Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Is there owt wrong at the mill, Will?” demanded Bessy in her loud cheerful tones, handing him his tea.

  “Nowt!” returned Will shortly.

  “What are you looking so black for, then?” demanded the irrepressible Bessy. “Aren’t you well?”

  Will felt inclined to ask irritably whether a man couldn’t be allowed to eat his meal in peace after a hard day’s work without being bothered by a lot of questions, but if he said that he would have to enter into a brisk argument with Bessy, and he simply had not the heart for it. He therefore replied sourly: “I’m well enough,” but threw a black look at his wife. Bessy then gave an exaggerated sigh, and remarked that some folks’ tempers were really a pity. Will felt irritated almost to the point of striking her, but he controlled his rage, and the moment his supper was eaten took a pipe and went out by the mill dam alone. Some of his irritation turned itself on Mary, and he demanded with increasing fury why in heaven’s name the woman hadn’t told him she was with child? Soft fool that she was! If she had told him he would have married her, he thought impatiently; of course he would have married her! The circumstances were doubtless a little difficult, Joe being his father’s murderer, but then Will had a vague impression—he had forgotten most of the evidence of that case, but he had a vague impression—that Joe was not really very guilty in the matter. Something about pistols, he remembered; there were only three pistols to four men, and Joe might easily have been the man to lack one. Then there was the message which decoyed Mr. Oldroyd to his death; Will had a vague notion that Joe was guiltless there too. He started as he remembered what he had really long since forgotten, that that child who had taken the message was the firer-up with whom he had had such a row that afternoon. Strange how these things passed from one’s mind in time! For years he had forgotten what Joe and Mary looked like—and now they were both clear, clear before him, as present to his eyes as if they stood there with him beside the softly flowing Ire. Joe! Good God, there was a look of Joe in that child, Mary’s son! Yes! Though Joe’s expression had been soft and mild, while the boy’s was high and fierce, Jonathan had a look of him. But why was his leg out of straight? Was it so from birth? The thought of Mary bearing his son up at the Moorcock alone while he was in ignorance down at New House—stupidly kissing Bessy, perhaps—roused in Will such a fury of thwarted love that he banged his fist against the wall. And here he was with this stupid wife and this plain uninteresting son, he thought un-tenderly of Brigg and Bessy; damn them! Well, one thing was certain; he should see justice done to Jonathan; he would take him into the mill, make him a partner when he grew up, whatever Bessy might think or say; meanwhile he would give Mary part of Dean Head House to live in. The old house was divided into two cottages now; Mary should have the top one, and the firer and his family could turn out and find somewhere else to live—a grim smile spread over Will’s face as he thought of what the man would have to say to that. The light was falling, the Ire had turned the colour of indigo, and the hills on the further bank seemed to fold upon themselves and withdraw into the dusk; that was Scape Scar, thought Will, looking up at it; God! how he used to ride up there to see Mary, flushed and ardent, with a young man’s love in his heart. How brightly coloured the world looked then! How stale and dull it all looked now! Was that because he was twelve years older, or because he had taken to himself the wrong wife? Bessy was calling to him from the door now. “Will! Will!” How harsh and loud her voice was, he thought in irritation. “Wi—ll!” Now she sounded nearer; she was coming to fetch him.

  “All right! I’m coming!” Will shouted crossly, and strode across the yard. The light from the house showed up his wife’s heavy figure; and Will sickened, at the thought of his twelve years’ unfaithfulness to Mary.

  “You’ll get cold out there, Will,” Bessy reproved him fondly, taking his arm. “I’ll be bound your feet are as wet as a sop.”

  Will, fresh from a romantic lament over his lost love, found this prosaic detail just like Bessy; he denied snappishly that his feet were wet, pushed Bessy into the house to get her off his arm, and closed the door on the darkening hills, feeling that he was shutting himself into a cage. That it was a cage of his own making did not improve matters.

  Presently he lay awake beside his sleeping wife, hating her heartily. He would have given all he possessed, thought Will, staring out into the darkness, to be married to Mary, to be able openly to father her boy. Not that he was particularly enamoured of that strange dark child; no, indeed! But if Jonathan had had Will as father for his first twelve years he would not have turned out like that.

  “Aye, I reckon he’s missed his father,” mused Will again.

  Under the prick of this thought he moved restlessly; Bessy stirred and gave a soft unintelligible moan, and putting out her hand, groped for him. Will winced away from her touch so violently that he woke her.

  “What’s the matter?” she murmured, approaching her head to the crook of her husband’s arm.

  “Nowt! Go to sleep,” Will bade her roughly.

  “Well, Will!” said Bessy, quite astounded. “What a temper you have to be sure!”

  2

  During the next few days Bessy had good reason to complain of her husband’s temper, for Will was in a savage, bitter and harassed mood. It was not like an Oldroyd to worry himself about either his own future actions or what other people would think of them, but there was no real place for Jonathan in Syke Mill; what Will would do with him when he arrived on Monday morning he had no idea, and the men would certainly wonder and perhaps talk. But considering they probably knew the whole story already, thought Will savagely, why should he trouble himself? It was not as if he minded Bessy’s finding out Jonathan’s existence; indeed he had half a mind to tell her the whole affair himself. Perhaps Bessy too knew it already? Will felt a sullen anger at the thought. But no! He exonerated Bessy, for he remembered how she had asked after Mary when he proposed marriage to her; he must do Bessy justice, she was honest, if she had known that Mary was bearing Will’s child, she would never have married him. She might have heard rumours of Mary’s condition, thought Will, looking back at that scene beside the Bin Royd tenters, but she had naturally accepted what she thought was his word that he was not concerned in the matter. When Will reflected thus he again had half a mind to tell Bessy what was bothering him, but the thought of her loud exclamations, her profuse questions, her round astonished eyes, so irritated him that he could not bring himself to do so. He continued to worry himself about what he should do with Jonathan on Monday; this small matter became the focus of all his angry regrets about Mary, and intruded itself into the most important business affairs. He could not give his whole mind to his cloth, and he now perceived, with a savage irritation, why other men made mistakes, for he began to make them himself.

  And then after all everything settled itself quite simply, and his worry about Jonathan was proved unnecessary, for on Sunday evening Will’s slubbing overlooker—an oldish man who had worked under his father, the same indeed who had given evidence at the trial, the father of the firer-up—came to New House to tell him that two of the pieceners, a brother and sister, were ill, and would not be able to come to work next morning. This had happened once or twice lately with various children, and Will’s wrath had been great, for the machines had to stand inactive while he secured more children, and for a machine to “stand” in Syke Mill while there was work to be done was in Will’s opinion outrageous. The overlooker knew this, and had come round on this account; he had a child of his own, he said eagerly, who would take one of the places. Will nodded and told him to bring the child on the morrow, and then went on promptly:

  “There’s a boy coming to-morrow who’ll do for the other. He’s worked at Wood’s down by the Ire Bridge.”

  The overlooker seemed disappointed; no doubt he had been asked to use his influence with Mr. Oldroyd to get the place for some Marthwaite child of his acquaintance. He asked the boy’s name.

  “Bamforth,�
�� said Will.

  In spite of himself his voice did not sound quite natural, and he glanced sharply at the overlooker to see if his expression changed. The man’s face showed nothing, however.

  “What’s the matter with the pieceners?” Will asked as they parted.

  “Their mother reckons it’s some sort of a fever,” said the overlooker doubtfully.

  “Happen they’ve been eating something they shouldn’t,” suggested Will.

  “Happen they have,” agreed the man.

  Next morning when Will passed by the slubbing billies Jonathan was already at work. As Will approached him the boy looked down to piece on a new carding; it was his job to keep continuous slivers of wool passing into the machine, yet it seemed as though he averted his eyes from Will on purpose, and his father felt a pang. The child’s limp was noticeable as he moved, and Will again felt angry with himself for not having asked Mary its cause.

  “What makes you limp, lad?” he asked Jonathan, pausing beside him.

  Jonathan started; his thoughts had evidently been far away. He turned his pale haughty face enquiringly on his father, not without a faint shade of fear in his expression, and Will had to repeat his question through the hum of the machine.

  “My left leg’s crooked,” replied Jonathan shortly.

  “So I see,” said Will drily, irritated in spite of himself by the boy’s tone. “But what makes it crooked, eh?”

  There was a pause, while Jonathan pieced again with his thin little fingers, which were polished by constant contact with the oiled wool; he then said coldly: “The apothecary says it’s with working too early in the mill.”

  The blood rushed into Will’s face. So the boy’s limp was Will’s fault too! He felt suddenly so angry—though with whom or what he did not know—that he could hardly contain himself; he stamped away down the room and shouted at the overlooker till the man blenched.

  The weeks went on, and Jonathan continued to be a piecener in Syke Mill. The child whom he was replacing recovered and came back to work, but by that time two or three other children were ill; it seemed to the exasperated Will that there were always two or three children away from work that summer. Bessy took the line that it was something catching, and would not let Brigg go into the mill (greatly to the child’s disgust), but Will was angry at such a slur being cast on Syke Mill, and maintained stoutly that the pieceners’ illness had nothing to do with each other or the place. He was the more vexed when presently one of the slubbers too fell ill. Altogether, what with Jonathan and the sickness which seemed to pervade it, that room made an uneasy place in Will’s mind, he did not like to be reminded of it, yet could not keep away. He could not make up his mind what to do about Jonathan and Mary; he did not like the child working as a piecener, but wanted to keep him in Syke Mill. It was obvious, too, that he must send money to Mary, ease her life and keep her in comfort; but he did not quite know how to set about it. On second thoughts he was not sure of the wisdom of bringing her down to Dean Head House; if she were so near to him there was just a possibility that Will might be unfaithful to Bessy—and that would be a nice mess, thought Will disgustedly; everything would be worse than ever if he made a fool of himself like that.

  At last one blazing July afternoon, when the Ire, shallow and shrunken, could scarcely find strength to trickle over its rocky bed, Will set off to the Moorcock to settle things with Mary. He had grown heavier of late, and rather panted as he led his mare up the hill; the ride across the shadeless moor, too, was trying, for even up here there was not a breath of air to-day, and the heat shimmered in the distance above the heather. The Moorcock door stood open, but there was nobody about; the only sign of life was a ginger cat with a white waistcoat, which lay basking on a window sill beside the door, its eyes mere green slits of ecstasy. At the sound of the mare’s hoofs the cat opened its eyes and surveyed Will for a moment, then closed them again with a superior air. Good heavens! thought Will; can that be the Bamforths’ cat? He looked at it, dubious about its white front, which he did not remember, then laughed rather drearily to himself as he recalled that twelve, no, nearly thirteen years had passed since that particular ginger cat had stuck its claws into his arm in Scape Scar cottage. This cat was no doubt a descendant of that original defender of Mary. Will sighed; the cat made him feel old. He dismounted and entered the cool flagged passage of the inn soberly. Nobody came out to greet him; he poked into one or two rooms but could find no one. Rather vexed, he was going to rap on the door with his riding crop when a burst of laughter struck on his ear. The sound seemed to come from the rear of the inn; he went towards it round a twist in the passage, and found himself gazing straight through the kitchen doorway at a woman who seemed to be slipping out of her dress. She had thrown it back from her shoulders, and was bending forward, laughing all over her fair simple face; the full bosom which showed above her chemise, and the upper part of her large arms, were dazzlingly white. Mary Bamforth, laughing gently, was busy with something at the back of her waist. Against a background of damp clothes in heaps and pails of steaming water, the two women, one fair and plump, the other dark and slender, made a very agreeable picture. Will leaned against the kitchen door and laughed with them. “A handsome piece,” he thought, enjoying Martha Ackroyd’s white breast: “Poor Joe! A pity he missed his way.”

  Martha now caught sight of him, and gave a scream. “If it isn’t Will Oldroyd!” she cried. Mary, startled, looked up and blushed. “You must excuse me, Mester Oldroyd,” said Martha, shrugging on her dress, “I’ve been washing so hard I’ve broke my stay-lace, and Mary here is doing me up with a bit o’ band.” Her voice had lost its laughter and taken a satirical edge, and Will understood that she was his enemy.

  “I’ve come to see about doing something for Mary,” he said at once.

  “And time too!” shouted Martha, her pink cheeks crimsoning.

  Abruptly they fell into a loud hot wrangle, in which Martha told Will exactly what she thought of a man who left a woman to bear his child and bring him up without a ha’penny.

  “But I didn’t know!” shouted Will crossly.

  “Without a ha’penny!” shouted Martha.

  “But I tell you I didn’t know!” shouted Will again.

  “Don’t tell me a tale of that sort,” shouted Martha again. “You knew well enough. Sending poor Joe to his death and all.”

  “Well, upon my word!” shouted the exasperated Will.

  “Oh, Will! Oh, Martha!” Mary besought them, weeping.

  “I’ve wanted a chance to tell Will Oldroyd what I thought of him this many a year,” cried Martha with great satisfaction, “And I’m non going to throw it away now I’ve got it, lass, and so I tell thee.”

  She acted upon this resolution. Will had never been so spoken to by a woman in his life, but on the whole he rather enjoyed it—it made him feel young again, and gave him the chance to utter all the things which had seethed in his heart these last few weeks about Mary. When the storm had somewhat subsided it was arranged that Will should leave money addressed to Martha Ackroyd every week at the Red Lion, and Martha would see that it was fetched thence to the Moorcock. To mark her approval, albeit grudging, of this scheme, Martha fetched Will a glass of ale; and while she was absent on this errand Will had a moment alone with Mary. He went up to her, took her in his arms without a word, drew her head down on his shoulder and kissed her cheek lovingly. Suddenly she began to cry as if her heart would break.

  “Oh, Will, Will,” she sobbed, throwing her arms about his neck. “Why did you leave me, lad? I allus loved you.”

  “Nay, I don’t know,” said Will, his Hps in her hair. And he really did not know; he could not imagine a state of mind in which he could wish to leave Mary. “It was all a mistake,” he went on miserably. “Joe and that Luddite lot—I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just fair moithered.” He added with intense bitterness: “I was a fool, a young fool!”

  Martha, coming in to find them locked in each other’s arms,
sniffed angrily. “Now then!” she cried, setting the glass on the table with a thump. “That’s enough! I don’t want any o’ that sort o’ work at the Moorcock, thank you, Will Oldroyd. Take your ale and be off with you.”

  Will saw that she would be vexed if he did not drink, so he took the glass and forced the stuff down his reluctant throat. He still held Mary in his other arm, and she clung to his shoulder, weeping bitterly. Her sobs hammered upon Will’s heart; he felt such acute misery that he really did not know what to do with himself, he would have liked to strike out at something or roll on the kitchen floor. Hot tears scalded his eyes, his chin quivered. “Nay, Mary! Mary, lass!” he besought her pitifully in a thin tone: “Don’t take on so!” He swallowed, and added miserably: “You have the lad, you know.” At this Mary wept afresh. Will held her closer; he could not, could not leave her; he would never leave her again. He kissed her passionately.