Читать книгу The Mill of Many Windows - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 9

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It was Charlesworth’s daily custom to lunch at the Haverthwaite Club, a select and exclusive institution, the members of which were drawn from the upper circles of Haverthwaite society. A few country gentlemen, representatives of the old hill-side and moorland families, a certain sprinkling of clergymen, doctors, lawyers and other professional men, a goodly number of merchant princes like himself, and of men high-placed in the commercial circles of the town: these were the folk amongst whom Charlesworth invariably spent the middle of the day. It was his practice to go to the club about half-past twelve and to remain there until three o’clock: his ostensible object was meat and drink, but most of his time was spent in going, sometimes as one of a group, but more often in close quarters with his friend and crony, James Ellerthwaite, one of the principal manufacturers of the town. Ellerthwaite and he were of the same age: they had been at school together: had grown up together: each had married rather late in life: each had a son and a daughter. All their tastes and ideas were in common, save in the particular respect of politics: while Charlesworth Marrashaw was a Radical, Ellerthwaite was a Tory of the deepest and most uncompromising sort. This difference in opinion, instead of separating the two men, drew them closer together: Ellerthwaite was never tired of chaffing Charlesworth about his heresies: Charlesworth was always ready to let loose his eloquence in denouncing class privileges and the iniquitous union of church and state: each extracted much pleasure out of teasing the other.

These two had a particular corner of the club smoking-room preserved to themselves: long usage had made it sacred to them at any time between half-past twelve and three o’clock: it was known to all their fellow members as Marrashaw and Ellerthwaite’s Pew. In this retreat, a glass of dry sherry in front of him, a cigar between his lips, and a frown on his face, Charlesworth was found by Ellerthwaite, an hour after the episode of Hermione Clough had come to its dramatic end. Left alone in his office, Charlesworth, after fuming and fretting for five minutes, had fled to the club for comfort, and since his arrival had sat glowering in his corner. He even glowered at his crony as Ellerthwaite, a big, bearded, off-handed sort of man, with a pair of half-cynical, half-humorous eyes, sauntered up and dropped into the seat at his side. It was characteristic of both men that their only salutation to each other was a careless nod on Ellerthwaite’s part, and a species of grunt on Charlesworth’s; it was not until Ellerthwaite had beckoned to a steward, been supplied with a drink, and had lighted a cigar, that speech, laconic enough to begin with, came from either.

“Well?” said Ellerthwaite. “What about my lad and your lass?”

“I’ve heard,” responded Charlesworth. “Suits me all right. And you too, I reckon.”

Ellerthwaite closed the penknife with which he had carefully cut off the end of his cigar, and restored it to his waistcoat pocket.

“Aye—I’m agreeable,” he answered. “I reckon they’ll run very well in harness, them two. They’re both pretty cool, old-fashioned customers. But what about t’ other two? Yon lad o’ yours, now?”

Charlesworth frowned more than ever, and moved uneasily in his seat.

“I was going to tell you,” he said, glad to let his tongue go at last. “I’m afraid I’m going to have trouble with our Bright. You know, James, he’s twenty-one to-day, and so of course, I wanted to have a bit o’ serious talk wi’ him last night, about a partnership, and settling down, and marrying and so forth. And it go fro’ one thing to another, and he let it all out—he’s no taste for business, and he doesn’t want to go into mine, and he’s all for this scientific research, and—in short, he’s not a chip o’ t’ owd block, and there it is! It’s beyond me.”

“Well?” suggested Ellerthwaite, drily. “There’s more?”

“Aye, there’s more!” agreed Charlesworth, making a wry face. “He’s all for this new labour business—it’s my belief he’s already infected wi’ Socialism—wants to see profit-sharing and what not o’ similar foolishness set up, and says ’at wealth springs from labour. But there’s worse nor that!”

“What?” asked Ellerthwaite.

Charlesworth looked round. There were no other members near them, for it was as yet early for the mid-day assemblage, but he leaned nearer to his companion and lowered his voice. “He wants to wed yon lass o’ Lockwood Clough’s!” he whispered. “Aye, and says he will, wi’ all!”

“What, that secretary o’ yours?” exclaimed Ellerthwaite.

“As was,” grumbled Charlesworth. “Is, no longer. She’s left me—we had words this morning. Over this affair, of course. So she’s cleared out.”

“Then it’s serious?” suggested Ellerthwaite.

“They both say they’re determined to wed,” answered Charlesworth. “And they’re both as obstinate as bulls and as high-spirited as dukes! A nice look out it is—my son wanting to wed one o’ my workmen’s daughters, and putting up for this here pestilential labour business—it’s enough to make every Marrashaw o’ t’ last four generations turn in his grave!”

“This is t’ fifth generation, my lad!” observed Ellerthwaite. He cocked his cigar in the corner of his lips, put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and favoured Charlesworth with a dry, quizzical smile. “I can’t say ’at I’m surprised,” he went on. “Yon lass o’ Clough’s is a rare smart and clever ’un—more brains about her, I should say, than any young woman i’ t’ town: I reckon neither your girl nor mine could hold a candle to her i’ that matter, Charlesworth. And as to Bright and his politics, well, what do chaps like you expect? You’re only reaping t’ harvest you’ve sown.”

“What d’ye mean?” demanded Charlesworth. “When did I ever sow owt o’ t’ sort?”

“You never been doing owt else since I knew you,” retorted Ellerthwaite, imperturbably. “You and your lot! Nowt ’d suit you till you gave all these folk votes, and passed education bills, and found ’em free libraries and cheap newspapers, and encouraged ’em to read and think and improve theirselves, as you called it. Well, they have read, and they have thought and they have improved theirselves—if it is improvement—and now, when they carry it, or try to carry it to its logical conclusion, you want to shove yourself i’ t’ way. That’s a Radical all over, my lad! You Radicals are just like a man ’at sets a ball rolling down a hill-side and then grumbles because it goes straight to t’ bottom—out of his reach, and further than he can follow.”

“What’s all that got to do wi’ our Bright?” demanded Charlesworth, surlily. He was aware that his crony’s argument was sound and unassailable, and he was beginning to wish that he, like Ellerthwaite, had inclined to Conservatism. “I’m talking about him!”

“It’s all to do wi’ him and his like,” answered Ellerthwaite, coolly. “Do you think there’s aught strange in his tastes and ideas? Nowt o’ t’ sort! There’s any amount o’ well-to-do, highly educated youngsters ’at’s taking up wi’ these new ideas—it’s natural. Why, they tell me ’at Oxford University’s getting permeated with new ideas—social and economic—the very place where you’d think it ’ud be difficult to dig up owt but fossils and remnants o’ t’ Middle Ages. No, no, my lad!—this world’s moving, and young fellows like Bright turns to new theories like lasses turns to love-making: they will have it. All these new ideas come out o’ t’ soil you Radicals prepared i’ t’ Victorian times—and then you grumble because t’ crop’s not to your liking. But consistency and logic were never Radical qualities—Radicals is a bit wanting i’ intellect.”

“I believe you side wi’ these here modernisin’ fellers!” growled Charlesworth.

“Nowt o’ t’ sort!” declared Ellerthwaite. “I’m i’ t’ opposite camp, my lad, and always shall be, and always have been. Nowt ’ud make me into a Socialist! I believe ’at t’ peculiar genius o’ this nation is for individual efforts, not for collective.—I’ve read a bit too much history to think otherwise. But Socialism’s there, and to be reckoned with, and it’s nowt but t’ result o’ Radicalism. You Radicals ha’ been preparing t’ ground, and sowing t’ seed, and watering t’ plants ever since 1832—and now ’at t’ stuff’s coming up, more vigorous and taller than you ever thowt for, you curse and swear at it. You think that over a bit, young feller,” concluded Ellerthwaite, with a triumphant grin, “and you’ll find I’m not far out. It’s all your doing—yours, and chaps like you. You’ve been wanting to pull t’ Church down, ever since I knew you—well, these Socialist fellers are going to pull you down! You shed tears over t’ poor working man being without a vote, and at last you gave him a vote—well, he’s going to use it against you! You would have cheap newspapers and free libraries for t’ working man and you got ’em for him—well, he’s done his bit o’ reading, and he’s found out ’at you Radicals are all—humbugs! Why, he’s more affection for good, old, plain Tories like me than he has for you!—he knows what we’re at, but you’re neither one thing nor t’other, Charlesworth. And in a few years he’ll shift you clear out o’ t’ arena—there’ll be no Liberal nor Radical party left, and it’ll be a straight fight between two principles—Individualism and Nationalisation. You mark me!—if you live to see it.”

“I’ll take good care nobody nationalises my business!” growled Charlesworth. “Me and mine made it, and we’ll stick to it!”

“There’s a time coming, my lad, when your consent’ll not be asked, nor your opinion taken,” said Ellerthwaite, with a cynical laugh. “It’s as I tell you—you Radical chaps sowed the wind and you’ll reap the whirlwind. I’m none surprised to hear that Master Bright’s got infected with all these new ideas—not I! It shows ’at he takes an intelligent interest in things. Happen he’ll modify his present opinions—happen he won’t. But I’ll tell you what, Charlesworth,” he concluded with a shrewd look, as he pulled out his watch, which indicated one o’clock, the hour of the club lunch, “you can make up your mind to one thing—if Bright and yon lass o’ Clough’s has made it up to wed, they’ll wed! And if Bright’s determined to go in for Socialism, he’ll none half do it! I’ve kept my eye on Bright—he’s t’ sort that’ll do a thing thoroughly if he puts his hand to it. Come on!—let’s go and peck a bit.” Charlesworth rose and followed his friend to the dining-room, where a table was always reserved for them. Usually, he had an excellent appetite, but on this occasion the events of the morning had spoiled it.