Inheritance

by Phyllis Bentley

  By the time he reached Leeds it was dark; the streets were full of Oastlerites, a few just arriving, many who had reached Leeds earlier in the day already setting out for York. Placards displayed here and there gave lists of inns and sheds where shelter and food had been provided; Jonathan, after losing his way once or twice, found one of these sheds, and stumbling within, lay down gratefully on the straw, still in his damp clothes. He ate the crust of bread the men in the shed pressed upon him, but was too tired at first to sleep; he had barely enjoyed an hour’s rest before they woke him to resume the journey.

  It was a strange night, and seemed unending. The wind drove fiercely and tirelessly into their faces as they marched east; the rain, which was now intermittent, seemed all the heavier when it came. The road from Leeds to York was dotted with parties of workmen going to the meeting, with Oastler and his friends in front; many of them carried rope torches which they kept afire as the rain allowed, and the smoky lights could be seen in the distance, winding round corners or topping hills. Each little group cheered as it came to a milestone, and enlivened its dark march with songs and hymns. Jonathan had now reached the stage when physical fatigue no longer counted; he shivered with cold, his right heel was a mere lump of raw flesh, from which the blood soaked his boot, and his left foot was beginning the same kind of soreness, but he was in a state of feverish exaltation and swung along at a rapid pace, talking excitedly. Presently the night faded into a grey cold day; men looked about them and saw each other haggard and wan beneath the rain, which now again poured unceasingly, the wind having dropped. There was no enthusiasm left, no more singing or cheering; the very banners drooped; the men trudged on in a sort of despairing stolidity, and Jonathan, conscious again of his exhausted body, began in spite of all his efforts to slip back from rank to rank. Suddenly a ripple of movement ran through the whole length of the disjointed column; men lifted their heads and quickened their step, and in the distance, far ahead, sounded a faint cheer.

  “What is it? What is it?” demanded Jonathan eagerly.

  The man in front turned his head. “They say it’s t’Minster,” he replied.

  Jonathan, on fire again, shouted back the joyful news: “Men! York Minster is in sight!”

  In the cheer which followed Jonathan was able to admit to himself that there had been moments in the night when he had doubted whether he could last out to York. But he was there now, he was there; he was going to be present at a great meeting to free the children, in that very Castle Yard where his uncle had given up his life for the injured and oppressed; and he was happy.

  It was understood that there would be bread and cheese and beer for all at the York racecourse, which had been appointed as the rendezvous for the factory workers; but as they approached the place disquieting rumours began to be current that the bread had gone astray. “Then I hope beer’ll have gone astray as well,” said an elderly man at Jonathan’s side. “Tha does?” exclaimed a young fellow of strapping build: “By gum, but I don’t.” The elderly man, shaking his head, muttered something unfavourable about beer and empty stomachs which made Jonathan uneasy, and he quickened his step, anxious to be at hand to help the leaders if the famished men showed any disposition towards rioting.

  He reached the racecourse at a moment when the Grand Stand was in an uproar. Men had been arriving there since early dawn, and had waited with some degree of patience for the promised food during several hours, imagining for themselves various reasonable excuses for its nonappearance; but now that the last stragglers were drifting in and their numbers were complete, there was no further reason for delay, and the truth that it was not coming at all was beginning to be suspected; the men were justifiably disappointed, and the beer had got into their heads and made them quarrelsome. Hot arguments, not unaccompanied by blows, were going on in the centre of the stand as to what should be done next, and the women were beginning to huddle together in a corner with a frightened air. The situation looked ugly.

  “Has anyone gone for Mr. Oastler?” demanded Jonathan of one of the men distributing the beer, who now stood behind a table covered with empty mugs, looking rather uneasily at the crowd.

  “Aye, they’ve gone,” said the man, “But it’ll be nigh on half an hour before he can get here, I reckon.”

  Jonathan sighed and felt very uneasy.

  The next few minutes intensified his anxiety. Shouting and brawling became general; the crowd began to sway about alarmingly; at one moment there was a headlong rush down from the stand, and thenceforward several thousand men stood jostling each other on the course. A feeling had arisen that the absence of the provisions was due to deliberate mismanagement on the part of the York tradesman, and some of the younger men began to shout that they ought to be made to pay for it. Then there was a sudden lull, and above the heads of the crowd Jonathan could see a man afar off, evidently standing on a table, and evidently, by the motions of his mouth and hands, talking. Those near him seemed to be listening with interest, and near Jonathan the men tried to listen too, lifting their heads and opening their mouths in the strain. But it was no good; the speaker’s voice would not carry so far, and the men near the gate turned away, irritated. Some of them thought they had better go to the Castle at once, without waiting any longer, and they began to move off; others, who had a few pence with them, spoke of buying bread in the town, and went in the same direction; the wilder spirits joined in this movement, and there was a rush towards the gate. “Oh, they mustn’t, they mustn’t,” thought Jonathan anxiously: “They must not go without Mr. Oastler to lead them; there’ll be trouble at a baker’s shop, and then there’ll be a riot, and the factory movement will be thrown back years.” He positively wrung his hands in anguish as the stream pouring through the entrance thickened; and suddenly, on an impulse, he scrambled on a table and cried out with all his might:

  “Men and women of Yorkshire!”

  With his white young face and flashing eyes, his dark tossed hair and arms outstretched in an instinctive gesture of appeal, he made an interesting figure enough, and some of the men passing by stood still to look at him. Those behind pushed forward, those in front pressed back; there were shouts of remonstrance and tossing arms; it was a dangerous moment.

  “Men and women of Yorkshire!” cried Jonathan again despairingly. “In the name of the children I implore you!”

  Everything that Jonathan was, everything that he had ever felt, poured itself out in this passionate cry; his words rang through the air on the deep pure note which was his male inheritance of his mother’s lovely tones, and the men, struck into attention, listened to him.

  “If we were asked,” shouted Jonathan, trembling with a lifetime’s emotion: “If we were asked to help the factory children by giving up our food for a day, shouldn’t we do it?”

  “Aye!” shouted some of the men. “That’s true enough—we should do it gladly—listen to what the lad says—keep back there.”

  “Don’t let it be said that we ruined the children’s cause for the sake of three ha’porth of bread,” cried Jonathan, his face working.

  And suddenly he forgot himself utterly, and felt quite at ease; emphatic words flowed from his lips, his hands took on of themselves strong, simple, appealing gestures; he did not know what he was going to say but he knew it would be the right thing when he said it; he knew the men would listen to him; he knew he held all those who could hear him in the hollow of his hand—and he was right, for he was a born orator. Almost before he knew he had begun to speak, but in reality some ten minutes after he had mounted the table, there was a tremendous shout, a huge welcoming roar from the intent crowd, Jonathan felt the light trestle table beneath him shake and saw the mugs flying, and looking round saw Oastler clambering up beside him. King Richard was without hat or coat, having indeed sprung up from table the instant he heard of the failure of the provisions, and hurried to the racecourse to his men; his powerful face, with its wide blunt nostrils and vivacious brown eyes, his towering body, with its
bull neck and great shoulders, his rich brown hair—all these were unmistakable, and the huge crowd cheered again and again. Oastler laid one hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, and with the other waved a cheerful greeting to the hungry men.

  “You’ve done well, young man,” he said emphatically to Jonathan, while waiting for the noise to subside. “Where do you come from, eh? Did you work in a factory as a child? Ah, you’re lame, I see.” Having extracted all the necessary particulars in a swift undertone, he raised his head and shouted “Lads!” in a practised voice which carried to every corner of the stand. Then in a few ringing sentences, punctuated by cheering, he told the crowd that here was a young man, lamed by factory toil, who had walked forty-five miles without a bite of food to attend the meeting, and made a good speech on top of it; were they less able to endure than this lad? He rather thought not! Jonathan was wrought to such a pitch of emotion that he hardly heard what else the leader said, conscious only of that strong hand grasping his shoulder; he understood at length, however, that Oastler was bidding the men follow him in orderly fashion to the Castle Yard. “As for you, young man,” he concluded, lowering his voice abruptly to a natural speaking tone and looking at Jonathan with an affectionate smile: “You stay here and help Dr. Singleton see that there’s no pushing at the gate. Mind! I rely on you two to keep order here.” Jonathan, unable to speak for adoration, looked an ecstatic assent; he threw himself down from the table and had the honour of giving Oastler his hand to help him to the ground. The great man, feeling the trembling of that young hand and seeing Jonathan’s shrunken leg, his sodden clothing and his wild, wan air, rested his arm about the boy’s shoulders for a moment before moving on. “We will have the Ten Hours Bill, eh, lad?” he muttered in a tone of strong feeling. “Aye, we will, that we will.” He snatched a banner from a man near by, swung it aloft in his strong right arm, and shouting: “Forward! Follow me, lads! Quietly now!” strode off towards the Castle.

  Jonathan was left with a tall slender man in the forties, slightly stooping, with a sensitive aquiline face and bushy white hair, whom he knew for the minister of Eastgate Chapel in Annotsfield. The mere look of him, as he stood on a table with his hands behind his back, sufficed to keep the willing men in order as they streamed past; and as he, like Oastler, was without hat and coat, wearing a black silk gown as though ready to take the service in his chapel at home, Jonathan ventured timidly to observe:

  “I fear you will get wet, sir.”

  Dr. Singleton looked at his gown, which already glistened with rain, and without moving replied in a quiet assured tone:

  “It’s of no consequence.”

  Jonathan was much impressed by this lofty ease of demeanour, which was very different from anything he saw at New House; so that when a few minutes later Dr. Singleton observed quietly: “You spoke well just now, young man,” and asked him what place of worship he attended, Jonathan blushed with pleasure, and answered eagerly. When only a few scattered groups of men were left on the stand Dr. Singleton descended from his table and proceeded to the Castle at a swift yet measured pace.

  “We don’t wish to lose anything of the meeting, do we?” he said, smiling austerely at the panting Jonathan.

  “No, sir,” agreed Jonathan, who indeed was sick with impatience to arrive.

  At the great Castle archway they parted, and Jonathan flew forward to join the crowd within. But he need not have troubled himself, for the speeches had not yet begun; indeed he had an hour to wait in the rain and the wind which was again rising before the notabilities made their appearance on the hustings. This hour Jonathan tried to spend in fervid imaginations of his uncle’s death scene, but he found himself sleepy and stupid, and his attention seemed to wander. It wandered rather often, too, during the five hours of speeches which followed; speeches from Michael Sadler, who looked broken and ailing from his Parliamentary toil for the Bill; from that noble manufacturer John Wood of Bradford (“Why could not my father have been such a one as he?” mourned Jonathan wistfully); speeches from some lord or other, from the High Sheriff, from Oastler—Jonathan did not wander in attention during this, but quivered and trembled, like the strings of a harp played by a skilful hand; speeches from Oastler’s well-beloved parson Bull, and—this quiet, dignified, but trenchant and telling—from Dr. Singleton. There was cheering, there were songs, there was a wild stern enthusiasn which even the most inclement weather within memory, as Oastler justly described the driving rain which lashed them, could not damp; and then at last it was all over. Three thousand persons of the county of Yorkshire had shown England what they thought of the Ten Hours Bill, and now nothing remained but to trudge home.

  Home! The word had not an inspiriting sound for Jonathan. He hung about the entrance to the Castle for some time, hoping to see his idol at close quarters once again; and at last Oastler and a group of his friends left the hustings, which men were already beginning to dismantle, and passed out of the great gate, talking earnestly. Jonathan stood yearning at them in the falling dusk, hoping for a glance, but only Dr. Singleton saw his wistful, disappointed face, and gravely bowed to him. Jonathan smiled gratefully in return, then with a sigh moved away to begin his homeward journey. Some of the West Riding men who had a few pence in their pockets had turned into the cheaper inns of the town for a bite before starting their long march, and as Jonathan passed these inns agreeable odours of meat and drink came out to him. He sighed a little, for though no man cared less for his stomach than did Jonathan, he was but human after all, and had had nothing but a crust for forty-eight hours. At this moment he remembered, for the first time since leaving Marthwaite, the two gold pieces which lay in his breast. “Never!” breathed Jonathan to himself proudly, revolted by the mere thought of using Will’s money while on such an errand; he tossed back his his head and strode off through the rain.

  But now there there was no longer the glamour of the meeting to sustain him, now that the excitement was over, all the toils and emotions of the day seemed to settle on his shoulders and weigh him down; before the end of the first mile his whole body ached, the soles of his feet were an anguish, sweat poured down his face, his heart beat so wildly that it seemed as though it would fall out. He clasped his hands over his breast to hold it in and stumbled on through the rain, resting more and more often by the wayside.

  At first he was alone on the road, being behind the main body of workers, but after a while the men who had paused to refresh themselves in York began to stream by him. A group of these, Bradford men, coming upon Jonathan while he was sitting, peered down into his face rather anxiously in the light of a rope torch one of them was carrying, asked him where he came from and how he did, and showed a disposition to wait for him.

  “I don’t rightly know where Marthwaite is,” said one.

  “Charley does,” said another, turning to call over his shoulder. “He lived there when he was a babby. Charley! Here’s a Marthwaite lad fair wore out.”

  The young man addressed as Charley came up and looked at Jonathan with interest. “I were born i’ Marthwaite,” he said, “Tha’s a long way from home.”

  “Pray don’t wait for me,” said Jonathan. He seemed to himself to speak calmly and politely, but in reality his words came in great gasping breaths, and his chest heaved.

  “Sithee, lad,” said Charley in an encouraging tone. “Keep your heart up——”

  “It isn’t down,” said Jonathan bravely.

  “A bit further on there’s a path through the fields,” explained the man. “I walked here when I were a little ’un, once, and I know it cuts off a lot o’ t’road—we can cut through o,’ that way and you can mebbe catch up wi’ t’rest o’ t’ Marthwaite men; they started straight off, I’m told, having so far to go.”

  “I’m greatly obliged to you,” said Jonathan, swaying slightly, his eyes half closed. “I shall certainly take the path you mention. But don’t wait for me—pray don’t wait for me,” he begged earnestly, stung with shame at the thought of being a burde
n to anyone. “I beg you not to wait for me,” he repeated, opening his eyes and gazing at Charley sternly.

  “Well,” hesitated the men, looking at each other. They were perplexed between a reluctance to leave the lad in that condition and a reluctance to intrude upon a social superior, as he seemed by his voice and bearing, who did not want them.

  “Pray go on,” commanded Jonathan loftily.

  The men, defeated by his determination, unwillingly left him.

  Jonathan got to his feet and staggered on. His mind was now wholly set on gaining the short cut, which he felt would be his salvation, but he seemed to be a very long time in reaching it. The darkness began to heave and sway about him as he toiled along; the faint snatches of song which in the lulls of the wind floated back to him from the men in front took on a nightmarish quality, swelling and sinking in his ears alarmingly. Startled by something wet brushing his knees, he stooped down to feel it, and found he had strayed from the road into the bordering grass. For a moment he thought he was lost, and fought his way back to the road in a panic, threshing his arms about like a drowning man. This left him exhausted and panting, and he was obliged to sink down for a rather long rest. After this incident he kept his attention alert for a while, jerking his head up whenever it began to sink on his breast; but the effort tired him more and more, and presently he walked only fifty yards or so between each rest. Then he began to feel that he must have passed the opening into the path, and once or twice retraced his steps, peering and groping. “This won’t do,” Jonathan told himself at length firmly; and he declined to allow himself to turn back any more. But to adhere to his decision required great effort; his tired mind bandied the question back and forth, producing all kinds of arguments in support of going straight on, but never quite satisfied with this conclusion. It was a surprise so great as to be almost incredible when at length he found the path, somebody—perhaps Charley—having hung a rope torch over a branch at the corner. With hope renewed Jonathan straightened himself up and struck out at a smart pace, putting down his tortured feet briskly, determined not to wince. Suddenly he found himself falling, though he could not remember having tripped over anything. He went down full length in the mud and found it difficult to rise, and crouched on his knees a moment, trembling. He resumed walking at a slow, stumbling pace; and now to his horror he found that he was falling asleep, or else his mind was wandering, for he could not recall, for longer than a few seconds at a time, where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. He made a terrific effort to settle, clearly and firmly, that he had been to York for a meeting about factory children, but somehow things mixed themselves up, and he imagined he was toiling across Marthwaite Moor, a factory child, to go to his work as a piecener. Poor little factory child, hummed Jonathan. In the winter mornings it was always dark, and he was always sleepy, just like this. Or had he been to his work, and was now going home? There was some kind of a muddle in his mind about whether Marthwaite stood for his home or his work, and he could not clear it up; if only he could remember what time it was, that would be a help. Was it night or morning? Was his mother waiting for him at the Moorcock, or had he just parted from her? But did he live at the Moorcock now? There was some sort of a dark painful shadow over all that, over his mother and the Moorcock; Jonathan could not remember what it was. Or what he was doing now. But it was something about piecening. If only his heart would not thump so hard, if the blood would not beat so in his ears; his mother would be waiting for him anxiously; mother, mother! He fell, rolled in the mud, got himself up with angry energy and staggered on. And then for one sudden burning instant it was all quite clear—of course his mother had married Will Oldroyd. Oh, how horrible! He sobbed, clutched at his heart, tripped and fell again; this time he did not rise, but lay on in the mud, with the rain beating upon him.