The Partnership (17 page)

The first few minutes after her awakening next morning, however, settled it for her. Dorothea, also, was emphatically awake. Chuckling and crowing, she climbed about the bed, banging her little fists on anything that came in handy, and crinkling up her eyes in a delicious smile as she paused to consider Lydia's unfamiliar face.

“Eric taught her that,” explained Annice. “She copies him.” She lifted the child horizontally above her head and mildly shook her, gazing up at her merrily the while and laughing in pure enjoyment. “She's lost weight lately,” she continued, abruptly bringing the child down to her shoulder. “With one thing and another I've hardly had enough to eat, and it tells on her.”

The horrified Lydia recognized the claims of the next generation by promising to write to Wilfred at once. After all, she reflected, if Eric became bankrupt and Boothroyd Mills were lost,
the Dyson family would inevitably come upon Wilfred for their keep; and with children in the case he could not refuse them help. It would be better for him, as well as for Dorothea and her brothers, that he should come back to Boothroyd Mills before, as Annice hinted, it was too late. That Eric was hopeless in business affairs, and that Annice was a careless and incompetent housekeeper, Lydia did not doubt; and her strong feeling that they both needed a Tolefree behind them to keep them straight caused her to exclaim:

“I wish I could come to see you sometimes, Annice.”

Annice thought there was no reason why she shouldn't. It could easily be kept from Mr. Dyson, especially at night. He went to bed early, and when Annice had taken him up his bread and milk he usually didn't need her again. It would be best in any case for Lydia to bring Wilfred to the house when he arrived, because, as Annice put it, of Eric. It would be best for Eric to think that Wilfred's arrival was entirely due to Lydia; Annice's name must not be mentioned or there would be awful trouble. Lydia sighed, and promised to make this clear to Eric's brother.

Accordingly, when Annice and the child had gone—Lydia herself pinned Dorothea into her untidy shawl—Lydia sat down and wrote to Wilfred. Lydia was as good at business communications as she was bad at a love-letter, and she wrote such a concise, vivid, and telling statement of the Dyson case as no man with a conscience
could possibly resist. Dorothea's torn clothes and the unpainted Dyson lorries both went in to lend it added force. She could not honestly say that Annice looked the worse for the family misfortunes, for Annice's cheeks were as rosy, her hair as thick, and her eyes as bright as of old—desire gratified had sown its fruits of life and beauty in her—but Annice's hint that food was scarce in Boothroyd House was duly transmitted. “Father and I,” concluded Lydia—she had told the sad history to Charles—“both think it your duty to return.”

As she posted the letter her heart sang with hope and youth renewed, for surely Wilfred would be with them soon.

2

Wilfred's return was, as it turned out, arranged very simply and with a minimum of friction. In reply to Lydia's letter Wilfred wrote with great cordiality and good feeling, thanking her for letting him know the parlous state of affairs at Boothroyd Mills. It troubled him very much, he said, to think of Eric's children not being brought up as they should be, and of his father being ill and uncared for. If Eric wanted him, he would certainly return. To Eric he wrote a long letter beginning, “Lydia says…” which went on to sketch the history of the Dyson family during the past five years as outlined by Lydia—Annice's name was not mentioned in this connection,
Lydia having attributed her information entirely to rumour—and ended with an offer to come back at once and help to get things right again, if Eric thought that would be useful. Eric at that time was in a state almost of hysteria between the ultimatums of the bank, the impossibility of paying his weekly wages bill without their help, and the complaints of his intensely exasperated customers. Spurred on skilfully by Annice, who took the attitude that Wilfred's return would be a nuisance which perhaps it would be best to put up with for the children's sake, and frightened in the same direction by Charles, who called at the mill to deliver a moral harangue on debt and bankruptcy, Eric suddenly flung himself out of the house one night in a state of great excitement and positively sent a prepaid telegram to his brother begging him to return at once. He was so exalted by his brother's affirmative reply next morning that Annice was in terror lest Mr. Dyson should hear his transports. (Eric himself had pointed out to her the importance of keeping his father in ignorance of Wilfred's return; for as Eric had never been made formally a director of the business, if Dyson chose to be angry and refuse to sign cheques and other such documents, Boothroyd Mills could not be carried on.) Fortunately, Mr. Dyson was in one of his uneasy dozes at the time, and heard nothing of Eric's joy. A few weeks elapsed, while Wilfred arranged his affairs at Dumfries, Eric put off every difficulty till his
brother should come, Lydia became rejuvenated by hope, and all parties wrote each other numerous letters; then at last, one spring evening, Charles and Lydia and Eric stood on the Hudley platform together and Wilfred arrived.

Lydia's heart beat so fast, as the train came in, that she felt as though she would choke. For a moment no glimpse could be caught of Wilfred, and an overwhelming disappointment filled her breast; then his familiar voice suddenly sounded, rather brusque and cross, behind Charles's back, and she knew he was really there. In her joy she could not raise her eyes to his, and she remained gazing down at the stones of the platform, silent and inert, till Charles urged her kindly: “Say something to welcome Wilfred, Lydia.” Then she raised her eyes, but she might as well have kept them down, for she could see nothing for tears. She managed to stretch out her hand, however, and said in timid and schoolgirlish tones: “I'm very glad you're back, Wilfred. We've all missed you very much.”

“Aye! Well!” said Wilfred, shaking her hand warmly, “I've missed you all, too. It was silly of me not to answer Uncle Charles's letters, but I was sore, you know, about father. Besides, I never was much of a hand at letters.”

He turned to speak to a porter about his bag, and the party moved off up the stairs together. Lydia marvelled at the ease with which the world could be righted. Just two or three sentences and a pressure of the hand, and the universe was in
flower. She felt a strong desire to burst into hysterical weeping, and her face worked convulsively; but eventually her expression settled itself into an idiotic smile of happiness—she smiled at the porters, the barrier, the clock, the cold February rain which was hurtling to the earth, finally at Wilfred himself when she found herself seated opposite him in the taxi which was to take them all out to Ribourne. Making an effort, she composed her demeanour to one nearer her customary sobriety; and while Charles explained to Wilfred that of course he was to stay the night with them—he could have a long chat with Eric after supper—she examined her returned lover in shy sidelong glances. He looked, she decided, a very much older man than he had done five years ago. He seemed shorter and broader; his shoulders were very square, his neck thick. His features were heavier and bolder, altogether more strongly marked, than of old; and there was a deep vertical cleft, the result evidently of a habitual frown, in the centre of his forehead. His complexion was more like Dyson's than she remembered it. He was turning his hat about in his hands, and his strong dark hair was seen to be thicker than ever, with here and there a stray thread of grey. Altogether Lydia decided that he was a tower of strength and that she was really rather afraid of him; he was no longer a pleasant young fellow, but a determined man, one who would stand no nonsense and who had a sound idea of his own worth. Just now he was
barking out a few business questions which made the hapless Eric colour and wince.

“Let us leave that till after supper, Wilfred,” suggested Charles soothingly, congratulating himself on having arranged that the brothers' interview should take place within reach of his own mollifying influence.

“As you like, Uncle Charles,” returned Wilfred. “We shall have to go through it some time, I suppose, and the sooner the better. How's father?” he demanded abruptly, turning to Eric.

“Oh, much the same,” said Eric, squirming uneasily in his corner. “He's been in bed this week, but got up to-day for a bit.”

“Who looks after him when he's ill?” asked Wilfred.

“Annice,” replied Annice's husband.

Wilfred's grunt sounded rather disapproving, and Lydia put in hastily: “Uncle Herbert is very fond of Annice nowadays, Wilfred.”

“Well, as I remember her she was a very good-natured girl,” said Wilfred. “But with three children and an invalid I should think she's got her work cut out.”

“Annice is all right,” said Eric at this sulkily.

“Well! I shall like to see the children,” observed Wilfred. He smiled, and his face became pleasantly softened. “Fancy you with three children, Eric!” he said.

Eric, flattered, expatiated fondly on his children's charms, appealing to Lydia, who had
been to Boothroyd House once or twice in the last month, for corroboration. Lydia, in her desire to make things pleasant, spoke more heartily than she felt; she loved Dorothea, but was not greatly enamoured of Bert and Jack, who seemed to her to be rough and loutish individuals even at their present tender age, with hearty bodies certainly, but heavy faces and slow minds. She spun the subject out, however, till they arrived at Ribourne. Then there was Louise to greet, and the new house to see, and supper to eat, so that awkward subjects were avoided until Wilfred had finished his pipe and retired with Eric—who looked pale and miserable and carried a sheaf of papers—into Charles's study at the back of the house.

The interview did not seem to be a very soothing one. From time to time Wilfred could be heard ejaculating “Nay!” in accents of astounded incredulity, and Eric certainly had two, if not more, rounds of tears. When they had been alone for some two hours Charles put his head in and asked in bland, cheerful tones whether they had now settled all the affairs of the nation. Wilfred, from a position on the hearthrug, replied that they had.

“It's a good thing I've come back, Uncle Charles, I'm thinking,” he observed rather grimly.

Poor Eric, who was sitting by the table fidgeting with his papers and looking rather as though he had been having a stiff time at a dentist's, gave
a subdued groan at this, and Wilfred's heart seemed to be touched.

“Well, never mind, lad,” he said kindly, laying a hand on Eric's shoulder. “It can't be helped now. It's no use crying over spilt milk. I suppose it isn't really your fault, though why you ever—” He broke off, and repeated: “Well, never mind. I shall have to try and see if I can pull things round, though it won't be easy. It won't be easy,” he concluded thoughtfully. “I doubt I shall be poorer, for a long while, than I have been these last three years in Scotland.”

“You'll have the consciousness that you have done your duty,” Charles told him in his best pulpit style.

Wilfred gave a thoughtful sniff and said nothing.

For the next month or two everything in Lydia's world went splendidly, except that Wilfred was reluctantly obliged to give up the idea of living at Ribourne with the Mellors. He couldn't get to the mill before breakfast from out there, he said; and as that was simply essential he took lodgings in Hudley, so as to be near at hand. His evenings, too, seemed to be pretty well occupied with figures and interviews, but he spent his Sundays definitely with the Mellors, and could usually be found in their house on Saturdays for tea. As Messrs. Herbert Dyson were not yet bankrupt, presumably he was managing to “pull things round,” though he always frowned darkly when Charles asked him
how he was getting on, shook his head, and muttered that they would all have to live on a workman's wage for a long time yet. His father remained in complete ignorance of his presence in Hudley; so much so, indeed, that Wilfred began to venture to spend an occasional evening at Boothroyd House and presently went there regularly every Wednesday. On these occasions Lydia was usually invited too. Lydia, indeed, in one way or another contrived to see a good deal of Wilfred at this time, and it reacted on her whole personality. She discarded her glasses, adopted a new style for her hair, and reformed her dress, venturing into modern fashions with increasing boldness. Her blood ran more swiftly beneath her olive skin, and restored to it some of its lost youthful freshness; her eyes sparkled, her hair regained its lustre; her acidity of speech was gone; she laughed often and heartily, sang to herself about the house, and woke every morning feeling that something really jolly was sure to happen that day. Her painful feeling of inferiority to girls who were lucky in their love affairs was gone; she beamed benevolently upon them, and reflected that the world was made for love. Soon it would be spring; though hail still threw itself fiercely to earth in showers of fascinating white pellets, the birds were already singing, tiny green shoots dotted the Mellors' three feet of front garden, and the shop windows were a riot of white lilac, mimosa, daffodils, violets, anemones, and richly coloured tulips. Lydia's heart awoke
and sang with the birds, bloomed with the flowers. Of course, her love could not be quite the same as it had been before in Cromwell Place; they were both older, and Wilfred's common sense, more strongly developed than ever, effectually prevented rhapsody; but Lydia was content with it as it was. Spring was coming, summer would follow; the long winter of her life was over.

1

Unfortunately a jarring note in this spring song was shortly struck by Annice. In the month preceding Wilfred's arrival Lydia had not failed to observe and admire Annice's constant kindness and affection towards Eric—whose remarks, behaviour, and character in general were enough to try a saint—and towards Dyson, whose failing health made him extremely querulous and exacting. Annice never lost patience with either of them, but spoke to them as she would to a couple of children, and humoured their caprices with a large, amused, detached tolerance which was really very fine. Lydia, looking in—with precaution—round Mr. Dyson's bedroom door, observed her uncle's wasted form with pity and admired Annice heartily as she wrapped him up in shawls and seated him in his arm-chair, or read the headlines of the paper to him, or coaxed him to eat the milk foods he detested. Her nursing was not, of course, that of a Tolefree; Mr. Dyson received his medicine at the oddest hours, and his toilet was not performed with that perfection
which Lydia thought necessary; but there was no doubt that Annice knew how to make her patient happy. As for Eric, her influence over him was so complete and so profound that Lydia could not but marvel. She could excite him to tears or soothe him to a smile by one glance from her blue eyes; he obviously adored her, and she responded to his adoration by merry smiles and good-humoured exclamations which Lydia found rather attractive. At the time of Wilfred's arrival Annice was tactfulness itself, conveying the impression that Eric wanted Wilfred at home, and so, of course, Eric's wife dutifully acquiesced in this arrangement. But no sooner had Wilfred really set to work, no sooner had the Dysons' situation really improved, than all this was changed, and the perverse creature—as Lydia called her with a sigh—began to neglect Dyson and be peevish with Eric. She had always spoken to her husband in tones of kindly amusement, of jocular and as it were contemptuous affection; but now the amusement, the jocularity, and the affection had gone, while the contempt in rather too marked a fashion remained. The change in her behaviour to Dyson was no less marked. One afternoon Lydia called at Boothroyd House with some fresh country eggs as a present for Dyson. (Though Charles would not enter the house himself, and was much troubled at the deception of his brother-in-law on which the present situation rested, he allowed Lydia to go there in order to gain news, and often sent presents by
her; for his love for his old friend was undiminished, and Herbert's illness was a great grief to him.) On this occasion Lydia rang the bell and, receiving no reply, tried the door-handle, with the intention of depositing the eggs in the hall if Annice was engaged upstairs. The door yielded to her touch; she went in, and was startled to hear a bell pealing through the house. After a while it stopped, and Dyson's stick thumped on the floor above her head; then, when this too proved ineffectual, the bell pealed out again. Lydia, perplexed and disturbed, inspected the downstairs rooms; the three children were playing in the kitchen, but Annice was invisible. The bell continued to ring, and Lydia bade Bertie go upstairs and see what his grandfather required. The child had hardly gone, however, before the back door was flung open, and Annice, flushed and breathless, ran in. It seemed to Lydia that a shade passed over Annice's face as she saw her visitor. She began to explain at once, with what seemed to Lydia unnecessary haste: “I was just showing the man where to put the wood.” Lydia glanced out of the window and saw Messrs. Herbert Dyson's lorry drawn up in the back yard; a man with a load of wood on his back was just entering the disused garage.