Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Janie!” panted Brigg in a warning tone.

  “Or to talk about ‘condescending’ to weavers,” said Janie, her blue eyes flashing scornfully. She expected him to say at once that he had not said that, and was not to be held accountable for what other manufacturers had written. When no such denial came she looked at him questioningly, then with earnestness, then with a terrible doubt—“Brigg,” she panted: “You didn’t write that dreadful vulgar manifesto, did you?”

  “I had a hand in it,” said Brigg hardly.

  Meanwhile Henry had gone upstairs to his mother’s bedroom, to which she was still confined. Jonathan had discharged his pupils early and was already there. His parents gave Henry an anxious look but did not speak, and in silence he seated himself in a small rocking chair, from which his long legs protruded ludicrously. A sound of voices rose from the room below. Henry, still silent, began to rock slowly backwards and forwards.

  “This is hard for you, Henry,” said Jonathan at last, looking with loving sorrow at his son.

  “I shall be glad when it is over,” drawled Henry, on whose high forehead stood beads of sweat.

  Suddenly there was the sound of an opening door below. Footsteps rushed along the hall; the front door opened and closed violently, footsteps rang along the street.

  The Bamforths looked at each other in astonishment.

  “She’s refused him!” breathed Helena.

  Henry seemed to consider for a moment, then he rose quietly and went to the window. Almost immediately he turned again to the room. “Brigg has gone,” he said in a low tone.

  There was a long pause. The Bamforths gazed at each other, waiting—perhaps for Janie to come and explain her unexpected decision. There was no sound, however, from the room below for some long minutes; until at length there floated to their ears a sob.

  “Go to her, father,” urged Henry.

  Jonathan, sighing, his fine eyes sad and perplexed, limped quietly down the stairs and into the front room.

  Janie was crouched on the floor beside the hearth, weeping bitterly. Her uncle sat down in a chair beside her and drew her lovely head on to his knee. “My dear, my dear,” he murmured soothingly.

  “Oh, Uncle!” wept Janie, lifting a face drowned in tears: “I’m so unhappy. I shall never marry. I can’t marry Henry.”

  “No, no, dear,” agreed Jonathan in a loving tone. “You shall do just as you like; none of us wish you to do anything you don’t wish yourself. Henry himself would not wish it.”

  “I like Henry,” wept Janie, emphasising her points with her little fist on the arm of Jonathan’s chair: “I like him, I respect him, I admire him; but I don’t love him and I can’t marry him.”

  Jonathan, his simple lofty soul rather lost amid these youthful complexities, silently caressed her rich hair. “But what about Brigg, dear?” he ventured almost timidly at length. “Have you refused him? We thought”—he corrected himself with gentle delicacy—“We have sometimes thought, that you cared for him.”

  “I love Brigg Oldroyd, Uncle,” said Janie, speaking very rapidly and with intense conviction, her face aglow: “But I have refused him, because I neither like, respect nor admire him, on the contrary, I detest and despise him with my whole heart.”

  Jonathan, confused and deeply troubled, continued to stroke her hair. He felt, vaguely and with perplexity, that he and his half-brother were in some way guilty of separating these two loving hearts. It was a dreadful thought to him that he had somehow conspired to murder love. After a long time he murmured that perhaps Janie would find later that she had made a mistake, and if so …

  At this Janie sprang to her feet, determinedly smoothed her disordered hair, and shook out her shabby dress. “There’s no mistake, Uncle Jonathan,” she said firmly. “I shall never see Brigg again, and I want to forget him. I’m very sorry,” she went on with a kind of angry scorn for herself: “to have brought so much unpleasantness on you lately by my variable conduct.”

  “My dear!” protested Jonathan, deeply distressed both by her words and by her cold hard tone.

  “It was not worthy of your niece, Uncle,” concluded Janie firmly: “But you won’t have any more trouble of that kind with me, I promise you. Now I must go and see about your tea, you poor dears.” She put a light kiss on his forehead, and swept from the room.

  2

  Two weeks later the strike was settled. The Union could hold out no longer; the funds were gone, the men were desperate, the manufacturers showed ho signs of giving in. On the advice of the Mayor, a meeting of the Union was called for Saturday afternoon in the Town Hall, to consider whether to start work on the new scale on Monday. The proceedings were secret; a large crowd gathered outside in anxious anticipation of the result. On the fringe of this crowd stood Henry and Janie. Nearby two elderly men, textile workers affected by the strike, though not weavers, were conducting a heated argument. “What should t’mesters want to change pay for except for their own good?” demanded one, emphasising his point with the stem of his pipe on his companion’s arm. “It stands to reason they want it for their own good.” “Well, it’d be better for a few weavers to have a shilling a week less,” contended the other sourly: “Nor keep all t’lot on us playing like this.” Henry sighed as the conversation proceeded on these lines, and Janie moved impatiently away. “Why are people so stupid, Henry?” she demanded in a petulant tone—her tone was rather often petulant nowadays. “Perhaps because we’ve only had an Education Act twelve years,” suggested Henry. The voices of the two disputants grew louder; a woman rushed by, shouting, “They’re fighting like owt!” “Are they really fighting, Henry?” asked Janie with a little shiver, drawing nearer to him. “No,” replied Henry gloomily. He thought he could remember a time, not so very long ago, when Janie would have wanted to rush into the crowd and do something to stop any fight which was going on, and he mourned for her drooping spirit. A rumour now became current in the crowd that the weavers had decided to vote by ballot, and Henry, who had urged this upon Mellor, nodded approvingly. All of a sudden a figure appeared in the doorway of the Town Hall; it was Charley Mellor, the tears pouring down his cheeks. He ran down the steps and disappeared in the crowd. “They’ve voted to go in,” said Henry. The crowd now fell silent and gazed up at the Town Hall balcony expectantly.

  The Mayor, a stout grey-haired man, now appeared on the balcony, between Mr. Armitage and the Chairman of the Weavers’ Strike Committee. The Mayor held a paper in his hand and wore a look of relief and satisfaction; he began to speak in a thin voice which nobody could hear. “Speak up!” yelled somebody from the back of the crowd. Mr. Butter-worth coloured, and tried to shout. He announced that there was a majority of eight to one. “What for?” shouted someone impatiently. “For starting work at the new rates on Monday morning,” explained the Mayor. There was a short cheer and a good deal of booing. The Mayor consulted with Mr. Armitage, who stepped forward and spoke in a voice which carried clearly.

  “Now, my men,” he urged: “The strike’s over; go home and forget about it. There have been some attempts at fomenting discord by persons who ought to have known better——”

  “I think he means me,” murmured Henry.

  “——but you’ll do well to forget it,” concluded Mr. Armitage. He then called for a cheer for the Mayor, who had striven so long and so earnestly in the cause of peace. His straight speaking secured a rather larger cheer; then the balcony emptied, and the crowd turned and slowly dispersed.

  “Father,” said Brigg with decision as they moved away in the direction of Syke House: “We shan’t take Mellor on again.”

  “Well,” hesitated his father. “That’ll be part of the settlement, I reckon—to take them back, you know.”

  “I won’t have Mellor,” said Brigg fiercely.

  His father, looking at the young man’s white and haggard face, sniffed sadly and muttered: “Very well.” To himself he thought: “I’ll get Armitage to take Mellor back again.”

  Su
ddenly Brigg exclaimed, and leaving his father’s side, darted up a side street. The elder Brigg was bewildered, and stood still, looking about him; then he saw Janie and Henry coming towards him, and understood why his son had disappeared. In a sudden rage he marched up to Janie and planted himself directly in her path.

  “Well, missie!” he said savagely, striking his stick on the pavement stone: “What are you about, eh? Refusing my boy and making him miserable! Isn’t he a good enough match for you, or what?”

  Henry thought the old man pathetic, but Janie’s quick temper flared.

  “Uncle Brigg,” she cried furiously, “You’re the most ignorant, vulgar man on the face of the earth!”

  “Upon my word!” cried her uncle, crimsoning.

  “Come away, Janie,” said Henry quickly.

  “Certainly,” said Janie, trembling with rage. She turned and whisked away down the street.

  Brigg awaited his father’s approach with a wistful hope which in spite of the urgings of his common sense, lived and yearned. But when he saw his father’s look it died for ever.

  That night he went out to Irebridge House, on the pretext of making some arrangement for the following week with Frank: Brigg Oldroyd free—for of course the whole town had heard of his breach with the Bamforths and knew its cause—was a very different matter from Brigg Oldroyd dangling after that preposterous advanced Radical girl, and he was welcomed as a lost sheep restored to the fold. The lively comely Charlotte, who had a secret passion for his dark good looks which even his three years’ desertion had not been able to kill, allowed him to catch a glimpse of it in her greeting, giving him her hand heartily, with a frank smile, so that Brigg’s sore heart was soothed. Dancing was improvised, and Charlotte’s open glance invited him to be her partner; his arm fell about her comfortably, and they moved off together with none of that anguished ecstasy which Brigg was wont to feel in a waltz with Jane. Indeed amid the lights and the laughter and the music, the swish of silk dresses and the agreeable voices talking of social trifles, his predominant feeling was that of security; he felt safe, in harbour again after a long, reckless, exciting but dangerous and terribly uncomfortable voyage. No more such voyages for him! He made up his mind to settle the whole business then and there; and when the dance was over, led Charlotte away to a remote back room where they were not likely to be interrupted, and without giving her time even to sit down said in a firm conquering tone:

  “Charlotte, will you marry me?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Brigg,” said Charlotte frankly, without any pretence of surprise. “What about your cousin? You’ve been in love with her for three years, you know; and then you come suddenly to me like this. What am I to think?”

  “All that was a mistake,” muttered Brigg in a choked tone.

  “Well—was it?” demanded Charlotte. She gave him a searching look from her candid grey eyes, and was evidently not altogether satisfied with what she saw, for she sighed and turned away.

  But this was more than Brigg could stand. No other woman should play Janie’s game with him. He seized Charlotte by the elbow, crumpling her fine lace sleeve, and said angrily: “Give me a plain answer, Lottie; are you going to marry me or are you not?”

  “You’re very vehement about it all of a sudden,” said Charlotte in her light frank tones. Her firm lips, however, quivered, and she could not meet his eyes; for she had long loved him.

  “Yes, I am,” said Brigg, with an intense anger which might well seem passion. “I mean to have an answer. Tell me: Will you marry me or not?”

  “I will, Brigg,” said Charlotte slowly: “If you can give me your word of honour that your cousin has no right to expect anything from you.”

  “I give it,” said Brigg in a fury, and drew her to him. All the thwarted passion of the last three years suddenly raced in his blood, and his kiss was savage.

  Next week, after an interview between Sir John Stancliffe and the elder Brigg from which each came away with an increased respect for the other’s ability to drive a bargain, the engagement of Charlotte, younger daughter of Sir John Stancliffe, Bart., of Irebridge House, Yorkshire, and William Brigg, only son of William Brigg Oldroyd, Esquire, of Syke House, Annotsfield, was announced in all the Yorkshire papers.

  3

  The morning of this announcement Janie, running into the office to ask Henry’s help in transferring his mother from her bed to the sofa downstairs, found father and son sitting together with very grave faces. They had been looking grave rather often lately, and Janie understood there was some sort of financial crisis, but the Bamforths had had regular financial crises for as long as Janie could remember, and she had not troubled herself overmuch—she had other things to trouble about. But to-day their grave looks were of another kind, and Janie, looking with suspicion from one to the other, demanded sharply:

  “What were you saying about me?”

  There was nothing to do but show her the announcement.

  “Take this to your room, my dear,” said Jonathan gravely, folding up the Leeds Mercury and handing it to her.

  Janie, however, with a hard look unfolded the paper. “You may as well tell me where it is,” she observed, ruffling the leaves.

  “Brigg Oldroyd is engaged to Charlotte Stancliffe,” said Henry quickly in a harsh voice, unable to bear the torture of her suspense any longer.

  Janie gave him one look from her blue eyes, a look so terrible that Henry thought he would never forget it as long as he lived, then she turned to the paper, found the appropriate column, and silently read the announcement. Her bosom heaved, her beautiful head drooped, but she pressed her lips firmly together and managed to restrain her tears.

  “I think I will go out for a little while, Uncle,” she panted, putting down the paper with a disdainful air.

  “Do, my dear,” said Jonathan in his grave tones: “I am just coming up to your aunt.”

  “Where are you going, Janie?” demanded Henry sharply.

  “To see the lions,” cried Janie, rushing away.

  Neither Jonathan nor Henry could make anything of this, but they judged it best to put no constraint on her, and Janie, as a bitter and sarcastic commentary on the endurance of Brigg’s love for her, did actually hurry to the station square and look upon those stone lions with which, a few weeks ago, she had agreeably mocked him. Ah, if she had mocked him less perhaps! But no! There could be no worth in a love so fleeting. The lions were in their places, sitting solidly upon their pedestals with their preposterous tails curved round their flanks; they had not moved; but Brigg’s love for her was gone. Gone, gone! thought Janie wildly, and fled homeward to find a refuge for her tears. As she almost ran out of the square she was hailed by one of the men, loafers and out-of-works, who were hanging about the station entrance on the chance of earning a copper by carrying some traveller’s bag. Janie hurried faster, but the voice spoke her name. “Miss Janie!” it pleaded on a note of alarm.

  Janie turned and perceived Charley Mellor, looking very hangdog and seedy.

  “Why, Charley,” she exclaimed, forgetting her own trouble for the moment in her habitual compassion for others: “Why aren’t you at work? Isn’t the strike over?”

  “I’m not going back to Oldroyds’,” explained Mellor. “They won’t have me.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Janie with a look of anger.

  “But aren’t you well, Miss Janie?” went on Mellor with respectful tenderness. “I’ve been watching you some time, and I thought you didn’t look quite yourself.”

  “I’m perfectly well,” said Janie abruptly. “I want to hear about you. What shall you do?”

  “I may go back to Mester Armitage,” said Mellor. “There’s some talk of it. There’s several things to settle up yet—a strike takes a bit o’ settling, you know. Some o’ t’lads won’t go in, and some o’t’mesters won’t have ’em back—it’s a fair mix-up. If I can’t get in round Annotsfield, I reckon I shall have to go somewhere else where I’m not known. But I should be sor
ry to do that—I should be sorry to leave all of you in Eastgate. Mind you, I blame Mester Henry; he shouldn’t have interfered. That bit in t’paper made t’manufacturers bitter, like. And some on us would have been at work weeks ago if it hadn’t been for him. But I should be sorry to leave you, Miss Janie.”

  “Charley,” said Janie, speaking very rapidly in a loud clear tone, and looking over his shoulder with a fixed stare: “You needn’t leave me, ever, unless you wish.”

  “Miss Janie!” exclaimed Mellor, astounded. His whole slight person quivered in incredulous ecstasy. “You don’t mean——” he gasped. “You don’t mean——”

  “Yes, I do, Charley,” said Janie firmly, still not looking at him. “That’s exactly what I do mean.”

  She offered him her hand, and felt it clutched with feverish intensity between his hot palms.

  4

  One day a month later, when the strike remained in most people’s minds only as a confused dream, Brigg, who was down in the Mill talking to his grandfather (now again the head Syke Mill foreman) was brought a message that a gentleman wished to see him in the office. On asking who it was he was told that the gentleman would not give his name but said he was going to London immediately. Brigg, imagining that it was the agent of some London merchant who wished to see him, hurried up to the office eagerly, and found himself in the presence of Henry Bamforth. He scowled, then shut the door behind him and advanced into the room with a firm step.

  “What have you come here for, Bamforth?” he demanded. “I think you know it’s no use bringing me any—messages.”

  Henry smiled sardonically. It struck him that Brigg was looking many years older; he was no longer a handsome boy, but a cold determined man—his very face was thinner, and its lines more deeply marked. “I thought you might like a little family news,” he said.

  Brigg scowled again, and the vein in the centre of his forehead swelled.

  “I go to London to-day,” continued Henry in his cool drawl. “I’m on my way now, in fact. I’ve got a small journalistic post there. The Annotsfield Pioneer is ruined, as I daresay you know. The manufacturers made up their minds to get it boycotted because of what I said about their manifesto. And the weavers aren’t particularly pleased with me either—they think what I said hardened the manufacturers’ hearts. But I expect you know all that.”