Collected works of j s f.., p.696
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 696
Lockwood started, and turned a quick glance on Hermione. Charlesworth turned on her, too: Hermione, under this double inspection, paled for the fraction of a moment, but the colour came back as quickly as it had vanished, and she looked at her employer in a fashion which showed him that she was neither afraid nor thrown off her guard.
“My father knows nothing about it, Mr. Marrashaw,” she said. “Nothing!”
Lockwood shook his head.
“No!” he muttered. “I know naught about it! — never imagined aught o’ t’ sort, naturally. Is it right?” he asked, suddenly looking at his daughter. “You’ve never said a word to me, my lass!”
“Quite right — quite true,” answered Hermione. “I was going to tell you — at once. Indeed, I meant to tell you to-night. Bright was going to tell his father to-night. I don’t know, yet, why he told him last night. And — in our opinion — it’s a matter that concerns nobody but ourselves.”
Lockwood shook his head again, with a little sigh: it would have been plain to any careful observer that he felt himself powerless where his daughter was concerned. But Charlesworth, moved to sudden anger, smote a hand on his desk.
“Nobody’s concern but their own!” he exclaimed. “D’ye hear that, Lockwood, my lad? Them’s t’ principles o’ t’ rising generation! — o’ some on ’em, at any rate. What do you think on ’em o’ t’ lips o’ your own flesh and blood?”
Lockwood once more shook his head, slowly and deprecatingly.
“My daughter’s ideas and notions aren’t mine, Mr. Marrashaw,” he answered in a low voice. “I’m a plain-thinking, old-fashioned chap. I don’t understand these young folks now-a-days.”
“Nor me, nor nobody — nobody ‘at’s any sense o’ decency i’ their bodies!” said Charlesworth. “When I were a lad I were browt up like a God-fearing Christian, to keep t’ commandment and honour father and mother. Fathers and mothers! — ecod, they count for nowt, now-a-days! These here lads and lasses o’ t’ new school, they’ve no respect for nowt and nobody. All’s to be as they order — we mun all stan’ aside. They know better nor what we do — we’re what they call out-o’-date — back numbers!” He turned with increasing temper on Hermione. “Do you — an eddikated young woman like you! — think it right and proper to indulge i’ underhanded business like this here?” he demanded. “Doing things behind folks’ backs! — do yer?”
“There has been nothing underhand, Mr. Marrashaw,” answered Hermione. “Nothing at all. Your son and I have seen a great deal of each other at the Technical College during the last year or so. We’ve a very strong mutual respect and esteem for each other. He asked me to marry him, a fortnight ago, and I consented. We were going to tell you and my father of it, as I said. I say again — there has been nothing underhand. As to marriage — no one on earth has anything to do with that but just ourselves — no one!”
“Haven’t they?” said Charlesworth, with a sneer. “Oh, indeed! Them’s new-fashioned principles, of course. Ye an’ me, Lockwood, is owd fossils! — we owt to be preserved i’ sperrits o’ wine, and put i’ t’ town museum! Has it never struck you,” he went on, turning to Hermione, “ ’at I may ha’ had different plans for my son’s future, and different ideas as to t’ condition o’ things. I ha’ nowt to say again your father there — me an’ Lockwood’s owd friends, and he’s been a faithful servant o’ me and mine for fifty year and more, but he’ll know what I mean when I say ‘at I can’t have a son o’ mine wedding wi’ t’ daughter o’ one o’ my workmen. Wi’ all your French and your German, and your accomplishments, my lass — you’re nowt but a working man’s dowter, so there!”
Lockwood nodded, as if in assent. But Hermione seemed to freeze.
“That’s a question I’m not going into, Mr. Marrashaw,” she said. “We differ in opinion. Your son wants me to be his wife because of what I am. Neither he nor I have any respect for birth or position. I’m his intellectual and educational equal, anyhow!”
Charlesworth turned to Lockwood with another sneer.
“There y’ are!” he said. “That’s what comes o’ eddikation! — o’ eddikatin’ folk above their place. Under ord’nary circumstances this lass o’ yours ‘ud ha’ been i’ t’ mill — as it is, she thinks she’s a lady, all because she’s been eddikated like one! It’s a nice thing, considering ‘at t’ money ‘at were spent on her eddikation came out o’ my pocket!”
The last words disturbed the hitherto comparatively quiet atmosphere. Lockwood looked up with a faint murmur of protest, and his worn cheeks flushed. But Hermione sprang to her feet, indignant and insistent.
“What do you mean, Mr. Marrashaw?” she exclaimed. “Your money paid for my education? What does he mean?” she continued, turning on her father. “Speak! — I’m going to know!”
“It was between him and me, my lass,” said Lockwood, protestingly. “An arrangement — a sort of understanding. I never thought you’d ha’ reaped it up, Mr. Marrashaw,” he continued, reproachfully. And then he turned to his daughter, with an almost beseeching air. “It’s naught to do wi’ you, Hermie, my lass,” he said. “Naught at all! It should never ha’ been mentioned to you.”
But Hermione kept her resolute attitude, looking from one man to the other. Under her indignant eyes Charlesworth began to feel uncomfortable, and to shift the papers on his desk, aimlessly.
“But it has been mentioned, and it’s everything to do with me!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to have the truth. What does Mr. Marrashaw mean by saying he paid for my education?”
“He means this — since it’s got to come out,” answered Lockwood. “You were an uncommon promising lass, and I wanted to give you t’ best I could. I couldn’t afford t’ money for them schools ‘at you went to, and Mr. Marrashaw found it. That’s where it is.”
“How much did he find?” demanded Hermione. “I’m going to know.”
“First and last, three hundred pound,” said Lockwood. “But there was a condition— ‘at would pay him.”
“What condition? — out with it!” persisted Hermione.
“Well, ‘at you should come here and be his clerk — secretary — what you like to call it — he knew ‘at you’d be uncommon useful, knowing all them foreign languages, and such-like. And, as I say, it was understood that it was all between him and me,” concluded Lockwood with another reproachful glance at his master. “It should never ha’ been mentioned — to you.”
“It has been mentioned!” said Hermione. She stood looking at the two men for a moment, half-indignant, half-sullen. Suddenly she turned to where her hat and jacket hung on the wall near her table, and snatching them up, walked resolutely out of the room. Charlesworth, frowning, and obviously uneasy, stared from the closing door to Lockwood.
“What’s she up to?” he asked. “What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know!” retorted Lockwood. “She’s a high-spirited lass, and you should never ha’ said aught o’ that sort. If I’d ever done aught for one o’ yours, I should never ha’ reminded either them or you on it, Mr. Marrashaw. You’ve had t’ value o’ what you laid out!”
“Haven’t I paid her a good wage?” demanded Charlesworth. He was aware that he had made a mistake, and he was angry with himself for his haste, and his anger was ready to spread elsewhere. “And do you think ‘at I’m going to let my son wed your lass?” he went on. “I’ve other aims for him!”
Lockwood turned to the door and laid his hand on it.
“It strikes me from what I’ve seen o’ your son ‘at he’s one o’ them ‘at’ll suit himself about serious things like that,” he said quietly. “And if him and my lass has agreed to wed, they will wed! So there it is.”
With that he went out of the room, and Charlesworth, left alone, fumed and fretted. He was very well aware that Hermione was something more than useful to him, she had come to be indispensable. And there had been a look on her face when she went out of the room that made Charlesworth wonder what she was going to do.
He was not long left in doubt. Before an hour was over, and as he was standing at his window, staring out on the quadrangle and its memorials of the great departed Marrashaws, he saw a cab drive up, and Hermione get out of it. A few minutes later, flushed and indignant, she walked into the room, clutching something in her hand. As Charlesworth turned to her she laid this on his desk — a roll of Bank of England notes, some gold, some silver.
“There, Mr. Marrashaw!” she said, panting a little from her haste. “There’s the three hundred pounds you paid for me! And there’s a month’s salary, in lieu of notice. So there’s nothing to do but to say good-bye to you — we’re on level terms now!”
She turned to the door, and Charlesworth found his tongue, with an effort.
“Come here, you silly lass!” he exclaimed. “Do you think I’m going to take—”
But Hermione was already through the half open door, and the next instant it had closed upon her. Charlesworth swore softly to himself: the very thing that he most feared had happened. He felt as if somebody had suddenly cut off his right hand. And after a moment’s reflection he went to the telephone and summoned Lockwood, who, coming back, unwillingly enough, stared at the money to which Charlesworth directed his attention.
“What is it, Mr. Marrashaw?” he asked. “I don’t want no more bother, sir — I’m troubled enough about what’s taken place this morning.”
“D’ye see that brass?” demanded Charlesworth. “Your lass flounced in here just now, flung it on t’ table there, said it were my three hundred pound, and a month’s salary i’ lieu of notice, and flounced out again! What do you think o’ that, now?”
“I think it’s just what I should ha’ expected her to do,” answered Lockwood. “I told you she was high-spirited. I thought she was up to summat o’ that sort when she flung out o’ t’ room when I was here. She’s been a saving sort, ever since she came here — I knew she’d money i’ t’ bank. And now, it seems she’s gone and drawn it out — to pay you. She’s not t’ sort to be beholden to anybody, Mr. Marrashaw.”
Charlesworth’s anger was rapidly cooling; Hermione’s action had impressed him.
“Well, I respect her for what she did!” he said, with sudden heartiness. “She’s t’ right sort i’ that way, anyhow, my lad. Here!” he went on, pushing the heap of notes and coins towards Lockwood. “Put all that i’ thy pocket, lad; give her it back, and tell her to come back here, and we’ll say no more about it. No doubt I aughtn’t to ha’ said what I did. Put it i’ thy pocket, Lockwood!”
But Lockwood shook his head, and backed towards the door.
“No!” he said, with decision. “I know her! She’ll never come back, after what you said. You’ve touched her pride. There’s naught ‘ud make my daughter take that money back, Mr. Marrashaw. You needn’t think ‘at she’ll be regretting t’ parting with it — none she! What she’ll be feeling,” he continued, with a sly laugh, “ ’ll be a deal o’ pride to think ‘at, after all, she’s paid for her own schooling! She’s as independent as ever they make ’em!”
Charlesworth pushed the money nearer the edge of the desk.
“Now then!” he said. “No nonsense! Take it back to her.”
Lockwood laughed again, and turned to leave the room.
“I wouldn’t do such a thing, Mr. Marrashaw,” he declared. “She’d tell me a nice piece of her mind, if I did. And besides,” he added, opening the door, “I think t’ lass did right. After you’d said what you did, there were no other course left open to her. You’re a queer man, you know, sir! — You seem to think that nobody but millionaires has a right to be independent! But — happen that’ll show you ‘at millionaires has no monopoly i’ that way.” He pointed to the money, and with a nod and another laugh, left the room, leaving Charlesworth reflecting on the undoubted fact that in this first encounter with the opposing forces he had come off without honour or advantage.
VII
IT WAS CHARLESWORTH’S daily custom to lunch at the Haverthwaite Club, a select and exclusive institution, the members of which were drawn from the upper circles of Haverthwaite society. A few country gentlemen, representatives of the old hill-side and moorland families, a certain sprinkling of clergymen, doctors, lawyers and other professional men, a goodly number of merchant princes like himself, and of men high-placed in the commercial circles of the town: these were the folk amongst whom Charlesworth invariably spent the middle of the day. It was his practice to go to the club about half-past twelve and to remain there until three o’clock: his ostensible object was meat and drink, but most of his time was spent in going, sometimes as one of a group, but more often in close quarters with his friend and crony, James Ellerthwaite, one of the principal manufacturers of the town. Ellerthwaite and he were of the same age: they had been at school together: had grown up together: each had married rather late in life: each had a son and a daughter. All their tastes and ideas were in common, save in the particular respect of politics: while Charlesworth Marrashaw was a Radical, Ellerthwaite was a Tory of the deepest and most uncompromising sort. This difference in opinion, instead of separating the two men, drew them closer together: Ellerthwaite was never tired of chaffing Charlesworth about his heresies: Charlesworth was always ready to let loose his eloquence in denouncing class privileges and the iniquitous union of church and state: each extracted much pleasure out of teasing the other.
These two had a particular corner of the club smoking-room preserved to themselves: long usage had made it sacred to them at any time between half-past twelve and three o’clock: it was known to all their fellow members as Marrashaw and Ellerthwaite’s Pew. In this retreat, a glass of dry sherry in front of him, a cigar between his lips, and a frown on his face, Charlesworth was found by Ellerthwaite, an hour after the episode of Hermione Clough had come to its dramatic end. Left alone in his office, Charlesworth, after fuming and fretting for five minutes, had fled to the club for comfort, and since his arrival had sat glowering in his corner. He even glowered at his crony as Ellerthwaite, a big, bearded, off-handed sort of man, with a pair of half-cynical, half-humorous eyes, sauntered up and dropped into the seat at his side. It was characteristic of both men that their only salutation to each other was a careless nod on Ellerthwaite’s part, and a species of grunt on Charlesworth’s; it was not until Ellerthwaite had beckoned to a steward, been supplied with a drink, and had lighted a cigar, that speech, laconic enough to begin with, came from either.
“Well?” said Ellerthwaite. “What about my lad and your lass?”
“I’ve heard,” responded Charlesworth. “Suits me all right. And you too, I reckon.”
Ellerthwaite closed the penknife with which he had carefully cut off the end of his cigar, and restored it to his waistcoat pocket.
“Aye — I’m agreeable,” he answered. “I reckon they’ll run very well in harness, them two. They’re both pretty cool, old-fashioned customers. But what about t’ other two? Yon lad o’ yours, now?”
Charlesworth frowned more than ever, and moved uneasily in his seat.
“I was going to tell you,” he said, glad to let his tongue go at last. “I’m afraid I’m going to have trouble with our Bright. You know, James, he’s twenty-one to-day, and so of course, I wanted to have a bit o’ serious talk wi’ him last night, about a partnership, and settling down, and marrying and so forth. And it go fro’ one thing to another, and he let it all out — he’s no taste for business, and he doesn’t want to go into mine, and he’s all for this scientific research, and — in short, he’s not a chip o’ t’ owd block, and there it is! It’s beyond me.”
“Well?” suggested Ellerthwaite, drily. “There’s more?”
“Aye, there’s more!” agreed Charlesworth, making a wry face. “He’s all for this new labour business — it’s my belief he’s already infected wi’ Socialism — wants to see profit-sharing and what not o’ similar foolishness set up, and says ‘at wealth springs from labour. But there’s worse nor that!”
“What?” asked Ellerthwaite.
Charlesworth looked round. There were no other members near them, for it was as yet early for the mid-day assemblage, but he leaned nearer to his companion and lowered his voice. “He wants to wed yon lass o’ Lockwood Clough’s!” he whispered. “Aye, and says he will, wi’ all!”
“What, that secretary o’ yours?” exclaimed Ellerthwaite.
“As was,” grumbled Charlesworth. “Is, no longer. She’s left me — we had words this morning. Over this affair, of course. So she’s cleared out.”
“Then it’s serious?” suggested Ellerthwaite.
“They both say they’re determined to wed,” answered Charlesworth. “And they’re both as obstinate as bulls and as high-spirited as dukes! A nice look out it is — my son wanting to wed one o’ my workmen’s daughters, and putting up for this here pestilential labour business — it’s enough to make every Marrashaw o’ t’ last four generations turn in his grave!”
“This is t’ fifth generation, my lad!” observed Ellerthwaite. He cocked his cigar in the corner of his lips, put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and favoured Charlesworth with a dry, quizzical smile. “I can’t say ‘at I’m surprised,” he went on. “Yon lass o’ Clough’s is a rare smart and clever ‘un — more brains about her, I should say, than any young woman i’ t’ town: I reckon neither your girl nor mine could hold a candle to her i’ that matter, Charlesworth. And as to Bright and his politics, well, what do chaps like you expect? You’re only reaping t’ harvest you’ve sown.”
“What d’ye mean?” demanded Charlesworth. “When did I ever sow owt o’ t’ sort?”
“You never been doing owt else since I knew you,” retorted Ellerthwaite, imperturbably. “You and your lot! Nowt ‘d suit you till you gave all these folk votes, and passed education bills, and found ’em free libraries and cheap newspapers, and encouraged ’em to read and think and improve theirselves, as you called it. Well, they have read, and they have thought and they have improved theirselves — if it is improvement — and now, when they carry it, or try to carry it to its logical conclusion, you want to shove yourself i’ t’ way. That’s a Radical all over, my lad! You Radicals are just like a man ‘at sets a ball rolling down a hill-side and then grumbles because it goes straight to t’ bottom — out of his reach, and further than he can follow.”
