Sylvia's Lovers — Complete

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER VIII

  ATTRACTION AND REPULSION

  A fortnight had passed over and winter was advancing with rapidstrides. In bleak northern farmsteads there was much to be donebefore November weather should make the roads too heavy for half-fedhorses to pull carts through. There was the turf, pared up on thedistant moors, and left out to dry, to be carried home and stacked;the brown fern was to be stored up for winter bedding for thecattle; for straw was scarce and dear in those parts; even forthatching, heather (or rather ling) was used. Then there was meat tosalt while it could be had; for, in default of turnips andmangold-wurzel, there was a great slaughtering of barren cows assoon as the summer herbage failed; and good housewives stored uptheir Christmas piece of beef in pickle before Martinmas was over.Corn was to be ground while yet it could be carried to the distantmill; the great racks for oat-cake, that swung at the top of thekitchen, had to be filled. And last of all came the pig-killing,when the second frost set in. For up in the north there is an ideathat the ice stored in the first frost will melt, and the meat curedthen taint; the first frost is good for nothing but to be thrownaway, as they express it.

  There came a breathing-time after this last event. The house had hadits last autumn cleaning, and was neat and bright from top tobottom, from one end to another. The turf was led; the coal cartedup from Monkshaven; the wood stored; the corn ground; the pigkilled, and the hams and head and hands lying in salt. The butcherhad been glad to take the best parts of a pig of Dame Robson'scareful feeding; but there was unusual plenty in the Haytersbankpantry; and as Bell surveyed it one morning, she said to her husband--

  'I wonder if yon poor sick chap at Moss Brow would fancy some o' mysausages. They're something to crack on, for they are made fra' anold Cumberland receipt, as is not known i' Yorkshire yet.'

  'Thou's allays so set upo' Cumberland ways!' said her husband, notdispleased with the suggestion, however. 'Still, when folk's sickthey han their fancies, and maybe Kinraid 'll be glad o' thysausages. I ha' known sick folk tak' t' eating snails.'

  This was not complimentary, perhaps. But Daniel went on to say thathe did not mind if he stepped over with the sausages himself, whenit was too late to do anything else. Sylvia longed to offer toaccompany her father; but, somehow, she did not like to propose it.Towards dusk she came to her mother to ask for the key of the greatbureau that stood in the house-place as a state piece of furniture,although its use was to contain the family's best wearing apparel,and stores of linen, such as might be supposed to be more neededupstairs.

  'What for do yo' want my keys?' asked Bell.

  'Only just to get out one of t' damask napkins.'

  'The best napkins, as my mother span?'

  'Yes!' said Sylvia, her colour heightening. 'I thought as how itwould set off t' sausages.'

  'A good clean homespun cloth will serve them better,' said Bell,wondering in her own mind what was come over the girl, to bethinking of setting off sausages that were to be eaten, not to belooked at like a picture-book. She might have wondered still more,if she had seen Sylvia steal round to the little flower border shehad persuaded Kester to make under the wall at the sunny side of thehouse, and gather the two or three Michaelmas daisies, and the onebud of the China rose, that, growing against the kitchen chimney,had escaped the frost; and then, when her mother was not looking,softly open the cloth inside of the little basket that contained thesausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her autumn blossoms in oneof the folds of the towel.

  After Daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had had hisafternoon meal (tea was a Sunday treat), he prepared to set out onhis walk to Moss Brow; but as he was taking his stick he caught thelook on Sylvia's face; and unconsciously interpreted its dumbwistfulness.

  'Missus,' said he, 't' wench has nought more t' do, has she? She mayas well put on her cloak and step down wi' me, and see Molly a bit;she'll be company like.'

  Bell considered.

  'There's t' yarn for thy stockings as is yet to spin; but she cango, for I'll do a bit at 't mysel', and there's nought else agate.'

  'Put on thy things in a jiffy, then, and let's be off,' said Daniel.

  And Sylvia did not need another word. Down she came in a twinkling,dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her face peeping out of thefolds of the latter, bright and blushing.

  'Thou should'st na' ha' put on thy new cloak for a night walk toMoss Brow,' said Bell, shaking her head.

  'Shall I go take it off, and put on my shawl?' asked Sylvia, alittle dolefully.

  'Na, na, come along! a'm noane goin' for t' wait o' women's chopsand changes. Come along; come, Lassie!' (this last to his dog).

  So Sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that hadto be restrained to the sober gait her father chose. The sky abovewas bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars, the grasswas crisping under their feet with the coming hoar frost; and asthey mounted to the higher ground they could see the dark seastretching away far below them. The night was very still, though nowand then crisp sounds in the distant air sounded very near in thesilence. Sylvia carried the basket, and looked like little RedRiding Hood. Her father had nothing to say, and did not care to makehimself agreeable; but Sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, and anyconversation would have been a disturbance to her. The longmonotonous roll of the distant waves, as the tide bore them in, themultitudinous rush at last, and then the retreating rattle andtrickle, as the baffled waters fell back over the shingle thatskirted the sands, and divided them from the cliffs; her father'smeasured tread, and slow, even movement; Lassie's pattering--alllulled Sylvia into a reverie, of which she could not have givenherself any definite account. But at length they arrived at MossBrow, and with a sudden sigh she quitted the subjects of her dreamymeditations, and followed her father into the great house-place. Ithad a more comfortable aspect by night than by day. The fire wasalways kept up to a wasteful size, and the dancing blaze and thepartial light of candles left much in shadow that was best ignoredin such a disorderly family. But there was always a warm welcome tofriends, however roughly given; and after the words of this werespoken, the next rose up equally naturally in the mind of MrsCorney.

  'And what will ye tak'? Eh! but t' measter 'll be fine and vexed atyour comin' when he's away. He's off to Horncastle t' sell somecolts, and he'll not be back till to-morrow's neet. But here'sCharley Kinraid as we've getten to nurse up a bit, and' t' lads 'llbe back fra' Monkshaven in a crack o' no time.'

  All this was addressed to Daniel, to whom she knew that none butmasculine company would be acceptable. Amongst uneducatedpeople--whose range of subjects and interest do not extend beyondtheir daily life--it is natural that when the first blush and hurryof youth is over, there should be no great pleasure in theconversation of the other sex. Men have plenty to say to men, whichin their estimation (gained from tradition and experience) womencannot understand; and farmers of a much later date than the one ofwhich I am writing, would have contemptuously considered it as aloss of time to talk to women; indeed, they were often morecommunicative to the sheep-dog that accompanied them through all theday's work, and frequently became a sort of dumb confidant. FarmerRobson's Lassie now lay down at her master's feet, placed her nosebetween her paws, and watched with attentive eyes the preparationsgoing on for refreshments--preparations which, to thedisappointment of her canine heart, consisted entirely of tumblersand sugar.

  'Where's t' wench?' said Robson, after he had shaken hands withKinraid, and spoken a few words to him and to Mrs. Corney. 'She'sgetten' a basket wi' sausages in 'em, as my missus has made, andshe's a rare hand at sausages; there's noane like her in a' t' threeRidings, I'll be bound!'

  For Daniel could praise his wife's powers in her absence, though hedid not often express himself in an appreciative manner when she wasby to hear. But Sylvia's quick sense caught up the manner in whichMrs. Corney would apply the way in which her mother's housewifery hadbeen exalted, and stepping forwards out of the shadow, she said,--

  'Mother thought, ma
ybe, you hadn't killed a pig yet, and sausages isalways a bit savoury for any one who is na' well, and----'

  She might have gone on but that she caught Kinraid's eyes looking ather with kindly admiration. She stopped speaking, and Mrs. Corneytook up the word--

  'As for sausages, I ha' niver had a chance this year, else I standagain any one for t' making of 'em. Yorkshire hams 's a vast thoughton, and I'll niver let another county woman say as she can makebetter sausages nor me. But, as I'm saying, I'd niver a chance; forour pig, as I were sa fond on, and fed mysel', and as would ha' beenfourteen stone by now if he were an ounce, and as knew me as well asany Christian, and a pig, as I may say, that I just idolized, wentand took a fit a week after Michaelmas Day, and died, as if it hadbeen to spite me; and t' next is na' ready for killing, nor wunnotbe this six week. So I'm much beholden to your missus, and so'sCharley, I'm sure; though he's ta'en a turn to betterin' sin' hecame out here to be nursed.'

  'I'm a deal better,' said Kinraid; 'a'most ready for t' press-gangto give chase to again.'

  'But folk say they're gone off this coast for one while,' addedDaniel.

  'They're gone down towards Hull, as I've been told,' said Kinraid.'But they're a deep set, they'll be here before we know where weare, some of these days.'

  'See thee here!' said Daniel, exhibiting his maimed hand; 'a reckona served 'em out time o' t' Ameriky war.' And he began the storySylvia knew so well; for her father never made a new acquaintancebut what he told him of his self-mutilation to escape thepress-gang. It had been done, as he would himself have owned, tospite himself as well as them; for it had obliged him to leave asea-life, to which, in comparison, all life spent on shore was worsethan nothing for dulness. For Robson had never reached that rankaboard ship which made his being unable to run up the rigging, or tothrow a harpoon, or to fire off a gun, of no great consequence; sohe had to be thankful that an opportune legacy enabled him to turnfarmer, a great degradation in his opinion. But his blood warmed, ashe told the specksioneer, towards a sailor, and he pressed Kinraidto beguile the time when he was compelled to be ashore, by comingover to see him at Haytersbank, whenever he felt inclined.

  Sylvia, appearing to listen to Molly's confidences, was hearkeningin reality to all this conversation between her father and thespecksioneer; and at this invitation she became especiallyattentive.

  Kinraid replied,--

  'I'm much obliged to ye, I'm sure; maybe I can come and spend anev'ning wi' you; but as soon as I'm got round a bit, I must go seemy own people as live at Cullercoats near Newcastle-upo'-Tyne.'

  'Well, well!' said Daniel, rising to take leave, with unusualprudence as to the amount of his drink. 'Thou'lt see, thou'lt see! Ishall be main glad to see thee; if thou'lt come. But I've na' ladsto keep thee company, only one sprig of a wench. Sylvia, come here,an let's show thee to this young fellow!'

  Sylvia came forwards, ruddy as any rose, and in a moment Kinraidrecognized her as the pretty little girl he had seen crying sobitterly over Darley's grave. He rose up out of true sailor'sgallantry, as she shyly approached and stood by her father's side,scarcely daring to lift her great soft eyes, to have one fair gazeat his face. He had to support himself by one hand rested on thedresser, but she saw he was looking far better--younger, lesshaggard--than he had seemed to her before. His face was short andexpressive; his complexion had been weatherbeaten and bronzed,though now he looked so pale; his eyes and hair were dark,--theformer quick, deep-set, and penetrating; the latter curly, andalmost in ringlets. His teeth gleamed white as he smiled at her, apleasant friendly smile of recognition; but she only blushed thedeeper, and hung her head.

  'I'll come, sir, and be thankful. I daresay a turn'll do me good, ifthe weather holds up, an' th' frost keeps on.'

  'That's right, my lad,' said Robson, shaking him by the hand, andthen Kinraid's hand was held out to Sylvia, and she could not avoidthe same friendly action.

  Molly Corney followed her to the door, and when they were fairlyoutside, she held Sylvia back for an instant to say,--

  'Is na' he a fine likely man? I'm so glad as yo've seen him, forhe's to be off next week to Newcastle and that neighbourhood.'

  'But he said he'd come to us some night?' asked Sylvia, half in afright.

  'Ay, I'll see as he does; never fear. For I should like yo' for toknow him a bit. He's a rare talker. I'll mind him o' coming to yo'.'

  Somehow, Sylvia felt as if this repeated promise of remindingKinraid of his promise to come and see her father took away part ofthe pleasure she had anticipated from his visit. Yet what could bemore natural than that Molly Corney should wish her friend to beacquainted with the man whom Sylvia believed to be all but Molly'sengaged lover?

  Pondering these thoughts, the walk home was as silent as that goingto Moss Brow had been. The only change seemed to be that now theyfaced the brilliant northern lights flashing up the sky, and thateither this appearance or some of the whaling narrations of Kinraidhad stirred up Daniel Robson's recollections of a sea ditty, whichhe kept singing to himself in a low, unmusical voice, the burden ofwhich was, 'for I loves the tossin' say!' Bell met them at the door.

  'Well, and here ye are at home again! and Philip has been, Sylvie,to give thee thy ciphering lesson; and he stayed awhile, thinkingthou'd be coming back.'

  'I'm very sorry,' said Sylvia, more out of deference to her mother'stone of annoyance, than because she herself cared either for herlesson or her cousin's disappointment.

  'He'll come again to-morrow night, he says. But thou must take care,and mind the nights he says he'll come, for it's a long way to comefor nought.'

  Sylvia might have repeated her 'I'm very sorry' at this announcementof Philip's intentions; but she restrained herself, inwardly andfervently hoping that Molly would not urge the fulfilment of thespecksioneer's promise for to-morrow night, for Philip's being therewould spoil all; and besides, if she sate at the dresser at herlesson, and Kinraid at the table with her father, he might hear all,and find out what a dunce she was.

  She need not have been afraid. With the next night Hepburn came; andKinraid did not. After a few words to her mother, Philip producedthe candles he had promised, and some books and a quill or two.

  'What for hast thou brought candles?' asked Bell, in ahalf-affronted tone.

  Hepburn smiled.

  'Sylvia thought it would take a deal of candlelight, and was formaking it into a reason not to learn. I should ha' used t' candlesif I'd stayed at home, so I just brought them wi' me.'

  'Then thou may'st just take them back again,' said Bell, shortly,blowing out that which he had lighted, and placing one of her own onthe dresser instead.

  Sylvia caught her mother's look of displeasure, and it made herdocile for the evening, although she owed her cousin a grudge forher enforced good behaviour.

  'Now, Sylvia, here's a copy-book wi' t' Tower o' London on it, andwe'll fill it wi' as pretty writing as any in t' North Riding.'

  Sylvia sate quite still, unenlivened by this prospect.

  'Here's a pen as 'll nearly write of itsel',' continued Philip,still trying to coax her out her sullenness of manner.

  Then he arranged her in the right position.

  'Don't lay your head down on your left arm, you'll ne'er see towrite straight.'

  The attitude was changed, but not a word was spoken. Philip began togrow angry at such determined dumbness.

  'Are you tired?' asked he, with a strange mixture of crossness andtenderness.

  'Yes, very,' was her reply.

  'But thou ought'st not to be tired,' said Bell, who had not yet gotover the offence to her hospitality; who, moreover, liked hernephew, and had, to boot, a great respect for the learning she hadnever acquired.

  'Mother!' said Sylvia, bursting out, 'what's the use on my writing"Abednego," "Abednego," "Abednego," all down a page? If I could seet' use on 't, I'd ha' axed father to send me t' school; but I'm nonewanting to have learning.'

  'It's a fine thing, tho', is learning. My mother and my grandmotherhad
it: but th' family came down i' the world, and Philip's motherand me, we had none of it; but I ha' set my heart on thy having it,child.'

  'My fingers is stiff,' pleaded Sylvia, holding up her little handand shaking it.

  'Let us take a turn at spelling, then,' said Philip.

  'What's t' use on't?' asked captious Sylvia.

  'Why, it helps one i' reading an' writing.'

  'And what does reading and writing do for one?'

  Her mother gave her another of the severe looks that, quiet woman asshe was, she could occasionally bestow upon the refractory, andSylvia took her book and glanced down the column Philip pointed outto her; but, as she justly considered, one man might point out thetask, but twenty could not make her learn it, if she did not choose;and she sat herself down on the edge of the dresser, and idly gazedinto the fire. But her mother came round to look for something inthe drawers of the dresser, and as she passed her daughter she saidin a low voice--

  'Sylvie, be a good lass. I set a deal o' store by learning, andfather 'ud never send thee to school, as has stuck by me sore.'

  If Philip, sitting with his back to them, heard these words he wasdiscreet enough not to show that he heard. And he had his reward;for in a very short time, Sylvia stood before him with her book inher hand, prepared to say her spelling. At which he also stood up byinstinct, and listened to her slow succeeding letters; helping herout, when she looked up at him with a sweet childlike perplexity inher face: for a dunce as to book-learning poor Sylvia was and waslikely to remain; and, in spite of his assumed office ofschoolmaster, Philip Hepburn could almost have echoed the words ofthe lover of Jess MacFarlane--

  I sent my love a letter, But, alas! she canna read, And I lo'e her a' the better.

  Still he knew his aunt's strong wish on the subject, and it was verydelightful to stand in the relation of teacher to so dear andpretty, if so wilful, a pupil.

  Perhaps it was not very flattering to notice Sylvia's great joy whenher lessons were over, sadly shortened as they were by Philip'sdesire not to be too hard upon her. Sylvia danced round to hermother, bent her head back, and kissed her face, and then saiddefyingly to Philip,--

  'If iver I write thee a letter it shall just be full of nothing but"Abednego! Abednego! Abednego!"'

  But at this moment her father came in from a distant expedition onthe moors with Kester to look after the sheep he had pasturing therebefore the winter set fairly in. He was tired, and so was Lassie,and so, too, was Kester, who, lifting his heavy legs one after theother, and smoothing down his hair, followed his master into thehouse-place, and seating himself on a bench at the farther end ofthe dresser, patiently awaited the supper of porridge and milk whichhe shared with his master. Sylvia, meanwhile, coaxed Lassie--poorfootsore dog--to her side, and gave her some food, which thecreature was almost too tired to eat. Philip made as though he wouldbe going, but Daniel motioned to him to be quiet.

  'Sit thee down, lad. As soon as I've had my victual, I want t' heara bit o' news.'

  Sylvia took her sewing and sat at the little round table by hermother, sharing the light of the scanty dip-candle. No one spoke.Every one was absorbed in what they were doing. What Philip wasdoing was, gazing at Sylvia--learning her face off by heart.

  When every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the mighty bowl,Kester yawned, and wishing good-night, withdrew to his loft over thecow-house. Then Philip pulled out the weekly York paper, and beganto read the latest accounts of the war then raging. This was givingDaniel one of his greatest pleasures; for though he could readpretty well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding whathe read was almost too much for him. He could read, or he couldunderstand what was read aloud to him; reading was no pleasure, butlistening was.

  Besides, he had a true John Bullish interest in the war, withoutvery well knowing what the English were fighting for. But in thosedays, so long as they fought the French for any cause, or for nocause at all, every true patriot was satisfied. Sylvia and hermother did not care for any such far-extended interest; a little bitof York news, the stealing of a few apples out of a Scarboroughgarden that they knew, was of far more interest to them than all thebattles of Nelson and the North.

  Philip read in a high-pitched and unnatural tone of voice, whichdeprived the words of their reality; for even familiar expressionscan become unfamiliar and convey no ideas, if the utterance isforced or affected. Philip was somewhat of a pedant; yet there was asimplicity in his pedantry not always to be met with in those whoare self-taught, and which might have interested any one who caredto know with what labour and difficulty he had acquired theknowledge which now he prized so highly; reading out Latinquotations as easily as if they were English, and taking a pleasurein rolling polysyllables, until all at once looking askance atSylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her pretty rosy lipsopen, her eyes fast shut; in short, she was asleep.

  'Ay,' said Farmer Robson, 'and t' reading has a'most sent me off.Mother 'd look angry now if I was to tell yo' yo' had a right to akiss; but when I was a young man I'd ha' kissed a pretty girl as Isaw asleep, afore yo'd said Jack Robson.'

  Philip trembled at these words, and looked at his aunt. She gave himno encouragement, standing up, and making as though she had neverheard her husband's speech, by extending her hand, and wishing him'good-night.' At the noise of the chairs moving over the flag floor,Sylvia started up, confused and annoyed at her father's laughter.

  'Ay, lass; it's iver a good time t' fall asleep when a young fellowis by. Here's Philip here as thou'rt bound t' give a pair o' glovesto.'

  Sylvia went like fire; she turned to her mother to read her face.

  'It's only father's joke, lass,' said she. 'Philip knows manners toowell.'

  'He'd better,' said Sylvia, flaming round at him. 'If he'd a touchedme, I'd niver ha' spoken to him no more.' And she looked even as itwas as if she was far from forgiving him.

  'Hoots, lass! wenches are brought up sa mim, now-a-days; i' my timethey'd ha' thought na' such great harm of a kiss.'

  'Good-night, Philip,' said Bell Robson, thinking the conversationunseemly.

  'Good-night, aunt, good-night, Sylvie!' But Sylvia turned her backon him, and he could hardly say 'good-night' to Daniel, who hadcaused such an unpleasant end to an evening that had at one timebeen going on so well.