Tales of the West Riding (24 page)

“For the moment. He's very easily tired, he's very frail. He might have an attack again any time. In his car, for instance. He might easily collapse and go over the edge of the road or crash in traffic.”

“Not before tomorrow afternoon.”

There was a pause.

“He's gone to Morcar's Iredale place,” said Edward then in a strained voice. “He'll come back by that moorland lane they've just resurfaced.”

Lucius was silent and looked aside.

“Nobody knows we know he's gone there, except ourselves,” said Edward hoarsely. “The office door was closed.”

The two men exchanged a long strange look.

* * *

Mr. Hardaker's reception at Hill Royd was all that could be desired. Johnny and Tom, their bright cheeks indicating their admirable health, were rushing around the garden in mufflers and wellingtons, pretending to be aeroplanes; they vanished round the back of the house as he dismounted from his car. Carol answered his ring.

“Why, Grandpapa!” she exclaimed, beaming. She kissed his cheek. “How lovely to see you! Have you come to see Baby? She hasn't woken from her nap yet but I daresay she will soon. I'll just pop the kettle on. Come and sit down. Or would you like just a peep at Baby first? She looks lovely when she's asleep.”

Mr. Hardaker allowed himself to be guided to the cot, in which lay a beautiful little creature. Her abundant hair and long eyelashes were dark, her round cheek rosy with sleep; she opened deep blue eyes and drowsily closed them. Mr. Hardaker respectfully raised her tiny little fingers and placed a five-pound note beneath.

“How good of you, grandpapa!” said Carol gratefully. “You are kind, really! You look tired, though. Come and sit down. Sit down here. I'll just make a cup of tea.”

It was difficult to believe anything could be seriously wrong in a household where the mother looked so confidently happy.

“How is Lucius, Carol?” Mr. Hardaker enquired when she returned.

“Oh, he's splendid.
Very
well,” said Carol, cheerfully pouring cups of strong tea with a lavish hand. “He was a bit worried a few weeks ago—we had quite a row!” She laughed. “About some bills. Lucius is a grand fellow, you know, grandpapa, but a little bit careless at times. But it's all over now. He's paid them all.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Hardaker, rather surprised but pleased.

“Yes. I told him he must. He's really as good as gold. And so lovely with the children.”

“There's nothing whatever wrong here, then?” said Mr. Hardaker, looking around him at the untidy, warm, lived-in room with satisfaction.

“Nothing whatever except we're short of money,” said Carol, laughing.

Mr. Hardaker scowled. “Why doesn't Lucius tell me so, then?” he grumbled. He stopped suddenly and coloured a little; it seemed to him that he vaguely remembered Lucius saying something of the kind to him on various past occasions. Nothing detailed, though; nothing to take seriously. “Well—I shall have to have a talk with Lucius, a serious talk,” he concluded.

“Yes, do. Why did you think there might be something wrong here, Grandpapa?” said Carol.

“I was at the mill just now and I thought Lucius looked worried. In fact, both Lucius and Edward seemed a trifle off-colour. I just wondered if there was something upsetting them,” replied Mr. Hardaker.

There was a pause.

“Have you seen Elizabeth lately, Mr. Hardaker?” said Carol.

Her tone was so unusually quiet, subdued, almost delicate, that Mr. Hardaker was startled.

“Elizabeth? No. Why?”

Carol paused again.

“I think you should go to see her some afternoon. When she's alone, you know. I do really, Mr. Hardaker. I'm not throwing you out, you know, but I think it would be a good idea if you went now.”

Mr. Hardaker got up in a hurry. “But why? What's wrong with Elizabeth? Is it the child?”

Carol said nothing, but fetched his coat and helped him to put it on. Nowadays this was rather a breathless business for Mr. Hardaker, but he controlled his weakness and said in his usual commanding tone:

“Carol, tell me at once; what is the matter with Liz?”

Carol met his eyes but made no reply. She opened the door, and taking him firmly by the arm, helped him down the steps.

“Give her my love,” she said.

* * *

Mr. Hardaker knew what was the matter with Elizabeth as soon as she kissed him in welcome. She appeared astonished and a little embarrassed to see him, but her embrace was warmer than usual; she exclaimed with a strangely wistful air: “How lovely to see you out again!” took his coat and seated him by the fire with gestures of very real affection. But it did not need the bottle and glass on the stool beside her to inform Mr. Hardaker. Her walk was unsteady, her speech blurred; the air about her reeked of alcohol.

“Elizabeth, you're drunk,” he said.

A slow heavy flush invaded Elizabeth's face. She turned aside from his look and was silent. Mr. Hardaker leaned forward and took her hand.

“How long has it been going on, love?” he said in a tone of deepest sympathy.

“Just a month or two.”

“You're unhappy with that fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Hardaker furiously. “I ought never to have let you marry him.”

Elizabeth covered her face with her hands and broke into sobs. Her grandfather pulled her down beside him so that she leaned against his knees. He put his arm about her and drew her head to his shoulder.

“Tell me all about it, Liz,” he urged. “What has he done, damn him?”

“He never loved me, grandfather,” sobbed Elizabeth. “I never attracted him in the least. At first I believed he loved me, I believed everything he said, but once you perceive one falsity, you see all the lies. As though a coloured veil of lies was suddenly split; it all floats away and the whole landscape looks different.”

“She's thought about it, she's gone over it over and over again and worked it all out,” thought Mr. Hardaker sadly, discomfited nevertheless that a woman could express herself at such a moment in such high-flown terms. In spite of himself he could not help feeling that a grief expressed in such fanciful comparisons might well itself be fanciful. “But why else should he want to marry you, Elizabeth?” he said soothingly. “A man doesn't go into marriage lightly, you know.”

“To get into Ramsgill,” flashed Elizabeth. “That was all he wanted. Grandfather, turn him out.”

“But what would you and the child live on then, my dear?” said Mr. Hardaker.

“I could go back to work. Grandfather, we've always been honourable people at Ramsgill. Edward isn't honourable. He cares only for himself. You must get rid of him, you must turn him out. He'll bring us all to disaster!” cried Elizabeth, beating his knee with her hand hysterically.

Every prejudice which Mr. Hardaker had ever felt against Edward, every irritation, every small distrust, rushed back into his mind.

“How has this quarrel come about exactly?” he demanded.

“There has been no quarrel. We've parted rooms at his request, that's all,” said Elizabeth with bitterness. “But that's only one thing, grandfather, that's only the small rent in the veil. Everything he has said and done now shows as the falsehood it really was.”

“But it may be just this drinking of yours, Elizabeth. It must grieve Edward, you know.”

“He doesn't know of it. Oh, it's sufficiently obvious, I've no doubt,” said Elizabeth. “I expect the whole Ramsgill valley knows it. I'm sure Carol knows. She brought the children over here one day and fetched them in the afternoon. But Edward and Lucius don't know. Edward doesn't see it because I take precautions and he avoids me, and Lucius of course never sees anything, poor dear. There's Edmund,” she said as the child's fretful wail came to their ears. She rose. “He's awake. I must go.”

“Elizabeth,” said Mr. Hardaker strongly, holding her by the wrist. “Leave Edward. We'll get you a separation from him. It'll be a tough job; he'll cling like a leech and unfortunately he owns some Ramsgill shares, but I'll buy him off somehow. Slip a few things into a suitcase for yourself and the child, and come home with me now. I'll postpone my appointment; I'll drive you home. Wouldn't you like to do that, eh?”

“Yes, I should. But would it be right? After all, he's my husband. I ought to stand by him. I made marriage vows.”

“Don't make a martyr of yourself, girl,” said Mr. Hardaker. “It's never any use. Stand up for yourself for once. You have your rights.”

“And what would mother say?” blurted Elizabeth suddenly.

“What does that matter? It's my house.”

“I don't know whether I could stand the humiliation, grandfather. Mother would remind me every minute of every day that I couldn't hold my husband.”

“Well, of course, if you'd rather be miserable with a scoundrel than stand up to a few silly remarks from your own mother, there's nothing more to be said,” said Mr. Hardaker crossly, disgusted. “My God, look at the time. I'm due in the Ire Valley in ten minutes. Think it over, Elizabeth,” he added more kindly as he made for the door. “But make up your mind fast. There's a merger suggested for Ramsgill; if we're getting rid of Edward it'll be off. So think fast. Mind what I say, now: don't sacrifice yourself for nothing. Of course, you know best how things are between yourself and your husband.” He looked at her unhope-fully: her drooping hair and tearful face, her air of perplexity and her wobbling gait, irritated and saddened him. No spirit, he thought; naïve, high-flown, spinsterish—I don't altogether wonder at Edward, damn him. Carol has twice her sense. “Have a word with Carol, perhaps,” he suggested. “She sent you her love. You might just telephone Henry Morcar at Syke Mills and tell him I'll be a few minutes late,” he added in a different tone as he opened the front door, giving the number.

* * *

“Carol,” said Elizabeth in a high shaking voice: “I've rung you up to tell you—it's only right that you should know—you've always been so kind and sympathetic. I'm thinking of leaving Edward.”

“Oh, no! No, Liz!” said Carol emphatically. “You mustn't do it. Think of Edmund. Of course I've seen for a few months that it hasn't been going as well as it should—”

“You mean you knew I was drinking,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, really, Liz! I never thought of it that way—I just thought—but don't leave Edward, Liz love, don't. A woman leaving her husband, you know, that's dreadful. For Edmund's sake, Liz.”

“I notice you don't say for
Edward's
sake,” said Elizabeth, regaining her composure.

Carol exclaimed. “Of course I do, Liz love,” she said.

“You're lying, Carol my dear,” said Elizabeth. “And you're not a good liar. You knew from the beginning, from when we were first engaged, that he didn't really care for me. You knew, didn't you?”

“No, of course not,” lied Carol unconvincingly.

“I well remember how uneasy you were when we first announced our engagement.”

“Liz, you sound terribly, terribly—I don't know exactly, but it doesn't sound a bit like you. Sort of cynical, as if you didn't care.”

“I do care, Carol,” said Elizabeth, her voice shaking again. “But what's the good? I've made up my mind. I'm leaving Edward. He'll be delighted, I assure you.”

“No! No! Look—I'll come round to see you.”

“How can you, with all those children?”

“I'll get my next-door neighbour to sit in with them.”

“It is no good, Carol,” said Elizabeth sharply. “Don't come. I'm going out. I shan't be here.”

“Elizabeth,” said Carol, deeply earnest. “You must
not
leave till you've told Edward. That's only fair. You must wait till he comes home from the mill. You must, really.”

“I shall have to do that in any case,” said Elizabeth with irony, “because he's driving my car. I'm just taking Edmund out in his pram, as usual.”

* * *

“I may as well be straight about it, Harry—it's a habit of mine. I've bad news for you,” said Mr. Hardaker, sinking into an agreeable armchair in Henry Morcar's handsome and commodious modern office. “I'm afraid the merger idea is off.”

“Why? Young men not like it?”

“Nay, I haven't told them,” said Hardaker wearily. “But the one you're interested in—Edward Oates—I don't feel certain about him. My grand-daughter and he are splitting up. She thinks he's a scoundrel.”

“It may be only just a matrimonial row, you know. Young women—especially if they're in the family way—get hysterical ideas sometimes.”

“She's not in the family way. They split rooms a couple of months ago.”

“A couple of months? That sounds more serious,” said Morcar thoughtfully. “Haven't they any children, then? I thought you said—”

“One. A wreckling, poor child. Elizabeth says Edward only married her to get into Ramsgill.”

“It would be more convenient if all this were just a young couple's flare-up.”

“It would. But I don't think it's that. Somehow—” Mr. Hardaker paused and ruminated. “Somehow I don't think I've ever been quite sure of Mr. Edward Oates. Of course if you want to offer him a big job here in Syke Mills, now's your chance. Take him and welcome.”

“Thank you for nothing,” said Morcar with a grimace. “I want somebody I can trust.”

“Well, you may find yourself able to trust him.”

“But
you
can't.”

“No. Of course, I may be doing him an injustice. But when his own wife says he's dishonourable and wants you to throw him out—”

“It gives you to think.”

“It does indeed.”

“Does he hold any Ramsgill shares?”

“Yes, damn him,” said Hardaker with a sigh. “I shall have to buy him out and that's going to cost a pretty penny. I wish I were misjudging him. He's such a clever lad—really very capable, and as you said yourself a good designer.”