The Partnership (22 page)

“His own house is only a minute away,” said Lydia, looking up at the faces which clustered round her. “Look! It's only over there. We can carry him.”

“You'd best not move him without a stretcher,” opined the elderly man who had spoken to Lydia before in the tram. “To my thinking he looks
bad. I shouldn't touch him at all without a doctor.”

“Do you think it's serious?” said Lydia, aghast. The man nodded. “Oh, let someone go for the doctor, then!” implored the terrified Lydia. “Please let someone go quickly.”

One of the tram passengers, it appeared, had already departed on this errand, and in a few minutes the nearest doctor—to whom the Mellors and Dysons, as inhabitants of Cromwell Place, were well known—came hurrying to the scene. After a brief examination of Eric he looked serious, and commanded the ambulance to be sent for at once. Evan went to the nearest call-box to summon it. By this time a policeman had arrived, and was entering the particulars of the accident in his notebook.

“What name is it, please, miss?” he inquired of Lydia in a tone of respectful sympathy.

“Dyson—Eric Dyson,” said the wretched Lydia.

At this a murmur arose from the crowd. “Fancy being run over by his own lorry! On the wrong side of the road too!”

“Oh no!” protested Lydia against this misconception. “My cousin wasn't run over—he fell off the tram. The lorry never touched him.”

“We shall want your evidence on that point, miss,” said the policeman rather grimly. “May I have your name and address, please?”

Lydia wearily gave it, and asked the man's good services in sending for her father.

“Hadn't you better go in and break the news to Mr. Eric Dyson's wife?” suggested the doctor now, seeing that the policeman had finished with her. “You can do nothing more here, you know. We shall take him to the hospital.”

“It is serious, then?” faltered Lydia.

“I fear it may be,” replied the doctor with reserve.

There was nothing to be read in his professionally discreet expression, but from the faces of the crowd Lydia gathered the conviction that Eric's condition was very serious indeed. He had neither moved nor spoken since the accident, and his face was ashen. She looked down at him again, and something in his attitude brought the truth home to her.

“Is he dead?” she asked the doctor bluntly.

“You had perhaps better prepare Mrs. Dyson for such an event,” he replied with gravity. “The base of the skull is undoubtedly fractured.”

Lydia, with a shuddering sigh, turned away and stumbled along the Place to Boothroyd House.

The latch was down; she rang the bell, and in the pause while Annice could be heard descending the stairs and crossing the hall, tried to brace herself for the dreadful interview before her. Annice, on opening the door, saw her as white as a sheet, hardly able to stand, and with the marks of tragedy on her face. A look of fear came into Annice's eyes; she put her hand abruptly to her heart and exclaimed “Oh, Miss Lydia!” in a deep tone of anguish.

Lydia gasped out that she was not to be alarmed, but—but—in fact, Eric had had an accident.

“Miss Lydia!” repeated Annice. She seemed awestruck, and dropped her eyes. After a long pause she led the way into the dining-room; and turning, looked at Lydia expectantly. “How did it happen?” she asked, her voice trembling.

These, however, were the only signs of emotion she showed. She listened to Lydia's account of the accident—which gave the bare facts merely, for these had swamped in Lydia's mind her own part in the drama—in silence, motionless save for the slow heaving of her breast. At the end she demanded in her usual rough and jerky manner: “What are we to do now?”

“I think we'd better wait till we hear something from the hospital,” said Lydia.

Annice nodded, and sat down abruptly. Lydia, who was beginning to remember her own tragedy, and felt numb with despair, could find nothing more to say; and the two women sat there together for the better part of an hour, silent except for the necessary interjections to the children playing on the hearthrug. At the end of that time the telephone bell rang, and in answer to a mute appeal from Annice, Lydia roused herself and answered it. As she expected, it was a message from the hospital to say that Eric's life was definitely gone. Lydia returned to the dining-room and communicated the fact as tenderly as she could. Annice gave but one exclamation and was silent; but suddenly she snatched up Bertie
and kissed him—a manifestation hitherto unwitnessed by Lydia, for Annice was not of the caressing kind. She then went along into the kitchen and in a kind of thoughtful silence prepared Mr. Dyson's tea. When it was ready she turned to Lydia, who had followed her, and said:

“You'd better take it up.”

“I?” exclaimed Lydia, dumbfounded.

Annice nodded.

“Then you can tell him about Eric,” she said.

“But, Annice!” expostulated Lydia.

“
I
can't tell him,” said Annice, giving her a long look.

“You mean you're not sorry enough about poor Eric,” exclaimed Lydia indignantly.

Annice looked at her and said nothing.

“Eric knew your treachery to him, Annice!” burst out Lydia, maddened by her calm. “And it killed him!” In rapid and fiery sentences she revealed the true significance of the afternoon's events. Annice lowered her eyelids, but her expression did not change, and she still said nothing. “Well,” said Lydia at length despairingly, “you're right about Uncle Herbert, I suppose. Give me the tray. I'll take it.”

Angrily she snatched it from the dresser, and hastening upstairs set it down on the landing while she opened the door of her uncle's room.

“You're very late,” said Dyson's voice good-humouredly from within.

It was not without trepidation that Lydia picked up the tray and prepared to face her uncle;
but she told herself that nothing whatever mattered now—nothing that could happen to her could make her more unhappy—and she walked in boldly. Her uncle, pale, thin, and with his greyish-ginger hair pathetically tousled, had pulled himself up into a sitting position and was looking at the door eagerly.

“Why, Lydia!” he exclaimed in astonishment as she entered. “It is Lydia, isn't it?”

“Yes, uncle,” said Lydia in a pleasant tone. She approached the bed and, smiling kindly down at him, began to arrange the tray across his knees.

“Aye, Lydia, Lydia Mellor,” mused Dyson, looking up at her thoughtfully. “Charles's daughter. You aren't married yet, then, Lydia?” He gave a little chuckle, the faint ghost of his former sardonic amusement on this point.

“No, uncle,” replied the tortured Lydia. “Don't you have anything over your shoulders?” she added, looking about the room.

“Aye,” said her uncle, “yon dressing-gown over there.” He pointed to the article in question, and when Lydia had to move another garment to secure it, said irritably: “No, not that one; the one underneath. Where's Annice?
She
knows just what I always have.”

“She's downstairs,” said Lydia soothingly, arranging the dressing-gown about his thin shoulders, from which his night clothes, far too large for his emaciated frame, hung in loose folds.

“Oh, she isn't out, then? You just thought
you'd bring up the tray for a change, eh?” said Dyson comfortably, attacking his tea.

“Yes, that's it,” agreed Lydia in a voice which she tried to make cheerful.

She walked away from the bed, thinking it would be best to let her uncle finish his meal before she told him bad news; but her movement seemed to annoy him.

“Don't fidget about so,” he bade her irritably. “Sit ye down—somewhere where I can see you.” He waved a hand commandingly towards a chair near the foot of the bed, and Lydia obediently took it. Her uncle continued to eat in silence, but kept his grey eyes fixed shrewdly upon her. “How old will you be now, Lydia?” he observed musingly at length. “Let's see. Eric's twenty-six, and I remember when I married Fanny you were just walking. Or was that at the funeral just before? Well, however,” he broke off, waving one hand with an air of irritation, “it's neither here nor there. I get my dates and names mixed up nowadays. You're a good bit older nor Annice, I reckon. You look older, anyway.”

“Yes, uncle,” agreed Lydia. “I know I do.”

“Has Eric come in yet?” inquired Dyson presently.

Lydia, feeling that the moment of revelation could no longer be delayed, rose and went to his side. She took one of his thin wrinkled hands in hers and began quietly: “Uncle, I have bad news for you about Eric. There's been an accident, and he's hurt.”

“Hurt? Eric?” said Dyson, his hand trembling pathetically in hers. “Is he bad?”

“I'm afraid he is,” said Lydia gravely, very conscious that Eric was already dead.

There was a pause, then Dyson pushed the tray pettishly away from him with his free hand. “What do you want to bring me things to eat for, when Eric's hurt?” he demanded in a weak childish voice. “Take it away. Where's Annice? Why didn't she come and tell me herself, instead of sending you?”

The contempt in his voice on this last pronoun was such that Lydia winced. “Shall I go and fetch her, uncle?” she said in a choked voice, trying to free her hand.

“No,” said Dyson crossly, holding tightly to her. “Tell me about the accident. Did ye see it? Were ye there?”

Lydia briefly described it.

“Have they brought him here?” asked Dyson, looking about him anxiously.

“No, they've taken him to the hospital,” replied Lydia.

“Has Annice gone to see him?” was the next query.

“Not yet,” said Lydia in a guarded tone.

Her uncle fixed on her a piercing gaze, beneath which poor Lydia felt the last remnants of her courage ooze away. “I reckon he's dead and ye're trying to break it to me,” he said at last. “Is he?”

The wretched Lydia was silent, but the answer was only too clearly written on her face.

“Well!” exclaimed Dyson in a quivering tone. “Dead! Eric! Dead!” His grasp of Lydia's hand relaxed, and with a deep sigh he sank back on his pillows. His eyes closed, his haggard face turned upwards, and for a long moment he was so still that Lydia thought the news had killed him. Presently, however, he spoke again, his voice sounding thin and empty as though it came from very far away. “Where's your father?” he asked pitifully.

“We've sent for him, uncle,” Lydia told him. “He'll be here soon.”

“Aye! Well!” murmured Dyson feebly. “Dead!” There was a long pause, then he said in broken, scarcely audible tones: “I want to see your father when he comes.”

“Yes, you shall see him as soon as he comes. Shall I stay with you till then, uncle?” asked Lydia, exerting her will to forget Dyson's part in her own drama.

“What?” snapped Dyson, irritably, opening his eyes. “Oh—no. Where's Annice?”

“She's downstairs,” replied Lydia. “Shall I send her up to you?”

“Aye, do,” said Dyson, closing his eyes again.

Lydia took up the tray and turned to go. Just on the threshold, however, she met her father, looking haggard and grief-stricken, with his white hair disordered and his eyes red-rimmed.

“This is a terrible business, Lydia!” he exclaimed, breathing heavily—he had evidently come hot-foot from Ribourne. “Terrible! How
does your poor uncle take it? What's this I hear about Wilfred, too?”

“Uncle Herbert wants to see you,” began Lydia stiffly, disregarding this last question. Her uncle, however, had evidently heard her father's voice, for he now called feebly: “Charles!”

Charles pushed open the door and entered. “This is a day of great grief to us all, Herbert,” began Charles in a tone of deep solemnity. He advanced to the bed and took his brother-in-law's hand.

“Aye,” agreed Dyson listlessly. Without opening his eyes he continued: “
You'll
have to look after me now, Charles—now Eric's gone. I can't look after myself, you know.”

“Rest assured,” said Charles solemnly, “that I shall do everything that lies in my power to help you, Herbert.”

“Wilfred's away too,” murmured Dyson.

The heart-broken Lydia softly closed the door and withdrew.

4

The inquest on Eric made a good deal of talk in Hudley, because it appeared that Evan's partiality for young Mrs. Dyson was only too well known at Boothroyd Mills. It was known, for instance, how often he called at Boothroyd House on one pretext or another; for on these occasions he would put the man who rode beside him on the lorry down in Hudley for twenty minutes or so, picking him up again before
returning to the mill. Though Eric was not popular with his workpeople, who despised him heartily, and though Evan had undoubtedly been admired amongst them on account of his lively tongue and his blithe ways, Eric was old Mr. Dyson's son, and a Yorkshireman, whereas Evan was a stranger, and a stranger with reprehensible morals at that; and it was generally felt that for Evan to knock down and run over his employer because he was in love with his employer's wife was rather too much of a good thing, even for a Welshman. For this was the view generally taken of the accident; the opinion was loudly expressed that Evan ought to hang for it if everyone had his due, and a perfect storm of angry feeling descended on Lydia's head because at the adjourned inquest her evidence showed that the lorry had not touched Eric at all. Some people said that she was trying to hush up the Evan-Annice affair for the sake of the family—which was perfectly useless, for everyone knew it already. Others accused Lydia of being in love with Evan herself and meeting him regularly at Boothroyd House, and said that this had recently come to Eric's ears and precipitated the tragedy. That even the authorities doubted Lydia's story was shown by the persistent and detailed questioning which was brought to bear on it—and on that of Evan, whose first amused astonishment at the suggestion that he had run over Eric developed into anger, then into anxiety, and lastly into imploring dependence on Lydia, as the
proceedings went on. The value of the testimony of the passengers of the tram, to the effect that Eric was undoubtedly and visibly drunk, was negatived by Annice, who declared indignantly that she had never seen him anything of the kind. Lydia was obliged to give an explanation of her presence in the tram with Eric. She had called, she said, colouring painfully, at the mill to ask why Mr. Wilfred Dyson had not been out to Ribourne at the week-end, had found her cousin obviously ill, and accompanied him home. Her testimony, vague and wavering here, was clear and emphatic about the accident, which she alone had clearly seen. Eric was standing on the step of the tram, holding the vertical bar with one hand; he had caught sight of Evan, had called out to him, waved a detaining hand to him, and, his grasp of the bar being thus released, fallen headlong into the road. The lorry had stopped some six feet from his head. The lorry was not travelling on its wrong side; it was just emerging from Cromwell Place. (“What did I tell you?” murmured the gossips.) It had waited for the tram to pass by, then begun to move slowly, then drawn up abruptly with a jar. Had the driver of the lorry seen Eric's fall? Lydia thought not; and Evan was emphatic that he had neither seen nor heard anything till he saw the prostrate figure of a man lying in the road in front of the lorry. Even then he had not the slightest notion that it was Mr. Eric Dyson; when he recognized Miss Mellor kneeling beside
him in the road he feared it might possibly be Mr. Wilfred Dyson, the deceased's step-brother, but he had not really any idea who it was until he came running up and actually saw Mr. Dyson's body lying in the road. He had borne a good character on the whole in the army, he added resentfully, and his licence had never been endorsed; in reply to a question he said that he had gone to Boothroyd House that afternoon to take a supply of wood and soap, commodities which were always sent up there from the mill. There was a pause; then Miss Mellor was asked if she would kindly describe her cousin's fall again. Lydia sighed, and explained again that Eric was leaning forward to get a better view of the lorry, and when he released the bar his over-balanced position naturally caused him to fall into the road. Why did he want to get a better view of the lorry? “Well, it was his own lorry,” said Lydia, feeling suffocated. Was she certain that he was not knocked from the tram by a blow from the lorry? Yes, she was absolutely certain; the lorry was several yards distant when he fell. And she was certain that the lorry had not run over the prostrate man? Quite certain. Nothing could shake her in these statements, because they were the truth; and though there was a general feeling that some domestic drama lay behind the accident—Wilfred's complete disappearance seemed so odd when coupled with the rumours about Evan and Annice—eventually these truths prevailed, and a verdict of death by
misadventure was recorded, with no awkward hint of manslaughter or criminal negligence, or something worse, to cast a shadow over Evan's future. Charles and Louise were, of course, in possession of a rather fuller version of recent events than that which found its way into the
Hudley News
; but even they did not know at first what Eric and Wilfred had quarrelled about or why Eric was “feeling ill” on the fatal day. Partly from a desire to spare their feelings, partly from sheer sickness of heart at the thought of having to drag through the story and expose her own tragic errors, Lydia kept silence on these points; and she was helped in this concealment—on which, as usual, Annice made no remark—by her absence from Ribourne just then.