“But you’ll tell her you borrowed it?”
“Of course.”
Margaret now perceived that there was a slit in the silk of the old en-tout-cas, and this slit was allowing the rain to descend on her neat navy cap and her face. Shall I tell him? No! He would be hurt, and she would not hurt him. Why not? She just would not.
At this moment Frank Hollis, whose eyes, because of his height, were several inches above the top of the en-tout-cas, perceived the slit and the rain dripping through the opening. With a neat, delicate twirl he turned the umbrella round so that the slit halted on his side. The rain fell through on to the arm with which he held the umbrella. He did not, of course, say a word about this adjustment to Margaret. He just felt happy to spare her thus, and his brown eyes beamed.
At this moment Margaret laid a hand on the umbrella to lift it, and looked up. The glances of Margaret and Frank met. Without a word or even a smile they both knew at once the good, kind, honest motives which actuated them both. They were motives of goodwill—warm, true-hearted, affectionate goodwill towards humanity in general. Such motives are not easily found. But when found they are to be cherished. Thus at that moment, over a slit in a shabby old parasol, Margaret and Frank fell in love. Hopelessly, irretrievably in love. In love for always.
It was Easter Monday and the usual “treat” was in operation. For once the weather was fine, and the big field by the Eddle, the only piece of flat land in Moordale, as people liked to joke, was crowded with children, racing, jumping, playing, above all laughing and shouting. Frank Hollis was starting a group for the sack-race, a pistol in his hand (lent to him for the purpose by Mr Ward, Lord Mountlace’s agent); the elderly Miss Sykes was assisting parents to stuff their offsprings’ limbs into the necessary sacks, Tom Greenwood was supervising a jumping competition; Mr Firth was coping with some perplexed brown and white dairy cows in a corner, where Mr Ward was helping (supposedly) a friend of his who had come to judge them. Lord Mountlace, lean and grey-haired, in good tweeds, was rather disappointed in these cows, for he had lands on which he lived, in a softer southern county, which produced, he thought, finer cattle; he was edging away towards the sack-race, for he had grandchildren and enjoyed the tinies’ giggles. Margaret Lumb was helping the Hon. Edith Mountlace to give out an orange to every child. These oranges were piled in clothes baskets, and Margaret would have enjoyed giving out the beautiful golden globes if she had been less afraid of Miss Mountlace, who was old, odd, hunched, rather frowning and witchlike, and unsuitably clad in a huge black cape and short laced boots. Miss Mountlace was just as afraid of Margaret—“this young generation”—as Margaret was of her, so their mutual smiles were rather stiff. They were agreed, however, that the provision of oranges was inadequate.
“We need some more, dear. Two dozen at least.”
“Yes, indeed. Mr Hollis!” cried Margaret, waving towards the site of the sack-race, which had just finished.
Frank came running up. His pace was eager, and Miss Mountlace of course saw the whole thing at once. Margaret however blushed and could not manage to speak.
“We need at least thirty more oranges, Mr Hollis. Can you see that they are brought to us?”
“Of course. There are plenty in the pavilion.” He ran off.
“Oh, is that a pavilion?” said Miss Mountlace, eyeing the small shed with interest.
“It’s a cricket pavilion.”
“And who is Mr Hollis, dear?”
“He’s the head schoolmaster at the National School in Moordale. It’s up the hill where we’re all going to have tea.”
“I see,” returned Miss Mountlace rather gravely. “A nice young man.”
The arrival of the oranges prevented the need for further speech.
Hollis, however, finding himself near to Lord Mountlace looking unoccupied, nerved himself and approached him.
“Could I have a word with you, sir?”
“Of course.”
“About the water supply.”
“Ah. That’s a vexed question. I’m afraid Duckersfield are not behaving quite as one could wish.”
“It seems rather a shame,” blurted Hollis, “that here in Moordale with the land beneath one’s feet bursting with water, we should have no regular water supply and have to fetch it in jugs.”
“Most of the farms have their own spring, I believe,” said Lord Mountlace, irritated by this excessive expression. “Jugs are surely an exaggeration?”
“It’s the children,” cried Hollis at full blast. “The children in the National School. The water in the trough there is contaminated.”
“By what?”
“I don’t know. Privies higher up the hill, I expect.”
“Moordale is all hills and dales.”
“The trough water has been condemned. The children are in danger!”
“Oh, well jumped, my boy, well jumped. I was very fond of jumping when I was a lad. Well, Ward?”
“I think we are to move off towards tea now.”
“Good. By the way, Ward, what is all this fuss about the water supply? I thought you saw the Council about it long ago?”
“The Council can’t make up its own mind, that’s the trouble.”
“Well, get it fixed.”
“Where is Margaret?” said Mr Lumb crossly two months later. He always came back cross from the meetings of the Moordale R.D.C. nowadays.
“It’s her evening for her First Aid class,” replied his wife. “She’s not back yet.”
“Why is she always off to classes and such?” said Mr Lumb. “It’s unnatural. A girl like her—pretty and all that—should be playing tennis and going to dances.”
“Margaret has always been rather serious,” said Mrs Lumb.
“I don’t like it. Let’s send her off to her aunt in London for a bit—some of the bright lights, you know, might do her good.”
“Margaret is not very fond of your sister, unfortunately,” said Mrs Lumb carefully.
“I’m aware of it. I’m not very fond of her myself. But Moordale’s too small for Margaret. Get Lizzie to invite her.”
There was a pause.
“Why are you so worried about Margaret all of a sudden?” said Margaret’s mother, shrewdly.
“Well—never mind. I shouldn’t like her to marry the wrong sort of man.”
“She shows no inclination towards any young man at present.”
“Ah. Well. We may think so. Pity that young Ormerod went off and married someone else.”
“She never showed any interest in him.”
“She never tried,” said Lumb irritably.
“You can’t fall in love by trying, Philip,” said his wife. “Or out of it either. I tried hard not to fall in love with you, a textile manufacturer like everybody else, but I couldn’t manage it.”
“Well, that’s the trouble,” said Lumb, frowning, then smiling all the same. “There’s a young man on the Council—damned insulting young whippersnapper—”
“Not that gaunt schoolteacher she was talking to at the Treat?” cried Mrs Lumb in alarm.
“That very same. Prejudiced, impertinent, argumentative, conceited—he talks as if he were God.”
“Would it be a good idea for you to have a word with her? About how rude he is to you, I mean?” said Mrs Lumb, foreseeing endless family discord if the schoolteacher approached the household.
“No.”
“She’s very fond of you,” said Mrs Lumb, heroically suppressing jealousy—sons turn to mothers, daughters to fathers; it’s only fair, she thought.
“That’s why. I want her to stay so.”
“She often says she really wants to be a nurse,” ventured Mrs Lumb.
“Nonsense,” said Mr Lumb brutally. “Why should she go in for such a hard life? She’s pretty and domesticated—she should marry.”
Mrs Lumb felt disheartened. In spite of Margaret’s preference for her father, she knew her daughter’s determined spirit much better than he did.
“Philip—I think I’ll get her off to Switzerland. That school where the Ormerod girl went, you know.”
“Well, it might be a good idea,” said Mr Lumb with reluctance. “Because it’s all very well, First Aid classes and that, Alison, but the last tram from Hudley got into Moorfoot half an hour ago, so where is she now? I think she often meets him.”
In fact, his suspicions were justified. Frank Hollis and Margaret Lumb were walking arm in arm together through the rain from the Moorfoot tram terminus to Moordale Lodge, pausing at times to admire the occasional stars. They were very happy. After two or three meetings filled with hope, doubt, discouragement, despair and joy, they were beginning to feel confidence in each other’s love.
It was clear, from the crowd of people jostling amiably about the room, that the meeting would be well attended. Frank Hollis made his way towards Mr Lumb. He felt nervous and shy, but had made up his mind that he would accost Margaret’s father tonight, whatever distress it caused him.
“Good evening, Mr Lumb,” he said.
“Good evening,” said Lumb shortly. He was in a very bad mood and hardly able to speak with decent civility.
“I wondered if perhaps Mrs Lumb and your daughter, your elder daughter, would be attending tonight.”
“No.” Lumb turned to the young man a face quite ravaged by pain. “My daughter left for Switzerland this morning,” he said. “She has gone to school there for three years.”
“Three years!” exclaimed Hollis. It was a blow under which he reeled. Mr Lumb, he noticed, looked as badly as he himself felt. He turned away, almost staggering in his pain. In fact, he was right. Mr Lumb had seen his daughter off at the station that morning, and at the very last moment she had said to him hardly:
“I shall never forgive you for this, Daddy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. I don’t want to go. You know it and you make me go. I shall never forgive you.”
“You will be home for the holidays in a month or two.”
Mrs Lumb wept, and her husband spoke with vexation to her.
“I mean what I say.”
Mr Ormerod now took the chair. It had been suggested that the Councillors should sit on the platform grouped around him, but Mr Ormerod had been unusually disagreeable about this. It was difficult enough, he had said to himself, to control a meeting when the people quarrelling were in front of you and down on the floor; but if they were seated on each side of you it was impossible. Wagging your head from side to side looked too foolish, and in any case if they began to shout at the same moment—and this was precisely what Messrs Crabtree and Hollis would do, he knew it—one could only look in one direction at a time. So seated on the platform was Mr Ormerod, flanked by the Clerk to the Council, Mr Ward and the Waterworks Engineer from Duckersfield. The Medical Officer of Health was not present, but had sent a letter in his place which condemned the Moordale National School Water Supply in terms so short, cold and clear that there was really no arguing against them. Or so at least Frank Hollis thought.
Mr Ormerod arose and made a pleasant warm-hearted speech of welcome.
“I am sorry not to see more ladies present,” said he, smiling at the three farmers’ widows, who were present because they indubitably paid the rates.
“You only sent one ticket!” shouted a voice from the rear of the room at this.
Everybody laughed, and Mr Ormerod, accepting the rebuke, smiled and continued: “For it is upon them, I think, and I am sure you will agree, that the burden of an inadequate water supply chiefly falls.”
Several men exclaimed: “True! That’s right!” and everyone felt comfortably convinced of their own wisdom, in perceiving this.
Mr Ormerod read the Medical Officer of Health’s letter. It was so blunt, and scolded Moordale so severely for its long delay in providing a proper service, that everyone looked glum and fell silent. Mr Ormerod judged this a good moment to introduce Mr Ward, who had brought a large local map with him. A good deal of fuss supervened while Frank Hollis fixed this across a blackboard easel and provided Mr Ward with a pointer. Mr Ward, however, knew his employer’s lands extremely well, and if his southern accent made rather heavy work of some of the Moordale names, he knew the gradients to a foot, and showed an acquaintance with the heather, cotton grass, bogs and rough bent grass of the area which called forth several corroborating cries of “That’s right!” from his experienced hearers.
Mr Ormerod was pleased, and introduced the Waterworks Engineer. Few things are less interesting, however, than a stream of statistics presented orally. At first pleased to learn how much water each individual Moordaler consumed a day, the audience presently grew bored, yawned, even talked to their neighbours a little. Figures of mains and gallons were difficult to visualise, and cubic capacity even more so. When, however, they learned that the new proposals would bring in thirty thousand gallons each day and that the necessary reservoir need not be large or expensively constructed, they relaxed into approval and applauded the Waterworks Engineer quite heartily.
“And now for the finance,” commenced Mr Ormerod.
Mr Crabtree gave a loud and deep groan. Everybody heard it and was alarmed. Would the expense be so awful?
“Mr Chairman, I have said before and I say it again, that we ought not to rush into this heavy expense without due consideration.”
“We’ve been considering for four years, Councillor Crabtree.”
“Mr Chairman, may I speak?”
“Yes, Councillor Hollis, but please be brief.”
“Mr Chairman, we have all heard the letter of the Medical Officer of Health, in which he condemns utterly and totally the water supply to this school. Every moment the water trough remains in the yard here, Moordale children are in danger.”
“Pipe the water in the trough away somewhere, then,” said Crabtree.
“Where shall we pipe it to?”
“Nay, that’s your look-out. I don’t care.”
“Murderer!” shouted Hollis.
“I won’t stay here to be insulted,” cried Crabtree, clumsily rising.
“Councillor Hollis, you must withdraw your epithet,” said Ormerod firmly.
“I don’t feel at all inclined to.”
“That is my ruling, as chairman of this meeting,” said Ormerod. “Withdraw.”
“Shut up and sit down, Hollis,” said Lumb, exasperated.
“It’s all very well,” cried Hollis, “but none of you have children at the school. Lord Mountlace doesn’t live here; Councillor Crabtree has no children anyway; Councillor Lumb gets all the water his mill needs from lower down the Eddle. None of you know anything about the children and none of you care.”
“Could we possibly have an account of the probable expenses?” put in Greenwood in a calming tone.
“Certainly.”
Crabtree and Hollis, both wanting to hear this, resumed their seats.
The clerk detailed the finance required, concluding by saying that in the present stage of Moordale accounts, only an additional twopence would be required on each rate as paid at present.
“Twopence in the pound,” enlarged Crabtree.
“Twopence in the pound, of course,” said Mr Walsh irritably.
“I’ve heard it would be six and fourpence on every pound,” said one of the farmer’s wives with gloom.
“I am glad to be able to tell you that that is incorrect, madam,” said Ormerod.
“Let us murder a few children rather than pay six and fourpence, certainly,” threw out Hollis.
“Really, Councillor Hollis, do please modify your expressions,” urged Ormerod.
“Aye, but, Mr Chairman,” said a man rising from the back row: “Could it be true what he says, like? Mr Hollis, I mean. If a child drank summat from trough here, would it be dangerous, like?”
“It might be,” said Ormerod carefully.
“Well, then, I think as how we ought to have a piped service properly, like.”
“Hear,
hear,” came from several parts of the hall.
“All nonsense,” threw out Crabtree.
“Murderer,” said Hollis in a quiet but very distinct tone.
Crimsoning, Crabtree shouted: “I will not stay here to be insulted by a young whippersnapper.”
He rose and swiftly, in his ungainly sideways fashion, tripped from the room.
Everyone paused a moment, dismayed. Then Hollis suddenly sprang up and followed.
“After him, Tom!” cried Lumb, hauling himself up from a rather small chair. Greenwood, astonished, obeyed.
Whether Mr Lumb thought that one of the quarrelling men would attack the other, and if so which, it is impossible to tell, and probably Lumb himself did not know his own mind in the matter. But by the time Lumb and Greenwood tracked down the quarrellers in the spring dusk, Crabtree had fallen sideways into the much-discussed trough, and Hollis was either pulling him out or pushing him in. Greenwood thought the former, Lumb suspected the latter. There was a good deal of splashing and slipping in which Crabtree’s short but plump and heavy body was—except for his head, which protruded oddly—deeply imbedded in the trough; Hollis actually climbed in, stooped over his enemy and with some expenditure of muscle pushed him up and out, while the newcomers hauled on his legs. All four men were pretty well soaked when Crabtree at last stood on his own feet at the trough’s side, supported under the arms by Lumb and Greenwood.
“I thank you, gentlemen,” said Crabtree with his usual pomposity. “I was inspecting the tank when my foot slipped.” He put a hand to the top of his spine. “The trough should be covered. I understood Mr Hollis to say at an earlier meeting that the trough was covered.”
His tone was peevish and accusing as usual.
“The heavy spring rains have swollen the water till it threw off the covering board,” explained Hollis, drying his face with his handkerchief. “The paving stones around the base are green with moss and slippery. I’m not surprised you lost your footing.”
“Are you hurt?” asked Lumb impatiently.
“Bruised, I fear,” replied Crabtree with dignity.
“You have to thank Mr Hollis for saving you from drowning.”
Crabtree snorted angrily and offered no thanks.
More Tales of the West Riding Page 11
