwed on t’ reight road,’ she adjured, in parting, ‘tha’lt not let him see owt to make him vexed. Off tha goes, now.’

  NINE: ARKWRIGHT MAKES A CONCESSION

  A few days later, Mary was roused from sleep by the housekeeper at an unseasonable hour of the morning.

  Tm sorry, Miss Mary,’ she said, hurriedly, ‘but you'll need to get the breakfast this morning for yourself and Master John. Your uncle’s been summoned to Sam Hartley’s place — t’ new baby’s arrived, and like to die, and they want t’ poor mite baptized before it goes. Bess Hartley’s mortal bad, too, they say, and Sam’s carrying on like one demented, cursing Arkwright and swearing vengeance, and upsetting poor Bess and t’ little ones. They asked for me to go with t’ Reverend, for they know as I stand no nonsense; happen Sam might listen to me, and calm down a bit.’

  Mary sat upright in bed, fully awake at this news. ‘Do you suppose I could do anything — or my cousin?’

  Mrs. Duckworth shook her head. ‘Nay, lass. You’ve to go to your lessons presently; and as for Master John, t’ least said to him, t’ best, I’m thinking. You know what he is, and Sam needs firm handling, not sympathy, just now, by all accounts.’

  She quickly explained what was needed in the kitchen, then hurried from the room.

  Mary rose and dressed, all the while turning over in her mind what she would say to John. Some explanation of the housekeeper’s absence would be necessary, and she was almost tempted to invent an excuse. Knowing her cousin as she did, she was sure that he would take the bulk of the blame for this crisis on his own shoulders. He had felt his failure as leader of the deputation more deeply than he had ever allowed himself to show.

  She cast about in her mind for a likely excuse only to realize that eventually John must be told the truth. To spare his feelings, she was prepared to lie to him now; but when he discovered the truth later, it would not be any less painful, and she would have forfeited his confidence for nothing. She shrank from the unpleasant duty before her, but there seemed no escaping it.

  It proved as unpleasant as she had feared. After a torrent of self-reproach John was for starting out at once to the Hartley’s cottage. By then, he was in such a highly emotional state, that Mary dreaded the outcome if he and Sam should meet. She calmed him by degrees, pointing out that his father and Mrs. Duckworth were already at the cottage, and that it would not help Sam’s wife in her present state to have a crowd of people gathered round her. After a time, he saw the sound sense of this, and agreed to defer his visit until later in the day. It proved impossible, however, to persuade him to eat any breakfast.

  ‘It would choke me, Mary! How can I eat, when I kn-know that S-Sam’s family have lately been l-living on p-pigswill?’

  ‘You don’t mean that?’ she asked, shocked.

  He nodded, unable to answer for a moment.

  ‘But surely the neighbours — ’ began Mary.

  ‘They’re almost as poor — and, anyway, Sam won’t take charity. Folks have had to find ways of smuggling food into the house without his knowledge — but you know that already. He’s almost come to blows with his own brother, Jack, on that score. He never forgets that the croppers are skilled workers — he’s got his pride, poor chap, even if it’s all he has got.’

  Mary was reluctant to leave him in this frame of mind, but it was time for her to be setting out for the Arkwrights’ house. She impressed upon him again the folly of going to Sam’s at the present time, and believed that she had succeeded.

  It was in a sombre mood that she began her daily walk to her work. At any other time, she would have taken pleasure in the first day of sunshine for many weeks, in the burgeoning buds which tipped the branches with green, and the birds’ swift dartings from tree to tree as they built their nests. Now all the stirrings of spring passed her by unnoticed. It was hard to be so helpless to relieve another’s misery: she could think of nothing else.

  She started violently when someone came up to her and wished her good morning. She turned, and saw that it was Mr. Arkwright. Her eyes opened a little wider at sight of him. He was wearing the uniform of a Captain of the Volunteers, a handsome affair with blue facings and gold braid. She had not seen him dressed in this way before; indeed, she had not realized that he was a member of the Volunteer forces. It crossed her mind that her mother would have called him a fine figure of a man. The red military coat set off his broad shoulders to advantage, and gave an attractive devil-may-care look to his usually stern face.

  ‘No need to look so startled, Miss Lister,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘I suppose you’ve seen a Militiaman before now?’

  It was at once evident that he was in one of his lighter moods. Mary tried to recall her wandering thoughts.

  ‘Oh — oh, yes,’ she stammered. ‘But I didn’t know — that is to say — ’

  ‘You didn’t realize I was one of them?’ he supplied, swiftly.

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ve been out on exercises,’ he explained, swinging into stride beside her. ‘It’s a splendid morning for it, too.’

  He raised his head, and sniffed the crisp air appreciatively.

  ‘I suppose so,’ admitted Mary, reluctantly.

  He shot a quick glance at her, sensing that something was wrong. He made no comment, however, changing the subject when next he spoke.

  ‘You told me once you’re from the country — do you ride, ma’am?’

  ‘I can,’ said Mary, brightening a little. ‘But I seldom do nowadays, for lack of a horse.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Young Caro rides very well, and enjoys it. We must see what we can do to get you both out together, though there’s no prospect of finding you a mount from my own stable — if I can honour it with that title. It consists only of Caro’s pony, Carrots, and my own horse — a bit long in the tooth, and never at best what one might call a prime stepper, I’m afraid. Still, a faithful servant, and worth his oats — as indeed, he has to be, for me to keep him. Everything — man, woman, child, and horse — must earn its keep in the Arkwright household.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary, quietly. ‘I know.’

  He checked for an instant, and submitted her to a searching scrutiny.

  ‘What do you know?’ he asked. ‘Forgive me, Miss Lister, but is anything troubling you this morning?’

  Afterwards, she could not tell why she should have given way to such humiliating weakness. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears; as she turned her face towards him, one quivered for a second on her long lashes, then fell on to her cheek.

  He took her arm, and bent his head to look more closely into her face, which she quickly tried to turn away from him.

  ‘What is it, lass?’ Unconsciously,
he used the familiar Yorkshire word, his tone as gentle as she was used to hearing it when he addressed Caroline. ‘Something’s amiss — tell me.’

  She shook her head, unable to speak without breaking down.

  ‘You’ve had bad news from home,’ he suggested, gently clasping her other arm and turning her round so that she was obliged to face him. ‘If there’s anything I can do — ’

  She murmured something inarticulate, of which all he could distinguish was the word ‘No’.

  ‘Not from home?’ She shook her head. ‘Then it’s something to do with your uncle — or that cousin of yours?’

  ‘No — not really — ’

  ‘Not?’ He frowned, momentarily at a loss. Then his face cleared.

  ‘It must be something at the house, then — my household, I mean.’

  He paused, and examined her face again. It was wet with tears; he thought how gentle and helpless she looked, like a frightened, small child, or a fledgling with quivering wings. He felt the stirrings of a protective instinct within himself. She was too young to be facing the world alone — too young, and too attractive. It flashed across his mind that he himself had done nothing to make things any easier for her.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, all at once becoming gruff with embarrassment. ‘If any of this is my fault — ’ he broke off for a moment — ‘Perhaps I’m not quite such a bear as I appear to be,’ he resumed. ‘My growl’s worse than my bite. Only tell me, and we’ll set it right, there’s a good girl.’

  By this time, Mary was beginning to get a grip on her runaway feelings. She groped for a handkerchief, found it, and gently disengaged herself from his light clasp. She dried her eyes, blew her nose prosaically and stowed away the handkerchief. Then she faced him, her brown eyes looking calmly into his, which were so much darker as to be almost black.

  ‘Forgive me, sir — I can’t think why I should have given way to such foolish weakness.’

  ‘But there must have been a reason, for all that,’ he insisted. ‘Won’t you tell me what it is?’