A Modern Tragedy (2 page)

Released from the spell of his presence, Walter went his way upstairs, and after a short preliminary skirmish with the clerks in a large and impressively varnished-looking outer office, was ushered into the presence of Leonard Tasker.

He saw at once that the manufacturer was in a black mood—Mr. Crosland had, perhaps, said something to ruffle him. Tasker was a tall and powerful-looking man in the fifties, with heavy shoulders and thick arms. His dark hair seemed to stand up
en brosse
above his jutting nose; beneath a pair of very thick black eyebrows his eyes gleamed a light strong blue. He was well dressed, in a smart light suit, with a blue shirt, and altogether made a striking figure—some people might even think him handsome in a heavy sort of way, thought Walter. At present his sallow face was disfigured by a scowl. He stood beside a massive table-desk which occupied the centre of his luxuriously appointed private room, twisting Walter's business card between his fingers, his head lowered between his shoulders with the effect of a bull about to charge, and glowered at the young man, whom he did not ask to sit down.

“You're not Dyson Haigh,” he threw out abruptly in a gruff scornful tone. (His speech, though not that of Henry
Crosland, had little of the Yorkshire accent which was somehow surprising.)

“I'm Dyson Haigh's son,” began Walter, and explained his presence. His remarks were brief and to the point, and he saw with pleasure that he had made a favourable impression.

“So your father's ill,” said Tasker. “Pity. Arnold Lumb'll miss him. Well! We'd better go and look at this piece, I suppose.”

He strode out of the office and along a short passage, and pushing open a door, ushered Walter into a long light room which was evidently the Victory Mills piece warehouse and packing department. So many pieces of cloth lay stacked about on tables and low platforms, piled up in places almost to the ceiling, that Walter was quite overawed; the scale of Tasker's business really impressed him. Tasker shouted a command to one of the men who were busy with boards and glossy light-coloured paper packing the cloth for transport, and the disputed indigo was brought over to one of the windows and displayed on a table beneath the merciless north light.

With an expert gesture, Tasker jerked the piece, unrolling it a few yards till he reached a string which had been threaded in its margin to indicate the place of damage. Here he spread the cloth to its full breadth, stepped back, and looked at Walter sardonically.

“Now!” thought Walter. He called up all the textile knowledge he possessed, and with a serious, knowing air, began his inspection.

Immediately he blushed. For no special skill was required to see the damage; the stains were only too painfully obvious. And Walter's mind flashed back to a certain morning a week or two ago when he had sought Arnold Lumb to give him a message, and found him down in the heart of the mill.
He had given the message, and the two men had walked back to the office together, Arnold eyeing each process in operation, knowledgeably, as they passed. He took a casual glance at one of the tentering machines, and exclaimed at once: “Why, man, there's some grease on this selvedge! You've got some grease on the heckles; it'll be collecting at the far end, and dropping, and then you'll have a pretty mess.” The two Schofield brothers, old Isaiah's sons, were at the tentering, as usual; and the younger one, Milner (always resentful of management, though a swift and skilful workman when he chose) had answered in a quick angry tone: “Well, t'grease's only just got on, if it has.” “Aye,” agreed his brother regretfully, stopping the machine, “She were all right a minute sin'.” (The Schofields were on piece rates, as were all Messrs. Lumb's men; and delay meant lost money to them.) Arnold Lumb had expressed the hope that Milner was right and the damage recent, and ordered the endless chains which carried the cloth through the machine to be cleaned at once; but his look was sceptical—it was too happy a coincidence to be credited, that he should have chanced upon the grease spots within a mere minute of their appearance. And so now Walter felt he knew, as certainly as if he had seen the grease dropping on the cloth, exactly what had caused the damage to the indigo serge. He was shocked, ashamed, and acutely disappointed; too young to conceal any of these emotions, he lifted to Tasker a face which plainly revealed his discomfiture. Tasker, who was watching him with a look of sardonic amusement, his thick eyebrows raised and the corners of his heavy mouth pulled down, gave a short, barking laugh; and jerked the cloth again to unroll it further.

“There's plenty more of the same sort,” he said, displaying to the horrified Walter the strings with which the hapless piece was plentifully bedizened.

“Well—” began Walter, straightening himself. He hadn't the least idea what words one used in a case of this sort, but it was no use prolonging the awkward moment any longer, and Messrs. Lumb's responsibility was only too clear, so he said firmly: “Well—we must admit responsibility, I'm afraid, Mr. Tasker.”

“Yes, I'm afraid you must,” said Tasker, with an effect of mockery. He gave another short laugh, threw the cloth aside, shouted for a man to remove it, and led the way back to the office.

“About the price, Mr. Tasker,” began Walter. After the way the cloth had let him down, his ardour was diminished, but he was still determined to carry the negotiation through correctly to the end. “About the price?”

“Yes, the price. Well, I was looking it up before you came,” said Tasker gruffly. He stood in front of Walter with his head forward and his hands hanging, not offering the young man a chair. “Five and six a yard.”

“What!” exclaimed Walter, astounded. His jaw dropped; his honest brown eyes widened; he positively gaped at Tasker in amaze. “What!” he repeated. “But, surely, Mr. Tasker—really—I mean—surely, four and six——”

“Five and six is the price of that cloth,” said Tasker, staring at him grimly.

“But, Mr. Tasker,” protested Walter, hardly able to believe his ears: “Really, five and six! It's preposterous! I mean,” he corrected himself hastily, as Tasker's blue eyes flashed and his heavy brows contracted, “I should have thought four and ninepence—at the very outside——” he stammered on.

“Now, look here, young man,” said Tasker suddenly in a kindly tone: “You just go back to Arnold Lumb, and tell him the price I say. You don't know anything about cloth yet. How should you? I daresay it's the first time you've had to do this sort of job.”

Perceiving from Walter's dejected young face that it was so indeed, Tasker smiled sardonically and continued: “I'm not blaming you. It takes years of experience before a man can tell the price of a cloth to a penny.” Walter reflected that the difference between his estimate and the manufacturer's was a whole shilling, not a penny; but he could not decide whether this helped or hindered his case, quickly enough to interrupt, and Tasker went on.

“If it had been your father now, he'd have known in a minute,” he said. He sat down on the edge of the table in an easy, friendly, casual attitude, with his hands thrust into his trouser-pockets, and in a tone of good-humoured patronage repeated everything that he had already uttered on the subject, while Walter shifted from foot to foot in silent misery. “I'm not blaming you,” concluded Tasker on an almost caressing note. “It's a mistake a young man might easily make. But five and six is the price it was invoiced at to the merchant; there's no getting away from that, you know.” He smiled again, with his head on one side, and looked benevolently at the young man in question.

The wretched Walter muttered something about having to consult Mr. Arnold before deciding.

“What?” demanded Tasker sharply, bending forward. “What?”

Walter had opened his mouth to repeat his statement, in some doubt as to how it would be received, but determined to make it, for he was not without sense and courage, when there came an interruption. A clerk put his head in at the door, and announced abruptly that Mr. Crosland's chauffeur had come for his master.

At the name of Crosland, Tasker's face changed, and he stood up.

“Mr. Crosland left some minutes ago,” he said in a formal tone, as though Henry Clay Crosland might be within hearing.
The clerk seemed puzzled, and muttered something about some mistake. “Here!” exclaimed Tasker impatiently, striding forward: “I'll come.” He pushed the clerk aside, and they both disappeared into the outer office.

Walter, left standing alone, involuntarily gave a long sigh of relief; then drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, for it was damp with sweat. He found his hand unsteady. Indeed he was in very real distress. He scarcely knew what to make of the situation; but in any case he could hardly, he thought, have conducted the negotiation worse. On the one hand, he had presumably exposed his ignorance to an important manufacturer, alienated him, given him a bad impression of the ability of the staff of Messrs. Lumb. On the other, he would have to report to Arnold Lumb that the damage was the finisher's fault, that he had (perhaps too promptly) admitted it; and that the piece would have to be paid for at a big price. Surely, surely, Tasker's price was excessive! But was it? Could it be? Walter was so hot and muddled and perplexed that he felt he had forgotten all he had ever learned about textiles, and surely a manufacturer must know the price of his own cloth! Perhaps there had been a sudden rise? But a rise in the price of yarn (and so of cloth) was what they were all longing for. Surely a thing like that couldn't have happened without his knowledge? But, of course, it couldn't! He remembered, and visualised now clearly, the price curves given in the
Yorkshire Observer
trade supplement last week. They were dropping, dropping. Dyson had shaken his head over them; Arnold Lumb had said there was no knowing when the downward trend would stop. No; there was no rise. In common with all the rest of the West Riding, Walter heartily wished there had been one. Then, how could Tasker …? It was really most confusing. And after the high hopes Walter had entertained of this interview! He now perceived that these hopes had been
silly, boyish, laughable; but their failure was disappointing all the same. In fact, every fibre of his body throbbed with disappointment. He smarted all over with humiliation, and felt a ridiculous desire to shed tears. But this was feeble, childish! He must use this moment's respite to pull himself together, make up his mind what it would be best for him to do. Perhaps he should apologise to Tasker, accept his price gracefully. After all, he was one of Messrs. Lumb's largest customers. If he could feel sure that the price was fair, that Tasker was not making an error, a slip of the memory, Walter would apologise gladly. If he could feel sure.

And just then he caught sight of a massive volume, which might well be the Victory Mills' order book, lying open amid a welter of papers on Tasker's desk. His heart leaped. Had not Tasker said that he had been looking up the price of the cloth before Walter came in? Walter looked at the book again, noted its ruled pages, read its headings upside down from where he was standing; yes, it was unmistakably Tasker's order book, would show the price at which the piece had been invoiced to the merchant. He stepped quickly round to the other side of the desk, and pushing back Tasker's chair, bent over the open folio. Yes, there was piece 28641, the one in question—Walter felt that when he died the number would be found engraved upon his heart. He traced its history across the columns with an eager finger: the yarn bought from Messrs. Crosland at such a price; woven at Victory Mills on such a date, in such a manner; dyed and finished by Messrs. Lumb to such a pattern; invoiced to Messrs. Butterworth, merchants, at 4/6 a yard.

Walter's eyes nearly leaped out of his head at the sight of these innocent, but fatal, figures. 4/6! Just the price he'd thought; just the price he'd said! He was right, then, after all! An immense relief, a jubilation lifted Walter's heart—he
even thought joyously of tennis—to be succeeded by an awful nightmare sinking. An incredulity, a horrible dismay. Good God! Tasker had looked up this price the minute before Walter came—he'd said so. He had sat on the table with the order book open beneath his eyes—and told Walter the price was five and sixpence. The man was a cheat and a liar, thought Walter, stepping back from the desk with scorn on his candid young face. He was a disgrace to the West Riding; he ought to be exposed. He was abominable!

Just then Tasker appeared in the doorway. He seemed surprised to see Walter, as though he had forgotten his existence—or at any rate, thought Walter, angrily sceptical, wanted to convey that impression.

“Well, Mr. Haigh,” said Tasker, apparently remembering Walter's name with difficulty: “We concluded our business, I believe? I needn't detain you any longer.” He seated himself in his desk chair, and gave the young man a nod of dismissal.

“I don't think we had quite concluded it,” said Walter, a trifle breathless.

Tasker's face changed, grew wary. “What do you mean?” he growled.

“I mean that I think the price of that indigo serge is four and sixpence a yard,” panted Walter.

Patches of crimson appeared on Tasker's cheekbones. He glared interrogatively at Walter, but said nothing.

“I saw the price in your order book!” cried Walter loudly, unable to contain his youthful indignation any more.

“Oh!” shouted Tasker on an almost animal note of fury, springing to his feet: “You've been rummaging about in my private papers while my back was turned, have you?”

“I didn't
look
at your private papers,” cried Walter, furious. “The book was there, open. You told me yourself you'd looked up the price of the piece in it just before I came—”

“You young scoundrel!” shouted Tasker.

“—and it says four and sixpence!” Walter shouted him down.