‘Sit thee down, lad. As soon as I’ve had my victual, I want t’ hear a bit o’ news.’
Sylvia took her sewing and sat at the little round table by her mother, sharing the light of the scanty dip-candle. No one spoke. Every one was absorbed in what they were doing. What Philip was doing was, gazing at Sylvia — learning her face off by heart.
When every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the mighty bowl, Kester yawned, and wishing good-night, withdrew to his loft over the cow-house. Then Philip pulled out the weekly York paper, and began to read the latest accounts of the war then raging. This was giving Daniel one of his greatest pleasures; for though he could read pretty well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding what he read was almost too much for him. He could read, or he could understand what was read aloud to him; reading was no pleasure, but listening was.
Besides, he had a true John Bullish interest in the war, without very well knowing what the English were fighting for. But in those days, so long as they fought the French for any cause, or for no cause at all, every true patriot was satisfied. Sylvia and her mother did not care for any such far-extended interest; a little bit of York news, the stealing of a few apples out of a Scarborough garden that they knew, was of far more interest to them than all the battles of Nelson and the North.
Philip read in a high-pitched and unnatural tone of voice, which deprived the words of their reality; for even familiar expressions can become unfamiliar and convey no ideas, if the utterance is forced or affected. Philip was somewhat of a pedant; yet there was a simplicity in his pedantry not always to be met with in those who are self-taught, and which might have interested any one who cared to know with what labour and difficulty he had acquired the knowledge which now he prized so highly; reading out Latin quotations as easily as if they were English, and taking a pleasure in rolling polysyllables, until all at once looking askance at Sylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her pretty rosy lips open, her eyes fast shut; in short, she was asleep.
‘Ay,’ said Farmer Robson, ‘and t’ reading has a’most sent me off. Mother ‘d look angry now if I was to tell yo’ yo’ had a right to a kiss; but when I was a young man I’d ha’ kissed a pretty girl as I saw asleep, afore yo’d said Jack Robson.’
Philip trembled at these words, and looked at his aunt. She gave him no encouragement, standing up, and making as though she had never heard her husband’s speech, by extending her hand, and wishing him ‘good-night.’ At the noise of the chairs moving over the flag floor, Sylvia started up, confused and annoyed at her father’s laughter.
‘Ay, lass; it’s iver a good time t’ fall asleep when a young fellow is by. Here’s Philip here as thou’rt bound t’ give a pair o’ gloves to.’
Sylvia went like fire; she turned to her mother to read her face.
‘It’s only father’s joke, lass,’ said she. ‘Philip knows manners too well.’
‘He’d better,’ said Sylvia, flaming round at him. ‘If he’d a touched me, I’d niver ha’ spoken to him no more.’ And she looked even as it was as if she was far from forgiving him.
‘Hoots, lass! wenches are brought up sa mim, now-a-days; i’ my time they’d ha’ thought na’ such great harm of a kiss.’
‘Good-night, Philip,’ said Bell Robson, thinking the conversation unseemly.
‘Good-night, aunt, good-night, Sylvie!’ But Sylvia turned her back on him, and he could hardly say ‘good-night’ to Daniel, who had caused such an unpleasant end to an evening that had at one time been going on so well.
CHAPTER IX
THE SPECKSIONEER
A few days after, Farmer Robson left Haytersbank betimes on a longish day’s journey, to purchase a horse. Sylvia and her mother were busied with a hundred household things, and the early winter’s evening closed in upon them almost before they were aware. The consequences of darkness in the country even now are to gather the members of a family together into one room, and to make them settle to some sedentary employment; and it was much more the case at the period of my story, when candles were far dearer than they are at present, and when one was often made to suffice for a large family.
The mother and daughter hardly spoke at all when they sat down at last. The cheerful click of the knitting-needles made a pleasant home-sound; and in the occasional snatches of slumber that overcame her mother, Sylvia could hear the long-rushing boom of the waves, down below the rocks, for the Haytersbank gulley allowed the sullen roar to come up so far inland. It might have been about eight o’clock — though from the monotonous course of the evening it seemed much later — when Sylvia heard her father’s heavy step cranching down the pebbly path. More unusual, she heard his voice talking to some companion.
Curious to see who it could be, with a lively instinctive advance towards any event which might break the monotony she had begun to find somewhat dull, she sprang up to open the door. Half a glance into the gray darkness outside made her suddenly timid, and she drew back behind the door as she opened it wide to admit her father and Kinraid.
Daniel Robson came in bright and boisterous. He was pleased with his purchase, and had had some drink to celebrate his bargain. He had ridden the new mare into Monkshaven, and left her at the smithy there until morning, to have her feet looked at, and to be new shod. On his way from the town he had met Kinraid wandering about in search of Haytersbank Farm itself, so he had just brought him along with him; and here they were, ready for bread and cheese, and aught else the mistress would set before them.
To Sylvia the sudden change into brightness and bustle occasioned by the entrance of her father and the specksioneer was like that which you may effect any winter’s night, when you come into a room where a great lump of coal lies hot and slumbering on the fire; just break it up with a judicious blow from the poker, and the room, late so dark, and dusk, and lone, is full of life, and light, and warmth.
She moved about with pretty household briskness, attending to all her father’s wants. Kinraid’s eye watched her as she went backwards and forwards, to and fro, into the pantry, the back-kitchen, out of light into shade, out of the shadow into the broad firelight where he could see and note her appearance. She wore the high-crowned linen cap of that day, surmounting her lovely masses of golden brown hair, rather than concealing them, and tied firm to her head by a broad blue ribbon. A long curl hung down on each side of her neck — her throat rather, for her neck was concealed by a little spotted handkerchief carefully pinned across at the waist of her brown stuff gown.
How well it was, thought the young girl, that she had doffed her bed-gown and linsey-woolsey petticoat, her working-dress, and made herself smart in her stuff gown, when she sate down to work with her mother.
By the time she could sit down again, her father and Kinraid had their glasses filled, and were talking of the relative merits of various kinds of spirits; that led on to tales of smuggling, and the different contrivances by which they or their friends had eluded the preventive service; the nightly relays of men to carry the goods inland; the kegs of brandy found by certain farmers whose horses had gone so far in the night, that they could do no work the next day; the clever way in which certain women managed to bring in prohibited goods; in fact, that when a woman did give her mind to smuggling, she was more full of resources, and tricks, and impudence, and energy than any man. There was no question of the morality of the affair; one of the greatest signs of the real progress we have made since those times seems to be that our daily concerns of buying and selling, eating and drinking, whatsoever we do, are more tested by the real practical standard of our religion than they were in the days of our grandfathers. Neither Sylvia nor her mother was in advance of their age. Both listened with admiration to the ingenious devices, and acted as well as spoken lies, that were talked about as fine and spirited things. Yet if Sylvia had attempted one tithe of this deceit in her every-day life, it would have half broken her mother’s heart. But when the duty on salt was strictly and cruelly enforced, making it penal
to pick up rough dirty lumps containing small quantities that might be thrown out with the ashes of the brine-houses on the high-roads; when the price of this necessary was so increased by the tax upon it as to make it an expensive, sometimes an unattainable, luxury to the working man, Government did more to demoralise the popular sense of rectitude and uprightness than heaps of sermons could undo. And the same, though in smaller measure, was the consequence of many other taxes. It may seem curious to trace up the popular standard of truth to taxation; but I do not think the idea would be so very far-fetched.
From smuggling adventures it was easy to pass on to stories of what had happened to Robson, in his youth a sailor in the Greenland seas, and to Kinraid, now one of the best harpooners in any whaler that sailed off the coast.
‘There’s three things to be afeared on,’ said Robson, authoritatively: ‘there’s t’ ice, that’s bad; there’s dirty weather, that’s worse; and there’s whales theirselves, as is t’ worst of all; leastways, they was i’ my days; t’ darned brutes may ha’ larnt better manners sin’. When I were young, they could niver be got to let theirsels be harpooned wi’out flounderin’ and makin’ play wi’ their tales and their fins, till t’ say were all in a foam, and t’ boats’ crews was all o’er wi’ spray, which i’ them latitudes is a kind o’ shower-bath not needed.’
‘Th’ whales hasn’t mended their manners, as you call it,’ said Kinraid; ‘but th’ ice is not to be spoken lightly on. I were once in th’ ship John of Hull, and we were in good green water, and were keen after whales; and ne’er thought harm of a great gray iceberg as were on our lee-bow, a mile or so off; it looked as if it had been there from the days of Adam, and were likely to see th’ last man out, and it ne’er a bit bigger nor smaller in all them thousands and thousands o’ years. Well, the fast-boats were out after a fish, and I were specksioneer in one; and we were so keen after capturing our whale, that none on us ever saw that we were drifting away from them right into deep shadow o’ th’ iceberg. But we were set upon our whale, and I harpooned it; and as soon as it were dead we lashed its fins together, and fastened its tail to our boat; and then we took breath and looked about us, and away from us a little space were th’ other boats, wi’ two other fish making play, and as likely as not to break loose, for I may say as I were th’ best harpooner on board the John, wi’out saying great things o’ mysel’. So I says, “My lads, one o’ you stay i’ th’ boat by this fish,” — the fins o’ which, as I said, I’d reeved a rope through mysel’, and which was as dead as Noah’s grandfather — ”and th’ rest on us shall go off and help th’ other boats wi’ their fish.” For, you see, we had another boat close by in order to sweep th’ fish. (I suppose they swept fish i’ your time, master?)’
‘Ay, ay!’ said Robson; ‘one boat lies still holding t’ end o’ t’ line; t’ other makes a circuit round t’ fish.’
‘Well! luckily for us we had our second boat, for we all got into it, ne’er a man on us was left i’ th’ fast-boat. And says I, “But who’s to stay by t’ dead fish?” And no man answered, for they were all as keen as me for to go and help our mates; and we thought as we could come back to our dead fish, as had a boat for a buoy, once we had helped our mates. So off we rowed, every man Jack on us, out o’ the black shadow o’ th’ iceberg, as looked as steady as th’ pole-star. Well! we had na’ been a dozen fathoms away fra’ th’ boat as we had left, when crash! down wi’ a roaring noise, and then a gulp of the deep waters, and then a shower o’ blinding spray; and when we had wiped our eyes clear, and getten our hearts down agen fra’ our mouths, there were never a boat nor a glittering belly o’ e’er a great whale to be seen; but th’ iceberg were there, still and grim, as if a hundred ton or more had fallen off all in a mass, and crushed down boat, and fish, and all, into th’ deep water, as goes half through the earth in them latitudes. Th’ coal-miners round about Newcastle way may come upon our good boat if they mine deep enough, else ne’er another man will see her. And I left as good a clasp-knife in her as ever I clapt eyes on.’
‘But what a mercy no man stayed in her,’ said Bell.
‘Why, mistress, I reckon we a’ must die some way; and I’d as soon go down into the deep waters as be choked up wi’ moulds.’
‘But it must be so cold,’ said Sylvia, shuddering and giving a little poke to the fire to warm her fancy.
‘Cold!’ said her father, ‘what do ye stay-at-homes know about cold, a should like to know? If yo’d been where a were once, north latitude 81, in such a frost as ye ha’ niver known, no, not i’ deep winter, and it were June i’ them seas, and a whale i’ sight, and a were off in a boat after her: an’ t’ ill-mannered brute, as soon as she were harpooned, ups wi’ her big awkward tail, and struck t’ boat i’ her stern, and chucks me out into t’ watter. That were cold, a can tell the’! First, I smarted all ower me, as if my skin were suddenly stript off me: and next, ivery bone i’ my body had getten t’ toothache, and there were a great roar i’ my ears, an’ a great dizziness i’ my eyes; an’ t’ boat’s crew kept throwin’ out their oars, an’ a kept clutchin’ at ‘em, but a could na’ make out where they was, my eyes dazzled so wi’ t’ cold, an’ I thought I were bound for “kingdom come,” an’ a tried to remember t’ Creed, as a might die a Christian. But all a could think on was, “What is your name, M or N?” an’ just as a were giving up both words and life, they heaved me aboard. But, bless ye, they had but one oar; for they’d thrown a’ t’ others after me; so yo’ may reckon, it were some time afore we could reach t’ ship; an’ a’ve heerd tell, a were a precious sight to look on, for my clothes was just hard frozen to me, an’ my hair a’most as big a lump o’ ice as yon iceberg he was a-telling us on; they rubbed me as missus theere were rubbing t’ hams yesterday, and gav’ me brandy; an’ a’ve niver getten t’ frost out o’ my bones for a’ their rubbin’, and a deal o’ brandy as I ‘ave ta’en sin’. Talk o’ cold! it’s little yo’ women known o’ cold!’
‘But there’s heat, too, i’ some places,’ said Kinraid. I was once a voyage i’ an American. They goes for th’ most part south, to where you come round to t’ cold again; and they’ll stay there for three year at a time, if need be, going into winter harbour i’ some o’ th’ Pacific Islands. Well, we were i’ th’ southern seas, a-seeking for good whaling-ground; and, close on our larboard beam, there were a great wall o’ ice, as much as sixty feet high. And says our captain — as were a dare-devil, if ever a man were — ”There’ll be an opening in yon dark gray wall, and into that opening I’ll sail, if I coast along it till th’ day o’ judgment.” But, for all our sailing, we never seemed to come nearer to th’ opening. The waters were rocking beneath us, and the sky were steady above us; and th’ ice rose out o’ the waters, and seemed to reach up into the sky. We sailed on, and we sailed on, for more days nor I could count. Our captain were a strange, wild man, but once he looked a little pale when he came upo’ deck after his turn-in, and saw the green-gray ice going straight up on our beam. Many on us thought as the ship were bewitched for th’ captain’s words; and we got to speak low, and to say our prayers o’ nights, and a kind o’ dull silence came into th’ very air; our voices did na’ rightly seem our own. And we sailed on, and we sailed on. All at once, th’ man as were on watch gave a cry: he saw a break in the ice, as we’d begun to think were everlasting; and we all gathered towards the bows, and the captain called to th’ man at the helm to keep her course, and cocked his head, and began to walk the quarter-deck jaunty again. And we came to a great cleft in th’ long weary rock of ice; and the sides o’ th’ cleft were not jagged, but went straight sharp down into th’ foaming waters. But we took but one look at what lay inside, for our captain, with a loud cry to God, bade the helmsman steer nor’ards away fra’ th’ mouth o’ Hell. We all saw wi’ our own eyes, inside that fearsome wall o’ ice — seventy miles long, as we could swear to — inside that gray, cold ice, came leaping flames, all red and yellow wi’ heat o’ some unearthly kind out o’ th’ very waters o�
� the sea; making our eyes dazzle wi’ their scarlet blaze, that shot up as high, nay, higher than th’ ice around, yet never so much as a shred on ‘t was melted. They did say that some beside our captain saw the black devils dart hither and thither, quicker than the very flames themselves; anyhow, he saw them. And as he knew it were his own daring as had led him to have that peep at terrors forbidden to any on us afore our time, he just dwined away, and we hadn’t taken but one whale afore our captain died, and first mate took th’ command. It were a prosperous voyage; but, for all that, I’ll never sail those seas again, nor ever take wage aboard an American again.’
‘Eh, dear! but it’s awful t’ think o’ sitting wi’ a man that has seen th’ doorway into hell,’ said Bell, aghast.
Sylvia had dropped her work, and sat gazing at Kinraid with fascinated wonder.
Daniel was just a little annoyed at the admiration which his own wife and daughter were bestowing on the specksioneer’s wonderful stories, and he said —
‘Ay, ay. If a’d been a talker, ye’d ha’ thought a deal more on me nor ye’ve iver done yet. A’ve seen such things, and done such things.’
‘Tell us, father!’ said Sylvia, greedy and breathless.
‘Some on ‘em is past telling,’ he replied, ‘an some is not to be had for t’ asking, seeing as how they might bring a man into trouble. But, as a said, if a had a fancy to reveal all as is on my mind a could make t’ hair on your heads lift up your caps — well, we’ll say an inch, at least. Thy mother, lass, has heerd one or two on ‘em. Thou minds the story o’ my ride on a whale’s back, Bell? That’ll maybe be within this young fellow’s comprehension o’ t’ danger; thou’s heerd me tell it, hastn’t ta?’
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 180
