Until the Colours Fade Read online

  He caught the flash of George’s white cuff and the movement of his frilled shirt as he cast the dice. The main called had been eight, but three had been thrown. Eight was now Magnus’s main. Strickland was betting again and this fact comforted Magnus a little. The next throw produced no result, and since his ‘box hand’ was over, George gave the box back to Magnus.

  ‘The caster is still backing it at eight, gentlemen,’ came Bentley’s dry thin voice, as he sat with his rake poised and ready. A six and a two lay on the table when Magnus opened his eyes. Six hundred pounds was moved from the centre of the table. He still had two throws left, and whereas before his success he would gladly have agreed to stop the moment he wiped out the worst of his loss, now he saw matters in a different light. He wanted to force George to write out a cheque for more counters. For a moment he even saw himself playing through the night and beggaring the man. When with his next throw he won six hundred pounds and a further three hundred with the last, he felt sure that anything was possible. He had noticed that Strickland had not placed a bet on the final throw and now wanted to see if he could catch his eye to reprove him for his lack of faith, but he had left the table and had his back turned. A sudden superstitious fear made Magnus get up. Strickland had backed him from his lowest ebb to the point where he was now eight hundred up on the evening and now he was stopping playing. If any gambler needed an omen, this was surely it.

  ‘Allow me to give you more satisfaction,’ said George with a set face.

  ‘I am sure you have given me enough,’ Magnus replied, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion after the tension and excitement of the hazard table. For the first time in an hour he was aware of the room again. The table of food, the wall candelabras and the smoke-stained ceiling now became as real as the solitary circle of green cloth.

  ‘Will you settle now, gentlemen?’ asked Bentley, coming up to them. Magnus handed him five sovereigns for their box hands, before going over to the cashier. He paid over seven hundred in counters in return for his promissory note and cheque; the balance of eight hundred was given to him in coin and notes. George would have been astounded had he known that his opponent, who was now pocketing his winnings with such unconcern, had just doubled his total assets. Braithwaite wrote out a cheque for the two hundred he had lost above the counters he had started with.

  ‘And now our conversation,’ said Magnus, guiding George to his side-table. ‘I shall be to the point.’ A waiter took the champagne bottle from its ice-bucket and filled their glasses. On the table, between them, was a cigar cutter and a small glass jar filled with tooth picks. Magnus leant forward and said quietly:

  ‘You wish to marry my sister.’

  George tugged at his sandy-coloured moustache and met Magnus’s eyes.

  ‘That is a matter which concerns Miss Crawford, her father and myself.’

  Magnus nodded affably and lifted his glass to his lips.

  ‘Formally, I daresay that’s so, Mr Braithwaite, but a brother may interest himself in a sister’s doings, I suppose.’ He put down his glass abruptly. ‘Frankly, Braithwaite, if she accepts you, it’ll be for your fortune. Do you want her on those terms?’

  George’s face was scarlet and his hand clasped so tightly round his glass that Magnus thought it would break. A second later, Braithwaite flung the glass to the ground, and roared:

  ‘I’ll not drink with a man who dares dishonour his sister’s good name.’

  ‘I appreciate your feelings, but my motives are not dishonourable. I’ve invented nothing; she told me herself. I know it’s a scandalous breach of confidence, but it’s worse for a man to be deceived and a woman to sell herself.’

  ‘What harm have I ever done you?’ whispered George in a quavering, breaking voice. His face was still contorted with rage, but there were tears in his eyes. Magnus looked down at the table.

  ‘None,’ he murmured gently, ‘but does that justify a loveless marriage?’

  George let out a choking groan, as much of grief as anger. Then he brought down his fist on the table, sending the jar of tooth picks, and Magnus’s glass, crashing to the floor. People gazed at them furtively, evidently supposing that they were arguing about their recent game.

  ‘You’re lying about her. Do you think I don’t understand you, Crawford? You hate my father and you hate his class because your own is dying; you’re sick with a pauper’s envy, but you still think I’m not good enough for your sister. Well, to hell with you and your patrician airs.’

  George was breathing hard and still very angry, but Magnus judged that his outburst had helped him and waited a moment until he was still further recovered, then he said with slow firm emphasis:

  ‘I swear she’s no more love for you than I have. Withdraw your proposal.’

  ‘Never,’ cried George violently. He lowered his eyes and then looked at Magnus with a calmer, but intensely absorbed expression. ‘I think I care for her enough,’ he said softly, ‘even to forgive what you’ve just said.’

  The man’s genuine emotion shook Magnus badly. He had been about to threaten to lay new evidence before a magistrate, concerning the conduct of the case against the Independent, unless George complied with his wishes. But now he knew he would not be able to bring himself to say that. He had no definite proof against George, and much of his earlier hostility had drained away. Yet he was still disquieted. Not many minutes ago, George would have happily beggared him.

  ‘If I’ve misjudged you, I have a proposition to make by which you may prove my mistake.’ George stared at him, as if puzzled by this apparent change of heart. Magnus smiled. ‘Persuade your father to discharge his Irishmen and I’ll not hinder you with Miss Crawford. You have my word.’

  ‘What does the strike mean to you?’

  Magnus laughed at George’s confusion.

  ‘You mean what do I stand to gain by ending it?’ George nodded. ‘An egotist’s private pleasure in influencing events … a moralist’s satisfaction in averting bloodshed. You remember how it was the other night?’ He paused. ‘Stand up to your father and I’ll know you’re a better man than I took you for.’

  George stood up wearily and sighed.

  ‘You know him very little, Crawford, that’s plain enough.’

  ‘I’ve faith in you. I’ll meet you at the Bull in three days. Monday at noon. Think of Miss Crawford, man.’

  Magnus walked briskly to the green baize door, leaving George standing motionless by the table.

  *

  When Crawford and George had been talking together, Tom Strickland had collected his winnings. Earlier he had signed a note for forty pounds and had staked it all in side-bets on Magnus’s throws; after an initial loss of twenty pounds, he had finished by winning just over a hundred. As the money was handed to him, he was still trembling with excitement. Never before had he risked so much with so little reason; a total loss could have cost him six months’ painting. When he had seen Crawford lose again and again, and still match George’s bets, Tom had scarcely dared watch as the dice fell; longing to tear himself away, the man’s polished calmness had held him spellbound, until, unable to remain inactive while feeling such involvement, he had started to play.

  Immediately afterwards he had longed to talk to Crawford and share with him the ecstatic pleasure of winning but, by then, he had been sitting with George. Tom was surprised that though he neither knew nor understood the man, he none-the-less felt intuitively that, like him, Crawford had no place in the rigid stratification which birth, wealth and privilege sought to impose on all would-be absconders. For this reason, after Magnus had gone, he was not only disappointed to have been unable to speak to him but also dismayed by the look of brooding malignity on George’s normally impassive face. Tom had often heard it said that George could be as vindictive as his father. Without stopping to assess the risks of George guessing where he had gone, Tom quietly left the room and hurried down the stairs, intent on warning Crawford and disclosing his suspicions about Joseph’s intimidation.<
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  Half-way along Lower Street, Magnus heard rapidly approaching footsteps behind him; he turned at once, wondering whether George had suddenly taken it into his head to horse-whip him into a more convenient frame of mind, but instead he saw Strickland hurrying towards him, casting an occasional glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Forgive me for following you, Mr Crawford.’ He sounded breathless and uneasy.

  ‘Provided you leave my money in my pocket, I shall be honoured by your attentions.’

  Strickland did not smile at this, but drew Magnus aside out of the flickering gas-light into the dark shadow of an overhanging shop-front.

  ‘The Braithwaites aren’t people to quarrel with.’

  The suddenness of this melodramatic announcement, coupled with Strickland’s lowered voice and earnest expression, made Magnus want to laugh.

  ‘Your desire to save your employer any inconvenience does your loyalty credit, Mr Strickland.’

  ‘My concern is for your welfare, not his.’

  ‘Forgive my levity. An evening at Bentley’s rarely leads to gravity of any sort.’ After the champagne, Magnus wished that he had found time to eat something. Apart from the wine, his encounter with George had left him light-headed and limp. The church clock was striking two. Strickland was looking at him anxiously.

  ‘Old Braithwaite has a gang of paid thugs, former navvies and bargees mostly. He’s already used them on individual strikers. One was found drowned in the canal….’

  For a moment Magnus felt the same dizziness and fear he had experienced on first seeing George’s fistful of counters; Strickland might be telling the truth, might even wish to warn him, although the idea that the Braithwaites would dare treat him in the way they might men who had set fire to their property, seemed far-fetched.

  He felt suddenly suspicious. Possibly George was using Strickland.

  ‘You know this positively?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I’ve heard the same story more than once.’

  ‘People tend to speak ill of masters during strikes.’

  Crawford’s harsh and dismissive tone surprised and wounded Tom. Barely a week ago, the man had asked for such information, implored him for it.

  ‘I’m sure that electors are being intimidated,’ Tom persisted.

  ‘Why should that concern me?’

  ‘I thought from what you said….’

  ‘Fiascos like that don’t encourage rational thinking, Mr Strickland. Best forget what I said.’

  A moment later, Tom was amazed to find himself grasped by the coat and thrust back against the shop-door, with Crawford’s cane across his throat.

  ‘Braithwaite sent you after me, didn’t he?’

  ‘But why?’ asked Tom in amazement, laying his hands on the ends of the cane, but not attempting to free himself.

  ‘To worm your way into my confidence and tell him what I say. You weren’t very eager to tell me anything last time we met. A strange change since then, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Would I have told you what I have?’ cried Tom.

  ‘What’s the use of rumours which can’t be proved?’

  ‘Nor can my good-will,’ objected Tom, pressing down the cane so that it was against his chest. Magnus stepped back abruptly but did not look less suspicious. ‘I said nothing before,’ continued Tom, ‘because I wanted more work from Braithwaite. I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘A man of principle,’ murmured Magnus, with what Tom thought was a sneer. He felt angry and humiliated.

  ‘I took you for that,’ he replied warmly; derision and disappointment in his voice.

  From a nearby court came the yowling of fighting cats; Magnus said nothing but stared down at the damp paving stones. He was confused and worried; he believed he had been mistaken about the man, but something still disturbed him. He felt angry with him, and yet he was so mild and gentle. Strickland had stung his pride.

  ‘If people are being bribed and threatened, what am I supposed to be able to do? I have no mysterious power to prevent such abuses. I have no money beyond twice that which I was foolish enough to risk tonight, no friends here … nothing, do you understand?’

  Strickland surprised him by smiling at this.

  ‘You won a great deal tonight. A fortune to me.’

  ‘I see, and a few hundreds give me power, do they?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘To do what?’

  Tom said, almost without thinking, for George had talked about the paper earlier that day:

  ‘A few hundreds could buy the Independent.’

  ‘Buy a newspaper? Me? You’re raving.’

  ‘George sued for….’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ cut in Magnus impatiently, ‘and the editor can’t pay the fine. I’ve heard all that.’

  ‘But you could,’ whispered Tom, his eyes suddenly glowing with excitement.

  ‘You mean pay the fine?’ Tom nodded. ‘And make George Braithwaite howl like a stuck pig. There are cheaper ways of annoying him, surely?’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ laughed Tom, ‘It’s absurd, ridiculous, almost the first thing that entered my head when you asked what you could do with your money … I thought it ridiculous too; just as you did; but if the rumours are true, you could print them. Would that be nothing?’

  The breathless rapidity and feverish enthusiasm, with which Strickland had spoken, convinced Magnus that the idea had indeed just occurred to him; and seeing the young man’s earnest and expectant face, willing him to agree, Magnus could not help being infected by the same mood; but he showed none of this as he said with studied weariness:

  ‘Do you want me to be sued as well, and ruined?’

  Strickland looked momentarily downcast, but then he brightened.

  ‘Old Braithwaite wouldn’t risk appearing in court to deny allegations of corruption just before the election. Well, would he?’

  ‘Why should he bother? The Rigton Independent is not The Times, I believe.’

  ‘Of course not, but only one man in six has the vote here; the paper could provide for most of them surely?’

  Having never so much as given a thought to these matters until a moment previously, Tom was amazed to have managed impromptu answers to Crawford’s objections, and his success added fuel to his conviction that the idea was workable. When, therefore, Crawford looked at him with quizzical amusement, Tom was puzzled and irritated.

  ‘You’re a strange man, Mr Strickland; a mouse one day, a lion the next. I wonder what the future will bring.’ He rattled the coins in his pockets and let out a low chuckle. ‘Of course your suggestion is laughable.’

  ‘I think the Braithwaites might find it less amusing,’ replied Tom angrily.

  ‘Ah, but I have a sense of humour and they don’t.’ Magnus laughed again and straightened his hat. Unable to understand his sudden high spirits, Tom lowered his eyes and feigned indifference. ‘No, please, forgive me,’ murmured Magnus, his eyes still sparkling with good humour. ‘I’m grateful for your warning, but you ought to go. I wouldn’t like to delay George tonight if I were you. Losers at hazard are rarely sweet-tempered … I ought to thank you for betting on my throws. When we meet again I’ll be more serious. Tonight I can’t think at all.’ He caught Tom’s look of incomprehension and smiled. ‘We will meet again, you can be sure of that. I find your company most congenial.’ He shook his head and laughed again. ‘A wicked idea … quite wicked. To buy the paper he sued with the money I’ve taken out of his pockets. Really you look so nice too, Mr Strickland.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Well, good night.’

  Moments later, Crawford’s footsteps were dying away as he headed for Cockpit Steps. With hunched shoulders and his hands thrust deep in his coat, Tom retraced his steps to Bentley’s; finding George gone, Tom set out for the inn where they had left the brougham.

  *

  In the yard of the Green Dragon, Braithwaite kicked over buckets and cursed the ostlers for their stupidity. When shutters were thrown open in the gallery above, and guests in nightshirts came out onto the
balcony to complain about the noise, he roared back abuse. He prodded the head groom with his cane and shouted:

  ‘Where the hell else would he be if he ain’t at the Bull?’

  ‘Would this be the gen’lman?’ called out the boots as Tom walked in under the arch.

  ‘Looked for you up and down the place, Strickland. Where the devil have you been?’

  ‘Walking here.’

  ‘Thought I’d left you, I suppose?’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  George flung open the door of the brougham and Tom climbed in.

  ‘Nobody walks anywhere in this town at night, unless they’re mad or drunk or both. You should have followed me. Damned artists are all fools.’

  The carriage jerked forward and in a moment the noise of the horses’ hoofs rang out under the archway. George was breathing heavily and every now and then he cursed out loud. He took several gulps from a flask and then beat on the roof to exhort the coachman to drive faster. The brougham swayed and lurched as the iron-edged wheels ground into ruts and pot-holes and sliced through heavy mud on the road.

  Tom sat silently in his corner holding onto the hand-strap beside the window. He was used to being insulted by George and took it philosophically. To Braithwaite it was quite incomprehensible that anybody should choose to earn his living in a field where talent and luck decreed whether he succeeded or failed. Money and influence were far more reliable bases on which to proceed. If George were to praise a picture as ‘clever’, he meant no more than appreciation of a detail or a choice of subject; rather as though a critic were to applaud a book for its binding. To be patronised by both George and Crawford on the same night was insufferable. His anger temporarily made him forget his winnings, but when he remembered Tom smiled to himself. After Joseph’s portrait was finished, he really would be free to go; and then the Goodchilds, Braithwaites and Crawfords could play whatever game they chose without him.