Читать книгу The Mill of Many Windows - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 7

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As a rule Charlesworth and his family, when they were alone, passed their evenings in placid and prosaic fashion. Beatrice, whose one taste and one accomplishment was music, usually betook herself to the grand piano in the drawing-room; Charlesworth always settled himself in his own chair and nodded over the newspapers; Bright, when he did not go back to his laboratory at the Technical College, hid himself away in one which he had fitted up in a remote region of the big house. And when dinner was over on this particular evening, he picked up his armful of books and papers, evidently intending to flee to this eyrie, wherein he often pursued his investigations far into the night. But Charlesworth stopped him.

“You must give me a bit o’ time to-night, my lad,” he said, smacking his son familiarly and affectionately on the shoulder. “I want a word or two wi’ you.”

“Of course,” answered Bright, cheerfully and readily. He laid aside his books and papers and pulled an elbow-chair to the hearth. “I’d nothing particular to do,” he continued. “Only some memoranda to set down—that can wait.”

Charlesworth produced a box of cigars from his cupboard and handed it silently to his son. But Bright shook his head and pulled out an old briar pipe: it was not once in a twelve-month that he smoked a cigar.

“Too good for me!” he said with a laugh. “Cheap tobacco’s more in my line.”

“Suit yourself, my lad,” remarked Charlesworth. “I smoked shag when I was your age. There wasn’t much choice in those days—light and dark.” He carefully cut off the end of a cigar and lighting it smoked thoughtfully, standing with his back to the fire, until the servants had cleared the table and gone away. From the drawing-room, across the hall, came the first notes of Trissie’s piano. “Rare nice touch, yon lass has!” said Charlesworth, approvingly. “She improves every year.” Then he turned suddenly on his son. “Bright, my lad!” he said—“Do you know ’at you’re one-and-twenty to-morrow?”

Bright started. A look of genuine surprise came into his eyes.

“I’d completely forgotten it!” he answered. “Yes, of course.”

“Aye, I reckoned it had slipped your memory,” said Charlesworth with a dry laugh. “But—there it is. To-morrow, you’re of age. In the eyes of the law—a man!”

Bright looked up, an enquiring glance in his face.

“Yes?” he said.

“That’s what I want to talk about,” continued Charlesworth. “When a young fellow comes of age—especially in your position and circumstances—there’s things to be done.”

“Yes?” said Bright, still full of an enquiring wonder. “Such as—what?”

Charlesworth dropped into his chair, settling himself for what he evidently meant to be a long and serious talk.

“I’ll tell you, my lad,” he answered. “But first, let’s go back a bit. Now, you’ve had a rare good education, much better than what I ever had, and it’s been kept up longer, far longer, than mine ever was. I was in our mill by the time I was fifteen.”

“Your instincts led you that way,” remarked Bright.

“My instincts were for trade and money-making,” asserted Charlesworth with a dry significance. “I’d none outside ’em, and never had till I went into public life and became a Town Councillor and then Mayor o’ Haverthwaite. But now, you—I let you stop at t’ Grammar School till you were eighteen, and then I gave you t’ chance o’ going to either Oxford or Cambridge, whichever place took your fancy. But you choosed our Technical College instead—all right; there were no objections on my part: I like a lad to put his feet on his own path. And you’ve been there three years, Bright, following up these chemical experiments—no objection to that, neither; it’s none waste o’ time, that. But—there’s something else than that, my lad—more important.”

“What?” asked Bright. He was listening carefully and thoughtfully to all that his father said; so carefully, indeed, that he had let his pipe go out, and now sat biting ruminatively at its stem. “What’s more important?”

“My business,” answered Charlesworth. “You know what it is—t’ biggest and t’ finest business in Haverthwaite. And I’m getting on—I’m nearer seventy nor sixty, and though t’ doctors always say I’ve a many good years o’ life i’ front of me, a man can’t live for ever. Now, long before I were your age, I were practically running our business, and t’ day I were twenty-one your grandfather took me into partnership. It’s set down there i’ t’ owd Bible—my father wrote it down himself, t’ day it was done.”

“Well?” asked Bright.

“The same thing should be done now—i’ your case,” continued Charlesworth. “You mun come into partnership and devote yourself to t’ business and take some responsibility off o’ my shoulders. I’ve told Slater and Pilthwaite to prepare t’ papers; they’ll have ’em ready for signing in a day or two.”

If Charlesworth expected a ready acquiescence he was disappointed. Instead of replying at once, Bright remained silent, staring at the fire. He was silent so long that at last his father looked at him.

“You can’t have any objections, my lad!” he said suddenly, and with a tone of almost anxious surprise—“It’s—it’s t’ right thing!”

“I’d hoped to have at least another year at my work,” answered Bright, at last. “You know what I’m at—there are experiments in these days that I can’t finish for months yet.”

“That can be arranged,” replied Charlesworth. “No occasion for you to keep your nose to t’ grindstone all day and every day. Half-a-day at t’ mill, and half-a-day wherever else you like—eh? If that’s all—”

Bright shook his head. It was evident that there was doubt and indecision in his mind. And before he could speak Charlesworth went on again, hurriedly.

“It’s t’ right thing, my lad!” he said. “You mun come in! What!—a splendid business like ours! T’ sooner you get it all at your fingers’ end t’ better, for all of us, for me, for your sister there, for yourself. I want you, now ’at you’re one-and-twenty, to get settled down, Bright—settled down to t’ business. And,” he added, a little nervously, “while I’m about it, I’ll say a word more—I want to see you settled down i’ another way. I want to see you married.”

Bright started and his cheek flushed.

“Married?” he said. “Why!—you didn’t marry early.”

“No, and more fool me!” answered Charlesworth. “I owt to ha’ done. But I want to see you and Trissie wed—it’s t’ best thing for young folk. And Trissie’s settled—she’s going to marry young Victor.”

“I expected that,” remarked Bright, calmly. “They’ll suit each other—very well.”

“Aye, my lad, and I’ll tell you who’ll suit you,” said Charlesworth. “Yon lass o’ Ellerthwaite’s is the very woman! Milly Ellerthwaite—you’d not find a better wife i’ all England. That’s what you mun do, Bright—come into t’ business and marry Milly Ellerthwaite. Then,” he added, with a glance at his son which was almost appealing, “then I shall feel ’at all’s settled, and ’at I’ve done my best for all t’ lot!”

Bright suddenly got up from his chair and thrusting his hands in the pockets of his trousers began to walk up and down the room. Charlesworth watched him uneasily and curiously; already he had some vague fear that this son of his, whom he did not altogether understand, had ideas and notions and plans for the future which were his own, and very different from his father’s. And he put in another word for himself.

“You mun remember my responsibilities, my lad,” he said. “I want to see all settled before I give up.”

Bright came to a halt by his father’s chair and laying a hand on Charlesworth’s shoulder gave it a squeeze.

“There’s no one could ever say you haven’t done your best for the lot, father!” he said with emphasis. “That’s abundantly evident. But—we’ve all got ideas—and ideals—of our own. I’d better speak plainly. I don’t want to go into the business—or into any business. And I don’t want to marry Milly.”

Charlesworth took his cigar out of his lips, and Bright saw that his hand trembled as he lifted it. But Charlesworth kept a calm tone.

“I shall want to know t’ whys and wherefores o’ that, my lad,” he said quietly.

“I’ll tell you,” answered Bright. “And first as to the business. I don’t like business. I’m not cut out for business. I’ve no taste for money-making. I’d better be frank with you—I haven’t a scrap of interest in manufacturing. What I have a taste for is scientific research, especially in chemistry, and I’ve always hoped you’d let me follow my bent, and—”

“You could make a hobby of it,” interrupted Charlesworth, eagerly. “Nought against that!”

“No!” said Bright. “It wouldn’t do—I couldn’t play at what I want to do—it’ll have to be life-work. I tell you that if I came into partnership and had to devote myself to the business, I should be in my wrong place. It may be unfortunate, and in a way, it’s a pity, but I haven’t a scrap of interest in the mill, and what’s more, I’m a convinced disbeliever in existing economic conditions.”

It was Charlesworth’s turn to start. Start he did, staring at his son, who was now leaning against the big dinner table, with wide opened eyes in which incredulity, surprise, and a certain amount of disgust were manifested.

“What d’yer say?” he exclaimed. “Existing economic conditions? What!—you don’t mean to say ’at you’ve gotten infected wi’ this socialistic talk?—all poison!”

“You brought me up in Radicalism,” said Bright, with a laugh. “You’ve always been a stout enough Radical yourself, haven’t you?”

“My Radicalism stops at politics,” growled Charlesworth. “It’s naught to do wi’ business.”

Bright laughed again.

“Of course!” he assented. “You’re one of the old Manchester school, aren’t you, father? Yes, but the world doesn’t stand still. Some of us have gone further.”

“Have you, then?” demanded Charlesworth, with a sneer.

“If you really want to know,” answered Bright. “Yes, I have—conscientiously. You know what’s coming—a clear issue between capital and labour. Well—I’m all for labour. There’s the fact, however unpleasant. Labour!”

It was a straight challenge, and Charlesworth knew it. But for the moment he sought refuge in another sneer.

“Labour!” he exclaimed. “What’s labour? A pack o’ idle, discontented, agitating fellers ’at owt to be thrown into gaol!”

“It’s a poor definition,” retorted Bright. “I can give you a far better one of capital, though it’s a bit crude. Did you ever read Cobbett’s opinion of capital?—that it was money taken from other people’s labour? There’s a lot in it, you know. Where would our family have been if it hadn’t been for the people who worked for it?”

“Aye, and where would they ha’ been if it hadn’t been for our family?” exclaimed Charlesworth, at last showing signs of temper. “What?—d’yer mean to say ’at a son o’ mine, and a descendant of all t’ Marrashaws ’at’s dead and gone, is soft enough to believe ’at wealth springs from labour?”

“I’m quite sure it doesn’t spring from anything else!” retorted Bright, with a good-humoured laugh. “Now, come, father, how could it?”

Charlesworth, for a moment, sat staring at his heretic son, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. And suddenly, he turned and clapped a heavy hand on the family Bible at his side.

“Wealth spring from what you call labour!” he exclaimed. “No, my lad, I’ll tell you what our wealth sprang from. You look at our past, as it’s written down i’ t’ good owd Book here. Them statues i’ our mill front means summat, my lad! There was Matthew Marrashaw, to start with. He spun his own stuff, and made his own cloth, and carried it on his own back to market. He saved brass, and his son Christopher came into it and took care of it, and started a factory and machines. And he made brass, and his son Hanson came into that, and where Christopher had employed a hundred men Hanson employed a thousand. And I followed Hanson, and where Hanson had two thousand men, I’ve three. What did all that? Was it t’ men?—was it labour? No!—it was capital!—it was us!—us Marrashaws!”

“That’s the wrong way of putting it, father,” said Bright, with irritating imperturbableness. “All right about ancestor Matthew—he was a thoroughly commendable old party—a handicraftsman, and entitled to all he could get. But Christopher made his brass by getting other men to work for him, and not only men but women and children, and you know how they worked in the bad old days before the Factory Laws were passed. And grandfather Hanson made his money out of the labour of others—and, to be truthful, so do you. All the Marrashaw money has come out of the cleverness and astuteness of three generations—no, four—of Marrashaws who knew how to get first hundreds, and then thousands, of men and women to work for them—and took to themselves pretty nearly all the profits of the people’s labour. Come, now!—that’s economic history! It’s true.”

Charlesworth favoured his son with a glance of open dislike. He had never made a favourite of Bright, and he had long had a suspicion that there was in him some curious un-Marrashaw-like strain.

“So you’re one o’ them ’at thinks ’at t’ working folks is a poor, abused, down-trodden lot!” he exclaimed with another sneer. “Happen you’d like to give ’em all t’ brass ’at they produce, and let t’ unfortunate capitalist go wi’out? How that would be, like?”

“Well, scarcely that,” answered Bright. “I’m not quite an extremist. But I’ve thought all this out, more than you know of. My present notion is profit-sharing. I believe there’s more in that, towards solving a very serious problem, than employers and employed think.”

“Profit-sharing!” said Charlesworth, with a deeper sneer. “Profit-sharing! I never heard such soft talk!”

“Not much softness about it, when you go into it, seriously,” declared Bright. “Look at Saylor, of Upper Cotley—he’s had it in force in his mills for years now, and it’s had splendid effects. And what Saylor can do, others can do. You can’t get away from it—as things are, one man, the capitalist, is getting nearly everything, and what is left is—just enough for the actual creators of the wealth to exist upon. That’ll not be stood much longer! But, a real sound scheme of profit-sharing—”

“I’ll take damned good care nobody shares my profits!” said Charlesworth, with sudden anger. “And you—a son o’ mine!—d’ you mean to say ’at if you stepped into my shoes in my business, ’at you’d start on to them fond games? I should turn i’ my grave!”

“I might be obliged to,” answered Bright. “Things aren’t going to continue as they are. Your Manchester school’s dead—as dead as aught can be. But—I don’t want to go into business.”

“What do yer want?” growled Charlesworth.

“To follow my own bent,” answered Bright. “I’ve no great love of money. I have of science.”

“Will science keep you—as you’ve been kept?” demanded Charlesworth.

Bright gave his father a sharp look which gave Charlesworth a momentary fear: he was beginning to recognise in Bright a stronger, even more determined spirit than his own.

“You’ve been a very good and indulgent father,” said Bright. “You’ve kept me—as you put it—in unusual comfort. But—I’ve no taste for riches or luxury. Seems queer, considering everything, but I haven’t. And as to science keeping me. Yes!—I could get an appointment at six hundred a year to-morrow morning, in this very town, first thing.”

“Six hundred a year!” exclaimed Charlesworth. “God bless my life and soul!—What’s a ha’porth o’ brass like that to a partnership wi’ me? Six hundred—”

“I’d rather have six hundred a year out of work that I’m really interested in than six thousand a year from a business that I don’t like,” said Bright, “Fact!”

“Then you’re a fool, my lad!” declared Charlesworth. He flung his cigar away, with an impatient gesture, and rising from his chair went over to his cupboard, got out a decanter of whiskey and mixed himself a drink, while his son watched him in silence. “Don’t be a fool, Bright!” he said, suddenly turning round. “There is lads, I know, ’at gets these harum-scarum notions—don’t be one of ’em! Throw ’em aside!—they’re nowt but young-man fancies. Come into t’ business and marry Milly Ellerthwaite and—”

Bright’s face became serious, and when he spoke his voice, which up to then had been rather bantering than otherwise, was grave and ominous.

“Honestly, father, if you’ll let me go my own way, I’d rather stick to what I know is my own proper line,” he said. “I’ve meant to tell you that for some time, but I’ve kept putting it off. I should make a mess of business: I shall make a name in my own profession. And as to the other thing,” he continued, lowering his voice, “I can’t marry Milly Ellerthwaite. Milly’s a very nice, good girl—one of the best I’ve ever come across. But—I may as well tell you the truth—I want to marry somebody else, and I mean to. In fact—if we’re to be plain with each other—I’m already engaged.”

Charlesworth sat bolt upright in his chair. His cheek paled, and for a moment he looked at Bright as if he doubted his own ears.

“What?” he said at last. “Say that again! Engaged—to be wed? And—who to, if one may ask?”

“It’s no use being angry, father,” said Bright. “After all, we’ve all got to settle our own lives. I say, I’m already engaged—to Hermie Clough.”

There was no mistaking Charlesworth’s anger now. The sudden pallor that had come over his cheek changed to a significant red, and when he spoke his voice shook with scarcely suppressed rage.

“What!” he exclaimed. “You—to my sekkitary? Lockwood Clough’s lass? A working man’s dowter?”

“She’s the best educated and the cleverest young woman in Haverthwaite—and you know it, well enough!” retorted Bright. “She’s what I want, anyway, and I’m going to marry her. I’ve got my own life to think about, and to map out—I’m not the sort to live according to orders.”

He was not without a temper of his own, and the contempt in his father’s tone in referring to Hermione Clough had roused it. And now, without further speech or lingering, he turned away, and picking up his books and papers, left the room, leaving Charlesworth staring at vacancy.

But before long Charlesworth got heavily out of his chair, and walked, still heavily, across the hall to the drawing-room, where Trissie was still busy at the piano. She glanced at him as he lumbered across the floor, and her hands left the keyboard.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Something happened?”

Charlesworth laid his hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Trissie, my lass!” he muttered, bending to her. “Whatever do you think? Yon lad—our Bright—he’s gone and gotten himself engaged to be married! And swears he’ll do it, choose how! And to who do you think? My sekkitary—Lockwood Clough’s dowter!”

Trissie opened her lips until they made a perfect circle. It seemed a long time before they moved to speech.

“You don’t mean it!” she said, in an awestruck whisper. “Hermione Clough!”

“He says it’s so,” answered Charlesworth. His voice had become dull and colourless. “He says it’s so—he’s fixed on it. And—he’ll do it! There’s naught’ll stop him.”

Trissie let her slim hands fall in her lap. She stared at the sheet of music set up before her. She was thinking; wondering what Victor Ellerthwaite, who had big social ambitions, would say when he heard that his brother-in-law-to-be wanted to marry the daughter of a working man.