And this idea now took possession of Mrs. Corney’s mind, for she would not willingly allow one of her guests to leave before they had done justice to her preparations; and, cutting her speech short, she hastily left Sylvia and Philip together.
His heart beat fast; his feeling towards her had never been so strong or so distinct as since her refusal to kiss the ‘candlestick.’ He was on the point of speaking, of saying something explicitly tender, when the wooden trencher which the party were using at their play, came bowling between him and Sylvia, and spun out its little period right betwixt them. Every one was moving from chair to chair, and when the bustle was over Sylvia was seated at some distance from him, and he left standing outside the circle, as if he were not playing. In fact, Sylvia had unconsciously taken his place as actor in the game while he remained spectator, and, as it turned out, an auditor of a conversation not intended for his ears. He was wedged against the wall, close to the great eight-day clock, with its round moon-like smiling face forming a ludicrous contrast to his long, sallow, grave countenance, which was pretty much at the same level above the sanded floor. Before him sat Molly Brunton and one of her sisters, their heads close together in too deep talk to attend to the progress of the game. Philip’s attention was caught by the words —
‘I’ll lay any wager he kissed her when he ran off into t’ parlour.’
‘She’s so coy she’d niver let him,’ replied Bessy Corney.
‘She couldn’t help hersel’; and for all she looks so demure and prim now’ (and then both heads were turned in the direction of Sylvia), ‘I’m as sure as I’m born that Charley is not t’ chap to lose his forfeit; and yet yo’ see he says nought more about it, and she’s left off being ‘feared of him.’
There was something in Sylvia’s look, ay, and in Charley Kinraid’s, too, that shot conviction into Philip’s mind. He watched them incessantly during the interval before supper; they were intimate, and yet shy with each other, in a manner that enraged while it bewildered Philip. What was Charley saying to her in that whispered voice, as they passed each other? Why did they linger near each other? Why did Sylvia look so dreamily happy, so startled at every call of the game, as if recalled from some pleasant idea? Why did Kinraid’s eyes always seek her while hers were averted, or downcast, and her cheeks all aflame? Philip’s dark brow grew darker as he gazed. He, too, started when Mrs. Corney, close at his elbow, bade him go in to supper along with some of the elder ones, who were not playing; for the parlour was not large enough to hold all at once, even with the squeezing and cramming, and sitting together on chairs, which was not at all out of etiquette at Monkshaven. Philip was too reserved to express his disappointment and annoyance at being thus arrested in his painful watch over Sylvia; but he had no appetite for the good things set before him, and found it hard work to smile a sickly smile when called upon by Josiah Pratt for applause at some country joke. When supper was ended, there was some little discussion between Mrs. Corney and her son-in-law as to whether the different individuals of the company should be called upon for songs or stories, as was the wont at such convivial meetings. Brunton had been helping his mother-in-law in urging people to eat, heaping their plates over their shoulders with unexpected good things, filling the glasses at the upper end of the table, and the mugs which supplied the deficiency of glasses at the lower. And now, every one being satisfied, not to say stuffed to repletion, the two who had been attending to their wants stood still, hot and exhausted.
‘They’re a’most stawed,’ said Mrs. Corney, with a pleased smile. ‘It’ll be manners t’ ask some one as knows how to sing.’
‘It may be manners for full men, but not for fasting,’ replied Brunton. ‘Folks in t’ next room will be wanting their victual, and singing is allays out o’ tune to empty bellies.’
‘But there’s them here as ‘ll take it ill if they’re not asked. I heerd Josiah Pratt a-clearing his throat not a minute ago, an’ he thinks as much on his singin’ as a cock does on his crowin’.’
‘If one sings I’m afeard all on ‘em will like to hear their own pipes.’
But their dilemma was solved by Bessy Corney, who opened the door to see if the hungry ones outside might not come in for their share of the entertainment; and in they rushed, bright and riotous, scarcely giving the first party time to rise from their seats ere they took their places. One or two young men, released from all their previous shyness, helped Mrs. Corney and her daughters to carry off such dishes as were actually empty. There was no time for changing or washing of plates; but then, as Mrs. Corney laughingly observed, —
‘We’re a’ on us friends, and some on us mayhap sweethearts; so no need to be particular about plates. Them as gets clean ones is lucky; and them as doesn’t, and cannot put up wi’ plates that has been used, mun go without.’
It seemed to be Philip’s luck this night to be pent up in places; for again the space between the benches and the wall was filled up by the in-rush before he had time to make his way out; and all he could do was to sit quiet where he was. But between the busy heads and over-reaching arms he could see Charley and Sylvia, sitting close together, talking and listening more than eating. She was in a new strange state of happiness not to be reasoned about, or accounted for, but in a state of more exquisite feeling than she had ever experienced before; when, suddenly lifting her eyes, she caught Philip’s face of extreme displeasure.
‘Oh,’ said she, ‘I must go. There’s Philip looking at me so.’
‘Philip!’ said Kinraid, with a sudden frown upon his face.
‘My cousin,’ she replied, instinctively comprehending what had flashed into his mind, and anxious to disclaim the suspicion of having a lover. ‘Mother told him to see me home, and he’s noan one for staying up late.’
‘But you needn’t go. I’ll see yo’ home.’
‘Mother’s but ailing,’ said Sylvia, a little conscience-smitten at having so entirely forgotten everything in the delight of the present, ‘and I said I wouldn’t be late.’
‘And do you allays keep to your word?’ asked he, with a tender meaning in his tone.
‘Allays; leastways I think so,’ replied she, blushing.
‘Then if I ask you not to forget me, and you give me your word, I may be sure you’ll keep it.’
‘It wasn’t I as forgot you,’ said Sylvia, so softly as not to be heard by him.
He tried to make her repeat what she had said, but she would not, and he could only conjecture that it was something more tell-tale than she liked to say again, and that alone was very charming to him.
‘I shall walk home with you,’ said he, as Sylvia at last rose to depart, warned by a further glimpse of Philip’s angry face.
‘No!’ said she, hastily, ‘I can’t do with yo’’; for somehow she felt the need of pacifying Philip, and knew in her heart that a third person joining their tete-a-tete walk would only increase his displeasure.
‘Why not?’ said Charley, sharply.
‘Oh! I don’t know, only please don’t!’
By this time her cloak and hood were on, and she was slowly making her way down her side of the room followed by Charley, and often interrupted by indignant remonstrances against her departure, and the early breaking-up of the party. Philip stood, hat in hand, in the doorway between the kitchen and parlour, watching her so intently that he forgot to be civil, and drew many a jest and gibe upon him for his absorption in his pretty cousin.
When Sylvia reached him, he said, —
‘Yo’re ready at last, are yo’?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, in her little beseeching tone. ‘Yo’ve not been wanting to go long, han yo’? I ha’ but just eaten my supper.’
‘Yo’ve been so full of talk, that’s been the reason your supper lasted so long. That fellow’s none going wi’ us?’ said he sharply, as he saw Kinraid rummaging for his cap in a heap of men’s clothes, thrown into the back-kitchen.
‘No,’ said Sylvia, in affright at Philip’s fierce look and passio
nate tone. ‘I telled him not.’
But at that moment the heavy outer door was opened by Daniel Robson himself — bright, broad, and rosy, a jolly impersonation of Winter. His large drover’s coat was covered with snow-flakes, and through the black frame of the doorway might be seen a white waste world of sweeping fell and field, with the dark air filled with the pure down-fall. Robson stamped his snow-laden feet and shook himself well, still standing on the mat, and letting a cold frosty current of fresh air into the great warm kitchen. He laughed at them all before he spoke.
‘It’s a coud new year as I’m lettin’ in though it’s noan t’ new year yet. Yo’ll a’ be snowed up, as sure as my name s Dannel, if yo’ stop for twel’ o’clock. Yo’d better mak’ haste and go whoam. Why, Charley, my lad! how beest ta? who’d ha’ thought o’ seeing thee i’ these parts again! Nay, missus, nay, t’ new year mun find its way int’ t’ house by itsel’ for me; for a ha’ promised my oud woman to bring Sylvie whoam as quick as may-be; she’s lyin’ awake and frettin’ about t’ snow and what not. Thank yo’ kindly, missus, but a’ll tak’ nought to eat; just a drop o’ somethin’ hot to keep out coud, and wish yo’ a’ the compliments o’ the season. Philip, my man, yo’ll not be sorry to be spared t’ walk round by Haytersbank such a neet. My missus were i’ such a way about Sylvie that a thought a’d just step off mysel’, and have a peep at yo’ a’, and bring her some wraps. Yo’r sheep will be a’ folded, a reckon, Measter Pratt, for there’ll niver be a nibble o’ grass to be seen this two month, accordin’ to my readin’; and a’ve been at sea long enough, and on land long enough t’ know signs and wonders. It’s good stuff that, any way, and worth comin’ for,’ after he had gulped down a tumblerful of half-and-half grog. ‘Kinraid, if ta doesn’t come and see me afore thou’rt many days ouder, thee and me’ll have words. Come, Sylvie, what art ta about, keepin’ me here? Here’s Mistress Corney mixin’ me another jorum. Well, this time a’ll give “T’ married happy, and t’ single wed!”‘
Sylvia was all this while standing by her father quite ready for departure, and not a little relieved by his appearance as her convoy home.
‘I’m ready to see Haytersbank to-night, master!’ said Kinraid, with easy freedom — a freedom which Philip envied, but could not have imitated, although he was deeply disappointed at the loss of his walk with Sylvia, when he had intended to exercise the power his aunt had delegated to him of remonstrance if her behaviour had been light or thoughtless, and of warning if he saw cause to disapprove of any of her associates.
After the Robsons had left, a blank fell upon both Charley and Philip. In a few minutes, however, the former, accustomed to prompt decision, resolved that she and no other should be his wife. Accustomed to popularity among women, and well versed in the incipient signs of their liking for him, he anticipated no difficulty in winning her. Satisfied with the past, and pleasantly hopeful about the future, he found it easy to turn his attention to the next prettiest girl in the room, and to make the whole gathering bright with his ready good temper and buoyant spirit.
Mrs. Corney had felt it her duty to press Philip to stay, now that, as she said, he had no one but himself to see home, and the new year so near coming in. To any one else in the room she would have added the clinching argument, ‘A shall take it very unkind if yo’ go now’; but somehow she could not say this, for in truth Philip’s look showed that he would be but a wet blanket on the merriment of the party. So, with as much civility as could be mustered up between them, he took leave. Shutting the door behind him, he went out into the dreary night, and began his lonesome walk back to Monkshaven. The cold sleet almost blinded him as the sea-wind drove it straight in his face; it cut against him as it was blown with drifting force. The roar of the wintry sea came borne on the breeze; there was more light from the whitened ground than from the dark laden sky above. The field-paths would have been a matter of perplexity, had it not been for the well-known gaps in the dyke-side, which showed the whitened land beyond, between the two dark stone walls. Yet he went clear and straight along his way, having unconsciously left all guidance to the animal instinct which co-exists with the human soul, and sometimes takes strange charge of the human body, when all the nobler powers of the individual are absorbed in acute suffering. At length he was in the lane, toiling up the hill, from which, by day, Monkshaven might be seen. Now all features of the landscape before him were lost in the darkness of night, against which the white flakes came closer and nearer, thicker and faster. On a sudden, the bells of Monkshaven church rang out a welcome to the new year, 1796. From the direction of the wind, it seemed as if the sound was flung with strength and power right into Philip’s face. He walked down the hill to its merry sound — its merry sound, his heavy heart. As he entered the long High Street of Monkshaven he could see the watching lights put out in parlour, chamber, or kitchen. The new year had come, and expectation was ended. Reality had begun.
He turned to the right, into the court where he lodged with Alice Rose. There was a light still burning there, and cheerful voices were heard. He opened the door; Alice, her daughter, and Coulson stood as if awaiting him. Hester’s wet cloak hung on a chair before the fire; she had her hood on, for she and Coulson had been to the watch-night.
The solemn excitement of the services had left its traces upon her countenance and in her mind. There was a spiritual light in her usually shadowed eyes, and a slight flush on her pale cheek. Merely personal and self-conscious feelings were merged in a loving good-will to all her fellow-creatures. Under the influence of this large charity, she forgot her habitual reserve, and came forward as Philip entered to meet him with her new year’s wishes — wishes that she had previously interchanged with the other two.
‘A happy new year to you, Philip, and may God have you in his keeping all the days thereof!’
He took her hand, and shook it warmly in reply. The flush on her cheek deepened as she withdrew it. Alice Rose said something curtly about the lateness of the hour and her being much tired; and then she and her daughter went upstairs to the front chamber, and Philip and Coulson to that which they shared at the back of the house.
CHAPTER XIII
PERPLEXITIES
Coulson and Philip were friendly, but not intimate. They never had had a dispute, they never were confidential with each other; in truth, they were both reserved and silent men, and, probably, respected each other the more for being so self-contained. There was a private feeling in Coulson’s heart which would have made a less amiable fellow dislike Philip. But of this the latter was unconscious: they were not apt to exchange many words in the room which they occupied jointly.
Coulson asked Philip if he had enjoyed himself at the Corneys’, and Philip replied, —
‘Not much; such parties are noane to my liking.’
‘And yet thou broke off from t’ watch-night to go there.’
No answer; so Coulson went on, with a sense of the duty laid upon him, to improve the occasion — the first that had presented itself since the good old Methodist minister had given his congregation the solemn warning to watch over the opportunities of various kinds which the coming year would present.
‘Jonas Barclay told us as the pleasures o’ this world were like apples o’ Sodom, pleasant to look at, but ashes to taste.’
Coulson wisely left Philip to make the application for himself. If he did he made no sign, but threw himself on his bed with a heavy sigh.
‘Are yo’ not going to undress?’ said Coulson, as he covered him up in bed.
There had been a long pause of silence. Philip did not answer him, and he thought he had fallen asleep. But he was roused from his first slumber by Hepburn’s soft movements about the room. Philip had thought better of it, and, with some penitence in his heart for his gruffness to the unoffending Coulson, was trying not to make any noise while he undressed.
But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the Corneys’ kitchen and the scenes that had taken place in it, passing like a pageant before his
closed eyes. Then he opened them in angry weariness at the recurring vision, and tried to make out the outlines of the room and the furniture in the darkness. The white ceiling sloped into the whitewashed walls, and against them he could see the four rush-bottomed chairs, the looking-glass hung on one side, the old carved oak-chest (his own property, with the initials of forgotten ancestors cut upon it), which held his clothes; the boxes that belonged to Coulson, sleeping soundly in the bed in the opposite corner of the room; the casement window in the roof, through which the snowy ground on the steep hill-side could be plainly seen; and when he got so far as this in the catalogue of the room, he fell into a troubled feverish sleep, which lasted two or three hours; and then he awoke with a start, and a consciousness of uneasiness, though what about he could not remember at first.
When he recollected all that had happened the night before, it impressed him much more favourably than it had done at the time. If not joy, hope had come in the morning; and, at any rate, he could be up and be doing, for the late wintry light was stealing down the hill-side, and he knew that, although Coulson lay motionless in his sleep, it was past their usual time of rising. Still, as it was new year’s Day, a time of some licence, Philip had mercy on his fellow-shopman, and did not waken him till just as he was leaving the room.
Carrying his shoes in his hand, he went softly downstairs for he could see from the top of the flight that neither Alice nor her daughter was down yet, as the kitchen shutters were not unclosed. It was Mrs. Rose’s habit to rise early, and have all bright and clean against her lodgers came down; but then, in general, she went to rest before nine o’clock, whereas the last night she had not gone till past twelve. Philip went about undoing the shutters, and trying to break up the raking coal, with as little noise as might be, for he had compassion on the tired sleepers. The kettle had not been filled, probably because Mrs. Rose had been unable to face the storm of the night before, in taking it to the pump just at the entrance of the court. When Philip came back from filling it, he found Alice and Hester both in the kitchen, and trying to make up for lost time by hastening over their work. Hester looked busy and notable with her gown pinned up behind her, and her hair all tucked away under a clean linen cap; but Alice was angry with herself for her late sleeping, and that and other causes made her speak crossly to Philip, as he came in with his snowy feet and well-filled kettle.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 186
