He died without speaking again, and before Jonathan’s return from London.
Chapter IV
Quarrel
1
“He died defending Syke Mill,” said Jonathan consolingly, as the family sat in the parlour together after the funeral. “That would be what he liked best, Brigg.”
“Aye—but alone,” mourned Brigg. “Neither of us with him.”
“That was chance, and should not trouble you,” said Jonathan soothingly.
Brigg did not know how to express his feeling that it was not altogether chance; that Joth’s being away, fussing after the Ten Hours Bill, when he was needed at home, was characteristic of his whole life. He did not know how to say this, but he gave his brother a dark look; Jonathan partly understood him, and coloured.
“Shall we proceed with the reading of the will?” he said haughtily. “I have a committee meeting to-night about the raising of funds for Mr. Oastler’s release, and I should like to attend it if at all possible.”
The Annotsfield attorney rustled the thick parchment invitingly, but Brigg gave a muffled exclamation of rage. That Joth should put Oastler’s release before the reading of their father’s will angered him profoundly. But it was all of a piece with the rest of Joth’s character; it was just like him.
“I hoped you’d be giving up all that Radical nonsense now, Joth,” he threw out sullenly, “after what’s happened.”
“Give it up!” cried Jonathan, amazed. “How could you think that?”
“Considering that the Chartists murdered father,” began Brigg.
“They didn’t,” objected Jonathan.
“They’re morally responsible for his death,” persisted Brigg stubbornly. “And I should have thought you’d be ashamed to be connected with them.”
“Listen to me, Brigg,” said Jonathan emphatically, with heightened colour. “Nobody deplores our father’s death more than I do.”
“Ha!” threw in Brigg sarcastically.
“I deprecate violence of any kind, the whole bent of my nature is against it,” went on Joth very earnestly. “I regret most deeply the shocking scenes of violence which took place in the West Riding last week, and I shall say so, publicly and in writing, with all the force of which I am capable, at every opportunity.”
“Oh, don’t make a speech at me,” growled Brigg. “I’m not a meeting.”
“But,” continued Jonathan emphatically, “but, Brigg, I ask you to consider very seriously your own responsibility in this affair.”
“Mine?” cried Brigg.
“Yes, yours,” said Jonathan. “Who made those men ragged and hungry? Who drove them to desperation from witnessing the sufferings of their little ones? Who kept their wages so low that they were always on the verge of starvation? Who deprived them of the hours of leisure in which they might have gained some education, learned some principles which would have restrained them from their deplorable violence?”
“Nay, don’t ask me,” said Brigg, giggling as he always did when Joth speechified.
“The manufacturers!” cried Jonathan, his eyes aflame. “You and father, Brigg, are as much morally responsible for last week’s excesses as those starving men.”
Jonathan had not meant to reveal his conviction that Will’s death was a just judgment upon him, quite so plainly, but he was temperamentally incapable of concealing any of his convictions, and when he spoke aloud especially, seemed to be carried along as though on a flood. The effect on Brigg was alarming: he sat up and shouted “What!” with a look of such anger on his dark broad face that the Annotsfield attorney said hastily: “Gentlemen, shall we not read the will?”
“It’s a devilish lie,” panted Brigg, leaning forward.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Brigg,” said Jonathan with real compunction: “But I can’t give up my life’s work.”
“Oh, let’s read the will,” urged Sophia, swinging one foot pettishly. She was hoping to meet Frederick in Syke Wood in half an hour, and she particularly wanted him to see her in her black silk frock while it was new and fresh. Sophia looked lovely in black; it set off her brilliant complexion and amber hair to a marvel; both her brothers, glancing at her, thought what a beautiful young woman she was growing into, and sighed a little.
“Let us read the will,” whispered Mary, who, as she sat there hunched in her widow’s weeds, with greying hair and reddened eyes, looked an old woman. She wished she could die, and hoped soon to do so; half her heart had been torn away. The world seemed alien, strange, senseless, without Will; indeed she was surprised it managed to go on at all. Both Will’s sons paid his widow a beautiful deference, recognising the truth and depth of her grief; they deferred to her now, smoothed out the antagonism from their faces, and turned to the attorney expectantly. There was a short pause while Brigg waited for his father’s eldest son, and Joth waited for his father’s legitimate heir, to invite the attorney to begin; at last, seeing that no invitation came from either, the lawyer began without one.
The will was perfectly simple; it left a small jointure to Mary, and then divided the property equally between Jonathan, Brigg and Sophia, who were to own Syke Mill jointly between them. The sole condition of any kind was that Sophia was to have a life interest only in her property unless she married a husband willing to add the name of Oldroyd to his own. Considering the amount of the property, thought Brigg shrewdly, it would be a foolish man who robbed his children of it by jibbing at a name; Sophia’s children were pretty certain, he decided, to bear the name of Oldroyd. He glanced at his father’s fierce fondness for Sophia, shook his head over it and withdrew his eyes respectfully. (For her part Sophia was rather glad; Oldroyd was a nicer name than Smith.) Jonathan and Brigg were appointed trustees, and Sophia was not to have control of her money till she came of age. “Do you accept the trusteeship, gentlemen?” concluded the attorney.
“I accept,” said Brigg gruffly.
“I accept the position of trustee,” said Jonathan in his deep fine voice, “for the sake of my mother and Sophia; but I cannot agree to benefit under the late Mr. Oldroyd’s estate. I retire in favour of the other two beneficiaries.”
“What!” shouted Brigg, half-rising.
“You can hardly do that, Mr. Bamforth,” said the attorney in nervous haste. “There would have to be a deed of disclaimer.”
“Then draw one up,” commanded Jonathan.
“You must be mad, Joth!” burst out Brigg. “You must be mad! Don’t be such a fool! Just because we had a bit of an argument about the Chartists,” he went on angrily, “there’s no need for you to behave like a fool. I never heard such nonsense in all my born days.”
“I assure you, Brigg,” said Jonathan collectedly, though he was rather pale, “that this is no hasty decision, taken on the spur of the moment. Helena and I have talked it over, and decided on my right course.”
“Then she’s as much of a fool as you are,” said Brigg brutally, sitting down.
“Why won’t Joth take father’s money?” demanded Sophia in a peevish tone.
“Sophia,” said Jonathan in his gentle tone of command, which everybody always obeyed, “please leave us for a while. These matters are too difficult for you.”
Sophia, tossing her head but really nothing loth, rustled her frock out of the room and scampered off to Syke Wood.
“Now, Brigg,” said Jonathan, when the door had closed behind her: “I can speak plainly. You are my father’s only legitimate son.”
“But what does that matter?” objected Brigg. “You’re his son all right. Good gracious me! Surely you’re not going to rake all that old story up again!”
“It matters in the will,” remarked Jonathan with a slight touch of bitterness. “I’m not called his son there.”
“That’s just to make it legal,” said Brigg, reddening a little—he too had noticed the difference between Jonathan Bamforth and my son William Brigg.
“Then we’ll keep it legal all through,” threw out Jonathan,
panting suddenly. “I decline to benefit under his will—I won’t touch a penny.”
“Why not?” demanded Brigg, also panting heavily. “Why not?”
“Because I should never have a moment’s peace of mind!” cried Jonathan, suddenly throwing discretion to the winds. “I won’t touch his money—made as it has been by methods I wholeheartedly disapprove.”
“By God!” shouted Brigg, springing to his feet. “It’s an insult to father, an insult! You shall accept, you shan’t insult his memory like that.”
“I shan’t accept it,” said Jonathan calmly, regaining his temper as his brother lost his: “But I see no reason why you and I should quarrel, Brigg.”
“But, by God, I do!” shouted Brigg, bringing his fist down on the table in a tremendous blow. “By God, I do! If you won’t accept father’s money, I won’t have you in Syke Mill. No, by God, I won’t.”
“Brigg!” wept Mary.
“I doubt whether you have the power, Mr. Oldroyd,” hesitated the attorney.
“But if he’s declining his share of Syke Mill,” cried Brigg furiously, “he’s nothing but a workman there, in my employ.”
“And Miss Sophia’s,” put in the lawyer.
“And I won’t have him in my employ,” concluded Brigg. “That’s flat. He can take it or leave it. Either he accepts his share of father’s money, in a sensible way, or he can clear out altogether, bag and baggage.”
“Since you wish to quarrel, Brigg,” said Jonathan, very pale about the mouth, but firm and composed: “I own to you that I shall be happier dissociated from Syke Mill. I’m not comfortable working in a place where the welfare of those employed is entirely subordinate to the employer’s profits. In my opinion machines are less valuable than men.”
“Jonathan, Jonathan!” wept Mary.
“Oh? So that’s what you think of me, is it?” said Brigg furiously, thrusting his crimson face into his brother’s pale one. “Well, since we’re handing out compliments, I’ll tell you what I think of you. I shall be happier dissociated”—(he stumbled purposely and ironically over this word)—“dissociated from a man who knows nothing whatever about one of the finest manufactures in the world and is proud of knowing nothing, who only understands silly papers, and who goes careering up and down the country in company with a lot of self-seeking, loose-living, ungrateful, low-class idlers who want to ruin England. You and your Oastler! In the Fleet for debt! It’s not respectable. I’m ashamed to have it known that I’ve a brother who visits him—I bet you did visit him when you were in London, didn’t you, Joth?”
“I had that honour,” replied Jonathan coldly.
“Traitor!” shouted Brigg.
“No one can accuse me of treachery,” cried Jonathan, stung.
“You’re a traitor to your family and class,” said Brigg. “I’ve thought so ever since you wrote that vile letter to the Mercury.”
“Let me remind you that I don’t belong either to your family or your class,” panted Jonathan. “I’m a bastard who was brought up as a piecener.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Brigg, almost laughing in his contempt. “In front of mother, too! I always knew you were a fool, Joth, but I didn’t know you were such a fool as this.”
“Brigg! Joth!” cried Mary, wildly weeping. She stumbled across the room to them and seized their arms. “Brigg, lovey, you can’t turn Joth out like this; you’ll break my heart.”
“Well,” said Brigg in a considering tone, much distressed by this new aspect of the situation. “Of course. Well, I don’t know.”
“That question doesn’t arise,” said Jonathan in a white rage “Mother of course will leave New House and come to live with me. And Sophia,” he added.
“Well! Why on earth?” began Brigg, dumbfounded.
“She’s my mother,” panted Jonathan.
Brigg’s face hardened. “She’s my father’s widow,” he said emphatically. “And I shall see to it that she has the comforts she’s been accustomed to.”
“I can see to that equally well,” said Jonathan.
“Oh?” sneered Brigg. “Really? Let me remind you that you’ve no income to keep your house on with—I’ll give you a month’s wages next Friday in lieu of notice.”
“Pray don’t deprive yourself,” said Jonathan, trembling with rage: “I shall not enter Syke Mill again.”
“Gentlemen,” protested the attorney, whose private thought was that the two half-brothers had never looked so much alike as they did now, each with the characteristic Oldroyd vein throbbing in his forehead: “This is all very irregular. I think I had better retire till you are in a calmer frame of mind.”
“Retire and be damned to you,” said Brigg with contempt, pleased to see his brother wincing at his language.
“Mother,” said Jonathan with decision, as the insulted lawyer began to shuffle his papers together: “I think you had better come with me now. We will find Sophia as we go.”
“You’re not going to leave me, mother!” protested Brigg uneasily. “And Sophia! Of course you must stay.”
“Come, mother,” commanded Jonathan, offering her his arm.
Mary covered her face with her hands and wept. She saw Joth’s house, Helena, his children, the genteel company he kept, his speeches and his writings—she would be in the way, she would pull him down, she wasn’t up to that level. And Sophia and Helena would quarrel. Joth’s life would all be spoiled if she went with him. Whereas if she stayed at New House, it wouldn’t make any difference to her kindly happy-go-lucky stepson. “Nay, lovey,” she sobbed: “I think we’d best stay with Brigg.”
“Mother!” cried Jonathan on a piercing note of agony, “That’s the second time—” He bit off this speech, and stood silent for a moment, regarding her with a terrible contempt. He could not forgive her; his love for her lay murdered by this second blow. “Well, you have made your choice,” he said at length in an icy tone. “And Sophia of course must remain with you. In the circumstances there is no need for me to be a trustee, and accordingly, I decline the position. Good-bye.” He turned on his heel and left the house.
2
Despite the summer heat he hurried down the long road to Irebridge as fast as he could limp, and arrived at his home trembling and exhausted. Helena, on the watch for him at the window, ran down the steps of their little house to help him in. He threw off his hat and sank into a chair. “Oh, Helena!” he groaned. “What have I brought you to, my love!”
“What is it, husband?” she said fondly, kneeling beside him and laying her hand on his dark damp hair. “How have they vexed you?”
In a few gasping words Jonathan told her that they were without their next week’s livelihood; he had refused his father’s inheritance and Brigg refused to employ him any more. Helena’s grey eyes beamed with pride and joy.
“I thank God,” she said emphatically, “that you are free of those dreadful Oldroyds at last. Syke Mill has cast a shadow over your life always. Your mother,” she added, “I suppose comes to us?”
Jonathan, not looking at her, shook his head. Helena, who knew him to the heart’s core and loved all she knew, repressed an exclamation and was silent for a while. Then she rose softly, and going upstairs brought down their youngest child, wrapped in a shawl, and put him in her husband’s arms. Jonathan accepted the little bundle with tender care, but seemed still panting and distraught. His wife took some sewing and sat silently beside him.
After a while the tension of his face relaxed, and he gave a sigh of relief.
“As you say, Helena, I am free,” he murmured.
“You are free,” said Helena.
They smiled at each other in loving triumph; and presently Jonathan went cheerfully out to his meeting. He could rail against the manufacturers as much as he liked, now; he was free.
3
Brigg too, seeing off the discomfited attorney, felt content. His bosom was cleansed of some perilous stuff which had throbbed there now for nearly twelve years. Ever since Joth had w
ritten that odious letter to the Leeds Mercury Brigg had felt uneasy with him, and he was glad to have spoken out his whole thought to his brother and be parted from him. He did not want Joth’s share of his father’s inheritance, not he! But he was glad to be free to manage Syke Mill in his own way, without his brother always criticising and interfering. “He’s so damned supurior,” said Brigg, laughing to himself at Sophia’s apt childish word. He went out now into the golden evening sunshine and prowled about the yard, looking admiringly at the tall slender chimney; then drawing his keys from his pocket let himself into each department of the mill in turn. Pieces of cloth lay about in loose stacks; he fingered the ends of one consideringly, a smile on his broad face. From this occupation he returned to New House well pleased, and was very kind indeed to poor Mary, who still wept out her grief and her despair.
But Sophia, coming in presently flushed and radiant, with starry eyes and a little pulse throbbing in her white throat, spoiled it all for him. For when she was told of the quarrel and its result she exclaimed petulantly: “I’d much rather have gone to live with Joth, mother!” She said this merely because Irebridge Terrace was three miles nearer to Annotsfield than New House, and Frederick was due to return to Annotsfield on the morrow; but Brigg, lacking this clue to her words, was naturally hurt. “It’s I who make your living for you at any rate, Sophia,” he protested in a grieved tone. “You needn’t think it’s Joth who brings the customers, because it isn’t.” Sophia, not seeing any particular point in this remark, tossed her head and said nothing, and Brigg felt deeply wounded. He put this too down to Joth’s account, and was confirmed in his implacable resentment against him.
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