The Rise of Henry Morcar

by Phyllis Bentley

  “There’s no need to make a song and dance about it, my dear,” he said drily at length, without looking up at her. “After all, it’s not the first time.”

  The waiter now appeared expectantly at Harington’s elbow. A handsome lad of some southern nation, he displeased Harington by tapping his order pad with his pencil.

  “Don’t do that,” said the barrister, with an irritable gesture which knocked the pencil from the boy’s hand to the floor. This result was probably unintended, for Harington flushed, but his irritation was not calmed by shame for his bad temper, but rather heightened.

  “You’re not the man I usually have,” he drawled. “Where is Morelli?”

  “Pardon—this is my table, that is his,” explained the boy, smiling and waving. He added helpfully: “The sole is off.”

  “I haven’t ordered it yet,” snapped Harington. “Well, what is there to eat to-day?”

  As the menu consisted of a card about twelve inches long and eight inches wide, closely written in smudged purple ink, the question was a large one, and Morcar was not surprised that the boy seemed perplexed how to answer.

  “There are oysters,” he began in a conscientious effort to please: “Hors d’œuvres. Smoked salmon. Minestrone. Ravioli.” His stubby forefinger indicated these items on the card. Harington shook the menu to dislodge the finger, but the well-meaning boy persisted in his indications. Suddenly Harington, colouring violently, snatched a fork and aimed a jab at the intruding hand. He missed, of course; but to stab at a young waiter with a fork! A fork! Upon my soul, a fork, thought Morcar, horrified. Nasmyth, colouring, began a rapid three-cornered conversation with Christina and his client—on the weather, plays, films, anything. They tried to keep it up, but the inquisition inexorably proceeding in the background beat down their feeble efforts into silence.

  “What else is there?”

  “The salmi of game is best. Or the risotto.”

  “Answer my question. What else is there?”

  “That is the best, the salmi, that is what I recommend you to ’ave.”

  “I ask you a question and you don’t answer it. What else is there?”

  Perspiring in his anguished wrestle with an unfamiliar language, the wretched boy wailed: “The sole is off.”

  “He means: Only the sole is off, the rest are all available, Edward,” murmured Christina softly.

  “Kindly allow me to give the order myself, my dear,” said Harington, colouring with anger, so that even his bald forehead grew pink. “I am perfectly competent, I assure you. Now, boy!”

  “It is late, and the fish is off,” almost wept the waiter, turning in an instant from a sophisticated servant into a crumpled schoolboy just promoted.

  “Oh, go away and send me someone who understands the language!” cried Harington in a false-friendly tone, with a large gesture of rejection.

  “There is all, all it says there, sir, only the sole is off.”

  “Oh, clear out! Hop it! Go away!” shouted Harington, slamming the menu so viciously on the table that plates bounced and cutlery flew. Everyone in the room looked round; the head waiter rushed up, and with an angry glance shooed the unhappy boy in disgrace away from the table. Bowing obsequiously and drawing an order pad from his coat-tail pocket, in a trice he collected orders from all four guests. He withdrew; service of the meal began almost immediately.

  “Incompetent ass! Stupid donkey! Impertinent jackanapes!” said Harington in his mellow tones. He was now pale, almost livid, with rage; his mouth was compressed to a vicious line; his pale eyes shone with hate. “This place has deteriorated, my dear Christina; we mustn’t come here any more. I know you have always liked it, and indeed it used to be quite good, quite a decent little place, but we mustn’t come here again. My dear Mr. Morcar, my dear Nasmyth, I apologise. Pray accept my apologies; I’m exceedingly sorry. Remember, Christina, we mustn’t bring guests here again. Of course we were rather late in ordering, as that little numskull said.”

  During this scene Morcar sat sideways to the table, smoking, smiling a little in a non-committal way, looking down, lounging in an easy posture which he only maintained by a strong muscular compulsion. His impulse was to drive his fist savagely into Harington’s hateful face, knock him flying among the crockery, then seize Christina and Nasmyth in an iron grip and march them out of the restaurant before him. He had observed already that Christina, like himself, sat very still; her stillness, it struck him now, was almost deathly, hypnotised. Even her lovely breast seemed motionless. At the barrister’s last sentence, a glancing insult towards herself, Morcar looked at her quickly. Her delicate mouth was curved in an imploring, frightened smile; her blue eyes, tear-filled, like flowers in rain, were fixed on her husband in an expression of helpless anguish. Morcar’s heart turned over, and he took action.

  “It must be very difficult for you to grasp the intricacies of an unknown manufacture, Mr. Harington,” he said. “And yet I suppose you do it continually for professional purposes?”

  “Oh yes, continually, continually,” responded Harington in an offhand tone. “One can always mug it up in books, you know. These things are not—excuse my saying this, my dear fellow—these things are not such esoteric mysteries as their practitioners like to pretend. I daresay, you know”—he gave a false little laugh—“that you would find me quite capable of understanding wool textiles, if you tried me.”

  “So that is what he wants,” thought Morcar. “I shall take you up on that,” he said aloud jovially. “Now when you were advising me just now——”

  He proceeded to give a succinct account of the textile trade in the West Riding as it was then organised, with a sketch of the main types of fabric manufactured. Harington, he saw, followed him closely, putting shrewd questions from time to time. “He’s clever enough, damn him,” thought Morcar. He was rewarded for his effort, however, by seeing Christina’s lovely face relax. She smiled sweetly, kindly, gratefully, at Morcar. By the time the party reached coffee, they were all (outwardly) excellent friends.

  It now appeared that Harington had obtained as much information as he needed out of Morcar, for he dropped his questions suddenly, turned the talk to amusing legal anecdotes and glided off into a discussion of mutual legal and college acquaintances with Nasmyth. As he turned to the lawyer he gave his wife a swift compelling glance and a frown, which as clearly as words commanded her to forget her stupid shyness, entertain Morcar and charm him well. Accordingly Christina turned to Morcar and proceeded to flatter him in the usual way, by asking him questions about himself and expressing great interest in the answers. It was a charming performance if rather strained, thought Morcar, admiring in detached fashion her eager look, her expressive graceful gestures, but it was quite factitious; somehow he wanted more from her than that. So he said abruptly:

  “I’m not a very interesting person, Mrs. Harington. I should prefer to talk about your own chief interests in life.”

  Christina’s face changed. She smiled, a delicate colour rose to her cheek, her blue eyes widened. It was as though the sun came out above a classic statue. She hesitated, gave a soft laugh, then plunged the hand bearing the sapphire ring into her monogrammed black handbag. The trifles within were expensive, silver-mounted, elegant, observed Morcar, retrieving some of these as they were falling. Christina disregarded them, drew out a soft black leather folder and opened it triumphantly.

  “My children,” she said.

  A pang went through Morcar as he took the leather case. On one side was a studio portrait of a boy in his early teens, fair and candid, with curly hair, his father’s plump face redeemed by Christina’s eyes. The other photograph fitted sideways into the case. It showed a child, a little girl curled up on a settee, reading intently. Her short fair hair hung page-boy fashion in a thick smooth bell. Her face was grave, clear and handsome; her absorption in the book was real and touching. The Talisman, read Morcar upside down. The photograph was a triumph as regards texture; the child’s hair, her bare k
nees, her socks and shoes, her check cotton frock, were remarkably rendered.

  “Edwin and Jennifer,” murmured Christina. “My husband took the snap of Jenny and enlarged it. Photography is his hobby.”

  “Showing your offsprings’ photographs?” broke in Harington’s irritable resonant tones. “My dear Christina! What will Morcar think of you? It’s too too naïve, too shy-making!”

  “They’re very handsome children,” said Morcar truthfully. He glanced up to offer this compliment to his host, and for the first time saw Harington look simple, eager, pleasant. Responding to this changed expression, Morcar asked with interest: “How old are they?”

  “Twelve and eleven.”

  “The boy looks older. You must have been married very young!” exclaimed Morcar involuntarily to Christina.

  “She was seventeen,” said Harington. His voice still held the pride, the pleased surprise, which his triumph long ago had caused him. At that moment it was clear that, in spite of any appearance to the contrary, he loved his wife and rejoiced in her beauty. “A war marriage.”

  “They’re beautiful children,” repeated Morcar, gazing at the portraits.

  “You have children, Mr. Morcar?” said Christina in her soft hesitant voice.

  “No,” said Morcar shortly. He closed and returned the folder.

  “Well, I’m afraid I must be off to catch my train,” intervened Nasmyth tactfully. “If that clock is correct.”

  “Our auction, Edward!” cried Christina. She caught up her furs and drew them carelessly about her; the result, as Morcar admiringly observed, was one of modish elegance.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we’ve run it rather close,” agreed Harington, imperiously beckoning the waiter. “If you had been a little earlier, my dear—if you could have managed to be punctual for once——”

  He went on in this strain until the party separated on the kerb, when he spent several minutes taking an effusive and confidential farewell of Nasmyth. It had been discovered that Morcar’s destination, his London office, which lay just off Piccadilly Circus, was close to the Haringtons’ route; Morcar accordingly was seated in the taxi during this conversation, side by side with Christina. Her body was quite as beautiful as her face, thought Morcar; slender, shapely, delicately proportioned. He had already observed that she was taller than her husband. She did not speak, but fixed her wide anxious look on Harington, who still delayed. She sighed; her long dark lashes dropped over her blue eyes in helpless resignation. Morcar perceived that she was really troubled lest they should be late. “He’ll make it out all her fault,” he reflected angrily. He jumped out of the taxi.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I must be off,” he said. “I have an appointment.”

  “Get in, get in, my dear fellow!” cried Harington, bustling him back and following him immediately into the vehicle, which was what Morcar had intended. “Goodbye, Nasmyth!” he waved airily in farewell. “Goodbye! Rather long-winded, our friend Nasmyth, I think,” he remarked as soon as the taxi drove off: “Perhaps not quite out of the top drawer, eh?”

  “Not coming from the top drawer myself, I couldn’t say,” replied Morcar coolly. He smiled reassuringly at Christina, who was looking frightened, and added: “The Nasmyths have been reputable lawyers in Annotsfield for two or three generations; he has a good practice—if practice is the proper word.”

  “This confounded fellow is taking us down the wrong street!” exclaimed Harington angrily. He tried to pull back the communicating window, clawing at it impatiently, to gain the driver’s ear, but failed. “Confounded ass!” he said, sinking back. “Wants to add to his fare, I suppose.”

  When Morcar dismounted at his office, Harington gave the building an appraising look. Morcar with proper expressions of gratitude took his leave, paid the taxi-driver and closed the vehicle’s door. Suddenly, as the Haringtons drove away, his heart burned within him. To shut Christina in with that! To leave her helpless, defenceless, enclosed with that outrageous temper, that relentless egoism! Her blue eyes shadowed by fear, her sweet face clouded with sadness, her gentle voice, her graceful hands, haunted him. A forlorn lady in an enchanted castle, who needed rescuing.

  Next morning Morcar rang up the barrister’s chambers.

  “Harry Morcar here,” he said.

  “Yes?” said Harington. “What can I do for you, Mr. Morcar?”

  He sounded cautious and prepared to snub, and Morcar felt his dislike for the man rise hot and strong. But he commanded himself and spoke cordially. “I’m afraid I was rather abrupt in your chambers yesterday,” he said. “Your questions took me by surprise, and I’m afraid my response was a trifle blunter than I intended.”

  “Ah well, we’re used to it; we men of law have to administer these shocks from time to time, you know,” said the barrister in his smooth flowing tones. “Think no more of it, my dear Morcar, I beg of you.”

  “I wanted to atone—I hoped perhaps that you and Mrs. Harington would dine with me here tonight—I have three stalls for the theatre,” said Morcar, mentioning a play he had heard Christina observe to Nasmyth that she would like to see.

  “Well, that’s very kind of you, very kind indeed,” said Harington. His voice had now completed the transition from suspicion, through formality, to pleased surprise and finally greedy complaisance. “Very kind indeed,” he repeated warmly. “I think I can answer for my wife—I believe we are free. I’ll just consult my diary. Yes. I accept with pleasure.”

  That evening when the Haringtons came—rather late—through the revolving doors and Morcar, correct in tails and white tie, rose to greet them, he saw with a thrill of delight that the stuff of Christina’s evening gown, a strange misty blue, subtly self-twilled, soft and clinging, was of his own design, woven on his own looms. The coincidence gave him an exquisite pleasure.

  “I shall tell her of it some day,” he promised himself.

  As he had never in his life spoken to a woman of his work, he intended by this promise more than he then knew or was prepared consciously to express.

  23. Lovers

  Morcar became the Haringtons’ close friend.

  The trademark problem formed a slight thread of connection, which Morcar day by day thickened into a steel rope. Eventually, by slightly misspelling the word thistledown and adding to it a daisy agreeably intertwined with a seeding thistle, he succeeded in registering the mark. A copy of the appropriate trademark journal was sent to Mr. Shaw, who did not oppose the registration, and as far as Morcar could ascertain at the time by a fairly extensive enquiry, did not afterwards use the soft as thistledown labels; indeed as far as could then be discovered it seemed he ceased to make his imitations of Morcar’s cloth at all.

  Each stage of this course of events was made by Morcar an excuse for entertaining the Haringtons, who replied by similar entertainments. With Morcar as host the trio dined together, went together to the play—where in the late 1920’s in every form night after night the destruction of the old moral code was depicted or advocated—preparatory, it was understood, to the construction of a new one. Harington disapproved altogether of all these new ideas, calling them “filthy” yet unable to stay away from the interest of the spectacle. Morcar, impatient of shibboleths, accepted these new destructions as true to the facts of experience, and sympathised with Christina, who he saw yearned idealistically for a freer, finer life which they might possibly provide. With Morcar as host they danced at night clubs. In her modish long frock—long dresses were just returning to fashion, Morcar had not seen one before Christina’s—Christina was a graceful though absent-minded dancer. Morcar trembled slightly when he encircled her with his arm. He had known in his life no greater pleasure than to hold her thus—her elegance of soft sweeping folds, of moulded curves, of matching jewels, all his own; her clear ivory cheek, her sweet pure profile, the dark arch of her eyebrows, her wonderful sea-blue eyes, so near to him. She was tall, but since her height was proportionate to her sex, Morcar was taller; her dark head just t
opped his shoulder. The waves of dark hair sprang up so thickly from the narrow central parting as almost to conceal it; Morcar looked down on the intricate convolutions of those crisp waves with tender admiration. One hand, not small but white and slender with a curve of wrist which Morcar found exquisite, lay on his arm; the other, silk-smooth, flower-cool, rested in his. She turned her head and gave him her lovely generous smile; her rich lips parted, and in her low quick tone she made some observation on the scene—trifling enough yet somehow always agreeing in sentiment with Morcar’s. A whole group of objects associated with her began to spell romance for him: dark red roses, stars in a night sky, a certain shade of blue, a fluted wine-glass, the sapphire in her ring. The Haringtons on their side introduced Morcar to ballet, to opera, to picture exhibitions, to French films. Morcar’s hospitality was lavish, luxurious. It irritated him that Harington should continually throw out, when offering his invitations, such phrases as: “It can’t be the Savoy, you know … I’m not a millowner … we men of law who depend solely on our own brains for our subsistence . . the new poor …” But he did not hesitate to buy Christina’s company by pandering to her husband’s taste for luxury.