Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘I met that good-for-nothing chap, Kinraid, wi’ yo’r father just now. He’ll ha’ been here, Sylvie?’

  She stooped for something she had dropped, and came up red as a rose.

  ‘To be sure; what then?’ And she eyed him defiantly, though in her heart she trembled, she knew not why.

  ‘What then? and yo’r mother away. He’s no company for such as thee, at no time, Sylvie.’

  ‘Feyther and me chooses our own company, without iver asking leave o’ yo’,’ said Sylvia, hastily arranging the things in the little wooden work-box that was on the table, preparatory to putting it away. At the time, in his agitation, he saw, but did not affix any meaning to it, that the half of some silver coin was among the contents thus turned over before the box was locked.

  ‘But thy mother wouldn’t like it, Sylvie; he’s played false wi’ other lasses, he’ll be playing thee false some o’ these days, if thou lets him come about thee. He went on wi’ Annie Coulson, William’s sister, till he broke her heart; and sin then he’s been on wi’ others.’

  ‘I dunnot believe a word on ‘t,’ said Sylvia, standing up, all aflame.

  ‘I niver telled a lie i’ my life,’ said Philip, almost choking with grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his rival which she betrayed. ‘It were Willie Coulson as telled me, as solemn and serious as one man can speak to another; and he said it weren’t the first nor the last time as he had made his own game with young women.’

  ‘And how dare yo’ come here to me wi’ yo’r backbiting tales?’ said Sylvia, shivering all over with passion.

  Philip tried to keep calm, and to explain.

  ‘It were yo’r own mother, Sylvia, as knowed yo’ had no brother, or any one to see after yo’; and yo’ so pretty, so pretty, Sylvia,’ he continued, shaking his head, sadly, ‘that men run after yo’ against their will, as one may say; and yo’r mother bade me watch o’er ye and see what company yo’ kept, and who was following after yo’, and to warn yo’, if need were.’

  ‘My mother niver bade yo’ to come spying after me, and blaming me for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks well on. An’ I don’t believe a word about Annie Coulson; an’ I’m not going to suffer yo’ to come wi’ yo’r tales to me; say ‘em out to his face, and hear what he’ll say to yo’.’

  ‘Sylvie, Sylvie,’ cried poor Philip, as his offended cousin rushed past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, where he heard the sound of the wooden bolt flying into its place. He could hear her feet pacing quickly about through the unceiled rafters. He sate still in despair, his head buried in his two hands. He sate till it grew dusk, dark; the wood fire, not gathered together by careful hands, died out into gray ashes. Dolly Reid had done her work and gone home. There were but Philip and Sylvia in the house. He knew he ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many arrangements to make. Yet it seemed as though he could not stir. At length he raised his stiffened body, and stood up, dizzy. Up the little wooden stairs he went, where he had never been before, to the small square landing, almost filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. He breathed hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia’s room.

  ‘Sylvie! I’m going away; say good-by.’ No answer. Not a sound heard. ‘Sylvie!’ (a little louder, and less hoarsely spoken). There was no reply. ‘Sylvie! I shall be a long time away; perhaps I may niver come back at all’; here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death. ‘Say good-by.’ No answer. He waited patiently. Can she be wearied out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. Yet once again — ’Good-by, Sylvie, and God bless yo’! I’m sorry I vexed yo’.’

  No reply.

  With a heavy, heavy heart he creaked down the stairs, felt for his cap, and left the house.

  ‘She’s warned, any way,’ thought he. Just at that moment the little casement window of Sylvia’s room was opened, and she said —

  ‘Good-by, Philip!’

  The window was shut again as soon as the words were spoken. Philip knew the uselessness of remaining; the need for his departure; and yet he stood still for a little time like one entranced, as if his will had lost all power to compel him to leave the place. Those two words of hers, which two hours before would have been so far beneath his aspirations, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach or blame.

  ‘She’s but a young lassie,’ said he to himself; ‘an’ Kinraid has been playing wi’ her, as such as he can’t help doing, once they get among the women. An’ I came down sudden on her about Annie Coulson, and touched her pride. Maybe, too, it were ill advised to tell her how her mother was feared for her. I couldn’t ha’ left the place to-morrow if he’d been biding here; but he’s off for half a year or so, and I’ll be home again as soon as iver I can. In half a year such as he forgets, if iver he’s thought serious about her; but in a’ my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver forget. God bless her for saying, “Good-by, Philip.”‘ He repeated the words aloud in fond mimicry of her tones: ‘Good-by, Philip.’

  CHAPTER XVIII

  EDDY IN LOVE’S CURRENT

  The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March morning did. The beguiling month was coming in like a lamb, with whatever storms it might go raging out. It was long since Philip had tasted the freshness of the early air on the shore, or in the country, as his employment at the shop detained him in Monkshaven till the evening. And as he turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north side of the river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze blowing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and elastic. With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was prepared for a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a coach would take him to Newcastle before night. For seven or eight miles the level sands were as short and far more agreeable a road than the up and down land-ways. Philip walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying the sunny landscape before him; the crisp curling waves rushing almost up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing back over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. To his left were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep gullies here and there between, with long green slopes upward from the land, and then sudden falls of brown and red soil or rock deepening to a yet greater richness of colour at their base towards the blue ocean before him. The loud, monotonous murmur of the advancing and receding waters lulled him into dreaminess; the sunny look of everything tinged his day-dreams with hope. So he trudged merrily over the first mile or so; not an obstacle to his measured pace on the hard, level pavement; not a creature to be seen since he had left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling in the sea-pools near Monkshaven. The cares of land were shut out by the glorious barrier of rocks before him. There were some great masses that had been detached by the action of the weather, and lay half embedded in the sand, draperied over by the heavy pendent olive-green seaweed. The waves were nearer at this point; the advancing sea came up with a mighty distant length of roar; here and there the smooth swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks into white breakers; but otherwise the waves came up from the German Ocean upon that English shore with a long steady roll that might have taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of the sea-serpent on the coast of ‘Norroway over the foam.’ The air was soft as May; right overhead the sky was blue, but it deadened into gray near the sea lines. Flocks of seagulls hovered about the edge of the waves, slowly rising and turning their white under-plumage to glimmer in the sunlight as Philip approached. The whole scene was so peaceful, so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (too well founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during the dark hours of the past night.

  There was Haytersbank gully opening down its green entrance among the warm brown bases of the cliffs. Below, in the sheltered brushwood, among the last year’s withered leaves, some primroses might be found. He half thought of gathering Sylvia a posy of them, and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace-offering. But on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action out of his head
; it was above an hour later than he had supposed, and he must make all haste on to Hartlepool. Just as he was approaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran out some way upon the sand with the very force of his descent; then he turned to the left and took the direction of Hartlepool a hundred yards or so in advance of Philip. He never stayed to look round him, but went swiftly and steadily on his way. By the peculiar lurch in his walk — by everything — Philip knew it was the specksioneer, Kinraid.

  Now the road up Haytersbank gully led to the farm, and nowhere else. Still any one wishing to descend to the shore might do so by first going up to the Robsons’ house, and skirting the walls till they came to the little slender path down to the shore. But by the farm, by the very house-door they must of necessity pass. Philip slackened his pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock. By-and-by Kinraid, walking on the sunlight open sands, turned round and looked long and earnestly towards Haytersbank gully. Hepburn paused when he paused, but as intently as he looked at some object above, so intently did Hepburn look at him. No need to ascertain by sight towards whom his looks, his thoughts were directed. He took off his hat and waved it, touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. When he turned away at last, Hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and crept yet more into the cold dank shadow of the cliffs. Each step was now a heavy task, his sad heart tired and weary. After a while he climbed up a few feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with the stones and rocks around. Stumbling over the uneven and often jagged points, slipping on the sea-weed, plunging into little pools of water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet kept his eyes fixed as if in fascination on Kinraid, and made his way almost alongside of him. But the last hour had pinched Hepburn’s features into something of the wan haggardness they would wear when he should first be lying still for ever.

  And now the two men were drawing near a creek, about eight miles from Monkshaven. The creek was formed by a beck (or small stream) that came flowing down from the moors, and took its way to the sea between the widening rocks. The melting of the snows and running of the flooded water-springs above made this beck in the early spring-time both deep and wide. Hepburn knew that here they both must take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge about a quarter of a mile up the stream; indeed from this point, owing to the jutting out of the rocks, the land path was the shortest; and this way lay by the water-side at an angle right below the cliff to which Hepburn’s steps were leading him. He knew that on this long level field path he might easily be seen by any one following; nay, if he followed any one at a short distance, for it was full of turnings; and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for a while till Kinraid was far enough in advance for him to escape being seen. He came up to the last rock behind which he could be concealed; seven or eight feet above the stream he stood, and looked cautiously for the specksioneer. Up by the rushing stream he looked, then right below.

  ‘It is God’s providence,’ he murmured. ‘It is God’s providence.’

  He crouched down where he had been standing and covered his face with his hands. He tried to deafen as well as to blind himself, that he might neither hear nor see anything of the coming event of which he, an inhabitant of Monkshaven at that day, well understood the betokening signs.

  Kinraid had taken the larger angle of the sands before turning up towards the bridge. He came along now nearing the rocks. By this time he was sufficiently buoyant to whistle to himself. It steeled Philip’s heart to what was coming to hear his rival whistling, ‘Weel may the keel row,’ so soon after parting with Sylvia.

  The instant Kinraid turned the corner of the cliff, the ambush was upon him. Four man-of-war’s men sprang on him and strove to pinion him.

  ‘In the King’s name!’ cried they, with rough, triumphant jeers.

  Their boat was moored not a dozen yards above; they were sent by the tender of a frigate lying off Hartlepool for fresh water. The tender was at anchor just beyond the jutting rocks in face.

  They knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to and from their nets by the side of the creek; but such a prize as this active, strong, and evidently superior sailor, was what they had not hoped for, and their endeavours to secure him were in proportion to the value of the prize.

  Although taken by surprise, and attacked by so many, Kinraid did not lose his wits. He wrenched himself free, crying out loud:

  ‘Avast, I’m a protected whaler. I claim my protection. I’ve my papers to show, I’m bonded specksioneer to the Urania whaler, Donkin captain, North Shields port.’

  As a protected whaler, the press-gang had, by the 17th section of Act 26 Geo. III. no legal right to seize him, unless he had failed to return to his ship by the 10th March following the date of his bond. But of what use were the papers he hastily dragged out of his breast; of what use were laws in those days of slow intercourse with such as were powerful enough to protect, and in the time of popular panic against a French invasion?

  ‘D — n your protection,’ cried the leader of the press-gang; ‘come and serve his Majesty, that’s better than catching whales.’

  ‘Is it though?’ said the specksioneer, with a motion of his hand, which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him saw and interpreted rightly.

  ‘Thou wilt, wilt thou? Close with him, Jack; and ware the cutlass.’

  In a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it became a hand-to-hand struggle, of which, from the difference in numbers, it was not difficult to foretell the result. Yet Kinraid made desperate efforts to free himself; he wasted no breath in words, but fought, as the men said, ‘like a very devil.’

  Hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull struggle of limbs on the sand, the growling curses of those who thought to have managed their affair more easily; the sudden cry of some one wounded, not Kinraid he knew, Kinraid would have borne any pain in silence at such a moment; another wrestling, swearing, infuriated strife, and then a strange silence. Hepburn sickened at the heart; was then his rival dead? had he left this bright world? lost his life — his love? For an instant Hepburn felt guilty of his death; he said to himself he had never wished him dead, and yet in the struggle he had kept aloof, and now it might be too late for ever. Philip could not bear the suspense; he looked stealthily round the corner of the rock behind which he had been hidden, and saw that they had overpowered Kinraid, and, too exhausted to speak, were binding him hand and foot to carry him to their boat.

  Kinraid lay as still as any hedgehog: he rolled when they pushed him; he suffered himself to be dragged without any resistance, any motion; the strong colour brought into his face while fighting was gone now, his countenance was livid pale; his lips were tightly held together, as if it cost him more effort to be passive, wooden, and stiff in their hands than it had done to fight and struggle with all his might. His eyes seemed the only part about him that showed cognizance of what was going on. They were watchful, vivid, fierce as those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in its desperate quickened brain for some mode of escape not yet visible, and in all probability never to become visible to the hopeless creature in its supreme agony.

  Without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and taking in everything while he lay bound at the bottom of the boat. A sailor sat by his side, who had been hurt by a blow from him. The man held his head in his hand, moaning; but every now and then he revenged himself by a kick at the prostrate specksioneer, till even his comrades stopped their cursing and swearing at their prisoner for the trouble he had given them, to cry shame on their comrade. But Kinraid never spoke, nor shrank from the outstretched foot.

  One of his captors, with the successful insolence of victory, ventured to jeer him on the supposed reason for his vehement and hopeless resistance.

  He might have said yet more insolent things; the kicks might have hit harder; Kinraid did not hear or heed. His soul was beating itself against the bars of inflexible circumstance; reviewing in one terrible instant of time what had been, what might have been, what w
as. Yet while these thoughts thus stabbed him, he was still mechanically looking out for chances. He moved his head a little, so as to turn towards Haytersbank, where Sylvia must be quickly, if sadly, going about her simple daily work; and then his quick eye caught Hepburn’s face, blanched with excitement rather than fear, watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat breathless during the affray and the impressment of his rival.

  ‘Come here, lad!’ shouted the specksioneer as soon as he saw Philip, heaving and writhing his body the while with so much vigour that the sailors started away from the work they were engaged in about the boat, and held him down once more, as if afraid he should break the strong rope that held him like withes of green flax. But the bound man had no such notion in his head. His mighty wish was to call Hepburn near that he might send some message by him to Sylvia. ‘Come here, Hepburn,’ he cried again, falling back this time so weak and exhausted that the man-of-war’s men became sympathetic.

  ‘Come down, peeping Tom, and don’t be afeared,’ they called out.

  ‘I’m not afeared,’ said Philip; ‘I’m no sailor for yo’ t’ impress me: nor have yo’ any right to take that fellow; he’s a Greenland specksioneer, under protection, as I know and can testify.’

  ‘Yo’ and yo’r testify go hang. Make haste, man and hear what this gem’man, as was in a dirty blubbery whale-ship, and is now in his Majesty’s service, has got to say. I dare say, Jack,’ went on the speaker, ‘it’s some message to his sweetheart, asking her to come for to serve on board ship along with he, like Billy Taylor’s young woman.’

  Philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want of activity, but because he was undecided what he should be called upon to do or to say by the man whom he hated and dreaded, yet whom just now he could not help admiring.

  Kinraid groaned with impatience at seeing one, free to move with quick decision, so slow and dilatory.