NETHERHALL
Bleak moors, seamed by dark gullies, enclose Netherdale, and a river,
leaping from the peat, breaks on whinstone ledges and plunges into
alder-shaded pools. Where the valley widens, larch woods roll up the
slopes and Netherhall and its oaks occupy a flat round which the water
curves. The house is old and dignified, and belonged to Mrs. Alan
Carson. The Carsons were ironmasters, but when Alan married he sold
his foundry. For some time the business had not prospered, and Alan
was glad to let it go. He was cautious and hesitating, and when he
faced obstacles he went another way. As a rule, since his marriage,
the way was Mrs. Carson’s way.
Four or five hours after Kit left the shipyard, he sat in the grass at
Netherhall by Evelyn Haigh’s basket chair. He smoked a cigarette and
sometimes he talked, but for the most part he was content to look
about and study Evelyn. The picture was attractive. For a background,
old oaks, tufted by shaggy moss, rolled down to the stream. The leaves
were touched by the coppery gleams that mark the oak when summer is
young, and blue shadows lurked among the trunks.
Evelyn’s clothes were white, but her shady hat and her belt were
yellow. Her hair was black; her face was small, rather thin and finely
molded. She was lightly built and her pose was graceful, but her mouth
was firm and sometimes her look was calculating. Kit, however, did not
notice things like that.
He rested his back against a tree and let himself go slack. The
afternoon was hot, and but for the splash of the river, all was quiet.
“You look tired, Kit,” Evelyn remarked.
“I expect I’m lazy. All the same, at the office we were pretty
strenuously occupied, and I was keen about the boiler. Now the boat
has run her trial, I feel I’m entitled to relax, and when one wants to
loaf I don’t know a better spot than Netherhall.”
Evelyn agreed. Slanted sunbeams pierced the shade and touched
springing fern and the velvet grass where rabbits fed. Outside the
thin wood, a lily-pool in the wide lawn reflected dazzling light, and
the sun was on the old house’s front. The stone was stained by
lichens, and yellow roses climbed the wall. One smelt flowers and
heard the languid hum of bees.
“But the boat’s steaming fast was your triumph,” Evelyn resumed. “Then
did you not get a reward?”
“I got fifty pounds a year extra pay and thought myself fortunate!”
“The company is not very generous,” said Evelyn, and laughed.
“Sometimes I feel your part, like mine, is rather a joke. You labor at
the shipyard for ridiculous pay, but when you visit at Netherhall you
fish and shoot and drive expensive cars. Your aunt and my mother rule
the dale, but when nobody is about we use stern economy. You don’t,
Kit——” She stopped, and touching the little yellow jewel on her neck,
resumed: “In fact, I feel you’re rashly extravagant.”
“To buy keen satisfaction is not extravagant, and when I see you wear
my present I know the investment’s sound. Anyhow, Mrs. Haigh would not
allow me to give you a ring.”
Evelyn blushed. Kit was not her acknowledged lover, and Mrs. Haigh
declared that before they talked about his marrying Evelyn he must be
able to support a wife.
“Mother is very firm, but I think we’ll let it go. Well, if you are
not extravagant, you certainly are generous. You sister wanted a
wrist-watch, and she has got the watch!”
“Oh, well. Not long since, a pal at the yard paid his debt, and since
I didn’t expect to be paid, I thought I was entitled to use the
money.”
“I don’t know if you’re logical, Kit. If you did not expect to be
paid, why did you lend?”
“As a rule, I hate to be logical,” Kit rejoined. “You see, Tom’s pay
is small and the girl he wanted to marry lost her post and could not
get another. She had no home and her savings melted. Then relations in
New Zealand sent money for her ticket and urged her to join them; but
if she went it looked as if she must go for good....” Kit stopped and
resumed in a thoughtful voice: “Sometimes one must take a plunge, and
Mabel’s pluck was fine. She married Tom, and although their fight was
hard, now he’s patenting a useful invention, I think their troubles
are over.”
“Ah,” said Evelyn, “perhaps pluck is the greatest quality! So long as
one is not afraid, one is not tempted to shabbiness; but after all,
the risk your friends ran was daunting, and I’m not very brave.”
Kit’s mouth got tight. Evelyn’s color came and went, and he knew she
was moved. She, like him, was young, and passion and adventure called.
Perhaps, if he used a strong effort he might carry her away. For all
that, Kit knew he must not do so. He did not see Evelyn happy at a
flat like Blake’s, and to picture her saving the pennies for the stove
was ridiculous. Besides, he had agreed that he must get a proper post.
“Oh, well,” he said, “I expect Tom’s luck was rather remarkable, and
his plunge might have cost him and Mabel much. Besides, we agreed we
would not be rash.”
Evelyn gave him a strange look, and he doubted if she altogether
approved his resignation. To know he had taken the proper line was not
much comfort. Then Evelyn smiled.
“What did you buy for yourself? Since you got the money, I expect you
bought something,” she said in a careless voice.
Kit played up. “I bought a fiddle bow at a second-hand shop. A pretty
good example of a fine old maker’s workmanship. In fact, I think the
dealer didn’t know the treasure he had.”
“Then, you did not enlighten him?” said Evelyn, and laughed. “I like
to feel you can sometimes conquer your scruples. But suppose the
dealer was cleverer than you thought? Don’t they fake old fiddle
bows?”
“I’m a shipyard draftsman, and you don’t cheat a fellow who uses
scientific tools.”
“It’s possible,” Evelyn agreed. “At all events, I imagine one does not
cheat your Uncle Jasper.”
Kit looked up. An old gentleman crossed the grass and stopped a few
yards off. Jasper Carson was tall and thin. His hair and brows were
white, and his face was lined. His dress was careless and his look, as
a rule, ironically humorous, but one got a hint of force. He gave
Evelyn a rather baffling smile and said to Kit:
“Loafing after your recent efforts?”
“My efforts were pretty strenuous, sir. Then, on a summer afternoon,
loafing has some charm.”
Jasper’s glance rested on Evelyn. His look was inscrutable, but Kit
thought hers got harder, as if she knew him antagonistic.
“In the circumstances, perhaps it’s justifiable. You may think my
statement strange, Miss Haigh, but long ago I was romantic, and when
the days were golden we studied Tennyson. His verses harmonized with
old English houses and ancestral trees, but the oaks at Netherhall are
not the Carsons’ oaks and will certainly not be Kit’s. Harry’s claim
is first and his type’s the landlord type.”
Evelyn sensed a sneer. Harry Ledward was Mrs. Carson’s relation.
“Tennyson is out-of-date, and we are modern,” she rejoined. “Kit
talked about a steamship boiler and I was not bored.”
“Kit’s an optimist,” Jasper remarked, and turned to his nephew. “The
_Mariposa_ made a first-class trial run, but perhaps you ought to wait
until the other boat has steamed across the measured marks.”
“I’m not anxious. The other boat’s no doubt a good boat, but she has
not our boiler. In the meantime, it’s not important, and although you
banter me about loafing, it doesn’t look as if you were very much
engaged.”
“Netherhall is soothing,” Jasper agreed. “Still I’m not altogether
slack. Sometimes I ponder and sometimes I plan.”
He went off, and Kit’s eyes twinkled. “Jasper’s plans work, and his
obvious duty is to plan for me. All the same, if he wants to send me
to Canada, I doubt if I’ll go. He has much to do with Canadian
engineering and bridge-building works, but I’m satisfied to stop in
the Old Country.”
“He’s your friend; I doubt if he is mine,” said Evelyn. “I like Alan
Carson better.”
“Alan is a very good sort, but when you doubt Jasper you exaggerate.
All who know you are your friends.”
“I wonder——” said Evelyn in a thoughtful voice. “But, if you’re not
too languid, let’s go to the waterside and see where the big trout
rise.”
Kit got up and they went to the river, but he felt the tranquillity he
had enjoyed was gone. Although he declared Evelyn exaggerated, Jasper
had disturbed the brooding calm.
In the evening Kit leaned against the terrace wall and tuned a violin.
The long drawing-room window was open, and his sister, Agatha, struck
a note on the piano. The evening was hot and the light had begun to
go. One smelt wet grass and flowers touched by dew. In the gloom the
river throbbed.
Evelyn, Mrs. Haigh, and Mrs. Carson occupied a bench. Mrs. Haigh was
short, alert and resolute. Her lips were thin, and when she pondered
her mouth got tight. Although she was rather important at Netherdale,
she was not rich. Mrs. Carson was tall and dignified. She sprang from
old land-owning stock; Netherhall was hers, and she ruled her husband.
Alan Carson, on the terrace steps, smoked a cigar. His skin was red,
he was rather fat, and dully urbane. Since his marriage he was
satisfied to potter about his wife’s small estate.
“The Spanish fellow’s music,” said Kit, going to the window. “Try to
follow me; I mayn’t stick to the score.”
Agatha struck a few notes and Kit’s bow touched the strings. He used
double stops and the strange chords disturbed Evelyn. When the chords
melted in melancholy arpeggios she set her mouth. She felt the man who
stopped the strings was a man she did not know, and she liked to think
she knew her lover. She was very quiet. All were quiet, for Kit’s
playing on the terrace was justified. The music was not for the
Victorian drawing-room, but it harmonized with the dark woods and
throbbing river. By and by Kit turned to the others and laughed.
“Well? Do you like it?”
“I do not,” said Mrs. Carson. “What did you play?”
“A Spanish muleteer’s song, but I expect the air was known in the
desert before the Moors conquered Spain and the singers were vagabond
Bedouin. The people who built Netherhall and planted the oaks would
not have much use for music like that.”
“I expect that is so,” Mrs. Carson agreed, and added meaningly: “Your
business is to build ships.”
“Oh, well,” said Kit, “the strongest ships we build are soon out of
date, but Netherhall has stood for three hundred years. In the morning
the Bedouin strikes his tent and drives his camels to another well.
The muleteer loads up his wine-skins and takes the road. He has no
house; I dare say the mules are a moneylender’s, and all he owns he
wears. All the same, he sings and sometimes he dances....” He signed
his sister. “Let’s try the Sevillana.”
Agatha touched the piano and Kit began to play. He plucked the
strings, and when he used the bow the double stops rang like
harmonized guitars. Evelyn felt moved to dance and calm was rather
hard. The music was exotic and marked by a touch of melancholy, but it
fired her blood. As a rule, she hated to be moved, and she wanted Kit
to stop. By and by he did so and carried his violin to the
drawing-room.
“Thank you, Agatha; they have had enough,” he said, and laughed a
careless laugh. “I don’t know about my playing, but the bow I bought
is good. A straight stick and a fine spring; the old Frenchman knew
his job.”
Agatha Carson came down the iron steps. She was tall and went quietly,
but she was sister at a famous hospital, and her calm carried a hint
of command.
“Your composer’s mood is strange, Kit,” she said.
“I expect his mood was his ancestors’ mood and they were romantic
vagabonds. You get a sense of a sombre background, but it did not
bother them. They owned nothing; so long as they could sing and dance,
they did not want much. Perhaps their philosophy was sound.”
“It is not our philosophy, and poverty is not a joke,” Mrs. Haigh
remarked.
“To see the joke implies some pluck,” Kit agreed. “Spaniards and Moors
are fatalists; but I expect you feel one ought to be resigned. One
ought to fight for all one can get?”
“The Anglo-Saxons are gatherers and builders,” Mrs. Carson observed.
“Our aim is permanence and stability. The things we get we make
better. For example, Netherdale was a dreary bog, but we turned the
floods by dykes; we drained and planted and built——”
“Your work stands,” said Jasper Carson. “Netherdale’s a noble
monument, but it cost three hundred years’ effort. Something of a
job!”
Evelyn looked up, for she had not heard Jasper arrive. He leaned
against the wall and smiled, but she knew his humor was generally
stern.
“Sometimes the Anglo-Saxons used another plan; they took the goods
others gathered,” he resumed. “At the beginning Frisians and Danes
sharpened their battle-axes and drove the long galleys for the Humber
and the Wash. In later days their descendants steered for the Spanish
Main. The tradition is, Netherhall folk bought ships, and although
they carried little abroad, they brought rich cargoes back. Perhaps
Kit is their type; I doubt if he’s a gatherer.”
“Kit does not spring from Netherhall stock,” said Mrs. Carson.
“It is rather evident,” Jasper agreed.
Alan looked up, as if he were annoyed. “All the same, he’s my nephew
and when he’s not at the ship-yard Netherhall’s his home.” He gave Kit
a friendly touch. “You know that, my lad!”
“I have known it since I knew you, sir.”
“Oh, well,” said Alan, “when people philosophize I get bored and I
think I’ll go for a drink. Are you coming, Jasper?”
Jasper remained, and by and by Mrs. Haigh and Mrs. Carson went to the
house.
“Alan is not a philosopher; he’s a country gentleman,” Jasper remarked
and gave Agatha a smile. “Mrs. Carson’s rules are not yours and
Kit’s?”
“Ah,” said Agatha, “some get, but some must give.”
“At the shipyard one does not get much,” said Kit. “Unless they soon
promote me, I think I’ll start off with my fiddle, like the old
minstrels.”
“Your talent for music was your mother’s gift,” Jasper remarked. “The
Carsons hammer iron, and to use the hammer hardens one. Perhaps Agatha
has inherited something of the vein; I don’t yet know about you.”
He and Agatha went off, and Evelyn knitted her brows.
“You are rather puzzling, Kit, and your uncle’s very queer.”
“He’s a grim old fellow, but we won’t bother about him,” Kit replied
and put his arm round her.
“Oh, Kit, you ought not——” said Evelyn, and looked about.
Kit said nothing. He laughed and kissed Evelyn.