The Rise of Henry Morcar (34 page)

“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. “Because, 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.

“They heard on Friday that he's been killed.”

“Killed?”

“Yes. In Spain. Didn't you know he went out there to fight against Franco?”

“No, I didn't. I knew I hadn't seen him about lately,” said Morcar uneasily. “But I didn't realise he'd gone to Spain. Young fathead! What good did he think it would do?”

“It was a matter of conscience. I know he wasn't a favourite of yours,” said David.

“Nay! I'd nowt against him. He stood for his side same as I stand for mine,” said Morcar. “And as to Franco, I agree with Matthew entirely. I can't abide dictators.”

“It's especially hard for my uncle,” said David in a warmer tone: “Because you see he's always been a pacifist. He was terribly upset when Matthew went.”

“You've got some odd relations, David. No offence meant.”

“Which do you think are the odder,” said David smiling: “The Oldroyds or the Mellors? Which are the most useful?”

“Your grandfather was a fine chap and gave me my first job,” evaded Morcar hastily. “You're rather like him.”

David laughed, and Morcar shook out his Sunday newspaper in self-protection.

As they had not a great deal of time to spare to catch their northern express they hurried down the platform as soon as the train reached Charing Cross. Sunday travel was disagreeable to Morcar, his feelings had been both ruffled and moved by his weekend with the Oldroyds, David's disclosure about Matthew Mellor had depressed him and the uncertainty about the northern train was vexing, so he was in a gloomy mood. Suddenly he heard his name called in its variations:

“Uncle Harry! Morcar! Harry!”

He looked round and saw Harington, Christina and Jennifer bearing rapidly down upon them.

Immediately the world took on an entirely different aspect. He looked at Christina fondly. She had lately been “growing her hair”, as the phrase went; the experiment was now complete and the result was charming; Morcar longed to run his fingers through those dark rich curls. On the coast the season had been summer, here in London it seemed early autumn; Christina was dressed in delicate black and wore her fox furs, with no ornament save her sapphire ring; as always she had the air of elegance, of sophistication, of tragic loveliness, which to Morcar was the essence of high romance.
Loveliest, brightest, best
, he thought. In her presence he forgot entirely about David for some moments, and then his introductions were perfunctory. Harington explained rapidly that a detail had come up in a brief on which he was working which concerned industrial practice. He wanted an elucidation of the meaning of an industrial phrase, and remembering that Morcar had gone to Southstone for the weekend had enquired about evening trains to the north and deduced that he would travel to London by the one which now stood at the platform. He knew there was very little time, had brought the car and would drive Morcar to King's Cross and tap his brains
en route
. David made an unexpected factor in the situation, but Harington was so pleased with himself over the success of his deductions that he took this factor in his stride and packed David in with his wife and daughter; the party were on their way in a few moments.

This good temper did not last. Harington always drove badly and became annoyed by any vehicle or pedestrian impeding his progress; to-day he drove execrably and became correspondingly bad-tempered, because Morcar could not give the information he wanted. Since the detail concerned cotton manufacture, Morcar considered Harington's expectation unjustifiable, but the barrister saw the matter differently.

“I can give you the name of a man who can tell you what you want,” offered Morcar.

“My dear Harry, how many times have I to repeat that I need the information today—or at latest first thing tomorrow?”

“Would the name of a book containing the information be of any use?” put in David suddenly.

“Yes—if it were the kind of book I could get from the London Library,” conceded Harington.

David promptly named a book. Harington looked over his shoulder at the young man rather peevishly. Knowing the barrister's thought processes so well through his sensitiveness for Christina, Morcar could read Harington's mind now; he was thinking that it was all very well to have one vulgar rich north-country
manufacturer in tow—one, would pass as an amusing eccentricity. But two! Impossible! Morcar grinned to himself, but took no steps to smooth David's path—he did not wish anyone from Annotsfield to become friendly with the Haringtons. Accordingly the remainder of the transit between the stations was occupied with efforts on David's part to be agreeable which were received with snubs from Harington. They reached King's Cross and began to descend from the car. David said suddenly:

“I wonder if you know a sort of cousin of mine, sir, who lives down your way? Sir Richard Bamforth? He's something in the Treasury.”

Harington's face changed so abruptly that Morcar perceived Sir Richard to be something very considerable in the Treasury.

“I know of him,” said Harington.

“Come along, David, or we shall miss this train,” urged Morcar irritably.

They all hurled themselves from the car and ran on to the platform.

“Well, come and dine with us next time you're in town,” cried Harington as the two travellers sprang into the train.

Astonished by the tone of this invitation, which would have been suitable if addressed to him seven or eight years ago, Morcar looked round, and perceived it was intended for David, who was saying “Thank you, sir,” gratefully.

The train left at once. Morcar had no chance to look into Christina's eyes, to exchange a private word, to touch her hand. His disappointment was savage. Moreover, he was not pleased by the barrister's invitation to David. He was not pleased that David had met the Haringtons at all, and wished again that the boy had stayed in Southstone, as his father had obviously desired. Morcar did not want Annotsfield to know of his friendship with the Haringtons, because it seemed to him that any such knowledge was the first step towards the discovery of his relations with Christina. (He regretted even that Nasmyth knew it, but Nasmyth was a lawyer and presumably knew how to hold his tongue.) Any West Riding manufacturer who saw Morcar with Harington and Christina would know at once, Morcar felt sure, that Morcar was with the Haringtons either for the sake of business or for the sake of Christina. To them Harington would be an insufferable bore, and they would dismiss with derision any suggestion that Morcar took pleasure in his company; when they found that business was not in question they would draw the inevitable conclusion. Now one West Riding manufacturer—not a typical one, perhaps—had seen Morcar with the Haringtons and knew of the friendship. Possibly a meeting was inevitable
some time, reflected Morcar, between two groups of people of both of whom he saw so much. But the invitation to dine, to further intimacy, was not inevitable; it would not have been given if David had not, so to speak, forced it.