The Rise of Henry Morcar Page 26

  “Well, that’s candid, anyway,” said Morcar grimly. “Now we know where we are.”

  “Come, come!” said GB soothingly. “You will manage a mill, of course, in the newly nationalised industry.”

  “Thank you for nothing,” said Morcar angrily. “We’re going round in circles in this argument.”

  “Yes—because that’s the crux of the problem, don’t you see,” urged David. “It’s the problem of the century. The relation of the individual to the community. How to keep freedom for the individual without hurting the community, and how to serve the community without hurting the individual. In totalitarian states the community exploits the individual. In capitalist states individuals are free to exploit each other. How are we to combine the two objects of industry? How are we to combine freedom and security? These are the real problems of the twentieth century.”

  “I wish you joy of solving them,” said Morcar.

  “Well, I mean to have a damn good try,” said David. “The textile trades in northern England were the first to be mechanised, the first to start the Industrial Revolution. I should like the wool textile trade to be the first to solve the problem in the new social industrial revolution.”

  “You’re daft, lad,” said Morcar cheerfully.

  “We agree on that, anyway,” said Matthew sourly.

  “But it’s a nice kind of daftness,” said GB in his pleasant reasonable tone. “He means well.”

  “We all mean well,” said Morcar.

  “I’m not so sure of that,” growled Matthew.

  “It depends whom we mean well to” said GB. He avoided looking at Morcar, while Matthew glared at him.

  “Oh, to hell with them,” thought Morcar. But he felt uneasy when he saw that David too was avoiding his eyes, gazing down the Ire Valley with a grieved and thoughtful air.

  31. Meeting

  “It’s very good of you to help my boy, Morcar.”

  “Not at all,” said Morcar stiffly.

  He was bored and uncomfortable. He did not like being Colonel Oldroyd’s guest for the weekend at the Southstone-on-Sea hotel where he and his wife and daughter now resided. (Nor did Morcar like the hotel much; it was not as luxurious as those to which he was now accustomed.) He had only accepted the invitation with the greatest reluctance, because he felt it was his duty to come. It was true that he had tried to help David—recommending him to merchants, speaking well of his prospects at the bank, commending his products when any chance presented itself, and so on. It was therefore natural and proper, it was only right, admitted Morcar, that the boy’s father should want to know what kind of man it was into whose hands, so to speak, his son had fallen. A visit to Francis Oldroyd was proper and must be paid.

  But it was a nuisance. Sitting in a deck-chair on the Promenade near a bandstand, listening to light music played by chaps in frogged coats, with Francis Oldroyd at his side, was not Morcar’s idea of a pleasant Sunday morning. The scene was pleasant enough, of course; the cliff gardens were thronged with an upper-class holiday crowd in light suits and bright dresses; the sun shone; the grass was exceedingly neat and green, the flowerbeds were colourful; far below, the blue-grey waters of the English Channel were crinkled by a slight breeze; shipping in great variety passed along the horizon and afforded topics for conversation. Still, Morcar was bored. It was a nuisance having to sit here, to walk slowly beside Colonel Oldroyd, whom rheumatism contracted in the trenches in the last war or an old wound or both condemned to a limp and a stick, to behave genteelly, to listen politely to talk in which he was not at all interested, to be urbane with a man he despised and disliked. Above all it was annoying to waste here a day which he might have spent with the Haringtons. He had succeeded in minimizing the visit by not coming down till tea-time on Saturday, and by explaining that it was absolutely essential for him to leave soon after lunch to-day, in order to catch the evening express to Yorkshire and be at Syke Mills first thing on Monday morning. The thought of the evening express comforted him now; only a few more hours, he thought, and steeled himself to these hours as a test of endurance.

  The band now played the National Anthem, and all the deck-chair occupants of course rose to their feet. Francis Oldroyd sprang up and stood rigidly to attention with that over-emphasis which former officers of the aristocratic, conservative, gentry type always gave to this action, thought Morcar irritably. The Colonel’s quick movement dislodged his stick, which fell to the ground. Morcar found himself obliged, from the merest human decency, to pick it up. It was a handsome dark cane bearing a silver band engraved with its owner’s name and address.

  “Thanks. David gave me this,” said Francis Oldroyd, smiling.

  “There is that in his favour,” admitted Morcar to himself. “He’s fond of the boy.”

  The two men walked slowly away in the direction of the hotel. Oldroyd was a fine handsome fellow still, admitted Morcar grudgingly. In spite of his limp he carried himself well; his red-fair hair had thinned but he was fresh-complexioned still and had not lost his good slender figure—indeed he appeared to weigh rather less than of old—nor his attraction for women. His clothes were a trifle worn, but of excellent cloth and cut; he wore his hat at a debonair angle. His manners and speech were those of a gentleman, while Morcar to his fury found his own accent growing more and more north-country with his growing boredom. “Still, he’s fond of the boy,” Morcar reminded himself. “Treasures his presents.”

  Oldroyd’s thoughts had meanwhile taken a different turn, along the lines of a different association, to the cause of his lameness.

  “You and I were in the front line together, were we not?” he said. “Just for a short period. I remember when your friend was killed—Corporal Shaw, wasn’t he? A very bright keen lad. At Ypres in 1915, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye. Boesinghe,” replied Morcar shortly.

  “He was dead when you brought him in, I remember.”

  “I remember you thought so.”

  “Why, didn’t you think so?” enquired Colonel Oldroyd in astonishment.

  Morcar struggled with himself.

  “Yes and no,” he brought out at last.

  His host looked at him and seemed to consider. “He was certainly dead,” he said at last. His tone was firm but had an undercurrent of understanding and sympathy. “He had gone before he reached the trench. We tried his pulse and all the tests, you know, while you were out rescuing the other fellow.”

  “Jessopp.”

  “Yes. You had a well-deserved decoration for the double rescue, hadn’t you?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” said Morcar hoarsely.

  “Ah, there are my wife and David,” said his host, immediately changing the subject.

  “I don’t want his damned sympathy and his damned tact,” raged Morcar perversely.

  David’s stepmother came up talking rapidly in a light smooth voice, as usual. She was a faded but still pretty blonde; a nitwit but probably satisfying, thought Morcar crudely; she thought everything her husband did quite perfect, which was probably soothing to a tired man. Her clothes, very light and summery, were expensive and well-chosen by Annotsfield standards, but lacked the metropolitan elegance of Christina’s.

  “Are you tired, Francis? Are you tired, Mr. Morcar? We shall be late for lunch if we don’t make haste. Fan will be late for lunch if she doesn’t make haste. We couldn’t get seats—we had to stand all the time. Fan was sure she could get seats round the other side. David thought she couldn’t but she was sure she could. She went off by herself. Daughters nowadays are not what they used to be, Mr. Morcar. Of course Fan’s a sweet girl, and so devoted to her father. She’ll be late for lunch if she doesn’t make haste. There’s Fan!”

  “No, I don’t think it is, Ella,” said David soothingly. “I don’t think that’s her dress. She has a pale green silky dress to-day.”

  “No, she hasn’t, dear. What are you thinking about, David? She had her primrose chintz frock at breakfast.”

  David smi
led but made no reply; Mrs. Oldroyd however continued the argument all the way back to the hotel, and during the moments while they had drinks and waited for the arrival of her daughter. These were protracted.

  “Have you been in Southstone long, Mrs. Oldroyd?” enquired Morcar, trying to stem the tide of chatter.

  “Just two years. Fan found the country so dull, you know. Of course for a pretty girl like Fan, a little country village is rather dull. Her name is Frances really, of course, after her father. Fan is just her short name. But we think it suits her. Oh, here’s Fan! Why, David, you were right, dear, she had her green dress! I am surprised. I’m sure she had her yellow chintz at breakfast. Didn’t you think she had her yellow chintz at breakfast, Francis? Fan, dear, you’re very late. Shall we go in now, Francis? I’ll lead the way with Mr. Morcar. David would like Fan to live with him, you know, Mr. Morcar, but Fan is so devoted to her father.”

  In Morcar’s opinion—for he was hungry, and the child, who couldn’t be more than seventeen, had made no apology for keeping the party waiting—David’s stepsister was a selfish little minx who wanted smacking. But he realised that if he had been a younger man he might have taken a different view, for she was certainly very pretty. Small and extremely fair, with a heart-shaped face, long silky lashes, a brilliant complexion, eyes of turquoise blue and a rosebud mouth which usually wore a mutinous pout, she struck him as spoiled and wilful. She’s like a blonde kitten, he thought now, as she took up the luncheon menu and criticised it savagely in a small light voice; the kitten’s coat was of a velvet, an altogether delicious, softness, but her claws were sharp and naughty.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing suitable for you, Francis,” said Mrs. Oldroyd, scanning the courses. “He’s on a diet for his rheumatism, you know, Mr. Morcar.”

  “Never mind—I’ll just have vegetables,” said her husband.

  “Daddy, why don’t you talk to the management? Why don’t you insist on having something to eat?” said Fan. “It’s absurd, really.”

  “Never mind, my dear.”

  “Is there any fish for Colonel Oldroyd?”

  “I’m sorry, madam; there is none left.”

  “Never mind.”

  “It’s absurd, Daddy, for you to have no lunch,” said Fan, tossing her silken curls.

  “It’s of no consequence, my dear,” said her father mildly. “Probably better for me. I’ll have vegetables.”

  “What shall we do this afternoon, Daddy?” enquired Fan.

  “Perhaps Mr. Morcar would like to see something of the surrounding country,” suggested her mother.

  “I have to catch the three-fifteen to town, unfortunately, Mrs. Oldroyd,” Morcar reminded her.

  “Me too,” said David.

  “Oh, David!” chorussed all three Oldroyds. They all fell silent at the same moment and regarded him reproachfully.

  “Your father will be very disappointed, dear,” said Mrs. Oldroyd at length timidly.

  “You might stay a bit longer, David; you really are a washout as a brother,” said Fan fretfully.

  “Of course if you must get back for business reasons,” began Colonel Oldroyd in a wistful tone.

  “I’m afraid it can’t be helped,” said David.

  Morcar felt vexed by the young man’s persistence, which made his own departure less easy.

  “When will you come again, David?” asked Fan sharply.

  David hesitated. “In a couple of months, perhaps. Fan, why don’t you come and stay with me now you’ve left school? I should like so much to have you with me.”

  “At Scape Scar? No, I thank you,” said Fan emphatically. “All moors and stone walls and mill chimneys and people saying: ‘Nay, love.’ ” She sparkled round the table for appreciation of her imitation Yorkshire accent, which was certainly accurate and revealed, if she only knew it, thought Morcar sardonically, her own Yorkshire origin. When she reached Morcar in her tour of eyes, she blushed suddenly and her silken eyelashes fell. She’s remembered that I speak like that, thought Morcar, and he kept his eyes in her direction so that she should meet them again when she looked up. She blushed again, more deeply—a pretty pastel shade certainly, thought Morcar. “If I leave Daddy and Mummy at all,” said Fan in a tone of virtue: “It will be to go to London.”

  “Fan wants to go to London and work,” explained her mother.

  “What at?” demanded Morcar brutally. It was clear to him that Miss Fan Oldroyd wanted not work, but escape from family control. “As a mannequin, perhaps?”

  “No!” thundered Francis Oldroyd.

  “Oh, Daddy, you’re so silly about these things, darling,” said Fan with a pout, laying her hand all the same affectionately on her father’s. “You have such old-fashioned prejudices. Pre-Noah, actually.”

  “Your father likes to have you beside him, Miss Fan,” said Morcar.

  Fan pouted. “I think I ought to be doing some work” she objected with her little air of virtue. “David thinks so too. Don’t you, David?”

  “Yes. But you must train first, Fan; untrained labour is a waste and a nuisance.”

  “I would rather you stayed with us, Fan dear, until you get married,” said her mother fondly.

  Fan’s mutinous little face flamed. “Mother, don’t be so vulgar!” she exclaimed angrily.

  “Fan!” said her father.

  “Sorry, Daddy, but really!”

  “Shall we have coffee in the lounge?” suggested Colonel Oldroyd. “There isn’t much time if you must really go so soon.”

  His tone held such a depth of disappointment and mild resignation that in spite of himself Morcar felt sorry for him. “What a life!” he thought. “Fancy living in a small hotel, surrounded by women, with nothing to do all day.” “You know David has really made a very good beginning at Old Mill,” he said in an earnest confidential tone into Colonel Oldroyd’s ear as they moved together into the lounge. “I think you’re going to be proud of him.” The beam of pleasure in Francis’s anxious eyes quite touched Morcar. Yes, he’s fond of the boy; David’s the main part of his life now. “You can rely on me to look after him,” said Morcar. “I’ll just give him an eye—without appearing to do so, you know.”

  He nodded conspiratorially, and Francis nodded back. “I shall be most grateful,” he said, lowering his voice as they approached the rest of the party. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came down this weekend—I’m most relieved and grateful.”

  “Not at all,” said Morcar.

  “I’ll just see the porter about a taxi, Father,” said David.

  “Fan will drive you,” said his father.

  Morcar looked towards Fan, expecting the customary pout and contradiction, but to his surprise Fan seemed pleased and acquiescent.

  “The Sunday three-fifteen is a boat train from Dover. Let’s drive over and catch it there. You come too, Daddy,” urged his daughter.

  “Yes, go, Francis,” urged his wife.

  The plan was agreed. To give father and son a chance of private talk together, Morcar sat in front beside Fan; she drove with verve and skill and landed them at the station with just the right number of minutes to spare. Her fair hair, uncovered, blew back from her pretty little face, which was now smiling and happy; it was clear that she loved speed. She gave David a warm sisterly hug in farewell, then left him with his father, and climbing on the step of the railway carriage which Morcar had just entered, put her head in through the open window and gave Morcar precise instructions how to arrange his coat and case. With her hands over the door and her face framed in the window opening she looked more like a kitten than ever, and Morcar could not help but smile.

  “David is very fond of you,” said Fan abruptly. Her tone indicated that the admission was virtuous on her part since she saw little reason for David’s preference, and Morcar’s smile soured a little.

  “I’m very fond of him,” he said staunchly, however.

  “I’m glad he’s got you to look after him,” said Fan. “Becaus
e, you know, he’s full of these dreadful Socialist ideas. Like the Mellors. Have you met the Mellors?” Morcar nodded; he had never felt so sympathetic towards the Mellors as at that moment. Fan looked over her shoulder at her father; finding him deep in talk with David, she turned back and whispered: “David’s mother was a Mellor, you know. I always think she gave poor Daddy a hell of a time. Of course he doesn’t say so to us—”

  “I should think not, indeed,” said Morcar repressively.

  “—and she was very beautiful and all that, but she left Daddy once because of her Socialist Mellor ideas, and David seems to have inherited them, or something. Daddy’s often worried about him.”

  “I don’t think he need be,” said Morcar, exasperated by these unsuitable confidences. “Get off that step now and let your brother in.”

  “Half-brother,” said Fan.

  “It’s the same thing. Get off the step—I want to say goodbye to your father.”

  “How domineering you are!” pouted Fan.

  “David!” cried Morcar as the train began to move.

  David leaped in and Morcar extended his hand through the window to his host, who hobbling rapidly alongside managed to grasp it. To Morcar’s vexation the clasp seemed to throw Colonel Oldroyd slightly off balance, for he staggered a little and a flicker of pain passed over his face.

  Morcar vented his annoyance at being the cause of this, together with all his other annoyances of the weekend, by saying abruptly as soon as the train was out of the station:

  “I don’t know why you didn’t stay the night as they wanted you to do, David. It’s a long journey for such a short stay. Surely Old Mill can run one day without you.”

  “I wanted to stay,” said David soberly. “But my aunt and uncle are in a good deal of trouble just now, and I feel I ought to be with them.”

  “The Mellors?”

  “Yes. I didn’t mention it to my father, because he dislikes the Mellors and I didn’t want to upset him. It’s Matthew, you know.”

  “What has Matthew been doing?” growled Morcar.