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 intolate February, black and bitter, but welcome enough to the farmers,as it kept back the too early growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gavethem the opportunity of leading manure. But it did not suit invalidsas well, and Bell Robson, though not getting worse, did not make anyprogress towards amendment. Sylvia was kept very busy,notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a poor widow-woman inthe neighbourhood on cleaning, or washing, or churning days. Herlife was quiet and monotonous, although hard-working; and while herhands mechanically found and did their accustomed labour, thethoughts that rose in her head always centred on Charley Kinraid,his ways, his words, his looks, whether they all meant what shewould fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love at the time,such a feeling was likely to endure. Her mother's story of crazyNancy had taken hold of her; but not as a 'caution,' rather as aparallel case to her own. Like Nancy, and borrowing the poor girl'sown words, she would say softly to herself, 'He once was here'; butall along she believed in her heart he would come back again to her,though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies of forsakenlove.
Philip knew little of all this. He was very busy with facts andfigures, doggedly fighting through the necessary business, and onlynow and then allowing himself the delicious relaxation of going toHaytersbank in an evening, to inquire after his aunt's health, andto see Sylvia; for the two Fosters were punctiliously anxious tomake their shopmen test all their statements; insisting on anexamination of the stock, as if Hepburn and Coulson were strangersto the shop; having the Monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise thefixtures and necessary furniture; going over the shop books for thelast twenty years with their successors, an employment which took upevening after evening; and not unfrequently taking one of the youngmen on the long commercial journeys which were tediously made in agig. By degrees both Hepburn and Coulson were introduced to distantmanufacturers and wholesale dealers. They would have been willing totake the Fosters' word for every statement the brothers had made onnew year's day; but this, it was evident, would not have satisfiedtheir masters, who were scrupulous in insisting that whateveradvantage there was should always fall on the side of the youngermen.
When Philip saw Sylvia she was always quiet and gentle; perhaps moresilent than she had been a year ago, and she did not attend sobriskly to what was passing around her. She was rather thinner andpaler; but whatever change there was in her was always animprovement in Philip's eyes, so long as she spoke graciously tohim. He thought she was suffering from long-continued anxiety abouther mother, or that she had too much to do; and either cause wasenough to make him treat her with a grave regard and deference whichhad a repressed tenderness in it, of which she, otherwise occupied,was quite unaware. She liked him better, too, than she had done ayear or two before, because he did not show her any of the eagerattention which teased her then, although its meaning was not fullyunderstood.
Things were much in this state when the frost broke, and milderweather succeeded. This was the time so long looked forward to bythe invalid and her friends, as favouring the doctor'srecommendation of change of air. Her husband was to take her tospend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, who lived near the farmthey had occupied, forty miles or so inland, before they came toHaytersbank. The widow-woman was to come and stay in the house, tokeep Sylvia company, during her mother's absence. Daniel, indeed,was to return home after conveying his wife to her destination; butthere 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 thearrangement just mentioned.
There was active stirring in Monkshaven harbour as well as on shore.The whalers were finishing their fittings-out for the Greenlandseas. It was a 'close' season, that is to say, there would bedifficulty in passing the barrier of ice which lay between the shipsand the whaling-grounds; and yet these must be reached before June,or the year's expedition would be of little avail. Everyblacksmith's shop rung with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers,beating out old iron, such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into thegreat harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and importantsailors, rushing hither and thither, conscious of the demand inwhich they were held at this season of the year. It was war time,too. Many captains unable to procure men in Monkshaven would have tocomplete their crews in the Shetlands. The shops in the town wereequally busy; stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters,warm clothing of all sorts to be provided. These were the largerwholesale orders; but many a man, and woman, too, brought out theirsmall hoards to purchase extra comforts, or precious keepsakes forsome beloved one. It was the time of the great half-yearly trafficof the place; another impetus was given to business when the whalersreturned in the autumn, and the men were flush of money, and full ofdelight at once more seeing their homes and their friends.
There was much to be done in Fosters' shop, and later hours werekept than usual. Some perplexity or other was occupying John andJeremiah Foster; their minds were not so much on the alert as usual,being engaged on some weighty matter of which they had as yet spokento no one. But it thus happened that they did not give the promptassistance they were accustomed to render at such times; and Coulsonhad been away on some of the new expeditions devolving on him andPhilip as future partners. One evening after the shop was closed,while they were examining the goods, and comparing the sales withthe entries in the day-book, Coulson suddenly inquired--
'By the way, Hester, does thee know where the parcel of bestbandanas is gone? There was four left, as I'm pretty sure, when Iset off to Sandsend; and to-day Mark Alderson came in, and wouldfain have had one, and I could find none nowhere.'
'I sold t' last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who foughtthe press-gang same time as poor Darley were killed. He took it, andthree yards of yon pink ribbon wi' t' black and yellow crosses onit, as Philip could never abide. Philip has got 'em i' t' book, ifhe'll only look.'
'Is he here again?' said Philip; 'I didn't see him. What brings himhere, where he's noan wanted?'
'T' shop were throng wi' folk,' said Hester, 'and he knew his ownmind about the handkercher, and didn't tarry long. Just as he wasleaving, his eye caught on t' ribbon, and he came back for it. Itwere when yo' were serving Mary Darby and there was a vast o' folkabout yo'.'
'I wish I'd seen him,' said Coulson. 'I'd ha' gi'en him a word and alook he'd not ha' forgotten in a hurry.'
'Why, what's up?' said Philip, surprised at William's unusualmanner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to find a reflectionof his own feelings about Kinraid. Coulson's face was pale withanger, but for a moment or two he seemed uncertain whether he wouldreply or not.
'Up!' said he at length. 'It's just this: he came after my sisterfor better nor two year; and a better lass--no, nor a prettier i' myeyes--niver broke bread. And then my master saw another girl, thathe liked better'--William almost choked in his endeavour to keepdown all appearance of violent anger, and then went on, 'and thathe 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, butit's beyond me. I thought it were him when I heerd of t' work aboutDarley; Kinraid--and coming fra' Newcassel, where Annie lived'prentice--and I made inquiry, and it were t' same man. But I'llsay no more about him, for it stirs t' old Adam more nor I like, oris fitting.'
Out of respect to him, Philip asked no more questions although therewere many things that he fain would have known. Both Coulson and hewent silently and grimly through the remainder of their day's work.Independent of any personal interest which either or both of themhad or might have in Kinraid's being a light o' love, this fault ofhis was one with which the two grave, sedate young men had nosympathy. Their hearts were true and constant, whatever else mightbe their failings; and it is no new thing to 'damn the faults wehave no mind to.' Philip w
ished that it was not so late, or thatvery evening he would have gone to keep guard over Sylvia in hermother's absence--nay, perhaps he might have seen reason to give hera warning of some kind. But, if he had done so, it would have beenlocking the stable-door after the steed was stolen. Kinraid hadturned his steps towards Haytersbank Farm as soon as ever he hadcompleted his purchases. He had only come that afternoon toMonkshaven, and for the sole purpose of seeing Sylvia once morebefore he went to fulfil his engagement as specksioneer in the_Urania_, a whaling-vessel that was to sail from North Shields onThursday morning, and this was Monday.
Sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low window, inorder to have all the light the afternoon hour afforded for herwork. A basket of her father's unmended stockings was on the littleround table beside her, and one was on her left hand, which shesupposed herself to be mending; but from time to time she made longpauses, and looked in the fire; and yet there was but little motionof flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. It was'redd up' for the afternoon; covered with a black mass of coal, overwhich the equally black kettle hung on the crook. In theback-kitchen Dolly Reid, Sylvia's assistant during her mother'sabsence, chanted a lugubrious ditty, befitting her condition as awidow, while she cleaned tins, and cans, and milking-pails. Perhapsthese bustling sounds prevented Sylvia from hearing approachingfootsteps coming down the brow with swift advance; at any rate, shestarted and suddenly stood up as some one entered the open door. Itwas strange she should be so much startled, for the person whoentered had been in her thoughts all during those long pauses.Charley Kinraid and the story of crazy Nancy had been the subjectsfor her dreams for many a day, and many a night. Now he stood there,bright and handsome as ever, with just that much timidity in hisface, that anxiety as to his welcome, which gave his accost an addedcharm, could she but have perceived it. But she was so afraid ofherself, so unwilling to show what she felt, and how much she hadbeen thinking of him in his absence, that her reception seemed coldand still. She did not come forward to meet him; she went crimson tothe very roots of her hair; but that, in the waning light, he couldnot see; and she shook so that she felt as if she could hardlystand; but the tremor was not visible to him. She wondered if heremembered the kiss that had passed between them on new year'seve--the words that had been spoken in the dairy on new year's day;the tones, the looks, that had accompanied those words. But all shesaid was--
'I didn't think to see yo'. I thought yo'd ha' sailed.'
'I told yo' I should come back, didn't I?' said he, still standing,with his hat in his hand, waiting to be asked to sit down; and she,in her bashfulness, forgetting to give the invitation, but, instead,pretending to be attentively mending the stocking she held. Neithercould keep quiet and silent long. She felt his eyes were upon her,watching every motion, and grew more and more confused in herexpression and behaviour. He was a little taken aback by the natureof his reception, and was not sure at first whether to take thegreat change in her manner, from what it had been when last he sawher, as a favourable symptom or otherwise. By-and-by, luckily forhim, in some turn of her arm to reach the scissors on the table, shecaught the edge of her work-basket, and down it fell. She stooped topick up the scattered stockings and ball of worsted, and so did he;and when they rose up, he had fast hold of her hand, and her facewas turned away, half ready to cry.
'What ails yo' at me?' said he, beseechingly. 'Yo' might ha'forgotten me; and yet I thought we made a bargain against forgettingeach other.' No answer. He went on: 'Yo've never been out o' mythoughts, Sylvia Robson; and I'm come back to Monkshaven for noughtbut to see you once and again afore I go away to the northern seas.It's not two hour sin' I landed at Monkshaven, and I've been nearneither kith nor kin as yet; and now I'm here you won't speak tome.'
'I don't know what to say,' said she, in a low, almost inaudibletone. Then hardening herself, and resolving to speak as if she didnot understand his only half-expressed meaning, she lifted up herhead, and all but looking at him--while she wrenched her hand out ofhis--she said: 'Mother's gone to Middleham for a visit, andfeyther's out i' t' plough-field wi' Kester; but he'll be in aforelong.'
Charley did not speak for a minute or so. Then he said--
'Yo're not so dull as to think I'm come all this way for t' seeeither your father or your mother. I've a great respect for 'emboth; but I'd hardly ha' come all this way for to see 'em, and mebound to be back i' Shields, if I walk every step of the way, byWednesday night. It's that yo' won't understand my meaning, Sylvia;it's not that yo' don't, or that yo' can't.' He made no effort torepossess himself of her hand. She was quite silent, but in spite ofherself she drew long hard breaths. 'I may go back to where I camefrom,' he went on. 'I thought to go to sea wi' a blessed hope tocheer me up, and a knowledge o' some one as loved me as I'd leftbehind; some one as loved me half as much as I did her; for th'measure o' my love toward her is so great and mighty, I'd be contentwi' half as much from her, till I'd taught her to love me more. Butif she's a cold heart and cannot care for a honest sailor, why,then, I'd best go back at once.'
He made for the door. He must have been pretty sure from some signor other, or he would never have left it to her womanly pride togive way, and for her to make the next advance. He had not taken twosteps when she turned quickly towards him, and said something--theecho of which, rather than the words themselves, reached him.
'I didn't know yo' cared for me; yo' niver said so.' In an instanthe was back at her side, his arm round her in spite of her shortstruggle, and his eager passionate voice saying, 'Yo' never knowed Iloved you, Sylvia? say it again, and look i' my face while yo' sayit, if yo' can. Why, last winter I thought yo'd be such a woman whenyo'd come to be one as my een had never looked upon, and this year,ever sin' I saw yo' i' the kitchen corner sitting crouching behindmy uncle, I as good as swore I'd have yo' for wife, or never wed atall. And it was not long ere yo' knowed it, for all yo' were so coy,and now yo' have the face--no, yo' have not the face--come, mydarling, what is it?' for she was crying; and on his turning her wetblushing face towards him the better to look at it, she suddenly hidit in his breast. He lulled and soothed her in his arms, as if shehad been a weeping child and he her mother; and then they sat downon the settle together, and when she was more composed they began totalk. He asked her about her mother; not sorry in his heart at BellRobson's absence. He had intended if necessary to acknowledge hiswishes and desires with regard to Sylvia to her parents; but forvarious reasons he was not sorry that circumstances had given himthe chance of seeing her alone, and obtaining her promise to marryhim without being obliged to tell either her father or her mother atpresent. 'I ha' spent my money pretty free,' he said, 'and I'vene'er a penny to the fore, and yo'r parents may look for somethingbetter for yo', my pretty: but when I come back fro' this voyage Ishall stand a chance of having a share i' th' _Urania_, and may-be Ishall be mate as well as specksioneer; and I can get a matter offrom seventy to ninety pound a voyage, let alone th' half-guineasfor every whale I strike, and six shilling a gallon on th' oil; andif I keep steady wi' Forbes and Company, they'll make me master i'time, for I've had good schooling, and can work a ship as well asany man; an' I leave yo' wi' yo'r parents, or take a cottage for yo'nigh at hand; but I would like to have something to the fore, andthat I shall have, please God, when we come back i' th' autumn. Ishall go to sea happy, now, thinking I've yo'r word. Yo're not oneto go back from it, I'm sure, else it's a long time to leave such apretty girl as yo', and ne'er a chance of a letter reaching yo' justto tell yo' once again how I love yo', and to bid yo' not forgetyo'r true love.'
'There'll be no need o' that,' murmured Sylvia.
She was too dizzy with happiness to have attended much to hisdetails of his worldly prospects, but at the sound of his tenderwords of love her eager heart was ready to listen.
'I don't know,' said he, wanting to draw her out into moreconfession of her feelings. 'There's many a one ready to come afteryo'; and yo'r mother is not o'er captivated wi' me; and there's yontall fellow of a co
usin as looks black at me, for if I'm notmista'en he's a notion of being sweet on yo' hisself.'
'Not he,' said Sylvia, with some contempt in her tone. 'He's so fullo' business and t' shop, and o' makin' money, and gettin' wealth.'
'Ay, ay; but perhaps when he gets a rich man he'll come and ask mySylvia to be his wife, and what will she say then?'
'He'll niver come asking such a foolish question,' said she, alittle impatiently; 'he knows what answer he'd get if he did.'
Kinraid said, almost as if to himself, 'Yo'r mother favours himthough.' But she, weary of a subject she cared nothing about, andeager to identify herself with all his interests, asked him abouthis plans almost at the same time that he said these last words; andthey went on as lovers do, intermixing a great many tenderexpressions with a very little conversation relating to facts.
Dolly Reid came in, and went out softly, unheeded by them. ButSylvia's listening ears caught her father's voice, as he and Kesterreturned homewards from their day's work in the plough-field; andshe started away, and fled upstairs in shy affright, leaving Charleyto explain his presence in the solitary kitchen to her father.
He came in, not seeing that any one was there at first; for they hadnever thought of lighting a candle. Kinraid stepped forward into thefirelight; his purpose of concealing what he had said to Sylviaquite melted away by the cordial welcome her father gave him theinstant that he recognized him.
'Bless thee, lad! who'd ha' thought o' seein' thee? Why, if iver athought on thee at all, it were half way to Davis' Straits. To besure, t' winter's been a dree season, and thou'rt, may-be, i' t'reet on 't to mak' a late start. Latest start as iver I made wasninth o' March, an' we struck thirteen whales that year.'
'I have something to say to you,' said Charley, in a hesitatingvoice, so different to his usual hearty way, that Daniel gave him akeen look of attention before he began to speak. And, perhaps, theelder man was not unprepared for the communication that followed. Atany rate, it was not unwelcome. He liked Kinraid, and had strongsympathy not merely with what he knew of the young sailor'scharacter, but with the life he led, and the business he followed.Robson listened to all he said with approving nods and winks, tillCharley had told him everything he had to say; and then he turnedand struck his broad horny palm into Kinraid's as if concluding abargain, while he expressed in words his hearty consent to theirengagement. He wound up with a chuckle, as the thought struck himthat this great piece of business, of disposing of their only child,had been concluded while his wife was away.
'A'm noan so sure as t' missus 'll like it,' said he; 'tho'whativer she'll ha' to say again it, mischief only knows. But she'snoan keen on matterimony; though a have made her as good a man asthere is in a' t' Ridings. Anyhow, a'm master, and that she knows.But may-be, for t' sake o' peace an' quietness--tho' she's niver ascolding tongue, that a will say for her--we'n best keep this matterto ourselves till thou comes int' port again. T' lass upstairs 'lllike nought better than t' curl hersel' round a secret, and purro'er it, just as t' oud cat does o'er her blind kitten. But thou'llbe wanting to see t' lass, a'll be bound. An oud man like me isn'tas good company as a pretty lass.' Laughing a low rich laugh overhis own wit, Daniel went to the bottom of the stairs, and called,'Sylvie, Sylvie! come down, lass! a's reet; come down!'
For a time there was no answer. Then a door was unbolted, and Sylviasaid,
'I can't come down again. I'm noan comin' down again to-night.'
Daniel laughed the more at this, especially when he caught Charley'slook of disappointment.
'Hearken how she's bolted her door. She'll noane come near us thisnight. Eh! but she's a stiff little 'un; she's been our only one, andwe'n mostly let her have her own way. But we'll have a pipe and aglass; and that, to my thinking, is as good company as iver a womanin Yorkshire.'