Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  And indeed he had never been as happy in his life as now when he sat all day in a little back room in the Pack Horse Hotel, slaving for the Union. He drew up appeals for money, to other unions, and got them off; he dealt with the scattered sums which came in; he doled money out sparingly to the weavers who were in the greatest need. (A photographer came and took a picture of Charley, the Chairman and the Secretary, standing with clasped hands; “Union is strength,” thought Charley excitedly, not perceiving that the textile industry was cut in half.) Besides all this, he went all up and down Annotsfield, speaking to small gatherings of strikers; and he had one tremendous, golden day when he spoke to a mass meeting of weavers in the fair-ground on Emsley Brow. His voice was not a good one for the open air, being thin and light; but he shouted valiantly; and he spoke with such intense and fiery earnestness, his whole slight body was so shaken with the gust of his conviction, his face was so pale and his eyes so wild, his hands flew out in such passionate appeal, that the crowd rose and roared with him. He sat down trembling all over and damp with sweat, and thanked God that he had been able to do something for the great cause.

  Presently the meeting broke up; Charley, walking rather unevenly homeward, found himself suddenly hailed by Henry Bamforth, strolling in the same direction down Emsley Brow.

  “Were you at the meeting?” he queried excitedly.

  “Yes—a little wild, weren’t you, Charley?” said Henry in a friendly tone.

  “Every word of what I said was true, Mr. Henry!” exclaimed Charley emphatically. “I told Miss Janie before, it would mean a drop for most on us of three shillings a week.”

  “What you told Miss Janie isn’t evidence,” drawled Henry with a smile.

  “I’ll show you some figures we’ve worked out about them new rates, and then you can see for yourself,” said Charley, a little confused.

  “Yes—I should like to see them,” said Henry thoughtfully.

  They walked down into Annotsfield together. “You won’t forget those figures, then, Charley?” said Henry as they parted.

  “Trust me,” said Charley.

  In a few days be brought them, and Henry published them side by side with the manufacturers’ rates and estimates in the Annotsfield Pioneer. This offended the manufacturers; there was a great outcry in the town, and some people dropped their advertisements in the Pioneer. At this Henry smiled scornfully and published both sets of figures again.

  3

  The strike had now been going on for several weeks, more than two thousand weavers were out, and every weaving shed in Annotsfield had looms standing. The manufacturers, unable to execute orders they had accepted, were nearly distracted, and turned a jealous eye on other towns in the West Riding where peace prevailed; one or two actually took mills in such towns, and there was a general outcry that the textile trade would leave Annotsfield and the town be ruined. The Mayor, Mr. Butterworth, had already made attempts to bring the disputing parties together, and now, faced by this serious situation, redoubled his efforts—unavailingly, the difference between the price acceptable to weavers and to masters amounting to three farthings a string. The town seethed with the strike; committee met committee, there were official conferences in the Town Hall and unofficial meetings in mill offices, all of which ended in increased bitterness; the newspapers spoke of little else but the dispute, and their correspondence columns were full of schemes for settlement. A feverish rancour grew upon both sides; the elder Brigg’s temper was so bad that his wife hardly dared speak to him, and his son dreaded the arrival of the morning’s letters, offering orders which could not honourably be accepted; Mellor’s shrill voice grew shriller as the scanty strike funds dwindled and want attacked the weavers. At this stage a letter appeared in all the local newspapers from Jonathan, offering his arbitration in the dispute. It was a fine, firm, authoritative letter, couched in his usual lofty style; in it he offered to work day and night, missing all other engagements, public and private, in order to bring the unfortunate dispute to a close.

  “The very idea!” laughed Brigg when he heard it. “What does Uncle Jonathan know about cloth, pray?”

  “Don’t be silly, Brigg,” said his father irritably. “Your Uncle Jonathan worked in a mill for nigh on twenty years.”

  “He must have started very early,” said Brigg, impertinent.

  “Aye, he did,” replied his father. “In those days children were glad to earn honest bread, instead of learning all this fancy stuff at Board Schools. And they aren’t a bit happier for it,” he concluded with conviction.

  Brigg looked away to hide his smile, and thought how old and out-of-date his father was growing. “Do you want to accept Uncle’s arbitration, then?” he demanded.

  “Not likely!” said his father with a laugh. “The masters wouldn’t stand a chance with Joth. Besides, if we once accept arbitration, where shall we be? We shan’t be masters in our own mills.”

  This proved to be the view of the majority of the masters’ committee. The Mayor pressed them to accept the offer, as the weavers had already publicly done so, and the Chairman of the Employers, Mr. Armitage, who had met Jonathan on the new Technical College Committee, seemed rather inclined to agree, saying that Mr. Bamforth was a man of great experience and integrity; but the rest of the manufacturers, already dubious of the notion, scouted it when they saw Mr. Oldroyd’s attitude to his kinsman, and the offer was curtly refused. This embittered the weavers, who thought that the masters saw they were weakening, and were taking advantage of it. In point of fact they were weakening; their slender resources were giving out; they were beginning to starve; and though at meetings they still shouted “To heaven with them!” whenever the new rates were mentioned, and said they would stay on strike till Christmas rather than accept them, they would have been glad to accept any proposal for a settlement which offered some reasonable concession. There was talk of a rate of pay half way between the old scale and the new, and the weavers signified their willingness to accept it; there was a suggestion that if the new basis of pay per string were accepted, the masters would make up the difference in the shuttles, and the weavers did not refuse that. But the manufacturers declined all these suggestions, for they thought they saw that the strike was beaten, and that they need make no concessions, as it was a mere matter of time before the weavers gave in. But the weavers were obstinate men, the time might yet be long, the mills were all standing, and money and orders were slipping away fast. It was at this stage that Brigg had a bright idea. Why should not the men return to work at Syke Mill on the new rates, on the understanding that when the strike was settled, whatever terms obtained should be paid as from that date? In the dismal hush of the Syke Mill office, surrounded by idle, cold machinery, he explained his proposal to his father, whose eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  “Write to Mellor and suggest it,” he said.

  “You write, father,” demurred Brigg.

  “Nay,” said his father. “It wasn’t me told him to clear out and stay out. Write yourself, and tell him to come and see us on Saturday—that’ll give them to-morrow to think it over in—and they can start work on Monday morning.”

  “I can’t see him on Saturday,” observed Brigg.

  “And why not?” demanded his father with flashing eyes. “What’s more important to you than Syke Mill, eh?”

  “I’m taking Janie to Halifax on Saturday for the roller-skating,” said Brigg with scornful honesty.

  “Upon my soul!” shouted his father. For a few minutes he lost his temper completely and was very disagreeable. Brigg suffered in silence; he knew his father’s anger was justified, but did not intend to give up this long-deferred excursion. After much pressure Janie had agreed that she could make arrangements to leave Helena, and a party of young Smiths, Armitages, Oldroyds and Butterworths were going to make a day of it. “Well—I’ll see him alone; I daresay I can make shift to manage without you,” concluded his father sarcastically. “Get that letter written and send it by hand.” />
  Brigg obeyed.

  The letter caused the weavers great perplexity. It was delivered to Mellor at the Pack Horse, and he very properly laid it before the Strike Committee. It seemed to them that if without compromising their cause they could ensure that a hundred families should eat next week instead of starving, they ought to do it; but would it compromise their cause? Mellor was of the opinion that there was a catch in it somewhere; without knowing it, out of jealousy he detested Brigg, and he now gave as his opinion that while old Mr. Oldroyd wasn’t so bad, the young one was as slippery as an eel. “To heaven with it, that’s what I say,” he concluded fiercely, his whole body a-quiver.

  “Aye, but you’re a single man, Charley,” said the Chairman, turning the letter about thoughtfully between his fingers.

  Eventually it was decided to call a meeting of the Union for the next day, and put the matter before them, and meanwhile send a letter to the Oldroyds saying that Union representatives would wait on them on Saturday at the hour named. A committee member then suggested that it might be a good idea to consult Mr. Bamforth, who had offered arbitration, and given their side of the case a fair hearing in his paper, all along. A look of relief settled on the faces of all at this suggestion, and the secretary promptly moved that Mellor be authorised to consult Mr. Bamforth and ask his advice, the name of the firm concerned not to be mentioned. Charley thereupon said he would rather ask Henry, who already knew the ins and outs of the affair, was younger, and altogether more likely to give a ruling promptly. The resolution was altered to contain the name of Mr. H. S. Bamforth, and passed in that form. It was now afternoon; Charley rushed excitedly down to the offices of the Annotsfield Pioneer, and found Henry at work there as usual. He put the case to him.

  “What, go in and leave the others out?” said Henry, horrified. “Desert some of your men? Surely you can’t do that, Charley?”

  His face showed so much scorn that Mellor coloured and said hastily: “That’s what I said—that’s what I told them.”

  “Go in or stay out, whichever you please, but do it all together,” said Henry sternly. “Any other course is surely treachery and cowardice.”

  “Will you put a bit in the paper explaining it, Saturday?” asked Mellor.

  “But surely the offer was made in confidence?” began Henry.

  Just then the door opened, and Janie appeared. She had a particularly bright and blooming air, for she was looking forward to the skating party on the morrow. “Tea, Henry,” she said. Her glance fell on Mellor.

  “Oh, Charley,” she exclaimed, “When is this dreadful strike going to end?”

  “I expect you agree with young Mester Oldroyd and think we’re all wrong,” said Charley bitterly.

  Janie said quickly: “I don’t know enough about it to think anything.” This was not quite true, but she was vexed by his open reference to her interest in Brigg, and her tone was sharp; seeing his hurt, despondent look, however, she relented, and said more kindly: “Will you stay and have tea? Uncle Jonathan will be glad to see you, I’m sure.”

  “No, thank you,” said Mellor in an offended tone. He got up, buttoned his coat and almost pushed past her out of the room and the building.

  “Well!” exclaimed Janie, perplexed. “Why wouldn’t he stay for tea?”

  “Perhaps because he’s hungry,” drawled Henry, getting up. “Most of them are, now, I believe.”

  A shadow fell on Janie’s lovely face. She stood a moment, uncertain; then suddenly flew along the passage, up the stairs and into her own room; drawing out her little writing-desk—the Bamforths’ present to her on her twenty-first birthday—she wrote, hurriedly but firmly, a note to Brigg.

  Dear Brigg, she wrote: I do not think it right that we should go about the country enjoying ourselves while there is so much distress and misery in the town, so I shall not join the skating party to-morrow. She signed this: Your affectionate cousin, Sophia Jane Oldroyd, and ran out to the post with it after tea.

  Brigg, receiving this in the morning, was too sick at heart to mention it to his father at the breakfast table, but as they were driving to the mill together he forced himself to say sheepishly: “I can see Mellor with you on Saturday if you like, father.”

  His father looked at him shrewdly. “Janie changed her mind?” he said.

  “Yes,” mumbled Brigg.

  His father was silent for a while, pulled his whiskers and seemed to consider, then taking his resolution burst out suddenly:

  “How much longer is that girl going to keep you dangling around? Eh?”

  Brigg, furious, muttered that he had no idea.

  “Then you’d better get one—it’s time you married,” said his father with decision. “How old are you? You’re wasting the best years of your life, Brigg, and you’ll regret it.”

  “You married late, father,” sneered Brigg bitterly, out of his unhappiness.

  “Aye!” said his father feelingly. “I did! That’s how I know it’s a mistake. You’re too old to enjoy your children when you marry late—I know I was. The right thing is to marry young and have a large family, hot just one precious child. It’s a mistake to have only one. Look how I go fussing over you—and you’re not worth it,” he concluded, giving his son one of his rare looks of affection.

  Father and son laughed together, and Brigg’s heart felt less sore. His father had not finished with him yet, however.

  “Listen to me,” he went on in a rough determined tone: “I’ve had about enough of Janie and her changes. It’s playing the dickens with you, let me tell you, Brigg; you look right down poorly, not as a young man should look at all, and as for work—well! You’re always either working your head off or else standing about like a fly wheel without a belt; there’s no counting on you at all. Now Janie can just make up her mind one way or the other; if she’ll have you, well and good—nobody shall say I don’t give her a right hearty welcome as your wife. But if she won’t have you, then let her say so and finish it, and you go and get enaged to somebody else. There’s Lottie Stancliffe—she’s not such a beauty as Janie, I know; but she’s a good girl and she’ll bring something with her, and look what a position she’d give you!” Here his son made an impatient movement. “Well, I don’t care which it is, Janie or Charlotte,” said the elder Brigg with a great air of reasonableness, “But one or the other it’s got to be within the next month, or you can clear out of Syke Mill and pick a living for yourself somewhere else.”

  “You don’t mean that, father,” said young Brigg scornfully.

  “I mean enough of it to make it very uncomfortable for you if you don’t do what I say,” his father told him.

  There was a pause, on young Brigg’s side very uncomfortable indeed.

  “Now listen, Brigg,” his father resumed in a kinder tone: “You just go and talk to Janie like a man, and tell her you must have an answer. You’ve asked her to marry you often enough, I suppose, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” mumbled the harassed Brigg.

  “Well, tell her you want your answer in a week,” advised his father. “You needn’t mention me, you know—just put your foot down and say you can’t stand it any longer.” His son’s young face was so wretched that he felt touched, laid his hand on Brigg’s arm and said kindly: “Go now. With this confounded strike on you might as well be out of the mill as in it. You go now and talk to her like a man.”

  Young Brigg hesitated. Then suddenly he called to the coachman to draw up, and was off to Eastgate like an arrow.

  Janie from the window of Helena’s bedroom saw him rushing down the street towards her, and ran down to let him in, in some alarm. “Is anything wrong?” she demanded breathlessly, leading him into the drawing-room.

  “Yes and no,” said Brigg firmly, laying down his hat. “I’ve come to know whether you’re going to marry me or not, Janie. I want a final answer.”

  “Oh, Brigg!” protested Janie, laughing and playing with the pockets of her blue print apron—in which she looked delicious. �
��At ten o’clock in the morning! Really!”

  “I’m not joking,” said Brigg. “I’m serious.” And indeed his face was pale and his black eyes burning. “I can’t go on like this any more, Janie. It’s unbearable. I must have an answer; will you marry me, yes or no.”

  “If you want to be married in such a hurry, Brigg, you’d better ask Charlotte Stancliffe,” said Janie pettishly—she was really very much flurried.

  “That’s not fair of you, Janie—you’ve no right to say that,” said Brigg. “I’ve loved you long and faithfully, and I shall never change.”