‘No,’ said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. ‘But there’s no need to tell me yo’ve getten a short memory.’
‘Why? what have I done? how dun you know it?’
‘Last night,’ she began, and then she stopped, and turned away her head, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and such like.
‘Well!’ said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and flattered by it, if his conjecture were right. ‘Last night — what?’
‘Oh, yo’ know!’ said she, as if impatient at being both literally and metaphorically followed about, and driven into a corner.
‘No; tell me,’ persisted he.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘if yo’ will have it, I think yo’ showed yo’d but a short memory when yo’ didn’t know me again, and yo’ were five times at this house last winter, and that’s not so long sin’. But I suppose yo’ see a vast o’ things on yo’r voyages by land or by sea, and then it’s but natural yo’ should forget.’ She wished she could go on talking, but could not think of anything more to say just then; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flattering interpretation he might put upon her words, on her knowing so exactly the number of times he had been to Haytersbank, flashed upon her, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther afield — to make it a little less personal. This was not his wish, however. In a tone which thrilled through her, even in her own despite, he said, —
‘Do yo’ think that can ever happen again, Sylvia?’
She was quite silent; almost trembling. He repeated the question as if to force her to answer. Driven to bay, she equivocated.
‘What happen again? Let me go, I dunno what yo’re talking about, and I’m a’most numbed wi’ cold.’
For the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice window, and the ice was already forming on the milk. Kinraid would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most young women, warm; but he paused before he dared put his arm round Sylvia; she had something so shy and wild in her look and manner; and her very innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check. So he contented himself with saying, —
‘I’ll let yo’ go into t’ warm kitchen if yo’ll tell me if yo’ think I can ever forget yo’ again.’
She looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. He enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question; it showed she felt its significance. Her pure eyes looked steadily into his; nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make her afraid. They were like two children defying each other; each determined to conquer. At last she unclosed her lips, and nodding her head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more in her check apron, —
‘Yo’ll have to go home sometime.’
‘Not for a couple of hours yet,’ said he; ‘and yo’ll be frozen first; so yo’d better say if I can ever forget yo’ again, without more ado.’
Perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence, — perhaps the tones were less modulated than they had been before, but anyhow Bell Robson’s voice was heard calling Sylvia through the second door, which opened from the dairy to the house-place, in which her mother had been till this moment asleep. Sylvia darted off in obedience to the call; glad to leave him, as at the moment Kinraid resentfully imagined. Through the open door he heard the conversation between mother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning, so difficult did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas he had just been forming with Sylvia’s bright lovely face right under his eyes.
‘Sylvia!’ said her mother, ‘who’s yonder?’ Bell was sitting up in the attitude of one startled out of slumber into intensity of listening; her hands on each of the chair-arms, as if just going to rise. ‘There’s a fremd man i’ t’ house. I heerd his voice!’
‘It’s only — it’s just Charley Kinraid; he was a-talking to me i’ t’ dairy.’
‘I’ t’ dairy, lass! and how com’d he i’ t’ dairy?’
‘He com’d to see feyther. Feyther asked him last night,’ said Sylvia, conscious that he could overhear every word that was said, and a little suspecting that he was no great favourite with her mother.
‘Thy feyther’s out; how com’d he i’ t’ dairy?’ persevered Bell.
‘He com’d past this window, and saw yo’ asleep, and didn’t like for t’ waken yo’; so he com’d on to t’ shippen, and when I carried t’ milk in — -’
But now Kinraid came in, feeling the awkwardness of his situation a little, yet with an expression so pleasant and manly in his open face, and in his exculpatory manner, that Sylvia lost his first words in a strange kind of pride of possession in him, about which she did not reason nor care to define the grounds. But her mother rose from her chair somewhat formally, as if she did not intend to sit down again while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in that standing attitude long.
‘I’m afeared, sir, Sylvie hasn’t told yo’ that my master’s out, and not like to be in till late. He’ll be main and sorry to have missed yo’.’
There was nothing for it after this but to go. His only comfort was that on Sylvia’s rosy face he could read unmistakable signs of regret and dismay. His sailor’s life, in bringing him suddenly face to face with unexpected events, had given him something of that self-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman; and with an apparent calmness which almost disappointed Sylvia, who construed it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or stayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in holding her hand a minute longer than was absolutely necessary, —
‘I’m coming back ere I sail; and then, may-be, you’ll answer yon question.’
He spoke low, and her mother was rearranging herself in her chair, else Sylvia would have had to repeat the previous words. As it was, with soft thrilling ideas ringing through her, she could get her wheel, and sit down to her spinning by the fire; waiting for her mother to speak first, Sylvia dreamt her dreams.
Bell Robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as it lay on the surface. She was not aware how deep down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl’s heart who sat on the other side of the fire, with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure. Bell looked upon Sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbidden things by threats of danger. But the forbidden thing was already tasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it more precious-sweet.
Bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. Her milk-white linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face, from which the usual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from the same cause, rendered more prominent and stern. She had a clean buff kerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her Sunday woollen gown of dark blue, — if she had been in working-trim she would have worn a bedgown like Sylvia’s. Her sleeves were pinned back at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands lay crossed in unwonted idleness on her check apron. Her knitting was by her side; and if she had been going through any accustomed calculation or consideration she would have had it busily clinking in her fingers. But she had something quite beyond common to think about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was not equal to knitting.
‘Sylvie,’ she began at length, ‘did I e’er tell thee on Nancy Hartley as I knew when I were a child? I’m thinking a deal on her to-night; may-be it’s because I’ve been dreaming on yon old times. She was a bonny lass as ever were seen, I’ve heerd folk say; but that were afore I knew her. When I knew her she were crazy, poor wench; wi’ her black hair a-streaming down her back, and her eyes, as were a’most as black, allays crying out for pity, though never a word she spoke but “He once was here.” Just that o’er and o’er again, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, “He once was here,” were all her speech. She had been farm-servant to my mother’s brother — James Hepburn, thy great-uncle as was; she were a po
or, friendless wench, a parish ‘prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad, as nobody knowed, come o’er the hills one sheep-shearing fra’ Whitehaven; he had summat to do wi’ th’ sea, though not rightly to be called a sailor: and he made a deal on Nancy Hartley, just to beguile the time like; and he went away and ne’er sent a thought after her more. It’s the way as lads have; and there’s no holding ‘em when they’re fellows as nobody knows — neither where they come fro’, nor what they’ve been doing a’ their lives, till they come athwart some poor wench like Nancy Hartley. She were but a softy after all: for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. I’ve heerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was wrong wi’ Nancy as soon as th’ milk turned bingy, for there ne’er had been such a clean lass about her milk-cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse, and she would sit and do nothing but play wi’ her fingers fro’ morn till night, and if they asked her what ailed her, she just said, “He once was here;” and if they bid her go about her work, it were a’ the same. And when they scolded her, and pretty sharp too, she would stand up and put her hair from her eyes, and look about her like a crazy thing searching for her wits, and ne’er finding them, for all she could think on was just, “He once was here.” It were a caution to me again thinking a man t’ mean what he says when he’s a-talking to a young woman.’
‘But what became on poor Nancy?’ asked Sylvia.
‘What should become on her or on any lass as gives hersel’ up to thinking on a man who cares nought for her?’ replied her mother, a little severely. ‘She were crazed, and my aunt couldn’t keep her on, could she? She did keep her a long weary time, thinking as she would, may-be, come to hersel’, and, anyhow, she were a motherless wench. But at length she had for t’ go where she came fro’ — back to Keswick workhouse: and when last I heerd on her she were chained to th’ great kitchen dresser i’ t’ workhouse; they’d beaten her till she were taught to be silent and quiet i’ th’ daytime, but at night, when she were left alone, she would take up th’ oud cry, till it wrung their heart, so they’d many a time to come down and beat her again to get any peace. It were a caution to me, as I said afore, to keep fro’ thinking on men as thought nought on me.’
‘Poor crazy Nancy!’ sighed Sylvia. The mother wondered if she had taken the ‘caution’ to herself, or was only full of pity for the mad girl, dead long before.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ENGAGEMENT
‘As the day lengthens so the cold strengthens.’ It was so that year; the hard frost which began on new year’s eve lasted on and on into late February, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers, as it kept back the too early growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gave them the opportunity of leading manure. But it did not suit invalids as well, and Bell Robson, though not getting worse, did not make any progress towards amendment. Sylvia was kept very busy, notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow-woman in the neighbourhood on cleaning, or washing, or churning days. Her life was quiet and monotonous, although hard-working; and while her hands mechanically found and did their accustomed labour, the thoughts that rose in her head always centred on Charley Kinraid, his ways, his words, his looks, whether they all meant what she would fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love at the time, such a feeling was likely to endure. Her mother’s story of crazy Nancy had taken hold of her; but not as a ‘caution,’ rather as a parallel case to her own. Like Nancy, and borrowing the poor girl’s own words, she would say softly to herself, ‘He once was here’; but all along she believed in her heart he would come back again to her, though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies of forsaken love.
Philip knew little of all this. He was very busy with facts and figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary business, and only now and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going to Haytersbank in an evening, to inquire after his aunt’s health, and to see Sylvia; for the two Fosters were punctiliously anxious to make their shopmen test all their statements; insisting on an examination of the stock, as if Hepburn and Coulson were strangers to the shop; having the Monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise the fixtures and necessary furniture; going over the shop books for the last twenty years with their successors, an employment which took up evening after evening; and not unfrequently taking one of the young men on the long commercial journeys which were tediously made in a gig. By degrees both Hepburn and Coulson were introduced to distant manufacturers and wholesale dealers. They would have been willing to take the Fosters’ word for every statement the brothers had made on new year’s day; but this, it was evident, would not have satisfied their masters, who were scrupulous in insisting that whatever advantage there was should always fall on the side of the younger men.
When Philip saw Sylvia she was always quiet and gentle; perhaps more silent than she had been a year ago, and she did not attend so briskly to what was passing around her. She was rather thinner and paler; but whatever change there was in her was always an improvement in Philip’s eyes, so long as she spoke graciously to him. He thought she was suffering from long-continued anxiety about her mother, or that she had too much to do; and either cause was enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference which had a repressed tenderness in it, of which she, otherwise occupied, was quite unaware. She liked him better, too, than she had done a year or two before, because he did not show her any of the eager attention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fully understood.
Things were much in this state when the frost broke, and milder weather succeeded. This was the time so long looked forward to by the invalid and her friends, as favouring the doctor’s recommendation of change of air. Her husband was to take her to spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, who lived near the farm they had occupied, forty miles or so inland, before they came to Haytersbank. The widow-woman was to come and stay in the house, to keep Sylvia company, during her mother’s absence. Daniel, indeed, was to return home after conveying his wife to her destination; but there was so much to be done on the land at this time of the year, that Sylvia would have been alone all day had it not been for the arrangement just mentioned.
There was active stirring in Monkshaven harbour as well as on shore. The whalers were finishing their fittings-out for the Greenland seas. It was a ‘close’ season, that is to say, there would be difficulty in passing the barrier of ice which lay between the ships and the whaling-grounds; and yet these must be reached before June, or the year’s expedition would be of little avail. Every blacksmith’s shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers, beating out old iron, such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into the great harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and important sailors, rushing hither and thither, conscious of the demand in which they were held at this season of the year. It was war time, too. Many captains unable to procure men in Monkshaven would have to complete their crews in the Shetlands. The shops in the town were equally busy; stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters, warm clothing of all sorts to be provided. These were the larger wholesale orders; but many a man, and woman, too, brought out their small hoards to purchase extra comforts, or precious keepsakes for some beloved one. It was the time of the great half-yearly traffic of the place; another impetus was given to business when the whalers returned in the autumn, and the men were flush of money, and full of delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends.
There was much to be done in Fosters’ shop, and later hours were kept than usual. Some perplexity or other was occupying John and Jeremiah Foster; their minds were not so much on the alert as usual, being engaged on some weighty matter of which they had as yet spoken to no one. But it thus happened that they did not give the prompt assistance they were accustomed to render at such times; and Coulson had been away on some of the new expeditions devolving on him and Philip as future partners. One evening after the shop was closed, while they were examining the goods, and comparing the sales with the entries in the day-book, Coulson suddenly inquired
—
‘By the way, Hester, does thee know where the parcel of best bandanas is gone? There was four left, as I’m pretty sure, when I set off to Sandsend; and to-day Mark Alderson came in, and would fain have had one, and I could find none nowhere.’
‘I sold t’ last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who fought the press-gang same time as poor Darley were killed. He took it, and three yards of yon pink ribbon wi’ t’ black and yellow crosses on it, as Philip could never abide. Philip has got ‘em i’ t’ book, if he’ll only look.’
‘Is he here again?’ said Philip; ‘I didn’t see him. What brings him here, where he’s noan wanted?’
‘T’ shop were throng wi’ folk,’ said Hester, ‘and he knew his own mind about the handkercher, and didn’t tarry long. Just as he was leaving, his eye caught on t’ ribbon, and he came back for it. It were when yo’ were serving Mary Darby and there was a vast o’ folk about yo’.’
‘I wish I’d seen him,’ said Coulson. ‘I’d ha’ gi’en him a word and a look he’d not ha’ forgotten in a hurry.’
‘Why, what’s up?’ said Philip, surprised at William’s unusual manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a reflection of his own feelings about Kinraid. Coulson’s face was pale with anger, but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he would reply or not.
‘Up!’ said he at length. ‘It’s just this: he came after my sister for better nor two year; and a better lass — no, nor a prettier i’ my eyes — niver broke bread. And then my master saw another girl, that he liked better’ — William almost choked in his endeavour to keep down all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, ‘and that he played t’ same game wi’, as I’ve heerd tell.’
‘And how did thy sister take it?’ asked Philip, eagerly.
‘She died in a six-month,’ said William; ‘she forgived him, but it’s beyond me. I thought it were him when I heerd of t’ work about Darley; Kinraid — and coming fra’ Newcassel, where Annie lived ‘prentice — and I made inquiry, and it were t’ same man. But I’ll say no more about him, for it stirs t’ old Adam more nor I like, or is fitting.’
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 190
