CHAPTER X
A REFRACTORY PUPIL
Sylvia was still full of the specksioneer and his stories, whenHepburn came up to give her the next lesson. But the prospect of alittle sensible commendation for writing a whole page full offlourishing 'Abednegos,' had lost all the slight charm it had everpossessed. She was much more inclined to try and elicit somesympathy in her interest in the perils and adventures of thenorthern seas, than to bend and control her mind to the rightformation of letters. Unwisely enough, she endeavoured to repeat oneof the narratives that she had heard from Kinraid; and when shefound that Hepburn (if, indeed, he did not look upon the whole as asilly invention) considered it only as an interruption to the realbusiness in hand, to which he would try to listen as patiently as hecould, in the hope of Sylvia's applying herself diligently to hercopy-book when she had cleared her mind, she contracted her prettylips, as if to check them from making any further appeals forsympathy, and set about her writing-lesson in a very rebelliousframe of mind, only restrained by her mother's presence from spokenmutiny.
'After all,' said she, throwing down her pen, and opening andshutting her weary, cramped hand, 'I see no good in tiring myselfwi' learning for t' write letters when I'se never got one in a' mylife. What for should I write answers, when there's niver a onewrites to me? and if I had one, I couldn't read it; it's bad enoughwi' a book o' print as I've niver seen afore, for there's sure to benew-fangled words in 't. I'm sure I wish the man were farred whoplagues his brains wi' striking out new words. Why can't folks justha' a set on 'em for good and a'?'
'Why! you'll be after using two or three hundred yoursel' every dayas you live, Sylvie; and yet I must use a great many as you neverthink 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 mesomething else, if we mun do lessons?'
'There's sums--and geography,' said Hepburn, slowly and gravely.
'Geography!' said Sylvia, brightening, and perhaps not pronouncingthe 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 yousomething 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 totease 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 isin 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 besuch a sight o' knowledge as ne'er a one o' th' Prestons has beensin' my great-grandfather lost his property. I should be main proudo' thee; 'twould seem as if we was Prestons o' Slaideburn oncemore.'
'I'd do a deal to pleasure yo', mammy; but weary befa' riches andland, if folks that has 'em is to write "Abednegos" by t' score, andto get hard words int' their brains, till they work like barm, andend wi' cracking 'em.'
This seemed to be Sylvia's last protest against learning for thenight, for after this she turned docile, and really took pains tounderstand all that Philip could teach her, by means of the notunskilful, though rude, map which he drew for her with a piece ofcharred wood on his aunt's dresser. He had asked his aunt's leavebefore beginning what Sylvia called his 'dirty work;' but by-and-byeven she became a little interested in starting from a great blackspot called Monkshaven, and in the shaping of land and sea aroundthat one centre. Sylvia held her round chin in the palms of herhands, supporting her elbows on the dresser; looking down at theprogress of the rough drawing in general, but now and then glancingup at him with sudden inquiry. All along he was not so much absorbedin his teaching as to be unconscious of her sweet proximity. She wasin her best mood towards him; neither mutinous nor saucy; and he wasstriving with all his might to retain her interest, speaking betterthan ever he had done before (such brightness did love callforth!)--understanding what she would care to hear and to know;when, in the middle of an attempt at explaining the cause of thelong polar days, of which she had heard from her childhood, he feltthat her attention was no longer his; that a discord had come inbetween their minds; that she had passed out of his power. Thiscertainty of intuition lasted but for an instant; he had no time towonder or to speculate as to what had affected her so adversely tohis wishes before the door opened and Kinraid came in. Then Hepburnknew that she must have heard his coming footsteps, and recognizedthem.
He angrily stiffened himself up into coldness of demeanour. Almostto his surprise, Sylvia's greeting to the new comer was as cold ashis own. She stood rather behind him; so perhaps she did not see thehand which Kinraid stretched out towards her, for she did not placeher 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, asif seized with strong geographical curiosity, or determined toimpress Philip's lesson deep on her memory.
Still Philip was dismayed by seeing the warm welcome which Kinraidreceived from the master of the house, who came in from the backpremises almost at the same time as the specksioneer entered at thefront. Hepburn was uneasy, too, at finding Kinraid take his seat bythe fireside, like one accustomed to the ways of the house. Pipeswere soon produced. Philip disliked smoking. Possibly Kinraid did sotoo, but he took a pipe at any rate, and lighted it, though hehardly used it at all, but kept talking to farmer Robson on seaaffairs. He had the conversation pretty much to himself. Philip satgloomily by; Sylvia and his aunt were silent, and old Robson smokedhis long clay pipe, from time to time taking it out of his mouth tospit into the bright copper spittoon, and to shake the white ashesout of the bowl. Before he replaced it, he would give a short laughof relishing interest in Kinraid's conversation; and now and then heput in a remark. Sylvia perched herself sideways on the end of thedresser, and made pretence to sew; but Philip could see how oftenshe paused in her work to listen.
By-and-by, his aunt spoke to him, and they kept up a little sideconversation, more because Bell Robson felt that her nephew, her ownflesh and blood, was put out, than for any special interest theyeither of them felt in what they were saying. Perhaps, also, theyneither of them disliked showing that they had no great faith in thestories Kinraid was telling. Mrs. Robson, at any rate, knew so littleas to be afraid of believing too much.
Philip was sitting on that side of the fire which was nearest to thewindow and to Sylvia, and opposite to the specksioneer. At length heturned to his cousin and said in a low voice--
'I suppose we can't go on with our spell at geography till thatfellow's gone?'
The colour came into Sylvia's cheek at the words 'that fellow'; butshe only replied with a careless air--
'Well, I'm one as thinks enough is as good as a feast; and I've hadenough of geography this one night, thank you kindly all the same.'
Philip took refuge in offended silence. He was maliciously pleasedwhen his aunt made so much noise with her preparation for supper asquite to prevent the sound of the sailor's words from reachingSylvia's ears. She saw that he was glad to perceive that her effortsto reach the remainder of the story were baulked! this nettled her,and, determined not to let him have his malicious triumph, and stillmore to put a stop to any attempt at private conversation, she beganto sing to herself as she sat at her work; till, suddenly seizedwith a desire to help her mother, she dexterously sli
pped down fromher seat, passed Hepburn, and was on her knees toasting cakes rightin front of the fire, and just close to her father and Kinraid. Andnow the noise that Hepburn had so rejoiced in proved his foe. Hecould not hear the little merry speeches that darted backwards andforwards as the specksioneer tried to take the toasting-fork out ofSylvia's hand.
'How comes that sailor chap here?' asked Hepburn of his aunt. 'He'snone 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 into the dairy on pretence of helpingher.
'I'm none fond on him; I think he tells us traveller's tales, by wayo' seeing how much we can swallow. But the master and Sylvia thinkthat 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 andothers 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 evidentabsorption of her husband and daughter with their new friend, andwished to make all easy and straight. But do what she would, he didnot recover his temper all evening: he was uncomfortable, put out,not enjoying himself, and yet he would not go. He was determined toassert his greater intimacy in that house by outstaying Kinraid. Atlength the latter got up to go; but before he went, he must needsbend over Sylvia and say something to her in so low a tone thatPhilip could not hear it; and she, seized with a sudden fit ofdiligence, never looked up from her sewing; only nodded her head byway of reply. At last he took his departure, after many a littledelay, and many a quick return, which to the suspicious Philipseemed only pretences for taking stolen glances at Sylvia. As soonas he was decidedly gone, she folded up her work, and declared thatshe was so much tired that she must go to bed there and then. Hermother, too, had been dozing for the last half-hour, and was onlytoo glad to see signs that she might betake herself to her naturalplace of slumber.
'Take another glass, Philip,' said farmer Robson.
But Hepburn refused the offer rather abruptly. He drew near toSylvia instead. He wanted to make her speak to him, and he saw thatshe wished to avoid it. He took up the readiest pretext. It was anunwise one as it proved, for it deprived him of his chances ofoccasionally obtaining her undivided attention.
'I don't think you care much for learning geography, Sylvie?'
'Not much to-night,' said she, making a pretence to yawn, yetlooking timidly up at his countenance of displeasure.
'Nor at any time,' said he, with growing anger; 'nor for any kind oflearning. I did bring some books last time I came, meaning to teachyou many a thing--but now I'll just trouble you for my books; I putthem on yon shelf by the Bible.'
He had a mind that she should bring them to him; that, at any rate,he should have the pleasure of receiving them out of her hands.
Sylvia did not reply, but went and took down the books with alanguid, indifferent air.
'And so you won't learn any more geography,' said Hepburn.
Something in his tone struck her, and she looked up in his face.There were marks of stern offence upon his countenance, and yet init there was also an air of wistful regret and sadness that touchedher.
'Yo're niver angry with me, Philip? Sooner than vex yo', I'll tryand learn. Only, I'm just stupid; and it mun be such a trouble toyou.'
Hepburn would fain have snatched at this half proposal that thelessons should be continued, but he was too stubborn and proud tosay anything. He turned away from the sweet, pleading face without aword, to wrap up his books in a piece of paper. He knew that she wasstanding quite still by his side, though he made as if he did notperceive her. When he had done he abruptly wished them all'good-night,' and took his leave.
There were tears in Sylvia's eyes, although the feeling in her heartwas rather one of relief. She had made a fair offer, and it had beentreated with silent contempt. A few days afterwards, her father camein from Monkshaven market, and dropped out, among other pieces ofnews, that he had met Kinraid, who was bound for his own home atCullercoats. He had desired his respects to Mrs. Robson and herdaughter; and had bid Robson say that he would have come up toHaytersbank to wish them good-by, but that as he was pressed fortime, he hoped they would excuse him. But Robson did not think itworth while to give this long message of mere politeness. Indeed, asit did not relate to business, and was only sent to women, Robsonforgot all about it, pretty nearly as soon as it was uttered. SoSylvia went about fretting herself for one or two days, at herhero's apparent carelessness of those who had at any rate treatedhim more like a friend than an acquaintance of only a few weeks'standing; and then, her anger quenching her incipient regard, shewent about her daily business pretty much as though he had neverbeen. He had gone away out of her sight into the thick mist ofunseen life from which he had emerged--gone away without a word, andshe might never see him again. But still there was a chance of herseeing him when he came to marry Molly Corney. Perhaps she should bebridesmaid, and then what a pleasant merry time the wedding-daywould be! The Corneys were all such kind people, and in their familythere never seemed to be the checks and restraints by which her ownmother hedged her round. Then there came an overwhelmingself-reproaching burst of love for that 'own mother'; a humiliationbefore her slightest wish, as penance for the moment's unspokentreason; and thus Sylvia was led to request her cousin Philip toresume his lessons in so meek a manner, that he slowly andgraciously acceded to a request which he was yearning to fulfil allthe time.
During the ensuing winter, all went on in monotonous regularity atHaytersbank Farm for many weeks. Hepburn came and went, and thoughtSylvia wonderfully improved in docility and sobriety; and perhapsalso he noticed the improvement in her appearance. For she was atthat age when a girl changes rapidly, and generally for the better.Sylvia shot up into a tall young woman; her eyes deepened in colour,her face increased in expression, and a sort of consciousness ofunusual good looks gave her a slight tinge of coquettish shynesswith the few strangers whom she ever saw. Philip hailed her interestin geography as another sign of improvement. He had brought back hisbook of maps to the farm; and there he sat on many an eveningteaching his cousin, who had strange fancies respecting the placesabout which she wished to learn, and was coolly indifferent to thevery existence of other towns, and countries, and seas far morefamous in story. She was occasionally wilful, and at times verycontemptuous as to the superior knowledge of her instructor; but, inspite of it all, Philip went regularly on the appointed evenings toHaytersbank--through keen black east wind, or driving snow, orslushing thaw; for he liked dearly to sit a little behind her, withhis arm on the back of her chair, she stooping over the outspreadmap, with her eyes,--could he have seen them,--a good deal fixed onone spot in the map, not Northumberland, where Kinraid was spendingthe winter, but those wild northern seas about which he had toldthem such wonders.
One day towards spring, she saw Molly Corney coming towards thefarm. The companions had not met for many weeks, for Molly had beenfrom home visiting her relations in the north. Sylvia opened thedoor, and stood smiling and shivering on the threshold, glad to seeher friend again. Molly called out, when a few paces off,--
'Why, Sylvia, is that thee! Why, how thou'rt growed, to be sure!What a bonny lass thou is!'
'Dunnot talk nonsense to my lass,' said Bell Robson, hospitablyleaving her ironing and coming to the door; but though the mothertried to look as if she thought it nonsense, she could hardly keepdown the smile that shone out of her eyes, as she put her hand onSylvia's shoulder, with a fond sense of proprietorship in what wasbeing praised.
'Oh! but she is,' persisted Molly. 'She's grown quite a beauty sin'I saw her. And if I don't tell her so, the men will.'
'Be quiet wi' thee,' said Sylvia, more than half offended, andturning away in a huff at the open barefaced admiration.
'Ay; but they will,' persevered Moll
y. 'Yo'll not keep her long,Mistress Robson. And as mother says, yo'd feel it a deal more tohave yer daughters left on hand.'
'Thy mother has many, I have but this one,' said Mrs. Robson, withsevere sadness; for now Molly was getting to talk as she disliked.But Molly's purpose was to bring the conversation round to her ownaffairs, of which she was very full.
'Yes! I tell mother that wi' so many as she has, she ought to bethankful to t' one as gets off quickest.'
'Who? which is it?' asked Sylvia, a little eagerly, seeing thatthere was news of a wedding behind the talk.
'Why! who should it be but me?' said Molly, laughing a good deal,and reddening a little. 'I've not gone fra' home for nought; I'sepicked up a measter on my travels, leastways one as is to be.'
'Charley Kinraid,' said Sylvia smiling, as she found that now shemight reveal Molly's secret, which hitherto she had kept sacred.
'Charley Kinraid be hung!' said Molly, with a toss of her head.'Whatten good's a husband who's at sea half t' year? Ha ha, mymeaster is a canny Newcassel shopkeeper, on t' Side. A reckon a'vedone pretty well for mysel', and a'll wish yo' as good luck, Sylvia.For yo' see,' (turning to Bell Robson, who, perhaps, she thoughtwould more appreciate the substantial advantages of her engagementthan Sylvia,) 'though Measter Brunton is near upon forty if he's aday, yet he turns over a matter of two hundred pound every year; anhe's a good-looking man of his years too, an' a kind, good-temperedfeller int' t' bargain. He's been married once, to be sure; but hischilder are dead a' 'cept one; an' I don't mislike childer either;an' a'll feed 'em well, an' get 'em to bed early, out o' t' road.'
Mrs. Robson gave her her grave good wishes; but Sylvia was silent.She was disappointed; it was a coming down from the romance with thespecksioneer for its hero. Molly laughed awkwardly, understandingSylvia's thoughts better than the latter imagined.
'Sylvia's noane so well pleased. Why, lass! it's a' t' better forthee. There's Charley to t' fore now, which if a'd married him, he'dnot ha' been; and he's said more nor once what a pretty lass yo'dgrow into by-and-by.'
Molly's prosperity was giving her an independence and fearlessnessof talk such as had seldom appeared hitherto; and certainly neverbefore Mrs. Robson. Sylvia was annoyed at Molly's whole tone andmanner, which were loud, laughing, and boisterous; but to her motherthey were positively repugnant. She said shortly and gravely,--
'Sylvia's none so set upo' matrimony; she's content to bide wi' meand her father. Let a be such talking, it's not i' my way.'
Molly was a little subdued; but still her elation at the prospect ofbeing so well married kept cropping out of all the other subjectswhich were introduced; and when she went away, Mrs. Robson broke outin an unwonted strain of depreciation.
'That's the way wi' some lasses. They're like a cock on a dunghill,when they've teased a silly chap into wedding 'em. It'scock-a-doodle-do, I've cotched a husband, cock-a-doodle-doo, wi''em. I've no patience wi' such like; I beg, Sylvie, thou'lt not gettoo thick wi' Molly. She's not pretty behaved, making such an adoabout men-kind, as if they were two-headed calves to be run after.'
'But Molly's a good-hearted lass, mother. Only I never dreamt butwhat she was troth-plighted wi' Charley Kinraid,' said Sylvia,meditatively.
'That wench 'll be troth-plight to th' first man as 'll wed her andkeep her i' plenty; that's a' she thinks about,' replied Bell,scornfully.
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