Milner turned and began to take down his coats and caps from the back of the door.
“Don’t act so daft, Milner,” said Mrs. Schofield in a commanding tone. “Hang up them coats and have some sense. Tha’ll stay here wi’ thy mother. I lived here afore either Harry or thee were born, and it’s for me to say who’s to live here and who isn’t. Now both on you sit down, and give up shouting—you’re making t’babby cry.”
Indeed Hal, alarmed by the loud voices and his father’s angry face, was weeping bitterly. Mrs. Schofield snatched him from her son, and saying: “There, there! Did it father shout then?” marched across the room joggling the child soothingly, then unexpectedly dumped him in Milner’s arms. “Mak thysen useful, lad,” she said with a hearty cackle. Milner stood completely taken aback, clasping the child and his coats confusedly together, and mechanically patting Hal’s back. Mrs. Schofield took his coats from him and hung them on his hook, then pushed him into a chair. Milner’s eyes sought Harry’s in bewilderment.
“My mother’s right,” said Harry shortly. “It’s her home and thine, long afore it’s my childer’s.”
The crisis was over, and family feeling had triumphed. But Harry was in reality vexed by his mother’s assumption of ownership, and though he intended Milner to stay, his tone was not cordial.
Milner felt the rift between them, which had opened when Harry ceased to picket, now suddenly become a gulf so wide that his brother was hardly within hailing distance. Harry was not a trade-unionist any longer; and Harry was employed. Milner sat there, the child’s soft cheek against his own, and felt lonely, set apart, despised and rejected of men.
Next day Harry began his new work.
On the Thursday of that week Walter, as usual, went to Bradford, making the round of his clients, and trying to secure new ones.
A manufacturer in one of the outlying districts, who had hitherto remained obdurate to his weekly pleadings—he was a customer of Lumb’s for a certain amount of pieces—remarked to him casually: “I hear they’re having a bit of trouble with their men, at Lumb’s?”
“Yes, so I hear. It was before the holidays, I think,” said Walter pleasantly. He was tired of this piece of gossip, which had gone the rounds all summer, for he still disliked to talk of Arnold Lumb; but he always made himself agreeable to prospective customers.
“Is it settled now, then?” enquired the manufacturer.
“Settled? Oh, no,” said Walter, making conversation. “The men have left—I’ve got one or two myself.”
The moment the words had passed his lips he could have bitten his tongue out for saying them. Their implication—that Arnold had lost his experienced workmen, who had turned out good work for his customers for years, and that Walter had thought those experienced workmen sufficiently important to secure them to work for him—was about the most damaging thing to Messrs. Lumb’s trade which he could very well have uttered. And it would go all over the West Riding—such gossip always did. He crimsoned, and said hastily: “Only one or two.”
The manufacturer looked at him curiously. He had understood the implications of Walter’s remark well enough, and he thought that Walter’s later confusion, his attempt to minimise the effect of what he had said, arose from a decent desire to play the game, and not hurt his former employer by unfair means—everyone knew that Walter was honest old Dyson Haigh’s son, and as he was engaged to Henry Clay Crosland’s grand-daughter now, he must be a very decent and able young fellow.
For that very reason the manufacturer discounted the attempt to minimise, and thought the original remark had probably held more truth. At any rate, there was no harm in trying. Good work was good work, and sentiment mustn’t be allowed to interfere with it; and Lumb’s work had gone off badly just before Wakes; indeed, that was the cause of his original remark to Walter. He had attributed the deterioration to the natural disorganisation of the summer months, with the Wakes and one thing and another, and the work had been improving again lately, he thought. But if Lumb’s had lost all their best men to Heights, he might have to send his cloth there instead of to Valley Mill.
“Well, you might do a pattern or two for me, to try, and we’ll see how you go on with them,” he said thoughtfully to Walter, after a pause; and led the way into his warehouse to show the kind of finish required.
Walter, between elation and shame, took out his pencil and noted the order.
Scene 8. A Rich Man Marries
IT WAS Walter’s wedding day; the bridal pair stood at the altar of Clay Green Church, taking their vows. Rosamond, from her position in the last pair of Elaine’s six bridesmaids, watched the proceedings in acute suspense.
It was not the external arrangements of the ceremony which were causing her anxiety. The weather, calm and warm, was all that could be desired of an English June; brilliant sunshine now gleamed on the rich creamy folds of Elaine’s satin wedding-dress, and deepened the delicate blue of the bridesmaids’ ninon. The little grey old church, decorated with delphiniums and roses from the Clay Hall grounds, and packed with the most handsome and well-dressed section of youthful West Riding society in gala attire, looked charming. The white and silver hymn sheets had been specially designed, as had the wedding invitations, by a London firm; they were both “new” and æsthetically attractive. Mrs. Haigh, though intensely nervous in her anxiety not to do Walter discredit, had a certain dignity of her own which sprang from her complete unconsciousness of herself; she looked well in her wedding garments of thin navy blue, held her bouquet rather too firmly but without fuss, and was not weeping as her daughter had feared. Dyson, who still lingered in life, was not of course present, but Walter had visited him that morning to receive his blessing, and the old man now had a nurse in almost constant attendance; Rosamond was not worried more than usual about her father. The wedding service, fully choral in character, was tuneful and pleasing; the words of the liturgy, whether one took the religious view of the matter or not, were designed to strike a noble chord of faith and love in everybody’s heart. But were they striking that chord in Elaine’s heart? It was her uncertainty on this vital point which caused Rosamond the anxiety she masked behind a suitably “wedding” smile.
During the eight or nine months of Walter’s engagement, Rosamond had naturally been brought into some intimacy with the inmates of Clay Hall. It would be idle to deny that the difference between Elaine’s parentage and upbringing, and Walter’s, caused the engaged couple, now that their families were inevitably brought into contact, some uneasiness and distress; and Rosamond, while she despised Elaine for making Walter feel this, and Walter for feeling it, was yet sorry for them both, and tried to ease the situation as much as she could; and Walter began to find his sister an asset in his struggle to keep himself admirable in Elaine’s eyes and often took her with him on Clay Hall excursions. Rosamond was better educated than any of the Croslands, she had a good accent, her performances with the Harlequins had—as he found to his surprise—given her a certain local celebrity; moreover, she didn’t care twopence whether Elaine’s clique admired her or not, and this, as Walter wistfully perceived, gave her strength in her dealings with them. Then too, Henry Clay Crosland luckily took a fancy to Rosamond, and the liking was mutual. They often withdrew happily together to Mr. Crosland’s study, examined old tomes on the history and topography of the West Riding, and discussed interesting examples of local dialect survivals. No, there was nothing Walter need be ashamed of in Rosamond; even her post at the Hudley High School could be explained as an act of devotion to her parents, and Walter did so explain it, skilfully implying that other posts of real brilliance, as brilliance was understood at Clay Hall, awaited her the moment she chose to take them. Rosamond was angry when she discovered this lying exaggeration of a truth by her brother, and took several opportunities of declaring firmly (and truthfully) that the Hudley High School was a splendid and important institution, and that she loved her work there; but the Clay Hall circle put this down to magnanimity on her part, a
nd did not believe her. Her life, her work, her ways of thought, were indeed all so remote from the life of Elaine’s friends that to them they seemed extraordinary, abnormal; they put her down as an eccentric, and to an eccentric much may be forgiven. Elaine herself was not easy with Rosamond. She had a clearer perception of Rosamond’s qualities than Walter, and was relieved to find that her lover had at least one relative who, so to speak, was on the grand scale—it made his own qualities seem surer, less the result of chance. But she was also jealous of Rosamond’s influence over Walter (and would often show her power over Walter in Rosamond’s presence, to flout this influence), and impatiently aware of Rosamond’s disapproval of herself. Though she was not conscious of the wish, she really desired Rosamond’s approval passionately, as she desired that of everybody stronger than herself, everybody she could admire; sometimes Rosamond gave it, and then Elaine basked in her presence like a child, behaving so prettily, so sweetly, that Rosamond felt warmly affectionate to her, and understood her brother’s infatuation. But sometimes Rosamond withheld her approval, looked indifferent or even scornful, and then Elaine raged, and poor Walter, quite ignorant of the cause of his love’s vexation, suffered. And the worst of it was, from Elaine’s point of view, that she never knew when Rosamond would approve and when she wouldn’t; their standards, their codes, were so remote from each other—in fact, Rosamond’s ideas were so preposterous, thought Elaine angrily—that one could never guess in advance how she would take anything. Rosamond on her side perceived the fundamental uneasiness of Elaine’s personality, without quite understanding from what it proceeded; like Walter, she was unable to believe that a girl endowed with such advantages of mind and person as was Elaine, could really require reassurance. Yet Rosamond saw that Elaine constantly required some response from Walter which he did not seem always able to give to her satisfaction—for it was only when Elaine believed in Walter’s strength that his praise satisfied her—and she doubted how marriage on such terms could succeed, saw that Elaine too doubted, and dreaded disillusion and disappointment for her brother. Many times during the past months she had been the unwilling witness of lovers’ quarrels—or rather, of bitter attacks on her brother by Elaine and Walter’s inadequate replies—which might easily, it seemed to her, be the prelude to a breaking of the engagement; and even now that this had actually survived intact to the wedding-day, she was not sure that it would survive till marriage.
The morning had been extremely uncomfortable. Rosamond, arriving at Clay Hall with her mother in good time, having dressed at home as had been arranged, found herself in an atmosphere of acute nervous tension as soon as she entered the gates—the very gardeners were agitated, for Elaine had expressed dissatisfaction with the flowers decorating the large marquee on the lawn; and the chauffeur, who was discussing traffic arrangements with the local policeman, wore a look of gloom. Ralph, who had come home on special leave from school to be present at his sister’s wedding, wandered nervously about the house, trying to be helpful, and getting in everybody’s way; Henry Clay Crosland, looking upset and worn, greeted his young friend absent-mindedly. As soon as Rosamond went upstairs she understood the reason for all this, for Elaine was in an abominable temper. She declared that all the bridesmaids’ frocks were horrible, told Rosamond that the angle of her large hat was all wrong, peevishly pulled the brim down with her own fingers, then apologised for touching her future sister-in-law with such cold hauteur that even Rosamond felt wounded, though she had long ago made up her mind not to resent what Elaine said or did, their standards being so different that she could not measure Elaine’s intention by her acts. While her bride’s dress was being put upon her, Elaine twice burst into angry tears over some tiny alleged deficiency, so that everybody in the house began to feel real anxiety at such continued ill-humour on her wedding day. Her tears served to soften and so increase her beauty, however, and when she was at last attired in the conventional wedding garb, with an immensely long satin train, rose-lined, a veil of valuable old lace and some charmingly contrived artificial orange-blossom, her appearance was positively dazzling. Mrs. Haigh, entering the room at this juncture to view the bride, exclaimed at once, her dark eyes beaming: “How lovely you look, love!” and forthwith kissed her. Elaine pouted under this unexpected embrace, and promptly rearranged her hair and her complexion, but in spite of these signs of annoyance her lovely face cleared and became more serene—“she needs only admiration to make her happy,” thought Rosamond with some bitterness. It was partly true; but to do Elaine justice, she had also felt in Mrs. Haigh that warm trustful love which made her happy in Walter, remembered moments of joy she had spent with her lover, and was for the moment soothed and hopeful. But her nervous tension was such that she could not relax for long, and Rosamond had viewed with alarm, when they met again at the church door after driving thither in separate cars, the angry resentment of Elaine’s pointed little face, the storm in her brilliant grey eyes. The hand which Elaine laid on her grandfather’s arm, as they moved up the aisle together behind the choir, trembled piteously; her responses now were inaudible far beyond the point considered becoming in a bride. Rosamond, in an anguish lest Elaine should suddenly burst into tears, flee from the church, or otherwise humiliate Walter beyond repair, wondered, with compassion, what was going on in the young girl’s mind; whether she dreaded marriage, or was not sure of her love for Walter; or whether it was simply that the occasion bore overpoweringly on her nerves and this petulance was her method of expressing her discomfort. Rosamond had sometimes, in her fear of what marriage to Elaine might hold for Walter, almost wished that their engagement might be broken; but now she felt that if only the marriage could be performed in safety and decorum, she would never worry about anything again. Walter, she suspected—who looked extremely pale though very handsome—was probably feeling much as she did, for his responses had a defiant, urgent ring; while Henry Clay Crosland, Elaine’s mother, and Ralph, had tensity in the very line of their necks and shoulders, which was all Rosamond could see of them at the moment.
At this moment the officiating clergyman—a dean, Henry Clay Crosland’s cousin—pronounced Walter and Elaine man and wife.
Rosamond could hardly repress the sigh of relief which came to her lips, and it seemed to her that a similar emanation was breathed by all the intimates of the married couple, and hung like a friendly benediction over their heads. The vicar of Clay Green now drew the pair nearer the altar, and delivered them a sound homily on the duties of wedlock which revealed a considerable knowledge of their habits, and excited smiles in those who knew Walter and Elaine sufficiently well to appreciate this. The tension relaxed, a hymn was sung, everybody wept a little and felt sentimental and jolly. In another moment the party was in the vestry, the register signed and the marriage completed; everybody kissed Elaine and told her that she was the most beautiful bride they had ever seen—which was probably true, for indeed she looked exquisitely lovely—and her wedding the most charming they had ever attended. Elaine, deliciously surprised—she had thought that the whole thing was a disaster and that everybody was laughing at her—actually blushed with pleasure, while her heart thudded with relief. The Dean told a guest, in Elaine’s hearing, that it gave him immense pleasure to marry such a handsome young couple; the newly wedded pair exchanged a swift glance, and each read in the other’s eyes the assurance that they did indeed deserve the epithet. Suddenly Elaine was in the highest spirits; she was married, and married long before most of her contemporaries, married in this fashionable and successful way, with all her friends and her family about her, married to a husband she could be proud of, a young and handsome and adoring husband. Dear Walter! She swam down the aisle on his arm, to the stimulating strains of Mendelssohn’s wedding march, in a rapture; was delighted by the size of the crowd—of Clay Green villagers, Hudley well-wishers, and employees at Heights and Clay Mills, who had not been able to find places in the tiny church—which now thronged the gate to watch for her; submitted to the sh
ower of confetti and rose-leaves with a charming grace, and drove off at her husband’s side in triumph. And Walter’s passionate kiss, as they entered the shelter of the rhododendrons of the Clay Hall drive, though she protested against it as undignified, assured her quivering heart that she was indeed adorable and indeed adored.
It was delightful to return to Clay Hall after such a successful wedding, delightful to receive the congratulations of the staff, who (in their relief that after all it had gone off without a hitch) beamed upon her so kindly; delightfully flattering to have her photograph taken, not only by the firm whom the Croslands had themselves engaged and by the Hudley News, as Elaine had expected, but also by Yorkshire Post and Yorkshire Observer representatives, showing that one’s wedding was really important. (Photographers were always nice to Elaine, indeed a smile of joy overspread their faces as soon as they saw her supremely “takeable” and charming person.) It was delightful to stand at Walter’s side in the middle of the huge marquee, with one’s train swirling in lovely shimmering curves on the square of red carpet, and be greeted with admiring congratulations by every soul one knew. “Have you seen our lovely presents?” said Elaine happily to each of the three hundred guests, in her high soft little tones. “They’re in the house. Oh, you must see our lovely presents.” (They were, indeed, a quite staggeringly rich, handsome and well-chosen collection.) Elaine found, too, a quick, clever, softly malicious reply for all the jokes which relatives think necessary at weddings, and enjoyed their admiring disconcertment. Young Anstey approached; as he imagined that some people imagined he had been in love with Elaine before Walter’s appearance on the scene, he was a little nervous, and particularly anxious to carry off the day in a light-hearted and sparkling manner, to show that he didn’t care who her husband was, and Elaine for the same reason felt particularly anxious to be very sparkling with him. They both, therefore, in the manner of the period, in self-defence plunged boldly into the subjects which they might be supposed to wish to avoid, and said the very things which a previous generation would have abstained from saying at all costs.
A Modern Tragedy Page 27
