The years rolled on. Simon lived a life of impeccable integrity; prospered in his work; saved money; bought some cottage property in Marthwaite which proved a good investment. He was a devoted and considerate husband, a kind and helpful uncle—pity he had no children—a most capable secretary and treasurer to various Ire Valley good works he undertook.
All this time, Simon kept his secret. For a few weeks after the moor murders, local discussion raged and diverse and extraordinary theories were propounded, some of them uncomfortable to Simon; but as the months passed the matter grew stale, and presently new generations grew up who had scarcely heard of the event. The strain of the secret aged Simon before his time. His shoulders bowed, his thin hair whitened, his mouth set in a hard line. But he remained a respected figure, and steadily kept his secret from his wife.
The day came when Simon had a stroke. It happened when he was out on the moor with an Oldroyd shooting party. Brigg Oldroyd’s son Francis was an excellent shot, and followed his own notions with the impetuosity of youth. Simon’s advice had previously kept the shooting butts away from the place of Wilfred’s death, but young Mr Francis had demanded that butts should be aligned within twenty yards of that fatal hollow. The position he chose was a good one and Simon could not oppose it, he felt, without displaying an undue sensitivity. He superintended the butts’ erection with his customary cold efficiency, but when the first shot rang out from them he fell to the ground.
He found himself in bed in his own home, with the doctor just turning away and Alice and Emily seated at his bedside. From the gravity of their expressions and his own sensations (or lack of them) he perceived at once that he was a dying man. He fixed his eyes on Emily with intense yearning.
“I must be alone with Simon, Alice,” murmured Emily. “Leave us together.”
Alice bowed her head and left the room.
Yes, he was dying, reflected Simon. Pity. Yet, in a way, he was relieved. In a few minutes his life would be over, and he would have succeeded in his great aim: he would have kept his secret to the end. No longer must he maintain his incessant watch and ward. He felt himself slipping towards the dark. Yes, it was a relief, his success. Emily would now never know. The long struggle was over. He moved his lips to make the motion of a kiss. Emily bent over him. But she did not yield him an embrace. Her eyes were hard and burning.
“I know your secret, Simon,” she murmured. “I’ve always known.”
Simon gazed at her in awful horror.
“How—how—”
“In the court, when you told the magistrates I was trying to teach Wilfred to read. You couldn’t have known that unless you’d seen him that afternoon. We’d kept all that bother about his reading, from you. I told him, when he went out to look for you, he’d better make a clean breast of it.”
“Then why—why—”
“Why didn’t I tell on you? I owed you silence, Simon, for marrying me and giving Wilfred a name.”
“Emily—”
“I shall never tell on you, Simon, never. But I shall never forgive you.”
Simon looked at her lovingly, and smiled, and died.
He smiled with joy. He could still think well of himself, since Emily did not know his secret. For it was not, in fact, a patch of oil which had caused Harry to fall, all those long years ago. Simon with a well-placed foot had tripped his cousin.
Cruel as the Grave
1880
It all became clear to me later, as you will see, that there was a deep cause of stress, an emotion indestructible, whether hostile or friendly or both, between the two men, before this story opens. One of the people who knew it told me the whole thing at last. But this happened only very recently. Even then I had to rely chiefly on my long knowledge of those concerned, derived simply from living with them for many years. From these sources, once given the major clue, I have devised, deduced, guessed, whichever you prefer, some of the incidents which so fatally directed the story’s course.
Certainly my knowledge came scarcely at all from anything my mother vouchsafed on the subject to me. In my experience emotions in the previous generation always strike the following generation as either incredible or obscene. So my mother was not likely to embark upon this matter with her daughter, even if she knew it. But indeed, as you will see, she did not know it; half a lifetime was devoted to keeping her in ignorance.
I might have heard the story from my grandmother, Hannah, if she had known it and if I had known her in her younger days. But I am sure that more than half a lifetime had been devoted to concealing it from her. And in any case I knew her only in her old age; in black silk dress and shawl, carrying on her thick faded red hair one of those lace caps decked with ribbon bows which were the correct wear for old ladies at that time—my grandmother was very particular about the cut and elegance of these caps, which were accordingly the bane of my mother’s existence, for she had to make them—and also, presently, of mine, for the same reason.
Many grandmothers, I am told, are very confidential with their grandchildren. Mine was not. In fact, she was something of a terror to us. She had all the vehement temper, the fierce determination, the knowledge that she was Right, which belong to all that side of our family, together with the red hair, the blue eyes, the brilliant complexion. My great-uncle Joshua Milner, who was her brother, had them all too—only, of course, stronger because he was a man.
So though anything that had passed between my great-uncle Joshua Milner and my grandfather Thomas Hallam in their early days may or may not have been known to my mother and grandmother, it certainly was not passed on to me. All my mother told me was that my great-uncle Joshua was rich, owned a large mill, was married in second wedlock to a very handsome woman, great-aunt Ada—who though as handsome as a gipsy was unfortunately not quite what in those late Victorian times was called a lady—and that the pair had a beautiful daughter, Kate, who inherited her father’s temper and her mother’s long rich dark hair and brilliant dark eyes. Great-uncle Joshua adored his daughter; his wealth was made for her. (His first marriage had been disastrous in respect of children; two miscarriages and an early death.)
My grandfather Thomas Hallam, on the contrary, was one of those deceptively mild men who never shout or make scenes, but as life progresses are found to have natures as firm and unyielding as the millstone-grit of their own Pennines. He too had a beautiful daughter—my mother; whom in his turn he adored. For his Lucy, with her glorious chestnut hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, deliciously small and well shaped body, nothing was too good.
My grandfather’s antecedents were unknown in the West Riding; he first impinged on the public consciousness, so to speak, when he suddenly appeared as the “representative” and presently “acting manager” of Messrs Joshua Milner. He was regarded then as an up and coming young man with pleasant manners, but not too soft for his own good, and when he courted and presently married Joshua’s sister, Ada, who was several years older than himself, the match was thought very suitable, advantageous to Hallam in the worldly sense but not so much so as to excite severe comment. He bought presently a house, Number 3 Hill Road, on the slope of the hill above Joshua’s substantial and always increasing mill, and lived there apparently happily with a rather fierce though loyal and handsome wife and his real beauty of a little daughter, my mother Lucy.
Thomas Hallam was a good salesman. Honest but agreeable, he knew nothing of cloth when he arrived in the West Riding, people said, but after all Joshua Milner knew everything about cloth, and Hallam soon learned. In top hat, morning coat and lemon kid gloves, then the customary attire to do business in London, his Dundreary whiskers well brushed, his smile pleasant, his word reliable, he often made customers in the metropolis. All this was common knowledge, open to all, and that there were sometimes tiffs between the two men on details of management was no doubt also fairly well known in Annotsfield—but not much regarded, for in the West Riding men were apt to speak their minds. There was a story for instance that once on H
allam’s return from the capital Joshua shouted at him in such fury about the prices he had accepted that Hallam urged him to conduct the rest of the interview in Joshua’s mansion, which, as was so often the case in those days, stood just to one side of the mill.
“No reason for all Annotsfield to hear our prices,” said Hallam mildly.
“That’s right,” agreed Joshua. “You’ve some sense, Tom,” and he led the way across the mill yard, where several men stood grinning, enjoying the scene. But he spoke grudgingly, and when he reached his own dining room in Milne Thorpe where a large round table stood laden with all the eatables for a Yorkshire high tea—ham and jam, scones and buttered toast and cake darkly heavy with fruit—observing that his wife had set an extra cup for his brother-in-law, his anger exploded. Seizing the edge of the table in his strong hands, he raised it with a sharp pull and tilted it. Everything at once slid off the table with a resounding crash.
“What will you do next, you daft fool!” shouted Ada.
Hallam, however, nimbly stepping round the table, retrieved the huge silver teapot as it fell and placed it in safety. It was hot, of course.
“Burned your hands, Tom?” enquired Joshua, laughing.
“Somewhat,” returned Hallam in his usual mild tone, drawing out his spotless handkerchief to mop up the liquid which stained his clothes.
This incident—which, as I say, many people in Annotsfield doubtless knew and chuckled over, for the workmen knew it and would of course gossip—might give a hint of an uneasy relationship between the brothers-in-law. But only a hint, for it ended in a hearty snort of laughter from Joshua, a cool smile from Hallam. Only now do I know that such an unease very definitely existed, that from its nature it was indestructible, and that it was exasperated by the unconscious rivalry which materialised between their respective wives about their daughters, Lucy being just over a year younger than Kate.
In their early days, the little girls played together happily. They ran headlong about the mill yard, they chased their highly coloured rubber playing-balls, they skipped, they fell off walls and wept together over the resulting holes in their petticoats which both their mothers strongly deprecated; Mrs Hallam because she mended them, Mrs Milner because she didn’t. Sometimes, as little girls will, they acted weddings at which each played a variety of the known parts. On November 5th, and at Christmas time, the girls actually roasted potatoes and chestnuts in the great mill boilers, crying out with excitement and fright when the doors were pushed back and they saw the huge red-hot fires stretching away within. For of course the mill workers doted on the pretty little pair, played with them, joked with them, spoiled them—sometimes; sometimes they resented some sharp word carelessly spoken, some arrogance of command from Kate.
“Like your father, you are,” they grumbled.
“Aye! Like as two peas. Temper to match.”
But as soon as the children began to go to school differences began to emerge. Kate disliked school and was bored by lessons. Lucy rather liked them. Perhaps Lucy was sharper in mind than Kate? She read earlier than Kate, and spelled better and wrote more neatly. In those days red hair was a joke. The pupils at the little one-teacher school down the road teased Lucy about her blazing mane. Soon it was established that Kate was the beautiful girl, Lucy the clever one. Both children unknowingly resented this division, but each was proud of her own distinction. Red hair was an act of God and nothing could be done about it, but perhaps Lucy’s home environment showed more intelligence than the Milners’. Hallam, it appeared, had a good deal of taste, and he did not waste his time in London. He often brought gifts home for his darling little Lucy. A frock, a sealskin cap, a sash, a pair of wooden skates, a book.
Then the really awful thing happened. Hallam actually proposed to send his Lucy away to a boarding-school near York, of which he had heard good reports. (It was reputed to be very elegant in tone, and employed a music master.) Joshua of course thought this silly, high-flown, not to say la-di-da, but wondered uncomfortably whether he should send Kate. His wife screamed when she heard of this.
“What good would it do Kate, for heaven’s sake?” she cried. “Kate will get married without music lessons.”
“Aye, she will. You’ll rue, Tom,” said Joshua in an almost kindly tone. “What will the child grow up like, eh?”
“But why not send Kate as well? At the same time as Lucy? Together, you know, they wouldn’t feel so lonely.”
“Kate’ll never be lonely, with her looks,” said Joshua with conviction.
“At least ask her,” urged Hallam.
Kate floating past the bay window at the moment accompanied by two personable young men, her father threw up the sash and called to her.
“Kate, would you like to go to this smart school near York, with Lucy?” he shouted.
An expression of strong distaste crossed Kate’s beautiful face.
“School!” she cried in scornful capitals. “No, thank you!”
“Well, there you are, you see,” said Joshua with satisfaction, lowering the window.
Lucy accordingly went to boarding-school alone.
A few weeks after she had left home Joshua, meeting Hallam by chance in the handsome warehouse which Milners had built in Annotsfield, said to him:
“So Lucy’s bound to learn music, I hear?”
“And French,” added Hallam, not without pride.
“I don’t know how you’re going to pay for all this out of your salary, Tom,” said Joshua.
There was a pause. Perhaps Hallam allowed time for a brotherly offer of an increase? None came. So, with a steady look at his brother-in-law, he said quietly:
“We shall manage.”
The Hallams not only managed. At the end of her first term Lucy had made quite a little progress in the musical art; so—
“Have you heard?” shouted Ada to her husband. “He’s bought her a piano!”
“Never!”
“He has. It’s only an upright, however; that’s what your sister says. You go straight down to Annotsfield and buy us a grand.”
“What’s a grand? What’s an upright?”
“Never mind. They’ll tell you at shop, soon enough. I’m not going to see our Kate done down by our own commercial traveller, I can tell you.”
The grand was duly installed.
Thus was the rivalry as it were cemented. And now a worse feature of it developed. Hallam often brought ladies’ magazines, dress patterns, light fabrics, made-up garments, home; the magazines showed fashion pictures, Lucy met fashion at school; so she often appeared in Annotsfield quite elegantly attired. The bitterness was that after she had worn a well-designed cotton frock, Kate at the next party appeared in the same dress—in silk.
A popular entertainment at that time was the Penny Reading, sponsored and organised by the various Sunday schools of the time to give their young people something harmless but lively to do. Members of both sexes sang, played, recited, took buns and tea. Lucy played on the piano and sang, in her sweet but thin little voice, the sentimental tunes of the time—I Stood on the Bridge at Midnight and I Shot An Arrow into the Air were particular favourites—while Kate giggled in a front seat. For outwardly, of course, Lucy and Kate were still great friends.
At these Readings Kate was always well attended by young men. She was beautiful, she was well dressed, she was not too serious, she could pick up a joke and snap out a reply which made the speaker feel witty, her father was comfortably rich. So, she was a suitable match for any textile young man. It was at one of these Readings—one-penny admission—that the encounter between the pair took place.
Ben Clough was undoubtedly the matrimonial catch of Annotsfield. His ancestors had been clothiers for some three hundred years, progressing from a single loom in a many-windowed weaver’s cottage to the massive mill buildings in the valley, known not only in Annotsfield but all over the world, which produced hundreds of thousands of yards of fine worsted cloth every year, and sold them. Ben had a tough old gra
ndfather who knew everything about textiles, a handsome rakish father (rarely seen in Annotsfield) who was rumoured to be too fond of wine and women, a stiff mother of great propriety. Ben himself was not particularly good-looking; rather stocky and sturdy than tall, he had a solid determined face, pleasant enough if you didn’t cross him; not attracted by any of the arts, he was yet generally reputed to be no fool. His temper was nothing like as bad as Joshua’s, his impulses on the whole were kindly and certainly not mean if you took him the right way; he didn’t talk too much, but what he said was always practical. Kate liked him. She met him at a Reading and then at several Readings and at chapel, and at one or two private parties. Seeing how things were going, and pleased by the prospect of such a desirable son-in-law, Joshua urged his wife to give private parties of her own. The rooms in the Milne Thorpe house were large. The Milners rolled up the carpets, pushed back the furniture in one room, set up a very lavish buffet supper in the other, and invited all Kate’s young friends by word of mouth. Lucy, with various others similarly qualified, chiefly elderlies, of course, played for the dancing. (Many, I have been told, could play a waltz or a polka; but Lucy, wonderful to relate, could provide a whole set of lancers.)
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