‘T' other'll not be far off,’ said the other constable. ‘His plate were downstair, full o' victual; a seed Measter Hepburn a-walking briskly before me as a left Monkshaven.’
‘Here he be, here he be,’ called out the other man, dragging Daniel out by his legs, ‘we've getten him.’
Daniel kicked violently, and came out from his hiding-place in a less ignominious way than by being pulled out by his heels.
He shook himself, and then turned, facing his captors.
‘A wish a'd niver hidden mysel'; it were his doing,' jerking his thumb towards Philip: ‘a'm ready to stand by what a've done. Yo've getten a warrant a'll be bound, for them justices is grand at writin' when t' fight's over.’
He was trying to carry it off with bravado, but Philip saw that he had received a shock, from his sudden look of withered colour and shrunken feature.
‘Don't handcuff him,’ said Philip, putting money into the constable's hand. ‘You'll be able to guard him well enough without them things.’
Daniel turned round sharp at this whisper.
‘Let-a-be, let-a-be, my lad,’ he said. ‘It 'll be summut to think on i' t' lock-up how two able-bodied fellys were so afeared on t' chap as reskyed them honest sailors o' Saturday neet, as they mun put him i' gyves,2 and he sixty-two come Martinmas, and sore laid up wi' t' rheumatics.’
But it was difficult to keep up this tone of bravado when he was led a prisoner through his own house-place, and saw his poor wife quivering and shaking all over with her efforts to keep back all signs of emotion until he was gone; and Sylvia standing by her mother, her arm round Bell's waist and stroking the poor shrunken fingers which worked so perpetually and nervously in futile unconscious restlessness. Kester was in a corner of the room, sullenly standing.
Bell quaked from head to foot as her husband came downstairs a prisoner. She opened her lips several times with an uneasy motion, as if she would fain say something, but knew not what. Sylvia's passionate swollen lips and her beautiful defiant eyes gave her face quite a new aspect; she looked a helpless fury.
‘A may kiss my missus, a reckon,’ said Daniel, coming to a standstill as he passed near her.
‘Oh, Dannel, Dannel!’ cried she, opening her arms wide to receive him. ‘Dannel, Dannel, my man!’ and she shook with her crying, laying her head on his shoulder, as if he was all her stay and comfort.
‘Come, missus! come, missus!’ said he, ‘there couldn't be more ado if a'd been guilty of murder, an' yet a say again, as a said afore, a'm noane ashamed o' my doings. Here, Sylvie, lass, tak' thy mother off me, for a cannot do it mysel', it like sets me off.’ His voice was quavering as he said this. But he cheered up a little and said, ‘Now, good-by, oud wench' (kissing her), ‘and keep a good heart, and let me see thee lookin' lusty and strong when a come back. Good-by, my lass; look well after mother, and ask Philip for guidance if it's needed.’
He was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill cries of the women; but in a minute or two they were checked by the return of one of the constables, who, cap in hand at the sight of so much grief, said,—
‘He wants a word wi' his daughter.’
The party had come to a halt about ten yards from the house. Sylvia, hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran out and threw her arms round her father, as if to burst out afresh on his neck.
‘Nay, nay, my wench, it's thee as mun be a comfort to mother: nay, nay, or thou'll niver hear what a've got to say. Sylvie, my lass, a'm main and sorry a were so short wi' thee last neet; a ax thy pardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and sent thee to thy bed wi' a sore heart. Thou munnot think on it again, but forgie me, now a'm leavin' thee.’
‘Oh, feyther! feyther!’ was all Sylvia could say; and at last they had to make as though they would have used force to separate her from their prisoner. Philip took her hand, and softly led her back to her weeping mother.
For some time nothing was to be heard in the little farmhouse kitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women. Philip stood by silent, thinking, as well as he could, for his keen sympathy with their grief, what had best be done next. Kester, after some growls at Sylvia for having held back the uplifted arm which he thought might have saved Daniel by a well-considered blow on his captors as they entered the house, went back into his shippen—his cell for meditation and consolation, where he might hope to soothe himself before going out to his afternoon's work; labour which his master had planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight, as Kester thought, for the job was one which would take him two or three days without needing any further directions than those he had received, and by the end of that time he thought that his master would be at liberty again. So he—so they all thought in their ignorance and inexperience.
Although Daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impulsive—in a word, often thinking and acting very foolishly—yet, somehow, either from some quality in his character, or from the loyalty of nature in those with whom he had to deal in his every-day life, he had made his place and position clear as the arbiter and law-giver of his household. On his decision, as that of husband, father, master, perhaps superior natures waited. So now that he was gone and had left them in such strange new circumstances so suddenly, it seemed as though neither Bell nor Sylvia knew exactly what to do when their grief was spent, so much had every household action and plan been regulated by the thought of him. Meanwhile Philip had slowly been arriving at the conclusion that he was more wanted at Monkshaven to look after Daniel's interests, to learn what were the legal probabilities in consequence of the old man's arrest, and to arrange for his family accordingly, than standing still and silent in the Haytersbank kitchen, too full of fellow-feeling and heavy foreboding to comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appearance from the very aching of his heart.
So when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity and propriety, began to put away the scarcely tasted dinner, and Sylvia, blinded with crying, and convulsively sobbing, was yet trying to help her mother, Philip took his hat, and brushing it round and round with the sleeve of his coat, said,—
‘I think I'll just go back, and see how matters stand.’ He had a more distinct plan in his head than these words implied, but it depended on so many contingencies of which he was ignorant that he said only these few words; and with a silent resolution to see them again that day, but a dread of being compelled to express his fears, so far beyond theirs, he went off without saying anything more. Then Sylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry. Somehow she had expected him to do something—what, she did not know; but he was gone, and they were left without stay or help.
‘Hush thee, hush thee,’ said her mother, trembling all over herself; ‘it's for the best. The Lord knows.’
‘But I niver thought he'd leave us,’ moaned Sylvia, half in her mother's arms, and thinking of Philip. Her mother took the words as applied to Daniel.
‘And he'd niver ha' left us, my wench, if he could ha' stayed.’
‘Oh, mother, mother, it's Philip as has left us, and he could ha' stayed.’
‘He'll come back, or mebbe send, I'll be bound. Leastways he'll be gone to see feyther, and he'll need comfort most on all, in a fremd place—in Bridewell3—and niver a morsel of victual or a piece o' money.’ And now she sate down, and wept the dry hot tears that come with such difficulty to the eyes of the aged. And so—first one grieving, and then the other, and each draining her own heart of every possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheer and console—the February afternoon passed away; the continuous rain closing in the daylight even earlier than usual, and adding to the dreariness, with the natural accompaniments of wailing winds, coming with long sweeps over the moors, and making the sobbings at the windows that always sound like the gasps of some one in great agony. Meanwhile Philip had hastened back to Monkshaven. He had no umbrella, he had to face the driving rain for the greater part of the way; but he was thankful to the weather, for it kept men indoors, and he wanted to meet no one, but to have time to thi
nk and mature his plans. The town itself was, so to speak, in mourning. The rescue of the sailors was a distinctly popular movement; the subsequent violence (which had, indeed, gone much farther than has been described, after Daniel left it) was, in general, considered as only a kind of due punishment inflicted in wild justice4 on the press-gang and their abettors. The feeling of the Monkshaven people was, therefore, in decided opposition to the vigorous steps taken by the county magistrates, who, in consequence of an appeal from the naval officers in charge of the impressment service, had called out the militia (from a distant and inland county) stationed within a few miles, and had thus summarily quenched the riots that were continuing on the Sunday morning after a somewhat languid fashion; the greater part of the destruction of property having been accomplished during the previous night. Still there was little doubt but that the violence would have been renewed as evening drew on, and the more desperate part of the population and the enraged sailors had had the Sabbath leisure to brood over their wrongs, and to encourage each other in a passionate attempt at redress, or revenge. So the authorities were quite justified in the decided steps they had taken, both in their own estimation then, and now, in ours, looking back on the affair in cold blood. But at the time feeling ran strongly against them; and all means of expressing itself in action being prevented, men brooded sullenly in their own houses. Philip, as the representative of the family, the head of which was now suffering for his deeds in the popular cause, would have met with more sympathy, ay, and more respect than he imagined, as he went along the streets, glancing from side to side, fearful of meeting some who would shy at him as the relation of one who had been ignominiously taken to Bridewell a few hours before. But in spite of this wincing of Philip's from observation and remark, he never dreamed of acting otherwise than as became a brave true friend. And this he did, and would have done, from a natural faithfulness and constancy of disposition, without any special regard for Sylvia.
He knew his services were needed in the shop; business which he had left at a moment's warning awaited him, unfinished; but at this time he could not bear the torture of giving explanations, and alleging reasons to the languid intelligence and slow sympathies of Coulson.
He went to the offices of Mr Donkin, the oldest established and most respected attorney in Monkshaven—he who had been employed to draw up the law papers and deeds of partnership consequent on Hepburn and Coulson succeeding to the shop of John and Jeremiah Foster, Brothers.
Mr Donkin knew Philip from this circumstance. But, indeed, nearly every one in Monkshaven knew each other; if not enough to speak to, at least enough to be acquainted with the personal appearance and reputation of most of those whom they met in the streets. It so happened that Mr Donkin had a favourable opinion of Philip; and perhaps for this reason the latter had a shorter time to wait before he obtained an interview with the head of the house, than many of the clients who came for that purpose from town or country for many miles round.
Philip was ushered in. Mr Donkin sate with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, ready to watch his countenance and listen to his words.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hepburn!’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Philip hesitated how to begin. Mr Donkin became impatient, and tapped with the fingers of his left hand on his desk. Philip's sensitive nerves felt and rightly interpreted the action.
‘Please, sir, I'm come to speak to you about Daniel Robson, of Haytersbank Farm.’
‘Daniel Robson?’ said Mr Donkin, after a short pause, to try and compel Philip into speed in his story.
‘Yes, sir. He's been taken up on account of this affair, sir, about the press-gang on Saturday night.’
‘To be sure! I thought I knew the name.’ And Mr Donkin's face became graver, and the expression more concentrated. Looking up suddenly at Philip, he said, ‘You are aware that I am the clerk to the magistrates?’
‘No, sir,’ in a tone that indicated the unexpressed ‘What then?’
‘Well, but I am. And so of course, if you want my services or advice in favour of a prisoner whom they have committed, or are going to commit, you can't have them, that's all.’
‘I am very sorry—very!’ said Philip; and then he was again silent for a period; long enough to make the busy attorney impatient.
‘Well, Mr Hepburn, have you anything else to say to me?’
‘Yes, sir. I've a deal to ask of you; for you see I don't rightly understand what to do; and yet I'm all as Daniel's wife and daughter has to look to; and I've their grief heavy on my heart. You could not tell me what is to be done with Daniel, could you, sir?’
‘He'll be brought up before the magistrates to-morrow morning for final examination, along with the others, you know, before he's sent to York Castle to take his trial at the spring assizes.’
‘To York Castle, sir?’
Mr Donkin nodded, as if words were too precious to waste.
‘And when will he go?’ asked poor Philip, in dismay.
‘To-morrow: most probably as soon as the examination is over. The evidence is clear as to his being present, aiding and abetting,—indicted on the 4th section of 1 George I., statute 1, chapter 5.5 I'm afraid it's a bad look-out. Is he a friend of yours, Mr Hepburn?’
‘Only an uncle, sir,’ said Philip, his heart getting full; more from Mr Donkin's manner than from his words. ‘But what can they do to him, sir?’
‘Do?’ Mr Donkin half smiled at the ignorance displayed. ‘Why, hang him, to be sure; if the judge is in a hanging mood. He's been either a principal in the offence, or a principal in the second degree, and, as such, liable to the full punishment. I drew up the warrant myself this morning, though I left the exact name to be filled up by my clerk.’
‘Oh, sir! can you do nothing for me?’ asked Philip, with sharp beseeching in his voice. He had never imagined that it was a capital offence; and the thought of his aunt's and Sylvia's ignorance of the possible fate awaiting him whom they so much loved, was like a stab to his heart.
‘No, my good fellow. I'm sorry; but, you see, it's my duty to do all I can to bring criminals to justice.’
‘My uncle thought he was doing such a fine deed.’
‘Demolishing and pulling down, destroying and burning dwelling-houses and outhouses,’ said Mr Donkin. ‘He must have some peculiar notions.’
‘The people is so mad with the press-gang, and Daniel has been at sea hisself; and took it so to heart when he heard of mariners and seafaring folk being carried off, and just cheated into doing what was kind and helpful—leastways, what would have been kind and helpful, if there had been a fire. I'm against violence and riots myself, sir, I'm sure; but I cannot help thinking as Daniel had a deal to justify him on Saturday night, sir.’
‘Well; you must try and get a good lawyer to bring out all that side of the question. There's a good deal to be said on it; but it's my duty to get up all the evidence to prove that he and others were present on the night in question; so, as you'll perceive, I can give you no help in defending him.’
‘But who can, sir? I came to you as a friend who, I thought, would see me through it. And I don't know any other lawyer; leastways, to speak to.’
Mr Donkin was really more concerned for the misguided rioters than he was aware; and he was aware of more interest than he cared to express. So he softened his tone a little, and tried to give the best advice in his power.
‘You'd better go to Edward Dawson on the other side of the river; he that was articled clerk with me two years ago, you know. He's a clever fellow, and has not too much practice; he'll do the best he can for you. He'll have to be at the court-house, tell him, to-morrow morning at ten, when the justices meet. He'll watch the case for you; and then he'll give you his opinion, and tell you what to do. You can't do better than follow his advice. I must do all I can to collect evidence for a conviction, you know.’
Philip stood up, looked at his hat, and then came forward and laid down six and eightpence on the desk in a blushing, awkward w
ay.
‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Mr Donkin, pushing the money away. ‘Don't be a fool; you'll need it all before the trial's over. I've done nothing, man. It would be a pretty thing for me to be feed by both parties.’
Philip took up the money, and left the room. In an instant he came back again, glanced furtively at Mr Donkin's face, and then, once more having recourse to brushing his hat, he said, in a low voice—
‘You'll not be hard upon him, sir, I hope?’
‘I must do my duty,’ replied Mr Donkin, a little sternly, ‘without any question of hardness.’
Philip, discomfited, left the room; an instant of thought and Mr Donkin had jumped up, and hastening to the door he opened it and called after Philip.
‘Hepburn—Hepburn—I say, he'll be taken to York as soon as may be to-morrow morning; if any one wants to see him before then, they'd better look sharp about it.’
Philip went quickly along the streets towards Mr Dawson's, pondering upon the meaning of all that he had heard, and what he had better do. He had made his plans pretty clearly out by the time he arrived at Mr Dawson's smart door in one of the new streets on the other side of the river. A clerk as smart as the door answered Philip's hesitating knock, and replied to his inquiry as to whether Mr Dawson was at home, in the negative, adding after a moment's pause—
‘He'll be at home in less than an hour; he's only gone to make Mrs Dawson's will—Mrs Dawson, of Collyton—she's not expected to get better.’
Probably the clerk of an older-established attorney would not have given so many particulars as to the nature of his master's employment; but, as it happened it was of no consequence, the unnecessary information made no impression on Philip's mind; he thought the matter over, and then said—
‘I'll be back in an hour, then. It's gone a quarter to four; I'll be back before five, tell Mr Dawson.’
Sylvia's Lovers Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell Page 35