CHAPTER XV
A DIFFICULT QUESTION
Philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent gratitude inhis heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden revulsion offeeling from despondency to hope. The night before it seemed as ifall events were so arranged as to thwart him in his dearest wishes;he felt now as if his discontent and repining, not twenty-four hoursbefore, had been almost impious, so great was the change in hiscircumstances for the better. Now all seemed promising for thefulfilment of what he most desired. He was almost convinced that hewas mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had had anything more than asailor's admiration for a pretty girl with regard to Sylvia; at anyrate, he was going away to-morrow, in all probability not to returnfor another year (for Greenland ships left for the northern seas assoon as there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere thenhe himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents all hisfortunate prospects, and before her all his deep passionate love.
So this night his prayers were more than the mere form that they hadbeen the night before; they were a vehement expression of gratitudeto God for having, as it were, interfered on his behalf, to granthim the desire of his eyes and the lust of his heart. He was liketoo many of us, he did not place his future life in the hands ofGod, and only ask for grace to do His will in whatever circumstancesmight arise; but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessingwhich, when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out tobe equivalent to a curse. And that spirit brings with it thematerial and earthly idea that all events that favour our wishes areanswers to our prayer; and so they are in one sense, but they needprayer in a deeper and higher spirit to keep us from the temptationto evil which such events invariably bring with them.
Philip little knew how Sylvia's time had been passed that day. If hehad, he would have laid down this night with even a heavier heartthan he had done on the last.
Charley Kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the spot where thepath to Haytersbank Farm diverged. Then he stopped his merry talk,and announced his intention of going to see farmer Robson. BessyCorney looked disappointed and a little sulky; but her sister MollyBrunton laughed, and said,--
'Tell truth, lad! Dannel Robson 'd niver have a call fra' thee if hehadn't a pretty daughter.'
'Indeed, but he would,' replied Charley, rather annoyed; 'when I'vesaid a thing, I do it. I promised last night to go see him; besides,I like the old man.'
'Well! when shall we tell mother yo're comin' whoam?'
'Toward eight o'clock--may-be sooner.'
'Why it's bare five now! bless t' lad, does he think o' stayingtheere a' neet, and they up so late last night, and Mrs. Robsonailing beside? Mother 'll not think it kind on yo' either, will she,Bess?'
'I dunno. Charley mun do as he likes; I daresay no one'll miss himif he does bide away till eight.'
'Well, well! I can't tell what I shall do; but yo'd best not stoplingering here, for it's getting on, and there'll be a keen frost byt' look o' the stars.'
Haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was closed;there were no shutters to the windows, nor did they care to draw theinside curtains, so few were the passers-by. The house door wasfastened; but the shippen door a little on in the same long lowblock of building stood open, and a dim light made an oblong uponthe snowy ground outside. As Kinraid drew near he heard talkingthere, and a woman's voice; he threw a passing glance through thewindow into the fire-lit house-place, and seeing Mrs. Robson asleepby the fireside in her easy-chair, he went on.
There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling of milk intothe pail, and Kester, sitting on a three-legged stool, cajoling acapricious cow into letting her fragrant burden flow. Sylvia stoodnear the farther window-ledge, on which a horn lantern was placed,pretending to knit at a gray worsted stocking, but in realitylaughing at Kester's futile endeavours, and finding quite enough todo with her eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail,or the occasional kick. The frosty air was mellowed by the warm andodorous breath of the cattle--breath that hung about the place infaint misty clouds. There was only a dim light; such as it was, itwas not dearly defined against the dark heavy shadow in which theold black rafters and manger and partitions were enveloped.
As Charley came to the door, Kester was saying, 'Quiet wi' thee,wench! Theere now, she's a beauty, if she'll stand still. There'sniver sich a cow i' t' Riding; if she'll only behave hersel'. She'sa bonny lass, she is; let down her milk, theere's a pretty!'
'Why, Kester,' laughed Sylvia, 'thou'rt asking her for her milk wi'as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing a wife!'
'Hey, lass!' said Kester, turning a bit towards her, and shuttingone eye to cock the other the better upon her; an operation whichpuckered up his already wrinkled face into a thousand new lines andfolds. 'An' how does thee know how a man woos a wife, that theetalks so knowin' about it? That's tellin'. Some un's been tryin' iton thee.'
'There's niver a one been so impudent,' said Sylvia, reddening andtossing her head a little; 'I'd like to see 'em try me!'
'Well, well!' said Kester, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning,'thou mun be patient, wench; and if thou's a good lass, may-be thyturn 'll come and they 'll try it.'
'I wish thou'd talk of what thou's some knowledge on, Kester,i'stead of i' that silly way,' replied Sylvia.
'Then a mun talk no more 'bout women, for they're past knowin', an'druv e'en King Solomon silly.'
At this moment Charley stepped in. Sylvia gave a little start anddropped her ball of worsted. Kester made as though absorbed in histask of cajoling Black Nell; but his eyes and ears were bothvigilant.
'I was going into the house, but I saw yo'r mother asleep, and Ididn't like to waken her, so I just came on here. Is yo'r father tothe fore?'
'No,' said Sylvia, hanging down her head a little, wondering if hecould have heard the way in which she and Kester had been talking,and thinking over her little foolish jokes with anger againstherself. 'Father is gone to Winthrop about some pigs as he's heerdon. He'll not be back till seven o'clock or so.'
It was but half-past five, and Sylvia in the irritation of themoment believed that she wished Kinraid would go. But she would havebeen extremely disappointed if he had. Kinraid himself seemed tohave no thought of the kind. He saw with his quick eyes, notunaccustomed to women, that his coming so unexpectedly had flutteredSylvia, and anxious to make her quite at her ease with him, and notunwilling to conciliate Kester, he addressed his next speech to him,with the same kind of air of interest in the old man's pursuit thata young man of a different class sometimes puts on when talking tothe chaperone of a pretty girl in a ball-room.
'That's a handsome beast yo've just been milking, master.'
'Ay; but handsome is as handsome does. It were only yesterday as sheaimed her leg right at t' pail wi' t' afterings in. She knowed itwere afterings as well as any Christian, and t' more t' mischief t'better she likes it; an' if a hadn't been too quick for her, itwould have a' gone swash down i' t' litter. This'n 's a far bettercow i' t' long run, she's just a steady goer,' as the milkydown-pour came musical and even from the stall next to Black Nell's.
Sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the while that itwas a great pity she had not put on a better gown, or even a capwith brighter ribbon, and quite unconscious how very pretty shelooked standing against the faint light, her head a little bentdown; her hair catching bright golden touches, as it fell from underher little linen cap; her pink bed-gown, confined by herapron-string, giving a sort of easy grace to her figure; her darkfull linsey petticoat short above her trim ancles, looking far moresuitable to the place where she was standing than her long gown ofthe night before would have done. Kinraid was wanting to talk toher, and to make her talk, but was uncertain how to begin. In themeantime Kester went on with the subject last spoken about.
'Black Nell's at her fourth calf now, so she ought to ha' left offher tricks and turned sober-like. But bless yo', there's some cowsas 'll be skittish till they're fat f
or t' butcher. Not but what alike milking her better nor a steady goer; a man has allays summatto be watchin' for; and a'm kind o' set up when a've mastered her atlast. T' young missus theere, she's mighty fond o' comin' t' seeBlack Nell at her tantrums. She'd niver come near me if a' cows werelike this'n.'
'Do you often come and see the cows milked?' asked Kinraid,
'Many a time,' said Sylvia, smiling a little. 'Why, when we'rethrong, I help Kester; but now we've only Black Nell and Daisygiving milk. Kester knows as I can milk Black Nell quite easy,' shecontinued, half vexed that Kester had not named this accomplishment.
'Ay! when she's in a good frame o' mind, as she is sometimes. But t'difficulty is to milk her at all times.'
'I wish I'd come a bit sooner. I should like t' have seen you milkBlack Nell,' addressing Sylvia.
'Yo'd better come to-morrow e'en, and see what a hand she'll mak' onher,' said Kester.
'To-morrow night I shall be far on my road back to Shields.'
'To-morrow!' said Sylvia, suddenly looking up at him, and thendropping her eyes, as she found he had been watching for the effectof his intelligence on her.
'I mun be back at t' whaler, where I'm engaged,' continued he.'She's fitting up after a fresh fashion, and as I've been one aswanted new ways, I mun be on the spot for t' look after her. Maybe Ishall take a run down here afore sailing in March. I'm sure I shalltry.'
There was a good deal meant and understood by these last few words.The tone in which they were spoken gave them a tender intensity notlost upon either of the hearers. Kester cocked his eye once more,but with as little obtrusiveness as he could, and pondered thesailor's looks and ways. He remembered his coming about the placethe winter before, and how the old master had then appeared to havetaken to him; but at that time Sylvia had seemed to Kester toolittle removed from a child to have either art or part in Kinraid'svisits; now, however, the case was different. Kester in hissphere--among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it was--hadheard with much pride of Sylvia's bearing away the bell at churchand at market, wherever girls of her age were congregated. He was anorth countryman, so he gave out no further sign of his feelingsthan his mistress and Sylvia's mother had done on a like occasion.
'T' lass is weel enough,' said he; but he grinned to himself, andlooked about, and listened to the hearsay of every lad, wonderingwho was handsome, and brave, and good enough to be Sylvia's mate.Now, of late, it had seemed to the canny farm-servant pretty clearthat Philip Hepburn was 'after her'; and to Philip, Kester had aninstinctive objection, a kind of natural antipathy such as hasexisted in all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in thecountry, between agriculture and trade. So, while Kinraid and Sylviakept up their half-tender, half-jesting conversation, Kester wasmaking up his slow persistent mind as to the desirability of theyoung man then present as a husband for his darling, as much fromhis being other than Philip in every respect, as from the individualgood qualities he possessed. Kester's first opportunity of favouringKinraid's suit consisted in being as long as possible over hismilking; so never were cows that required such 'stripping,' or wereexpected to yield such 'afterings', as Black Nell and Daisy thatnight. But all things must come to an end; and at length Kester gotup from his three-legged stool, on seeing what the others didnot--that the dip-candle in the lantern was coming to an end--andthat in two or three minutes more the shippen would be in darkness,and so his pails of milk be endangered. In an instant Sylvia hadstarted out of her delicious dreamland, her drooping eyes wereraised, and recovered their power of observation; her ruddy armswere freed from the apron in which she had enfolded them, as aprotection from the gathering cold, and she had seized and adjustedthe wooden yoke across her shoulders, ready to bear the brimmingmilk-pails to the dairy.
'Look yo' at her!' exclaimed Kester to Charley, as he adjusted thefragrant pails on the yoke. 'She thinks she's missus a ready, andshe's allays for carrying in t' milk since t' rhumatiz cotched myshouther i' t' back end; and when she says "Yea," it's as much as myheed's worth to say "Nay."'
And along the wall, round the corner, down the round slippery stonesof the rambling farmyard, behind the buildings, did Sylvia trip,safe and well-poised, though the ground wore all one coating ofwhite snow, and in many places was so slippery as to oblige Kinraidto linger near Kester, the lantern-bearer. Kester did not lose hisopportunity, though the cold misty night air provoked his asthmaticcough when-ever he breathed, and often interrupted his words.
'She's a good wench--a good wench as iver was--an come on a goodstock, an' that's summat, whether in a cow or a woman. A've knownher from a baby; she's a reet down good un.'
By this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, just as Sylviahad unladen herself, and was striking a light with flint and tinder.The house seemed warm and inviting after the piercing outer air,although the kitchen into which they entered contained only a rakedand slumbering fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung theimmense pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. Tothis pan Kester immediately addressed himself, swinging it roundwith ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the old-fashionedmachinery. Kinraid stood between Kester and the door into the dairy,through which Sylvia had vanished with the milk. He half wished toconciliate Kester by helping him, but he seemed also attracted, by aforce which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went.Kester read his mind.
'Let alone, let alone,' said he; 'pigs' vittle takes noan suchdainty carryin' as milk. A may set it down an' niver spill a drop;she's noan fit for t' serve swine, nor yo' other, mester; betterhelp her t' teem t' milk.'
So Kinraid followed the light--his light--into the icy chill of thedairy, where the bright polished tin cans were quickly dimmed withthe warm, sweet-smelling milk, that Sylvia was emptying out into thebrown pans. In his haste to help her, Charley took up one of thepails.
'Eh? that'n 's to be strained. Yo' have a' the cow's hair in.Mother's very particular, and cannot abide a hair.'
So she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before she--but notbefore he--was aware of the sweet proximity, she was adjusting hishappy awkward arms to the new office of holding a milk-strainer overthe bowl, and pouring the white liquid through it.
'There!' said she, looking up for a moment, and half blushing; 'nowyo'll know how to do it next time.'
'I wish next time was to come now,' said Kinraid; but she hadreturned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear him. He followedher to her side of the dairy. 'I've but a short memory, can yo' notshow me again how t' hold t' strainer?'
'No,' said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer fast inspite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. 'But there'sno 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 herhead, pretending to be busy in her dairy duties of rinsing and suchlike.
'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 literallyand 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 buta short memory when yo' didn't know me again, and yo' were fivetimes at this house last winter, and that's not so long sin'. But Isuppose 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 couldgo on talking, but could not think of anything more to say justthen; for, in the middle of her sentence, the flatteringinterpretation he might put upon her words, on her knowing soexactly the number of times he had been to Haytersbank, flashed uponher, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little fartherafield--to make it a little less personal. This was not his wish,however. In a tone which thrilled through her, even in her owndespite, he said,--
'Do yo' think that can ever happen again, Sylvia?'
She was qui
te silent; almost trembling. He repeated the question asif to force her to answer. Driven to bay, she equivocated.
'What happen again? Let me go, I dunno what yo're talking about, andI'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 havefound a ready way of keeping his cousins, or indeed most youngwomen, 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 hervery innocence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might leadto, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check. So hecontented himself with saying,--
'I'll let yo' go into t' warm kitchen if yo'll tell me if yo' thinkI can ever forget yo' again.'
She looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. Heenjoyed her determination not to reply to this question; it showedshe felt its significance. Her pure eyes looked steadily into his;nor was the expression in his such as to daunt her or make herafraid. They were like two children defying each other; eachdetermined to conquer. At last she unclosed her lips, and noddingher head as if in triumph, said, as she folded her arms once more inher check apron,--
'Yo'll have to go home sometime.'
'Not for a couple of hours yet,' said he; 'and yo'll be frozenfirst; so yo'd better say if I can ever forget yo' again, withoutmore ado.'
Perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence,--perhaps the toneswere less modulated than they had been before, but anyhow BellRobson's voice was heard calling Sylvia through the second door,which opened from the dairy to the house-place, in which her motherhad been till this moment asleep. Sylvia darted off in obedience tothe call; glad to leave him, as at the moment Kinraid resentfullyimagined. Through the open door he heard the conversation betweenmother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning, so difficultdid he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas he had justbeen forming with Sylvia's bright lovely face right under his eyes.
'Sylvia!' said her mother, 'who's yonder?' Bell was sitting up inthe attitude of one startled out of slumber into intensity oflistening; her hands on each of the chair-arms, as if just going torise. '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,' saidSylvia, conscious that he could overhear every word that was said,and a little suspecting that he was no great favourite with hermother.
'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 fort' 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 alittle, yet with an expression so pleasant and manly in his openface, and in his exculpatory manner, that Sylvia lost his firstwords in a strange kind of pride of possession in him, about whichshe did not reason nor care to define the grounds. But her motherrose from her chair somewhat formally, as if she did not intend tosit down again while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in thatstanding attitude long.
'I'm afeared, sir, Sylvie hasn't told yo' that my master's out, andnot like to be in till late. He'll be main and sorry to have missedyo'.'
There was nothing for it after this but to go. His only comfort wasthat on Sylvia's rosy face he could read unmistakable signs ofregret and dismay. His sailor's life, in bringing him suddenly faceto face with unexpected events, had given him something of thatself-possession which we consider the attribute of a gentleman; andwith an apparent calmness which almost disappointed Sylvia, whoconstrued it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went orstayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in holding herhand a minute longer than was absolutely necessary,--
'I'm coming back ere I sail; and then, may-be, you'll answer yonquestion.'
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 herwheel, and sit down to her spinning by the fire; waiting for hermother to speak first, Sylvia dreamt her dreams.
Bell Robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as itlay on the surface. She was not aware how deep down certain feelingshad penetrated into the girl's heart who sat on the other side ofthe fire, with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure.Bell looked upon Sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbiddenthings by threats of danger. But the forbidden thing was alreadytasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served tomake it more precious-sweet.
Bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. Her milk-whitelinen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face, from which theusual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from thesame cause, rendered more prominent and stern. She had a clean buffkerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her Sundaywoollen gown of dark blue,--if she had been in working-trim shewould have worn a bedgown like Sylvia's. Her sleeves were pinnedback at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands laycrossed in unwonted idleness on her check apron. Her knitting was byher side; and if she had been going through any accustomedcalculation or consideration she would have had it busily clinkingin her fingers. But she had something quite beyond common to thinkabout, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was notequal to knitting.
'Sylvie,' she began at length, 'did I e'er tell thee on NancyHartley as I knew when I were a child? I'm thinking a deal on herto-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; butthat were afore I knew her. When I knew her she were crazy, poorwench; 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 aword she spoke but "He once was here." Just that o'er and o'eragain, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, "He once washere," were all her speech. She had been farm-servant to my mother'sbrother--James Hepburn, thy great-uncle as was; she were a poor,friendless wench, a parish 'prentice, but honest and gaum-like, tilla 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 tobe called a sailor: and he made a deal on Nancy Hartley, just tobeguile the time like; and he went away and ne'er sent a thoughtafter 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 comefro', nor what they've been doing a' their lives, till they comeathwart some poor wench like Nancy Hartley. She were but a softyafter all: for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. I'veheerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was wrong wi' Nancy assoon as th' milk turned bingy, for there ne'er had been such a cleanlass 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' morntill night, and if they asked her what ailed her, she just said, "Heonce 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 wouldstand up and put her hair from her eyes, and look about her like acrazy thing searching for her wits, and ne'er finding them, for allshe could think on was just, "He once was here." It were a cautionto me again thinking a man t' mean what he says when he's a-talkingto a young woman.'
'But what became on poor Nancy?' asked Sylvia.
'What should become on her or on any lass as gives hersel' up tothinking on a man who cares nought for her?' replied her mother, alittle severely. 'She were crazed, and my aunt couldn't keep heron, could she? She did keep her a long weary time, thinking as shewould, may-be, come to hersel', and, anyhow, she were a motherlesswench. But at length she had for t' go where she came fro'--back toKeswick workhouse: and when last I heerd on her she were chained toth' great kitchen dresser i' t' workhouse; they'd beaten her tillshe were taught to be silent and quiet i' th' dayti
me, but at night,when she were left alone, she would take up th' oud cry, till itwrung their heart, so they'd many a time to come down and beat heragain to get any peace. It were a caution to me, as I said afore, tokeep fro' thinking on men as thought nought on me.'
'Poor crazy Nancy!' sighed Sylvia. The mother wondered if she hadtaken the 'caution' to herself, or was only full of pity for the madgirl, dead long before.