The Partnership (13 page)

“Aye, you're right there!” sneered Dyson, shaking with fury; “you aren't. Or perhaps you're too good; I don't know which. Anyhow, the result's the same: we don't just suit each other, I'm thinking.”

“I'll clear out then,” said Wilfred thickly, tears standing in his brown eyes. “I'm sure I don't want to stay where I'm not wanted.”

He turned on his heel and flung himself down the drive, but at the gate the taxi-driver accosted him, and he was obliged to halt and draw out silver from his pocket for the fare. He was so shaken that this process took some time.

“Aye! You can clear out right now and never come back again,” Dyson taunted him. “I never want to set eyes on you again. So now you know.”

“It wasn't his fault, Mr. Dyson,” observed Annice mildly at this point.

“Annice!” exclaimed Eric jealously, turning to her.

“It was Eric's and my fault,” pursued Annice, “not Mr. Wilfred's.”

“You leave Wilfred alone, Annice,” said Eric, colouring. “Wilfred's nothing to do with you.”

“I only said it wasn't his fault, that's all,” persisted Annice, with a friendly glance towards Lydia.

“You needn't quarrel about whose fault it was,” shouted Dyson, enraged both by Annice's
pleading for Wilfred and by her obvious power over Eric. “You're all pretty well tarred with the same brush, if you ask me; and I've done with the lot of you. You can tell your father so from me, Lydia, with my compliments; and as for you two boys, such devoted brothers as you are, when you've found another address you can write to Mrs. Lumb for your clothes. I won't grudge you those, but you needn't come to the house again, or to the mill either. I've done with you.”

He abruptly entered the house and slammed the door behind him.

“I knew it!” exclaimed Eric, weeping. “I
knew
he would be like this. I
told
Wilfred so. What shall we do now?”

“Well, never mind,” began Annice consolingly, taking his arm.

Lydia left them and went in pursuit of Wilfred, who had now satisfied the chauffeur and was striding rapidly away down the main road.

“Wilfred!” she called; “Wilfred!”

“Well, what is it?” demanded Wilfred fiercely, turning on her. “What do you want?”

He looked white and sick, and Lydia had a strong desire to put her arms about his neck and comfort him. Such an action was, however, an utter impossibility on her part, and she contented herself with pleading hurriedly: “Don't go away, Wilfred; come back with me to number seven. Do come. You know you're always welcome there. Do come.”

“What's the use?” said Wilfred bitterly,
resuming his stride. “No! I shall get out of Hudley as quick as I can. The town isn't big enough to hold me and father. The West Riding isn't. I shall go to Scotland, to the job that fellow was telling me about. You can say good-bye to Uncle Charles for me. I dare say he meant well, but it would have been better if he'd told me all about that past history; I should have cleared out then without father having to tell me to go.”

“Oh, Wilfred!” panted Lydia, striving to keep up with his rapid steps, “don't go! Please don't go!” She made a tremendous effort to conquer her own reserve and, laying a timid hand on his sleeve, said desperately: “I shall miss you terribly if you go, Wilfred.”

A softened look crossed Wilfred's unhappy face; he hesitated and slackened speed somewhat. Unfortunately this allowed Eric and Annice to overtake them.

“What are we to do now, Willie?” wailed Eric as they arrived.

Wilfred scowled again. He turned to face his brother, and the four stood silent for a moment. The heaviness of Annice's figure was apparent to Lydia for the first time that day, and she perceived that Wilfred too was painfully aware of it.

“You'd better all come to number seven,” suggested Lydia with an effort, conscious of a decided disinclination to harbour Eric, whose moist eyes, degenerate-looking head, and shambling
gait were just then very disagreeable to her. To her surprise, her suggestion was not well received; Wilfred's scowl deepened, and Annice shook her head. “Why not?” Lydia demanded, surprised. “I don't see where else you can go.”

“Neither do I,” wailed the hapless Eric. “I
knew
how it would be.”

“Annice is right,” interrupted Wilfred sharply. “Father will never forgive you if you go to Uncle Charles. It's very nice of Lydia,” he went on sarcastically, “to want us all so much, but it won't do. You'll have to find some rooms for a bit, till father comes round.”

“I haven't any money,” objected Eric in despair.

“We shall manage,” Annice consoled him.

“No, we
shan't
” said Eric peevishly. “You know nothing about it.”

“Here!” said Wilfred in a tone of intense disgust, getting out his note-case, “take this.” The money changed hands, and Wilfred added: “I'll send you my address when I'm settled, and you can let me know how you're getting on. And mind,” he finished roughly, “that you're good to Annice, Eric.”

Eric coloured with anger. “I don't need you to tell me how to behave to Annice, Willie,” he retorted in a resentful tone.

“My God!” said Wilfred, exploding. “You're beyond a joke, Eric, you are really. However, it won't matter to me any more; I'm off. I'm sick of
the whole lot of you, and I hope I never see any of you again.” He swung on his heel and strode off in the direction of a passing tram.

“Good-bye, Wilfred,” said Lydia faintly, taking a timid step or two after him.

“Good-bye,” replied Wilfred shortly. “Don't come any farther, Lydia. It's no use. I'm sick of all that sort of thing.”

He did not turn his head, and his tone was so grim that Lydia's heart failed her, and she halted. She understood him to mean that he was sick of sex, of women and of love as these had been exemplified in the Dyson family, and the sentiment found a sufficient echo in her own heart to keep her motionless while he boarded the tram and was borne away. Her last glimpse of him was as he stood white and scowling on the platform of the tram and counted out coppers to the conductor. It was Wilfred's fate to be prosaic, she reflected, and turned to the wrangle which was in progress between Eric and Annice as to where they should go. Eric wanted to try to soften his father's heart immediately, or alternatively to quarter himself on his uncle; Annice was quite emphatic that neither of these things would do. They did not trouble to lower their voices, and passers-by were glancing at the trio curiously.

“Let us walk on,” urged Lydia, taking Annice's arm.

“There's no need for you to stay, Miss Lydia,” said Annice, hanging back. “Eric and I can
manage by ourselves now, and Mr. Mellor will be wanting his lunch.”

“Well!” cried Lydia. She jerked her hand from beneath her companion's arm as if it had been stung. To be told, after losing Wilfred solely and entirely through Annice's agency, that Annice no longer needed her, was rather more than she could stand. “Very well!” she continued, her voice panting and uneven with emotion. “If you don't need me, I'll go home. You can do exactly as you like, exactly!”

Annice opened her blue eyes wide in perplexity, and Lydia felt that once again she had been ineffective. It was undeniable, however, that her household duties imperatively called her, and throwing over her shoulder a suggestion that the bridal pair should go to a former housekeeper of Dyson's till things settled down, she hurried off. It was now long past the Mellors' usual lunch hour, and she entered number seven apprehensively. She found that Charles, having passed through various stages of alarm and resignation at the continued absence of herself and Annice, had at last gone into the kitchen, filled a pan or two with water, got up the cold meat from the cellar, and was now engaged in setting a tray for Louise, who, he informed Lydia with a twinkle in his eye, was having a nice little sleep, though she probably didn't think so. The sight of him patiently laying out spoons and forks with his unaccustomed fingers upset Lydia.

“You're very good, father,” she said in a
quivering voice, taking off her hat and coat. The little kitchen mirror reflected her disordered hair and her thin features pinched with misery and cold; it was no wonder, she told herself with bitterness, that Wilfred had found it so easy to part from her. “You're very good, father,” she said again, moving stormily about her duties. “You're always so ready to put your shoulder to the wheel to help somebody else. It's odd how all the work of the world seems to fall on some people and all the pleasure on others.”

“It would be odd,” agreed Charles pleasantly, taking out the butter, “if it were true.” He of course saw that some catastrophe had occurred in which his daughter was concerned, and he was troubled about the absence of Annice, but he had sufficient experience of human nature to refrain from questions and wait for Lydia to give him her confidence unasked. In his experience confidences so given were always fuller and less grudging than those extracted by the confidant. He therefore turned the conversation to Louise's lunch, which Lydia was rapidly preparing in a jerky and distraught fashion. Presently the two carried this upstairs, and found Louise placidly awake and propped against her pillows in readiness for her long-overdue meal, which she received with signs of pleasure.

“Any deficiencies in equipment,” observed Charles, gazing down at the tray, which Lydia was arranging across her mother's knees, “must be attributed to me.
I
laid out the spoons.”

“Always a worker, Charles,” said Louise, smiling up at him fondly.

“Yes!” broke out Lydia bitterly, her thoughts still busy with herself and Annice. “Some people are always the workers. It seems to me that there's a vertical line down the middle of society—in every generation some people are born to live, and others to make it possible for them to do so.”

“Well, my dear,” said Louise soothingly, not understanding the cause of this outburst in the least: “It takes all sorts to make a world, you know.”

“Louise!” cried Lydia, struck to the heart by the cruelty of this platitude—her mother thought it right, then, that Annice's love should be crowned at the expense of hers! She then remembered that Louise knew nothing of her cause for sorrow. “Mother,” she told her with a certain wild dignity, “you don't understand. Eric and Annice are married and Wilfred's gone. He's quarrelled with Uncle Herbert and gone. He's left me.”

Her voice broke as she spoke these last dreadful words. In a passion of grief she threw herself down beside the bed and sobbed out the tragic events of the morning.

1

The Mellors spent the next twelve months adjusting themselves to the changed conditions of their lives. By the next post there came from Dyson's lawyer a legal notice to quit the house at the term of their lease, which was not far distant, and a cheque for the total amount of money invested by Charles from time to time in Boothroyd Mills, with the current quarter's interest added in full. Charles promptly sought an interview with his brother-in-law, but was denied admittance both at the house and at the mill; he wrote to him, and received a formal intimation from the solicitor that any further business between the Mellors and Mr. Dyson was to be conducted through his office. At this Charles, angered, returned the current quarter's interest to the solicitor; and received in return a cheque for the exact amount of interest due, calculated to the very day and the nearest penny. The cheque was, of course, made out by Dyson; and Charles shook his silvery head mournfully over his brother-in-law's emphatic signature.
That his lifelong friend, his sister's husband, could put his name to such a piece of bitterness passed Mr. Mellor's understanding. He pored over the writing, trying to discover signs of agitation in it—there was a rumour current that Dyson was ill, and Charles longed to find corroboration for this, so that he might be able to imagine that his friend was not himself when he did these revengeful deeds. The signature, however, looked firm enough; and Lydia, seeing her uncle one day in the Place, could not support the theory of illness—he passed her without a sign of recognition, certainly, and was walking very slowly, but he looked as robust, as prosperous, and as composed as ever. Charles, with a sigh, paid the second cheque into his bank, and took advice on how to reinvest the money. He found, to his dismay, that the only investments his banker recommended as being safe would bring him in about a third as much as Dyson had recently paid him. Industry was in a bad way generally, according to this gloomy individual, and unless Mr. Mellor wanted such shares as so-and-so and so-and-so—Charles waved a horrified hand in negation—he would be well advised to stick to trustee securities. Of course, Mr. Mellor might get recommendations more to his liking from a stockbroker. The inexperienced Charles shuddered at the mere mention of such a personage, and went away thoughtfully to discuss the matter with Louise. Louise, of course, knew nothing about it, but produced several alarming anecdotes
of people whose money had been caused to vanish by too frequent recourse to stockbrokers; and Lydia felt a similar distrust of them; so that Charles presently bowed to the inevitable and took his banker's advice. The filling up of the necessary forms of application was a great trouble to him; Dyson had always done that sort of thing for him, until recent years, when Wilfred had taken it on. Lately, indeed, Wilfred had filled up Charles's income-tax returns for him and paid his rates for him and explained Annice's insurance card to Louise, and done all sorts of things of that kind for the Mellors. (In some curious way Wilfred, though his language about forms of every kind was atrocious, and he always declared himself utterly unable to understand what on earth the Government wanted to know
that
for, was most expert in filling them up; whereas Charles, who understood the Government's reasons perfectly and never grumbled, somehow never seemed to put the information in the proper shape.) Yes, Charles would miss Wilfred and Dyson very much in many, many ways; no one knew better than Charles what a difference it made to his income when Wilfred looked after the official calls on it. But just now, of course, all such minor differences were swallowed up in the great and terrible difference that he was now drawing a safe 5 per cent, where before he had had a varying 10 to 15. Obviously he would have to return to the regular ministry, especially as Louise's rheumatism seemed likely
to run away with a good deal—an increasing deal—of money.