Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  “You shouldn’t mount the horse while you are waiting for a tram, my boy; don’t you understand that the animal can’t rest properly with you on its back?”

  The lad gaped down at them; a few passers-by paused to snigger; Brigg blushed scarlet with embarrassment and showed a disposition to draw his uncle away, but the old man resisted.

  “Get down!” he cried suddenly, striking his stick hard on the ground. His eyes flashed, his voice thundered; the lad in a fright hurriedly threw his leg over the horse’s back and dismounted. “Now remember what I’ve said,” continued Jonathan, resuming his mild tone: “Let the animal have the rest he earns.” He gave the horse a kindly farewell glance, then pointed his stick forward as an instruction to Brigg to proceed, and the two moved on.

  Brigg, looking back over his shoulder, saw the lad standing beside the animal, pretending to do something to the harness, but really gazing after them with a shamefaced air. Brigg was amused by the incident, but could not help liking the old boy, as he disrespectfully termed his uncle, the better for it. “But how old he is!” he wondered. “After all he’s only a few years older than father, but he seems an old man.” They proceeded down the road without further incident until Jonathan suddenly halted in front of the handsome entrance to Syke House.

  “Now father will certainly come out,” thought Brigg in mock despair. His uncle gazed at the iron gates and seemed to muse.

  “Your father’s a rich man again,” he said at length.

  “Yes,” said Brigg—there was nothing else to say.

  “Well!” said his uncle thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned his head and gazed full upon Brigg. “Do we part here?” he asked in a strong stern tone.

  “I’d like to see you home, sir,” said Brigg, blushing.

  His uncle nodded his head and seemed satisfied; he struck his stick emphatically on the pavement, and they moved on.

  In a few minutes they reached the centre of the town. The streets were thronged with the Saturday night shopping crowd; their progress was slow, and made slower because at every turn they seemed to meet somebody who knew Mr. Bamforth. Old doddering men with long white whiskers, lively young workmen, middle-aged women, ministers, shopkeepers, young girls—it seemed to Brigg that the whole population of Annotsfield (excluding of course his own friends) was in a conspiracy to seize his uncle’s hand and greet him with respectful admiration. Jonathan gave them all a keen loving look and listened to everything they said intently. In one of the few intervals when they were threading their way between people who seemed not to know them he said suddenly to his nephew:

  “Won’t your father be expecting you?”

  “No, he always goes to the Liberal Club on Saturday night,” said Brigg.

  “And your mother?” persisted his uncle.

  “Oh—mother!” said Brigg, astonished. “No!” He added quickly, conscious that his astonishment did not become him: “She never expects me till she sees me.”

  “I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother, I think,” said Jonathan in a courteous tone.

  Brigg said nothing. His mother was one of the awkward places of his life; his father was not proud of her, nor was he. The erstwhile Polly Thorpe remained very handsome in looks—Brigg was well aware that to her he owed his fine complexion—but her speech was in Brigg’s opinion quite dreadful and her manners worse, and it made things awkward with, for instance, the Stancliffes. Brigg was fond of her, he supposed; but he often wondered why on earth his father had married her—or rather he knew only too well, and was ashamed of the knowledge. He was accustomed to receive all references to his mother with a polite smile and silence, and he adopted this course now.

  Uncle and nephew, therefore, did not speak again until they reached a house at the corner of a quiet back street of the town, where against a background of two or three dingy rhododendrons and a small iron gate, they found Henry and Janie waiting for them in a state of remorseful welcome. Here Jonathan gave his nephew a rather stern questioning look, as much as to say: “Are you really coming in?” Brigg put on an innocent air of regarding his entrance as a matter of course, and slipped across the threshold behind Janie. After shedding their coats the three men went into a badly lighted book-lined room, where an old woman with a thin drawn face and grey hair arranged in old-fashioned ringlets beneath a plain cap lay on a sofa by the hearth. Jonathan’s eyes brightened, he limped hurriedly across the room, and saying, “My love!” in a tone of the fondest adoration, kissed her cheek tenderly. His wife put up a hand to caress his shoulder, while Brigg, who was not used to these conjugal endearments and tended to despise all women who were not young and pretty, stood by feeling a fool. When, presently, he was introduced to his Aunt Helena, she gave him a rather acid smile and told him he was like his father—“She’ll be my enemy with Janie,” thought Brigg quickly, greeting her with his most deferential air. He then looked about him for his uncle’s sons, whom he had understood to be numerous, but it appeared that none of them except Henry, the youngest, who helped his father with the Annotsfield Pioneer, lived at home. Brigg was rather relieved by their absence than otherwise; if Henry were a sample of the rest, he thought, he could very well spare them.

  The conversation was political, and turned chiefly upon Gladstone, who just then was relinquishing the leadership of the Liberal Party for the first (though not the last) time. Young Brigg, who was terribly tired of Gladstone and Liberals, and almost inclined to dare his father’s wrath and become an admirer of the romantic Disraeli, like Frank Stancliffe, listened rather wearily and said nothing. Jonathan, noting his silence, turned to him, and had his true opinions out of him in two minutes of skilful questioning. There was a horrified silence when his political colour was revealed; Henry put in his monocle, and the three Bamforths stared at him, Brigg thought irritably, as though he were a strange animal in a show.

  “And your father?” said his uncle at length in a grave searching tone, fixing his keen dark eyes upon him. “Does he share your views?”

  “No,” said Brigg rather crossly. “He doesn’t even know my views—and I don’t wish him to,” he added.

  “Ah, you fear his anger,” said Helena from her sofa in a scornful tone.

  “No, I don’t! I’m not afraid of him,” replied Brigg hotly. Suddenly, however, he laughed, and added on a cheerful note: “Still, he is rather a Tartar, you know.”

  “A Tartar!” said his uncle, seeming gravely astonished by the word. “A Tartar I Imagine Brigg described as a Tartar! In our young days together he was such a jovial, easy-going lad.” He looked at his nephew, perceived in his eyes that Brigg was anything but easy-going nowadays, and sighed. “A Tartar!” he mused. “What we come to in our old age! Am I, perhaps, a Tartar too?” he enquired, looking about him with a loving smile.

  “Of course you are, father,” said Henry promptly. “One of the best-feared Tartars in Annotsfield.”

  “No doubt the School Board is of that opinion,” said Helena with a smile.

  “And Sir John Stancliffe,” added Henry.

  Jonathan’s fine eyes sparkled, “Well, well, we live and learn,” he said. “Janie, my dear,” he went on, holding his hand out to his niece, who just then came into the room: “They are slandering your old uncle. Am I a Tatrar?”

  “The most terrible Tartar in the West Riding,” cried Janie, stooping lovingly over him. “Now come and have your supper.”

  “All the same,” murmured Henry in Brigg’s ear, as they filed into the other room: “It’s true. All the descendants of Mr. William Oldroyd of revered memory are Tartars. Are you one?”

  “I hope so,” replied Brigg, resenting him. “Are you?”

  “That remains to be seen,” drawled Henry quietly.

  After supper—which was poor by Brigg’s standards, with scanty and ill-cooked food, and of course no wine; the room too was bare and uncomfortable and showed signs of being used as a school-room during the day—Jonathan asked Janie to sing, and she complied, with Henry for a
ccompanist. Rather to Brigg’s surprise she proved to be a soprano of some power, and not untaught; it appeared from the conversation that her uncle loved her voice, and had somehow squeezed out the necessary fees to have it trained. Her rich sweet tones made Brigg shudder with ecstasy as he lay back in his chair gazing at her; she was a jewel bright beyond compare, a singing bird with brilliant plumage, a flower of dazzling hue and fragrance most exquisite; he loved her. The image of Charlotte Stancliffe paled and faded and was forgotten; he loved Janie and must have her for his own. His pulses throbbed, he was conscious that his face was red and his eyes stupid with desire; he was young enough and of his day enough to be quite alarmed at the terrible vehemence of his feelings; what a state to get into, to be sure! He had better leave before he did something awful; it was getting late in any case, he must not overstay his welcome. He rose and began to make farewells; his manners carried him through a graceful speech to the effect that he hoped his aunt would allow him to enquire after her health to-morrow, and Helena, after a look at her husband, gave him permission to do so. Brigg held Janie’s hand in his own for a delicious moment, looked into her sparkling blue eyes and suggested—for he was a young man of determination and resource—that she might care to accompany his mother to a concert which was to be held in Annotsfield next Thursday. (His mother of course had never heard of the concert, never went to concerts, and Brigg himself only knew of it by the chance of seeing a poster on the hall as he passed through Annotsfield that evening; moreover what would his father say?—but those were trifles which could be arranged.) To his disappointment Janie replied in a prim little tone:

  “Thank you, but I am always engaged on Thursday evenings with my class at the night school.”

  “But I believe the concert is in the afternoon,” said Brigg, who remembered that there was to be another, slightly different, performance then.

  “I work in the daytime, Cousin Brigg,” said Janie, with a delicious air of reproof which her sparkling eyes belied.

  “Work?” said Brigg, astounded.

  “Yes—I teach my little cousins,” explained Janie severely.

  “Cousins?” said Brigg, vexed—he did not want her to have any cousin but himself. It appeared that these cousins were some little Smiths, connections in some way of Albert Smith and so not negligible. Brigg decided that the home of Albert Smith would be a good place to meet Janie in and that he must persuade Albert’s kindly mother to help him in the matter, bowed, murmured politely that he hoped for the pleasure of escorting her in his mother’s company to some other musical occasion, and found himself outside in the dark street. He sighed, a sigh not of regret but of ecstasy, threw back his head and marched off, treading on air.

  He had not gone many yards before the house door opened and Henry’s voice sounded behind him.

  “Hullo! Brigg! One moment!” he called in his leisurely tones. Brigg turned and waited. His cousin overtook him by a lamp post; Brigg looked at him interrogatively but did not speak. “It struck me that you might not know your way,” drawled Henry quietly. “You’re in Eastgate—turn to the right at the top and you’ll find yourself in Cloth Hall Street.”

  “Thank you,” said Brigg coldly. He wanted to move away at once, but could not quite leave his cousin so abruptly. “It was kind of you to introduce yourself to me this afternoon,” he said, forcing himself to this pleasant speech. “I shall always be grateful.” This last remark rang more true, because he had an idea that he should be grateful all his life for having met Janie.

  “Yes, I can see you’re a new recruit for the great army,” said Henry in a peculiar tone.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Brigg stiffly. “The army?”

  “Of Janie’s admirers,” explained his cousin.

  Brigg considered this. “Are you one?” he asked then bluntly.

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “Ah!” said Brigg, with a shrewd measuring glance.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about me, my dear fellow,” said Henry, a slight bitterness in his tone. “I’m not very formidable as a rival—unluckily. Good night, Cousin Brigg.” He offered his hand, and Brigg reluctantly shook it. “We shall see you to-morrow,” said Henry, irony in his slow tone.

  2

  “A very rich young man,” observed Henry, re-entering his mother’s drawing-room.

  “A very handsome one,” said Janie, laughing.

  “Much handsomer than his father,” agreed Jonathan, “but not so kindly, I imagine. In spite of his black hair and eyes he reminds me very much of his grandfather Oldroyd.”

  “And he’s not such a fool as he sometimes sounds,” drawled Henry.

  “No Oldroyd was ever a fool yet,” said his mother with some asperity. “You will make a mistake if you think so, Henry.”

  That her warning was meant to refer to the hope which had kept Henry unmarried all the years while Janie grew to womanhood was not to be doubted, and a shadow fell on her son’s face.

  3

  After the sparse dinginess of his uncle’s home the hall of Syke House struck Brigg by its solid splendour; the polished mahogany gleamed, the china shone, the mirrors glittered, under the three gas jets in their round white globes. He went into the dining-room; in front of the black marble mantelpiece with its heavy marble clock and prancing bronze horses sat his father in a large red leather armchair, stretching his solid thighs to a blazing fire. A tray of eatables and a glass of whisky and water stood on the table by his side; he was reading a newspaper, and altogether looked extremely comfortable. His thick glossy black hair, parted down the back of his head with well-groomed exactitude, his fine black whiskers, scarcely at all tinged yet with grey, his high colour, spotless linen and well-cut frock-coat, gave him an air of health and opulence which contrasted strongly with the wizened frail appearance of his elder brother.

  “There you are at last,” he said in a rough but not unkindly tone.

  “Here I am,” replied young Brigg, faintly insolent. “Where’s mother?” (He did not really want to know, but thought it a safe filial opening.)

  “In bed long since—I hear you’ve smashed your dogcart,” said his father without turning round.

  “Oh? Who told you?” enquired young Brigg, with a calm he did not quite feel.

  “Thomas Enoch Smith,” replied his father. “You young fool!”

  “I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” thought young Brigg quickly, and he said with an air: “I’ve had supper at Uncle Joth’s.”

  “What!” barked his father, astounded. He dropped his newspaper and turned round in a rage. He was mollified, however, as always, by the sight of his handsome son; he was such a fine young sprig, so haughty, so elegant, so carelessly assured; he did such credit to his expensive schooling among the gentry of Annotsfield, which Brigg had given him on the principle that his boy should have everything money could buy, Annotsfield should learn that the Oldroyds had money to pay for it. Moreover, Jonathan was not the only one who had noted the lad’s resemblance to Will. The elder Brigg grunted and looked at his son over the top of his spectacles. “Well, go on,” he commanded roughly. “Let’s have the whole story.”

  Brigg began an easy narrative. When he came to the incident of the horse his father said: “Aye! There’s nothing your Uncle Joth likes better nor setting other people straight. He always thought himself superior to everyone else on earth.” Brigg said eagerly: “Henry’s like that,” but his father was not listening to him; his face had changed, and he was mumbling: “When your Aunt Sophia was a little girl she used to call him ‘supurior.’”

  Brigg seized this opportunity at once. “I saw Aunt Sophia’s daughter,” he threw out.

  “Did you?” said his father, interested. “She must be quite a big girl by now.”

  “She’s quite grown-up,” his son informed him, thinking how foolishly unconscious of the passage of time the last generation was: “And a very beautitiful young lady.”

  Old Brigg turned to the fire and mused
on this. “What’s she like?” he asked presently in a softer tone. “Her mother was like a flash of sunshine.”

  “Janie’s like a flash of sunshine too,” said Brigg, a little tight about the throat.

  His father turned and looked at him shrewdly. “Are you going to fall in love with her?” he said.

  Young Brigg, blushing scarlet, hated him. “Why need he always be so coarse,” he thought, “jeering at my deepest feelings!” Aloud he said coldly: “Very probably.”

  His father considered this for a space, looking over his spectacles at the fire. “Well, I don’t mind,” he said at length in a condescending tone. “I’d rather it had been Charlotte Stancliffe, but of course if you want to marry Sophia’s girl, I shan’t object.”

  “Do you think I should care if you did?” thought Brigg fiercely.

  “You’re not much cousins, you know,” continued his father with satisfaction. “You’ve one grandparent the same, that’s all. And I reckon I can make shift to forgive your Uncle Joth after all these years—it was all for the best him leaving Syke Mill, really. And I’ve no doubt Helena has brought up the child well. She’s a little older than you, Brigg. Still, it’ll be better nor doing as I did, anyhow. What is your Aunt Helena like nowadays, by the way?” he enquired. “Does she still manage Joth, like? She used to be always the senior partner when I knew them.”