Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

Carmine knew that her mother was honourable, good, pure, not self-seeking; she knew that Janie was the mainstay of the family, and that without her none of them would be anything. Her mother had arranged everything in Carmine’s career; made her work hard as a child, and taught her herself at night, so that she gained a scholarship from Booth Bank elementary school to the Bamforth Secondary School and presently became a state-aided pupil teacher. Great was the pride and joy of the Mellor family when their little Carmine was actually appointed to the infants’ department in the largest elementary school in Annotsfield, and Carmine knew well that she would never have reached that proud position without her mother. But there were times when, in spite of her admiration for Janie’s good qualities, Carmine hated her mother fiercely. When Janie spoke to her husband with an angry impatience, or, worse, a bitter patience, and Charley’s eyes took on their restless anxious look and the ends of his absurd little moustache quivered—then such a passion of sympathy for her father rushed through Carmine’s every vein that she could hardly restrain herself from flying at Janie and striking her. Indeed once as a child, when Charley had brought his idolised little daughter a tin toy which Janie judged unsuitable, Carmine had turned upon her mother and beaten her savagely with her little fists. Then Janie had wept, terribly; and Carmine and her father had had a dreadful time comforting her; indeed they couldn’t do anything with her at all till Matthew, who was his mother’s darling and physically very like her (though without her good looks), came in from play. Over Janie’s bowed head Charley and Carmine had exchanged one scared glance. They hastily looked away again, and no word was spoken; but there had always been a defensive alliance between them since.

  But why go over all that ancient history, thought Carmine impatiently, stretching her slender body beneath the bed-clothes. She was going to leave all that behind, she was going to London to-day to be her Uncle Henry’s secretary. A remorseful gratitude stole into her heart as she thought how her mother had arranged it. For though Carmine had at times shared her family’s pride and joy in her appointment as teacher—she had compassion on the children and loved them, and she taught well—at other times she had rebelled fiercely against her destiny. Her mirror taught her she was beautiful; surely her cloud of dusky hair, her fine dark eyes, the exquisite arch of her thick dark brows, her creamy skin, the haughty noble line of her lips and throat—surely all these were not meant to be wasted teaching grimy children in a grimy school in grimy Annotsfield. She was ashamed of these feelings, knew them to be wrong, thrust them down and stamped on them; but they were there at the bottom of her heart, smouldering, ready at a touch to spring into flame. The silks and jewels in the Annotsfield shop windows sometimes provided this touch, and then Carmine burned and raged. She sometimes felt she simply could not wait another instant for something glorious and romantic to happen to her; something must happen, or she should scream and toss her arms wildly in the air. Her youth was passing, passing, thought Carmine (she was twenty), and nothing, nothing happened; she wanted to travel, to have passionate love affairs, but there was nobody to love worth loving in her circle of acquaintance, and lack of money kept her sternly at home. She felt caged and thwarted; she grew so moody that there was no understanding her. Sometimes she loved all her family with such a fierce protective love that it hurt—her vehement mother, her pathetic unsuccessful little father, the fiery Matthew, champion of the poor, David, young and fresh and stalwart and rather slow. At other times she hated them all—they dragged her down, they cramped and thwarted her. In these bitter and sombre moods she sometimes went up to her ugly little room and sat in the dark, brooding, loathing the scullery house the Mellors lived in, loathing all the other ones like it in the Booth Mount row, loathing the grime and noise and sordid publicity of Booth Bank, loathing everyone called Mellor, everyone in Annotsfield. Janie, noticing with grief and perplexity that these moods grew upon her daughter, tried by every means in her power to find out what was wrong, but Carmine resisted her, turned from her sullenly, and would not answer her probing questions. At length there was an explosion. The occasion was the night after the Mayor of Annots-field’s annual ball; Matthew angrily read from the Annotsfield Recorder a description of the decorations, the refreshments, the dresses and the jewels, which had brightened that distinguished gathering. His blue eyes blazed, his red hair seemed to stand on end, his rough Yorkshire voice was harsh with sarcasm, as he rolled out that Lady Stancliffe wore black satin with diamonds, and Mrs. Brigg Oldroyd primrose silk with pearls. Carmine, who had drawn in with her mother’s milk the notion that the Oldroyds were a wicked, heartless, stupid lot, joined in Matthew’s gibes heartily; there was a good deal of distress in Annotsfield that winter, and primrose silk seemed to her quite abominable. Her pale cheeks flushed, her voice grew louder, as she jeered; till suddenly, without the least warning, she burst into violent sobs, and fled from the room. The Mellors all looked at each other in alarm, and Matthew, who loved his sister devotedly, was greatly distressed. Charley sat looking at Janie, expecting her to follow her daughter; when several minutes passed and she did not move, he rose up, and having knocked out his pipe with a timid and apologetic glance towards her, began to climb the narrow stairs. He found his daughter lying on her bed in a passion of weeping. In response to his anxious question what was the matter, she replied “Nothing! nothing!” in a voice of torment. Charley sat down on the bed beside her and began to stroke her hair; without reasoning it out he guessed something of how Carmine felt towards these grand people in silks and satins, because he felt like that himself—now Matthew had inherited from his mother the firm Oldroyd assurance that he was right and his opponents wrong, and never suffered from a feeling of inferiority. So Charley exclaimed suddenly and bitterly:

  “I reckon you should have been an Oldroyd, Carmine.”

  “No, no, father!” said Carmine passionately. “No!” She sat up, flung her arms round his neck, and strained him tightly to her. She simply could not endure that he should feel like that, and tumbled out fierce words of consolation, her cheek to his. “I love you better than anybody” she whispered. “I don’t love any of the others, only you.”

  “Carmine!” her father reproached her. “Think of your mother!”

  “I love you best,” said Carmine fervidly.

  “Now, now!” said her father, ecstatic but shocked. “You’re just a bit upset to-night, lovey, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re over-tired.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m tired, tired” burst out Carmine, “tired of teaching and Annotsfield and doing the same dull things every day and never having any fun. I’m sick of it!”

  “Are you?” said her father wistfully. It seemed to him such a wonderful thing that a daughter of his should escape the miH and actually teach in a school, not use her hands or wear dirty clothes to work, that though he tried he could not understand the disgust she expressed. Carmine felt this, and with a sigh released him, sat back on her heels, and said in a resigned tone:

  “Well! I’m all right really, father. You mustn’t take any notice of what I say—and don’t tell mother,” she added quickly.

  “No,” said Charley, intending to tell his wife as soon as possible.

  Carmine again felt this in his voice; for a moment she was angry, but her anger died and she said nothing, for she too, like her father, was wont to rely upon Janie to promote the welfare of the family.

  And in this case, as in so many others, their reliance was not misplaced. Janie, having first resented her daughter’s discontent as reported to her by Charley, and then grieved over it, came, as always with her vigorous nature, to the point of trying to find a remedy for it. Carmine, she thought, if rather crude, sulky and unpolished, was yet beautiful; Janie could imagine her blossoming under the sun of happiness like a flower—a deep red or ‘purple flower, of course, not a sunny pink and white affair, but still a flower. Janie found herself wishing fiercely that Carmine should have a chance to blossom. Carmine was clever, too—not as clever as her
mother, perhaps, but still quick and responsive—and she had a sombre energy; when her interest was engaged she was capable of prodigies of toil. Janie, having considered all this, sat down and wrote, painfully and with much re-copying, to Henry. She had not written to Henry often since her marriage; the first time was sixteen years ago, the year of the McKinley duties. In that black year for the West Riding, Charley (who was always the first man to be discharged wfien economies became necessary, because of his fiery tongue) was out of work, Janie was heavy with her third child, and the Mellors were practically destitute. To Janie’s grief and shame they were obliged to appeal to her Uncle Jonathan. He gave to them with an eager hand, but Janie learned from Helena that the old man now had little of his own, living chiefly on what his sons sent him; then Janie thought it less shame to write to her cousins than to take from what they had provided for their father. Her confinement approached, she was desperate; she wrote a brief and painful note to Henry in London, and received ten golden sovereigns by return of post. She wrote to thank him, she wrote when she repaid the loan; she wrote at Jonathan’s request to tell him Helena was dying, she wrote to tell him of Jonathan’s sudden death. At his father’s funeral she of course saw him, and Henry, who was still unmarried, murmured something about the long intervals between her letters.

  “It seems very ungracious of me to write to you only when I need help desperately,” Janie told him frankly: “But it must be so, Henry.”

  Henry, who understood her husband’s jealousy from this as well as if she had told him the whole story, looked aside and drawled quietly: “I shall never neglect any letter of yours, Janie.”

  It was thus understood between them that when she wrote to him her need was serious and would receive instant attention; and when Janie consulted him about Carmine she knew she could expect a prompt reply. His letter, written in his tiny but perfectly neat hand, came within a couple of days; in it he said that Richard’s youngest daughter, who had been acting as his housekeeper-cum-secretary for the past few years, was thinking of getting married; if Carmine cared to take her place in September she could do so. The Mellor household was at once in a whirl; Carmine plunged into an intensive study of the typewriter, Janie began sewing for her on as large a scale as she could afford. Matthew was furious; he considered that his sister was leaving honourable and useful work for her own class to go and live on the charity of a haughty old man who, as his labour was unproductive in the material sense, was really a parasite on society. Janie was angry at this view of Henry,, and mother and son quarrelled. The other Mellors did not take much notice of this, for Janie and Matthew were always quarrelling, because they were so passionately attached to each other; but Carmine, who had some qualms about leaving home which she would not admit, was deeply nurt by her brother’s criticisms and turned sullen under them. Hence, though Matthew had given not a few extra shillings from his wages—he was a cloth-presser by trade—to his mother for Carmine’s outfit, brother and sister had said farewell this morning with the door between them. Carmine was sorry for this, for she loved her brothers well enough; all the same she was glad she was off to London to-day, and grateful to her mother for having arranged it.

  “Carmine!” called Janie imperiously from below. “It’s time you were up.”

  Carmine’s face darkened, and she defiantly lay still for a moment. But nobody in that house delayed long to obey Janie, and soon with a swift movement of her strong slender arms she threw back the bedclothes, and cried in her deep husky tones: “I’m coming!”

  She came downstairs a few minutes later to find her father and David awaiting her anxiously, for the buzzers were already sounding them to work. David, fair and fresh and freckled and the most even-tempered of the family, said good-bye heartily but calmly. He was called David because Henry’s ten sovereigns, arriving in time to ease his^ birth, had made Janie feel very much a Bamforth. The new baby could not be called Henry, and Jonathan was too old-fashioned a name to give a child. Jonathan, consulted on the point, proposed David as the name friendliest to his own, and as it was Janie’s turn to choose, the child was so christened. He grew up fair and of a ruddy countenance, as Matthew was fond of telling him, so the name suited him well. He was quiet and reserved and steady, and all the Mellors had a great respect for him; Carmine felt happier now because he seemed to view her departure with approval. Her father’s twirled moustache quivered, and his anxious eyes were moist, as he kissed his daughter’s cheek; and Carmine felt full of love for those she was leaving behind. But Charley and David had to hurry off to their work, and soon it was time for Carmine too to go.

  “You’ll be nice to your Uncle Henry, Carmine?” murmured Janie as they parted at the door.

  The moment she had spoken the words she regretted them, for her daughter’s face took on the closed, sullen look she knew so well of late. Janie sighed as she watched the girl up the street. Why was she so difficult, so rebellious? Some day, she feared, the fire smouldering in Carmine’s heart would leap up into flame; and what might not be destroyed in that conflagration?

  2

  “I remember you at my father’s funeral as a little girl with a mane of hair like a Hon, arranged in a circular comb,” said Henry. “But surely you weren’t so dark, then?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Carmine in a hard sulky tone.

  “You’re not at all like your mother,” grumbled Henry.

  “I’m sorry,” said Carmine defiantly.

  She was sulky and defiant because she was afraid of her uncle—he was so tall and thin and distinguished-looking, with his long supercilious face and drooping eyelids and that monocle; and his drawl had such a sarcastic ring. She was intimidated, too, by his establishment. She had always understood from her mother that her uncle Henry, though he was a leader-writer for The Times and a great many other interesting things of that kind, was very far from rich, and she had expected a house in a row in a street, perhaps slightly larger than their own. This tall, dark mansion in a solid Camden Town Crescent, with two maids and a large drawing-room full of pictures on the first floor, was quite outside Carmine’s experience, and made her feel nervous and uncomfortable. Consequently, though at home Matthew often taunted her for “talking well-off,” as he called it, Carmine could now hear herself using Yorkshire words and tones, and the harder she tried to speak good English, such as her mother used, the more provincial, in her self-consciousness, she became.

  “You’re not like your father, either,” continued Henry.

  His tone rather suggested that this was some consolation to him, and Carmine said quickly:

  “I’m sorry for that too.”

  Henry gave her a shrewd look, and when he next spoke his voice was kinder.

  “But curiously enough,” he said, waving his monocle thoughtfully in the air; “You remind me at times strongly of my own father. A family likeness there is possible, I suppose? Yes—your great-grandmother and great-grandfather are my ancestors too. William and Mary Oldroyd.”

  Carmine said nothing. She was secretly relieved to find that the great and famous Henry was just as foolishly fond of genealogies as those of the last generation whom she knew in Annotsfield—it enabled her to feel condescending and protective towards him.

  “It’s very good of you to be willing to come and live with an old man like myself,” continued Henry.

  “Oh, Uncle Henry!” protested Carmine, startled into sincerity. “The goodness is all on your side.”

  “Not at all,” said Henry gravely. “You have two priceless qualities, my child: youth and beauty. See you don’t squander them. Wherever you go you can feel that your presence confers a boon on your companions.”

  “I don’t think I could quite feel that,” said Carmine, blushing. In spite of this denial she felt deliciously flattered, and her voice was soft and deep. Lowering her long dark eyelashes, she began to play with the edge of the tablecloth in a childlike manner which was very appealing.

  “But I don’t suppose you’ll s
tay with me long,” drawled Henry, handing her his cup for some more tea. Carmine, distressed, said “Oh!” Her uncle smiled. “No,” he said, shaking his head solemnly: “You’ll marry and leave me. I have a reputation for marrying off nieces—two in the last twelve months. How should you like to marry Francis Oldroyd?”

  “An Oldroyd!” cried Carmine, sitting erect, her eyes flashing. “Never!”

  “I hear he’s a very personable young man,” drawled Flenry. “So Sir Albert Smith told me the other week. Do you never see anything of the Smiths?” Carmine shook her head. “They’re your cousins,” suggested Henry mildly.

  “They wouldn’t take any notice of us,” said Carmine, who knew the Smiths to be as much out of her reach as the Lord-Lieutenant of Yorkshire or the Prince of Wales. Her face was sullen and her voice harsh again as she spoke, and Henry sighed.

  “Then you don’t fancy young Oldroyd?” he said on a light teasing note.

  Carmine laughed. “Matthew would never forgive me if I married an employer,” she said.

  “Tell me about your brothers,” said Henry encouragingly.

  “Matthew’s a great Union man,” began Carmine.

  Chapter III

  Misalliance

  1

  My dear Brigg, wrote Henry in his tiny hand: I imagine that our rivalry of a quarter of a century ago (nearly) has now ceased to rankle in your breast as in mine, and that you will be as willing for a reconciliation as I am. Smith tells me that your son is spending a few months in town, learning the ways of your London office. I should so much like to see him, especially as I hear he is such a fine handsome fellow. Next Thursday I celebrate my 65th birthday, and some friends of mine, both young and old, will be with me in the evening. May I hope that your boy will be among them? I would gladly send him a card if I knew his address. He paused a minute, debated whether to add: I have Janie’s daughter with me as a prop to my declining years, and decided against it; debated whether to mention his own continued bachelorhood and decided against that; wrote With every good wish to you and yours, I remain, yours sincerely, Henry Bamforth, and addressed the letter to Brigg at Syke Mill, not knowing his home address and not wishing to ask Carmine for it—she always turned hard and sulky at any mention of the Oldroyds.