Читать книгу Storm in a Teacup - Eden Phillpotts - Страница 10

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In the engine house a small, hump-backed man sat picking over the masses of wet rag brought to him by Henry Barefoot from the boilers. For, despite the sorters and the magnet, enemies to paper still lurked in the sodden rag, and the little man ran the sloppy stuff through his fingers, extracting from time to time fragments of rubber, whalebone, pearl, and other substances.

The engine house was a lofty chamber on two floors, with windows that faced the west. Here, Ned Dingle reigned, and half a dozen men worked under him. Much happened to the rag before it came to Ned, for after its final picking, it was washed again, and broken before the beater turned it into pulp. When the little hump-backed man had passed it, the rag was set revolving with water in oval, lead-lined breakers. On one side the washer, like a steamer’s paddle-wheel, churned in a bladed barrel, so that the rag was not only cleaned again, but also torn to the smallest fragments; on the other side a drum of brass wire sucked away the dirty water, while from the upper end clean water was perpetually spurting in. Round and round the rag revolved for three hours, by which time its character had changed entirely. It was, in fact, rag no more, but a substance like curds: “half stuff,” or rag transformed and half-way to its final stages.

From the breakers the pulpy mass left the engine house for a time, and sojourned in the bleaching tanks beneath. It flowed down through pipes to a subterranean chamber, where the air was sharp with the smell of chemicals, and twelve great, gaping wells ranged round a narrow passage way. Here came the “half stuff” to repose on beds of Delabole slate, and endure the operations of the bleach for half a day or more. Then the liquid was drained off, the snow-white, solid masses forked out on to little trolleys, and so returned to Ned Dingle in the engine house. Again it revolved until the bleach was thoroughly washed out of it, for it is a principle of great paper making that the less chemicals, the better the pulp; and now perfected, washed, broken and bleached, the material came to the beater for final dissection.

The beaters’ engines were oval in form and resembled the breakers. They stood upon the lower floor of the engine house, and each communicated directly with the breaker above it, and the vat room far beneath. From final washing, the pulp flowed directly to Mr. Dingle, and, as before, revolved, and was churned by a paddle-wheel set with fine knives. Ned controlled it, and on his judgment depended the quality of the pulp that would presently flow down to Kellock, Knox, and the other vatmen.

He was explaining the process to a young man, who had just been promoted to his assistant from the breakers above.

“It’s got to meet every test that experience can bring against it, Jacob,” he said. “And if it did not, I should mighty soon hear of it.”

He regulated the churning wheel with a footplate, and presently, satisfied that the mass, which was now like fine cream after revolving in the beating tank for many hours, had reached perfection, Ned took a test to satisfy himself.

Two hand-bowls, or dippers, he lifted, scooped up a few ounces of the pulp, then mixed it with pure water, and flung the liquid backwards from one dipper to the other, pouring off and adding fresh water until what was left in his bowl resembled water barely stained with soap. The pulp was now so diluted that it needed sharp eyes to see anything in the water at all; but Dingle, taking it to the window, set it slowly dribbling away over the edge of the bowl, and as it flowed, the liquid revealed tiny fragments and filaments all separate, and as fine as spider’s thread. The spectacle of these attenuated fibres of cotton told the beaterman that his engine was ready and the pulp sufficiently fine. The masses of rag, once linen and lace, and every sort of textile fabric woven of cotton, had become reduced to its limit of tenuity, and was now far finer stuff than in the cotton pod of its creation. It had been beaten into countless millions of fibrils, long and short, and all so fine as to need sharpest scrutiny of human eye to distinguish them.

Jacob—a future beaterman—followed Ned’s operations closely; then he made a test himself and watched the cotton gossamer flow over the edge of his bowl.

“And next week,” declared Ned, “something finer still has got to be made—so fine that I shall have to borrow a pair of spectacles to see it—good as my eyes are. And that’s the pulp for the Exhibition moulds. It’s to be a record—such paper as never before was made in the world. But this is just ordinary, first class rag pulp—stuff that will last till doomsday if properly handled. Now it’s going down to Knox’s vat.”

He sent a boy to the vat room to warn Philander that a re-inforcement was about to descend. Then he sought a square shaft in the corner of the engine house, took off the lid and revealed an empty, lead-lined box, having six holes at the bottom. Each was securely stopped and all communicated with the great chests that held the pulp for the paper makers below.

He opened one hole, drew a valve from the beating engine and allowed it slowly to empty into the box. The white mass sank away out of it; there was a gurgle and a splash of air from the valve as the engine emptied; while with a wooden rake Ned scraped the last of the pulp to the aperture, whence it ran to the box above the chests in the vat room.

“No. 4 chest is being filled, so it’s No. 4 hole I’ve opened in the box,” he explained. “Now it’s all run down very quick you see, and my beater is empty.”

Then the breaker above disgorged another load of “half stuff” into the beater, and after he had used a beating roll, he set the paddle-wheel going again and the new consignment revolved on its way.

Ned took a keen interest in his work and though he might be casual and easy-going in all other affairs of life, it was clear that he could be serious enough over the operations of the beater. He was very thorough and never left anything to chance. Opportunity for initiative did not enter into his labours; but the hard and fast lines of perfection he followed with keen application, and it was his fair boast that he had never sent bad pulp to the vatmen. Though a mechanical calling, Ned did not approach it in a mechanical spirit. It was his particular gift and privilege to feel a measure of enthusiasm in the craft, and he prided himself upon his skill.

Novelty now awaited him, for the pulp presently to be made would differ in quality from the familiar material. The beating it to an impalpable fineness would be his work. The pulp was also to be dyed with new tinctures, not used until now.

For not only snowwhite material descended to the vat room. The dyeing was a part of Mr. Dingle’s operation in many cases, and the various colours of foreign currency papers went into the stuff during its sojourn in the beaters.

Dingle, satisfied with his pupil, put on his coat when the dinner bell rang, the steam pulses of the works subsided and the power stopped. He took his basket and descended a long flight of steps to the vat room, where Kellock, Life and the other paper makers had just knocked off work. Others joined them, for the vast and airy vat room was a favourite place for dinner; but Medora did not come. For several weeks now she had ceased to meet Ned at the hour of the mid-day meal. The fact was, of course, noted and debated behind Dingle’s back; but none spoke of it in front of him.

The change in Medora at this stage of her existence was obvious enough to all; while that which marked her husband did not appear so clearly. The reason had been easy to see, though few knew enough about them to see it. Medora, while really disingenuous, revealed her tribulation, because she desired everybody to perceive it; while Ned, naturally an open and simple creature, endeavoured with the instinct of a decent male to hide his worries from the public eye. He failed, however, because he was not built to play a part, while Medora succeeded to perfection. Thus she created an impression of secret woes that did not really exist, while Ned attempted to conceal anxieties which were real enough. His temper suffered under a strain that he was not created to endure, for his wife’s attitude, having first puzzled him, began to anger him. He lost his temper with her on certain occasions and her sublime patience under his rough tongue by no means turned his wrath from her. For nothing is more maddening, if you are the smiter, than to have the other cheek turned to you by a sufferer, who displays obvious gusto at your chastisement. Ned soon saw that Medora liked him to be violent and brutal. It was meat and drink to her to see him in a rage. He guessed, and not wrongly, that if he had beaten her, she must have relished the pain—not for itself, but for the exquisite pleasure of relating her sufferings to other people afterwards.

She was changed, as any woman is who for pleasure or profit plays a part. Indeed many persist in such histrionics when profit has long ceased, for simple artistic delight at the impersonation. It is natural to prefer a rôle which we can perform to perfection, before others wherein we are not so effective.

The suffering and wronged and ill-treated heroine proved an impersonation that suited Medora’s temperament exactly, and having once assumed it, she promised to persist in it beyond the limits of her husband’s patience. She would doubtless tire sooner or later, since it is the instinct of every actor to desire new parts and new successes; but she was not going to tire of it while she made such a hit, won so much attention and created such a dramatic and exciting atmosphere about her. In fact Medora now felt herself to be the centre of her own little stage, and the experience so much delighted her that it was difficult sometimes to retain the air of crushed, Christian resignation proper to the character.

But the situation she had created out of nothing real, now developed and began to take unto itself dangerous elements of reality. Such theatricals do not stand still, and instead of subsiding, as Lydia hoped it would, Mrs. Dingle’s objections and grievances, woven of gossamer at first, began to grow tougher. She guessed that she would catch more than herself in these elaborate reticulations, and she persisted until she found another was becoming entangled also.

At first, to do her justice, Medora hesitated here. But she could not pour her woes into Kellock’s ears without a reaction from him, and his attitude towards her confession naturally influenced her. For, while some of her elders suspected, according to the measure of their wits, that Medora was acting, one man saw no shadow of deception. Every word rang true on his ear, for circumstances combined hopelessly to hoodwink him. His own serious nature, from which any powers of illusion or sleight were excluded, read nothing but the face value into Medora’s woeful countenance and the word value into her hopeless speeches. Not for him to answer mock heroics with banter, or reply to burlesque with irony. Had he been made of different stuff, he might have saved Medora from herself at this season; but being himself, the admirable man was terribly perturbed and indeed found himself beset with sore questions and problems from which both his character and personal attitude to the girl precluded escape. For he loved her, and the fact that she was an unhappy woman did not lessen his love; while, beyond that, his altruistic instincts must have brought him into a delicate complication in any case when once invited to participate. And now he did enter, with motives that could not honestly be considered mixed, for he was thus far influenced only by a conviction that it might be possible to help both sufferers to a better understanding. He knew that he enjoyed a far larger measure of intellect than Ned, and he felt that to shirk an effort for Medora’s sake would be cowardly. He had indeed convinced himself that it was his duty to act.

He proceeded to tackle Ned, but he approached the task without the attitude of mind vital to success. For success in such a ticklish matter demanded in Kellock a standpoint of absolute impartiality. He must, if he were to do any good whatever, come to Dingle with a mind as open and unprejudiced as possible; whereas, though he knew it not, Jordan’s mind by no means stood in that relation to the pair. Had it done so, he had probably not interfered; for in truth it could not be altruism alone that prompted him to the step he was now about to take, but a very active and sincere sympathy for Medora in her alleged griefs. He believed her with all his heart and he had a great deal more concern for Mrs. Dingle’s point of view, which he accepted, than for her husband’s, which he had neither heard nor considered.

The men had eaten their dinner, and Ned, out of a cheerful demeanour, which he brought from his work, presently sank into taciturnity. From no will to do so, but powerlessness to prevent it, he showed those about him that his thoughts were not pleasant. Indeed the most casual had noticed that he was of late only himself in the engine house, and that nothing but work sufficed to take him out of himself. Away from it, he brooded and did not chatter and jest as of old.

To-day he was more than usually abstracted and Kellock seized the opportunity. Ned’s meal was finished in ten minutes and when he began to stuff his pipe, the other asked him to come for a stroll up the valley.

“Let’s go up to the ponds and see if there are any birds about, Ned,” he said.

A little surprised, since the bird that interested Kellock was unknown, Ned nevertheless agreed to take a walk.

“Certainly,” he answered. “Me and Trood flushed a woodcock there yesterday, and I dare say on Saturday Trood will bring him down. He’s a mark on a woodcock—never misses ’em.”

They strolled together up the valley where it fell gently to the Mill.

A quarter of a mile above the works the coomb narrowed to a bottle-neck, through which a water-fall came down. The road wound through this gap and on one side of it rose old, blue limestone quarries, their jagged scarps and ridges fledged with gorse and oak scrub; while on the other side of the water a limestone bluff ascended, weathered to fine colour, and above it towered Scotch firs and ivy-clad beeches that followed the foot of the hill and flung their arms around a little mere, lying in the hollow of the undulating land.

In spring this cup shone emerald green; but now the place was grey and silver. Alders and sallows towered black against the bright water; sedges and reed mace had huddled into tangle of russet and amber. They brightened where the sun touched them and burned over the placid lake, while the highest colour note was a spindle tree, whereon hung its harvest of pink and orange fruit, though all the leaves were fled. The flame of it cast a brilliant reflection into the face of the mirror below; and as Ned and Jordan approached by a winding way, that skirted the mere, coot and moorhen scuttled off leaving double trains behind them, widening out upon the waters.

Here it was that Kellock broached the great matter at his heart; and because it was at his heart, whereas he imagined it solely in his head, he found within the space of two minutes that he had made a very grievous mistake.

Beside the lake spoke Jordan, while Ned had his eyes in the sedges and distant mud flats for a woodcock.

“It’s about your wife I wanted to say a word, and I know we’re too good friends for you to object. You see, Ned, when you look at the past—”

“To hell with the past,” answered Dingle shortly. “It’s the future I look at. You take my tip and keep out of this—specially seeing you wanted her yourself once.”

“I must speak,” answered the vatman mildly, “and just for that reason, Ned. When she took you, you’ll remember I followed a very self-respecting line about it. But at your wish—at your wish, Ned—I kept my friendship for Medora and you; and it’s out of that friendship I want to say I think things might be bettered.”

“She’s been washing our dirty linen for your pleasure then?”

“Not at all. But—”

“God damn it!” burst out the other. “Ain’t there to be any peace left in the world? You get out of this and keep out of it, or—”

“Don’t be silly, Ned,—listen.”

“To you? Not much. There’s some hooken-snivey going on here by the looks of it. Blast you—there—that’s my answer to you!”

Dingle, in a white-hot passion, swung his arm, hit Kellock on the side of his head with a tremendous blow and knocked him down. They were on the edge of the lake and Medora’s champion rolled over and fell into water ten feet deep. He was stunned and sank, then came to the surface again.

Ned’s rage vanished with the blow, for now he saw in a moment the gravity of the situation. Kellock appeared to be unconscious and would certainly drown if left in the water.

The man on the bank flung himself upon his stomach, leant over, gripped his victim by the collar and dragged him breast high under the bank. In this position Kellock came at once to his senses.

“I’m sorry—I’m cruel sorry,” said Dingle. “Lift up your hands and put ’em round my neck—then I’ll heave you out.”

Kellock opened his eyes and panted, but did nothing for a moment.

“For God’s sake make an effort—I can’t help you else. Get your arms round my neck, Jordan.”

The other obeyed and in a few moments he was safe. Ned fished his cap out of the water, wrung it and handed it to him.

“I’m bitter sorry—my cursed temper.”

Kellock sat down for a moment and pressed the water out of his clothes. He was quite calm.

“I dare say it was natural,” he answered. “If you’d but listened—”

“You can’t listen to things if you’re in hell. Take my arm. No good biding here. I’ll see you to your house. You can have the law of me. I deserve it. I’m no bloody good to anybody in the world now-a-days. Better I was locked up, I reckon.”

“Don’t talk rot. We’re all learners. You’ve learned me something anyway. See me home. I’m dazed, but I shall be all right in a minute. And don’t let on about this. I shall say I slipped on the edge of the water and fell in and bruised my head—just an accident and my fault. And so it was my fault.”

“I won’t have that. You rub it in. I’ve earned it. I shall tell the people what I am, if you don’t.”

“That won’t do,” answered the other. “Think of me as well as yourself in that matter. You’re popular; I’m not; and if they hear you’ve knocked me into the water, they’ll say there was a reason for it.”

Dingle did not answer, but he knew this to be true.

“Least said soonest mended then.”

“For your wife’s sake, Ned.”

“Leave her out, please. I’m in your debt and I shan’t forget it.”

They met some women returning to the works and lied to them. All expressed great concern. Then Ned brought Kellock to his rooms and begged him to drink some spirits which he refused to do.

“Mind we tell the same tale about this,” said Jordan. “I fell in and you grabbed me from the bank and brought me ashore. After all it’s the truth, so far as it goes.”

Dingle agreed and then returned to his work; while the injured man, though in considerable pain, only waited to change his clothes and then hastened back to the Mill, to explain his accident and be chaffed for his carelessness.