Not for the first time that year, nor by any means for the last, he thought of Nora and of all her qualities—which only his lust had masked that day they met. All those things that Stevenson had discovered at once. What a wife she would have made! If…
"Nora!" he would murmur when he knew he was alone. The pain it brought was numbing and comfortable.
But a week or so of corrosive sublimate racked him with pains of a far less metaphysical order.
Chapter 45
WEDNESDAY, 26TH AUGUST, 1840
It was John who suggested the picnic. On the Wednesday of the second week in August he came home and said: "D'ye know what it is a fortnight today?"
She thought: "Twenty-sixth," she said. "Eay! A year since we first met! One year! Our anniversary."
"We should go on a picnic," he said. "I got the notion this evening. It looks as if we're in for a spell of settled weather. And I thought: a picnic."
Her eyes gleamed at the prospect.
"And we'll ask the Thorntons," he added.
Her face fell. "Nay," she said. "Just thee and me."
But he was determined. It would be kindly—after their kindness at Christmas.
"What about her baby? She'll never agree to come out," Nora said.
"When's it due?"
"End of September."
"You'll find a way of talking her into it," he said confidently.
She said nothing to Arabella for a week, half hoping that John might think better of his plan. Later she realized that she ought to have asked Arabella at once, for she would certainly have turned the idea down. But a week of intolerably hot weather made the notion seem not quite so unthinkable. After two further days of the heat, she was certain it would be just the sort of tonic she needed. "Where shall we go?" she asked.
"Mr. Stevenson won't tell me. He says it's a surprise."
"Somewhere up this way?"
"No. I think its somewhere south of us, but all he says is that we'll see what we shall see."
The moment these arrangements were confirmed, John began to regret his suggestion. At its heart was the sort of shallow-minded trick that even the most loving spouse can serve his, or her, partner; indeed it was the sort of jape for which only a lover may expect forgiveness. Long ago—in fact, on the day Robert Stephenson had set up his new engine at Reddish, and Walter Thornton had inadvertently let slip the actual site of his and Nora's meeting—he had thought it might be amusing, when the anniversary of that day came around, to induce the pair of them to return to that same place and…what? See what happened. He had dismissed the thought at once as unworthy and juvenile.
Yet often over the months that followed, the notion had again crossed his mind; and each time it seemed that much less reprehensible and that much more amusing, until, in the end, familiarity had entirely dulled its sting. But now, when he faced the reality of his scheme, its potential dangers and the hurt it might do to Nora began again to strike him. Only his own obstinate fatalism, a species of arrogance, stopped him cancelling the arrangements at once. And then, as the days drew on, his disquiet was once more lulled and his confidence grew that he could prevent anything from getting seriously out of hand. The one admission he would not make was that he was in any way jealous of Thornton for the favour that Nora had been starved into selling him.
When the softest-sprung car in the livery stables turned up at Pigs Hill at nine o'clock on the morning of Wednesday the twenty-sixth of August, Arabella and Walter climbed aboard—the one gingerly, the other tenderly—with no notion of where they were going once they had called by Rough Stones.
"It's curious," Walter said when they drew away from Pigs Hill, going down toward Gawks Holm, "you never knew John Stevenson before he became a contractor. He was already, so to speak, up there when you met. But I remember him as a navvy ganger. It still seems…beyond belief at times."
He opened the parasol and held it over them to keep off the sun. Arabella, secure in the fastness of her pregnancy, had become much less censorious of the world these last few months. She could afford to say: "I knew, the moment we met up there on Reddish Scout, that he was an extraordinary man."
Walter looked so sharply at her she was forced to add: "Well he is. Last year at this time—a ganger. Now he's sought out by influential men, bankers, Members of Parliament, the squire…they all want to know him. You have to admit—he is extraordinary."
He nodded. "And his wife."
Arabella pouted: "I think he makes just a little too much of her part. He would still be something without her, but she could hardly have made anything of herself without him."
"You do surprise me!" he said, not wishing to argue. "I thought you liked her."
"Oh I do!" Arabella said fervently. "She's the dearest person. But not… special—not…extraordinary. Not like him."
They were passing the place where she had exploded in fury at Stevenson the day they had met the Irish. She smiled. How arrogant she had been then! To think she believed she knew better than John Stevenson about managing men and all the difficulties of an undertaking like Summit.
When they pulled to a halt at the foot of the lane leading to Rough Stones, Bess and Tabitha, already waiting, puffed and blowed as they hoisted the baskets and blankets and cushions and sunshades aboard. John and Nora, on Hermes and Millwood, came circumspectly down the steep lane. Nora was veiled against the sun.
"Late!" Walter joked.
"Aye," John confessed ruefully. "Any hour before six of a morning we can be on time; any hour after and we'll be late. That seems to be the rule."
When Bess and Tabitha, as excited as anyone else, were seated, John took up a station beside Arabella, with Nora on the other side, next to Walter.
"On the way here, we were remembering Calley's Irishmen taking this road," Arabella said. "I was thinking how remote that day seems and how…unimportant…were the emotions that moved us then." She smiled at John as she spoke; and he, hearing her stress the word unimportant, knew that she was finally and explicitly burying that bit of their past. He smiled back, acknowledging it, and then looked around at the road they had just traversed.
"Aye," he said. "It's hard to remember that time—riot, strike meetings, pickets. Hard to picture it, this glorious weather."
Walter, noticing the smile that passed from one to the other, wondered for the first time whether anything had happened between Arabella and Stevenson that day. He even began to count back nine months from September before he stopped himself in shame.
Nora, too, noticed the smile and wondered what lay behind it, though in a far more idle vein than Walter.
And all the way, because it was an anniversary and a time for remembering, they played the game of "Look—there's where we…" At the toll bar, they paused to pay their due.
The other side of the bar stood a ragged pauper family. Like deaths-heads on mopsticks. The father, in his early twenties, held a bony little girl of four on one hip. A lot of her hair had fallen out. Behind him stood a boy of about five, his emaciation showing clearly through his tattered clothing. The mother, still hobbling up toward the group, laboured for breath. In her arms she held an unweened baby, who would sleep a few seconds, then awaken to emit a feeble, voiceless cry, and then fall back asleep for a few seconds more. The mother glistened with sweat. All were barefoot except the man, whose left foot was strapped into a curious roll of leather that gave it the overall shape of a pony's hoof.
John spurred ahead as soon as the bar was drawn and reigned in before the pathetic little group.
"Seekin' work?" he asked the man.
"Aye, sir." He was almost desperate in his eagerness. "They just turned us off at Rochdale work'us."
"Which one?" John didn't want the man to think he wouldn't check.
"Spotland, sir."
"Ah." John waited.
The man swallowed, looked rapidly at each of them, licked his parched lips, and said: "If ye've work goin', sir, I'll do it, sir. I'm yer man. I'll do anythin'. C
hilder ave not etten two days since, an' yon bairn's very badly. Please, sir!"
John nodded at his foot. "What's wrong wi' yer foot?"
"Nothin', sir!" The man tried to laugh but was seized by a fit of coughing.
John turned Hermes to the turnpike again and touched him gently with the spur. "On we go," he said.
In desperation the young man hobbled after him. "Sir!" he called.
John reined in again and half turned. "Well?"
"It is nothin', sir. A 'orse trod on it when I were a lad. I s'll never run at Newmnarket if that's what ye 'ad in mind for us. But if it's eavy work, I'm yer man, sir."
John looked him up and down impatiently. "Tha'llt need buildin' up," he said. "Tha'rt nowt but bone an' gursley."
The man nodded his agreement. "But I've 'eart enough for it, sir. I've gotten't spirit." He waited anxiously. "Was it navvyin', sir?"
"Aye."
"I've navigated afore, sir."
No one believed him. It was a desperate lie.
"Where?" John asked.
"Er…" He looked nervously around, not knowing what further lie to risk.
"Manchester?" John prompted.
"Aye! Manchester."
John dismounted quickly and walked to stand immediately in front of the man. "Listen," he said. "I s'll take a chance on thee, lad. Tha seems likely. Follow this turnpike just round yon bend. Tha'llt see three wooden shanties. Offices, they are. In't middle office there's a Mr. Fernley. Fernley—reet?"
"Aye." The man was all eagerness now.
"Tell Mr. Fernley tha'st met wi' John Stevenson. 'E's to put thee on at beginners' rate. That's seven shillin an' sixpence a week."
The other was delighted. "Dollar an'alf!" he cried out.
"Aye. But three o' that'll go to feed jus' thee—so it's no king's ransom. Even though it's twice what tha'rt worth." He stressed the fact carefully. "Say to Mr. Fernley that 'e's to let thee 'ave a pair o' boots…" He looked at the man's foot. "Well—one boot, anygate. And a steel navvy shovel. Tha'llt buy them from a stoppage out o' thy wage at a tanner a week. Ten weeks. Five bob. Reet?"
"Aye, sir. I…I'm that much obliged…"
"Nay, lad," John interrupted. "Not 'obliged' see tha. T'word is obligated. Obligated. Tha'rt obligated to me. It'll be six month afore tha'rt truly worth thy wage. Six month while tha build thissen up at my expense. Come New Year 1841, tha'llt be navvy enough to leave me an' walk on any site in't land. That's when I s'll look to thee to repay this obligation. I'll carry thee six month an' I s'll look to thee to give us six month o' thissen when tha'rt fitten for it."
"Aye, sir! I will. I will. Never fear!" The honesty that had made his earlier lie so transparent now underlined his sincerity.
"That's no legal agreement, mind. It's twixt thee an' me. Man to man. Thy name?"
"Noah Rutt, sir."
John held out his hand. Noah took it. "Noah Rutt to John Stevenson. Man to man." He stood, arms akimbo, and turned to the wife. "Is 'e a drinkin man, missis?"
But the woman could only wheeze and croak.
"She's gotten no voice," Noah explained. "We 'ad nowt to drink yestereen but watter from't canal. She an't bairn a both tooken a fever from it. But I'll tell thee I'm no great drinkin' man, sir."
John looked hard at him and then at his watch. "If tha works while dusk," he said at length, "tha may ave two bob by way o' sub. That's for meat an' shelter. No spirits."
"Aye, sir!" Noah was beside himself with relief. "I'm that much obliged, I canna…"
"Tha may spare us that," John said brusquely. "I've told thee 'ow tha may discharge this obligation. That's the thankin' I want." Suddenly he reached out and grasped Noah's two shoulders. "Stand tall now," he said. "Put steel in thy back! Tha'rt one o' Stevenson's lads from now. Be proud!" He turned and strode back to Hermes; Noah and his ragged little family stood and stared after him. When he was mounted again he looked at them in surprise. "Well?" he said. "Let's get agate then!"
He watched them hobble and shuffle away in the dust before he said, quietly, "There goes one month's charity. But I fancy we'll not lose by it."
They all took up their former positions and resumed their leisurely way south.
"That young fellow has never navvied in his life," Walter said. He was puzzled that John had seemed to believe the lie.
John laughed. "Aye—he's in for a shock, what!"
Arabella shuddered. "I remember those two you showed me last summer. Poor kiddy!"
"But he lied to you," Walter said.
John, still grinning, nodded. "And he believes I was deceived by it."
"Yet when he lied about his broken foot, you were ready to leave him. I don't understand."
Now it was John who looked puzzled. "If I'd pretended to believe that, he'd've taken me for a fool. But by pretending to believe he's navvied before, I've given him double reason to drive himself hard. The two cases are worlds apart."
"That is a very flexible morality," Arabella said.
"If I catch him working only half strength, all I need say is 'are you sure you've navvied before?' and he'll double his efforts."
"Nevertheless," Walter said, "it is more or less condoning a lie." He pressed his gums gingerly and sucked air over them, between his teeth.
"Not toothache I hope, Mr. Thornton," Nora said.
"No. Not toothache thank you, Mrs. Stevenson. Gums are a bit tender."
John took another glance over his shoulder at the Rutts. Nora watching him, said: "Lady Henshaw would say they brought it all on themselves."
"It's a funny time to be taking on rubbish like that. When you're laying off forty or fifty a week," Walter said.
John nodded his head ruefully. "Aye," he agreed. "There'll be a bit of trouble explaining that. But what else could I do? Just leave them? I couldn't do it."
"Nora?" Arabella said. "Why did you say that about Lady Henshaw?"
"Oh…she sees everything like that. If a man's lucky, it's because he's also virtuous. If he falls on hard times, it's because of some moral error in his past."
"But that's true!" Arabella cried. "We may be certain that if we went back in the history of that wretched family back there, we'd find acts of intemperance, prodigality, and vice quite sufficient to explain their present condition."
Nora looked briefly at her with a kindly pity in her eyes; how would one begin to explain? "We could also find many happy and prosperous families with exactly that same history," she said.
"Then their happiness and prosperity is only momentary," Arabella assured her. "In the end, their vices and follies will be paid for."
"That's certainly true," Walter agreed—so glumly that everyone turned to him. He looked around, startled. "You only have to see the reverse," he said, quickly recovering. "Those who study temperance and thrift and industry— they prosper. And we need look no further than a yard or so to see the living proof of it!"
"Thornton's right," John said then.
"The Reverend Malthus has shown quite conclusively," Walter continued, warming now to the theme, "how misguided charity can do nothing but encourage, indeed even create, poverty. I don't mean your sort of charity, Stevenson, the sort of thing you did back there at the tollbar. I think of that as something like priming a pump. You have to expend a little water to fill the cylinder before you can extract a lot."
"I call it investment," John said. "Plain and simple."
"Quite," Walter agreed. "Just so. No—I was referring to mere almsgiving. For instance, if there had been no man there—no breadwinner—just the woman and the children, it would have been wrong…well—perhaps not wrong, but… socially pernicious…yes! Socially pernicious, to do anything to help them."
Arabella smoothed her creamy summer dress around her. "All our leading spiritual thinkers and most philosophical minds are agreed on that. One must steel one's heart, as my father so often says."
Nora, tiring of this turn in the conversation, tried a little gentle fun. Solemnly she said: "We must 'walk b
y on the other side' as the Bible tells us to."
"Oh no!" Arabella cried out without thinking. "That was…" And then she thought. "That was a different point altogether," she said quietly. Nora enjoyed her confusion, and she, looking up and catching Nora's smile, called out "Oh, Nora! You tease!" Nevertheless, the thoughtful look did not entirely vanish.
They drove and rode in silence then, enjoying the slow crunch of the wheels, the sight of the warm sunshine, the birdsong.
The World From Rough Stones Page 72