A Modern Tragedy (12 page)

“She's very small,” observed a member. “You ought to enter that; it's important.”

“And very beautiful,” said Rosamond Haigh.

The secretary, sitting with fountain pen poised, cocked an eyebrow in gentlemanly perplexity. He rather drew the line at entering remarks on the personal appearances of young women in the society's books, though he realised the usefulness and necessity of such records.

“Put:
small and slight, young, attractive personality,”
suggested the chairman.

“She didn't attract
me
,” said someone grimly.

“She was very nervous,” offered someone else in an apologetic tone.

“I don't think that quite does justice to her really remarkable loveliness,” said Rosamond. “However, let it pass.”

“Lovely, but no intelligence,” remarked another member.

“Oh, I don't agree,” objected Rosamond. “She has plenty of intelligence, but she doesn't know how to use it.”

“Same thing,” said the other member.

“Oh,
no
” said Rosamond, turning to him; and they began a psychological argument, in which several other members joined.

“Write:
suitable for minor parts in drawing-room comedy,”
urged the chairman in a loud tone, recalling them all to the business in hand.

“Which she won't accept,” said Rosamond's neighbour with a cynical sigh.

“With a view to ingénue leads later”
concluded the chairman doggedly.

“Are you all agreed on that?” demanded the secretary, scribbling.

“Yes. Agreed!” said all the members in varying tones of fatigue. It was late, and they had spent an exhausting evening, trying to differentiate the pretentious from the ambitious, the merely imitative from the trained.

“Well, that's the lot,” said the secretary, using the blotting paper vigorously.

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed all the members, standing up with an air of great relief. Once on their feet, however, they seemed to forget their former urgent desire to leave, and stood about the room in groups, arguing hotly on dramatic questions.

A girl put her head in at the door and enquired: “Is Miss Rosamond Haigh here?” She knew Rosamond well, being her colleague at school, and spoke her name thus with jesting artificial emphasis.

“Yes—what is it?” demanded Rosamond, bounding forward, at once alarmed about her father.

“A gentleman with a car,” replied the girl, in capitals as before. Seeing Rosamond's anxious look, however, and knowing its probable cause, she dropped at once into a serious tone, and explained quietly: “It's nothing, Haigh. That is, I think it's your Mr. Lumb.”

“Oh,” said Rosamond, between vexation and relief. “Again! He's always here.”

It was a wild night in late September. Masses of heavy angry cloud flew tempestuously, in ragged but unceasing ranks, across the Pennines and over Yorkshire, driven by a powerful and relentless northwest wind. The wind howled down the West Riding valleys; laughed deep in its throat at the sturdy stone houses, cracked their chimney-pots, flipped off slates from their roofs, rattled their windows, tried to shake them, failed, and passed, roaring, by; it contemptuously overthrew advertisement boards, which fell with a hollow crack; tossed the bare branches of the gnarled trees, and whirled up the dead leaves in a tumultuous rustling; swung the electric signs alarmingly; slapped human beings who tried to breast it in the face, and soared up again over the hills in restless joy. Occasional swift showers of rain flung themselves fiercely to earth, blotting out the rare stars. It was the kind of night which Rosamond loved with passion; the chemistry of her blood was at one with that of the wild northern storm, and she had been anticipating eagerly the lonely walk home up the exposed slope.

But as soon as she had spoken, she felt ashamed of her ungraciousness towards Arnold, and though there was no one there to hear—her colleague had returned to her interrupted rehearsal—she murmured: “It's very kind of him, of course.” She sighed a little as she traversed the uneven passages—dimly lit now, for it was past closing hour, and all
but the most enthusiastic Harlequins had long gone home—and found it in her heart to wish that she were on her way to meet a more exciting escort; but she greeted Arnold with the calm friendliness which was her custom.

As usual he seemed to have little to say to her, and they drove up to Moorside Place in a comfortable silence. There were no lights visible in the Haigh house, and Rosamond took out her latch-key. “We're a very early household nowadays,” she said in an explanatory tone.

“I wonder Walter doesn't wait up for you, Rosamond,” said Arnold, surveying the dark façade disapprovingly.

“Walter may not be in yet,” Rosamond defended her brother, opening the car door. “Since he began to work at Heights Mill he's often very late; and when he does come in he goes straight to bed—he's very tired nowadays.”

“Since he began to work
where?”
demanded Arnold in a startled tone.

“At Heights Mill,” repeated Rosamond, descending. “Good night, Arnold.”

“No, wait a minute, Rosamond!” exclaimed Arnold, leaning towards her urgently. “Let's have this clear. Walter's working for Leonard Tasker.”

“Is he?” said Rosamond with indifference—the name of Tasker meant nothing to her. She added in a corroborating tone: “He's working at Heights Mill.”

“Please get into the car again, Rosamond,” commanded Arnold roughly. “It's too cold for you to stand there, and I must get to the bottom of this.” As Rosamond, in surprise, obeyed, he went on: “I've heard several rumours lately that Heights Mill is being re-conditioned and started again; but nobody seems to know quite who is behind it. Now you say Walter's working there. Walter's working for Leonard Tasker. That seems to mean Tasker's starting Heights Mill, doesn't it?”

“I suppose so,” agreed Rosamond doubtfully. “I've never heard Walter mention the name of Tasker. Does it matter, Arnold?” she asked, troubled, as Arnold Lumb gave an angry exclamation.

“Yes, I should say it does matter,” said Arnold quickly in a loud harsh tone. “It may be the finish of W. H. Lumb & Co. altogether. And this is the way your brother repays us for teaching him his trade, and keeping your father on when he's long past work.”

“I'm sure Walter has done nothing wrong,” protested Rosamond, her pride provoked by Arnold's tactless reference to Dyson. At the same time she recognised its justice, for her father was now a confirmed invalid, and had not left the house for months. “He's young, and wants to strike out for himself and do something independent, that's all.”

“Dash it all, Rosamond!” exclaimed Arnold furiously, stung by every implication of this speech: “Can't you see that we've taught Walter everything he knows, we've taught him how to finish Tasker's cloth, I've taught him myself, and then he goes away and takes his knowledge with him, and sells it; works for Tasker at a place that'll take the best part of our trade, and hasn't even the decency to tell me a word about it! Of course Tasker can do what he likes with his own cloth,” he went on in a more reasonable tone. “If he likes to start a finishing department for himself, he can do it without asking my permission, I suppose; though how he got hold of Heights Mill to do it in, heaven knows! There's been some dirty work there, I'll be bound. He's a twister, is that fellow. But that Walter should go off, and sell him all our methods, and never tell me a word about it—nay, dash it all!” cried Arnold, striking the palm of his hand in a fury against the steering wheel. “He had the cheek—the cool cheek—to offer me a week of his salary back in lieu of notice. The damned insolent young puppy!”

“Don't speak like that of Walter, Arnold!” cried Rosamond, her anger now thoroughly aroused. “You've no right to make accusations against people, without giving them a chance to defend themselves.”

“Well, you tell Walter to come to me and defend himself, if he can,” retorted Arnold bitterly. “But he won't; not he! He daren't. He'll keep out of my way, you'll see—and, indeed, he'd better,” he concluded, flushing darkly. “And your father, too. The less I see of any Haigh just now the better it'll be for all concerned.”

Rosamond sprang from the car. “In that case
I
won't detain you any longer,” she panted.

“Rosamond!” cried Arnold in alarm. “Rosamond, look here!”

He scrambled out on the opposite side, and intercepted her as she made for the Haigh's gate. “You know I didn't mean you, Rosamond,” he said warmly, and took her hand. “I wouldn't hurt you for the world.”

“Then why did you say such horrible things about Walter?” demanded Rosamond, her eyes suffused with tears. “Walter's very dear to me.”

She saw Walter suddenly as he had been when a little boy, chubby, innocent, rather scared, wearing home-knitted woollen gloves and clinging to his elder sister's hand. Her voice broke, and she gave a small sob.

“Rosamond! Rosamond, my dear,” said Arnold, very much moved. “Don't cry, please. Don't! But don't you see that this may mean the end of our business, coming just now when trade's so bad, and the end of any hopes of—any kind,” he concluded lamely, feeling that it would be singularly dishonourable to ask a woman to marry him at the precise moment when all hope of a separate establishment, or, indeed, any establishment at all, was vanishing from him.

“I'm sure if Walter has done anything wrong, it's because
someone has tricked him into it,” said Rosamond, now frankly weeping. “He wouldn't know how to begin to do anything wrong himself, Arnold, he wouldn't indeed.”

“Then why didn't he tell me all about it openly?” demanded Arnold.

“Perhaps he was afraid,” suggested Rosamond staunchly.

“Rubbish!” said Arnold with disgust.

Rosamond withdrew her hand from his. She was strongly aware that if any clash were to occur between Arnold and Walter, she should be obliged to side with Walter, because she loved him by far the more dearly of the two. She stepped round Arnold, and brushing aside the rhododendron which inevitably guarded the entrance to each house in Moorside Place, entered the tiny square of garden, and closed the gate firmly between herself and her suitor. At that moment Arnold appeared to her as an elderly, irate and rather stupidly conventional person, unwarrantably attacking her younger brother—younger, and, therefore, now, as always, in need of her protection. But she must try to be fair. “Goodnight, Arnold,” she said in a cool judicial tone, unusually conscious of crossing a barrier of years in her use of Arnold Lumb's first name. “I shall try to make things well between you and Walter.”

“You'll find it a bit of a job,” replied Arnold with some heat, vexed to the heart by her rebuff of his tenderness, her misjudgment of his bitter grievance against Walter. “She'll see things differently when we're ruined, and her father has no income coming in,” he thought angrily; but could not bring himself to utter a sentiment so histrionic.

“It's no use discussing it any further now,” said Rosamond, lowering her voice. “We shall disturb my father.”

“I'll just wait and see you safely in,” said Arnold obstinately, from the gate.

Rosamond sighed in irritation. An independent person,
well used to taking care of herself, she did not relish the process of finding the key-hole and inserting her key in the dark, with Arnold watching her from behind, as though she were incapable of the action, and would shortly require his help; and when she had succeeded in admitting herself, she closed the door behind her without another word. Arnold thereupon exclaimed angrily, and drove off in a steady rage.

From various domestic details Rosamond deduced that her brother was not yet in. She now suddenly chanced to remember Walter's dismay at the encounter with Harry Schofield during Wakes Week, and uneasiness grew in her heart. Troubled and perplexed, she sat down to work, but left the door of the room ajar, so that she could be sure to hear her brother when he came.

Walter, arriving half an hour later, was vexed when he saw the beam of light shining across the dark hall. As it chanced, that day was the first on which Heights Mill had actually handled pieces, and he and Tasker had dined together in Bradford to celebrate the occasion, and then visited one of the new talking-pictures. So Walter was now feeling tired, both physically and mentally; and as he knew he had another long and harassing day before him, he thought for a moment of trying to steal upstairs unheard, but rejected this, as being both cowardly and unkind to Rosamond, just as Rosamond came to the door and spoke to him.

“I thought I heard you, Walter,” she said. “Will you come in here for a minute? I want to speak to you.”

Her voice held a vibrant unrest which disturbed her brother; but he decided that he was really too tired that night to care whether Rosamond threatened anything or not. Moreover, he had experienced scenes during the last few months which he thought would make anything Rosamond had to say seem mild and unalarming; so he followed her into the room with a nonchalant air, which, to
some extent, expressed what he really felt. His vexation at being detained from sleep vented itself, however, as he saw the piles of exercise books spread over the table, in the remark: “You shouldn't sit up working so late, Rosamond. Why don't you do your work earlier in the evening?”

“I've been to the Harlequins',” explained his sister, seating herself.

“More rehearsals?” said Walter in a light disagreeable tone. In times past he had been used to view his sister's theatrical activities with a kind of wistful respect, as something above his head, but doubtless very clever—Rosamond was older than he, more experienced, earned so much more—but now, considering the Harlequins afresh, after his months of association with Tasker, it struck him that they were naïve and silly. He recalled that the last time he had seen Rosamond act she had been clad in something like a tablecloth, which looked as though it needed washing; and he felt a sudden inclination to sneer. Rosamond, who thought he was reproaching her for deserting their parents too often in the evening, whereas one night each week at the Harlequins' was the only recreation she allowed herself, disdained to defend her action, but flashed him a look of some fire; and Walter, repenting of the disloyalty of his thoughts, tried to atone by saying on a note of affection: “You'll tire yourself out, child.”