Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  Brigg, recalling how Helena had looked at his uncle before giving her nephew permission to call, gave an emphatic: “No.”

  “Ah, well,” mused his father. “It’s usually like that. The man usually wins in the end. Mind you remember that with your Janie.” He returned to his newspaper, folded it differently, and added in a sharper tone: “That reminds me—I met old Butterworth at the Club, and he was grumbling about those coatings we sent him on Thursday. Who did the warping, I should like to know? From what he says I can tell the tension’s all wrong. That’s the third complaint this month from him, and the London office said the same last week. What’s wrong with the weaving lately? Do you know? Eh?”

  “I reckon you’ll have to pension grandfather off and get a young foreman in his place,” said young Brigg, helping himself to some apple pasty from the tray and unconsciously roughening his voice to speak of mill affairs. “Really he’s no good with worsteds at all—after all he was a slubber when he was young, he’s always telling me so; he understands woollens but he’s not really interested in worsted weaving, and now he’s getting old he just doesn’t bother, and he won’t let me have a say in anything, he gets peevish at once if I say a word, and you’re always rushing off up to Old Mill to see about the dyeing. That’s what’s wrong.”

  “Getting foremen’s easier said than done,” said his father, turning the paper again. “Good foremen don’t grow on every bush.”

  “Good customers don’t either,” remarked Brigg with his mouth full.

  “Sharp enough to cut yourself, aren’t you?” snorted his father, not ill-pleased. “Well, I suppose I’d best make friends with your Uncle Joth and have a look at this girl of yours, eh?”

  “She’s not my girl yet,” said Brigg, in some alarm lest his father should rush round instantly and hail Janie as his prospective daughter-in-law. He added, thinking of Henry’s allusion to the number of his cousin’s suitors: “And may never be.”

  “Get along with you,” said his father, laughing. “You’re in love with her from head to heels. Do you think I don’t know the signs?”

  “I only met her to-night, father,” objected Brigg, nevertheless laughing a little too.

  “Well, let me know when you want my blessing,” said his father comfortably, resuming his paper. “And don’t send me in a bill for that dogcart—you can pay for it yourself for being such a headstrong young fool.”

  “Very well, father,” agreed young Brigg in a docile tone. After such staggering concessions from his father on the subject of Janie, he felt prepared to pay for the whole dogcart twice over, cheerfully.

  Chapter II

  Courtship

  1

  From the first day that Janie’s flighty mother left her in their mother’s care, it was the opinion of the Bamforth boys that Sophie Jane Smith-Oldroyd was the sweetest, darlingest, loveliest little thing ever seen on earth. Her rich red-gold curls, her snowy complexion, her bright blue eyes, her sunny smile, gained their whole-hearted admiration from the first minute they saw her kicking out her pearly toes on Helena’s lap; and when the poor little thing was so sadly orphaned, their affection was redoubled. They hung over her tenderly, and in that household where stern and incessant labour alone kept the wolf from the door—where their father slaved from morn till night to earn honourable bread for his children, and their mother never ceased to cook and sew, teaching them while she watched the pan on the fire—the lads did not scorn to do menial offices for their little cousin. They were all, from the eldest, Richard, to the young Henry (then nine), familiar with her buttons, and knew how to brush her hair. As she grew out of a baby into a child they took an increasing pride in her; it was they who—Helena being still much pressed with domestic cares—taught her to read and tell the time (Henry contrived a superb clock with movable hands for this purpose), to skip, to play the piano, to regard their father as the noblest man in Annotsfield, to hold her fork properly, and to say her prayers. She grew out of a child into a delicious little girl; they took her out for walks, holding her little hand carefully, and showed her everything that went by; they taught her French, and Latin, and Algebra, and the polka, and everything else which they themselves happened to be learning; they also taught her to express herself fluently and agreeably with her pen.

  At that time Jonathan had just moved into the largeish residence called Eastgate House, standing at the corner of Eastgate (then just becoming commercialized), which he used thenceforward as a newspaper office and a printing works as well as a school and a home; and on press nights he would sometimes cross into his dining-room, where his lads were assembled, each busy with some device or other, and command them all to write a “stick” to go in the newspaper, as he was just so much copy short. Immediately the young Bamforths threw down what they were doing and seized their pens; for ten minutes they all wrote joyously on any subject that came into their fertile heads; then their father, his fine eyes bright with pleasure, rapidly scanned their contributions and printed the one which was best. As she grew into her teens Janie wrote too, and great was the joy of every Bamforth when her attempt was chosen; on such occasions they would club together their spare halfpennies and buy her a new pen, or a blotter, to celebrate her success. Jonathan always punctiliously paid his sons for their contributions to his columns, and all the Bamforths had separate stores of these literary earnings, the size of which they compared with glee; it was an unwritten law amongst them however, that these earnings should be used only for the purchase of mental food, never for bodily luxuries. They were indeed remarkable lads, as the celebrated Radical politicians who stayed with Jonathan when they visited Annotsfield, and the celebrated preachers who stayed along the street with Dr. Singleton, never failed to observe. They were perfectly well able to entertain these distinguished guests with intelligent conversation, and were encouraged by their parents to have their own views on the subjects discussed. While still attending their father’s school they taught his younger pupils, and they early helped him with his voluntary work in the adult night classes. Not that they were muffs, however; good heavens, no! They were too lively, too self-willed, too full of robust Oldroyd common sense for that. (At times indeed the noise in the house became so excessive that Jonathan flew out of his office in a rage and stormed at them—on these occasions his sons always surveyed him with respectful interest and were quiet at once; his temper could, they agreed among themselves, be quite alarming, and it grew on him with age and the perpetual harassment of the struggle for subsistence.) But though they were not muffs, they had certain well-defined beliefs, which of course Janie shared; they thought people ought to be Radicals, Nonconformists, and teetotallers, teach in night schools, revere Richard Oastler and admire their father. Good people did these things; they were also strictly honest and truthful, cared immensely for the welfare of the poor, believed in education as the path to all true progress, and scorned to seek their own advantage—on this last account they were often very poor. Bad people, on the other hand, were those who were worldly, selfish and snobbish; they were always thinking about their clothes and horses, and gave vulgarly ostentatious entertainments; they drank wine, and as they were quite unscrupulous, they often made large fortunes out of other people’s toil. They cared not for education and had no taste, but judged men by their incomes and things by their cost. As a natural outcome of this creed the words “rich manufacturer” stood, in Eastgate House, for something vulgar and rather ridiculous; one was sorry for such people, of course—one was sorry for everyone—but one definitely despised them. In their teens the Bamforth brothers were all very dogmatic, logical and eloquent about this creed, and the little Janie of course agreed with them with all her heart.

  A few years passed on, and Janie’s brothers—as she regarded them—grew up; now it was always Henry’s contributions which were accepted for the Annotsfield Pioneer, and everyone agreed that he must assist his father with the newspaper; Richard became a teacher under his father, and then got a better post
in Wales; Nathan somehow turned into a printer and went to Sheffield; Edward followed his eldest brother in his father’s school, and then with the coming of the Education Act blossomed out into a school inspector. Turner, who was his uncle’s godson and especial protégé, early developed a vocation for the ministry, and when Dr. Singleton received a call to Manchester, went with him to study for it; he was now a minister at Salford. Henry and Janie were thus left at home together, and their friendship grew even more firm and deep. Henry’s monocle and Henry’s drawl, the way he always paused to think before replying and turned his sentences with deliberate neatness, his unfailing accuracy, his fearless calm, his tender gentleness to Helena, whose health was drooping, and his respectful tact with Jonathan—all these commanded Janie’s loving admiration. Henry was a man utterly to be relied upon, of absolute integrity and noble dispostion—but then all the Bamforths were that; Henry’s special quality was a certain mordant scorn of sham, a biting contempt for hypocrisy and baseness. Janie was perhaps just a little bit afraid of Henry, though she loved him dearly, while Jonathan regarded him as the most promising of all his promising sons.

  And last of all Janie grew up herself, and proved a dazzling advertisement for her Bamforth upbringing. She was beautiful, she was good, she was witty, she was well-mannered; she was clever, she was loving; she was tender, she was spirited; she superintended the household, made her own dresses, and governessed four children to admiration; she read everything and had an opinion about it, and not a stupid opinion either; and her lovely voice was the delight of Jonathan’s old age. It delighted a great many other people as well, so that the number of proposals Janie received was really quite alarming. All the young men whom Jonathan taught in the night school and entertained to tea on Saturday afternoons fell in love with Janie as a matter of course; a Radical politician, a minister, and the widowed master of a house where she had taught also fell her victims; last of all—or perhaps it was first of all—Henry fell in love with her as well. But somehow Janie did not want any of these suitors; none of them seemed just right; she would, have been ashamed to think herself ambitious about her husband, but somehow none of them quite came up to her ideal; not any of the night school young men—though she was very sorry for some of them, notably poor lonely Charley Mellor—not the politician, not the minister, not the widower, not even—alas!—Henry himself.

  “Dear Henry!” she said sorrowfully when Henry in his quiet earnest drawl begged her to marry him: “I wish I could, but I can’t. I know it will exasperate you to hear it, but I do feel towards you like a sister.” At this Henry made a moue. “I’m afraid I shall never marry anybody,” said Janie, sighing. “I fear I must be very cold-hearted. It troubles me very much at times, Henry, it does indeed.”

  Henry, looking into her beautiful blue eyes, which were filled just then with a look of exquisite compassion, replied drily:

  “It needn’t.”

  Matters were at this stage when Brigg came upon the scene.

  Janie sometimes, when she was feeling vexed with Brigg, expressed to Henry a very sincere regret that they had ever made the acquaintance of Brigg at all; but Henry, though he probably regretted it more than Janie, always observed calmly that that re-union was bound to happen some time, the families could not go on being estranged in that preposterous way for ever. Henry, like all the Bamforth brothers, was rather strong about the brotherhood of man, and regarded a family feud as disgusting and uncivilised; and it was mainly on this account, though partly also because Brigg had broken his dogcart and had a fall and Janie was sorry for him that they had spoken to Brigg on that momentous afternoon. And as a result, said Janie to herself, throwing out her hands in a gesture of mock despair; as a result there was all this! By “all this” Janie meant Brigg’s obvious love for her—for it was obvious. It was useless to deny it; it was as impossible to disregard his love as it was the flowers and books and skates, the concert tickets and music sheets and hansom cabs, with which Brigg showed her the luxury she might command as his wife. Janie, who like all the Bamforth household had always had to count every penny twice and then not spend it, was horrified to find in herself a certain taste for luxury. She trod it underfoot and stamped on it, she tried to pretend to herself that Brigg was a mere rich ninny—but then he wasn’t; his presents never passed the boundary of what he might offer without insulting her intelligence or his own, and he was a very determined, wilful young man, nothing like a ninny. He was also very handsome, very. His beautiful waving black hair and sparkling black eyes, his clear skin and fine strong young body—yes, they were very handsome. He laughed heartily—Henry only smiled. He loved dancing, and though rather heavy, by dint of practice danced well. Now Janie was a divine dancer, and adored the art. When Brigg put his strong solid arm round the waist of her pale blue grenadine, and whirled her round and round at his will to the throbbing music of a waltz in the Smiths’ drawing-room, then undoubtedly Janie’s heart inclined to Brigg; though she kept her eyes demurely on his waistcoat buttons her white breast fluttered, and in spite of herself her clear cheek sometimes took on the delicate hue of a rose. Again, when she sat beside Brigg in the repaired dogcart and they flew through the cold winter air at a shockingly dangerous pace which Janie adored, she could not help liking the young man who drove her so fast and so skilfully, who laughed as he shaved corners and skimmed trams, behind whose bright cheeks and excited eyes the hot blood was racing as swiftly as was her own. Brigg was young and virile, impetuous and daring; and he courted her with such a determined though respectful passion that she could not but feel affected. Yet when, one night as they sat out together in the Smiths’ conservatory, he seized her hand and murmured ardently in her ear: “Janie, I love you. Janie, be my wife,” Janie shrank back and said: “No, Brigg, no!” in a very determined tone.

  “Why not?” demanded Brigg hotly, showing a disposition to disregard her protest and put a kiss on her lips.

  “You’re so stupid, Brigg, you’re so clumsy and inconsiderate!” cried Janie, shrinking still further and regarding him with anger in her blue eyes.

  “I inconsiderate and clumsy!” cried Brigg angrily. “How do you make that out, pray?” (At the same time he released her hand and adopted a position more consonant with propriety.)

  In an angry flood of speech Janie began to tell him. She disliked his politics, his worldly attitude towards religion, his manner to Henry, his way of treating night schools as a joke, and his habit of addressing Jonathan as Uncle Joth.

  “If you weren’t as blind to other people’s feelings as a bat,” cried Janie, “You’d see how disagreeable it is to him.”

  “Father always calls him that,” murmured Brigg.

  “I daresay he does,” cried Janie with a fine air of scorn. “It’s just what I should have expected from your father.”

  “Who’s being inconsiderate of other people’s feelings now?” demanded Brigg good-humouredly.

  “I beg your pardon, Cousin Brigg,” said Janie at once, sitting very erect, her upper lip trembling with rage. “I deserved your rebuke and I accept it.”

  “Come, Janie,” said Brigg with decision: “Don’t let us quarrel. I’m sure I never meant to hurt Uncle Jonathan’s feelings. I give you my word of honour that it was quite unintentional.”

  “But that’s just what I’m complaining of!” cried Janie in despair. “You’re so lacking in perception, Brigg, that you don’t know when you’re wounding people and when you’re not.”

  Brigg felt inclined to burst out into a violent rage; the vein in his forehead throbbed: he controlled himself, however, and said quietly: “You must marry me, Janie, and cure me.”

  Janie bit her rich lips and was silent, for that aspect of the affair had occurred to her not unfavourably before. Just then the music began again, and they moved apart without further speech; but later in the evening Janie again had a dance booked with Brigg, and rather to her surprise he came and gravely claimed it. He encircled her lovely slender waist with his a
rm and forgave her everything; her deliciously small ear, her snowy throat and bosom rising out of the pale blue grenadine—Janie had but one evening dress, and Brigg loved its every fold—her rich gleaming hair, the golden eyelashes resting on that pure cheek, the sensuous, voluptuous throb of Mrs. Smith’s wellmarked waltz time, excited in him a madness of love which surely communicated itself to Janie, for she in her turn forgave him everything, and at the end of the dance, which happened to be the last, parted from him with a slow sweet smile. Brigg’s nerves quivered with ecstasy; he made up his mind to call at the house in Eastgate on the morrow and clinch his fate—surely, surely she would consent to marry him!

  Accordingly, after an exasperating day of trying to get away earlier from Syke Mill and being prevented by his father, he called in the evening, and found Helena and Janie entertaining a small, slight, rather bandy-legged man, with a stiff little fair moustache, much twirled at the ends, a pointed face, and very eager restless light eyes. Brigg was annoyed to find him there at all, and thought he detected a faintly malicious note in Helena’s voice when she introduced them. “Mr. Mellor,” she said, “Mr. Oldroyd,” and waved her hand as though to decline any further explanation. At the stranger’s first word and movement Brigg detected that he was not a gentleman. “One of those confounded night school fellows,” he thought: “Really Uncle Joth ought not to allow them to mix with Janie.” A small inner voice reminded him: “Uncle Jonathan”; Brigg moved his feet restlessly and felt cross. He behaved, however, as he thought, with gentlemanly forbearance—his mother’s awkward ancestry made Brigg always particularly anxious to be a gentleman—saying nothing to Mellor at all, and only raising his eyebrows a little at his worst mis-pronunciations. The fellow talked rather well—apart from his accent—in a turbulent, rushing, vehement way. He had been to France, it appeared, to visit some textile exhibition, and was describing it.