All this sounds very decorous and formal, but in point of fact these committees and resolutions and advisory bodies and so on conceal a personal struggle as bitter as that between Alderman Brigg and Councillor Starbotton in the old days. By this time of course Alderman Brigg and his wife, Councillor Starbotton and his wife and even his daughter Eliza Starbotton (Mrs. James Joshua Henry Brigg) were all dead, while Lucy was a small, bowed, silent old woman in her eighties, living obscurely on the income provided for their first pastor’s widow long ago by Emmanuel. But James Joshua Henry Brigg, Eliza’s widower, who had set in motion Mr. Aquile’s tragedy by snatching his little daughter with such hate from Mr. Aquile’s arms, was still very much alive, a cross-grained, disagreeable, tyrannical old man. Decidedly rich, for he had inherited his grandfather’s wealth as he planned, he was now a Resmond Street Trustee and a power in all their deliberations. James Joshua Henry Brigg after all these years still hated Mr. Aquile and all his works, and so was fanatically, implacably opposed to the reunion scheme. In this he was supported by his daughter Alice (who was married to another wealthy manufacturer) but strongly opposed by his son Henry. Henry had always been his mother’s pet, said Resmond Street, and had never got on very well with his father—Eliza and James her husband had bickered a good deal, and Henry always took his mother’s side in their disputes. This mutual hostility between James and his son had always been subdued to a decorous level, however, until the Resmond-Emmanuel reunion scheme came up for discussion.
“If you know what’s good for you, Henry, you’ll oppose this scheme,” said James Joshua Henry Brigg, his beady little eyes bright with anger.
“Don’t talk so daft, father,” returned Henry roughly: “It was my idea.”
James Joshua Henry screamed with rage, and the two men quarrelled. At the time of the final decision on the advisory body’s recommended scheme, the old man insisted on being taken down to the school to vote. The weather (as so often in Annotsfield) was inclement; he caught cold, it turned to pneumonia and in the then customary five days he died. He had bequeathed what Henry regarded as an unfair share of his wealth to Alice. The brother and sister quarrelled and never spoke to each other again. What repercussions this has had upon their children, cousins, is not yet known.
14
There is not one stone of the Resmond Street Chapel left standing upon another, today. The Annotsfield Corporation bought the building, pulled it down and erected offices on its site.
As for Emmanuel, it too has suffered from the twentieth century’s dwindling interest in formal religion. It still has a small congregation, but its large school is now mainly leased to a local amateur dramatic society. Since, however, the aims of this society are to raise the cultural level of Annotsfield, to expand its intellect and stimulate its soul by means of great literature, Mr. Aquile could feel, I think, that his work was being carried on there.
15 The inhabitants of Annotsfield are often supposed by those outside the town to be complete materialists, narrow-minded, uncultured, coarse, interested only in cloth, “brass” and possibly football. That this is a mistake, that they are capable of violent and protracted passion for an abstract idea, is sufficiently proved, I think, by the events above recorded.
Love And Money
(1931)
1
When Lavinia Crabtree married Walter Egmont just after the first World War, Walter was a large, handsome easy-going young man in his late twenties, who had just ceased to be a captain in one of the West Riding regiments, and wore a decoration said to be well-deserved. He was rich, and well-born as Annotsfield understood the term, for he belonged to one of those textile families which had made cloth on the banks of the river Ire for goodness knew how long and had enjoyed wealth since the coming of the Industrial Revolution. His people lived in a large mid-Victorian mansion in the Ire Valley known as Mount Hall, there was a baronetcy somewhere among his cousins, the fact that his ancestors had probably been Flemish weavers was long forgotten, and the Egmonts mixed with “county” society. In short, Walter was quite the best match in Annotsfield at that time.
Accordingly a good deal of irritation and scepticism was expressed when Lavinia Crabtree, who did not come out of the same social drawer at all and it was no use pretending otherwise, got hold of Walter. Her father was in textiles too, of course—who in Annotsfield wasn’t?—but the difference between Messrs. Crabtree and Crabtree’s small backs tree t premises and the huge Egmont mills was as vast as that in those days between the Annotsfield secondary school which had sharpened Lavinia’s wits, and the famous public school which Walter had attended. How ever had Lavinia met Walter in the first place? At the Annotsfield Choral Society, replied rumour. A famous tenor who came to sing in the Messiah was staying with the Egmonts, who were always musically inclined, so naturally Walter and his mother (a widow at this time) went behind the scenes in the interval to drink coffee with the conductor and artists. Lavinia, whose clear, penetrating and accurate if small soprano had won her a place in the choir, was helping to serve the coffee— just like her, said rumour unkindly; always fussing about and managing everything—and some incident concerning a dropped cup or missing sugar had placed the Egmonts under a small obligation to her.
In fact, while Lavinia fussed at Mrs. Egmont’s elbow with the sugar bowl, that large lady, turning aside impatiently, spilt her coffee over Lavinia’s de rigueur white choral frock. Accordingly when Walter saw Lavinia at the Annotsfield Mayor’s Ball he felt obliged to ask her to dance with him— just like Walter, said rumour, shaking its head; the kindest, the nicest, the most chivalrous and truly gentlemanly man, was Walter Egmont—and of course after that he had no chance. Lavinia was shrewd, and pretty enough in a way though a poky little thing, said rumour (reluctantly signing a cheque for a wedding present suitable to the Egmont status); she couldn’t be shaken off once she got her claws into him. It was said that Mrs. Egmont senior disliked the match and opposed it bitterly, and certainly she withdrew from Mount Hall and went to live in Bournemouth, where she soon conveniently died. Councillor Crabtree, on the other hand, determined to show that his daughter was as good as any Egmont, settled a row of small houses, called Irebridge Terrace, on her by way of marriage portion. One must admit, concluded rumour grudgingly, that Lavinia adored Walter—but so she should considering all he offered her; it was easy to adore such a husband as Walter Egmont in I9I9-
Rumour was correct in several of its external facts, as rumour often is. But the details of the incident at the Mayor’s Ball which bound Walter to Lavinia were known only to Walter, Lavinia and Mrs. Egmont senior. If Mrs. Egmont senior could have been omitted from that list, perhaps everything would have turned out differently.
Probably only those who belonged to that first war generation will remember what a craze for dancing seized upon the young men and women returning from the war. They danced morning, noon and night; they drove about the country in search of dancing; some of them thronged to dancing classes to learn the latest variants of the art. Lavinia, whose ambitious parents wished to give her every possible social advantage, had had the very best dancing tuition available in Annotsfield, and her mind, clear and sharp like her voice, had picked up accurately every turn and twist imposed by local fashion. She was small and neat and performed these (sometimes rather ridiculous) turns with an earnest precision rather lacking in grace. Walter, on the other hand, tall and big and careless, had certainly not thought that attendance at dancing classes was the sort of thing Walter Egmont should do. Accordingly he lumbered along through the tango he and Lavinia were supposed to be dancing, in a cheerful waltzing style, rather amused than otherwise by the antics about him, protecting Lavinia skilfully with his large person from clashing couples, humming the tune below his breath, occasionally smiling kindly down at the thin little girl quivering anxiously in his arms, but not in the least attempting the proper steps. Lavinia tripped over his feet.
“Sorry,” apologised Walter cheerfully, holding her up firmly i
n his massive arms.
“Sorry,” he said a moment later, as she tripped again.
Her third stumble produced more serious results, for Lavinia, quite off balance, positively butted his white shirt-front with her head. She blushed crimson with mortification, for several passing couples had seen the contretemps and smiled, no doubt thinking it all her fault.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this dance, what?” said Walter in his deep pleasant tones. “Let’s give up, shall we?”
He tucked her skinny little arm beneath his and led her from the ballroom. Just outside the door there was a foyer, quite empty, surrounded by settees and palms. The empty space of the foyer was Lavinia’s undoing.
“The steps are quite easy, really,” ventured Lavinia.
“I daresay,” agreed Walter, steering her towards the least languishing settee.
“They go like this, you see,” said Lavinia. She detached her arm from Walter’s and began to tango alone up and down the foyer, counting and explaining the steps.
“You just go on doing the same series of steps over and over again,” she said. “You see, it’s quite easy. If you’d just try, I’m sure you’d find it easy,” she pleaded, stretching a hand out as if to take one of Walter’s. “It’s easiest at first to do it side by side.”
“Well,” said Walter, colouring with embarrassment: “Perhaps some other time. . . .”
“Why not now?” said Lavinia brightly. She picked up his hand where it lay limply down his trouser-seam and gave him a little pull towards her. “Like this—one and two and——”
It was at this moment that Mrs. Egmont senior, escorted by a “regular” colonel in full-dress scarlet, swept across the foyer. Her look of horror as she perceived her son—her son—playing tricks of some kind in a public room with a common little girl in a rather sharp shade of pink, was for a moment uncontrollable and Lavinia received its full blast. Then Mrs. Egmont with an effort composed her features.
“Are you coming up soon to the buffet, Walter?” she drawled in a cold commanding tone.
“In a moment, mother,” returned Walter, courteous and easy as always.
A trifle reassured—her son quite lacked the confusion of guilt—Mrs. Egmont swept on towards the staircase.
Walter and Lavinia sat down on a settee side by side. There was a pause.
“I’m terribly sorry,” gulped Lavinia at length.
“For what? It was very kind of you to try to teach me— I’m very grateful,” said the chivalrous Walter. “Only I’m no good at that kind of thing, I’m afraid.”
“It’s very good of you to take it like that, Captain Egmont,” said Lavinia in a trembling tone.
“Not a captain now,” said Walter mildly.
For the first time since the Doubtébacle he looked at her, and saw to his horror that tears were standing in her eyes. All his protective instinct rushed up to the summons of a woman’s tears. Poor little kid, he thought, with her thin dark hair so carefully screwed up into those tight curls at the back, and her awful dress, and her bright dark eyes. Her neck and arms were very thin. . . . There was a kind of childishness and innocence about her. . . . Only a very inexperienced girl would try to teach a fellow to dance at a Mayor’s Ball, he thought.
“I was wondering,” he began in his most deferential tone, “whether you would possibly have a dance of another kind with me, later? Lancers, you know, or a waltz—something I know and wouldn’t be such a fool at? If you would forgive me, and let me have the first extra, I should be very grateful.”
“Oh, Captain Egmont!” breathed Lavinia, gazing at him adoringly. To be swept up out of the profound humiliation of a fearful social blunder to the heights of having two dances with Walter Egmont, was a transition from hell to heaven; she could have fallen in gratitude at his feet. The tears overflowed.
“Here, take this,” said Walter Egmont gruffly, proffering a large clean linen handkerchief. Six months later they were married.
2
At first all went well. Walter seemed to enjoy tenderly and gravely instructing Lavinia in the ways of her new life; clearly his protective feelings must always have been very strong and were now finding full scope. On her side, Lavinia learned quickly; her nature was active and industrious and she became quite an efficient châtelaine of Mount Hall— perhaps just a little over-fussy at times when a full glass fell to the carpet or Walter was late for a meal, but no worse than many other wives of similar standing. She now dressed reasonably well in a dull way, knew the proper things to say and altogether interfered with Walter’s pursuits less than his friends had feared. Meanwhile the Annotsfield Corporation ran a new bus route along Irebridge Terrace, where Lavinia’s dowry houses stood; the houses became shops and their rentable value rose considerably, which was pleasant— it was nice for Lavinia to have a little pocket-money of her own.
The first ill luck of the Walter Egmonts was in the matter of children. Lavinia experienced a terribly difficult confinement with her first child, and the little girl, christened Edith May after her two grandmothers, was born with a delicate constitution and a slight malformation of the left foot. Lavinia, who had really been very ill, rose up from bed before she was fit to do so in order to care for the child. Her devotion to little May was so intense and so tireless, with massage and medicaments whether internal or external she was so punctual and so exact, that the women of the Egmont circle began to feel a very considerable respect for her. That child owes Lavinia her life twice over, they said. Only Lavinia’s absolute devotion has kept the poor little thing alive at all. But the Walter Egmonts had no more children, and—though May was a sweet, bright child—this must have been a great disappointment to them; whether it was due just to bad luck, or because Lavinia was not willing to try again on account of the bad time she’d had, or because the chivalrous Walter did not wish her to run the risk of another painful and dangerous confinement, was not of course publicly known, though the last alternative was regarded as most likely.
Presently Councillor Crabtree, during an outburst of fury at the General Strike of 1926, had a stroke and died. His affairs were found to be in some disorder. Walter of course tidied them up; it was rumoured that he found himself quite a bit out of pocket as a result. The widowed Mrs. Crabtree was taken to live at Mount Hall. This could only be regarded as yet another piece of ill luck, for she was rather a disagreeable old woman, used to having her own way and horridly penetrating. Lavinia’s care for her was really quite exemplary, and callers winced sympathetically for her beneath her mother’s sarcasms.
The next piece of ill luck for Walter and Lavinia was that Councillor Crabtree’s former partner, Lavinia’s uncle Thomas Crabtree, quietly shot himself in order to avoid bankruptcy. It was now getting on towards the end of the nineteen-twenties, and the terrible shadow of business regression was creeping over England. Bankruptcy and suicide were not as unfamiliar now in the West Riding as they used to be, and nobody blamed Walter Egmont for allowing the Crabtree bankruptcy proceedings to take their course without any proffers of assistance on his part.
“No use throwing good money after bad,” said the West Riding textile trade sagely.
Walter Egmont did, however, take into his household Lavinia’s youngest cousin Janet, a quiet, plain, good girl of seventeen or so, who made herself useful at Mount Hall— earned her keep, as it were—by helping to look after old Mrs. Crabtree and little lame May.
So far, so good, one might say. Walter and Lavinia have had their troubles, but only such as the usual chances and changes of this mortal life might bring upon them. Walter has been the source, the well-spring, of all wealth and comfort; Lavinia has gladly received wealth and comfort from him for herself and her relations.
But now a change seemed to come over Walter. He became absent-minded and irritable. He looked haggard. He slept ill. He scolded the gardener over some twopenny-ha’penny bill for bulbs—he who had so often gently led Lavinia along the paths of open-handed liberality. He drove off
in the morning to the Egmont mills with a look on his face as if he were a Christian entering a lion-filled arena; he returned at night pale, without appetite, exhausted. When Lavinia urged him to see a doctor, he positively shouted at her.
“Nonsense! Don’t talk such nonsense, Vinny! I’m perfectly well!”
His uneasy, angry tone alarmed his wife and frightened May, who burst into tears.
“Don’t cry, my darling. Don’t mind Daddy,” said Walter, drawing the child to him and kissing her. Then he put her gently away, rose, pressed his wife’s arm affectionately and left the room. Lavinia, May and Janet were left staring at each other in dismay.
The truth was very simple. It was now 1931, and the fearful business slump had reached even the Egmont mills. There were few customers for the Egmont cloth, and those there were wished to buy it at the current low price, whereas it had been made from yarn bought from the spinner at a much higher price a month or two ago. One could either give in and cease to make cloth, in which case one was irretrievably bankrupt and ruined; or one could struggle on making cloth for stock, hoping for better days, and finding the money for the wages bill and the spinner’s monthly account by throwing into the battle all one’s other resources. The bank in Annotsfield, where once the Egmont credit was immense, impregnable, had now advanced an overdraft of many thousands of pounds to Walter, and held as security against it all the scrip of his other investments, together with the title deeds of the mills fabric and the Mount Hall estate. The date of the month when the just-mentioned incident occurred was the twenty-third. At that time—it is altered now—by long tradition the spinner’s monthly account must inexorably be paid on the twenty-fifth. In spite of all his efforts, Walter was some three thousand pounds short of the necessary amount, and ruin, as the phrase goes, stared him in the face.
Love and Money Page 21
