Love and Money

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Poor Papa was a cloth manufacturer,” said Sophia with spirit.

  “He never demeaned himself by actually sitting at a loom, Sophy,” said Maria severely.

  “I don’t imagine Percy will sit much at a loom, either,” murmured Sophia. “I only wish he would.”

  At this Madam Ormerod sighed, Miss Maria tossed her head, and Schofield continued to dine (very badly) in the glacial atmosphere of the Ormerods’ handsomely appointed, but shabby and dusty, front room, which looked so pleasantly down the fields to the sparkling Ire.

  Schofield was not daunted by all these difficulties; in fact he enjoyed them. But there were times—as he rode home to High Fold perhaps after an overdose of Percy and Maria, or finally left his loom, fit to drop with weariness, in the small hours of the morning—when he chuckled to himself and remarked, wagging his head:

  “Scofe, lad, tha’s bitten off more than tha can chew.”

  But he spoke cheerfully, for he did not in the least believe it. Whenever he thought of his difficulties, a strong, keen, intensely pleasurable feeling welled up in his heart. For Schofield was a West Riding man, and when a West Riding man shows himself most dogged, he is feeling most in love.

  At last his tenacity was rewarded, and the weaving of his new design became a practical proposition. His original proposal, that Percy should weave and Brigg assist, had long been reversed, and now Brigg confided to him that to hire a young boy to assist him would be more economical than to employ Percy on the work, for Percy was already responsible for spoiling several yards by his lack of skill and attention. Percy agreed to the hiring of such a boy—Percy had a way of announcing his complete ignorance about textiles and leaving everything to his good friend Schofield, which would have maddened Schofield if he had allowed himself to be maddened by any of the Ormerods. So at last a couple of fine pieces of the new cloth were woven in a blue yarn, finished and displayed at Annotsfield market.

  Their novelty and charm caught the eyes of the merchants, and orders for similar pieces poured in.

  At the same time the opening of the commodious and convenient new Cloth Hall gave a fillip to the whole Annotsfield cloth trade.

  So, as Schofield had foreseen, ready money tumbled plentifully into Percy’s pocket. Prosperity, like decay, is cumulative. The Ormerods’ credit rose. Bankruptcy fell quite out of sight. It was indeed only about a year after his first meeting with Schofield that Percy was able to release one of the many mortgaged closes of Ormerod land.

  On the day that Percy, with jubilation, brought home these reclaimed title deeds, Schofield, having put on his best coat and had his hair dressed, arrived at Walt Royd to request formal permission from Percy to ask Sophia to be his wife.

  Percy coloured and appeared embarrassed and unwilling to meet Schofield’s eye. He hemmed and ha’d; he threw out scattered phrases about Sophia’s youth, her beauty, her many admirers; he turned his head and looked out (perhaps with meaning) at the fields and cottages which he now had good hope would soon again be his own. But Schofield continued to stand stubbornly in front of him without speaking, and at last Percy blurted out unwillingly:

  “All things considered, Schofield, I don’t see that I can refuse you.”

  “No,” said Schofield sturdily: “I don’t see that you can.”

  “But I can’t answer for Sophia,” said Percy hastily. “Will you tell her now, then,” said Schofield, disregarding this.

  It was not a question but a statement, and though Percy shuffled, coloured, waved his hands about and brought out a good many long words, he eventually with a shrug and a sigh went away to find his sister.

  He came back bearing all the signs of a man who has had his ears boxed, for his hair was ruffled, his face scarlet and his speech decidedly breathless.

  “She will see you now—in the little parlour,” he panted.

  Schofield made his way to this agreeable little panelled room, knocked and entered. Sophia stood by the hearth waiting to receive him. Her cheeks, like Percy’s—their fair complexions showed every change of temper very markedly —were scarlet and she was clearly in a blazing rage. In this condition she looked even more beautiful than usual. As Schofield did not immediately speak she tapped her foot three times quickly on the floor, like an impatient pony; a pretty motion which made Schofield’s heart quite turn over with love.

  “Well, Schofield Priestley!” she cried. “Have you nothing to say for yourself? What is this I hear?”

  “I want to wed you,” said Schofield bluntly, in his most stolid and West Riding style.

  “Indeed? But what is this I hear about a piece of cloth? You have tried to buy me, have you? You think, sir, I can be bought with a piece of cloth?”

  “Nay,” said Schofield, startled by this way of putting the matter: “I never thought of it in that light, I do assure you, Miss Sophia.”

  “You didn’t?” cried Sophia. She blushed even more deeply, but now it was with the crimson of embarrassment rather than the scarlet of anger; her chagrin was plain. “You never thought of me at all? You gave Percy the pattern for nothing at all? In that case, sir, let me tell you that you are the biggest fool in Yorkshire!”

  “Why, that isn’t saying much,” said Schofield staunchly. “Yorkshire isn’t noted for fools.”

  “You’re the biggest fool in England, Schofield Priestley— the biggest fool in the world!” cried Sophia.

  “Nay, lass,” said Schofield in a very determined tone: “Make up your mind which way you want it. Do you want me to have given my Amens to your brother for your sake——”

  “No!”

  “—or not?”

  “No!”

  “Well—after all what does it matter?” said Schofield in a tone of great magnanimity. “You can have it either way, neither way, or both ways at once, whichever you like. It’s nowt to me, so long as you wed me.”

  “Schofield Priestley, I could kill you!” cried Sophia, stamping her foot again.

  “Wed me first—you can happen kill me after,” suggested Schofield with a smile.

  “Oh, Scofe!” said Sophia suddenly in a trembling tone.

  Schofield, perceiving with joy that his suit was won, opened his arms, and Sophia fell into them.

  “Oh, Scofe! If you only knew!” cried Sophia, weeping on his shoulder. “Oh, Scofe! I love you!”

  All the poetry in the world filled Schofield’s heart, but being a West Riding man, all he said was:

  “Well, that’s good news, any road.”

  5

  It is given only to great men to have more than one really new idea in a lifetime, and Schofield Priestley was not a great man. He made quite a number of fresh textile designs from time to time after his marriage, but never evolved any so novel or so pleasing as his precious lozenge Amens. Accordingly, his affairs on the whole prospered in a sober moderate ordinary style, while the Ormerods’ seemed to fly up like a kite driven by a favouring wind.

  Percy got all his lands back and began to buy more—his legal training stood him in good stead in these transactions. He very wisely refrained from handling the manufacture of the cloth himself, leaving it all to Brigg, who hired weavers in the neighbourhood to weave the Amens in their own homes, and bought the wool and supervised the spinning and the final marketing. Schofield’s pattern lent itself to an almost infinite number of colour variations, which Brigg carefully exploited. (Altogether, Brigg became quite an important person in his own right, and earned more than Schofield, as Schofield sometimes sardonically reflected. Brigg, however, never forgot that he owed his prosperity to Schofield, and treated Schofield with grave respect when they met in the Cloth Hall.) But though Percy never laid a hand to a shuttle, he talked about his cloth everywhere—it was Schofield’s opinion that Percy could talk a leg off a brass monkey—and this brought it to many people’s knowledge. In a word, the Ormerod Amens became a famous speciality.

  Percy then took up with his mother’s relatives, who viewed a prosperous cousin very different
ly from a bankrupt one and now found themselves quite able to overlook his connection with trade. Eventually under their patronage he stood for Parliament. He did not win the seat, the Yorkshire electorate having too much sense for that, thought Schofield ; but the attempt gave him the entree to political society, and eventually he married the sister of a lord and sat for a southern borough. His Parliamentary duties took him to London for much of the year. Miss Maria from this advantageous position managed to marry a rather elderly younger son, and their almost continuous absence from the Ire Valley was a relief to the Priestleys.

  Meanwhile Schofield and Sophia lived a happy married life. True, Sophia had a temper of her own, and at first she found it hard to settle down to the homely High Fold ways, and often disagreed rather vigorously with her mother-in-law, who although she was ignorant of Schofield’s sacrifice of his design, disapproved on a great many other grounds of the Ormerods. But old Mrs. Priestley gradually discovered that Sophia disliked the Ormerods quite as much as she did, and the two women became reconciled over the children, of whom Schofield and Sophia eventually had five—three boys and two girls, all fine flourishing children, healthy, spirited and as handsome as was necessary. Sophia was kind to Ned, smartened him up without being too sharp about it, and helped him to make a good match with a very nice girl, daughter to an Annotsfield cloth finisher. He lived in a pleasant cottage near by and worked at High Fold, and sometimes rode to market on Tuesdays with his brother. The Schofields had a good stall in the Cloth Hall—not, of course, a double one in the main hall like the Ormerods, but well-placed enough to satisfy Schofield.

  The usual trials and troubles of this mortal life from time to time of course afflicted the Priestleys. A child ailed, or fell down a ladder; Ned’s wife had a miscarriage; a shuttle flew off the loom and pierced Schofield’s arm; old Mrs. Priestley’s hearing began to fail; Sophia’s new hat was too much stared at when she wore it to church in Marthwaite, Schofield was vexed and they quarrelled heartily; the price of cloth sometimes went up and down in an irritating manner.

  But no really serious distress overtook them until eight years after their marriage, when war broke out in America with the colonists.

  Schofield had a sneaking sympathy with the American colonists, though he did not voice it openly. Like many another West Riding man, he was often maddened by regulations made in London concerning the cloth trade by persons who had never been in the West Riding or seen a shuttle in their life. He reckoned that the American colonists probably felt much the same about London-made laws, only rather worse because they were further off and their country differed even more from London than Yorkshire did. So, puffing at the long pipe he had begun to smoke lately— though Sophia did not like it and was apt to grimace at the smell of the tobacco, wrinkling her nose up in a very pretty fashion—Schofield pondered quietly and soberly about the Americans and decided that on the whole he was on their side. (Percy, of course, as they read in the newspapers, was violently against them.) But it had never entered Schofield’s head that this far-off war would concern him until suddenly the volume of the cloth trade in Annotsfield dropped by half, the merchants who bought for the American trade having ceased their purchases.

  This business recession was short but sharp, and Schofield, who had a wife and family and a mother and a brother and his family depending on him, found himself awkwardly placed when for a few weeks the High Fold pieces did not sell. Wool to make new pieces must be bought, however short they went of other things at High Fold. The Priestleys lived on milk and oatcake, Schofield gave up his pipe and Ned sold his horse. When for the fifth Tuesday in succession Schofield was seen in the distance returning from market with his piece of cloth still lying across his saddle, Sophia threw off her cap, tied on the hat which has already been mentioned (now several years old), called Ned’s wife to care for the children, and set off with a quick step towards Marthwaite bridge.

  Schofield arriving at the door of High Fold with the children scampering about his horse’s hoofs enquired in astonishment for his wife.

  “She’s gone out,” said Ned’s wife in some timidity—everyone at High Fold had a wholesome respect for Schofield. 106

  “Out? Which way?”

  Ned’s wife pointed. Schofield scowled.

  “Have you had tidings that Percy Ormerod’s at home? Eh?” he said.

  “Aye, I reckon we have, Schofield,” bleated the girl.

  Schofield, looking extremely grim, dismounted, took the piece of cloth over his shoulder and carried it into the house, then mounting again rode briskly off after Sophia. He soon caught her up, for she was at that time heavy with their fifth child and her pace had soon slowed. Riding in front of her, Schofield turned his horse across the track so that she could not pass.

  “Well, Sophy,” he said, dismounting: “And where art off to, eh? Tha’s no call to lie to me,” he went on, “for I can guess.”

  “I have never lied to you, Schofield Priestley!” cried Sophia, tapping her foot angrily, her temper and her colour rising at once.

  “Aye, that’s true,” conceded Schofield. “But you’re off to Percy now, eh?”

  “And what if I am? When I saw you coming home again with the cloth unsold,” began Sophia. Here she burst into tears, and cried stormily: “It’s so unfair, Schofield! Here’s Percy making a fortune out of your cloth, and you not getting a ha’penny.”

  “I gave him the cloth, lass,” said Schofield soberly.

  “He ought to help you; he owes everything to you.”

  “Do you want to shame me before him?”

  “The shame’s all on his side. You ought to be his partner at least, and instead of that you’ve nothing, nothing!”

  “Nay,” said Schofield. “Seems to me I remember getting myself a wife.”

  “Oh, Scofe!” wept Sophia, throwing herself into his arms.

  Schofield moved the reins to his other hand, so that he could put his arm round her with more comfort. The horse looked round mildly; there seemed almost to be a gleam of sympathy in his eye.

  “Don’t upset yourself so, love,” said Schofield, kissing his wife’s cheek, still brilliant from mingled love and fury: “And you in your condition!”

  “Schofield,” said Sophia timidly, raising her eyes to his: “Why don’t you—couldn’t you—make that Amens cloth yourself?”

  “I could but I won’t,” said Schofield, setting his jaw. “I made a bargain and I shan’t cry off it.”

  “Scofe,” said Sophia, winding her arms tightly round his neck: “You’re a good man.”

  “Nay!” said Schofield hastily, alarmed: “Don’t praise me too much, lass. That’s not West Riding way, tha knows.”

  6

  Twenty years rolled by.

  The difficulties caused by the war with the American colonists passed over, and the Priestleys quietly prospered.

  The children grew up; the eldest two sons married, the elder daughter began “courting” with a neighbouring clothier’s son. There was a bit of bother when Ned’s eldest lad fell head over heels in love with his cousin, Schofield’s youngest, Elizabeth, a rather wilful young piece very like her mother, who didn’t seem inclined towards him; but in the end it passed over, for Elizabeth presently married a merchant’s son in Annotsfield. The merchant, being wealthier and more important than Schofield, was not pleased with his son’s attachment at first, but it was impossible not to respect the honest, steady Priestley family and love the beautiful, wayward, warm-hearted Bessie, so in the end they all settled down together very well, and Ned’s son who went off into the eastern counties buying wool fell in love with a farmer’s daughter there and brought her to Scape Scar as his wife. Though she spoke in a strange way so that Schofield (who was growing a little deaf these days though he wouldn’t admit it) couldn’t always understand her, she was a comely apple-cheeked girl (though not beautiful like Sophia’s children) and the marriage turned out well. Fresh grandchildren were always tumbling round Schofield’s feet; Sophia
’s beautiful eyes were sometimes shadowed with concern over a wrong colour on a baby’s napkin, sometimes bright with glee as she warmed the toes of the latest addition to the family at the High Fold hearth. But her eyes, shadowed or clear, were always beautiful. Luckily all Schofield’s sons and daughters had a clear resemblance to their mother, and even his grandchildren would sometimes look at him out of Sophia’s eyes, speak with her voice, or wave to him with a shy little hand just like Sophia’s; when they did so he particularly loved them, though of course being a West Riding man he never said so.

  It was hard stubborn work, of course, managing his clothier’s business so as to maintain all these people; but hard work was what Schofield liked and he was a West Riding man, so his trade grew, quietly but steadily.

  Then one evening Stephen—Elizabeth’s husband—came riding out to High Fold with a message from his father to say that Mr. Percival Ormerod was dead. His father thought that as Mr. Priestley would of course attend the funeral, it might be a convenience to him to receive the news early.

  “Poor Percy!” said Sophia, her beautiful eyes filling with tears.

  “Isn’t the funeral to be from Walt Royd, then?” asked Schofield.

  Stephen thought not; he had understood his father to say it was to take place on Mr. Ormerod’s wife’s estates, in the flat country south of Wakefield.

  “Then I shan’t go,” said Schofield.

  But that night as they lay in bed together Sophia persuaded him otherwise. She wept a little on his shoulder and recalled old incidents of her childhood with Percy and Maria at Walt Royd, so that Schofield could not but see that she had sometimes yearned for her Walt Royd life but suppressed it for his sake, and this made him wish to please her in the matter if possible.

  “Poor Percy was so very unhappy when he had to give up the law and leave London,” said Sophia in an earnest tone. “Before you gave him the Amens cloth, you know, Scofe. Poor Percy! It wouldn’t be right for his own sister not to be represented at his funeral, would it, Scofe? I am sure you agree, Schofield, for you have always a very just sense of what is right and proper, dear.”