Sylvia's Lovers — Complete

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE ORDEAL

  It was the afternoon of an April day in that same year, and the skywas blue above, with little sailing white clouds catching thepleasant sunlight. The earth in that northern country had scarcelyyet put on her robe of green. The few trees grew near brooks runningdown from the moors and the higher ground. The air was full ofpleasant sounds prophesying of the coming summer. The rush, andmurmur, and tinkle of the hidden watercourses; the song of the larkpoised high up in the sunny air; the bleat of the lambs calling totheir mothers--everything inanimate was full of hope and gladness.

  For the first time for a mournful month the front door ofHaytersbank Farm was open; the warm spring air might enter, anddisplace the sad dark gloom, if it could. There was a newly-lightedfire in the unused grate; and Kester was in the kitchen, with hisclogs off his feet, so as not to dirty the spotless floor, stirringhere and there, and trying in his awkward way to make things lookhome-like and cheerful. He had brought in some wild daffodils whichhe had been to seek in the dawn, and he placed them in a jug on thedresser. Dolly Reid, the woman who had come to help Sylvia duringher mother's illness a year ago, was attending to something in theback-kitchen, making a noise among the milk-cans, and singing aballad to herself as she worked; yet every now and then she checkedherself in her singing, as if a sudden recollection came upon herthat this was neither the time nor the place for songs. Once ortwice she took up the funeral psalm which is sung by the bearers ofthe body in that country--

  Our God, our help in ages past.

  But it was of no use: the pleasant April weather out of doors, andperhaps the natural spring in the body, disposed her nature tocheerfulness, and insensibly she returned to her old ditty.

  Kester was turning over many things in his rude honest mind as hestood there, giving his finishing touches every now and then to theaspect of the house-place, in preparation for the return of thewidow and daughter of his old master.

  It was a month and more since they had left home; more than afortnight since Kester, with three halfpence in his pocket, had setout after his day's work to go to York--to walk all night long, andto wish Daniel Robson his last farewell.

  Daniel had tried to keep up and had brought out one or two familiar,thread-bare, well-worn jokes, such as he had made Kester chuckleover many a time and oft, when the two had been together afield orin the shippen at the home which he should never more see. But no'Old Grouse in the gunroom' could make Kester smile, or do anythingexcept groan in but a heart-broken sort of fashion, and presentlythe talk had become more suitable to the occasion, Daniel being upto the last the more composed of the two; for Kester, when turnedout of the condemned cell, fairly broke down into the heavy sobbinghe had never thought to sob again on earth. He had left Bell andSylvia in their lodging at York, under Philip's care; he dared notgo to see them; he could not trust himself; he had sent them hisduty, and bade Philip tell Sylvia that the game-hen had brought outfifteen chickens at a hatch.

  Yet although Kester sent this message through Philip--although hesaw and recognized all that Philip was doing in their behalf, in thebehalf of Daniel Robson, the condemned felon, his honoured master--heliked Hepburn not a whit better than he had done before all thissorrow had come upon them.

  Philip had, perhaps, shown a want of tact in his conduct to Kester.Acute with passionate keenness in one direction, he had a sort ofdull straightforwardness in all others. For instance, he hadreturned Kester the money which the latter had so gladly advancedtowards the expenses incurred in defending Daniel. Now the moneywhich Philip gave him back was part of an advance which FosterBrothers had made on Philip's own account. Philip had thought thatit was hard on Kester to lose his savings in a hopeless cause, andhad made a point of repaying the old man; but Kester would farrather have felt that the earnings of the sweat of his brow had gonein the attempt to save his master's life than have had twice tentimes as many golden guineas.

  Moreover, it seemed to take his action in lending his hoard out ofthe sphere of love, and make it but a leaden common loan, when itwas Philip who brought him the sum, not Sylvia, into whose hands hehad given it.

  With these feelings Kester felt his heart shut up as he saw thelong-watched-for two coming down the little path with a thirdperson; with Philip holding up the failing steps of poor BellRobson, as, loaded with her heavy mourning, and feeble from theillness which had detained her in York ever since the day of herhusband's execution, she came faltering back to her desolate home.Sylvia was also occupied in attending to her mother; one or twice,when they paused a little, she and Philip spoke, in the familiar wayin which there is no coyness nor reserve. Kester caught up hisclogs, and went quickly out through the back-kitchen into thefarm-yard, not staying to greet them, as he had meant to do; and yetit was dull-sighted of him not to have perceived that whatever mightbe the relations between Philip and Sylvia, he was sure to haveaccompanied them home; for, alas! he was the only male protector oftheir blood remaining in the world. Poor Kester, who would fain havetaken that office upon himself, chose to esteem himself cast off,and went heavily about the farmyard, knowing that he ought to go inand bid such poor welcome as he had to offer, yet feeling too muchto like to show himself before Philip.

  It was long, too, before any one had leisure to come and seek him.Bell's mind had flashed up for a time, till the fatal day, only tobe reduced by her subsequent illness into complete and hopelesschildishness. It was all Philip and Sylvia could do to manage her inthe first excitement of returning home; her restless inquiry for himwho would never more be present in the familiar scene, her feverishweariness and uneasiness, all required tender soothing and mostpatient endurance of her refusals to be satisfied with what theysaid or did.

  At length she took some food, and, refreshed by it, and warmed bythe fire, she sank asleep in her chair. Then Philip would fain havespoken with Sylvia before the hour came at which he must return toMonkshaven, but she eluded him, and went in search of Kester, whosepresence she had missed.

  She had guessed some of the causes which kept him from greeting themon their first return. But it was not as if she had shaped thesecauses into the definite form of words. It is astonishing to lookback and find how differently constituted were the minds of mostpeople fifty or sixty years ago; they felt, they understood, withoutgoing through reasoning or analytic processes, and if this was thecase among the more educated people, of course it was still more soin the class to which Sylvia belonged. She knew by some sort ofintuition that if Philip accompanied them home (as, indeed, underthe circumstances, was so natural as to be almost unavoidable), theold servant and friend of the family would absent himself; and soshe slipped away at the first possible moment to go in search ofhim. There he was in the farm-yard, leaning over the gate thatopened into the home-field, apparently watching the poultry thatscratched and pecked at the new-springing grass with the utmostrelish. A little farther off were the ewes with their new-droppedlambs, beyond that the great old thorn-tree with its round freshclusters of buds, again beyond that there was a glimpse of the vastsunny rippling sea; but Sylvia knew well that Kester was looking atnone of these things. She went up to him and touched his arm. Hestarted from his reverie, and turned round upon her with his dimeyes full of unshed tears. When he saw her black dress, her deepmourning, he had hard work to keep from breaking out, but by dint ofa good brush of his eyes with the back of his hand, and a moment'spause, he could look at her again with tolerable calmness.

  'Why, Kester: why didst niver come to speak to us?' said Sylvia,finding it necessary to be cheerful if she could.

  'A dun know; niver ax me. A say, they'n gi'en Dick Simpson' (whoseevidence had been all material against poor Daniel Robson at thetrial) 'a' t' rotten eggs and fou' things they could o' Saturday,they did,' continued he, in a tone of satisfaction; 'ay, and theyniver stopped t' see whether t' eggs were rotten or fresh when theirblood was up--nor whether stones was hard or soft,' he added, in alower tone, and chuckling a little.

  Sylvia
was silent. He looked at her now, chuckling still. Her facewas white, her lips tightened, her eyes a-flame. She drew a longbreath.

  'I wish I'd been theere! I wish I could do him an ill turn,' sighedshe, with some kind of expression on her face that made Kester quaila little.

  'Nay, lass! he'll get it fra' others. Niver fret thysel' about sichrubbish. A'n done ill to speak on him.'

  'No! thou hasn't. Then as was friends o' father's I'll love for iverand iver; them as helped for t' hang him' (she shuddered from headto foot--a sharp irrepressible shudder!) 'I'll niverforgive--niver!'

  'Niver's a long word,' said Kester, musingly. 'A could horsewhiphim, or cast stones at him, or duck him mysel'; but, lass! niver's along word!'

  'Well! niver heed if it is--it's me as said it, and I'm turnedsavage late days. Come in, Kester, and see poor mother.'

  'A cannot,' said he, turning his wrinkled puckered face away, thatshe might not see the twitchings of emotion on it. 'There's kine tobe fetched up, and what not, and he's theere, isn't he, Sylvie?'facing round upon her with inquisitiveness. Under his peering eyesshe reddened a little.

  'Yes, if it's Philip thou means; he's been all we've had to look tosin'.' Again the shudder.

  'Well, now he'll be seein' after his shop, a reckon?'

  Sylvia was calling to the old mare nibbling tufts of early-springinggrass here and there, and half unconsciously coaxing the creature tocome up to the gate to be stroked. But she heard Kester's words wellenough, and so he saw, although she made this excuse not to reply.But Kester was not to be put off.

  'Folks is talkin' about thee and him; thou'll ha' to mind lest theeand him gets yo'r names coupled together.'

  'It's right down cruel on folks, then,' said she, crimsoning fromsome emotion. 'As if any man as was a man wouldn't do all he couldfor two lone women at such a time--and he a cousin, too! Tell me whosaid so,' continued she, firing round at Kester, 'and I'll niverforgive 'em--that's all.'

  'Hoots!' said Kester, a little conscious that he himself was theprincipal representative of that name of multitude folk. 'Here's apretty lass; she's' got "a'll niver forgi'e" at her tongue's end wi'a vengeance.'

  Sylvia was a little confused.

  'Oh, Kester, man,' said she, 'my heart is sore again' every one, forfeyther's sake.'

  And at length the natural relief of plentiful tears came; andKester, with instinctive wisdom, let her weep undisturbed; indeed,he cried not a little himself. They were interrupted by Philip'svoice from the back-door.

  'Sylvie, your mother's awake, and wants you!'

  'Come, Kester, come,' and taking hold of him she drew him with herinto the house.

  Bell rose as they came in, holding by the arms of the chair. Atfirst she received Kester as though he had been a stranger.

  'I'm glad to see yo', sir; t' master's out, but he'll be in aforelong. It'll be about t' lambs yo're come, mebbe?'

  'Mother!' said Sylvia, 'dunnot yo' see? it's Kester,--Kester, wi'his Sunday clothes on.'

  'Kester! ay, sure it is; my eyes have getten so sore and dim oflate; just as if I'd been greeting. I'm sure, lad, I'm glad to seethee! It's a long time I've been away, but it were notpleasure-seeking as took me, it were business o' some mak'--tellhim, Sylvie, what it were, for my head's clean gone. I only know Iwouldn't ha' left home if I could ha' helped it; for I think Ishould ha' kept my health better if I'd bided at home wi' my master.I wonder as he's not comed in for t' bid me welcome? Is he farafield, think ye, Kester?'

  Kester looked at Sylvia, mutely imploring her to help him out in thedilemma of answering, but she was doing all she could to helpcrying. Philip came to the rescue.

  'Aunt,' said he, 'the clock has stopped; can you tell me where t'find t' key, and I'll wind it up.'

  'T' key,' said she, hurriedly, 't' key, it's behind th' big Bible onyon shelf. But I'd rayther thou wouldn't touch it, lad; it's t'master's work, and he distrusts folk meddling wi' it.'

  Day after day there was this constant reference to her dead husband.In one sense it was a blessing; all the circumstances attendant onhis sad and untimely end were swept out of her mind along with therecollection of the fact itself. She referred to him as absent, andhad always some plausible way of accounting for it, which satisfiedher own mind; and, accordingly they fell into the habit of humouringher, and speaking of him as gone to Monkshaven, or afield, orwearied out, and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led her tobelieve for the moment. But this forgetfulness, though happy forherself, was terrible for her child. It was a constant renewing ofSylvia's grief, while her mother could give her no sympathy, nohelp, or strength in any circumstances that arose out of this grief.She was driven more and more upon Philip; his advice and hisaffection became daily more necessary to her.

  Kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly thanSylvia did herself; and, impotent to hinder what he feared anddisliked, he grew more and more surly every day. Yet he tried tolabour hard and well for the interests of the family, as if theywere bound up in his good management of the cattle and land. He wasout and about by the earliest dawn, working all day long with mightand main. He bought himself a pair of new spectacles, which might,he fancied, enable him to read the _Farmer's Complete Guide_, hisdead master's _vade-mecum_. But he had never learnt more than hiscapital letters, and had forgotten many of them; so the spectaclesdid him but little good. Then he would take the book to Sylvia, andask her to read to him the instructions he needed; instructions, beit noted, that he would formerly have despised as merebook-learning: but his present sense of responsibility had made himhumble.

  Sylvia would find the place with all deliberation: and putting herfinger under the line to keep the exact place of the word she wasreading, she would strive in good earnest to read out the directionsgiven; but when every fourth word had to be spelt, it was ratherhopeless work, especially as all these words were unintelligible tothe open-mouthed listener, however intent he might be. He hadgenerally to fall back on his own experience; and, guided by that,things were not doing badly in his estimation, when, one day, Sylviasaid to him, as they were in the hay-field, heaping up the hay intococks with Dolly Reid's assistance--

  'Kester--I didn't tell thee--there were a letter from Measter Hall,Lord Malton's steward, that came last night and that Philip readme.'

  She stopped for a moment.

  'Ay, lass! Philip read it thee, and whatten might it say?'

  'Only that he had an offer for Haytersbank Farm, and would setmother free to go as soon as t' crops was off t' ground.'

  She sighed a little as she said this.

  "'Only!" sayst ta? Whatten business has he for to go an' offer tolet t' farm afore iver he were told as yo' wished to leave it?'observed Kester, in high dudgeon.

  'Oh!' replied Sylvia, throwing down her rake, as if weary of life.'What could we do wi' t' farm and land? If it were all dairy I mightha' done, but wi' so much on it arable.'

  'And if 'tis arable is not I allays to t' fore?'

  'Oh, man, dunnot find fault wi' me! I'm just fain to lie down anddie, if it were not for mother.'

  'Ay! thy mother will be sore unsettled if thou's for quittingHaytersbank,' said merciless Kester.

  'I cannot help it; I cannot help it! What can I do? It would taketwo pair o' men's hands to keep t' land up as Measter Hall likes it;and beside----'

  'Beside what?' said Kester, looking up at her with his sudden oddlook, one eye shut, the other open: there she stood, her two handsclasped tight together, her eyes filling with tears, her face paleand sad. 'Beside what?' he asked again, sharply.

  'T' answer's sent to Measter Hall--Philip wrote it last night; sothere's no use planning and fretting, it were done for t' best, andmun be done.' She stooped and picked up her rake, and began tossingthe hay with energy, the tears streaming down her cheeks unheeded.It was Kester's turn to throw down his rake. She took no notice, hedid not feel sure that she had observed his action. He began to walktowards the field-gate; this movement did catch her eye, for in aminute her hand was
on his arm, and she was stooping forward to lookinto his face. It was working and twitching with emotion. 'Kester!oh, man! speak out, but dunnot leave me a this-ns. What could I ha'done? Mother is gone dateless wi' sorrow, and I am but a young lass,i' years I mean; for I'm old enough wi' weeping.'

  'I'd ha' put up for t' farm mysel', sooner than had thee turnedout,' said Kester, in a low voice; then working himself up into apassion, as a new suspicion crossed his mind, he added, 'An' whatfor didn't yo' tell me on t' letter? Yo' were in a mighty hurry tosettle it a', and get rid on t' oud place.'

  'Measter Hall had sent a notice to quit on Midsummer day; but Philiphad answered it hisself. Thou knows I'm not good at reading writing,'special when a letter's full o' long words, and Philip had ta'en itin hand to answer.'

  'Wi'out asking thee?'

  Sylvia went on without minding the interruption.

  'And Measter Hall makes a good offer, for t' man as is going to comein will take t' stock and a' t' implements; and if mother--if we--ifI--like, th' furniture and a'----'

  'Furniture!' said Kester, in grim surprise. 'What's to come o' t'missus and thee, that yo'll not need a bed to lie on, or a pot toboil yo'r vittel in?'

  Sylvia reddened, but kept silence.

  'Cannot yo' speak?'

  'Oh, Kester, I didn't think thou'd turn again' me, and me sofriendless. It's as if I'd been doin' something wrong, and I have sostriven to act as is best; there's mother as well as me to bethought on.'

  'Cannot yo' answer a question?' said Kester, once more. 'Whatten'sup that t' missus and yo'll not need bed and table, pots and pans?'

  'I think I'm going to marry Philip,' said Sylvia, in so low a tone,that if Kester had not suspected what her answer was to be, he couldnot have understood it.

  After a moment's pause he recommenced his walk towards thefield-gate. But she went after him and held him tight by the arm,speaking rapidly.

  'Kester, what could I do? What can I do? He's my cousin, and motherknows him, and likes him; and he's been so good to us in a' thistime o' trouble and heavy grief, and he'll keep mother in comfortall t' rest of her days.'

  'Ay, and thee in comfort. There's a deal in a well-filled purse in awench's eyes, or one would ha' thought it weren't so easy forgettin'yon lad as loved thee as t' apple on his eye.'

  'Kester, Kester,' she cried, 'I've niver forgotten Charley; I thinkon him, I see him ivery night lying drowned at t' bottom o' t' sea.Forgetten him! Man! it's easy talking!' She was like a wild creaturethat sees its young, but is unable to reach it without a deadlyspring, and yet is preparing to take that fatal leap. Kester himselfwas almost startled, and yet it was as if he must go on torturingher.

  'An' who telled thee so sure and certain as he were drowned? Hemight ha' been carried off by t' press-gang as well as other men.'

  'Oh! if I were but dead that I might know all!' cried she, flingingherself down on the hay.

  Kester kept silence. Then she sprang up again, and looking witheager wistfulness into his face, she said,--

  'Tell me t' chances. Tell me quick! Philip's very good, and kind,and he says he shall die if I will not marry him, and there's nohome for mother and me,--no home for her, for as for me I dunnotcare what becomes on me; but if Charley's alive I cannot marryPhilip--no, not if he dies for want o' me--and as for mother, poormother, Kester, it's an awful strait; only first tell me if there'sa chance, just one in a thousand, only one in a hundred thousand, asCharley were ta'en by t' gang?' She was breathless by this time,what with her hurried words, and what with the beating of her heart.Kester took time to answer. He had spoken before too hastily, thistime he weighed his words.

  'Kinraid went away from this here place t' join his ship. An' heniver joined it no more; an' t' captain an' all his friends atNewcassel as iver were, made search for him, on board t' king'sships. That's more nor fifteen month ago, an' nought has iver beenheerd on him by any man. That's what's to be said on one side o' t'matter. Then on t' other there's this as is known. His hat were castup by t' sea wi' a ribbon in it, as there's reason t' think as he'dnot ha' parted wi' so quick if he'd had his own will.'

  'But yo' said as he might ha' been carried off by t' gang--yo' did,Kester, tho' now yo're a' for t' other side.'

  'My lass, a'd fain have him alive, an' a dunnot fancy Philip for thyhusband; but it's a serious judgment as thou's put me on, an' a'mtrying it fair. There's allays one chance i' a thousand as he'salive, for no man iver saw him dead. But t' gang were noane aboutMonkshaven then: there were niver a tender on t' coast nearer thanShields, an' those theere were searched.'

  He did not say any more, but turned back into the field, and took uphis hay-making again.

  Sylvia stood quite still, thinking, and wistfully longing for somekind of certainty.

  Kester came up to her.

  'Sylvie, thou knows Philip paid me back my money, and it were eightpound fifteen and three-pence; and t' hay and stock 'll sell forsummat above t' rent; and a've a sister as is a decent widow-woman,tho' but badly off, livin' at Dale End; and if thee and thy mother'll go live wi' her, a'll give thee well on to all a can earn, andit'll be a matter o' five shilling a week. But dunnot go and marry aman as thou's noane taken wi', and another as is most like for t' bedead, but who, mebbe, is alive, havin' a pull on thy heart.'

  Sylvia began to cry as if her heart was broken. She had promisedherself more fully to Philip the night before than she had toldKester; and, with some pains and much patience, her cousin, herlover, alas! her future husband, had made the fact clear to thebewildered mind of her poor mother, who had all day long shown thather mind and heart were full of the subject, and that thecontemplation of it was giving her as much peace as she could everknow. And now Kester's words came to call up echoes in the poorgirl's heart. Just as she was in this miserable state, wishing thatthe grave lay open before her, and that she could lie down, and becovered up by the soft green turf from all the bitter sorrows andcarking cares and weary bewilderments of this life; wishing that herfather was alive, that Charley was once more here; that she had notrepeated the solemn words by which she had promised herself toPhilip only the very evening before, she heard a soft, low whistle,and, looking round unconsciously, there was her lover and affiancedhusband, leaning on the gate, and gazing into the field withpassionate eyes, devouring the fair face and figure of her, hisfuture wife.

  'Oh, Kester,' said she once more, 'what mun I do? I'm pledged to himas strong as words can make it, and mother blessed us both wi' moresense than she's had for weeks. Kester, man, speak! Shall I go andbreak it all off?--say.'

  'Nay, it's noane for me t' say; m'appen thou's gone too far. Themabove only knows what is best.'

  Again that long, cooing whistle. 'Sylvie!'

  'He's been very kind to us all,' said Sylvia, laying her rake downwith slow care, 'and I'll try t' make him happy.'