Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  The brothers did not speak to each other again for more than thirty years.

  Chapter V

  Disaster

  1

  “Mrs. Smith-Oldroyd has not returned yet, sir,” said the manservant who opened the door. “But she is expected shortly.”

  Brigg said he would wait, and allowed himself (somewhat shyly) to be divested of his hat and coat and ushered across the hall to Sophia’s drawing-room. A footman, he thought; upon my word! What will Sophia do next, to be sure? He was in the habit of regarding himself as a man comfortably situated in life and well attended, but whenever he came to see Sophia he perceived that the solid comfort of New House was mere indigence when compared with the elegant profusion of his sister’s house in Annotsfield. The rich carpets, the large pictures—very oily and coloury and bulging with naked limbs—the numerous and brilliant jets of gas, the marble busts on columns, the fringe, the draperies, the heavy chenille curtains, the padded upholstery of the chairs—really it was quite overpowering. Not for the first time Brigg felt a twinge of uneasiness as he looked round upon all this. Of course since James Smith’s death Frederick should enjoy a nice little income, and with what Sophia’s half-share of Syke Mill brought in should be very comfortably off; but marble busts! And footmen! It was beyond a joke, thought Brigg soberly, looking about to see what new items had been added to the luxurious total since his last visit. Good heavens, there was a huge piano! Had Sophia taken to music, then? Or Frederick? It would be just like Frederick, thought Brigg, with the contempt he could not help feeling for a man who did no work; piano-playing would occupy his idle days. Brigg had something to say about that to Sophia, but entertained no hope of its being acceptable. He sat down with a sarcastic flop in a curly-legged chair by the fire, and stretched out his hand for one of the newspapers which lay in an opulent heap on an adjoining table.

  It did not improve his temper to find that he had lighted upon the Annotsfield Pioneer, which was the weekly Radical rag owned and edited by Joth in the intervals of teaching. Brigg grunted at the sight of its name, but opened the thin little sheet curiously. What bee had Joth got in his bonnet now, he wondered? It couldn’t be that Ten Hours business, for that had become law in the June of Sophia’s marriage, two years ago. Brigg was not likely to forget this, because there was a link between the two events. Mary having insisted with an unwonted obstinacy that Joth ought to be present at his sister’s wedding, Brigg replied that there was no reason why Sophia should not ask her brother to witness the ceremony in Marthwaite Church, if she liked, but every reason why he should not invite Joth to his house. As Brigg had taken New House as part of his half-share of Will’s estate, nothing could be urged against this, and Sophia accordingly wrote a rather awkward note to Joth, asking him to attend her wedding but definitely implying that he was not invited to the breakfast to be held at New House afterwards, by her hope that the hour of the wedding was not inconvenient as regards Joth’s household arrangements. In reply there came a lengthy letter, full of long words and loving advice, and concluded with a statement that on the contrary the hour of Sophia’s wedding was exceedingly convenient to Joth, as it would enable him to catch the Manchester coach at Marthwaite immediately afterwards—there were to be great doings in Manchester next day to celebrate the Royal Assent to the Factory Act; medals were to be struck and dinners held, “So he couldn’t have come to the breakfast even if we’d asked him,” said Brigg sardonically. “Ha! I’m glad.” But he was really provoked—it seemed as though you couldn’t get the better of Joth however you tried. (At the wedding the two brothers did not speak, merely bowing to each other solemnly.) So it could not be the Ten Hours question which filled Joth’s columns now; and after that horrible Chartist-rising fiasco last year he would hardly have the face to mention them. Brigg scanned the columns rapidly: there was a tremendous fuss about a disused fishpond of young Sir John Stancliffe’s by the new railway line at Irebridge, which according to Joth was giving everybody cholera; a long account of a temperance meeting in London at which Dr. Singleton had spoken, and a rapturous description of the opening of the new Annotsfield Mechanics’ Institute; a leader about the squabble between Russia and Turkey over Kossuth and the other Hungarian rebels, and another describing how Mr. Cobden had presented a memorial to the Prime Minister on behalf of last year’s Chartist prisoners. “Pshaw!” said Brigg, throwing aside the newspaper. “Same old stuff!” There was a sound of hoofs and wheels outside; in a moment the door opened and Sophia came swimming across the room towards him.

  She was pregnant with her second child, and in spite of her fashionably voluminous silk dress of pinkish brown, the heaviness of her figure could be seen, which in Brigg’s eyes gave her an effect of charming pathos. The crisp autumn air had heightened the lovely bloom of her cheeks, her blue eyes were bright, she wore a handsome fringed mantle of rich brown silk, and a bonnet of the same shade framed her auburn curls; a delicate fragrance seemed to float about her as she took the fronts of Brigg’s coat in her hands and held up her face in sweet invitation. Brigg, always very susceptible to feminine beauty, smiled delightedly. He was struck afresh by the miracle of Sophia every time he saw her; she had so ripened since her marriage, it was amazing; could this elegant, this softly lovely, this accomplished young matron really be his naughty little sister, who used to pummel him in bed on Sunday mornings and pull his whiskers to make him get up? Stooping beneath her bonnet he gave her a hearty kiss and a hug, and forgot about the busts and the piano. “Well, lovey!” he greeted her, surveying her with proud affection.

  Sophia removed an entirely imaginary spot from the front of his coat with her pretty fingernail. “Why don’t you get married, Brigg?” she demanded severely. “You really need a wife to look after you. I should never dream of allowing Frederick to go out with a spot on his coat. A man ought to be married.”

  Brigg laughed, and his brown eyes sparkled; this was the kind of talk he enjoyed. “I can’t find anyone as pretty as my sister,” he suggested in excuse.

  Sophia, pleased, pouted becomingly; she sat down and enquired after her mother. Brigg gave some of Mary’s many messages, and hinted that Sophia had not been out to New House for a long time. A frown crossed his sister’s face, and she looked more like the Sophia Brigg used to know. To turn the conversation he said hastily:

  “See, lovey, here’s your quarter’s money. I came to bring you your cheque.”

  “I hope it’s a nice large one,” pouted Sophia, taking the proffered paper.

  “It is, lovey, it is,” said Brigg heartily, delighted for her sake that Skye Mill was doing so well.

  “I see it is,” said Sophia, studying the amount.

  But her face was clouded and her voice doubtful, and Brigg felt a sudden uneasy chill.

  “I see you’ve got a piano,” he remarked, coming upon this item by a natural train of thought. “Frederick taken to music, eh?”

  “No,” said Sophia, scowling.

  “You then?” queried Brigg, surprised that she should have the application to acquire this (to him) difficult art.

  “No!” said Sophia, scowling more than ever. “Don’t be silly, Brigg. Surely we can have a piano for the use of our guests if we like?”

  “Oh, certainly,” agreed Brigg, intimidated. “Of course.”

  “Listen, Brigg,” said Sophia firmly, smoothing the silk of her sleeve. “Couldn’t we get more money if we put it in the railways?”

  “‘We’?” said Brigg, loudly and angrily. “Who’s ‘we’?” He sat up and repeated in a firm angry tone: “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Frederick and I,” said Sophia, meeting his eyes boldly. “If we took it out of Syke Mill and put it in the railways, shouldn’t we get more?”

  “Upon my word, Sophia!” said Brigg, colouring, now very angry indeed. “What are you thinking of! Take your money out of Syke Mill, indeed! It’s kept you all your life and made every penny you have, and then you talk about taking your money out, as if it were some two-pe
nny-ha’penny shop and you a millionaire or something. I never heard such nonsense in all my born days. Don’t let me hear another word about it.”

  “But I have the right to withdraw it, haven’t I?” said Sophia in a hard tone.

  “Who told you that?” demanded Brigg, speaking very quickly.

  “It wasn’t who you think,” said Sophia, smiling in spite of herself at Brigg’s tendency to suspect his half-brother of everything which went amiss with him. “It wasn’t Joth. It was Frederick’s solicitor, some months ago.”

  “Upon my word, Sophia!” exploded Brigg again. “You talk in a very sisterly way, I must say! Going to an attorney over my head like that! Don’t you trust me or what?”

  “Of course I trust you, Brigg,” said Sophia pettishly. “But you see it seems we should get more money if we put it into railways.”

  “But you wouldn’t, you little donkey,” cried the exasperated Brigg. “The railway boom is over. Surely you know that.”

  “Other people don’t seem to think so,” said Sophia with her wilful look. “ Other people have made a lot of money in railways this last year. But of course,” she concluded crossly, “If you can’t pay me my money, Brigg …”

  “I can, but I shan’t,” said Brigg with emphasis. “I shan’t let you do anything so damned ungrateful.”

  “Brigg!” exclaimed Sophia, drawing herself up with haughty indignation. “Pray remember you are in my drawing-room. Such language may be correct in a little village like Marthwaite, but it’s not suitable here.”

  “Now don’t put on any fine airs with me,” said Brigg, quite losing patience. “You’re only my little sister to me, you know, whatever you may be to these fine folk in Annotsfield.” The sound of the words my little sister, however, made him relent, and he continued in a kindly tone: “Have some sense, Sophia, do. You’ve plenty of money for all you’re likely to want, and the railway boom is getting over. Besides, what you have is Frederick’s, as you know very well, and if you take it out of Syke Mill it’ll be his to do as he likes with; while it’s with me I can keep some sort of an eye on it. It’s a pity your money wasn’t settled on your children,” he continued thoughtfully, remembering Sophia’s smart new brougham and barouche, and the stableful of riding horses of which he had heard rumours, and the piano: “But I suppose father did it the other way—” he was going to say “to bribe a man to marry you in spite of having to change his name,” but bethought himself of Sophia’s pride and finished instead rather lamely—“to bribe your husband to call himself Oldroyd. If Frederick wants more money,” he went on in a louder tone, “let him earn some. I’m going to start a warehouse in Annotsfield—the Cloth Hall seems out of fashion nowadays—and if Frederick likes to take charge of it he can. I want a man there to talk to customers, and Frederick’s got a gentlemanly way with him.”

  “Are you suggesting that Frederick should sell your cloth?” cried Sophia.

  “Aye,” said Brigg, crimsoning at her tone. “Have you owt against it? Eh?”

  “Well, he won’t,” cried Sophia with decision. The thought of Frederick soiling his white hands with cloth and coin was doubly painful to her because of her certainty that he would make a fool of himself in the process. “He won’t,” she repeated contemptuously.

  “Very well,” said Brigg, getting up. “I shan’t cry my eyes out about it, Sophia. I’ll be getting home now.”

  Sophia saw that he was really offended. Going up to him with her swimming gait, which touched him in spite of himself, she laid a hand on his arm and said pleadingly: “Don’t be cross, Brigg.”

  I see you subscribe to Joth’s paper,” said Brigg, determined to be annoyed.

  Sophia laughed and looked up at him with a charming mockery. But suddenly her blue eyes filled with tears and her lower lip began to tremble.

  “There, there!” cried Brigg hastily, alarmed. “I didn’t mean to be cross, lovey. But you annoyed me about Syke Mill. I’ll go now. Give my love to Frederick,” he added sardonically as they moved towards the door together.

  “Will you come upstairs and see Baby Freddie, Brigg?” suggested Sophia.

  “No, no,” said Brigg in alarm—babies were not in his line. Then thinking he had perhaps been rather rude about Sophia’s precious infant, he added: “I hope he’s well?”

  “Oh, yes, very,” said Sophia, with a lovely maternal look.

  In the hall they came upon Frederick, who advanced rather sheepishly from the doorway of a back room and offered his hand to his guest with a timid smile. (In point of fact Sophia, who could not bear to see Frederick expose himself in front of Brigg, and went in dread of it whenever the two men were together, always cut their intercourse short when she could; and on coming in with Frederick and learning of Brigg’s presence she had ordered her husband into the back room somewhat sharply).

  “Did you get that coat in London?” enquired Brigg, as Sophia helped him on with his own.

  “Yes,” said Frederick with a smile—or as Brigg dubbed it a smirk—of pleasure.

  “It looks like it,” commented Brigg. The remark might have been intended as a compliment, but his tone was ironic and insulting, and Frederick justly suspected a reference to the cloth of which the coat was made.

  “You think you can do better in Marthwaite?” said he. His tone was childishly peevish, and Sophia said hastily:

  “How is the Marthwaite tunnel getting on, Brigg?”

  “Oh, very well,” said Brigg gloomily. “They’re always blasting.”

  He suspected Sophia of a covert reference to her scheme of railway investment in this remark, and glanced at her darkly. Sophia, who had really not intended anything of the kind, blushed beneath his look, and her lips again trembled. She put a loving kiss on his cheek when he left, and Brigg gave her waist a gentle brotherly squeeze, but he was not happy about her, and in response to Mary’s anxious enquiries when he reached home he observed darkly:

  “I reckon they’re making ducks and drakes of Frederick’s fortune.”

  “Aye,” he added after a pause, “and they’ll do the same with Sophia’s if they can get hold of it. But I shan’t let ’em.”

  “How will you prevent them, Brigg?” quavered Mary in consternation.

  “I can’t really prevent it,” said Brigg savagely. “Not if they’ve set their minds on it. It’ll be damned awkward for me too. You see, with Joth giving his up, Sophia has a half share, and it’s a lot.”

  There was a silence.

  “Do you think Joth would have any influence over Sophia?” suggested Mary timidly at length.

  “He’s not likely to hear owt about it,” said Brigg, with a menacing look. “I’ll tell you what, mother—you’d best go and see her and have a talk with her.”

  “Me?” faltered Mary timidly, fingering her black silk gown—Brigg kept her handsomely appointed. “But how should I get there?”

  “I’ll hire a carriage for you from Marthwaite,” said Brigg in an angry tone. “Sophia seems able to keep two, so it’s a pity if you can’t have one for a day. You can go to-morrow—I’ll see to it.”

  2

  When Sophia turned back to the hall after watching Brigg depart, she found that her husband had moved away into the drawing-room. She followed, and found him standing by the hearth, stretching out his hands to the fire.

  “Well? What did he say?” demanded Frederick eagerly, turning to her.

  “He says the railway boom is over,” replied Sophia shortly.

  “Oh!” said Frederick, crestfallen.

  “And I daresay he’s right,” said Sophia with a momentary shrewdness. She sank down upon a chair, sighed a little for weariness of her heavy body, and taking one of her husband’s soft white hands in hers, pressed it to her cheek. But Frederick withdrew it pettishly. And Sophia felt again, as she had felt in the course of her interview with Brigg, a sudden wild throb of homesickness, of longing for the days when she was an ignorant girl roaming at large in funny old Marthwaite, the vagaries of husband
s and the pangs of childbirth all unknown. Rather wearily she offered her husband the cheque, signed in Brigg’s thick solid hand. “It’s larger than usual,” she said in an almost timid tone.

  “Yes, but it isn’t enough,” said Frederick, glancing at the amount. “You know it isn’t enough, Sophia. We can’t go on like this. We shall have to put down the horses.”

  “What!” cried Sophia frowning. She sat up energetically, and her moment of girlishness passed; she was once more that fashionable young matron, Mrs. Smith-Oldroyd of Treding House, Annotsfield, and content to be so. Put down the horses! Endure that pouting look of sulks on Frederick’s face! And all for the sake of poor uncouth Brigg and a silly, dirty, old-fashioned mill in a remote country district! No! “If father had been alive,” said Sophia with dignity, “he would not have seen me lack for money, I am sure. But as it is, I think we had better draw it out of Syke Mill.”

  Frederick’s face brightened. “My cousin told me he made a cool ten thousand in the spring,” he said.

  “We needn’t re-invest it all, perhaps,” continued Sophia. “We might keep a few hundreds to pay one or two bills.”

  Frederick’s face was now positively radiant. But a thought struck him. “Don’t you think you ought perhaps to consult Mr. Bamforth?” he said.