CHAPTER XII
NEW YEAR'S FETE
All this enlargement of interest in the shop occupied Philip fullyfor some months after the period referred to in the precedingchapter. Remembering his last conversation with his aunt, he mighthave been uneasy at his inability to perform his promise and lookafter his pretty cousin, but that about the middle of November BellRobson had fallen ill of a rheumatic fever, and that her daughterhad been entirely absorbed in nursing her. No thought of company orgaiety was in Sylvia's mind as long as her mother's illness lasted;vehement in all her feelings, she discovered in the dread of losingher mother how passionately she was attached to her. Hitherto shehad supposed, as children so often do, that her parents would livefor ever; and now when it was a question of days, whether by thattime the following week her mother might not be buried out of hersight for ever, she clung to every semblance of service to berendered, or affection shown, as if she hoped to condense the loveand care of years into the few days only that might remain. Mrs.Robson lingered on, began slowly to recover, and before Christmaswas again sitting by the fireside in the house-place, wan and pulleddown, muffled up with shawls and blankets, but still there oncemore, where not long before Sylvia had scarcely expected to see heragain. Philip came up that evening and found Sylvia in wild spirits.She thought that everything was done, now that her mother had oncecome downstairs again; she laughed with glee; she kissed her mother;she shook hands with Philip, she almost submitted to a speech ofmore than usual tenderness from him; but, in the midst of his words,her mother's pillows wanted arranging and she went to her chair,paying no more heed to his words than if they had been addressed tothe cat, that lying on the invalid's knee was purring out herwelcome to the weak hand feebly stroking her back. Robson himselfsoon came in, looking older and more subdued since Philip had seenhim last. He was very urgent that his wife should have some spiritsand water; but on her refusal, almost as if she loathed the thoughtof the smell, he contented himself with sharing her tea, though hekept abusing the beverage as 'washing the heart out of a man,' andattributing all the degeneracy of the world, growing up about him inhis old age, to the drinking of such slop. At the same time, hislittle self-sacrifice put him in an unusually good temper; and,mingled with his real gladness at having his wife once more on theway to recovery, brought back some of the old charm of tendernesscombined with light-heartedness, which had won the sober IsabellaPreston long ago. He sat by her side, holding her hand, and talkingof old times to the young couple opposite; of his adventures andescapes, and how he had won his wife. She, faintly smiling at theremembrance of those days, yet half-ashamed at having the littledetails of her courtship revealed, from time to time kept saying,--
'For shame wi' thee, Dannel--I never did,' and faint denials of asimilar kind.
'Niver believe her, Sylvie. She were a woman, and there's niver awoman but likes to have a sweetheart, and can tell when a chap'scastin' sheep's-eyes at her; ay, an' afore he knows what he's abouthissen. She were a pretty one then, was my old 'ooman, an' likedthem as thought her so, though she did cock her head high, as bein'a Preston, which were a family o' standin' and means i' those partsaforetime. There's Philip there, I'll warrant, is as proud o' bein'Preston by t' mother's side, for it runs i' t' blood, lass. A cantell when a child of a Preston tak's to being proud o' their kin, byt' cut o' their nose. Now Philip's and my missus's has a turn beyondcommon i' their nostrils, as if they was sniffin' at t' rest of usworld, an' seein' if we was good enough for 'em to consort wi'. Theean' me, lass, is Robsons--oat-cake folk, while they's pie-crust.Lord! how Bell used to speak to me, as short as though a wasn't aChristian, an' a' t' time she loved me as her very life, an' well aknew it, tho' a'd to mak' as tho' a didn't. Philip, when thou goescourtin', come t' me, and a'll give thee many a wrinkle. A've shown,too, as a know well how t' choose a good wife by tokens an' signs,hannot a, missus? Come t' me, my lad, and show me t' lass, an' a'lljust tak' a squint at her, an' tell yo' if she'll do or not; an' ifshe'll do, a'll teach yo' how to win her.'
'They say another o' yon Corney girls is going to be married,' saidMrs. Robson, in her faint deliberate tones.
'By gosh, an' it's well thou'st spoke on 'em; a was as cleanforgettin' it as iver could be. A met Nanny Corney i' Monkshavenlast neet, and she axed me for t' let our Sylvia come o' New Year'sEve, an' see Molly an' her man, that 'n as is wed beyond Newcassel,they'll be over at her feyther's, for t' New Year, an' there's to bea merry-making.'
Sylvia's colour came, her eyes brightened, she would have liked togo; but the thought of her mother came across her, and her featuresfell. Her mother's eye caught the look and the change, and knew whatboth meant as well as if Sylvia had spoken out.
'Thursday se'nnight,' said she. 'I'll be rare and strong by then,and Sylvie shall go play hersen; she's been nurse-tending longenough.'
'You're but weakly yet,' said Philip shortly; he did not intend tosay it, but the words seemed to come out in spite of himself.
'A said as our lass should come, God willin', if she only came andwent, an' thee goin' on sprightly, old 'ooman. An' a'll turnnurse-tender mysen for t' occasion, 'special if thou can stand t'good honest smell o' whisky by then. So, my lass, get up thy smartclothes, and cut t' best on 'em out, as becomes a Preston. Maybe,a'll fetch thee home, an' maybe Philip will convoy thee, for NannyCorney bade thee to t' merry-making, as well. She said her measterwould be seem' thee about t' wool afore then.'
'I don't think as I can go,' said Philip, secretly pleased to knowthat he had the opportunity in his power; 'I'm half bound to go Wi'Hester Rose and her mother to t' watch-night.'
'Is Hester a Methodee?' asked Sylvia in surprise.
'No! she's neither a Methodee, nor a Friend, nor a Church person;but she's a turn for serious things, choose wherever they're found.'
'Well, then,' said good-natured farmer Robson, only seeing thesurface of things, 'a'll make shift to fetch Sylvie back fra' t'merry-making, and thee an' thy young woman can go to t'prayer-makin'; it's every man to his taste, say I.'
But in spite of his half-promise, nay against his naturalinclination, Philip was lured to the Corneys' by the thought ofmeeting Sylvia, of watching her and exulting in her superiority inpretty looks and ways to all the other girls likely to be assembled.Besides (he told his conscience) he was pledged to his aunt to watchover Sylvia like a brother. So in the interval before New Year'sEve, he silently revelled as much as any young girl in theanticipation of the happy coming time.
At this hour, all the actors in this story having played out theirparts and gone to their rest, there is something touching inrecording the futile efforts made by Philip to win from Sylvia thelove he yearned for. But, at the time, any one who had watched himmight have been amused to see the grave, awkward, plain young manstudying patterns and colours for a new waistcoat, with his head alittle on one side, after the meditative manner common to those whoare choosing a new article of dress. They might have smiled couldthey have read in his imagination the frequent rehearsals of thecoming evening, when he and she should each be dressed in their galaattire, to spend a few hours under a bright, festive aspect, amongpeople whose company would oblige them to assume a new demeanourtowards each other, not so familiar as their every-day manner, butallowing more scope for the expression of rustic gallantry. Philiphad so seldom been to anything of the kind, that, even had Sylvianot been going, he would have felt a kind of shy excitement at theprospect of anything so unusual. But, indeed, if Sylvia had not beengoing, it is very probable that Philip's rigid conscience might havebeen aroused to the question whether such parties did not savour toomuch of the world for him to form one in them.
As it was, however, the facts to him were simply these. He was goingand she was going. The day before, he had hurried off to HaytersbankFarm with a small paper parcel in his pocket--a ribbon with a littlebriar-rose pattern running upon it for Sylvia. It was the firstthing he had ever ventured to give her--the first thing of the kindwould, perhaps, be more accurate; for when he had firs
t begun toteach her any lessons, he had given her Mavor's Spelling-book, butthat he might have done, out of zeal for knowledge, to any dunce ofa little girl of his acquaintance. This ribbon was quite a differentkind of present; he touched it tenderly, as if he were caressing it,when he thought of her wearing it; the briar-rose (sweetness andthorns) seemed to be the very flower for her; the soft, green groundon which the pink and brown pattern ran, was just the colour to showoff her complexion. And she would in a way belong to him: hercousin, her mentor, her chaperon, her lover! While others onlyadmired, he might hope to appropriate; for of late they had beensuch happy friends! Her mother approved of him, her father likedhim. A few months, perhaps only a few weeks more of self-restraint,and then he might go and speak openly of his wishes, and what he hadto offer. For he had resolved, with the quiet force of hischaracter, to wait until all was finally settled between him and hismasters, before he declared himself to either Sylvia or her parents.The interval was spent in patient, silent endeavours to recommendhimself to her.
He had to give his ribbon to his aunt in charge for Sylvia, and thatwas a disappointment to his fancy, although he tried to reasonhimself into thinking that it was better so. He had not time to waitfor her return from some errand on which she had gone, for he wasdaily more and more occupied with the affairs of the shop.
Sylvia made many a promise to her mother, and more to herself, thatshe would not stay late at the party, but she might go as early asshe liked; and before the December daylight had faded away, Sylviapresented herself at the Corneys'. She was to come early in order tohelp to set out the supper, which was arranged in the large oldflagged parlour, which served as best bed-room as well. It openedout of the house-place, and was the sacred room of the house, aschambers of a similar description are still considered in retiredfarmhouses in the north of England. They are used on occasions likethe one now described for purposes of hospitality; but in the statebed, overshadowing so large a portion of the floor, the births and,as far as may be, the deaths, of the household take place. At theCorneys', the united efforts of some former generation of the familyhad produced patchwork curtains and coverlet; and patchwork waspatchwork in those days, before the early Yates and Peels had foundout the secret of printing the parsley-leaf. Scraps of costly Indianchintzes and palempours were intermixed with commoner black and redcalico in minute hexagons; and the variety of patterns served forthe useful purpose of promoting conversation as well as the moreobvious one of displaying the work-woman 's taste. Sylvia, forinstance, began at once to her old friend, Molly Brunton, who hadaccompanied her into this chamber to take off her hat and cloak,with a remark on one of the chintzes. Stooping over the counterpane,with a face into which the flush would come whether or no, she saidto Molly,--
'Dear! I never seed this one afore--this--for all t' world like th'eyes in a peacock's tail.'
'Thou's seen it many a time and oft, lass. But weren't thousurprised to find Charley here? We picked him up at Shields, quiteby surprise like; and when Brunton and me said as we was comin'here, nought would serve him but comin' with us, for t' see t' newyear in. It's a pity as your mother's ta'en this time for t' fallill and want yo' back so early.'
Sylvia had taken off her hat and cloak by this time, and began tohelp Molly and a younger unmarried sister in laying out thesubstantial supper.
'Here,' continued Mrs. Brunton; 'stick a bit o' holly i' yon pig'smouth, that's the way we do things i' Newcassel; but folks is sobehindhand in Monkshaven. It's a fine thing to live in a large town,Sylvia; an' if yo're looking out for a husband, I'd advise yo' totak' one as lives in a town. I feel as if I were buried alive comin'back here, such an out-o'-t'-way place after t' Side, wheere there'smany a hundred carts and carriages goes past in a day. I've a greatmind for t' tak yo' two lassies back wi' me, and let yo' see a bito' t' world; may-be, I may yet.
Her sister Bessy looked much pleased with this plan, but Sylvia wasrather inclined to take offence at Molly's patronizing ways, andreplied,--
'I'm none so fond o' noise and bustle; why, yo'll not be able tohear yoursels speak wi' all them carts and carriages. I'd raytherbide at home; let alone that mother can't spare me.'
It was, perhaps, a rather ungracious way of answering MollyBrunton's speech, and so she felt it to be, although her invitationhad been none of the most courteously worded. She irritated Sylviastill further by repeating her last words,--
'"Mother can't spare me;" why, mother 'll have to spare theesometime, when t' time for wedding comes.'
'I'm none going to be wed,' said Sylvia; 'and if I were, I'd nivergo far fra' mother.'
'Eh! what a spoilt darling it is. How Brunton will laugh when I tellhim about yo'; Brunton's a rare one for laughin'. It's a great thingto have got such a merry man for a husband. Why! he has his joke forevery one as comes into t' shop; and he'll ha' something funny tosay to everything this evenin'.'
Bessy saw that Sylvia was annoyed, and, with more delicacy than hersister, she tried to turn the conversation.
'That's a pretty ribbon in thy hair, Sylvia; I'd like to have one o't' same pattern. Feyther likes pickled walnuts stuck about t' roundo' beef, Molly.'
'I know what I'm about,' replied Mrs. Brunton, with a toss of hermarried head.
Bessy resumed her inquiry.
'Is there any more to be had wheere that come fra', Sylvia?'
'I don't know,' replied Sylvia. 'It come fra' Foster's, and yo' canask.'
'What might it cost?' said Betsy, fingering an end of it to test itsquality.
'I can't tell,' said Sylvia, 'it were a present.'
'Niver mak' ado about t' price,' said Molly; 'I'll gi'e thee enoughon 't to tie up thy hair, just like Sylvia's. Only thou hastn't suchwealth o' curls as she has; it'll niver look t' same i' thy straightlocks. And who might it be as give it thee, Sylvia?' asked theunscrupulous, if good-natured Molly.
'My cousin Philip, him as is shopman at Foster's,' said Sylvia,innocently. But it was far too good an opportunity for the exerciseof Molly's kind of wit for her to pass over.
'Oh, oh! our cousin Philip, is it? and he'll not be living so faraway from your mother? I've no need be a witch to put two and twotogether. He's a coming here to-night, isn't he, Bessy?'
'I wish yo' wouldn't talk so, Molly,' said Sylvia; 'me and Philip isgood enough friends, but we niver think on each other in that way;leastways, I don't.'
'(Sweet butter! now that's my mother's old-fashioned way; as iffolks must eat sweet butter now-a-days, because her mother did!)That way,' continued Molly, in the manner that annoyed Sylvia somuch, repeating her words as if for the purpose of laughing at them.'"That way?" and pray what is t' way yo're speaking on? I niver saidnought about marrying, did I, that yo' need look so red andshamefaced about yo'r cousin Philip? But, as Brunton says, if t' capfits yo', put it on. I'm glad he's comin' to-night tho', for as I'mdone makin' love and courtin', it's next best t' watch other folks;an' yo'r face, Sylvia, has letten me into a secret, as I'd someglimpses on afore I was wed.'
Sylvia secretly determined not to speak a word more to Philip thanshe could help, and wondered how she could ever have liked Molly atall, much less have made a companion of her. The table was now laidout, and nothing remained but to criticize the arrangement a little.
Bessy was full of admiration.
'Theere, Molly!' said she. 'Yo' niver seed more vittle broughttogether i' Newcassel, I'll be bound; there'll be above half ahundredweight o' butcher's meat, beside pies and custards. I'veeaten no dinner these two days for thinking on 't; it's been a wearyburden on my mind, but it's off now I see how well it looks. I toldmother not to come near it till we'd spread it all out, and now I'llgo fetch her.'
Bessy ran off into the house-place.
'It's well enough in a country kind o' way,' said Molly, with thefaint approbation of condescension. 'But if I'd thought on, I'd ha'brought 'em down a beast or two done i' sponge-cake, wi' currantsfor his eyes to give t' table an air.'
The door was opened, and Bessy came in smiling
and blushing withproud pleasure. Her mother followed her on tip-toe, smoothing downher apron, and with her voice subdued to a whisper:--
'Ay, my lass, it _is_ fine! But dunnot mak' an ado about it, let 'emthink it's just our common way. If any one says aught about how goodt' vittle is, tak' it calm, and say we'n better i' t' house,--it'llmak' 'em eat wi' a better appetite, and think the more on us.Sylvie, I'm much beholden t' ye for comin' so early, and helpin' t'lasses, but yo' mun come in t' house-place now, t' folks isgatherin', an' yo'r cousin's been asking after yo' a'ready.'
Molly gave her a nudge, which made Sylvia's face go all aflame withangry embarrassment. She was conscious that the watching which Mollyhad threatened her with began directly; for Molly went up to herhusband, and whispered something to him which set him off in achuckling laugh, and Sylvia was aware that his eyes followed herabout with knowing looks all the evening. She would hardly speak toPhilip, and pretended not to see his outstretched hand, but passedon to the chimney-corner, and tried to shelter herself behind thebroad back of farmer Corney, who had no notion of relinquishing hiscustomary place for all the young people who ever came to thehouse,--or for any old people either, for that matter. It was hishousehold throne, and there he sat with no more idea of abdicatingin favour of any comer than King George at St James's. But he wasglad to see his friends; and had paid them the unwonted complimentof shaving on a week-day, and putting on his Sunday coat. The unitedefforts of wife and children had failed to persuade him to make anyfarther change in his attire; to all their arguments on this head hehad replied,--
'Them as doesn't like t' see me i' my work-a-day wescut and breechesmay bide away.'
It was the longest sentence he said that day, but he repeated itseveral times over. He was glad enough to see all the young people,but they were not 'of his kidney,' as he expressed it to himself,and he did not feel any call upon himself to entertain them. He leftthat to his bustling wife, all smartness and smiles, and to hisdaughters and son-in-law. His efforts at hospitality consisted insitting still, smoking his pipe; when any one came, he took it outof his mouth for an instant, and nodded his head in a cheerfulfriendly way, without a word of speech; and then returned to hissmoking with the greater relish for the moment's intermission. Hethought to himself:--
'They're a set o' young chaps as thinks more on t' lasses than onbaccy;--they'll find out their mistake in time; give 'em time, give'em time.'
And before eight o'clock, he went as quietly as a man of twelvestone can upstairs to bed, having made a previous arrangement withhis wife that she should bring him up about two pounds of spicedbeef, and a hot tumbler of stiff grog. But at the beginning of theevening he formed a good screen for Sylvia, who was rather afavourite with the old man, for twice he spoke to her.
'Feyther smokes?'
'Yes,' said Sylvia.
'Reach me t' baccy-box, my lass.'
And that was all the conversation that passed between her and hernearest neighbour for the first quarter of an hour after she cameinto company.
But, for all her screen, she felt a pair of eyes were fixed upon herwith a glow of admiration deepening their honest brightness.Somehow, look in what direction she would, she caught the glance ofthose eyes before she could see anything else. So she played withher apron-strings, and tried not to feel so conscious. There wereanother pair of eyes,--not such beautiful, sparklingeyes,--deep-set, earnest, sad, nay, even gloomy, watching her everymovement; but of this she was not aware. Philip had not recoveredfrom the rebuff she had given him by refusing his offered hand, andwas standing still, in angry silence, when Mrs. Corney thrust a youngwoman just arrived upon his attention.
'Come, Measter Hepburn, here's Nancy Pratt wi'out ev'n a soul tospeak t' her, an' yo' mopin' theere. She says she knows yo' by sightfra' having dealt at Foster's these six year. See if yo' can't findsummut t' say t' each other, for I mun go pour out tea. Dixons, an'Walkers, an' Elliotts, an' Smiths is come,' said she, marking offthe families on her fingers, as she looked round and called overtheir names; 'an' there's only Will Latham an' his two sisters, andRoger Harbottle, an' Taylor t' come; an' they'll turn up afore tea'sended.'
So she went off to her duty at the one table, which, placedalongside of the dresser, was the only article of furniture left inthe middle of the room: all the seats being arranged as close to thefour walls as could be managed. The candles of those days gave but afaint light compared to the light of the immense fire, which it wasa point of hospitality to keep at the highest roaring, blazingpitch; the young women occupied the seats, with the exception of twoor three of the elder ones, who, in an eager desire to show theircapability, insisted on helping Mrs. Corney in her duties, very muchto her annoyance, as there were certain little contrivances foreking out cream, and adjusting the strength of the cups of tea tothe worldly position of the intended drinkers, which she did notlike every one to see. The young men,--whom tea did not embolden,and who had as yet had no chance of stronger liquor,--clustered inrustic shyness round the door, not speaking even to themselves,except now and then, when one, apparently the wag of the party, madesome whispered remark, which set them all off laughing; but in aminute they checked themselves, and passed the back of their handsacross their mouths to compose that unlucky feature, and then somewould try to fix their eyes on the rafters of the ceiling, in amanner which was decorous if rather abstracted from the business inhand. Most of these were young farmers, with whom Philip had nothingin common, and from whom, in shy reserve, he had withdrawn himselfwhen he first came in. But now he wished himself among them soonerthan set to talk to Nancy Pratt, when he had nothing to say. And yethe might have had a companion less to his mind, for she was a decentyoung woman of a sober age, less inclined to giggle than many of theyounger ones. But all the time that he was making commonplaceremarks to her he was wondering if he had offended Sylvia, and whyshe would not shake hands with him, and this pre-occupation of histhoughts did not make him an agreeable companion. Nancy Pratt, whohad been engaged for some years to a mate of a whaling-ship,perceived something of his state of mind, and took no offence at it;on the contrary, she tried to give him pleasure by admiring Sylvia.
'I've often heerd tell on her,' said she, 'but I niver thought she'sbe so pretty, and so staid and quiet-like too. T' most part o' girlsas has looks like hers are always gape-gazing to catch other folks'seyes, and see what is thought on 'em; but she looks just like achild, a bit flustered wi' coming into company, and gettin' into asdark a corner and bidin' as still as she can.
Just then Sylvia lifted up her long, dark lashes, and catching thesame glance which she had so often met before--Charley Kinraid wasstanding talking to Brunton on the opposite side of thefire-place--she started back into the shadow as if she had notexpected it, and in so doing spilt her tea all over her gown. Shecould almost have cried, she felt herself so awkward, and as ifeverything was going wrong with her; she thought that every onewould think she had never been in company before, and did not knowhow to behave; and while she was thus fluttered and crimson, she sawthrough her tearful eyes Kinraid on his knees before her, wiping hergown with his silk pocket handkerchief, and heard him speakingthrough all the buzz of commiserating voices.
'Your cupboard handle is so much i' th' way--I hurt my elbowagainst it only this very afternoon.'
So perhaps it was no clumsiness of hers,--as they would all know,now, since he had so skilfully laid the blame somewhere else; andafter all it turned out that her accident had been the means ofbringing him across to her side, which was much more pleasant thanhaving him opposite, staring at her; for now he began to talk toher, and this was very pleasant, although she was rather embarrassedat their _tete-a-tete_ at first.
'I did not know you again when I first saw you,' said he, in a tonewhich implied a good deal more than was uttered in words.
'I knowed yo' at once,' she replied, softly, and then she blushedand played with her apron-string, and wondered if she ought to haveconfessed to the clearness of her recollection.
'Y
ou're grown up into--well, perhaps it's not manners to say whatyou're grown into--anyhow, I shan't forget yo' again.'
More playing with her apron-string, and head hung still lower down,though the corners of her mouth would go up in a shy smile ofpleasure. Philip watched it all as greedily as if it gave himdelight.
'Yo'r father, he'll be well and hearty, I hope?' asked Charley.
'Yes,' replied Sylvia, and then she wished she could originate someremark; he would think her so stupid if she just kept on saying suchlittle short bits of speeches, and if he thought her stupid he mightperhaps go away again to his former place.
But he was quite far enough gone in love of her beauty, and prettymodest ways, not to care much whether she talked or no, so long asshe showed herself so pleasingly conscious of his closeneighbourhood.
'I must come and see the old gentleman; and your mother, too,' headded more slowly, for he remembered that his visits last year hadnot been quite so much welcomed by Bell Robson as by her husband;perhaps it was because of the amount of drink which he and Danielmanaged to get through of an evening. He resolved this year to bemore careful to please the mother of Sylvia.
When tea was ended there was a great bustle and shifting of places,while Mrs. Corney and her daughters carried out trays full of usedcups, and great platters of uneaten bread and butter into theback-kitchen, to be washed up after the guests were gone. Justbecause she was so conscious that she did not want to move, andbreak up the little conversation between herself and Kinraid, Sylviaforced herself to be as active in the service going on as became afriend of the house; and she was too much her mother's own daughterto feel comfortable at leaving all the things in the disorder whichto the Corney girls was second nature.
'This milk mun go back to t' dairy, I reckon,' said she, loadingherself with milk and cream.
'Niver fash thysel' about it,' said Nelly Corney, 'Christmas comesbut onest a year, if it does go sour; and mother said she'd have agame at forfeits first thing after tea to loosen folks's tongues,and mix up t' lads and lasses, so come along.'
But Sylvia steered her careful way to the cold chill of the dairy,and would not be satisfied till she had carried away all the unusedprovision into some fresher air than that heated by the fires andovens used for the long day's cooking of pies and cakes and muchroast meat.
When they came back a round of red-faced 'lads,' as young men up tofive-and-thirty are called in Lancashire and Yorkshire if they arenot married before, and lasses, whose age was not to be defined,were playing at some country game, in which the women wereapparently more interested than the men, who looked shamefaced, andafraid of each other's ridicule. Mrs. Corney, however, knew how toremedy this, and at a sign from her a great jug of beer was broughtin. This jug was the pride of her heart, and was in the shape of afat man in white knee-breeches, and a three-cornered hat; with onearm he supported the pipe in his broad, smiling mouth, and the otherwas placed akimbo and formed the handle. There was also a greatchina punch-bowl filled with grog made after an old ship-receiptcurrent in these parts, but not too strong, because if theirvisitors had too much to drink at that early part of the evening 'itwould spoil t' fun,' as Nelly Corney had observed. Her father,however, after the notions of hospitality prevalent at that time inhigher circles, had stipulated that each man should have 'enough'before he left the house; enough meaning in Monkshaven parlance theliberty of getting drunk, if they thought fit to do it.
Before long one of the lads was seized with a fit of admiration forToby--the name of the old gentleman who contained liquor--and wentup to the tray for a closer inspection. He was speedily followed byother amateurs of curious earthenware; and by-and-by Mr. Brunton (whohad been charged by his mother-in-law with the due supplying ofliquor--by his father-in-law that every man should have his fill,and by his wife and her sisters that no one should have too much, atany rate at the beginning of the evening,) thought fit to carry outToby to be replenished; and a faster spirit of enjoyment and mirthbegan to reign in the room.
Kinraid was too well seasoned to care what amount of liquor hedrank; Philip had what was called a weak head, and disliked muddlinghimself with drink because of the immediate consequence of intensefeelings of irritability, and the more distant one of a rackingheadache next day; so both these two preserved very much the samedemeanour they had held at the beginning of the evening.
Sylvia was by all acknowledged and treated as the belle. When theyplayed at blind-man's-buff go where she would, she was alwayscaught; she was called out repeatedly to do what was required in anygame, as if all had a pleasure in seeing her light figure and deftways. She was sufficiently pleased with this to have got over hershyness with all except Charley. When others paid her their rusticcompliments she tossed her head, and made her little saucyrepartees; but when he said something low and flattering, it was toohoney-sweet to her heart to be thrown off thus. And, somehow, themore she yielded to this fascination the more she avoided Philip. Hedid not speak flatteringly--he did not pay compliments--he watchedher with discontented, longing eyes, and grew more inclined everymoment, as he remembered his anticipation of a happy evening, to cryout in his heart _vanitas vanitatum_.
And now came crying the forfeits. Molly Brunton knelt down, her faceburied in her mother's lap; the latter took out the forfeits one byone, and as she held them up, said the accustomed formula,--
'A fine thing and a very fine thing, what must he (or she) do whoowns this thing.'
One or two had been told to kneel to the prettiest, bow to thewittiest, and kiss those they loved best; others had had to bite aninch off the poker, or such plays upon words. And now came Sylvia'spretty new ribbon that Philip had given her (he almost longed tosnatch it out of Mrs. Corney's hands and burn it before all theirfaces, so annoyed was he with the whole affair.)
'A fine thing and a very fine thing--a most particular finething--choose how she came by it. What must she do as owns thisthing?'
'She must blow out t' candle and kiss t' candlestick.'
In one instant Kinraid had hold of the only candle within reach, allthe others had been put up high on inaccessible shelves and otherplaces. Sylvia went up and blew out the candle, and before thesudden partial darkness was over he had taken the candle into hisfingers, and, according to the traditional meaning of the words, wasin the place of the candlestick, and as such was to be kissed. Everyone laughed at innocent Sylvia's face as the meaning of her penancecame into it, every one but Philip, who almost choked.
'I'm candlestick,' said Kinraid, with less of triumph in his voicethan he would have had with any other girl in the room.
'Yo' mun kiss t' candlestick,' cried the Corneys, 'or yo'll niverget yo'r ribbon back.'
'And she sets a deal o' store by that ribbon,' said Molly Brunton,maliciously.
'I'll none kiss t' candlestick, nor him either,' said Sylvia, in alow voice of determination, turning away, full of confusion.
'Yo'll not get yo'r ribbon if yo' dunnot,' cried one and all.
'I don't care for t' ribbon,' said she, flashing up with a look ather tormentors, now her back was turned to Kinraid. 'An' I wunnotplay any more at such like games,' she added, with fresh indignationrising in her heart as she took her old place in the corner of theroom a little away from the rest.
Philip's spirits rose, and he yearned to go to her and tell her howhe approved of her conduct. Alas, Philip! Sylvia, though as modest agirl as ever lived, was no prude, and had been brought up in simple,straightforward country ways; and with any other young man,excepting, perhaps, Philip's self, she would have thought no more ofmaking a rapid pretence of kissing the hand or cheek of thetemporary 'candlestick', than our ancestresses did in a much higherrank on similar occasions. Kinraid, though mortified by his publicrejection, was more conscious of this than the inexperienced Philip;he resolved not to be baulked, and watched his opportunity. For thetime he went on playing as if Sylvia's conduct had not affected himin the least, and as if he was hardly aware of her defection fromthe game. As she saw other
s submitting, quite as a matter of course,to similar penances, she began to be angry with herself for havingthought twice about it, and almost to dislike herself for thestrange consciousness which had made it at the time seem impossibleto do what she was told. Her eyes kept filling with tears as herisolated position in the gay party, the thought of what a fool shehad made of herself, kept recurring to her mind; but no one saw her,she thought, thus crying; and, ashamed to be discovered when theparty should pause in their game, she stole round behind them intothe great chamber in which she had helped to lay out the supper,with the intention of bathing her eyes, and taking a drink of water.One instant Charley Kinraid was missing from the circle of which hewas the life and soul; and then back he came with an air ofsatisfaction on his face, intelligible enough to those who had seenhis game; but unnoticed by Philip, who, amidst the perpetual noiseand movements around him, had not perceived Sylvia's leaving theroom, until she came back at the end of about a quarter of an hour,looking lovelier than ever, her complexion brilliant, her eyesdrooping, her hair neatly and freshly arranged, tied with a brownribbon instead of that she was supposed to have forfeited. Shelooked as if she did not wish her return to be noticed, stealingsoftly behind the romping lads and lasses with noiseless motions,and altogether such a contrast to them in her cool freshness andmodest neatness, that both Kinraid and Philip found it difficult tokeep their eyes off her. But the former had a secret triumph in hisheart which enabled him to go on with his merry-making as if itabsorbed him; while Philip dropped out of the crowd and came up towhere she was standing silently by Mrs. Corney, who, arms akimbo, waslaughing at the frolic and fun around her. Sylvia started a littlewhen Philip spoke, and kept her soft eyes averted from him after thefirst glance; she answered him shortly, but with unaccustomedgentleness. He had only asked her when she would like him to takeher home; and she, a little surprised at the idea of going home whento her the evening seemed only beginning, had answered--
'Go home? I don't know! It's New Year's eve!'
'Ay! but yo'r mother 'll lie awake till yo' come home, Sylvie!'
But Mrs. Corney, having heard his question, broke in with all sortsof upbraidings. 'Go home! Not see t' New Year in! Why, what shouldtake 'em home these six hours? Wasn't there a moon as clear as day?and did such a time as this come often? And were they to break upthe party before the New Year came in? And was there not supper,with a spiced round of beef that had been in pickle pretty nigh sin'Martinmas, and hams, and mince-pies, and what not? And if theythought any evil of her master's going to bed, or that by that earlyretirement he meant to imply that he did not bid his friendswelcome, why he would not stay up beyond eight o'clock for KingGeorge upon his throne, as he'd tell them soon enough, if they'donly step upstairs and ask him. Well; she knowed what it was to wanta daughter when she was ailing, so she'd say nought more, but hastensupper.
And this idea now took possession of Mrs. Corney's mind, for shewould not willingly allow one of her guests to leave before they haddone justice to her preparations; and, cutting her speech short, shehastily left Sylvia and Philip together.
His heart beat fast; his feeling towards her had never been sostrong or so distinct as since her refusal to kiss the'candlestick.' He was on the point of speaking, of saying somethingexplicitly tender, when the wooden trencher which the party wereusing at their play, came bowling between him and Sylvia, and spunout its little period right betwixt them. Every one was moving fromchair to chair, and when the bustle was over Sylvia was seated atsome distance from him, and he left standing outside the circle, asif he were not playing. In fact, Sylvia had unconsciously taken hisplace as actor in the game while he remained spectator, and, as itturned out, an auditor of a conversation not intended for his ears.He was wedged against the wall, close to the great eight-day clock,with its round moon-like smiling face forming a ludicrous contrastto his long, sallow, grave countenance, which was pretty much at thesame level above the sanded floor. Before him sat Molly Brunton andone of her sisters, their heads close together in too deep talk toattend to the progress of the game. Philip's attention was caught bythe words--
'I'll lay any wager he kissed her when he ran off into t' parlour.'
'She's so coy she'd niver let him,' replied Bessy Corney.
'She couldn't help hersel'; and for all she looks so demure and primnow' (and then both heads were turned in the direction of Sylvia),'I'm as sure as I'm born that Charley is not t' chap to lose hisforfeit; and yet yo' see he says nought more about it, and she'sleft off being 'feared of him.'
There was something in Sylvia's look, ay, and in Charley Kinraid's,too, that shot conviction into Philip's mind. He watched themincessantly during the interval before supper; they were intimate,and yet shy with each other, in a manner that enraged while itbewildered Philip. What was Charley saying to her in that whisperedvoice, as they passed each other? Why did they linger near eachother? Why did Sylvia look so dreamily happy, so startled at everycall of the game, as if recalled from some pleasant idea? Why didKinraid's eyes always seek her while hers were averted, or downcast,and her cheeks all aflame? Philip's dark brow grew darker as hegazed. He, too, started when Mrs. Corney, close at his elbow, badehim go in to supper along with some of the elder ones, who were notplaying; for the parlour was not large enough to hold all at once,even with the squeezing and cramming, and sitting together onchairs, which was not at all out of etiquette at Monkshaven. Philipwas too reserved to express his disappointment and annoyance atbeing thus arrested in his painful watch over Sylvia; but he had noappetite for the good things set before him, and found it hard workto smile a sickly smile when called upon by Josiah Pratt forapplause at some country joke. When supper was ended, there was somelittle discussion between Mrs. Corney and her son-in-law as towhether the different individuals of the company should be calledupon for songs or stories, as was the wont at such convivialmeetings. Brunton had been helping his mother-in-law in urgingpeople to eat, heaping their plates over their shoulders withunexpected good things, filling the glasses at the upper end of thetable, and the mugs which supplied the deficiency of glasses at thelower. And now, every one being satisfied, not to say stuffed torepletion, the two who had been attending to their wants stoodstill, hot and exhausted.
'They're a'most stawed,' said Mrs. Corney, with a pleased smile.'It'll be manners t' ask some one as knows how to sing.'
'It may be manners for full men, but not for fasting,' repliedBrunton. 'Folks in t' next room will be wanting their victual, andsinging is allays out o' tune to empty bellies.'
'But there's them here as 'll take it ill if they're not asked. Iheerd Josiah Pratt a-clearing his throat not a minute ago, an' hethinks as much on his singin' as a cock does on his crowin'.'
'If one sings I'm afeard all on 'em will like to hear their ownpipes.'
But their dilemma was solved by Bessy Corney, who opened the door tosee if the hungry ones outside might not come in for their share ofthe entertainment; and in they rushed, bright and riotous, scarcelygiving the first party time to rise from their seats ere they tooktheir places. One or two young men, released from all their previousshyness, helped Mrs. Corney and her daughters to carry off suchdishes as were actually empty. There was no time for changing orwashing of plates; but then, as Mrs. Corney laughingly observed,--
'We're a' on us friends, and some on us mayhap sweethearts; so noneed to be particular about plates. Them as gets clean ones islucky; and them as doesn't, and cannot put up wi' plates that hasbeen used, mun go without.'
It seemed to be Philip's luck this night to be pent up in places;for again the space between the benches and the wall was filled upby the in-rush before he had time to make his way out; and all hecould do was to sit quiet where he was. But between the busy headsand over-reaching arms he could see Charley and Sylvia, sittingclose together, talking and listening more than eating. She was in anew strange state of happiness not to be reasoned about, oraccounted for, but in a state of more exquisite feeling than she hadever experienced before; when
, suddenly lifting her eyes, she caughtPhilip's face of extreme displeasure.
'Oh,' said she, 'I must go. There's Philip looking at me so.'
'Philip!' said Kinraid, with a sudden frown upon his face.
'My cousin,' she replied, instinctively comprehending what hadflashed into his mind, and anxious to disclaim the suspicion ofhaving a lover. 'Mother told him to see me home, and he's noan onefor staying up late.'
'But you needn't go. I'll see yo' home.'
'Mother's but ailing,' said Sylvia, a little conscience-smitten athaving so entirely forgotten everything in the delight of thepresent, 'and I said I wouldn't be late.'
'And do you allays keep to your word?' asked he, with a tendermeaning in his tone.
'Allays; leastways I think so,' replied she, blushing.
'Then if I ask you not to forget me, and you give me your word, Imay be sure you'll keep it.'
'It wasn't I as forgot you,' said Sylvia, so softly as not to beheard by him.
He tried to make her repeat what she had said, but she would not,and he could only conjecture that it was something more tell-talethan she liked to say again, and that alone was very charming tohim.
'I shall walk home with you,' said he, as Sylvia at last rose todepart, warned by a further glimpse of Philip's angry face.
'No!' said she, hastily, 'I can't do with yo''; for somehow she feltthe need of pacifying Philip, and knew in her heart that a thirdperson joining their _tete-a-tete_ walk would only increase hisdispleasure.
'Why not?' said Charley, sharply.
'Oh! I don't know, only please don't!'
By this time her cloak and hood were on, and she was slowly makingher way down her side of the room followed by Charley, and ofteninterrupted by indignant remonstrances against her departure, andthe early breaking-up of the party. Philip stood, hat in hand, inthe doorway between the kitchen and parlour, watching her sointently that he forgot to be civil, and drew many a jest and gibeupon him for his absorption in his pretty cousin.
When Sylvia reached him, he said,--
'Yo're ready at last, are yo'?'
'Yes,' she replied, in her little beseeching tone. 'Yo've not beenwanting to go long, han yo'? I ha' but just eaten my supper.'
'Yo've been so full of talk, that's been the reason your supperlasted so long. That fellow's none going wi' us?' said he sharply,as he saw Kinraid rummaging for his cap in a heap of men's clothes,thrown into the back-kitchen.
'No,' said Sylvia, in affright at Philip's fierce look andpassionate tone. 'I telled him not.'
But at that moment the heavy outer door was opened by Daniel Robsonhimself--bright, broad, and rosy, a jolly impersonation of Winter.His large drover's coat was covered with snow-flakes, and throughthe black frame of the doorway might be seen a white waste world ofsweeping fell and field, with the dark air filled with the puredown-fall. Robson stamped his snow-laden feet and shook himselfwell, still standing on the mat, and letting a cold frosty currentof fresh air into the great warm kitchen. He laughed at them allbefore he spoke.
'It's a coud new year as I'm lettin' in though it's noan t' new yearyet. Yo'll a' be snowed up, as sure as my name s Dannel, if yo' stopfor twel' o'clock. Yo'd better mak' haste and go whoam. Why,Charley, my lad! how beest ta? who'd ha' thought o' seeing thee i'these parts again! Nay, missus, nay, t' new year mun find its wayint' t' house by itsel' for me; for a ha' promised my oud woman tobring Sylvie whoam as quick as may-be; she's lyin' awake andfrettin' about t' snow and what not. Thank yo' kindly, missus, buta'll tak' nought to eat; just a drop o' somethin' hot to keep outcoud, and wish yo' a' the compliments o' the season. Philip, my man,yo'll not be sorry to be spared t' walk round by Haytersbank such aneet. My missus were i' such a way about Sylvie that a thought a'djust step off mysel', and have a peep at yo' a', and bring her somewraps. Yo'r sheep will be a' folded, a reckon, Measter Pratt, forthere'll niver be a nibble o' grass to be seen this two month,accordin' to my readin'; and a've been at sea long enough, and onland long enough t' know signs and wonders. It's good stuff that,any way, and worth comin' for,' after he had gulped down atumblerful of half-and-half grog. 'Kinraid, if ta doesn't come andsee me afore thou'rt many days ouder, thee and me'll have words.Come, Sylvie, what art ta about, keepin' me here? Here's MistressCorney mixin' me another jorum. Well, this time a'll give "T'married happy, and t' single wed!"'
Sylvia was all this while standing by her father quite ready fordeparture, and not a little relieved by his appearance as her convoyhome.
'I'm ready to see Haytersbank to-night, master!' said Kinraid, witheasy freedom--a freedom which Philip envied, but could not haveimitated, although he was deeply disappointed at the loss of hiswalk with Sylvia, when he had intended to exercise the power hisaunt had delegated to him of remonstrance if her behaviour had beenlight or thoughtless, and of warning if he saw cause to disapproveof any of her associates.
After the Robsons had left, a blank fell upon both Charley andPhilip. In a few minutes, however, the former, accustomed to promptdecision, resolved that she and no other should be his wife.Accustomed to popularity among women, and well versed in theincipient signs of their liking for him, he anticipated nodifficulty in winning her. Satisfied with the past, and pleasantlyhopeful about the future, he found it easy to turn his attention tothe next prettiest girl in the room, and to make the whole gatheringbright with his ready good temper and buoyant spirit.
Mrs. Corney had felt it her duty to press Philip to stay, now that,as she said, he had no one but himself to see home, and the new yearso near coming in. To any one else in the room she would have addedthe clinching argument, 'A shall take it very unkind if yo' go now';but somehow she could not say this, for in truth Philip's lookshowed that he would be but a wet blanket on the merriment of theparty. So, with as much civility as could be mustered up betweenthem, he took leave. Shutting the door behind him, he went out intothe dreary night, and began his lonesome walk back to Monkshaven.The cold sleet almost blinded him as the sea-wind drove it straightin his face; it cut against him as it was blown with drifting force.The roar of the wintry sea came borne on the breeze; there was morelight from the whitened ground than from the dark laden sky above.The field-paths would have been a matter of perplexity, had it notbeen for the well-known gaps in the dyke-side, which showed thewhitened land beyond, between the two dark stone walls. Yet he wentclear and straight along his way, having unconsciously left allguidance to the animal instinct which co-exists with the human soul,and sometimes takes strange charge of the human body, when all thenobler powers of the individual are absorbed in acute suffering. Atlength he was in the lane, toiling up the hill, from which, by day,Monkshaven might be seen. Now all features of the landscape beforehim were lost in the darkness of night, against which the whiteflakes came closer and nearer, thicker and faster. On a sudden, thebells of Monkshaven church rang out a welcome to the new year, 1796.From the direction of the wind, it seemed as if the sound was flungwith strength and power right into Philip's face. He walked down thehill to its merry sound--its merry sound, his heavy heart. As heentered the long High Street of Monkshaven he could see the watchinglights put out in parlour, chamber, or kitchen. The new year hadcome, and expectation was ended. Reality had begun.
He turned to the right, into the court where he lodged with AliceRose. There was a light still burning there, and cheerful voiceswere heard. He opened the door; Alice, her daughter, and Coulsonstood as if awaiting him. Hester's wet cloak hung on a chair beforethe fire; she had her hood on, for she and Coulson had been to thewatch-night.
The solemn excitement of the services had left its traces upon hercountenance and in her mind. There was a spiritual light in herusually shadowed eyes, and a slight flush on her pale cheek. Merelypersonal and self-conscious feelings were merged in a lovinggood-will to all her fellow-creatures. Under the influence of thislarge charity, she forgot her habitual reserve, and came forward asPhilip entered to meet him with her new year's wishes--wishes thatshe had previously interchanged with
the other two.
'A happy new year to you, Philip, and may God have you in hiskeeping all the days thereof!'
He took her hand, and shook it warmly in reply. The flush on hercheek deepened as she withdrew it. Alice Rose said something curtlyabout the lateness of the hour and her being much tired; and thenshe and her daughter went upstairs to the front chamber, and Philipand Coulson to that which they shared at the back of the house.
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