With open watch Mr Ferguson waited for the second hand to come round to six-thirty and then began.
‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive. I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise. Let us pray.’
The moon was nearly full, and the bare branches of the sycamore tree latticed the long window beside the front door. The gaslight in the hall was turned low, and shadows lay on people’s faces, hollowing them like the faces of the moon. A good fire burned but it was very cold.
‘From all evil and mischief; from sin, from the crafts and assaults of the devil; from thy wrath and from everlasting damnation …’
‘Good Lord, deliver us.’
‘From all blindness of heart, from pride, vain glory, and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice, and from all uncharitableness …’
‘Good Lord, deliver us.’
Was he going through it all? Ian was moving his hand in hers. She glanced suddenly at Brook. She knew he hated standing; all his weakly body complained. But he was stiff and taut like a bow.
‘Christ have mercy upon us.’
‘Christ have mercy upon us.’
‘Lord have mercy upon us.’
‘Lord have mercy upon us.’ It was over at last. Was she wicked to think of it that way? Oh, God, she tried to pray, help us at this time, protect us from bitterness and selfishness … Ian was tapping his foot on the carpet; she squeezed his hand to stop him.
‘Oh eternal God, our Heavenly Father,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘who alone makest men to be of one mind in a house and stillest the outrage of selfish and unruly words, we bless Thy holy Name and pray that it should please Thee to quiet the voice of ingratitude which has risen up amongst us, most humbly beseeching Thee to grant to all of us grace, that we may henceforth obediently walk in Thy holy commandments, and leading a quiet and peaceable life together, may continually offer unto Thee our sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.’
They went in to supper.
At the meal Aunt Tish complained about the cold weather and said she wished the snow would come down and have done with it, but only Cordelia made a show of answering.
As they rose from the table, Brook said: ‘Father, I’d like a word with you.’
Mr Ferguson stared at him with his blank Olympian eyes.
‘What have you to say?’
‘I’d prefer to tell you in private.’
Without replying, the big man led the way into his study. Brook held the door open for Cordelia and then followed her in.
‘Well?’
‘Look, Father,’ said Brook on a palliative note. He had been persuaded by Cordelia to begin this way, the soft voice, the reasonable appeal. ‘I know you think badly of me over this. Perhaps you’ve the right – I don’t know. But anyway, it’s no use us not speaking to each other. We’ve got to discuss some things. Isn’t it better that we should all sit down together and try to – to talk it over as quietly as we can?’
‘I prefer to stand,’ said his father.
‘… Well, I’ve been to London. I’ve seen everyone concerned, and I’m sure this is the opportunity of a lifetime. You’re not interested in the details. Anyway – the main thing is, I’ve accepted a sub-editorship on the new Westminster Bulletin, and I’ve promised to start work in a fortnight. That’s a concession; they wanted me to begin right away, but I said I couldn’t. I’ve also agreed to – to invest five thousand pounds in the paper.’ He gave a nervous shrug of his shoulders. ‘That’s all.’
She had been watching Mr Ferguson, and she saw now that privately under his harshness he had believed Brook would not have the courage. She saw the change in his eyes. From envy, malice, hatred? …
Abruptly she lowered her eyes.
‘You understand that I’ve forbidden you to do this, Brook. You know I look on it as an unfilial act – unkind, sly, treacherous. Fifteen months ago I made over to you and Cordelia one half of all my property in the dye works. Now you’ve flung that generosity in my face, dishonestly betrayed my trust. You realize that?’
‘I don’t see it that way, but I see you see it that way. I’m – very sorry, Father. But my mind’s made up. There’ll never be another chance like this.’
‘You’re willing to desert the dye works, deprive it of the two people I have been training to fill my place? You don’t care if it goes to ruin?’
‘You’ve always implied I’m no good. You only made me a partner so that you could make Cordelia one and draw her in. You’ve faith in her but none in me and never have.’
‘What of the capital you propose to withdraw. You’re willing to cripple the firm?’
‘Oh – that can’t begin to cripple it. I know the amount of business … I should think each of the partner’s shares must be worth eighteen or twenty thousand pounds. But if you’re short of fluid capital you could take another partner …’
‘Outside the family?’
‘Yes, if necessary. But you won’t need to do that. You’ve money in other things. What about the Waverley Mills?’
Mr Ferguson stood with his hands under his coat-tails.
‘Nothing I can say then can alter you at all? No persuasion? Even if it breaks my heart? Tell me quite frankly.’
All the old marks of indecision were etched on Brook’s face; no rebellion; no independence could ever smooth them away. He got out:
‘I can’t help it. Perhaps what I’m doing isn’t fair to you, but it won’t ruin you and it won’t break your heart.’ He ended: ‘If you’d give way decently we could still be friends.’
Their eyes met, for the first time after a week’s enmity.
‘But I’m not prepared to give way,’ Mr Ferguson lisped at him.
Brook took a deep breath. ‘ Well, then there’s no more to it, is there? I’m sorry, but I shall be – be leaving here in about a fortnight – with Cordelia. If you’ll arrange – with the bank to put five thousand pounds in my name–’
‘I’ll arrange for nothing of the sort.’
To her it had seemed all along that the old man had some weapon in reserve, but Brook had not sensed this.
‘I’ll forgo the rest of my share,’ he said. ‘I’m not all that grasping. But I’ve got to have the five thousand pretty soon.’
Mr Ferguson turned his back on them both. ‘Well, it will not come to you from my firm. Did you take the trouble to read the articles of partnership?’
‘What articles?’
‘Those we signed when the matter was arranged.’
‘What’s that got to do with it? A partner’s a partner, and he’s master of his own share.’
‘With some qualifications, Brook. I’m sorry that you didn’t read the deed thoroughly at the time. Clause nine stipulates that not more than five hundred pounds may be drawn out in any one year without the consent of the other five partners. That consent will obviously be lacking. I didn’t wish to take this course but … While you’ve been away I have satisfied myself that the clause is legally watertight.’
Brook stared at his father’s back. He seemed to be staring at something more, at his own impotence through all the years. One saw creeping back into his mind the old frustrations. Wait, wait, consider it carefully. Could he have chosen to build all his revolt, his precious bid for independence …
He turned suddenly, whitely, to Cordelia. ‘Is it true, what he says? D’you know?’
She said distressfully: ‘I don’t know, Brook …’
‘There’s a copy of the deed in that drawer,’ Mr Ferguson said, with a lift of his hand.
Brook turned to the desk as if he would tear it apart, wrenched open the drawer, and then in a sudden spasm of weakness turned away.
‘You look.’
He sat trembling on a chair while she turned over the papers
, found the right one, opened it.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ she said, hardly above a whisper.
There was silence in the room.
‘The clause was put in as a general safeguard,’ Mr Ferguson said. ‘I didn’t foresee anything like this. I didn’t foresee being betrayed by my own son.’
Brook didn’t speak.
‘Mr Ferguson.’
He turned, looked her over with constrained eyes. There seemed to be a coarseness in the texture of his face: one saw it with new intensity.
‘Will you,’ she said, ‘try to think this over, for everyone’s sake?’ Give me words to say what I want to say. ‘There can’t be anything for you in frustrating Brook. Prisoners aren’t cheerful companions. And you’re so generous. You’re always giving to others, trying … For – many years he’s worked for you, in the business you’ve built. He’s not been happy because he’s not fitted to it, not interested; he can’t help that. You’ve been disappointed. Well, he’s done his best. Why not give him a chance now in something else? You might be surprised. If he fails, as you think, then he’ll come back here and work for you again, won’t you, Brook? And with a good heart. That’s fair. But he might succeed. You’d be proud of him then. He’s set his mind on it. If this hadn’t turned up he might have stayed a calico printer all his life, made the best of it. But it has turned up. Now, whatever you do, he’ll never try to make the best of it again – unless you give him his chance first. You can’t compel him to be a good son. You can ruin his life – but it won’t make yours or mine happier. You’ve still got the chance to be – to be revered by him instead of reviled.’
He had turned his head away. The grim profile, the authoritative nose. But he was listening to her. She went on.
‘If you’ll agree to let Brook go, I’ll promise to work for you for the rest of this year – or until you’re absolutely satisfied with some manager. By then, by the end of this year, there’ll be a good chance of knowing whether Brook is going to be happy in London. If he isn’t, then there’ll be no need to leave at all.’
‘And Ian?’
She hesitated. As in a sudden flash she saw that this was a crucial issue, he had put his finger not on Brook’s weakness but on hers.
‘What about him?’
‘Suppose you don’t return. Is Ian to lose his just inheritance?’
‘That’s a long way ahead. Ian can come into the dye works if he wants to. But he must be free to choose.’
‘As Brook must be, eh?’
‘As I never have been,’ said Brook.
‘Fortunately for you, or you would be starving in a gutter.’
‘That’s your opinion.’
‘Brook, please.’ She had just been grasping at something solid, some hope of conciliatory bargaining. ‘Mr Ferguson, do try to help us in this. We’re as much in distress as you. There’s been nothing ‘‘arranged’’ about it – that’s clear or we should have taken note of the partnership deed. Perhaps we’re even more in distress than you. You’ve always been kind to us. Well, help us now, help Brook now. There’s nothing shameful in what he wants to do.’
Mr Ferguson took a deep breath. If only one could get at him, she thought, touch some responding chord, his proved generosity, his sympathy; separate it from the corrosions of self-esteem.
He said: ‘Well, then, you think there’s nothing shameful in desertion, you think Brook must be allowed to ride rough-shod over everyone else to gain a fleeting satisfaction that he thinks he’s missed. And what of my life, what of my plans, my life’s work, must that all go on the refuse heap to please him? For fifty years I’ve worked for my family. Something concrete and valuable to hand on to my son and my son’s son. Do you think I’ve never had temptation? Do you think Brook is the only one to make sacrifices? If I had consented to take a leading part in the city’s life when I was first asked, when I was still a young man … Or if I had gone into politics I should have been able to occupy one of the Liberal seats. But there was no one who could take responsibility, so I gave up my ambitions for the good of my family and to build the future. Rightly or wrongly I did just that. Now do you expect me in my late years to throw it all away so that my son shall gratify a whim?’
She was silent. Perhaps they, too, needed generosity and sympathy. But it’s no good, she thought with sudden clarity, expecting a son to appreciate his father’s sacrifices. At least it’s no good expecting sacrifices in return. Because the father’s sacrifices are a free choice, the son’s are bound.
Brook said: ‘I’ve promised these people. I’ve made all arrangements. I can’t go back on my word now.’
‘You can write and say you’ve changed your mind.’
‘But I haven’t,’ he said desperately. ‘I haven’t, Father.’
‘Or better still,’ Mr Ferguson said, ‘ go to your friends and say you’re willing to become a sub-editor but that you have no money to put up. That will test their real desire to have you.’
Brook got up. ‘ Good God! … I’ve lived with you all these years as–’ He broke off because Cordelia caught his arm.
‘Go on,’ said his father. ‘Say what you have to say. Let us have it all.’
Brook said, panting: ‘You talk of treachery! What about yours? You pretend you’re giving us a partnership in your firm, and really it’s only a sham, a window-dressing to make you seem generous. You’ve used me as a puppet all my life to – to – You played on my feelings whichever way you thought best! Don’t pretend you’ve done everything for my sake; you’ve done it for your own. Why should I have to bear the consequences of your life! Why didn’t you go into politics if you wanted to; it was your choice, not mine!’
‘Brook …’ He would take no notice of her now. The resentment had to come out whatever the cost.
‘Did you ever want to get into Parliament? Well, chance is a fine thing! I don’t believe you ever had the chance or you would have jumped at it and forgotten me and the dye works! Now you want to make a virtue of it. Well, it won’t work!’
Mr Ferguson turned and looked at his son with a dreadful glowing look.
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘You say the job was only offered to me for the money I could put up. Perhaps it was. Perhaps I will go and see them and see if they’ll take me without. But I’m not staying here, I’ll tell you that!’
‘Very well. Get out when you please.’
Brook was gasping with anger. He shook off her hand. Disappointment and frustration and hatred made his face old, flaccid.
‘And don’t delude yourself that it’s only my friends who are interested in money! Why have you got all these civic appointments, why were you made an alderman before others who were just as good? Only because you could give to this charity and that–’
‘Be quiet!’ said Mr Ferguson. ‘Leave – this room – before I thrash you.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Brook, trembling, hardly able to stand. ‘ I’ll go.’
He turned, seeming to forget Cordelia, stumbled past her, grasped for the door handle, went out. He left the door open. She slowly followed. The quarrel had been like physical blows, knocking the strength and resistance out of the fighters. She moved slowly, past the desk behind which the old man stood; she reached the door. As she went out into the hall she heard the outer door slam.
Chapter Four
He didn’t know where he was going. He had turned down towards Town because the other way one got out into the country at once.
He was half blind with anger and weakness. His heart was thumping, and he strode on driven by a strength not like his own. Had victory come out of the quarrel he would have been calm and quiet, exhausted perhaps, but sure. It was defeat which was the poison.
He slipped on the icy road, recovered. The air was bitter, but he was warm enough, sweating even under his coat. The moon had gone behind thick banked clouds which had a silvery shining rim to them as they crept over the luminous sky.
Defeat. It would mean – h
e saw all that it would mean. A long letter to Hugh, some unconvincing apology, a slow resettling to the old ways, excuses to the two or three men he had mentioned it to. A settling down to serfdom – but with a difference. No pretence of affection, even of civility now. Open war in the worst circumstances, in the business, in the home. Unthinkable. At least his father could not stop them leaving Grove Hall. A house somewhere as far away as possible. No social intercourse. By God, he’d make the bully pay … Schemes for revenge.
His foot slipped again, and he saw a public house on the other side of the street. Usually he would have been self-conscious about going in such a place, but now he crossed the road and boldly pushed open the door.
The saloon bar was crowded and he ordered a whisky. Schemes for revenge. The old man should never see Ian. He would find that slave labour … And there would be no reconciliations, not ever. Cordelia must be forced to do as he said. This would be war to the very end.
The whisky made him sweat still more, he ordered another and unbuttoned his coat. He knew that he was conspicuous in here sitting alone, this sensitive weakly face, of which he was so conscious, the rather long hair and the way it was brushed, they picked him out as a man with an artistic temperament, a gentleman. People glanced at him. He didn’t care.
All his dreams and plans. Revenge was dead sea fruit. No other way? Would the Westminster people take him with only five hundred pounds, a thousand with Cordelia’s, if he promised to pay the same each year? Suppose he offered to work without salary. They could live in London on his share of the interest and profits, of which even his father could not now deprive him.
But it wouldn’t work. They wanted the money at once. Was that clause really watertight? What happened if a partnership were dissolved? Supposing one partner died, surely the partnership would be wound up, the assets valued, a fresh partner if necessary found. Could one partner not force a dissolution? He would see a solicitor in the morning.
Cordelia Page 36
