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Authors: Phyllis Bentley
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it reached a main street where there were setts and tram-lines, blared once peremptorily, and flew across. Taskerâs chauffeur sat beside his employer with his arms folded, and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He was a young man of iron nerve and independent manners, and liked a bit of speed, which was why Tasker employed him. He moved his feet involuntarily from time to time when the gears should be changed, though to do his employer justice, he reflected, he knew how to drive a car; Mr. Tasker would never make a mess of things through losing his headânot likely! Tasker himself, at the wheel, smiled grimly as the car gained speed after the crossing, and pressed his foot more strongly on the accelerator. If there was anybody in the way, let them get out of it, or take the consequences.
Now they were rushing along a valley; on the other side, beyond the river and canal, loomed a high, sombre hill. Tasker involuntarily glanced at it, and his breathing grew heavy, almost panting; he knew that hill well, too well. Up on the top of it, on a little stone causeway, sheltered bya bluff from the bitterest winds, but exposed enough all the same, stood a couple of cottages; in one of them he had been born, and lived till he was a young man grown. His parents lived there still, but he had not been there for years, and probably would never go there again. He sent them money, of course. Ah! how well he remembered it, that rough little cottage up at Stone Green; with water to draw from the ice-cold beck which ran beside it, and four miles to walk to the nearest Board School. Not that he had attended that for long; he was a half-timer at nine years old; he had always hated school, wanted to be doing something active, getting on in the world.
There was a corner up there in the darkness, at the turn of the little lane, whence one could see the lights of Ashworth by night, and its smoke by day. How often had he not stood there, as a lad, and longed passionately to be in the town, managing, directingâa figure of importance, a man of power. School had seemed a waste of time, then; a place of repression and thwarting; he had been an awkward, rough, countrified, poverty-stricken figure to the town-bred children, and they had laughed at him. He saw the value of education now, of course. One had to tread warily all oneâs days for lack of it; be silent, and sheer off many and many a time because men were talking on subjects of which he had never heard. Some day, when he had time, he would learn it all up, and then they would be surprisedâhe, Leonard Tasker, would learn it all as easily as a cat laps milk. Of course he wouldâthere was not much he couldnât do if he gave his mind to it. Look how he had conquered his accent! Nobody would know him for a Yorkshireman now; yet once he had spoken as broadly as his father. He had learned table manners, too; and clothes, and all the silly stupid things behind which men of no originality hid their mental nakedness. Yes! He had gone up in the world steadily; he had conquered the West Riding;he was a figure of importance, a man of power, all right. From two hundred pounds as a starting point, he had worked himself up into the proud position ofâwell, of owing more than fifty thousand, thought Tasker, smiling to himself sardonically. But was it his fault that there had been a slump? A year or two ago he could have bought up the Crosland Spinning Company, lock stock and barrel; written a cheque for the purchase price straight out, and never noticed it. And in another year or two heâd be the same again; once let this depression lift, and they should see! But just because he was a bit pressed, and times were difficult, there was that damned Henry Clay Crosland, with his mincing accent and his lofty airsâa man with no more initiative than a rabbit, and about as much brain; a man who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, who had had wealth and
Now they were rushing along a valley; on the other side, beyond the river and canal, loomed a high, sombre hill. Tasker involuntarily glanced at it, and his breathing grew heavy, almost panting; he knew that hill well, too well. Up on the top of it, on a little stone causeway, sheltered bya bluff from the bitterest winds, but exposed enough all the same, stood a couple of cottages; in one of them he had been born, and lived till he was a young man grown. His parents lived there still, but he had not been there for years, and probably would never go there again. He sent them money, of course. Ah! how well he remembered it, that rough little cottage up at Stone Green; with water to draw from the ice-cold beck which ran beside it, and four miles to walk to the nearest Board School. Not that he had attended that for long; he was a half-timer at nine years old; he had always hated school, wanted to be doing something active, getting on in the world.
There was a corner up there in the darkness, at the turn of the little lane, whence one could see the lights of Ashworth by night, and its smoke by day. How often had he not stood there, as a lad, and longed passionately to be in the town, managing, directingâa figure of importance, a man of power. School had seemed a waste of time, then; a place of repression and thwarting; he had been an awkward, rough, countrified, poverty-stricken figure to the town-bred children, and they had laughed at him. He saw the value of education now, of course. One had to tread warily all oneâs days for lack of it; be silent, and sheer off many and many a time because men were talking on subjects of which he had never heard. Some day, when he had time, he would learn it all up, and then they would be surprisedâhe, Leonard Tasker, would learn it all as easily as a cat laps milk. Of course he wouldâthere was not much he couldnât do if he gave his mind to it. Look how he had conquered his accent! Nobody would know him for a Yorkshireman now; yet once he had spoken as broadly as his father. He had learned table manners, too; and clothes, and all the silly stupid things behind which men of no originality hid their mental nakedness. Yes! He had gone up in the world steadily; he had conquered the West Riding;he was a figure of importance, a man of power, all right. From two hundred pounds as a starting point, he had worked himself up into the proud position ofâwell, of owing more than fifty thousand, thought Tasker, smiling to himself sardonically. But was it his fault that there had been a slump? A year or two ago he could have bought up the Crosland Spinning Company, lock stock and barrel; written a cheque for the purchase price straight out, and never noticed it. And in another year or two heâd be the same again; once let this depression lift, and they should see! But just because he was a bit pressed, and times were difficult, there was that damned Henry Clay Crosland, with his mincing accent and his lofty airsâa man with no more initiative than a rabbit, and about as much brain; a man who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, who had had wealth and
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