Читать книгу The Mill of Many Windows - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Bright Marrashaw always breakfasted at eight o’clock, so that he could be at the Technical College well before nine. This meal was for him a lonely one: his father and Trissie breakfasted an hour later. And on this, the morning of his twenty-first birthday, there was no difference. When he came down to the morning-room at his usual time, five minutes to eight, it was to find his breakfast—always, by his own choice, a simple one—ready for him, and the table to himself. By that time he had forgotten that this was his birthday: he was not even reminded of the fact by the presence of a small parcel, loosely wrapped in tissue paper, which lay on his plate. But taking this up and unwrapping the folds, a slip of paper fell out whereon was written, in Trissie’s conventional and characterless handwriting, the words Many Happy Returns of the Day. Bright remembered, then, and he instinctively glanced again at the table. Never, since he was five years old, did he recollect a birthday morning whereon he had not found awaiting him some handsome present from his father. Last year he had found the very latest thing in microscopes—an instrument which he knew must have cost Charlesworth a prodigious sum; the year before that his father had given him a chemical apparatus, the like of which Bright had never seen. But this year there was nothing to greet him, and Bright sighed, not from disappointment but because he remembered that since yesterday the undoubted fact that he and his father thought and felt differently about things in general had been forced upon both.

“As it was bound to be!” he muttered, sitting down to his porridge. “It had to come.”

While his right hand was busy with the spoon, his left unrolled the rest of his sister’s parcel. Trissie had presented him with a new necktie. It was a very grand one, and must have cost her at least half-a-guinea, thought Bright; perhaps even more. He thought, too, that it would have suited Victor Ellerthwaite and one of his smart suits far better than it would suit him and his old, much worn, chemical stained blue serge: nevertheless, as this was his birthday and Trissie had remembered it, he went over to the mirror when he had finished his breakfast and divesting himself of coat and waistcoat, discarded his own ancient neckwear and put on the present. It made all the rest of him look shabby, and its grandeur was so conspicuous that he slunk away out of the house lest any of the servants should notice his unaccustomed finery.

Charlesworth, just then drawing up the blinds in his bedroom overlooking the grounds, saw Bright walking off, his pile of books and papers in one hand, his little bag in the other. He felt very miserable at the sight: he, too, remembered that this was the first time he had neglected to put a birthday present in readiness for his only son. True, the birthday present was in readiness: he had certainly not forgotten it, but it still lay in the pocket into which he had dropped it in Pearman’s parlour. It was not too late to open the window and call his son back. But he let Bright go, and watched him vanish behind the laurels and myrtles, conscious that he himself was full of a dull, angry resentment at things. What had he done that differences should arise between himself and his son? all the son he had. And how had Bright, the last of a race in which the individualistic principle had always been strong, come to get hold of ideas which, in Charlesworth’s opinion, were only fit to be held by that curse and pest of society, the paid agitator? It made him feel sore from head to foot, sore in brain, sore at heart. And that morning, instead of chatting in lively fashion with Trissie, with whom he always got on exceedingly well, she having no ideas whatever that were not his, he sat glum and silent, moodily resentful of the new and unpleasant situation, and when he rode off to the mill in his brougham his face was as sullen as it was stern.

Charlesworth had been brought up in an old school, and he had remained true to its traditions. He had voiced the truth when he said that his Radicalism stopped at politics. A political Dissenter, he was all for Disestablishment and Disendowment of the State Church, and he subscribed generously to the Liberation Society. He was a convinced Free Trader: Free Trade had helped him and his to make their money. He was all for reform of the Land Laws; having no agricultural estates himself, he was zealous in wanting to set in order the houses of those who had. He favoured the reconstruction of the House of Lords: in his own opinion he was much more entitled to a seat in that august assemblage than any empty-headed, vacuous youngster who happened by the accident of birth to succeed to a peerage. And he had no objection to the extension of the franchise, so long as the newly-enfranchised voted for his party, as he considered they were bound to do in common decency and gratitude. But when it came to reform and progress in social and economic matters affecting his own class and his own pocket, Charlesworth’s Radicalism vanished, and he became transformed into a reactionary of the most thorough-going type. To him State interference was an abomination. He regarded the factory reformers of the ’thirties and ’forties as men who set up dangerous doctrines and established bad precedents: he believed with John Bright that Trades-Unions are founded on principles of brutal tyranny and monopoly; with Richard Cobden that workers should make their own bargains. That last principle, takes two to make a bargain, and when one party is a rich mill-owner and the other a man who has nothing to bless himself with, the bargain is all on one side. Hands off Capitalism!—this was Charlesworth’s shibboleth, to be held to and protected through thick and thin: in his opinion the workers were folk who ought to praise God day and night that their employers by finding work for them to do, gave them the chance of putting meat and bread into their bellies.

“To think of a son o’ mine favouring that lot!” he grumbled as the brougham drew up at the broad steps of the mill offices. “Same as if he were one o’ these paid agitators—fellers ’at’s nowt about ’em but t’ gift o’ t’ gab and t’ power o’ persuadin’ a pack o’ fools to keep ’em i’ idleness! An’ then to want to wed wi’ a working man’s dowter—my sekkitary! A sekkitary’s no more nor a sarvent-lass, when all’s said and done—it’s nowt but a difference o’ degree, and he might just as well ha’ ta’en up wi’ my parlour-maid, Bella Perkins.”

The secretary was at her table, by the side of Charlesworth’s desk, when he entered his room, and from sheer force of habit, he replied civilly to her greeting. But Hermione, who was remarkably keen of intellect and acute of observation, noticed that her employer was unusually taciturn and even grumpy as she went through the letters with him and took his instructions about answering them: it was not often that he was like that; as a rule, Charlesworth, in his business affairs was an easy and a pleasant man to get on with, so long as he had his own way, which he usually had. She noticed, too, that, the letters being dealt with, and the various heads of departments summoned to Charlesworth’s presence for the customary daily conference, his manner in dealing with each was curt and snappy, and that he was evidently anxious to dismiss them. When the last man had gone, Charlesworth, after a moment’s hesitation, turned to her.

“Ring up t’ south wing, and bid your father come here, just now,” he commanded. “I want a word with him.”

While Hermione went to the telephone, Charlesworth rose from his desk, and turning to the window, looked out on the quadrangle. His own statue was there, right enough, he thought; he had erected it himself, as he had a good right to do in his own opinion, he, the fourth generation, ranked equally in merit with his ancestors of the third, the second, and the first. But would Bright’s statue ever stand there? He felt sure that Bright himself would never raise it; he had neither the taste, the grit, nor the assurance for such a thing. But would it ever be raised by any one else, in memory of Bright?

“More like, all t’ rest ’ud be ulled down, same as they pulled down t’ saints and angels i’ t’ owd parish church yonder!” he muttered, half-aloud. Then, remembering that he was not alone, he turned on his secretary. “Now then?” he said sharply—“Is he there?”

“Coming along now,” answered Hermione, calmly. She sat down at her table, and began to arrange the letters in order. “Will you sign these replies before you go to lunch, or afterwards, Mr. Marrashaw?” she asked.

“Anytime they’re ready—leave ’em on my desk,” replied Charlesworth. “I shall be in and out all day.”

Hermione slipped a sheet of paper into her typewriter and prepared to go to work. But before the machine had clicked off many lines, the door opened, and Lockwood walked in, an air of enquiry about him. It was seldom that he was ever sent for to the office: his idea now was that Charlesworth wanted to say more about the conversation of the previous afternoon.

“Sit you down,” said Charlesworth, indicating a chair. He dropped into his own, and looked from father to daughter. “Leave that machine alone for a bit,” he went on. “I’ve a word to say to t’ two on you.”

The clicking of the typewriter stopped, and Hermione folded her hands and waited. There was nothing but a look of complaint obedience on her face: Charlesworth saw that she had not the least idea of what he was going to say.

“It’s this,” he said, turning to Lockwood. “And a sore thing for me to have to say. I’d a talk, private and confidential, with my son, Mr. John Bright Marrashaw, last night. And he told me straight out that he’s engaged himself to be married to this young woman here—your daughter.”

Lockwood started, and turned a quick glance on Hermione. Charlesworth turned on her, too: Hermione, under this double inspection, paled for the fraction of a moment, but the colour came back as quickly as it had vanished, and she looked at her employer in a fashion which showed him that she was neither afraid nor thrown off her guard.

“My father knows nothing about it, Mr. Marrashaw,” she said. “Nothing!”

Lockwood shook his head.

“No!” he muttered. “I know naught about it!—never imagined aught o’ t’ sort, naturally. Is it right?” he asked, suddenly looking at his daughter. “You’ve never said a word to me, my lass!”

“Quite right—quite true,” answered Hermione. “I was going to tell you—at once. Indeed, I meant to tell you to-night. Bright was going to tell his father to-night. I don’t know, yet, why he told him last night. And—in our opinion—it’s a matter that concerns nobody but ourselves.”

Lockwood shook his head again, with a little sigh: it would have been plain to any careful observer that he felt himself powerless where his daughter was concerned. But Charlesworth, moved to sudden anger, smote a hand on his desk.

“Nobody’s concern but their own!” he exclaimed. “D’ye hear that, Lockwood, my lad? Them’s t’ principles o’ t’ rising generation!—o’ some on ’em, at any rate. What do you think on ’em o’ t’ lips o’ your own flesh and blood?”

Lockwood once more shook his head, slowly and deprecatingly.

“My daughter’s ideas and notions aren’t mine, Mr. Marrashaw,” he answered in a low voice. “I’m a plain-thinking, old-fashioned chap. I don’t understand these young folks now-a-days.”

“Nor me, nor nobody—nobody ’at’s any sense o’ decency i’ their bodies!” said Charlesworth. “When I were a lad I were browt up like a God-fearing Christian, to keep t’ commandment and honour father and mother. Fathers and mothers!—ecod, they count for nowt, now-a-days! These here lads and lasses o’ t’ new school, they’ve no respect for nowt and nobody. All’s to be as they order—we mun all stan’ aside. They know better nor what we do—we’re what they call out-o’-date—back numbers!” He turned with increasing temper on Hermione. “Do you—an eddikated young woman like you!—think it right and proper to indulge i’ underhanded business like this here?” he demanded. “Doing things behind folks’ backs!—do yer?”

“There has been nothing underhand, Mr. Marrashaw,” answered Hermione. “Nothing at all. Your son and I have seen a great deal of each other at the Technical College during the last year or so. We’ve a very strong mutual respect and esteem for each other. He asked me to marry him, a fortnight ago, and I consented. We were going to tell you and my father of it, as I said. I say again—there has been nothing underhand. As to marriage—no one on earth has anything to do with that but just ourselves—no one!”

“Haven’t they?” said Charlesworth, with a sneer. “Oh, indeed! Them’s new-fashioned principles, of course. Ye an’ me, Lockwood, is owd fossils!—we owt to be preserved i’ sperrits o’ wine, and put i’ t’ town museum! Has it never struck you,” he went on, turning to Hermione, “ ’at I may ha’ had different plans for my son’s future, and different ideas as to t’ condition o’ things. I ha’ nowt to say again your father there—me an’ Lockwood’s owd friends, and he’s been a faithful servant o’ me and mine for fifty year and more, but he’ll know what I mean when I say ’at I can’t have a son o’ mine wedding wi’ t’ daughter o’ one o’ my workmen. Wi’ all your French and your German, and your accomplishments, my lass—you’re nowt but a working man’s dowter, so there!”

Lockwood nodded, as if in assent. But Hermione seemed to freeze.

“That’s a question I’m not going into, Mr. Marrashaw,” she said. “We differ in opinion. Your son wants me to be his wife because of what I am. Neither he nor I have any respect for birth or position. I’m his intellectual and educational equal, anyhow!”

Charlesworth turned to Lockwood with another sneer.

“There y’ are!” he said. “That’s what comes o’ eddikation!—o’ eddikatin’ folk above their place. Under ord’nary circumstances this lass o’ yours ’ud ha’ been i’ t’ mill—as it is, she thinks she’s a lady, all because she’s been eddikated like one! It’s a nice thing, considering ’at t’ money ’at were spent on her eddikation came out o’ my pocket!”

The last words disturbed the hitherto comparatively quiet atmosphere. Lockwood looked up with a faint murmur of protest, and his worn cheeks flushed. But Hermione sprang to her feet, indignant and insistent.

“What do you mean, Mr. Marrashaw?” she exclaimed. “Your money paid for my education? What does he mean?” she continued, turning on her father. “Speak!—I’m going to know!”

“It was between him and me, my lass,” said Lockwood, protestingly. “An arrangement—a sort of understanding. I never thought you’d ha’ reaped it up, Mr. Marrashaw,” he continued, reproachfully. And then he turned to his daughter, with an almost beseeching air. “It’s naught to do wi’ you, Hermie, my lass,” he said. “Naught at all! It should never ha’ been mentioned to you.”

But Hermione kept her resolute attitude, looking from one man to the other. Under her indignant eyes Charlesworth began to feel uncomfortable, and to shift the papers on his desk, aimlessly.

“But it has been mentioned, and it’s everything to do with me!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to have the truth. What does Mr. Marrashaw mean by saying he paid for my education?”

“He means this—since it’s got to come out,” answered Lockwood. “You were an uncommon promising lass, and I wanted to give you t’ best I could. I couldn’t afford t’ money for them schools ’at you went to, and Mr. Marrashaw found it. That’s where it is.”

“How much did he find?” demanded Hermione. “I’m going to know.”

“First and last, three hundred pound,” said Lockwood. “But there was a condition—’at would pay him.”

“What condition?—out with it!” persisted Hermione.

“Well, ’at you should come here and be his clerk—secretary—what you like to call it—he knew ’at you’d be uncommon useful, knowing all them foreign languages, and such-like. And, as I say, it was understood that it was all between him and me,” concluded Lockwood with another reproachful glance at his master. “It should never ha’ been mentioned—to you.”

“It has been mentioned!” said Hermione. She stood looking at the two men for a moment, half-indignant, half-sullen. Suddenly she turned to where her hat and jacket hung on the wall near her table, and snatching them up, walked resolutely out of the room. Charlesworth, frowning, and obviously uneasy, stared from the closing door to Lockwood.

“What’s she up to?” he asked. “What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know!” retorted Lockwood. “She’s a high-spirited lass, and you should never ha’ said aught o’ that sort. If I’d ever done aught for one o’ yours, I should never ha’ reminded either them or you on it, Mr. Marrashaw. You’ve had t’ value o’ what you laid out!”

“Haven’t I paid her a good wage?” demanded Charlesworth. He was aware that he had made a mistake, and he was angry with himself for his haste, and his anger was ready to spread elsewhere. “And do you think ’at I’m going to let my son wed your lass?” he went on. “I’ve other aims for him!”

Lockwood turned to the door and laid his hand on it.

“It strikes me from what I’ve seen o’ your son ’at he’s one o’ them ’at’ll suit himself about serious things like that,” he said quietly. “And if him and my lass has agreed to wed, they will wed! So there it is.”

With that he went out of the room, and Charlesworth, left alone, fumed and fretted. He was very well aware that Hermione was something more than useful to him, she had come to be indispensable. And there had been a look on her face when she went out of the room that made Charlesworth wonder what she was going to do.

He was not long left in doubt. Before an hour was over, and as he was standing at his window, staring out on the quadrangle and its memorials of the great departed Marrashaws, he saw a cab drive up, and Hermione get out of it. A few minutes later, flushed and indignant, she walked into the room, clutching something in her hand. As Charlesworth turned to her she laid this on his desk—a roll of Bank of England notes, some gold, some silver.

“There, Mr. Marrashaw!” she said, panting a little from her haste. “There’s the three hundred pounds you paid for me! And there’s a month’s salary, in lieu of notice. So there’s nothing to do but to say good-bye to you—we’re on level terms now!”

She turned to the door, and Charlesworth found his tongue, with an effort.

“Come here, you silly lass!” he exclaimed. “Do you think I’m going to take—”

But Hermione was already through the half open door, and the next instant it had closed upon her. Charlesworth swore softly to himself: the very thing that he most feared had happened. He felt as if somebody had suddenly cut off his right hand. And after a moment’s reflection he went to the telephone and summoned Lockwood, who, coming back, unwillingly enough, stared at the money to which Charlesworth directed his attention.

“What is it, Mr. Marrashaw?” he asked. “I don’t want no more bother, sir—I’m troubled enough about what’s taken place this morning.”

“D’ye see that brass?” demanded Charlesworth. “Your lass flounced in here just now, flung it on t’ table there, said it were my three hundred pound, and a month’s salary i’ lieu of notice, and flounced out again! What do you think o’ that, now?”

“I think it’s just what I should ha’ expected her to do,” answered Lockwood. “I told you she was high-spirited. I thought she was up to summat o’ that sort when she flung out o’ t’ room when I was here. She’s been a saving sort, ever since she came here—I knew she’d money i’ t’ bank. And now, it seems she’s gone and drawn it out—to pay you. She’s not t’ sort to be beholden to anybody, Mr. Marrashaw.”

Charlesworth’s anger was rapidly cooling; Hermione’s action had impressed him.

“Well, I respect her for what she did!” he said, with sudden heartiness. “She’s t’ right sort i’ that way, anyhow, my lad. Here!” he went on, pushing the heap of notes and coins towards Lockwood. “Put all that i’ thy pocket, lad; give her it back, and tell her to come back here, and we’ll say no more about it. No doubt I aughtn’t to ha’ said what I did. Put it i’ thy pocket, Lockwood!”

But Lockwood shook his head, and backed towards the door.

“No!” he said, with decision. “I know her! She’ll never come back, after what you said. You’ve touched her pride. There’s naught ’ud make my daughter take that money back, Mr. Marrashaw. You needn’t think ’at she’ll be regretting t’ parting with it—none she! What she’ll be feeling,” he continued, with a sly laugh, “ ’ll be a deal o’ pride to think ’at, after all, she’s paid for her own schooling! She’s as independent as ever they make ’em!”

Charlesworth pushed the money nearer the edge of the desk.

“Now then!” he said. “No nonsense! Take it back to her.”

Lockwood laughed again, and turned to leave the room.

“I wouldn’t do such a thing, Mr. Marrashaw,” he declared. “She’d tell me a nice piece of her mind, if I did. And besides,” he added, opening the door, “I think t’ lass did right. After you’d said what you did, there were no other course left open to her. You’re a queer man, you know, sir!—You seem to think that nobody but millionaires has a right to be independent! But—happen that’ll show you ’at millionaires has no monopoly i’ that way.” He pointed to the money, and with a nod and another laugh, left the room, leaving Charlesworth reflecting on the undoubted fact that in this first encounter with the opposing forces he had come off without honour or advantage.