‘Yes,’ said Bell; ‘but it’s a long time ago; when we was courting.’
‘An’ that’s afore this young lass were born, as is a’most up to woman’s estate. But sin’ those days a ha’ been o’er busy to tell stories to my wife, an’ as a’ll warrant she’s forgotten it; an’ as Sylvia here niver heerd it, if yo’ll fill your glass, Kinraid, yo’ shall ha’ t’ benefit o’t.
‘A were a specksioneer mysel, though, after that, a rayther directed my talents int’ t’ smuggling branch o’ my profession; but a were once a whaling aboord t’ Ainwell of Whitby. An’ we was anchored off t’ coast o’ Greenland one season, an’ we’d getten a cargo o’ seven whale; but our captain he were a keen-eyed chap, an’ niver above doin’ any man’s work; an’ once seein’ a whale he throws himself int’ a boat an’ goes off to it, makin’ signals to me, an’ another specksioneer as were off for diversion i’ another boat, for to come after him sharp. Well, afore we comes alongside, captain had harpooned t’ fish; an’ says he, “Now, Robson, all ready! give into her again when she comes to t’ top;” an’ I stands up, right leg foremost, harpoon all ready, as soon as iver I cotched a sight o’ t’ whale, but niver a fin could a see. ‘Twere no wonder, for she were right below t’ boat in which a were; and when she wanted to rise, what does t’ great ugly brute do but come wi’ her head, as is like cast iron, up bang again t’ bottom o’ t’ boat. I were thrown up in t’ air like a shuttlecock, me an’ my line an’ my harpoon — up we goes, an’ many a good piece o’ timber wi’ us, an’ many a good fellow too; but a had t’ look after mysel’, an a were up high i’ t’ air, afore I could say Jack Robinson, an’ a thowt a were safe for another dive int’ saut water; but i’stead a comes down plump on t’ back o’ t’ whale. Ay! yo’ may stare, master, but theere a were, an’ main an’ slippery it were, only a sticks my harpoon intil her an’ steadies mysel’, an’ looks abroad o’er t’ vast o’ waves, and gets sea-sick in a manner, an’ puts up a prayer as she mayn’t dive, and it were as good a prayer for wishin’ it might come true as iver t’ clargyman an’ t’ clerk too puts up i’ Monkshaven church. Well, a reckon it were heerd, for all a were i’ them north latitudes, for she keeps steady, an’ a does my best for t’ keep steady; an’ ‘deed a was too steady, for a was fast wi’ t’ harpoon line, all knotted and tangled about me. T’ captain, he sings out for me to cut it; but it’s easy singin’ out, and it’s noane so easy fumblin’ for your knife i’ t’ pocket o’ your drawers, when yo’ve t’ hold hard wi’ t’ other hand on t’ back of a whale, swimmin’ fourteen knots an hour. At last a thinks to mysel’ a can’t get free o’ t’ line, and t’ line is fast to t’ harpoon, and t’ harpoon is fast to t’ whale; and t’ whale may go down fathoms deep wheniver t’ maggot stirs i’ her head; an’ t’ watter’s cold, an noane good for drownin’ in; a can’t get free o’ t’ line, and a connot get my knife out o’ my breeches pocket though t’ captain should ca’ it mutiny to disobey orders, and t’ line’s fast to t’ harpoon — let’s see if t’ harpoon’s fast to t’ whale. So a tugged, and a lugged, and t’ whale didn’t mistake it for ticklin’, but she cocks up her tail, and throws out showers o’ water as were ice or iver it touched me; but a pulls on at t’ shank, an’ a were only afeard as she wouldn’t keep at t’ top wi’ it sticking in her; but at last t’ harpoon broke, an’ just i’ time, for a reckon she was near as tired o’ me as a were on her, and down she went; an’ a had hard work to make for t’ boats as was near enough to catch me; for what wi’ t’ whale’s being but slippery an’ t’ watter being cold, an’ me hampered wi’ t’ line an’ t’ piece o’ harpoon, it’s a chance, missus, as thou had stopped an oud maid.’
‘Eh dear a’ me!’ said Bell, ‘how well I mind yo’r telling me that tale! It were twenty-four year ago come October. I thought I never could think enough on a man as had rode on a whale’s back!’
‘Yo’ may learn t’ way of winnin’ t’ women,’ said Daniel, winking at the specksioneer.
And Kinraid immediately looked at Sylvia. It was no premeditated action; it came as naturally as wakening in the morning when his sleep was ended; but Sylvia coloured as red as any rose at his sudden glance, — coloured so deeply that he looked away until he thought she had recovered her composure, and then he sat gazing at her again. But not for long, for Bell suddenly starting up, did all but turn him out of the house. It was late, she said, and her master was tired, and they had a hard day before them next day; and it was keeping Ellen Corney up; and they had had enough to drink, — more than was good for them, she was sure, for they had both been taking her in with their stories, which she had been foolish enough to believe. No one saw the real motive of all this almost inhospitable haste to dismiss her guest, how the sudden fear had taken possession of her that he and Sylvia were ‘fancying each other’. Kinraid had said early in the evening that he had come to thank her for her kindness in sending the sausages, as he was off to his own home near Newcastle in a day or two. But now he said, in reply to Daniel Robson, that he would step in another night before long and hear some more of the old man’s yarns.
Daniel had just had enough drink to make him very good-tempered, or else his wife would not have dared to have acted as she did; and this maudlin amiability took the shape of hospitable urgency that Kinraid should come as often as he liked to Haytersbank; come and make it his home when he was in these parts; stay there altogether, and so on, till Bell fairly shut the outer door to, and locked it before the specksioneer had well got out of the shadow of their roof.
All night long Sylvia dreamed of burning volcanoes springing out of icy southern seas. But, as in the specksioneer’s tale the flames were peopled with demons, there was no human interest for her in the wondrous scene in which she was no actor, only a spectator. With daylight came wakening and little homely every-day wonders. Did Kinraid mean that he was going away really and entirely, or did he not? Was he Molly Corney’s sweetheart, or was he not? When she had argued herself into certainty on one side, she suddenly wheeled about, and was just of the opposite opinion. At length she settled that it could not be settled until she saw Molly again; so, by a strong gulping effort, she resolutely determined to think no more about him, only about the marvels he had told. She might think a little about them when she sat at night, spinning in silence by the household fire, or when she went out in the gloaming to call the cattle home to be milked, and sauntered back behind the patient, slow-gaited creatures; and at times on future summer days, when, as in the past, she took her knitting out for the sake of the freshness of the faint sea-breeze, and dropping down from ledge to ledge of the rocks that faced the blue ocean, established herself in a perilous nook that had been her haunt ever since her parents had come to Haytersbank Farm. From thence she had often seen the distant ships pass to and fro, with a certain sort of lazy pleasure in watching their swift tranquillity of motion, but no thought as to where they were bound to, or what strange places they would penetrate to before they turned again, homeward bound.
CHAPTER X
A REFRACTORY PUPIL
Sylvia was still full of the specksioneer and his stories, when Hepburn came up to give her the next lesson. But the prospect of a little sensible commendation for writing a whole page full of flourishing ‘Abednegos,’ had lost all the slight charm it had ever possessed. She was much more inclined to try and elicit some sympathy in her interest in the perils and adventures of the northern seas, than to bend and control her mind to the right formation of letters. Unwisely enough, she endeavoured to repeat one of the narratives that she had heard from Kinraid; and when she found that Hepburn (if, indeed, he did not look upon the whole as a silly invention) considered it only as an interruption to the real business in hand, to which he would try to listen as patiently as he could, in the hope of Sylvia’s applying herself diligently to her copy-book when she had cleared her mind, she contracted her pretty lips, as if to check them from making any further appeals for sympathy, and set about her writing-lesson in a very rebel
lious frame of mind, only restrained by her mother’s presence from spoken mutiny.
‘After all,’ said she, throwing down her pen, and opening and shutting her weary, cramped hand, ‘I see no good in tiring myself wi’ learning for t’ write letters when I’se never got one in a’ my life. What for should I write answers, when there’s niver a one writes to me? and if I had one, I couldn’t read it; it’s bad enough wi’ a book o’ print as I’ve niver seen afore, for there’s sure to be new-fangled words in ‘t. I’m sure I wish the man were farred who plagues his brains wi’ striking out new words. Why can’t folks just ha’ a set on ‘em for good and a’?’
‘Why! you’ll be after using two or three hundred yoursel’ every day as you live, Sylvie; and yet I must use a great many as you never think on about t’ shop; and t’ folks in t’ fields want their set, let alone the high English that parsons and lawyers speak.’
‘Well, it’s weary work is reading and writing. Cannot you learn me something else, if we mun do lessons?’
‘There’s sums — and geography,’ said Hepburn, slowly and gravely.
‘Geography!’ said Sylvia, brightening, and perhaps not pronouncing the word quite correctly, ‘I’d like yo’ to learn me geography. There’s a deal o’ places I want to hear all about.’
‘Well, I’ll bring up a book and a map next time. But I can tell you something now. There’s four quarters in the globe.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Sylvia.
‘The globe is the earth; the place we live on.’
‘Go on. Which quarter is Greenland?’
‘Greenland is no quarter. It is only a part of one.’
‘Maybe it’s a half quarter.’
‘No, not so much as that.’
‘Half again?’
‘No!’ he replied, smiling a little.
She thought he was making it into a very small place in order to tease her; so she pouted a little, and then said, —
‘Greenland is all t’ geography I want to know. Except, perhaps, York. I’d like to learn about York, because of t’ races, and London, because King George lives there.’
‘But if you learn geography at all, you must learn ‘bout all places: which of them is hot, and which is cold, and how many inhabitants is in each, and what’s the rivers, and which is the principal towns.’
‘I’m sure, Sylvie, if Philip will learn thee all that, thou’lt be such a sight o’ knowledge as ne’er a one o’ th’ Prestons has been sin’ my great-grandfather lost his property. I should be main proud o’ thee; ‘twould seem as if we was Prestons o’ Slaideburn once more.’
‘I’d do a deal to pleasure yo’, mammy; but weary befa’ riches and land, if folks that has ‘em is to write “Abednegos” by t’ score, and to get hard words int’ their brains, till they work like barm, and end wi’ cracking ‘em.’
This seemed to be Sylvia’s last protest against learning for the night, for after this she turned docile, and really took pains to understand all that Philip could teach her, by means of the not unskilful, though rude, map which he drew for her with a piece of charred wood on his aunt’s dresser. He had asked his aunt’s leave before beginning what Sylvia called his ‘dirty work;’ but by-and-by even she became a little interested in starting from a great black spot called Monkshaven, and in the shaping of land and sea around that one centre. Sylvia held her round chin in the palms of her hands, supporting her elbows on the dresser; looking down at the progress of the rough drawing in general, but now and then glancing up at him with sudden inquiry. All along he was not so much absorbed in his teaching as to be unconscious of her sweet proximity. She was in her best mood towards him; neither mutinous nor saucy; and he was striving with all his might to retain her interest, speaking better than ever he had done before (such brightness did love call forth!) — understanding what she would care to hear and to know; when, in the middle of an attempt at explaining the cause of the long polar days, of which she had heard from her childhood, he felt that her attention was no longer his; that a discord had come in between their minds; that she had passed out of his power. This certainty of intuition lasted but for an instant; he had no time to wonder or to speculate as to what had affected her so adversely to his wishes before the door opened and Kinraid came in. Then Hepburn knew that she must have heard his coming footsteps, and recognized them.
He angrily stiffened himself up into coldness of demeanour. Almost to his surprise, Sylvia’s greeting to the new comer was as cold as his own. She stood rather behind him; so perhaps she did not see the hand which Kinraid stretched out towards her, for she did not place her own little palm in it, as she had done to Philip an hour ago. And she hardly spoke, but began to pore over the rough black map, as if seized with strong geographical curiosity, or determined to impress Philip’s lesson deep on her memory.
Still Philip was dismayed by seeing the warm welcome which Kinraid received from the master of the house, who came in from the back premises almost at the same time as the specksioneer entered at the front. Hepburn was uneasy, too, at finding Kinraid take his seat by the fireside, like one accustomed to the ways of the house. Pipes were soon produced. Philip disliked smoking. Possibly Kinraid did so too, but he took a pipe at any rate, and lighted it, though he hardly used it at all, but kept talking to farmer Robson on sea affairs. He had the conversation pretty much to himself. Philip sat gloomily by; Sylvia and his aunt were silent, and old Robson smoked his long clay pipe, from time to time taking it out of his mouth to spit into the bright copper spittoon, and to shake the white ashes out of the bowl. Before he replaced it, he would give a short laugh of relishing interest in Kinraid’s conversation; and now and then he put in a remark. Sylvia perched herself sideways on the end of the dresser, and made pretence to sew; but Philip could see how often she paused in her work to listen.
By-and-by, his aunt spoke to him, and they kept up a little side conversation, more because Bell Robson felt that her nephew, her own flesh and blood, was put out, than for any special interest they either of them felt in what they were saying. Perhaps, also, they neither of them disliked showing that they had no great faith in the stories Kinraid was telling. Mrs. Robson, at any rate, knew so little as to be afraid of believing too much.
Philip was sitting on that side of the fire which was nearest to the window and to Sylvia, and opposite to the specksioneer. At length he turned to his cousin and said in a low voice —
‘I suppose we can’t go on with our spell at geography till that fellow’s gone?’
The colour came into Sylvia’s cheek at the words ‘that fellow’; but she only replied with a careless air —
‘Well, I’m one as thinks enough is as good as a feast; and I’ve had enough of geography this one night, thank you kindly all the same.’
Philip took refuge in offended silence. He was maliciously pleased when his aunt made so much noise with her preparation for supper as quite to prevent the sound of the sailor’s words from reaching Sylvia’s ears. She saw that he was glad to perceive that her efforts to reach the remainder of the story were baulked! this nettled her, and, determined not to let him have his malicious triumph, and still more to put a stop to any attempt at private conversation, she began to sing to herself as she sat at her work; till, suddenly seized with a desire to help her mother, she dexterously slipped down from her seat, passed Hepburn, and was on her knees toasting cakes right in front of the fire, and just close to her father and Kinraid. And now the noise that Hepburn had so rejoiced in proved his foe. He could not hear the little merry speeches that darted backwards and forwards as the specksioneer tried to take the toasting-fork out of Sylvia’s hand.
‘How comes that sailor chap here?’ asked Hepburn of his aunt. ‘He’s none fit to be where Sylvia is.’
‘Nay, I dunnot know,’ said she; ‘the Corneys made us acquaint first, and my master is quite fain of his company.’
‘And do you like him, too, aunt?’ asked Hepburn, almost wistfully; he had followed Mrs. Robson i
nto the dairy on pretence of helping her.
‘I’m none fond on him; I think he tells us traveller’s tales, by way o’ seeing how much we can swallow. But the master and Sylvia think that there never was such a one.’
‘I could show them a score as good as he down on the quayside.’
‘Well, laddie, keep a calm sough. Some folk like some folk and others don’t. Wherever I am there’ll allays be a welcome for thee.’
For the good woman thought that he had been hurt by the evident absorption of her husband and daughter with their new friend, and wished to make all easy and straight. But do what she would, he did not recover his temper all evening: he was uncomfortable, put out, not enjoying himself, and yet he would not go. He was determined to assert his greater intimacy in that house by outstaying Kinraid. At length the latter got up to go; but before he went, he must needs bend over Sylvia and say something to her in so low a tone that Philip could not hear it; and she, seized with a sudden fit of diligence, never looked up from her sewing; only nodded her head by way of reply. At last he took his departure, after many a little delay, and many a quick return, which to the suspicious Philip seemed only pretences for taking stolen glances at Sylvia. As soon as he was decidedly gone, she folded up her work, and declared that she was so much tired that she must go to bed there and then. Her mother, too, had been dozing for the last half-hour, and was only too glad to see signs that she might betake herself to her natural place of slumber.
‘Take another glass, Philip,’ said farmer Robson.
But Hepburn refused the offer rather abruptly. He drew near to Sylvia instead. He wanted to make her speak to him, and he saw that she wished to avoid it. He took up the readiest pretext. It was an unwise one as it proved, for it deprived him of his chances of occasionally obtaining her undivided attention.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 181