Lucius felt disappointed. “Though after all, it’s better than I feared,” he thought. He would have preferred a hearty row to this half-and-half acceptance.
Mr. Hardaker felt partly vexed with himself for not having made a larger concession, and partly pleased that, as he thought, he had resisted his affection for his grandson, on behalf of J. L. Hardaker and Co.
“Trade’s not been so good lately,” he said in excuse.
“Liar!” thought Lucius. “He’d have given me more if Carol had been richer.”
His generous longing to pour out every possible luxury upon his love, to protect her from every possible want, was thwarted. He felt sore at heart, and angered by his grandfather’s hypocrisy.
* * *
Elizabeth was immensely thankful that the wedding ceremony had passed over safely, without any scene—hysterics, a faint, or even sentimental quiet sobbing—from her mother. During the weeks which preceded the marriage, it was Elizabeth—naturally; such things always fell upon the daughter—who had taken the brunt of her mother’s displeasure, because she spent more time with her than anyone else.
At first Mrs. Hardaker had wept like a thwarted child deprived of a toy. “But I don’t know her,” she complained to Lucius. “You can’t marry a girl I don’t know.”
“Now, mother,” said Lucius kindly, “it’s no use making a fuss. Carol’s a grand girl, she’s coming to tea on Sunday and we’re getting married in the first week in June. What are you going to wear?”
Lucius certainly knew how to manage his mother, reflected Elizabeth, smiling to herself as Mrs. Hardaker chattered on.
“As though it mattered what I should wear at a wedding like that! They won’t even have morning coats!”
“They can hire them,” said Lucius with a laugh.
“Such things don’t matter nowadays, mother,” said Elizabeth soothingly.
This drew Mrs. Hardaker’s fire on her daughter.
“That’s all you think. Of course they matter. Think of the photographs. I blame you for this whole affair, Elizabeth. Your silly ideas—they’ve spread to Lucius. I’m sure he’d never have thought of such a thing for himself. What would your father have said? I can’t possibly decide what I shall wear until I know what colour this girl will choose for the bridesmaids. Perhaps she won’t have any bridesmaids! Perhaps it won’t even be a white wedding!”
Mrs. Hardaker’s pretty eyes opened wide at the very idea of such an enormity.
“Oh, I think it will, mother,” soothed Elizabeth. “Everyone has white weddings now.”
“A June wedding,” said Mrs. Hardaker thoughtfully. “Of course that’s always nice.”
By the morrow she was sufficiently reconciled to the marriage to discuss with overflowing interest the questions of her wedding outfit and Lucius’ new house. But Carol’s visit on Sunday changed her tone. Carol, glowing with life in a very tight yellow dress which revealed all the curves of her blossoming young figure, was not prepared to be patronised—why should she? thought Elizabeth—and gave sharp answers to Mrs. Hardaker’s glib platitudes and Elizabeth’s more sincere speeches of welcome. Thus the bride and her future mother-in-law differed about the time and place of the wedding, the place and kind of the wedding reception, the number of bridesmaids and the type of house to be searched for. Gradually the condescending forbearance with which Mrs. Hardaker had begun the interview died away, a disconcerted, perplexed, defeated look spread sadly over her pretty, spoiled-child face; she actually sat silent—a very unusual event with her—glancing from Carol to Elizabeth as if they were speaking in a foreign language. When Elizabeth accompanied Carol to the door on her departure, Carol having arranged her curls in front of the mirror turned with an ironic smile to Elizabeth and said in a defiant tone:
“Tough. For you, I mean. I don’t care.”
“Oh, it will pass. Mother will come round. She can’t help it. She’s very fond of Lucius—mother and son, you know.”
“It’s not all that easy for me at home either,” said Carol with a grimace. “My grandfather thinks I’m a traitor, marrying into the boss class.”
“But surely all that class nonsense is out of date,” said Elizabeth impatiently.
“Not so as you’d notice—not in Deacon Street, anyway,” said Carol. “Well—goodbye.”
“I’m on your side,” said Elizabeth quickly. “I’ll give you all the help I can.”
“Thanks, but we shan’t need it,” said Carol.
Lucius now brought his car up and drove Carol away.
That night as Elizabeth went up to bed she heard a sound of weeping coming from her mother’s room. She knocked and entered. Mrs. Hardaker lay in the dark, sobbing. Elizabeth put on the light. She was used to tears from her mother, but these were tears of a different kind, anguished, heartfelt; the pretty face was tearstained, distorted.
“Why, mother!” exclaimed Elizabeth, shocked.
She went to the bedside and took her mother in her arms.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“I can’t bear Lucius to marry that awful girl. She’ll take him away from us, Elizabeth, you know she will. I can’t bear to lose Lucius; since your father died he’s all I have.”
Elizabeth winced at this rejection of herself and her own faithful service—she had known already that she held no place in her mother’s heart, but to hear it announced so forthrightly was nevertheless painful.
“You must stop it, Elizabeth. You must break it off.”
“Mother, they love each other.”
“How do you know,” said her mother angrily. “You know nothing about it. You must persuade your grandfather to break it off.”
“I shall not attempt that, mother.”
“You’re so obstinate, Elizabeth, so pig-headed. You get it from your father. It’s very ungraceful in a woman. Give me my smelling-salts.”
Elizabeth brought the smelling-salts and the eau-de-cologne and a glass of water, bathed her mother’s eyes and forehead, kissed her very tenderly—such hopeless irrationality as her mother showed made her very vulnerable to life’s ills, in need of all possible protection, she thought—was recalled to hand reading-glasses and library book.
“There’s one comfort,” said her mother, settling herself against her pillows—“I’ll have the bedside lamp, Elizabeth, put the other lights out by the door—the marriage won’t last long.”
“Lucius can be obstinate too, mother.”
Her mother snorted. “They’ll quarrel,” she said with satisfaction. “Lucius will never be able to stand it. That yellow dress! I don’t think she had a stitch on, underneath.”
“Carol is pretty and spirited.”
“Nonsense. Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. Pretty! A girl like that! Nonsense. You have no sense at all.”
“Good night, mother,” said Elizabeth, with a great effort managing to keep her voice friendly and calm.
“Goodnight,” said Mrs. Hardaker crossly, opening her book—the reminiscences of some titled woman or other, thought Elizabeth in a rage.
This scene had been repeated at intervals with only slight variations during the uncomfortable weeks which preceded the wedding. In the daytime Mrs. Hardaker bent her energies on equipping the handsome new bungalow up the hill which was old Mr. Hardaker’s wedding present to his grandson, in extracting every possible further gift from him on Lucius’ behalf, and in planning her wedding outfit; but at night her sorrow overcame her. The clash between the genuineness of her mother’s grief which demanded her sympathy, and its ignoble selfishness and snobbery which she despised with her whole heart, kept Elizabeth in a turmoil of increasing exasperation; she began to be afraid that if her mother made some outcry at the ceremony, she herself would be unable to control her own contempt.
But as it turned out Mrs. Hardaker had appeared to enjoy the wedding. Looking extremely pretty in a charming lavender outfit, with a flowery hat perched on her still fair and very elegantly waved hair, she sailed up the chapel—the
Oates family, it seemed, were very religious, strong chapel-goers—with a sweet childish smile, holding her bouquet (sweet peas, quite lovely) at just the right angle. From the porch where the bridesmaids were awaiting the bride Elizabeth frequently glanced at her mother; apart from fidgeting with her copy of the wedding service and whispering in old Mr. Hardaker’s ear till his shoulders stiffened with irritation, she behaved with complete decorum. As the wedding procession came up the aisle she turned round excitedly, gave a hard unfriendly look at Carol, an alarmed assessing look at Carol’s grandfather—a great big rather good-looking lumbering man, white-haired, spectacled, angry disapproval glaring out of his shrewd obstinate face—a contemptuous look at the other five bridesmaids, and a look of irritation at her daughter, who of course appeared quite hideous in the rather too bright pink, too elaborately cut dresses which Carol had chosen.
Relieved of anxiety about her mother, Elizabeth was able to give attention to the wedding of Lucius, of whom, though she thought him not very clever and not very industrious, she was in fact exceedingly fond. She put out of her heart all previous uneasiness and accepted Carol loyally as her brother’s wife, and kissed her very warmly in the vestry after the signing of the register.
Now they were in the reception room at the hotel; speeches had been made and healths drunk. Lucius’ speech was not very good but he looked so beamingly happy that everyone forgave him; the best man, rather afraid of Carol, overawed by the occasion, had not (fortunately) tried to be funny; old Mr. Hardaker had uttered a few craggy words and old Mr. Oates also had uttered a few craggy words; everyone agreed that the speech of the afternoon was made by Carol’s brother, Edward Oates, he put everyone in a good humour by a few really funny stories and well-turned phrases. Carol and Lucius had now gone to change; Mrs. Hardaker was talking to Grandfather Oates, who looked a trifle bewildered by the torrent of speech but not too cross; old Mr. Hardaker was being led round the very numerous members of the Oates clan by Carol’s Aunt Connie, with whom he appeared sardonically amused. Elizabeth found herself alone. She often found herself alone on social occasions. She was used to it, one might say, used to the idea that she was not sexually attractive, never destined to be the centre of an admiring group; she had schooled herself to accept this destiny with dignity and calm. All the same, it was painful.
“May I fetch you some tea, Miss Hardaker? I believe they are serving tea now.”
Elizabeth turned; the speaker was Edward Oates. She did not in the least require tea, but her mother’s opposition to the Oates family had thrown her so strongly on their side that she could not refuse.
“That would be very kind of you.”
He returned with two cups and seated himself beside her.
“As we are related now, I think you should address me less formally,” said Elizabeth with a smile.
“I should enjoy that. As we had met only once before today, I felt a certain diffidence—Elizabeth,” said Edward, also smiling.
There was a pause. Elizabeth wondered, as she had often wondered before, what one said to a man on these occasions.
“It suits you,” said Edward in a musing tone. Elizabeth, uncertain of his meaning, started. “The name, I mean. It has much dignity.”
“My brother calls me Liz,” said Elizabeth, laughing.
Edward made a moue. “Brothers have many privileges.”
“Are you and Carol very close?”
“No, not very,” said Edward in his thoughtful, considering tone. “But I have a great respect for Carol. She’s thoroughly loyal and honest. Sincere, you know.”
“That has been my impression,” said Elizabeth earnestly. “I think Lucius and Carol have every chance of being very happy.”
“Yes, indeed. You’re going to think me very rude, I’m afraid, Elizabeth,” said Edward, “but I simply must tell you that I don’t think that dress suits you.”
Elizabeth coloured painfully.
“But that of course isn’t your fault,” said Edward, “since Carol chose the style and colour. I am a designer, you know,” he continued, naming the great firm for which he worked, “so I am susceptible in these matters. This bright colour is quite suitable for the other bridesmaids.” He paused, but receiving no assent from Elizabeth, who thought the colour too ugly to be suitable for any girl, skilfully modified his statement. “Or at least they probably think so. But for you, one would prescribe something paler and simpler. A classic line. Please do forgive me.”
“No forgiveness is required,” said Elizabeth, “since my opinion agrees with your own.”
She tried to speak lightly, but in reality she was profoundly moved. It was the first time in her twenty-two years, yes, literally the first time, that any man had commented at all on her appearance. Edward’s approach was exactly the one she would have chosen; impartial, sincere (she thought), subtle, offering a compliment only by implication.
“I wish you would tell me something about your work—about modern textile design,” she corrected herself, fearing to be too personal. “Lucius may have told you I am keenly interested in textile history. I have done one or two papers for the Hudley Antiquarians.”
“Really! But this is delightful,” said Edward, drawing the chair closer to their table. He had a genuine gift for his craft and now talked about it in an interesting manner, with vivid and authentic details, for several minutes, concluding: “Is one obliged to write papers in order to join the Antiquarians? Or would a keen interest suffice?”
“A keen interest would suffice,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “If you would care to attend a meeting or an excursion, I should be happy to introduce you as my guest.”
“That would indeed be kind of you,” said Edward gravely. He wondered whether to ask for further details now, or whether to do so would be pressing the matter too urgently. Should he leave it, and allow her interest to mount by unfulfilment? Yes, he thought so. At this moment Lucius and Carol returned to the room; everyone rose and the ceremonies of farewell began. Edward glancing swiftly at Elizabeth saw that his instinct had been sound and the interruption useful, for she looked slightly disappointed. He rejoiced. The bait was taken.
* * *
Edward drew his piece glass from his waistcoat pocket, opened it and examined the cloth, which lay displayed in the traditional manner on the long, highly polished Ramsgill Mills warehouse table.
“Full of colour,” he remarked with genuine admiration. “You’ve got a lucky one here, Mr. Hardaker.”
“More than luck went to make that design, Mr. Oates,” said the head Ramsgill designer, slightly huffed.
Edward paused, a fraction of time longer perhaps than was natural—and indeed his pause was entirely artificial, calculated.
“I only meant that it would bring luck to your sales department,” he said then, pleasantly laughing.
The remark nipped the designer’s nascent hostility in the bud, while Lucius and Mr. Hardaker received from the pause the message Edward intended: that the white-haired designer was growing old, that his designs recently had not been invariably winners, and that Ramsgill Mills had no separate sales organisation in any case. As the three men went down the stone steps into the courtyard, Mr. Hardaker observed with a casual air:
“How do you like at your place, then, Edward?”
“Well, the firm of course is excellent, as you well know, Mr. Hardaker,” returned Edward. (His heart beat fast, for this was a crucial moment which must not be bungled, but he kept his voice cool yet sunny.) “And my present job is very good too. But I don’t see much future scope—not much chance of promotion.”
“No?” said Mr. Hardaker. “Too many nephews around ready to become directors, eh?”
“Yes. And too many good men over me in the department,” said Edward with a grin. “Besides, designers are thought of as being purely technical experts, you know.”
“And you want to be managerial, eh?”
“I do,” said Edward, looking at the old man squarely.
Mr. Hardaker said nothing. But Edward was not dissatisfied.
Beside Lucius’ scarlet M.G. in the courtyard there now drew up a car of pale silvery hue.
“It must be Elizabeth’s,” thought Edward at once.
The quickness of his reactions was very useful, he thought: it gave him just that little extra moment in which to decide his course, before the other fellow reached the point. This encounter might be disastrous; too early. But as it had occurred, he was saddled with it and must turn it to advantage.
“May as well find out the extent of the opposition now,” he decided, and as Elizabeth in a pale clear linen dress dismounted from the car and came towards them, he exclaimed: “Elizabeth!” in a tone of pleasure, and went forward to meet her, briskly. Elizabeth coloured as he approached, and he guessed that she had heard of Lucius’s invitation to him (carefully angled for) to see the Ramsgill Mills and accompany Lucius home for an evening meal, and had come to the mill on an invented errand in the hope of meeting Edward. His guess was confirmed as Elizabeth gave Lucius a message from their mother, which might just as well have been telephoned. But the next moment he was confounded, for she turned to him and said frankly:
“I thought I might meet you here, Edward. I thought I might take the opportunity to tell you: there is an Antiquarian excursion on Saturday, if you would care to go. Probably you are already engaged,” she added hastily, subsiding into diffidence.
“Oh, I’ve already applied for a ticket—I’ve joined the group,” said Edward airily. “After what you told me of its work—I was interested.” His admiration for her honest frankness was so genuine that his next remarks had the ring of truth. “If you would—guide me a little on Saturday—I don’t know the ropes—one doesn’t want to vex people or make a fool of oneself—I should be extremely grateful—but don’t let me be a nuisance to you in any way, of course.”
“I shall be most happy to do so,” said Elizabeth with unconcealed pleasure. “They’re very friendly people.” She went on to speak of the route to be taken, the houses to be seen, tea arrangements, transport.
Tales of the West Riding Page 12