Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  Life at New House seemed to her to be worn into deep grooves, and she was so tired of these particular grooves that the mere approach to them set her fuming. She was tired of hearing her father say how bad trade was, and knew every word and phrase which it was dangerous to utter because they led to the topic—her mother’s maladroitness in this respect was a constant exasperation to her. She was tired, too, oh! how tired, of the subject of Richard Oastler; she heartily wished Parliament would pass the silly Ten Hours Bill—they had been at it more than ten years now, after all—so that it might drop out of the New House conversation. When Oastler was imprisoned in the Fleet Prison for debt to his former employer, Sophia rejoiced—not that she bore him any ill-will, beyond her general ill-will for all people who were ungenteel and not respectable, but because she thought that surely now even Joth would be obliged to desert him. But no! Joth took the line that he was an ill-used man, and Oastler brought out printed pamphlets called Fleet Papers every week, and Joth distributed them in Annotsfield and Marthwaite, and Helena was always sending Oastler parkin, and Brigg kept on making the same silly jokes about King Richard and his Fleet subjects, and it was worse than ever. Lately it had almost seemed as though the Ten Hours Bill was to be driven out of the conversation by the Chartists, whoever they were, and Sophia again rejoiced at the prospect of some novelty; but the Chartists turned out to be just as bad as Richard Oastler. Brigg said they were a ruffianly mob, who ought to be sent to prison, for they were getting pikes and scythes together ready to cut off everybody’s heads; Joth said they were mostly decent working men, driven distracted by the scarcity of work and bread; at this point Will, who had a suspicion that his eldest son wrote articles for the Chartist Northern Star which he did not want confirmed, usually tried to turn the conversation by observing that trade was worse than he had ever known it. The Chartists, continued Joth in a speechifying tone, undeterred, demanded universal suffrage and vote by ballot, which in his opinion were not reprehensible aims if somewhat premature; if meanwhile wages were raised and the hours of labour shortened, he was sure the elements of violence in the movement would be dispelled. So it was really the same old Oastler argument over again, fumed Sophia, wearied almost to tears. Every week Sophia looked forward eagerly to the day when Joth stayed at New House for supper to see his mother, for Joth was after all a connection with the great world outside Marthwaite; and every week his visit brought her the same disappointment, for the same old things happened in the same old way; Brigg and Joth argued about politics, and their father grumbled about the badness of trade.

  After an hour or two of this, and indeed on all occasions when the ennui of family life became unbearable, Sophia was wont to burst impetuously from the house and seek refuge in the stable. She was a fine rider and passionately devoted to horses, and after a word with all the Oldroyds’ animals, would stand caressing her own mare with a slow voluptuous movement of the hand, dreaming rapturous dreams of a golden hero who would come one day and colour all this drab New House existence with flaming life.

  It was a little difficult to see where this gorgeous young man was to come from, however, and indeed at times Sophia almost despaired of him—certainly there was nobody at all suited to the part in Marthwaite. Enoch Smith’s sons, though rich enough for anything according to her father, were in Sophia’s eyes much too old—great grimy men, like Brigg, she thought impatiently; most of them were already married in any case, and they all thought of nothing but machinery. Yes, they were too old, and the curate’s sons were too young, and Sophia knew nobody else. Her strong young body, sturdy and vigorous, like her father’s, clamoured for love; she thought of her golden hero more and more insistently, her hand ceased to move, she buried her face in the mare’s satiny neck, the blood throbbed voluptuously in her ears. Suddenly her mother’s soft voice called timidly: “Sophia, love! Joth’s going now!” Sophia started away from the mare feeling cross and dishevelled, gave her rich tangled curls a hasty pat and ran out to kiss Joth farewell.

  At such moments Jonathan would be troubled about his little sister, and would perhaps invite her to spend a day with Helena during the coming week. Sophia, brightening, accepted these invitations eagerly, and for the next few days the whole establishment would be convulsed with the attempt to satisfy her about her clothes—Will was coaxed to part with sovereigns, and Brigg commissioned to bring bonnet ribbons from Annotsfield. On the morning specified by the invitation Sophia, after perhaps a slight skirmish with Mary about the arrangement of her hair, would set off down to Irebridge happily in the York coach, her eyes bright with expectation. But at night she always returned subdued and cross. Helena was so full of good advice about a young lady’s manners and morals that it was obvious Sophia’s did not meet with her approval; and then her conversation (when you could hear it above the last baby’s crying) was so dull. All about books and Oastler and chapel and instructive things—long before the day was over Sophia was in difficulty with her yawns, and when the Manchester coach appeared she simply rushed at it. So the hero did not seem likely to come from Irebridge, either.

  It was all terribly disheartening.

  2

  And then one summer’s day he walked, or rather ran, into her life. It was a very hot, sunny day, a Friday; Joth was away in London, on a deputation about the Ten Hours Bill. Actually in London, mourned Sophia, actually in London! Imagine Joth going to London! What a waste! When she heard Will telling Mary that Joth had been asking permission to absent himself from the mill for a few days on this errand, Sophia was stuck dumb. That Joth should go to brilliant London, the religious, austere Joth! Joth and not Sophia! To London! Sophia could hardly bear it; for two days she brooded over it in silence, then gathering up her courage she went to her brother in the Syke Mill counting-house and asked if he would take her too.

  “No, dear,” replied Jonathan gravely, stroking the brilliant curls back from her brow: “It is impossible.”

  He went on to explain to her that the deputation would be occupied all the time with waiting upon Members of Parliament and other prominent men. Sophia did not listen to him, but simply waited till he had finished; then she found out her father, and asked him: “Father, can I go with Joth to London?”

  Will at first laughed, but then, seeing she was serious, replied shortly and with a clouded brow: “No.”

  “You might let me go, father,” cried Sophia angrily: “You might let me. Father!” She flung herself upon him, burying her face in his arm.

  “Now that’s enough, Sophia,” said Will, looking down at his wilful daughter with rather a troubled eye. “You can’t go, and there’s an end of it.”

  Sophia threw his arm away, and went out, her handsome face sullen and pouting.

  She did not mention London again to anyone till the night after Joth’s departure. As she lay in bed in the room that was once old Henry Briggs’, she chanced to hear Marthwaite Church clock striking the hour, and, reflecting that Joth would be hearing the bells of St. Paul’s, was smitten to the heart with life’s injustice. She had wanted to go to London; she had wanted to go, she Sophia Oldroyd; she wanted to go now, dreadfully. Was she always to be shut up in this stupid, dull Marthwaite, with these stupid, dull people? Oh, it was too bad, it was unbearable! Sophia wept aloud, and her young body was tossed by the storm. Accordingly Brigg, on his way to bed after one of his nocturnal excursions, heard her and put his head into her room.

  “What’s the matter, lovey?” he demanded soothingly from the door. “Is it toothache?”

  “Oh, Brigg!” wept Sophia: “I did so want to go to London.” Brigg came in and sat down on the bed. “You’re on my feet, Brigg; you are heavy,” wept Sophia petulantly, throwing herself into his arms. “I don’t see why Joth should go to London and not me.”

  “Oh, I do,” said the good-natured Brigg seriously: “He’s worked very hard for those Ten Hours folk, you know. Of course I should be ashamed to have anything to do with them, but Joth’s not me.”

  Sophi
a still wept, twisting about in an anguish of longing; but Brigg seemed so upset by her distress that she began to feel sorry for him, and suddenly lay down and pretended she had recovered, so as to send him away calm.

  In the morning it seemed to Sophia that Brigg had told her father and mother of this night incident, for they were both very loving and a little wistful with her. Will hugged her very hard when he left for the mill, and in a shamefaced manner put a crown piece down the neck of her frock. Sophia understood that her parents were sorry that she wanted so much to go away from them, and she was sorry to have hurt them, so she was very good all morning; helped Mary in the house energetically, and filled her father’s afternoon pipe without being told. But now Brigg and Will were back at work, and Mary had told Sophia to go out in the sunshine; and Sophia’s good mood had worn off, and she felt weak and miserable and somehow empty of everything but yearning. Oh, if something would only happen! But nothing ever happened in Marthwaite, mourned Sophia. If she thought about London once more she should begin to cry again, thought Sophia, tossing her head crossly; so she put on a clean brown print frock, and swinging her best white silk bonnet by its strings, set out to go to Marthwaite to spend her five-shilling piece.

  And at the corner of the lane she met him. He was young and fair; his golden hair lay in glossy waves about his white forehead; his grey eyes were large and candid, his nose small and straight; his lips were richly red, and so full as almost to pout, his skin was smooth and clear as a girl’s, and flushed as readily. His dark coat and tight check trousers, his linen wristbands and his satiny cravat, were all the very finest Sophia had ever seen, though just now rather smudged with dust. At the moment, too, he was hot with running, and he panted slightly. He started back when he saw Sophia (into whose arms he had almost fallen), and slightly bowed. “Pardon me,” he said in a high clear tone like the ring of a tenor bell: “But is this the way to Syke Mill?”

  Sophia, clutching the strings of her bonnet to her bosom in a dream of delight, said: “Yes.” She fixed her keen blue eyes on the boy, stared her fill at him, drank in his effeminate gold and white beauty, and felt her own sturdy person gross and harsh beside his. “Did you want my father?” she added timidly.

  “Is he Mr. William Oldroyd?” questioned the boy. At Sophia’s nod he frowned. “Syke Mill is a very difficult place to find,” he said petulantly. “I’ve been looking for it a very long time—I’m sure it’s an hour since I left Marthwaite.”

  An exquisite pang wrung Sophia’s heart; she experienced a terrible, tormenting bliss. For she perceived he was a fool. Nobody but a fool could possibly spend an hour losing his way on the straight road between Syke Mill Lane and Marthwaite. Besides, his voice betrayed him. He was a fool, a well-bred, handsome, rich, well-meaning but fundamentally weak and silly fool. And it needed only this conviction to confirm Sophia’s love for him. Her empty girlish heart opened and took him in, clasped itself around his beauty and his foolishness in a fierce embrace. It was the same sort of feeling that she had had for the white mouse, thought Sophia; she admired his refined speech and dress as she admired the mouse’s smooth white coat, at the same time knowing that his weakness of character, like the physical frailty of the mouse, needed all her passionate care. She would always defend him, always; it would hurt her terribly when other people knew he was a fool, but she would know it all the time and love him all the more for it. She felt this so piercingly, so searingly, in her very heart’s core, that she slightly shuddered from head to heel, and the flesh on her forearms prickled.

  “My uncle sent me to give an urgent message to Mr. Oldroyd,” went on the boy in his high tones.

  “Who is your uncle?” demanded the practical Sophia.

  “Mr. Enoch Smith, the ironfounder,” replied the boy haughtily.

  “Oh!” cried Sophia, prepared to be terribly disillusioned: “But surely you don’t live in Marthwaite?”

  “Oh, no,” said he, in a tone of such disparagement, as regarded Marthwaite, that all Sophia’s fears on that score were set at rest. “I live in Annotsfield. My father is Mr. James Smith; he doesn’t do anything, he’s just a gentleman. My name is Frederick Smith.”

  “Mine,” said Sophia, swinging the white bonnet a little, “is Sophia Oldroyd.”

  “Oh—yes?” breathed Frederick, watching the bonnet’s slow curves. He raised his eyes, and found himself caught in the brilliance of Sophia’s. Those bright blue orbs, the white column of her throat, the dazzling sunny tangle of her hair—they poured out such a radiant, fervid stream of life that Frederick was engulfed and swept away on the glowing waves. His white hands grew slack as he gazed at her. “Yes?” he repeated, not knowing that he spoke. “It’s a charming name.”

  Sophia smiled at him and took a meaningless step forward. He fell in at her side, and without in the least intending it they began to stroll slowly and uncertainly along the path through the fields towards Irebridge. The August sun, beating strongly down from a deep blue sky, poured into their young bodies warmth and joy and life; the dazzling Ire, a-shimmer with heat, the deep golden grass, ripe for cutting, the heavy foliage of the trees, all seemed to lend a richness, a luxuriance to the scene and their emotions. Each tried to impress the other with the finest airs at their command, but though the conversation was thus stilted and artificial, their hearts spoke a plainer language, and they had not crossed many fields before, at a stile, their young lips met in a tremulous kiss. Even as Sophia experienced this ecstasy, however, she knew that Frederick, though he was but little if at all older than herself, had kissed girls before. She sighed, resented it ferociously, and knew it for a part of the Frederick she loved, all in a breath; and returned his kiss with a fervour that surprised him. He kissed her again, more ardently, and his arms—much less muscular but more experienced than Sophia’s—held her close. Presently, his arm still about her waist, they wandered off the path to the riverside, where as they agreed it would be cooler, and sat on the grassy bank, entwined. Sophia’s amber curls rested upon Frederick’s elegant dark shoulder; Frederick, his cheek against hers, murmured love dreamily into her charming ear. The sun glowed and throbbed in their veins; time glided over them in radiant and dazzling ripples, like those which glittered on the surface of the Ire.

  “The message!” cried Sophia suddenly, one hand to her hot cheek. She sat up. “I’d forgotten. Not that I imagine,” she added, tossing her head contemptuously and using the most impressive words she could think of: “that it really demanded haste.”

  “Oh, but it did!” replied Frederick, with a frightened look. His arm fell from Sophia’s waist, and he stood up sheepishly. “It was very urgent.” He took a few steps away from her through the swishing grass, then looked back wistfully.

  Sophia jumped up and followed him. “Let’s run!” she cried. She seized his hand; laughing and knocking against each other they ran through the undulating fields towards Syke Mill Lane. As they went Frederick, who soon began to pant, gasped out something about a crowd of people coming over the moors from Lancashire. How exciting life was, thought Sophia; events jostled one another so, there was scarcely time to breathe.

  They found Will at the door of the dyehouse, discussing a yellow mark on a shred of cloth with Brigg and Thorpe, who was now the head overlooker of Syke Mill.

  “This is Frederick Smith; he’s Mr. James Smith’s son; he’s brought a message from Mr. Enoch Smith in Marthwaite,” explained Sophia breathlessly.

  “Oh,” said Will, unimpressed. “Well, what’s the message, young man?”

  “Uncle Enoch sent me to tell you,” panted Frederick: “There are three thousand men coming over Marthwaite Moor now—they’re Chartists or Lancashire Turn-outs or something, and they’re stopping all the mills.”

  There was a horrified pause; everyone instinctively looked at Will for guidance in this crisis. His face was so grim that even Sophia felt subdued.

  “How does your uncle know?” Will demanded abruptly of Frederick.

  “A man
he sold a boiler to, over in Lancashire, sent him word,” explained Frederick glibly. “Some men have quarrelled with their masters about wages—they were going to be lowered, or something—so they turned out, and persuaded a lot of others to turn out; they’re all going to stop work for a month, and then they think Parliament will pass the People’s Charter. They’re stopping all the engines in the mills—I don’t exactly know how,” admitted Frederick ingenuously, “but they call at every mill they come across and stop it. Uncle Enoch is stopping work at the foundry, and damping down the furnaces, and sending the men home, so that Chartists won’t bother to come in. Because they might damage something. He sent me to tell you—I’m staying with him for a month because father’s ill,” he added inconsequently.

  Sophia drank in this rigmarole with all her ears. Frederick’s light genteel tones and casual phrases went to her head like wine, yet even in her intoxication she did not fail to notice that he did not confess how long he had been between his uncle’s foundry and Syke Mill. Her heart seethed with a love at once protective and admiring, and she knew she could not betray his criminal delay, which in any case was largely her fault. Yet her father ought to know—“They’ll be here soon,” she blurted, delicately refraining from any glance at Frederick, who indeed blushed and hung his head.

  “We’d better draw t’boiler fires and close mill,” twittered Thorpe doubtfully.

  “What!” shouted Brigg, crimsoning.

  “I won’t draw the Syke Mill fires for any Chartist living,” said Will in a grim determined tone. “No, by God I won’t. Brigg, be off with you down to Sir Archibald Stancliffe and demand protection. He’s the nearest magistrate, I reckon, and though he’s old, he’s tough. He must bring all the red-coats he can lay hands on, and bring ’em quick. Tell him we’ll likely need him to read the Riot Act,” he shouted, for Brigg was already halfway to the stables.