Читать книгу The Mill of Many Windows - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 6

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Charlesworth lived on the outskirts of the town, in a house which he had built for himself when his daughter was four and his son two years old. North-west of Haverthwaite, but within a mile of its centre, lay a wide expanse of moorland, secured as an open space to the townsfolk for ever by gift of the lord of the manor; at its edge, at a point which commanded a magnificent view of the valley of the Haver, and of the dark, wild-featured hills that overhung it, Charlesworth, about the time of his marriage, had secured a fine plot of land, and there, in due course, he had built his house, laid out his gardens, and planted his trees. He had all a maker’s pride in Marrashaw Royd: he was just as proud of it as his father had been of the huge mills which he had planned and erected on the site of the original Marrashaw holding. Even now, when the house had nearly twenty years of familiarity to him, and the trees and shrubberies were assuming respectable shapes in height and bulk, he never approached his domain without pride, nor quitted it without an admiring backward glance. And it was his habit, when he drove home from the mill late in the afternoon, whether in summer or in winter, to leave his brougham at the entrance gate and walk slowly through his grounds to his front door. In summer there were the carefully kept flowers, rare shrubs, and growing trees to look at: in winter, the lights of the big house to admire for their cheerful welcome: all the year round there was the feeling that the place was all of his own contriving.

Like most folk, of whatever degree, of that part of the world, Charlesworth was house-proud. He had laid out his money lavishly in the planning and building of his house: he had been what he himself considered extravagant in furnishing and fitting it. He had let a world-famed firm of upholsters work their own will in respect of chairs, tables, beds, carpets and all the rest of it; he had provided every latest improvement and labour-saving device that money could command: he had laid out thousands in pictures; he had even fitted a fine library with rows upon rows of standard works in expensive bindings, not one volume of which he ever opened. Nothing pleased him better than personally to show visitors and guests round his miniature palace; to point out to them the solid silver fittings of the bathrooms, a thousand-guinea picture, an edition-de-luxe, the magnificence of the billiard-room. With a big cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his hands under the tails of his coat, Charlesworth made an excellent, if leisurely cicerone, and if he was not quite certain who Corot was, or in what century Canaletto lived, he always knew what he had given for his specimens of their art and genius.

But, also like most folk of his sort, Charlesworth in the midst of his domestic splendour, had a favourite room and in it a favourite corner. A great deal of the house struck carnal and hyper-critical visitors as being a curious compound of the state apartments seen in royal and ducal palaces, and the show-rooms exhibited, as specimens, in very smart London or Paris furnishing warehouses: the drawing-room and the dining-room, for example, looked as if nothing was ever out of place and nobody ever entered them. But there was one room which showed signs of human life—a big, comfortable apartment called the morning-room: in it, when there were no guests in the house, Charlesworth, his son, and his daughter, always breakfasted, lunched, and dined. It contained furnishings with which Charlesworth had been familiar all his life: its chairs, tables, sofas, sideboard, every odd and end, had belonged to his father; so, too, had the pictures on its walls. All the rest of the house, as Charlesworth knew well enough in his heart, was show: this room was home: this, and in his old-fashionedly furnished bedroom, was where he really lived. And in one corner of its wide hearth, he had a chair which, as he was proud of telling people, had certainly belonged to Marrashaw the Second, and very likely to Marrashaw the First. It was ancient, and much mended, and considerably patched, and some of its oaken framework was worm-eaten, but it was the most important thing in its neighbourhood, and nobody but Charlesworth ever sat in it: it was his throne. Close by it, in a recess in the wall, was placed a small, very solid, ancient oak table, with spindle legs and fine old brass fittings; on this lay a massive copy of the Holy Bible, heavily bound in morocco and richly gilt; in it, on the fly-leaves which prefaced the title-page, was inscribed the entire history of the Marrashaw family since the days of Queen Anne: every Sunday night, when all the rest of the household had retired, Charlesworth drew this table and its burden to the side of his chair and discharged two solemn duties. One was to read a chapter of Holy Scripture; the other to go slowly and conscientiously through the family story as set forth in the entries of births, marriages, and deaths. His favourite Biblical reading lay amongst the chronicles of the kings and prophets: they were deeply interesting folk, in his opinion, but he was not quite sure that they came up to the Marrashaw standard.

It was into this room, and to this chair, that Charlesworth betook himself when he had entered his house and laid aside overcoat and hat. Six o’clock was then approaching, and his two parlour-maids, smart girls, were laying the table for dinner at seven. This was a performance which Charlesworth had a curious love of watching: when there were no guests and the grand dining-room was not in use, he liked to sit by the fire in the leisurely hour before dinner, watching the trim figures of his maids as they set out his fine linen, his solid silver, his priceless glass and china: it gave him a feeling of infinite ease and satisfaction. He was fond of luxury, and now, as he entered the room, with a benevolent nod to his servants, for whom he felt in a sort of patriarchal way, he went over to a cupboard, in which he kept certain little matters of his own, and helped himself to a glass of his very old and rare dry sherry, and found a small cigar which it would take him just half-an-hour to smoke. And with these aids to comfort he sat down in his chair and stretched his feet to the cheery blaze of the fire.

As the clock struck six, Charlesworth’s daughter came into the room, which the parlour maids, having finished their preparations, had just vacated. Her father, who had begun, against his will, to think about the news which Lockwood Clough had given him that afternoon, brightened up at the sight of her. She was his favourite of the two children, probably because she was easy to understand. He looked her over admiringly as she came towards the hearth—a tallish, slim, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl, pretty and regular of feature whose slenderness and colour were well set off by her smart dark blue walking costume and the dark furs at her neck. Charlesworth was proud of her looks—she was, in his opinion, a lady to her finger-tips, and did credit to the big sums of money which he had laid out, on her behalf, on governesses and finishing schools in London and Paris. But unprejudiced observers, having some experience of her, said that pretty and stylish though Beatrice Marrashaw was, she was also cold, apathetic, and selfish, the sort of young woman who would always keep a level head, remain a slave to convention, and take good care of her money.

“Now, Trissie, my lass!” said Charlesworth, greeting her in the familiar fashion which he always adopted in his home circle. “And where ha’ you been putting yourself this afternoon?—been out, I see.”

Trissie threw aside the black wolf stole which she had unwound from her throat and coming closer to the hearth put a daintily shod foot on the fender.

“I’ve been over at Ellerthwaite’s,” she answered. “Milly asked me to tea.”

“Aye!” said Charlesworth, with a sly look. “And I reckon Victor ’ud be somewhere about, what?”

“He walked back with me,” replied Trissie. She looked round at the door, and seeing it to be safely shut, turned to Charlesworth with a slow, enquiring glance. “I think I’d better tell you,” she said in a calm, even voice. “Victor’s asked me to marry him.”

A gleam of satisfaction stole into Charlesworth’s face: to be replaced at once by a certain anxiety.

“Aye, aye, my lass!” he answered. “Aye, to be sure! And—what did you say to him, Trissie?”

“I suppose it’s all right,” she replied. “It—it seems as if it was the right thing. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“It’s what both me and Jim Ellerthwaite’s wanted this many a year,” said Charlesworth. “We’ve always had it in mind, my lass. But we weren’t going to force matters, you know—it’s best to let young folks settle these things for themselves. He’s a good straight, responsible young fellow, is Victor—he’ll take care of all ’at his father’s made. You couldn’t do better, my lass!”

Trissie nodded, leaving the hearth and picking up her fur, turned to the door.

“All right!” she said. “As long as you’re satisfied. Of course, I always expected I should marry Victor. So—as I say, all right. I must go and change my things. Is there any one coming to dinner?”

“Nobody!” replied Charlesworth. He suddenly thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out the diamond ring. “Here, my lass,” he went on. “Here’s a trifle I bought this afternoon at Pearman’s—I was going to keep it till your birthday, but you can take it for a bit of a momento, like, of to-day. What do you think o’ that, now?”

Trissie’s unemotional eyes lighted at the sight of the diamond. She drew the glove from her right hand and fitted the ring on one of the fingers.

“It’s a beauty!” she said, with conviction. “Thank you! You’re an awfully good judge, you know, father.”

Charlesworth chuckled. It gave him more pleasure to be told that he was a judge of this sort of thing than it did to know that he was the leading manufacturer of Haverthwaite.

“Aye, I know a good thing o’ that sort when I see it, my lass!” he said triumphantly. “I paid a pretty penny for that, but it’s worth more than I gave for it. You’ll none be without visible means o’ subsistence, Trissie, while you’ve got that about you.”

Trissie smiled faintly and went off, and presently, Charlesworth, observing that dinner-time was drawing near went away, too, to make simple preparations. It was a rule of the establishment that when there were no guests, neither father, daughter nor son dressed for dinner: secretly, much as he liked pomp and display, Charlesworth liked to dine en famille far better, alone with his children in the homely morning room which was much more sunny and comfortable than the solemn state apartment across the hall.

“Mr. Bright come in?” he asked of one of his parlour-maids, who came into the room as he left it.

“I think not yet, sir,” answered the girl. “It’s Wednesday night, sir.”

This answer meant that on Wednesday evenings Bright Marrashaw was either late for dinner, or only came in as it was set on the table. Charlesworth nodded his recollection and understanding.

“Aye, to be sure—so it is,” he said. “We’ll not wait, Bella.”

Bright had not come in when his father and sister put their spoons into their soup at seven o’clock. But five minutes later he came, a heap of books and papers under his left arm. He set this down on a side-table and made for his chair, nodding to Charlesworth.

“Sorry, father,” he said as he sat down and unfolded his napkin. “I can’t finish before a quarter to seven on Wednesdays, and it’s a regular race to get home.”

“If you can’t, my lad, you can’t,” answered Charlesworth. “And better late than never, even at dinner-time. So long,” he added, “as there’s a hot plate.”

This was intended as a piece of peculiarly smart humour, and Bright smiled politely: Trissie, who had no sense of humour outside the material and obvious, wondered what he smiled at. And, as she happened to be looking at him just then, she wondered, too, why her brother, the heir to much wealth, always looked so very lost and untidy. Victor Ellerthwaite, devoted to business and money-making though he was, always looked as if he had just stepped out of his clothes-press: he was the smartest young man in Haverthwaite, which was saying a great deal in a town of first-class tailors and superfine clothes. But Bright looked as if he scarcely knew whether his coats buttoned in front or behind, and to Trissie’s certain knowledge he had worn the same old black neck-tie every day for several months, and was careless whether it rested under his ear or his chin. And suddenly, utterly indifferent to the presence of the parlourmaids, she leaned across the table.

“Bright!” she exclaimed. “Whenever did you brush your hair last?”

Bright started, laughed, and half turning in his seat, glanced at his reflection in the big mirror above the side-board. He laughed again at what he saw.

“Oh, I don’t know, Trissie!” he answered good-naturedly. “This morning, I suppose.”

“You really don’t know,” retorted Trissie. “And if I were you—well, I’d get it cut.”

Bright laughed again, and Charlesworth laughed too, indulgently.

“Bright’s something else to think about than fashions, my lass,” he remarked. “And if he has got what you might call an unusual crop on top, it’s not all empty beneath it. What’re you up to now, my lad?”

“Same thing—still,” answered Bright. “Synthetic dyestuffs. Pretty stiff proposition, too, father!—there’s a jolly lot to be done yet.”

“I reckon!” said Charlesworth, drily. He had always let his son go his own way about his education and occupation. After some years at the local grammar school, an ancient foundation of much fame, Bright, refusing his father’s offer to send him to either Oxford or Cambridge, had betaken himself to the Haverthwaite Technical College, and for the last three years had spent all his time in its chemical department. He was off to his researches and experiments as soon as he had breakfasted; he was at them all day; very often, dinner over, he would go back to his corner of the laboratory for another hour or two: he was without doubt, said Charlesworth, a born grafter in his own line. “Aye!” he added, still more drily. “We made a fine mistake when we let them German chaps get ahead of us in that line, Bright! Chaps like you have your work set. Dyes!—ecod, I wish I’d all t’ brass ’at I’ve spent in Germany for dyes!”

The mention of dyes made Trissie glance at her brother’s hands. Sometimes they were of a deep indigo colour; sometimes bright green; sometimes red; sometimes yellow: it was only when Bright took his annual holiday and went mountaineering, his great hobby, that they ever regained their normal colour. To-night they were sky-blue: Trissie looked from them to the rest of him, and wondered, for the hundredth time, why she and Bright were so unlike. While she was tall, slim, fair, Bright was short, stocky, dark; plain of feature, and only redeemed from the commonplace by a pair of unusually brilliant eyes which gleamed like lamps from under his shock of unkempt hair. Suddenly she laughed, a little satirically.

“Bright’s hands always remind me of what one reads in the history books, about the ancient Britons,” she said. “What did they stain themselves with, Bright?—you’ll know, of course.”

“Woad,” answered Bright, promptly. “Isatis tinctoria, a cruciferous plant, with yellow flowers and pendulous pods.”

Charlesworth listened approvingly. Perhaps he would have liked Bright to take more interest in the mill, to have shown more pleasure in visiting it; to have made evident more keenness about money-making. But Bright could reel off Latin, and talk learnedly, and Charlesworth, who had never had over much education himself, had a mighty respect for folk who had sat in the groves of the Cephissus.