Love and Money Page 9

  “Here!” said Schofield, unable to bear the spectacle of this inefficiency any longer: “You can come next to me, if you’ve a mind. I’ll give you a hand.”

  With one heave of his wiry arms he threw the cloth on to the wall beside his own, then tidied its folds and opened its bosom for show with practised ease. It was a very poor, rough cloth, an old-fashioned kersey, undyed, unfinished and very unevenly woven.

  “I am greatly obliged to you, sir,” said the lad gravely, bowing.

  “Lord, what a fool he is!” thought Schofield. “And what a fool am I,” he thought presently with a grimace, “to let his cloth lie next to mine. I hope nobody thinks it’s come off my loom.”

  This reflection arose because one or two of his acquaintance, walking by with a nod and a “Well, Scofe!” of greeting, gave the kersey a startled glance as they passed. However, his uneasiness on this score was soon laid to rest, for a merchant he had often dealt with recently came bustling up and bought his week’s work with flattering promptness. The price and place of delivery being arranged, the merchant took a side glance at the kersey and opened his eyes in surprise.

  “Taken a partner?” he said quietly to Schofield, turning a shoulder on the lad, who stood there beaming around as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Nay! He’s nowt to do wi’ me. I don’t even know his name.”

  “Happen that’s just as well,” said the merchant, glancing again at the kersey.

  “Happen,” agreed Schofield drily. “Still,” he added, feeling a movement of pity towards the silly lad, “you might buy it in for rough use, for a few shillings, you know.”

  “Well—I might,” agreed the merchant. He turned to the boy and in the customary whisper offered a price far below the usual level.

  “Should I accept, Mr. Scofe?” enquired the lad. He named the price in his ordinary loud lisping drawl, so that several men near by frowned and cried “Hush!” at this transgression of the market conventions.

  “Nay, it’s your piece, not mine,” said Schofield, flustered by the lad’s ingenuous appeal. “Still—yes, I reckon I should. You won’t get any more from anybody else, I reckon.”

  The tiresome part of this transaction was that it planted the lad on Schofield’s shoulders for the rest of the day. Since they had to deliver their cloths to the same merchant, naturally the lad with the kersey followed Schofield to the appointed place, and Schofield found him still at his elbow when he dined at the Pack Horse Inn. What was all the more irritating, he copied everything that Schofield did. He drank what Schofield drank, ate what Schofield ate, and tipped the serving-man the same number of coppers as Schofield. Perhaps feeling Schofield’s glance rake him rather shrewdly at this last incident, the young man coloured, and said with an apologetic note in his loud drawl:

  “This is the first time I’ve ever been to market.”

  “I guessed that,” said Schofield drily. He was about to add: “Well, good-day to you,” and turn on his heel, when his natural kindness, heightened by the satisfaction he felt in his new design, overcame him and he said instead:

  “Come up wi’ me and take a look at the new Cloth Hall, eh?”

  The lad smiled with pleasure and followed him.

  The great brick oval of the Cloth Hall, planned to provide with its inner axes a hundred stalls for the use of the cloth-manufacturers, was growing fast week by week; its outer wall, windowless as a protection against fire and theft, was now complete, and the inner walls were beginning to rise from the ground and show their shape. Naturally the clothiers were keenly interested in its progress, and several were now clambering about amongst the piles of bricks and heaps of mortar, the Annotsfield men pointing out its promised beauties to those from a distance with much local pride. Among these Schofield saw a connection of his own, related through his mother, on the edge of a group of well known manufacturers, all men of considerable substance from the Annotsfield hillsides.

  “Well, Scofe!” called his uncle genially: “And what dost think of t’Hall, eh?”

  “It’s grand,” replied Schofield. “But——”

  “But!” exclaimed his uncle. “Why, what fault have you to find with it, lad?”

  Schofield perceived that all the men in the group had fallen silent and were gazing at him in frowning disapproval. But he was a West Riding man and not easily daunted, so he replied firmly:

  “Passages are too narrow.”

  “Rubbish!” snorted his uncle.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said a dapper man in a tie wig, coming forward. “But I should like to hear the young man’s objections more fully. It is not too late yet for amendments to be made.”

  “This is Sir John Resmond’s agent, Scofe,” explained his uncle.

  “Pray proceed, sir,” said the agent with cold politeness. “Well—if two men each carrying a piece of cloth met and tried to pass,” began Schofield. He finished lamely: “They couldn’t.”

  A guffaw from one of the manufacturers vexed him into action. He seized the kersey lad, stuck his right arm akimbo as if carrying cloth and whirled him into place, his left arm brushing the passage wall; then standing at his side, facing him, brushing the other wall, stuck out his own right arm as if carrying a piece of cloth on his own shoulder. His contention was all too true; their elbows overlapped. There was a pause.

  “The lad’s right,” said Scofe’s uncle with conviction.

  “We must inform Sir John Resmond at once,” said an old and wealthy manufacturer.

  “This should have been thought of before, gentlemen,” added the agent peevishly. “Sir John will not be pleased.”

  “Why not take the two lads with you, and a couple of pieces of cloth, and let them show him what we mean?” suggested the manufacturer who had laughed at Schofield.

  This suggestion was generally approved, the agent appearing to welcome any idea which prevented himself from having to announce the defect in the building to Sir John. Time, meeting-place, horses, the necessary loan of cloths and so on were arranged for the journey to Sir John’s mansion of a suitable deputation.

  “If these two young gentlemen will consent to accompany us, and demonstrate the difficulty, we shall be grateful,” said the oldest manufacturer. “I didn’t catch your name, sir?”

  “Schofield Priestley. I’ll go.”

  “And you, Mr. Percival?”

  “Delighted to oblige, sir,” said the kersey lad, bowing.

  “Uncle,” said Schofield in a low tone, drawing his uncle aside: “It would be better not to send that lad, you know.”

  “Why ever not?” said his uncle, who seemed surprised.

  “He’s never been to market before, he knows nowt about cloth, he can’t hardly pick up a piece without tumbling it all over the place.”

  “Aye! That may well be so, Scofe,” said his uncle: “But you see he’s an Ormerod of Walt Royd.”

  “What, the son of Henry Ormerod?” said Schofield in astonishment, naming an extremely well known and wealthy clothier, lately deceased, whose family had made cloth for generations on the other side of the river from Scape Scar.

  “Aye. But his father’s dead, you see. And they keep mortgaging their land. There’s a rumour they’ve fallen on evil times. But Sir John knew old Henry well, so he’ll likely take more notice of his son than of you, you see.”

  “Aye, that’s likely enough,” agreed Schofield shrewdly.

  Indeed Percival Ormerod seemed very much at home in Sir John Resmond’s fine mansion; it was clear he had visited there before, for Sir John called him Percy and clapped him on the shoulder. But Schofield was not daunted. He was a West Riding man, and it was not his habit to be daunted. While all these courtesies were going on he stood modestly, but quite at his ease, in the background and looked round admiringly with his shrewd bright eyes at the fine plaster ceilings, the elegant chairs, the gold-framed pictures, the delicate china, which ornamented the high room with its large clear windows. Far indeed from being daunted, he thought with
pleasure to himself:

  “I’ll have a house like this one day.”

  For surely his new cloth would bring him fame and fortune. He quite longed for tomorrow morning, when he could begin work on his beautiful figured Amens. It would be difficult, of course. He would need help in the weaving. Could his young brother do the job? Or would it be better to employ a journeyman weaver? That would mean paying out money, which was not as yet very plentiful at High Fold. Schofield’s father would turn in his grave at the thought of paying out to a weaver, and his mother, still alive and active, might have something to say about it likewise. Well, that was for tomorrow; meanwhile let him learn as much as he could from this present visit. The agent and young Percy were making terrible weather of explaining the matter of the passages, and Sir John sat flipping his thumbnails and looking cold and cross beneath his powdered hair.

  “It was this young man’s notion, sir,” said the agent at last, stepping back and indicating Schofield with an air of shifting the blame.

  “Well, sir,” said Sir John with icy politeness: “Perhaps you will kindly explain the matter to me in simple terms, for at present I own I can make neither head nor tail of it.”

  Schofield stepped forward, set two chairs to indicate the passage walls, drew his little folding rule out of his pocket and arranged them at the exact distance from each other of the walls in the Cloth Hall. He then threw a piece of cloth over Percy’s shoulder, but the lad was so stupid in taking up the proper attitude, he so stumbled about at Schofield’s push and staggered under the weight of the piece that Schofield quite despaired of him and Sir John pursed his lips impatiently. One of the deputation of clothiers solved the problem by stepping forward and taking the cloth on his own shoulder. As luck would have it—Schofield chuckled to himself—this man was a big broad burly fellow, who took up much more space than the lanky Percy. The moment Schofield threw the other piece over his own shoulder and faced him, Schofield’s point was proved. Sir John scowled.

  “This should have been thought of earlier,” he said sternly to the agent, who meekly bowed. “However, it is not too late. Measure the two men as they stand now, and add a few inches for comfort. And now, gentlemen, a glass of wine before your homeward ride.” He fixed Schofield with his cold grey eye and concluded: “I am obliged to you, Mr. Priestley.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Schofield.

  3

  Thus it happened that Schofield Priestley and Percival Ormerod took a long ride home together that night. The other members of the deputation returned to Annotsfield, but the two young men rode directly over the hill towards Walt Royd which lay on the south side of the Ire Valley; Schofield could then ride up the valley and cross the river by the bridge at Marthwaite, so the route they took was the shortest for both. The rain, which had held off during the afternoon, now came down heavily, and it would have been natural if they had ridden in silence, hunched up from the rain within their cloaks. But they were both a trifle excited, a trifle out of themselves; Percy because of his first excursion to the market, and Schofield because of his new Amens pattern and his having distinguished himself in front of Sir John. Accordingly Percy, garrulous by nature, prattled all the way home, and Schofield’s replies were less short than they would have been on any other occasion.

  “I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Scofe,” jerked out Percy breathlessly as he rose and fell in his saddle—(“he doesn’t even ride very well, silly lad,” thought Schofield)— “for your infinite kindness—to me today.”

  “My name isn’t Scofe,” said Schofield drily, giving his correct appellation. It was the Amens and Sir John which caused him to add: “But you can call me Schofield if you’ve a mind.”

  Percy’s effusive apologies lasted half a mile. Then he resumed his theme of gratitude; he was especially grateful to Mr. Priestley because he had no one to advise him—his father recently dead—he himself, destined for the law— studying in London—obliged to return to the West Riding—no experience in the cloth trade—quite at sea—his mother and sisters dependent on his exertions—

  “But surely your father had a handsome estate,” objected Schofield.

  Then the floodgates of Percy’s troubles were opened, and he poured out such a tale of mismanagement, extravagance and misdirected ambition as appalled the sober Schofield, accustomed to prompt payments on a small scale. Mortgages, menservants, new carriages, sales of property, repairs, the repulses of his mother’s family (landed gentry superior in social status to the Ormerods), lack of ready money, departure of weavers, the jilting of his elder sister by a cavalry captain—a sackful of disasters tumbled out higgledy-piggledy; it was impossible to make any sense of them, any coherent sequence of cause and effect; but one thing was certain in the hopeless confusion, and that was imminent ruin.

  “He’s no friend for me. Luckily I don’t like him,” reflected the cautious Schofield, and he made up his mind to warn his younger brother against the Ormerods, just in case he ever came across them. “To lend this lad owt would be pouring water into a sieve.” His West Riding frame quite shuddered at the thought.

  By this time the two horsemen were approaching Walt Royd, the back part of whose extensive premises lay near the main Ire Valley road. At the gate Percy drew rein.

  “Will you come in and sup with me, Mr. Priestley?”

  It was an invitation whose tone forbade acceptance. Whether this lack of desire for Schofield’s company sprang from a feeling that Schofield was insufficiently genteel for Walt Royd, or that the Walt Royd supper would be insufficient for Schofield, was doubtful, but Schofield judged the first to be the reason, and his answer was stiff.

  “No, I thank you.”

  “Pray do, sir,” said Percy—but again his tone was rather polite than warm.

  Schofield was about to return an emphatic negative when there came an interruption. The back door of Walt Royd was flung open and a figure appeared there, holding shoulder-high a lantern.

  “Is that you, Percy?” cried a voice. “Mother has been anxious. Why are you so late, bad boy?”

  She was young; most delicately fair, with silky curls of very pale gold and a cheek like a rose-petal; slender but of exquisite shape—her arm holding up the lantern was the whitest, the roundest, the prettiest Schofield had ever seen. Her gown was of a soft watchet-blue colour, and her eyes, very sparkling and merry, exactly matched this blue. Her voice was warm and sweet and laughing, like herself. In that moment when he first saw her Schofield’s heart turned over and he loved her.

  “I am coming,” called Percy. “My younger sister, Sophia,” he explained hastily to Schofield. He was just about to utter a conclusive farewell, when Schofield said strongly:

  “Stay!”

  “Eh?” said Percy.

  “I can give you a cloth will make your fortune,” said Schofield.

  “A cloth? How? Give?”

  “I’ve invented a new design of surpassing beauty,” explained Schofield. (His voice trembled as he uttered these un-Yorkshire words, for in his mind they had another application, not concerning cloth.) “A figured Amens.”

  “I have heard of such cloths. Their name comes from the French city of Amiens, I believe, where they were first made,” said Percy in his condescending drawl.

  It was just like him, thought Schofield, to know this detail and yet be totally ignorant of the cloth itself.

  “This cloth will sell at a high price.”

  “But do you not want it for yourself, Schofield?”

  “Eh, I’ve turned into Schofield now,” thought Schofield sardonically. Aloud he said: “I can easily make other designs.”

  “Well! Come in—you must come in—we will speak of this further,” said Percy.

  This time his tone was warm and eager, and Schofield accepted the invitation. The two young men rode down to the door and dismounted.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Sophia in surprise as a second young man emerged from the gloom.

  “Sophia, this is my friend Mr.
Schofield Priestley,” said Percy, waving a complimentary hand.

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit sodden, like, Miss Sophia,” stammered Schofield. “Rain’s very wet.”

  “Any friend of my brother’s, sir, is welcome,” said Sophia, smiling at him very sweetly.

  Thus did Schofield Priestley the West Riding man, without any unseemly fuss, or as he would have called it “silly work,” give away his great idea for love.

  4

  To relate in detail all the incidents of the next few months would certainly cause admiration for Schofield’s tenacity, but might perhaps make excessive demands on the reader’s textile knowledge.

  Percy’s laziness and ineptitude, the languid snobbery of his mother, the waspish hostility of his elder sister, on the one hand; on the other the explosive outbursts of Schofield’s own robustly sensible mother and the almost awestruck alarm of his young brother Ned as to the amount of time Schofield spent away from his own work down at Walt Royd; Schofield’s own fatigue—for of course he had to sit at his own loom far into the night, to make up for this wasted daylight: as if all these were not enough, the new design proved unexpectedly difficult to carry out, to translate from a mere idea into actual threads. He had engaged on Percy’s behalf a weaver from his own side of the valley, a skilful and reliable man, Brigg by name, and he and Brigg spent hours at one of the Ormerod looms, experimenting with reeds and healds, while Percy strolled in and out asking foolish questions and Miss Maria (the lady jilted by the cavalry captain) could be heard enquiring in her high acid tones whether “that man” would be staying to dinner again.

  “He’s a very good sort of man, dear,” said Mrs. Ormerod in her languid drawl: “And if he’s helping Percy we must just try to suffer him. Though why dear Percy should wish to turn himself into a cloth manufacturer, I cannot conceive. My family never did anything of the kind.”