Sylvia's Lovers Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘It's made a deal o' wark i' Monkshaven. Folk had gotten to think nought o' t' tender, she lay so still, an' t' leftenant paid such a good price for all he wanted for t' ship. But o' Thursday t' Resolution, first whaler back this season, came in port, and t' press-gang showed their teeth, and carried off four as good able-bodied seamen as iver I made trousers for; and t' place were all up like a nest o' wasps, when yo've set your foot in t' midst. They were so mad, they were ready for t' fight t' very pavin' stones.'

  ‘A wish a'd been theere! A just wish a had! A've a score for t' reckon up wi't' press-gang!’

  And the old man lifted up his right hand—his hand on which the forefinger and thumb were maimed and useless—partly in denunciation, and partly as a witness of what he had endured to escape from the service, abhorred because it was forced. His face became a totally different countenance with the expression of settled and unrelenting indignation, which his words called out.

  ‘G'on, man, g'on,’ said Daniel, impatient with Donkin for the little delay occasioned by the necessity of arranging his work more fully.

  ‘Ay! ay! all in good time; for a've a long tale to tell yet; an' a mun have some 'un to iron me out my seams, and look me out my bits, for there's none here fit for my purpose.’

  ‘Dang thy bits! Here, Sylvie! Sylvie! come and be tailor's man, and let t' chap get settled sharp, for a'm fain t' hear his story.’

  Sylvia took her directions, and placed her irons in the fire, and ran upstairs for the bundle which had been put aside by her careful mother for occasions like the present. It consisted of small pieces of various coloured cloth, cut out of old coats and waistcoats, and similar garments, when the whole had become too much worn for use, yet when part had been good enough to be treasured by a thrifty housewife. Daniel grew angry before Donkin had selected his patterns and settled the work to his own mind.

  ‘Well,’ said he at last; ‘a mought be a young man a-goin' a wooin', by t' pains thou'st taken for t' match my oud clothes. I don't care if they're patched wi' scarlet, a tell thee; so as thou'lt work away at thy tale wi' thy tongue, same time as thou works at thy needle wi' thy fingers.’

  ‘Then, as a were saying, all Monkshaven were like a nest o' wasps, flyin' hither and thither, and makin' sich a buzzin' and a talkin' as niver were; and each wi' his sting out, ready for t' vent his venom o' rage and revenge. And women cryin' and sobbin' i' t' streets—when, Lord help us! o' Saturday came a worse time than iver! for all Friday there had been a kind o' expectation an' dismay about t' Good Fortune, as t' mariners had said was off St Abb's Head o' Thursday, when t' Resolution came in; and there was wives and maids wi' husbands an' sweethearts aboard t' Good Fortune ready to throw their eyes out on their heads wi' gazin‘, gazin' nor‘ards over t' sea, as were all one haze o' blankness wi' t' rain; and when t' afternoon tide corned in, an' niver a line on her to be seen, folk were oncertain as t' whether she were holding off for fear o' t' tender15—as were out o' sight, too—or what were her mak' o' goin' on. An' t' poor wet draggled women folk came up t' town, some slowly cryin’, as if their hearts was sick, an' others just bent their heads to t' wind, and went straight to their homes, nother looking nor speaking to ony one; but barred their doors, and stiffened theirsels up for a night o' waiting. Saturday morn—yo'll mind Saturday morn, it were stormy and gusty, downreet dirty weather—theere stood t' folk again by daylight, a watching an' a straining, and by that tide t' Good Fortune came o'er t' bar. But t' ex-cisemen had sent back her news by t' boat as took ‘em there. They'd a deal of oil, and a vast o' blubber. But for all that her flag was drooping i' t' rain, half mast high, for mourning and sorrow, an' they'd a dead man aboard—a dead man as was living and strong last sunrise. An' there was another as lay between life an' death, and there was seven more as should ha' been theere as wasn't, but was carried off by t' gang. T' frigate as we 'n a' heard tell on, as lying off Hartlepool, got tidings frat’ tender as captured t' seamen o' Thursday: and t' Aurora, as they ca'ed her, made off for t' nor'ard; and nine leagues off St Abb's Head, t' Resolution thinks she were, she see'd t' frigate, and knowed by her build she were a man-o'-war, and guessed she were bound on king's kidnapping. I seen t' wounded man mysen wi' my own eyes; and he'll live! he'll live! Niver a man died yet, wi' such a strong purpose o' vengeance in him. He could barely speak, for he were badly shot, but his colour coome and went, as t' master's mate an' t' captain telled me and some others how t' Aurora fired at ‘em, and how t' innocent whaler hoisted her colours, but afore they were fairly run up, another shot coome close in t' shrouds, and then t' Greenland ship being t' windward, bore down on t' frigate; but as they knew she were an oud fox, and bent on mischief, Kinraid (that's he who lies a-dying, only he'll noane die, a'se bound), the specksioneer, bade t' men go down between decks, and fasten t' hatches well, an' he'd stand guard, he an' captain, and t' oud master's mate, being left upo' deck for t' give a welcome just skin-deep to t' boat's crew fra' t' Aurora, as they could see coming t'wards them o'er t' watter, wi' their reg'lar man-o-war's rowing——’

  ‘Damn ‘em!’ said Daniel, in soliloquy, and under his breath.

  Sylvia stood, poising her iron, and listening eagerly, afraid to give Donkin the hot iron for fear of interrupting the narrative, unwilling to put it into the fire again, because that action would perchance remind him of his work, which now the tailor had forgotten, so eager was he in telling his story.

  ‘Well! they coome on over t' watters wi' great bounds, and up t' sides they coome like locusts, all armed men; an' t' captain says he saw Kinraid hide away his whaling knife under some tarpaulin', and he knew he meant mischief, an' he would no more ha' stopped him wi' a word nor he would ha' stopped him fra' killing a whale. And when t' Aurora's men were aboard, one on ‘em runs to t' helm; and at that t' captain says, he felt as if his wife were kissed afore his face; but says he, “I bethought me on t' men as were shut up below hatches, an' I remembered t' folk at Monkshaven as were looking out for us even then; an' I said to mysel', I would speak fair as long as I could, more by token o' the whaling-knife, as I could see glinting bright under t' black tarpaulin'.” So he spoke quite fair and civil, though he see'd they was nearing t' Aurora, and t' Aurora was nearing them. Then t' navy captain hailed him thro' t' trumpet, wi' a great rough blast, and, says he, “Order your men to come on deck.” And t' captain of t' whaler says, his men cried up from under t' hatches as they'd niver be gi'en up wi'out bloodshed, and he sees Kinraid take out his pistol, and look well to t' priming; so he says to t' navy captain, “We're protected Greenland-men, and you have no right t' meddle wi' us.” But t' navy captain only bellows t' more, “Order your men t' come on deck. If they won't obey you, and you have lost the command of your vessel, I reckon you're in a state of mutiny, and you may come aboard t' Aurora and such men as are willing t' follow you, and I'll fire int' the rest.” Yo' see, that were t' depth o' the man: he were for pretending and pretexting as t' captain could na manage his own ship, and as he'd help him. But our Greenland captain were noane so poor-spirited, and says he, “She's full of oil, and I ware you of consequences if you fire into her. Anyhow, pirate, or no pirate” (for t' word pirate stuck in his gizzard), “I'm a honest Monkshaven man, an' I come fra' a land where there's great icebergs and many a deadly danger, but niver a press-gang, thank God! and that's what you are, I reckon.” Them's the words he told me, but whether he spoke ‘em out so bold at t' time, I'se not so sure; they were in his mind for t' speak, only maybe prudence got t' better on him, for he said he prayed i' his heart to bring his cargo safe to t' owners, come what might. Well, t' Aurora's men aboard t' Good Fortune cried out “might they fire down t' hatches, and bring t' men out that a way?” and then t' specksioneer, he speaks, an' he says he stands ower t' hatches, and he has two good pistols, and summut besides, and he don't care for his life, bein' a bachelor, but all below are married men, yo' see, and he'll put an end to t' first two chaps as come near t' hatches. An' they say he picked two off as made for t' come near, and then,
just as he were stooping for t' whaling knife, an' it's as big as a sickle——’

  ‘Teach folk as don't know a whaling knife,’ cried Daniel. ‘I were a Greenland-man mysel'.’

  ‘They shot him through t' side, and dizzied him, and kicked him aside for dead; and fired down t' hatches, and killed one man, and disabled two, and then t' rest cried for quarter, for life is sweet, e'en aboard a king's ship; and t' Aurora carried ‘em off, wounded men, an' able men an' all: leaving Kinraid for dead, as wasn't dead, and Darley for dead, as was dead, an' t' captain and master's mate as were too old for work; and t' captain, as loves Kinraid like a brother, poured rum down his throat, and bandaged him up, and has sent for t' first doctor in Monkshaven for to get t' slugs out; for they say there's niver such a harpooner in a' t' Greenland seas; an' I can speak fra' my own seeing he's a fine young fellow where he lies theere, all stark and wan for weakness and loss o' blood. But Darley's dead as a door-nail; and there's to be such a burying of him as niver was seen afore i' Monkshaven, come Sunday. And now gi' us t' iron, wench, and let's lose no more time a-talking.’

  ‘It's noane loss o' time,’ said Daniel, moving himself heavily in his chair, to feel how helpless he was once more. ‘If a were as young as once a were—nay, lad, if a had na these sore rheumatics, now—a reckon as t' press-gang 'ud find out as t' shouldn't do such things for nothing. Bless thee, man! it's waur nor16 i' my youth i' th' Ameriky war,17 and then 't were bad enough.’

  ‘And Kinraid?’ said Sylvia, drawing a long breath, after the effort of realizing it all; her cheeks had flushed up, and her eyes had glittered during the progress of the tale.

  ‘Oh! he'll do. He'll not die. Life's stuff is in him yet.’

  ‘He'll be Molly Corney's cousin, I reckon,’ said Sylvia, bethinking her with a blush of Molly Corney's implication that he was more than a cousin to her, and immediately longing to go off and see Molly, and hear all the little details which women do not think it beneath them to give to women. From that time Sylvia's little heart was bent on this purpose. But it was not one to be openly avowed even to herself. She only wanted sadly to see Molly, and she almost believed herself that it was to consult her about the fashion of her cloak; which Donkin was to cut out, and which she was to make under his directions; at any rate, this was the reason she gave to her mother when the day's work was done, and a fine gleam came out upon the pale and watery sky towards evening.

  CHAPTER VI

  The Sailor's Funeral

  Moss Brow, the Corneys' house, was but a disorderly, comfortless place. You had to cross a dirty farmyard, all puddles and dungheaps, on stepping-stones, to get to the door of the house-place. That great room itself was sure to have clothes hanging to dry at the fire, whatever day of the week it was; some one of the large irregular family having had what is called in the district a ‘dab-wash' of a few articles, forgotten on the regular day. And sometimes these articles lay in their dirty state in the untidy kitchen, out of which a room, half parlour, half bedroom, opened on one side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at the opposite. In face of you, as you entered the door, was the entrance to the working-kitchen, or scullery. Still, in spite of disorder like this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the place; the Corneys were rich in their way, in flocks and herds as well as in children; and to them neither dirt nor the perpetual bustle arising from ill-ordered work detracted from comfort. They were all of an easy, good-tempered nature; Mrs Corney and her daughters gave every one a welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would just as soon sit down for a gossip at ten o'clock in the morning, as at five in the evening, though at the former time the house-place was full of work of various kinds which ought to be got out of hand and done with: while the latter hour was towards the end of the day, when farmers' wives and daughters were usually—‘cleaned' was the word then, ‘dressed' is that in vogue now. Of course in such a household as this Sylvia was sure to be gladly received. She was young, and pretty, and bright, and brought a fresh breeze of pleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere. And besides, Bell Robson held her head so high that visits from her daughter were rather esteemed as a favour, for it was not everywhere that Sylvia was allowed to go.

  ‘Sit yo' down, sit yo' down!' cried Dame Corney, dusting a chair with her apron; ‘a reckon Molly 'll be in i' no time. She's nobbut gone int' t' orchard, to see if she can find wind-falls enough for t' make a pie or two for t' lads. They like nowt so weel for supper as apple-pies sweetened wi' treacle, crust stout and leathery, as stands chewing, and we hannot getten in our apples yet.’

  ‘If Molly is in t' orchard, I'll go find her,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Well! yo' lasses will have your conks' (private talks), ‘a know; secrets 'bout sweethearts and such like,’ said Mrs Corney, with a knowing look, which made Sylvia hate her for the moment. ‘A've not forgotten as a were young mysen. Tak' care; there's a pool o' mucky watter just outside t' back-door.’

  But Sylvia was half-way across the back-yard—worse, if possible, than the front as to the condition in which it was kept—and had passed through the little gate into the orchard. It was full of old gnarled apple-trees, their trunks covered with gray lichen, in which the cunning chaffinch built her nest in spring-time. The cankered branches remained on the trees, and added to the knotted interweaving overhead, if they did not to the productiveness; the grass grew in long tufts, and was wet and tangled under foot. There was a tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the gray old trees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green bosses of untrimmed grass. Why the fruit was not gathered, as it was evidently ripe, would have puzzled any one not acquainted with the Corney family to say; but to them it was always a maxim in practice, if not in precept, ‘Do nothing to-day that you can put off till to-morrow,’ and accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any little gust of wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the ‘lads' wanted a supply of pies for supper.

  Molly saw Sylvia, and came quickly across the orchard to meet her, catching her feet in knots of grass as she hurried along.

  ‘Well, lass!’ said she, ‘who'd ha' thought o' seeing yo' such a day as it has been?’

  ‘But it's cleared up now beautiful,’ said Sylvia, looking up at the soft evening sky, to be seen through the apple boughs. It was of a tender, delicate gray, with the faint warmth of a promising sunset tinging it with a pink atmosphere. ‘Rain is over and gone, and I wanted to know how my cloak is to be made; for Donkin's working at our house, and I wanted to know all about—the news, yo' know.’

  ‘What news?’ asked Molly, for she had heard of the affair between the Good Fortune and the Aurora some days before; and, to tell the truth, it had rather passed out of her head just at this moment.

  ‘Hannot yo' heard all about t' press-gang and t' whaler, and t' great fight, and Kinraid, as is your cousin, acting so brave and grand, and lying on his death-bed now?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Molly, enlightened as to Sylvia's ‘news’, and half surprised at the vehemence with which the little creature spoke; ‘yes; a heerd that days ago. But Charley's noane on his death-bed, he's a deal better; an' mother says as he's to be moved up here next week for nursin' and better air nor he gets i' t' town yonder.’

  ‘Oh! I am so glad,’ said Sylvia, with all her heart. ‘I thought he'd maybe die, and I should niver see him.’

  ‘A'll promise yo' shall see him; that's t' say if a' goes on well, for he's getten an ugly hurt. Mother says as there's four blue marks on his side as'll last him his life, an' t' doctor fears bleeding i' his inside; and then he'll drop down dead when no one looks for 't.’

  ‘But you said he was better,’ said Sylvia, blanching a little at this account.

  ‘Ay, he's better, but life's uncertain, special after gun-shot wounds.’

  ‘He acted very fine,’ said Sylvia, meditating.

  ‘A allays knowed he would. Many's the time a've heerd him say “honour bright”, and now he's shown how bright his is.’

  Molly
did not speak sentimentally, but with a kind of proprietorship in Kinraid's honour, which confirmed Sylvia in her previous idea of a mutual attachment between her and her cousin. Considering this notion, she was a little surprised at Molly's next speech.

  ‘An' about yer cloak, are you for a hood or a cape? a reckon that's the question.’

  ‘Oh, I don't care! tell me more about Kinraid. Do yo' really think he'll get better?’

  ‘Dear! how t' lass takes on about him. A'll tell him what a deal of interest a young woman taks i' him!’

  From that time Sylvia never asked another question about him. In a somewhat dry and altered tone, she said, after a little pause—

  ‘I think on a hood. What do you say to it?’

  ‘Well; hoods is a bit old-fashioned, to my mind. If ‘t were mine, I'd have a cape cut i' three points, one to tie on each shoulder, and one to dip down handsome behind. But let yo' an' me go to Monkshaven church o' Sunday, and see Measter Fishburn's daughters,'1 as has their things made i' York, and notice a bit how they're made. We needn't do it i' church, but just scan ‘em o'er i' t' churchyard, and there'll be no harm done. Besides, there's to be this grand burryin' o' t' man t' press-gang shot, and ‘t will be like killing two birds at once.’

  ‘I should like to go,’ said Sylvia. ‘I feel so sorry like for the poor sailors shot down and kidnapped just as they was coming home, as we see'd 'em o' Thursday last. I'll ask mother if she'll let me go.’

  ‘Ay, do. I know my mother ’ll let me, if she doesn't go hersen; for it 'll be a sight to see and to speak on for many a long year, after what I've heerd. And Miss Fishburns is sure to be theere, so I'd just get Donkin to cut out cloak itsel', and keep back yer mind fra' fixing o' either cape or hood till Sunday's turn'd.’