 CHAPTER 6 THE CORNEY'S HOUSE was but a disorderly, comfortless place. You had to cross a dirty farmyard, all puddles and dung heaps, on stepping stones, to get to the door of the house-place. That great room itself was sure to have clothes hanging to dry at the fire, whatever day of the week it was, some one of the large, irregular family having had what is called in the district a dab wash of a few articles forgotten on the regular day. And sometimes these articles lay in their dirty state in the untidy kitchen, out of which a room, half parlor, half bedroom, and on one side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at the opposite. In face of you, as you entered the door, was the entrance to the working kitchen or scullery. Still, in spite of disorder like this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the place. The corneys were rich in their way, in flocks and herds as well as in children, and to them neither dirt nor the perpetual bustle arising from ill-ordered work detracted from comfort. They were all of an easy, good-tempered nature. Mrs. Corney and her daughter gave everyone a welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would just as soon sit down for a gossip at ten o'clock in the morning, as at five in the evening, though at the former time the house-place was full of work of various kinds which ought to be got out of hand and done with, while the latter-hour was toward the end of the day, when farmers' wives and daughters were usually, clean was the word then, dressed is that, in vogue now. Of course, in such households as this Sylvia was sure to be gladly received. She was young and pretty and bright, and brought a fresh breeze of pleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere. And besides, Belle Robson held her head so high that visits from her daughter were rather esteemed as a favour, for it was not everywhere that Sylvia was allowed to go. Sitya down, sitya down, cried Dane Corney, dusting a chair with her apron, I reckon Molly will be in, in no time. She's no but gone into to Orchard to see if she can find windfalls enough for to make a pie or two for the lads. They like now so well for supper, as apple pies sweetened with treacle, crusts stout and leathery as stands chewing, and we hadn't gotten in our apples yet. If Molly's in the Orchard, I'll go find her, said Sylvia. Well, your lasses will have your conks, private talks, I know, secrets bout sweet hearts and such like, said Mrs. Corney with a knowing look, which made Sylvia hate her for the moment. I've not forgotten, as were a young Missen. Take care, there's a pool of mucky water just outside the back door. But Sylvia was half-way across the backyard, worse if possible than the front as to the condition in which it was kept, and had passed through the little gate into the Orchard. It was full of old gnarled apple trees, their trunks covered with grey lichen, in which the cunning chaffinch built her nest in springtime. The cankered branches remained on the trees, and added to the knotted interweaving overhead, if they did not to the productiveness. The grass grew in long tufts, and was wet and tangled underfoot. There was a tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the grey old trees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green bosses of untrimmed grass. Why the fruit was not gathered, as it was evidently ripe, would have puzzled anyone not acquainted with the corny family to say. But to them it was always a maxim in practice, if not in precept. Do nothing today that you can put off till tomorrow. And accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any little gust of wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the lads wanted a supply of pies for supper. Molly saw Sylvia and came quickly across the Orchard to meet her, catching her feet in knots of grass as she hurried along. Well, Lash, said she, who doth thought I see and knew such a day as it has been? But it's cleared up now beautiful, said Sylvia, looking up at the soft evening sky to be seen through the apple-bows. It was of a tender, delicate grey, with the faint warmth of a promising sunset tinging it with a pink atmosphere. Rain is over and gone, and I wanted to know how my cloak is to be made, for donkens working at our house, and I wanted to know all about the news, you know. What news, asked Molly, for she had heard of the affair between the good fortune and the aurora some days before, and to tell the truth it had rather passed out of her head just at this moment. How not you heard all about the prescang and the whaler in the great fight and kindred as is your cousin, acting so brave and grand, and lying on his deathbed now? Oh, said Molly, enlightened as to Sylvia's news, and half surprised at the vehemence with which the little creature spoke. Yes, I heard that days ago, but Charlie's known on his deathbed. He's a deal better, and Mother says as he's to be moved up here next week for nursing in better air, nor he gets into town yonder. Oh, I'm so glad, said Sylvia, with all her heart. I thought he'd maybe die, and I should never see him. I'll promise you shall see him. That's to say, if all goes on well, for he's getting an ugly hurt. Mother says as there's four blue marks on his side, as a last in his life, and a doctor fears bleeding in his inside, and then he'll drop down dead when no one looks for it. But you said he was better, said Sylvia, blanching a little at this account. Aye, he's better, but life's uncertain, especially after gunshot wounds. He acted very fine, said Sylvia, meditating. Ah, always know'd he would. Many's the time I've heard him say, honour bright, and now he's shown how bright his is. Molly did not speak sentimentally, but with a kind of proprietorship in Kinraid's honour, which confirmed Sylvia in her previous idea of a mutual attachment between her and her cousin. Considering this notion, she was a little surprised at Molly's next speech. And about your cloak, are you for a hood or a cape? I reckon that's the question. Oh, I don't care. Tell me more about Kinraid. Do you really think he'll get better? Dear, how to last takes on about him. I'll tell him what a deal of interest a young woman takes to him. From that time Sylvia never asked another question about him. In a somewhat dry and altered tone, she said, after a little pause. I think on a hood. What do you say to it? Well, hoods is a bit old fashioned to my mind. If to a mine, I'd have a cape cut in three points, one to tie on each shoulder, and one to dip down handsome behind. But let you and me go to Monk's saving church a Sunday and see Mr. Fishburne's daughters, as has their things made in York, and notice a bit how they're made. We needn't do it in church, but just scan them over in the church yard, and there'll be no harm done. Besides, there's to be this grand berry in a demand to press gang shot, and it will be like killing two birds at once. I should like to go, said Sylvia. I feel so sorry like for the poor sailor shot down and kidnapped, just as they was coming home, as we'd seen him a Thursday last. I'll ask mother if she'll let me go. I do. I know my mother'll let me, if she doesn't go her send, for it'd be a sight to see and to speak on for many a long year after what I've heared. And Miss Fishburne's is sure to be there. So I'd just get donkin' to cut out cloak itself, and keep back your mind for a fix on on either cape or hood till Sunday's turned. Will you set me part of the way home, said Sylvia, seeing the dying daylight become more and more crimson through the blackening trees? No, I can't. I should like it well enough, but somehow there's a deal of work to be done yet, for towers slip through one's fingers so as there's no knowing. Mind you, then, a Sunday. I'll be at this style one o'clock punctual, and we'll go slowly into to town and look about as we go, and see folk's dresses, and go to the church and say our prayers, and come out and have a look at the funeral. And with this program of proceedings settled for the following Sunday, the girls whom neighborhood and parody of age had forced into some measure of friendship parted for the time. Sylvia hastened home, feeling as if she had been absent long. Her mother stood on the little knoll at the side of the house watching for her, with her hand shading her eyes from the low rays of the setting sun. But as soon as she saw her daughter in the distance, she returned to her work, whatever that might be. She was not a woman of many words or of much demonstration. Few observers would have guessed how much she loved her child, but Sylvia, without any reasoning or observation, instinctively knew that her mother's heart was bound up in her. Her father and Duncan were going on much as when she had left them, talking and disputing, the one compelled to be idle, the other stitching away as fast as he talked. They seemed as if they had never missed Sylvia, no more did her mother for that matter, for she was busy and absorbed in her afternoon dairy work to all appearance. But Sylvia had noted the watching not three minutes before, and many a time in her life, when no one cared much for her outgoings and incomings, the straight upright figure of her mother, fronting the setting sun, but searching through its blinding rays for a sight of her child, rose up like a sudden seen picture, the remembrance of which smoked Sylvia to the heart, with a sense of a lost blessing, not duly valued while possessed. Well, Father, and how's all with you as Sylvia going to the side of his chair and laying her hand on his shoulder? A hierarchy to this lass of mine. She thinks as because she's gone gal-reverging, I'm on her mister and be ailing. Why, lass, Duncan in me has had the most sensible talk I've had this many day. I've given him a vaston knowledge, and he's done me a power of good. Please, God, tomorrow I'll take a start at walk-in if the weather holds up. I, said Duncan, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, Father in me has settled many puzzles. It's been a loss to government as they have not been here for profiting by our wisdom. We've done away with taxes and press gangs and many a plague and beaten the French, in our own minds, that's to say. It's a wonder to me as those London folks can't see things clear, said Daniel, all in good faith. Sylvia did not quite understand the state of things as regarded politics and taxes, and politics and taxes were all one in her mind, it must be confessed. But she saw that her innocent little scheme of giving her father the change of society afforded by Duncan's coming had answered, and in the gladness of her heart she went out and ran round the corner of the house to find Kester, and obtained from him that sympathy in her success, which she dared not ask from her mother. Kester, Kester lads, said she in a loud whisper, but Kester was suppering the horses, and in the clamp of their feet on the round stable pavement. He did not hear her at first. She went a little farther into the stable. Kester, he's a vast better. He'll go out tomorrow. It's all Duncan's doing. I'm beholden to thee for fetching him, and I'll try and spare three waistcoat fronts out of the stuff for my new red cloak. Thou like that, Kester, won't it? Kester took the notion in slowly and weighed it. Na lass, said he deliberately after a pause, I couldn't a bear to see thee with the cloak scrimp it. I like to see a wench look bonny and smart, and I take a kind of pride in thee, and should be a most as much hurt in my mind to see thee in a pinched cloak, as if old Maul's tale, they were docked too short. Na lass, as never got a mirroring glass for to see my sen in. So what's waistcoats to me? Keep thy stuff to thy sen. There's a good wench. But as main and glad about the meester, place isn't like its sen when he's shut up and cranky. He took up a wisp of straw, and began rubbing down the old mare, and hissing over his work, as if he wished to consider the conversation as ended. And Sylvia, who had strung herself up in a momentary fervor of gratitude to make the generous offer, was not sorry to have it refused, and went back planning what kindness she could show to Kester without its involving so much sacrifice to herself. For giving waistcoat fronts to him would deprive her of the pleasant power of selecting a fashionable pattern in Monk's Haven churchyard next Sunday. That wished four day seemed long a coming, as wished four days most frequently do. Her father got better by slow degrees, and her mother was pleased by the tailor's good pieces of work, showing the neatly placed patches with as much pride as many matrons take in new clothes nowadays. And the weather cleared up into a dim kind of autumnal fineness, into anything but an Indian summer, as far as regarded gorgeousness of colouring. For on that coast the mists and sea-fogs early spoiled the brilliancy of the foliage. Yet perhaps the more did the silvery greys and browns of the inland scenery conduced to the tranquility of the time. The time of peace and rest before the fierce and stormy winter comes on. It seems a time for gathering up human forces to encounter the coming severity, as well as of storing up the produce of harvest for the needs of winter. Old people turn out and sun themselves in that calm St. Martin's summer, without fear of the heat of the sun or the coming winter's rages. And we may read in their pensive dreamy eyes that they are weaning themselves away from the earth, which probably many may never see dressed in her summer glory again. Many such old people set out betimes on the Sunday afternoon to which Sylvia had been so looking forward to scale the long flights of stone steps worn by the feet of many generations, which led up to the parish church placed on a height above the town on a great green area at the summit of the cliff, which was the angle where the river and the sea met, and so overlooking both the busy crowded little town, the port, the shipping, and the bar on one hand, and the wide, illimitable tranquil sea on the other, types of life and eternity. It was a good situation for that church. Homeward bound sailors caught sight of the tower of St. Nicholas, the first land object of all. They who went forth upon the great deep might carry solemn thoughts with them of the words they had heard there, not conscious thoughts perhaps, rather a distinctive dim conviction that buying and selling, eating and marrying, even life and death, were not all the realities in existence. Nor were the words that came up to their remembrance words of sermons preached there, however impressive. The sailors mostly slept through the sermons, unless indeed there were incidents such as were involved in what were called funeral discourses to be narrated. They did not recognize their daily faults or temptations under the grand aliases befitting their appearance from a preacher's mouth. But they knew the old, often repeated words, praying for deliverance from the familiar dangers of lightning and tempest, from battle, murder, and sudden death. And nearly every man was aware that he left behind him some one who would watch for the prayer for the preservation of those who travel by land or water, and think of him, as God protected, the more for the earnestness of the response then given. There, too, lay the dead of many generations. For St. Nicholas had been the parish church ever since Munch's Haven was a town, and the large churchyard was rich in the dead. Masters, mariners, ship-owners, seamen. It seems strange how few other trades were represented in that great plain so full of upright gravestones. Here and there was a memorial stone, placed by some survivor of a large family, most of whom perished at sea, supposed to have perished in the Greenland seas, shipwrecked in the Baltic, drowned off the coast of Iceland. There was a strange sensation, as if the cold sea winds must bring with them the dim phantoms of those lost sailors, who had died far from their homes and from the hallowed ground where their fathers lay. Each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a small flat space on which a wooden seat was placed. On this particular Sunday all these seats were filled by aged people, breathless with the unusual exertion of climbing. You could see the church stair, as it was called, from nearly every part of the town, and the figures of the numerous climbers diminished by distance, looked like a busy anthill, long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service. All who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token of mourning. It might be very little, an old ribbon, a rusty piece of crepe, but some sign of mourning was shown by everyone down to the little child in its mother's arms, that innocently clutched the piece of rosemary to be thrown into the grave for remembrance. Darling, the seamen shot by the press gang, nine leeks off Sndab's head, was to be buried today at the accustomed time for the funerals of the poorer classes, directly after evening service. And there were only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not come forth to show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon as murdered. The crowd of vessels in harbor bore their flags half mass high, and the crews were making their way through the high street. The gentlefolk of Monkshaven, full of indignation at this interference with their ships, full of sympathy with the family who had lost their son and brother, almost within sight of his home, came in unusual numbers, no lack of patterns for Sylvia. But her thoughts were far otherwise and more suitably occupied. The unwonted sternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all whom she met awed and affected her. She did not speak and replied to Molly's remarks on the dress or appearance of those who struck her. She felt as if these speeches jarred on her and annoyed her almost to irritation. Yet Molly had come all the way to Monkshaven Church in her service and deserved forbearance accordingly. The two mounted the steps alongside of many people, few words were exchanged, even at the breathing places, so often the little centers of gossip. Looking over the sea there was not a sail to be seen, it seemed bared of life as if to be in serious harmony with what was going on inland. The church was of old Norman architecture, low and massive outside, inside a vast space, only a quarter of which was filled on ordinary Sundays. The walls were disfigured by numerous tablets of black and white marble intermixed, and the usual ornamentation of that style of memorial as erected in the last century, of weeping willows, urns, and drooping figures, with here and there a ship in full sail, or an anchor where the seafaring idea, prevalent throughout the place, had launched out into a little originality. There was no woodwork, the church had been stripped of that, most probably when the neighboring monastery had been destroyed. There were large square pews, lined with green bays, with the names of the families of the most flourishing ship owners painted white on the doors. There were pews, not so large and not lined at all, for the farmers and shopkeepers of the parish, and numerous heavy oaken benches, which, by the united efforts of several men, might be brought with an earshot of the pulpit. These were being removed into the most convenient situations when Molly and Sylvia entered the church, and after two or three whispered sentences they took their seats on one of these. The vicar of Monkshaven was a kindly, peaceable, old man, hating strife and troubled waters above everything. He was a vehement Tory in theory, as became his cloth in those days. He had two bugbears to fear—the French and the dissenters. It was difficult to say of which he had the worst opinion and the most intense dread. Perhaps he hated the dissenters most, because they came nearer in contact with him than the French. Besides, the French had the excuse of being papists, while the dissenters might have belonged to the Church of England had they not been utterly depraved. Yet in practice Dr. Wilson did not object to dying with Mr. Fishburne, who was a personal friend and follower of Wesley. But then, as the doctor would say, Wesley was an Oxford man, and that makes him a gentleman, and he was an ordained minister of the Church of England, so that grace could never depart from him. But I do not know what excuse he would have alleged for sending broth and vegetables to old Ralph Thompson, a rabid independent, who had been given to abusing the Church and the vicar from a dissenting pulpit, as long as ever he could mount the stairs. However, that inconsistency between Dr. Wilson's theory and practice was not generally known in Monkshaven, so we have nothing to do with it. Dr. Wilson had had a very difficult part to play, and a still more difficult sermon to write during this last week. The darling who had been killed was the son of the vicar's gardener, and Dr. Wilson's sympathies as a man had been all on the bereaved father's side. But then he had received, as the oldest magistrate in the neighborhood, a letter from the captain of the Aurora, explanatory and exculpatory. Darling had been resisting the orders of an officer in his majesty's service. What would become of due subordination and loyalty, and the interests of the service, and the chances of beating those confounded French, if such conduct as Darleys was to be encouraged? Poor Darleys, he was passed all evil effects of human encouragement now. So the vicar mumbled hastily over a sermon on the text, in the midst of life we are in death, which might have done as well for a baby cut off in a convulsion fit, as for the strong man shot down with all his eager blood hot within him, by men as hot-blooded as himself. But once when the old doctor's eye caught the upturned straining gaze of the father Darleys, seeking with all his soul to find a grain of holy comfort in the chaff of words, his conscience smote him. Had he nothing to say, that should calm anger and revenge with spiritual power, no breath of the comforter to soothe repining into resignation? But again the discord between the laws of man and the laws of Christ stood before him, and he gave up the attempt to do more than he was doing, as beyond his power. Though the hearers went away as full of anger as they had entered the church, and some with a dull feeling of disappointment as to what they had got there, yet no one felt anything but kindly towards the old vicar, his simple happy life led amongst them for forty years, and open to all men in its daily course, his sweet tempered cordial ways, his practical kindness, made him beloved by all, and neither he nor they thought much or cared much for admiration of his talents. Respect for his office was all the respect he thought of, and that was conceded to him from old traditional and hereditary association. In looking back to the last century, it appears curious to see how little our ancestors had the power of putting two things together and perceiving either the discord or harmony thus produced. Is it because we are farther off from those times and have consequently a greater range of vision? Will our descendants have a wonder about us, such as we have about the inconsistency of our forefathers, or a surprise at our blindness that we do not perceive that holding such and such opinions, our course of action must be so and so, or that the logical consequence of particular opinions must be convictions which at present we hold in abhorrence? It seems puzzling to look back on men such as our vicar, who almost held the doctrine that the king could do no wrong, yet were ever ready to talk of the glorious revolution and to abuse the stewards for having entertained the same doctrine and tried to put it in practice. But such discrepancies ran through good man's lives in those days. It is well for us that we live at the present time when everybody is logical and consistent. This little discussion must be taken in place of Dr. Wilson's sermon, of which no one could remember more than the text half an hour after it was delivered. Even the doctor himself had the recollection of the words he had uttered swept out of his mind as having doffed his gown and donned his surplus. He came out of the dusk of his vestry and went to the church door looking into the broad light which came upon the plain of the churchyard on the cliffs, where the sun had not yet set and the pale moon was slowly rising through the silvery mist that obscured the distant moors. There was a thick dense crowd all still in silent looking away from the church and the vicar who awaited the bringing of the dead. They were watching the slow black line winding up the long steps, resting their heavy burden here and there, standing in silent groups at each landing-place, now lost to sight as a piece of broken overhanging ground intervened, now emerging suddenly nearer and overhead the great church bell with its medieval inscription, familiar to the vicar if to no one else who heard it, eye to the grave do summon all, kept on its heavy booming monotone, from which no other sound from land or sea near or distant intermingled except the cackle of the geese on some far away farm on the moors as they were coming home to roost, and that one noise from so great a distance seemed only to deepen the stillness. Then there was a little movement in the crowd, a little pushing from side to side to make a path through the corpse and its bearers, an aggregate of the fragments of room. With bent heads and spent strength, those who carried the coffin moved on, behind came the poor old gardener, a brown black funeral cloak thrown over his homely dress, and supporting his wife with steps scarcely less feeble than her own. He had come to church that afternoon with a promise to her that he would return to lead her to the funeral of her firstborn, for he felt in his sore perplexed heart full of indignation and dumb anger, as if he must go and hear something which should exercise the unwonted longing for revenge that disturbed his grief and made him conscious of that great blank of consolation with faithfulness produces. And for the time he was faithless, how came God to permit such cruel injustice of man? Permitting it he could not be good. Then what was life and what was death, but woe and despair? The beautiful solemn words of the ritual had done him good and restored much of his faith. Though he could not understand why such sorrows had befallen him any more than before, he had come back to something of his childlike trust. He kept saying to himself in a whisper, as he mounted the weary steps, it is the Lord's doing. And the repetition soothed him unspeakably. Behind this old couple followed their children, grown men and women, come from distant place or farmhouse service, the servants at the vicarage, and many a neighbor anxious to show their sympathy, and most of the sailors from the crews of the vessels in port, joined in procession, and followed the dead body into the church. There was too great a crowd immediately within the door for Sylvia and Molly to go in again, and they accordingly betook themselves to the place where the deep grave was waiting, wide and hungry, to receive its dead. There, leaning against the headstones all around, were many standing, looking over the broad and placid sea, and turned to the soft salt air which blew on their hot eyes and rigid faces, for no one spoke of all that number. They were thinking of the violent death of him over whom the solemn words were now being said in the gray old church, scarcely out of their hearing, had not the sound been broken by the measured lapping of the tide far beneath. Suddenly everyone looked round towards the path from the churchyard steps. Two sailors were supporting a ghastly figure, that with feeble motions was drawing near the open grave. It's despectioneers tried to save him, it's him as was left for dead, the people murmured round. It's Charlie Kinraid as I'm a sinner, said Molly starting forward to greet her cousin. But as he came on, she saw that all his strength was needed for the mere action of walking. The sailors in their strong sympathy had yielded to his earnest entreaty and carried him up the steps in order that he might see the last of his messmate. They placed him near the grave, resting against his stone, and he was hardly there before the vicar came forth and the great crowd poured out of the church, following the body to the grave. Sylvia was so much wrapped up in the solemnity of the occasion that she had no thought to spare at the first moment for the pale and haggard figure opposite. Much less was she aware of her cousin Philip, who now singling her out for the first time from among the crowd, pressed to her side with an intention of companionship and protection. As the service went on, ill-checked sobs rose from behind the two girls, who were among the foremost in the crowd, and by and by the cry and the wail became general. Sylvia's tears ranged down her face, and her distress became so evident that it attracted the attention of many in that inner circle. Among others who noticed it, the spectioneers hollow eyes were caught by the sight of the innocent, blooming, childlike face opposite to him, and he wondered if she were a relation. Yet, seeing that she bore no badge of mourning, he rather concluded that she must have been a sweetheart of the dead man. And now all was over, the rattle of the gravel on the coffin, the last long, lingering look of friends and lovers, the rosemary sprigs had been cast down by all who were fortunate enough to have brought them, and oh, how much Sylvia wished she had remembered this last act of respect, and slowly the outer rim of the crowd began to slacken and disappear. Now Philip spoke to Sylvia. I never dreamt of seeing you here. I thought my aunt always went to Kirkmoreside. I came with Molly Corny, said Sylvia. Mother is staying at home with father. How is his rheumatics? asked Philip. But at the same moment, Molly took hold of Sylvia's hand and said, I want to get round and speak to Charlie. Mother will be main and glad to hear as he's gotten out. Though for sure he looks as though he'd have been better in his bed. Come, Sylvia. And Philip, famed to keep with Sylvia, had to follow the two girls close up to the inspectioneer, who was preparing for his slow, laborious walk back to his lodgings. He stopped on seeing his cousin. Well, Molly, said he faintly, putting out his hand. But his eye passing her face to look at Sylvia in the background, her tear-stained face full of shy admiration of the nearest approach to a hero she had ever seen. Well, Charlie, I never was so taken aback as when I saw you there like a ghost standing again a gravestone. How white and worn you do look. Aye, he said wearily, worn and weak enough. But I hope you're getting better, said Sylvia in a low voice, longing to speak to him and yet wondering at her own temerity. Thank you, my lass. I'm all the worst, he sighed heavily. Philip now spoke. We're doing him no kindness to keeping him standing here into nightfall and him so tired, and he made as though he would turn away. Kinray's two sailor friends backed up Philip's words with such urgency that somehow Sylvia thought they had been to blame and speaking to him and blushed excessively with the idea. You'll come and be nursed at Mossbrow, Charlie, said Molly, and Sylvia dropped her little maidenly curtsy and said goodbye and went away, wondering how Molly could talk so freely to such a hero, but then to be sure he was a cousin and probably a sweetheart, and that would make a great deal of difference, of course. Meanwhile her own cousin kept close by her side. And now, tell me all about folk at home, said Philip, evidently preparing to walk back with the girls. He generally came to Hader's bank every Sunday afternoon, so Sylvia knew what she had to expect the moment she became aware of his neighbourhood in the churchyard. Miffay there's been sadly troubled with his rheumatics this week past, but he's a vast better now, thank you kindly. Then addressing herself to Molly, she asked, is your cousin adopted to look after him? I for sure, said Molly quickly, for though she knew nothing about the matter, she was determined to suppose that her cousin had everything becoming an invalid as well as a hero. He's well to do, and can afford everything as he needs, continued she. His faith is left in money, and he were a farmer out up in Northumberland, and he's reckoned such aspection here is never, never was, and guess what weight he asks for, and a share on every whaley harpoons beside? I reckon he'll have to make himself scarce on this course for a while at any rate, said Philip. And what for should he? Asked Molly who never liked Philip at the best of times, and now if he was going to disparage her cousin in any way was ready to take up arms and do battle. Why, they do say as he fired the shot as has killed some of the men who was men, and of course if he has he'll have to stand his trial if he's caught. What lies people do say? exclaimed Molly. He never killed, not but Wales, I'll be bound. But if he did it were all right and proper as he should when they were for stealing him and all others, and he killed poor Dali as we come for seeing buried. I suppose now you're such a quaker that if someone was to break through for other side this die can offer to murder Sylvia and me, you'd look on with your arms hanging by your side. But press gang had lore on their side, and were doing not but what they'd warrant for. The tenders gone away as if she were ashamed of what she'd done, said Sylvia. And flags down for over the Randy vows, though by no more press gang here a while. No, Father says, continued Molly, as they've made place to what told them, coming so strong for people and getting used to their ways and catching up all lads just come for greenland seas. Folks had their blood so up they think no arm fighting them in streets. I ain't killing them too if they were for using firearms. As Aurora's men did. Women is so fond of bloodshed, said Philip. Father, you talk. Who'd have thought you'd just come for crying over the grave of a man who was killed by violence? Should have thought you'd seen enough of what Sorok comes of fighting. Why, them lads on Aurora, as they say Kinraid shot down, had fathers and mothers, maybe, looking out for him to come home. I don't think he could have killed them, said Sylvia. He looked so gentle. But Molly did not like this half-and-half view of the case. I dare say he did kill them dead. He's not one to do things by ourselves, and I think he served him right. That's what I do. Isn't it this Esther, who serves in Foster's shop, asks Sylvia in a low voice, as a young woman came through a style in the stone wall by the roadside, and suddenly appeared before them? Yes, said Philip. Why, Esther, where have you been? He asked as they drew near. Esther reddened a little, and then replied in her slow, quiet way. I've been sitting with Betsy Darley, her that is bedridden. It was lonesome for her when the others were away at the burying, and she made as though she would have passed, but Sylvia, all her sympathies alive for the relations of the murdered man, wanted to ask more questions, and put her hand on Esther's arm to detain her a moment. Esther suddenly drew back a little, reddened still more, and then replied fully and quietly to all Sylvia asked. In the agricultural counties, and among the class to which these four persons belonged, there is little analysis of motive, or comparison of characters and actions, even at this present day of enlightenment. Sixty or seventy years ago there was still less. I do not mean that amongst thoughtful and serious people there was not much reading of such books as mason on self-knowledge and laws, serious call, or that there were not the experiences of the Wesleyans that were related at class meeting for the edification of the hearers. But, taken as a general ride, it may be said that few knew what manner of men they were, compared to the numbers now who were fully conscious of their virtues, qualities, failings and weaknesses, and who go about comparing others with themselves, not in a spirit of phariseism and arrogance, but with a vivid self-consciousness that more than anything else deprives characters of freshness and originality. To return to the party we left standing on the high-raced footway that rang alongside of the bridal road to Hatersbank. Sylvia had leisure in her heart to think how good Hester is for sitting with the poor bedridden sister of Dali, without having a pang of self-depreciation in the comparison of her own conduct, with that she was capable of so fully appreciating. She had gone to church for the ends of vanity, and remained to the funeral for curiosity, and the pleasure of the excitement. In this way a modern young lady would have condemned herself, and therefore lost the simple, purifying pleasure of admiration of another. Hester passed onwards, going down the hill towards the town. The other three walked slowly on. All were silent for a few moments, then Sylvia said, How good she is! and Philip replied with ready warmth, Yes, she is. No one knows how good but us, who live in the same house with her. A mother is no quakeress, pinchy, Mully inquired. Alice rose as a friend, if that is what you mean, said Philip. Well, well, some folk so particular, is William Coulson a quaker by which you mean a friend. Yes, they're all on him right down, good folk. Dearly me, what a wonder you can speak to such sinners as Sylvia and me! After keeping company with so much goodness, said Mully, who had not yet forgiven Philip for doubting Kinraid's power of killing men. Isn't it, Sylvia? But Sylvia was too highly strong for banter. If she had not been one of those who went to mock, but remained to pray, she had gone to church with the thought of the cloak that was to be uppermost in her mind, and she had come down a long church stare, with life and death suddenly become real to her mind, the enduring sea and hills, forming a contrasting background to the vanishing away of man. She was full of a solemn wonder, as to the abiding place of the souls of the dead, and a childlike dread, lest the number of the elect should be accomplished before she was included therein. How people could ever be merry again, after they had been at a funeral she could not imagine. So she answered gravely, and slightly beside the question. I wonder if I was a friend if I should be good? Give me your red cloak, that's all, when you turn quicker. You'll not let thee wear scarlet, so I'll be of no use to thee. Think thou good enough as thou art, said Philip tenderly, at least as tenderly as he durst, for he knew by experience that it did not do to alarm her girlish coyness. Either one speech or the other made Sylvia silent, neither was according to her mood of mind, so perhaps both contributed to her quietness. Foxy, William Coulson, looked sweet on Esther Rose, said Molly, always up in Monks Avon Gossip. It was in the form of an assertion, but was said in the turn of a question, and as such Philip replied to it. Yes, I think he likes her a good deal, but he's so quiet I never feel sure. John and Jeremiah would like the match, have an ocean. And now they came to the style which had filled Philip's eye for some minutes past, though neither of the others had perceived they were so near it, the style which led to Moss brow from the road into the fields that sloped down to Hatersbank. Here they would leave Molly, and now would begin a delicious tetatet walk which Philip always tried to make as lingering as possible. Today he was anxious to show his sympathy with Sylvia, as far as he could read what was passing in her mind. But how was he to guess the multitude of tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle? A resolution to be good, if she could, and always to be thinking on death so that what seemed to her now as simply impossible might come true, that she might dread the grave as little as her bed? A wish that Philip were not coming home with her? A wonder if the Spectrenair really had killed a man, an idea which made her shudder. Yet from the awful fascination about it, her imagination was compelled to dwell on the tall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the one countenance, a hatred and desire of revenge on the press gang so vehement that it sadly militated against her intention of trying to be good. All these notions and wonders and fancies were whirling about in Sylvia's brain, and at one of their promptings she spoke, how many miles away is Greenland Seed? I mean, how long did they take to reach? I don't know. Ten days or a fortnight or more maybe. I'll ask. Oh, Father will tell me all about it. It has been there many a time. I say, Sylvia, my aunt said I were to give you lessons this winter, writing and ciphering. I can begin to come up now, two evenings maybe a week. Chop closes early after November comes in. Sylvia did not like learning, and did not want him for her teacher, so she answered in a dry little tone. It'll use a deal of candlelight. Mother will not like that. I can't see to spell out a candle close at my elbow. Never mind about candles. I can bring up a candle with me, for I shall be burning one at Alice Rose's. So that excuse would not do. Sylvia beat her brains for another. Writing cramps my hands, so I can't do any sewing for a day after, and Father wants to show it's very bad. But Sylvia, I'll teach you geography, and never such a vast to find things about countries on map. Is Arctic sea's down on map? She asked in a tone of greater interest. Yes, Arctic's entropics in equator, necking up to your line, we'll take them, turn and turn about, we'll do writing and ciphering one night, geography other. Philip spoke with pleasure at the prospect, but Sylvia relaxed into indifference. I'm no scholar, it's like throwing away labour to teach me I'm such a dunce at my book. Now there's Betsy Corny, third girl, earliest is younger than Molly, she'd be a credit to you. There never was such a lass with butter in our books. If Philip had had his wits about him, he would have pretended to listen to this proposition of a change of pupils, and then possibly Sylvia might have repented making it. But he was too much mortified to be diplomatic. Meant asked me to teach you a bit, not any neighbour's lass. Well, if I'm unbitot I'm un, but I'd rather be whipped and not done with it, for Sylvia's ungracious reply. A moment afterwards, she repented of her little spirit of unkindness, and thought that she should not like to die that night without making friends. Sudden death was very present in her thought since the funeral, so she instinctively chose the best method of making friends again, and slipped her hand into his, as he walked a little suddenly at her side. She was half afraid, however, when she found it firmly held, and that she could not droid away again without making what she called in her own mind a fuss. So, hand in hand, they slowly and silently came up to the door of Hatersbank Farm, not unseen by Bell Robson, who sat in a window-seat with her Bible open upon her knee. She had read her chapter aloud to herself, and now she could see no longer, even if she had wished to read more. But she gazed out into the darkening air, and a dim look of contentment came like moonshine over her face when she saw the cousin's approach. That's my bread day and night, said she to herself. But there was no unusual aspect of gardeners on her face, as she lighted the candle to give them a more cheerful welcome. We as father, asked Sylvia, looking round the room for Daniel. He's been to Kirkmoreside Church, fit to see a bit of the world as he cast it, and since then he's gone out, cattles, forget his day and his turn of playing himself now that father's better. I've been talking to Sylvia, said Philip, his head still full of his pleasant plan, his hand still tingling from the touch of hers, about turning schoolmaster, and coming up here two nights a week for a teacher bit of writing and ciphering. And geography, put in Sylvia, for, thought she, he found to learn them things, I don't care a pinabout, anywhere I'll learn what I do care to know, if it'll tell me about re-nancy's now father off. That same evening, a trio alike in many outward circumstances sat in a small neat room in a house opening out of a confined court on the hilly side of the high street of Monkshaven. The mother, her only child, and the young man who silently loved that daughter, and was favoured by Alice Rose, though not by Hester. When the latter returned from her afternoon's absence, she stood for a minute or two on the little flight of steep steps, whitened to a snowy whiteness. The aspect of the whole house partook of the same character of a reproachable cleanliness. It was wedged up into a space which necessitated all sorts of odd projections and irregularities in order to obtain sufficient light for the interior, and if ever the being situated in a dusky, confined corner might have been made an excuse for dirt, Alice Rose's house had that apology. Yet the small diamond panes of glass in the casement window were kept so bright and clear that a great, sweet-centred leafed uranium grew and flourished though it did not flower profusely. The leaves seemed to fill the air with fragrance as soon as Hester summoned up energy enough to open the door. Perhaps that was because the young Quaker, William Coulson, was crushing one between his finger and thumb while waiting to set down Alice's next words. For the old woman, who looked as if many years of life remained in her yet, was solemnly dictating her last will and testament. It had been on her mind for many months, for she had something to leave beyond the mere furniture of the house, something, a few pounds, in the hands of John and Jeremiah Foster, her cousins, and it was they who had suggested the duty on which she was engaged. She had asked William Coulson to write down her wishes, and he had consented though with some fear and trepidation, for he had an idea that he was infringing on a lawyer's prerogative, and that for ought he knew he might be prosecuted for making a will without a license, just as a man might be punished for selling wine and spirits without going through the preliminary legal forms that give permission for such a sale. But, to his suggestion that Alice should employ a lawyer, she had replied, that what cost me five pounds sterling, and thee can't do it as well, if thee'll but attend to my words. So he had bought at her desire a black edged sheet of fine-wove paper, and a couple of good pens on the previous Saturday, and while waiting for her to begin her dictation, and full serious thought himself, he had almost unconsciously made the grand flourish at the top of the paper which he had learnt at school, and which was there called a spread eagle. What are they doing there? asked Alice, suddenly alive to his proceedings. Without a word he showed her his handiwork. It's a vanity, said she, and may make will not stand, fork may think how when he may write mind of the seas such fly-legs and cobwebs atop. Right, this is my doing William Coulson, and none of Alice rose as she being in her sound mind. I don't think it's needed, said William. Nevertheless, he wrote down the words. There's thee put that I am in my sound mind in seven senses. They make the sound of the trinity in right, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Is that the right way of beginning a will? said Coulson, a little startled. My father, and my father's father, and my husband at the top of theirs, and I'm not going for it to cease for following after them for they were coddling them, though my husband wearer up a piss-ca-paw persuasion. It's done, said William. Asked thee, dated it, asked Alice. Nay, then dated it, third day, ninth month. Now art ready, Coulson nodded. Aye, Alice rose, do leave my furniture, that is, my bed and chested drawers, that by bed and things is thine and not mine, and settle, and saucepans, and dresser, and table, and kettle, and all the rest of my furniture, to my lawful and only daughter, Hester Rose. I think that's safer to have all in it, not William. I think so too, said he, writing on all the time. And thee shall have roller and paste-board, because thee so fond of puddings and cakes, he'll serve thy wife after I'm gone, and I trust she'll boil her pears long enough, for that's been secret of mine, and thee'll know I'll be so easy to please. I didn't reckon on marriage, said William. The old Mary, said Alice, thee likes to have thy victuals, odd and comfortable, and there's no one many but a wife as a look after that foot, please, thee. I know who could please me, sighed forth, William, but I can't please her. Alice looked sharply at him from over her spectacles, which he had put on the better to think about the disposal of her property. The art thinking on our ester, said she, plainly out. He started a little, but looked up at her and met her eyes. Ester cares known for me, said he dejectedly. By the while, my lad, said Alice kindly, young women don't always know their own minds, thee and her would make a marriage after my own heart, and the Lord has been very good to me, either two, and I think you'll bring it to pass. But don't thee let on as thee cares for her so much, as sometimes think she worries of our looks in our ways. Show up, thy manly art, and make as though they had much else to think on, and no leisure for to dawdle after her, and she'll think a deal more on thee. And now, men they pen for a fresh start, I give him bequeath, did thee put give him bequeath at the beginning? Nay, said William, looking back, thee did not tell me give him bequeath. Then it won't be legal, and my bit of furniture will be taken to London and put in chance with me, and Ester will have known on it. I can write it over, said William. Well, write it clear, then, and put a line under it to show those are my special words. As they done it, they're now start afresh. I give him bequeath my book of sermons, as is bound in good calfskin, and lies on the third shelf at corner cupboard at the right and at fireplace, to Philip Hepburn. For I reckon he's as fond of reading sermons as they are to light, well-boiled paste, and I'd be glad for each on you to have some what you like for to remember me by. Is that down? There. Now, for me cousins John and Jeremiah, they're itch it, world's gear, but they'll prize what I leave them if I could only hum but think me what they would like. I reckon, isn't that our Ester's step? Put it away quick, I'm no for grieving you, we're telling her what I've been about. We'll take it, turn it, we'll next first day. It will serve us for several sabbaths to come, and maybe I can think on something as we'll see cousin John and cousin Jeremiah for then. Ester, as was mentioned, paused a minute or two before lifting the latch of the door. When she entered there was no unusual sign of writing about, only Will Coulson looking very red and crushing and smelling at the geranium leaf. Ester came in briskly, with the little stock of enforced cheerfulness she'd stopped at the door to acquire, but it faded away along with a faint flush of colour in her cheeks, and the mother's quick eye immediately noted the one heavy look of care. I've kept a pot in oven. It'll have almost got a goodness out of tea by now, for it'll be an hour since I made it. Poor lass, that'll look as if thou needed a good cup of tea. It would re-work seem where Betsy Daly were it, and how does she look on her affliction? She takes it sore to heart, said Ester, taking off her hat and folding and smoothing away her cloak before putting them in the great oak chest, or arc, as it was called, in which they were laid from Sunday to Sunday. As she opened the lid, a sweet scent of dried lavender and rose leaves came out. William stepped hastily forwards to hold up the heavy lid for her. She lifted up her head, looked at him full with her serene eyes, and thanked him for his little service. Betsy took a creepy stool and sat down on the side of the fireplace, having her back to the window. The hearth was of the same spotless whiteness as the steps, all that was black about the grate was polished to the utmost extent, all that was a brass like the handle of the oven was burnished bright. Her mother placed the little black earthenware teapot, in which the tea had been stewing on the table, where cups and sauces were already set for four, and a large plate of bread and butter cut. Then they sat round the table, bowled their heads, and kept silence for a minute or two. When this grace was ended and they were about to begin, Alice said, as if without premeditation, but in reality with a keen shrinking of heart out of sympathy with her child. Philip would have been into his tea by now, I reckon, if he'd been coming. William looked up suddenly at Hester. Her mother carefully turned her head another way, but she answered quite quietly. He'll be gone to his aunts at Aitersbank, and let him atop a brow of his cousin in Molyconey. He's a deal there, said William. Yes, said Hester. It's likely him and his aunt come from Galloway, and must need to cling together in these strange parts. I saw them at the Beringer Yom, darling, said William. It were a vast of people went past entry and, said Alice, it were almost like election time. I would just come back for a meeting, when they were all going up church steps. I met Yom Saylor as they say used violence and did murder. He looked like a ghost, though whether it were his bodily wounds or the sense of his sins stirring within him, it's not for me to say. And by the time I was back here and settled to my Bible, folk were returning, and it were trant, trant past entry and forbetting a quarter of an hour. They say Kin Raid is getting slugs and gunshot on his side, said Hester. He's never won Charlie Kin Raid for sure, as I knowed at Newcastle, said William Coulson, roused her sudden energetic curiosity. I don't know, replied Hester. They call him just Kin Raid, and Betsy Darlis says he most dare inspectioneer of all that go off this coast at Greenland Seas, but he's been in Newcastle. For remind me, she said a poor brother met with him there. How does thee come to know him? inquired Alice. I cannot abide him if it is Charlie, said William. He kept company with my poor sister as he's dead for better than two years, and then he left off coming to see her and met with another girl, and it just broke her heart. He'd allug now as if he ever could play at that game again, said Alice. He has had a warning for at Lorde. Whether it be a call no one can tell, but to my eye, he looks as if he had been called and was going. Then he'll meet my sister, said William solemnly, and I hope the Lorde will make it clear to him then, how he killed her, as sure as he's shot down young sailors, and if there's a gnashing of teeth for murder in that other place, I reckon he'll have his share of him. He's a bad man, young. Betsy said he was such a friend to her brother as never was, and he sent her word and promised to go and see her first place he goes out to. But William only shook his head and repeated his last words. He's a bad man, he is. When Philip came home that Sunday night, he found only Alice up to receive him. The usual bedtime in the house was nine o'clock, and it was but ten minutes past the hour, but Alice looked displeased and stern. They are late, lad, said she shortly. I'm sorry, it's a long way from me, uncles, and I think clocks are different. Said he, taking out his watch to compare it with the round moon's face that told the time to Alice. I know not about that, uncles, but they are late. Take that candle and be gone. If Alice made any reply to Philip's good night, he did not hear it. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Sylvia's Lovers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Amanda Martin-Sandino. Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 8 A fortnight had passed over and winter was advancing with rapid strides. In bleak northern farmsteads there was much to be done before November weather should make the roads too heavy for half-fed horses to pull carts through. There was the turf paired up on the distant moors, left out to dry, to be carried home and stacked. The brown fern was to be stored up for winter bedding for the cattle. For straw was scarce and near in those parts, even for thatching, heather, or rather, ling was used. Then there was milled salt while it could be had. For in defaults of turnips and mangled wurtzel, there was a great slaughtering of barren cows as soon as the summer herbage failed, and good housewives stored up their Christmas piece of beef and pickle before Martin's miss was over. Horn was to be ground while yet it could be carried to the distant mill. The great racks for oat-cake that swung at the top of the kitchen had to be filled. And last of all came the pig-killing, when second frost set in. For up in the north there is an idea that the ice stored in the first frost will melt, and the meat cured then taint. The first frost is good for nothing but to be thrown away as they express it. There came a breathing time after this last event. The house had had its autumn cleaning and was neat and bright from top to bottom, from one end to another. The turf was lead, the coal carted up from Mungshaven, the wood stored, the corn ground, the pig-kills, and the hams and heads and hands lying in salts. The butcher had been glad to take the best parts of a pig of Dame Robson's careful feeding, but there was unusual plenty in the haste to bank pantry, and as Belle surveyed it one morning she said to her husband, I wonder if young poor sick chap at Mossbrough would fancy some of my sausages. There's something to crack on, if they're made from an old Cumberland recipe, as is not known in Yorkshire yet. Thou's allies so set upon Cumberland ways, said her husband, not displeased with the suggestion, however. Still, when folks sick they hand their fancies, and maybe Kinriddle be glad of the sausages. I had known sick folk take to eat in snails. This was not complimentary, perhaps, but Daniel went on to say that he did not mind if he stepped over with the sausages himself, when it was too late to do anything else. Sylvia longed to accompany her father, but somehow she did not like to propose it. Towards dusks she came to her mother to ask for the key of the Great Bureau that stood in the house place as a state piece of furniture, although its use was to contain the family's best-wearing apparel, and stores of linen, such as might be supposed to be more needed upstairs. What for do you want my keys? asked Bell. Only just to get out one of two damisk napkins. The best napkins, as my mother spanned. Yes, said Sylvia, her colour heightening. I thought it's how it would set off the sausages. The good clean homespun cloth will serve them better, said Bell, wondering in her own mind what was come over the girl, to be thinking of setting off sausages that were to be eaten, or to be looked at like a picture book. She might have wondered still more if she had seen Sylvia still around the little flower border she had persuaded Kester to make under the wall at the sunny side of the house, and gathered the two or three Michael Mistaeusis, and the one bud of the China Rose that, growing against the kitchen chimney, had escaped the frost. And then, when her mother was not looking, softly opened the cloth inside the little basket that contained the sausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her autumn blossoms in one of the folds of the towel. After Daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had had his afternoon meal, till he was a Sunday treat, he prepared to set out on his walk to Mosbro, but as he was taking his stick he caught the look on Sylvia's face, and unconsciously interpreted its dumb wistfulness. Mrs. City, to when she's not more to do has she. She may as well put on her cloak and step down with me, and see Molly a bit, she'll be company-like, Bell considered. There's Tion for their stockings, as is yet to spin, but she can go, for I'll do a bit to it myself, and there's not else a gate. Put on their things in a jiffy, then, and let's be off, said Daniel. And Sylvia did not need another word. Down she came in a twinkling, dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her face peeping out of the folds of the ladder, bright and blushing. Thou shalt not have put on their new cloak for a night walk to Mosbro, said Bell, shaking her head. Shall I go take it off, and put on my shawl, as Sylvia, a little dolefully. Na, na, come along. I'm known gone to wait on woman's tops and changes. Come along, come lassie. This lasts to his dog. So Sylvia set off, with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that had yet to be restrained to the sober gate her father chose. The sky above was bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars. The grass was crisping under her feet with the coming whorefrost, and as they mounted to the higher ground, they could see the dark sea stretching away, far below them. The night was very still, though now and then crisp sounds in the distant air sounded very near in the silence. Sylvia carried the basket and looked like her little red riding-hood. Her father had nothing to say and did not care to make himself agreeable, but Sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, and any conversation would have been a disturbance to her. The long monotonous roll of the distant waves as the tide bore them in, the multitudinous rush at last, and then the retreating rattle and trickle, as the baffled waters fell back over the shingle that skirted the sands and divided them from the cliffs. Her father's measured tread and slow, even moment. Lassie's pattering all lulled Sylvia into a reverie of what she could not have given herself any definite account. But at length, they arrived at Mossboro, and with a sudden sigh, she quitted the subjects of her dreaming meditations, and followed her father into the great house-place. It had a more comfortable aspect by night than by day. The fire was always kept up to a wasteful size, and the dancing blaze and the partial light of candles left much in shadow that was best ignored in such a disorderly family. But there was always a warm welcome to friends, however roughly given, and afterwards of this were spoken, the next rose up equally naturally in the mind of Mrs. Corny. And what will you take? Eh, but to Mr. will be fine, and vexed it you come in when he's away. He's off to Horncastle to sell some colts, and he'll not be back till tomorrow's neat. But here's Charlie Kinrade as we've gotten to nurse up a bit, and to Lads will be back for Munch's Haven in a crack of no time. All this was addressed to Daniel, to whom she knew that none but masculine company would be acceptable. Munch's done educated people, whose reigns of subjects and interests do not extend behind their daily life. It is natural that when the first blush and hurry of youth is over, there should be no great pleasure in the conversation of the other sex. Men have plenty to say to men, which in their estimation, gained from tradition and experience, women cannot understand. And farmers of a much later date than the one of which I am writing, would have contemptuously considered it a loss of time to talk to women. Indeed they were often more communicative to the sheepdog that accompanied them through all the day's work, and frequently became a sort of dumb confidant. Farmer Robson's lassie now lay at her master's feet, placed her nose between her paws, and watched with a tender eyes the preparations going on for refreshments. Preparations, which, to the disappointment of her canine heart, consisted entirely of tumblers and sugar. Where's Twench, said Robson, after he had shaken hands with Kincaid, and spoken a few words to him and Mrs. Corny. She's getting a basket with sausages in them, as my missus has made, and she's a rare hand at sausages. There's no one like her and not to the three riding-cell be bound. For Daniel could praise his wife's powers in her absence, though he did not often express himself in an appreciative manner when she was by to hear. But Sylvia's quick sense cut up the matter in which Mrs. Corny would apply the way in which her mother's house-wifery had been exalted. And stepping forward out of the shadow, she said, Mother thought maybe you hadn't killed a pig yet, and sausages is always a bit savoury for anyone who is not well, and she might have got on, but that she cut Kincaid's eyes looking at her with kindly admiration. She stopped speaking, and Mrs. Corny took up the word. As for sausages, I had never had a chance this year, else I'd stand again any one for to-making of them. Yorkshire Hems is a vast thought-on, and I'll never let another countrywoman say she could make better sausages nor me. But as I'm saying, I'd never a chance for our pig, as I were saffoned of, and fed myself, and as would have been 14 stone by now if you were announced, and as knew me as well as any Christian, and a pig as I may say, that I just idolised, went and took a fit a week after Michael must stay and died, as if it had been despite me, and to next is no ready for killing nor would not be this six weeks. So I much beholden to you, Mrs., and so's Charlie, I'm sure, though he's taken a turn to bettering since he came out here to be nursed. I'm a deal better, said Kincaid, almost ready for to-press-ging to give chase to again, but folks, they either gone off this coast for one while, added Daniel. They're gone down toward whole as I've been told, said Kincaid, but they're a deep set. They'll be here before we know where we are, and some of these days. See thee here, said Daniel, exhibiting his maimed hand, Arkon asserted him out of time, and went to Mercury War, and he began the story Sylvia knew so well, for her father never made a new acquaintance, but what he told him of his self-mutilation to escape the press-ging, and had been done, as he would himself, voned, despite himself as well as them. For it obliged him to leave a sea-life, to which, in comparison, all life spent on shore was worse than nothing for dullness. For Robson had never reached the rank of board-ship which made him being unable to run up a rigging, or throw a harpoon, or to fire off a gun of no great consequence, so he had to be thankful that an opportune legacy enabled him to turn farmer, a great degradation in his opinion, but his blood warmed as he told the speck-tion-eer, toward a sailor, when he pressed King Cade to beguile of his time, when he was compelled to be ashore, by coming over to see him at Hastrebank whenever he fells inclined. Sylvia, appearing to listen to Molly's confidences, was hearkening in reality to all this conversation between her father and the speck-tion-eer, and at this invitation to become especially attentive, can read replied, I must oblige to ye, I am sure, maybe I can come and spend an evening with you, but as soon as I'm got round a bit, I must go see my own people as live at colour-coats near Newcastle-Pontaine. Well, well, said Daniel, rising to take leave, with unusual prudence as to the mount of his drink. Thou'lt see, thou'lt see, I shall be main glad to see thee, if thou'lt come, but I've not lads to keep thee company. Only once bring of a wench. Sylvia, come here, and let's show thee to this young fellow. Sylvia came forward, ready as any rose, and in a moment, can read recognized her as the pretty little girl he had seen crying so bitterly over Darly's grave. He rose up out of true sailor's gallantry as she shyly approached and stood by her father's side, scarcely daring to lift her great soft eyes to have one fair gaze at his face. He had to support himself by one hand rested on the dresser, but she saw he was looking far better, younger, less haggard, than he had seemed to her before. His face was short and expressive, his complexion had been weather-beaten and bronzed, though now he looked so pale. His eyes and hair were dark, the former quick, deep-set and penetrating, the latter curly, and almost in ringlets. His teeth gleamed wide as he smiled at her, pleasant, friendly smile of recognition, but she only blushed the deeper and hung her head. I'll come, sir, and be thankful. I dare say eternal do me good, the weather holds up, I the frost keeps on. That's right, my lad, said Robson, shaking him by the hand, and then Kin Raid's hand was held out to Sylvia. She could not avoid the same friendly action. Molly Corny followed her to the door, and when they were fairly outside, she held Sylvia back for an instant to say, Is not he a fine, likely man? I'm so glad as you've seen him, forced to be off next week to Newcastle in that neighborhood. But he said he'd come to us some night, as Sylvia, half in fright. I'll see as he does, never fear. For I should like for you to know him a bit. He's a rare talker. I'll mind him a-coming to you. Somehow Sylvia felt as if this repeated in promise of reminding Kin Raid of his promise to come and see her father, took away part of the pleasure she had anticipated from his visit. You know what could be more natural than that Molly Corny should wish her friend to be acquainted with the man whom Sylvia believed to be all but Molly's engaged lover. Pondering these thoughts, the walk home was as silent as that going to Mosborough had been. The only change seemed to be that now they faced the brilliant northern lights flashing up the sky, and that either this appearance or some of the wailing narrations of Kin Raid had stirred up Daniel Robson's recollections of a sea-ditty, which he kept singing to himself in a low, unmusical voice, the burden of which was, for I loved the toss and say, well met them at the door. Well, and here ye are at home again, and Philip has been Sylvia to give thee thy ciphering lesson, and he stayed a while, thinking thou'd be coming back. I'm very sorry, said Sylvia, more out of deference to her mother's tone of annoyance, than because she herself cared either for her lesson or her cousin's disappointment. He'll come again tomorrow night, ye says, but thou must take care, and mind the nights ye says he'll come, for it's a long way to come for not. Sylvia might have repeated her I'm very sorry at this announcement of Philip's intentions, but she restrained herself, inwardly and fervently hoping that Molly would not urge the fulfillment of the inspectioneer's promise for tomorrow night. Her Philip being there would spoil all, and besides, if she stayed at the dresser at her lesson, and Kin Raid at the table with her father, he might hear all and find out what a done she was. She'd need not have been afraid. But the next night Hepburn came, and Kin Raid did not. After a few words to her mother, Philip produced the candles he had promised, and some books and a quill or two. What forehast thou brought candles, as Bell, in a half a fronted tone? Hepburn smiled. Sylvia thought it would take a deal of candle-light, and was for making it into a reason not to learn. I should have used the candles if I'd stayed home, so I just brought them with me. Then thou mayst just take them back again, said Bell, shortly blowing out that which he had lightened, and placing one of her own on the dresser instead. Sylvia caught her mother's look of displeasure, and it made her docile for the evening, although she owed her husband a grudge for her enforced good behavior. Now Sylvia hears a copybook with Till Tower of London on it, and will Philip with as pretty writings as any in North Riding. Sylvia stayed quite still, unenlivened by this prospect. Here's a pen, as a nearly right of itself. Continue, Philip, trying to coax her out of her solanness of manner. Then he arranged her in the right position. Don't lay your head down on your left arm. You'll ne'er see to right straight. The attitude was changed, but not a word was spoken. Philip began to grow angry at such determined dumbness. Are you tired, Eskete, with the strained mixture of crossness and tenderness? Yes, very was her reply. But thou hast not been tired, said Bell, who had not got over the offense to her hospitality, who, moreover, liked her nephew, and had to boot a great respect for the learning she had never acquired. Mother, said Sylvia, bursting out, what's the use on my writing? A bed-nego, a bed-nego, a bed-nego, all down a page. If I could see to use on it, I had to ask Father to send me to school, but I am none wanting to have learning. It's a fine thing, though, is learning. My mother and my grandmother had it, but the family came down in the world, and Philip's mother and me, we had none of it, but I have set my heart on thy having it, child. My fingers is stiff, pleaded Sylvia, holding up her little hand and shaking it. Let's just take a turn at spelling, then, said Philip. What's to use on it, as captures Sylvia? Why, it helps one it to reading and writing. And what does reading and writing do for one? Her mother gave her another of the severe looks that quite womanish she was. She could occasionally bestow upon the refractory, and Sylvia took her book and glanced down the column Philip pointed out to her. But as she justly considered, one man might point out the task, but twenty could not make her learn it if she did not choose. And she sat herself down on the edge of the dresser, and idly gazed into the fire. But her mother came round to look for something in the drawers of the dresser, and as she passed her daughter, she said in a low voice, Sylvia, be a good lass. I set to deal a store by learning, and Father had never sent thee to school, as his drug by me sore. If Philip, sitting with his back to them, heard these words, who's discreet enough not to show that he had heard, and he had his reward, for in a very short time, Sylvia stood before him with her book in her hand, prepared to say her spelling, at which he also stood up by instinct, and listened to her slow, succeeding letters, helping crowd when she looked up him with a sweet child-like perplexity in her face. For a dunce as to book-learning poor Sylvia was, and was likely to remain, and in spite of his assumed office of school-master, Philip Hepburn could almost have echoed the words of the lover of Jess McFarlane. I sent my love a letter, but alas she cannot read, and I love her all the better. Still, he knew his aunt's strong wish on the subject, and it was very delightful to stand in the relation of teacher, to so dear and pretty, and so willful a pupil. Perhaps it was not very flattering to notice Sylvia's great joy when her lessons were over, sadly shortened as they were, by Philip's desire not to be too hard upon her. Sylvia danced round to her mother, bent her head back, and kissed her face, and then said defiantly to Philip, if ever I write thee a letter, she'll just be full of nothing but a bed-n-go, a bed-n-go, a bed-n-go. But at this moment her father came in from a distant expedition on the moors with Kester, to look after the sheep he had passed string there before the winter set fairly in. He was tired, and so was Lassie, and so too was Kester, who, lifting his heavy legs one after the other and smoothing down his hair, followed his master into the house-place, and sitting himself on a bench at the farther end of the dresser, patiently awaited the supper of porridge and milk which he shared with his master. Sylvia, meanwhile, coaxed Lassie, poor footsore dog, to her side, and gave her some food, which the creature was almost too tired to eat. Philip made as though he would be going, but Daniel motioned him to be quiet. Sit thee down, lad! Soon as I've had my victual, I want to hear but a noose. 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. Everyone 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 with drew 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, he had 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 allowed to him. Reading was no pleasure, but listening was. Besides, he had a true John Bolish interest in the war, though very well knowing what the English were fighting for. But in those days, so long as they fought the French for any cause, or 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 in the North. Philip read in a high-pitched, in a natural 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 anyone who cared to know with what labour and difficulty he had acquired the knowledge which he now prized so highly. Reading out Latin quotations as easily as if they were English, and taking pleasure in rolling polysyllables, until all at once looking a scance at Sylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her pretty rosy lips open, her eyes fast shut. In short, she was asleep. I said Farmer Robson, and to reading his almost said me off. Mother'd look angry now if I was to tell you you had a right to kiss, but when I was a young man I'd have kissed a pretty girl as I saw sleep, for you'd say Jack Robson. Philip trembled at these words and looked at his aunt. She gave him no encouragement, standing up, 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. I, alas, it's ever a good time to fall asleep when a young fellow is by. Here's Philip here as third bound to give a pair of gloves to. Sylvia went like fire. She turned to her mother to read her face. It's only father's joke, alas, said she. Philip knows manners too well. He'd better, said Sylvia, flaming ground at him. If he'd attached me, it never had 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 some in nowadays. In my time, they'd have thought not such great harm of a kiss. Good night, Philip, said Belle Robson, thinking the conversation unseemly. Good night, aunt. Good night, Sylvia. 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. Sylvia and her mother were busy with a hundred household things. 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 in one room, and to make them settle to some sedentary employment. 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 haste or bing gully 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 crunching down the bubbly 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 can raid. 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 Munch's Haven, and left Tret the Smithy there until morning to have her feet looked at and to be a new shot. On his way home from the town he had met King Raid wandering about in search of Hasterbank Farm itself. So he had just brought him along with him, and here they were, ready for bread and cheese, and odd-elf mistress would set before them. To Sylvia, the sudden change in brightness and bustle, occasioned by the entrance of her father and the Spectioneer, was like that which you may affect 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. King Raid's eyes watched her as she went backwards and forwards to and fro into the pantry, the back kitchen, out of light and to 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 gold and brown hair, rather than concealing them, and tied firm to her head by a broad blue ribbon. Long curl hung down 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 stuffed gown. How well it was, thought the young girl, that she had doffed her bed gown in Lindsay Woolsey petticoat, her working dress, and made herself smart in her stuffed gown when she sat down to work with her mother. By the time she could sit down again, her father and King Raid 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 contravences 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 into 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 her 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. If Sylvia had attempted one type of the deceit in her everyday life, it would have 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 and the high roads, when the price of this necessary was so increased by the tax upon it, as to make it inexpensive, sometimes an unattainable luxury to the working man, government did more to demoralize the popular sense of rectitude and uprightness than heads 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 strand 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, and his youth the sailor and the Greenland seas, and a kin raid, now one of the best harpooners in any whaler that said off the coast. There's three things to be feared on, said Robson, authoritatively. There's to ice, that's bad. There's dirty weather, that's worse. And there's whales themselves, as is the worst of all, least ways it was in my days. The darned brutes may have learned better mannerson. When I were young, they could never be got to let themselves be harpooned, without floundering and making play with the tails and their fins, till to say we're all in a foam, and to boat-screws we'll all over with spray. But in them latitudes is a kind of shower-bath not needed. The whales hasn't mended their manners, as you call it, said Kin Raid, but the ice is not to be spoken lightly on. I were once on the ship, John of Hull, and we were in good green water, and were keen after whales, and there I thought harm of a great grey iceberg, as were on our Lebo, a mile or so off. It looked as if it had been there from the days of Adam, and were likely to see the last man out, and it narrowed a bit bigger nor smaller in all of them thousands and thousands of years. While the fast boats were out after a fish, and I were spectationeering one, we were so keen after capturing our whale that none of us saw that we were drifting away from them right into the deep shadow of the 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. Then we took our breath and looked about us, and away from us a little space were the other boats, with two other fish making play, and as likely as not to break loose, for I may say, as I were to best harpooner on board the John, without saying great things of myself, so I says, my lads, why don't you stay in the boat by this fish? The fins of which, as I said, I'd reaved a rope through myself, and which was as dead as Noah's grandfather. And the rest of us shall go on and help the other boats with their fish, for you see we had another boat close by in order to sweep the fish. I suppose they sweat fish in your time, master. I, I said, Robson, one boat lies still, holding to end the line, to other makes the circuit round to fish. Well, luckily for us we had our second boat, for we all got into it, there a man on us was left in the fast boat, and says I, but who's to stay by to dead fish? And no man answered, for there 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, and had a boat for a boy, once we had helped our mates. So off we robed every man jack on us, out to the black shadow of the iceberg, as looked as steady as the pool store. Well, we had not been a dozen fathoms away for the boat as we had left, when crash, down with a roaring noise, and then a gulp of deep waters, and then a shower of blinding spray, and when we had wiped our eyes clear, and getting our hearts down again for our mouths, there were never a boat nor a glittering belly, or air a great whale to be seen. But the iceberg were there, still in grim, as if a hundred ton or more had fallen off all in a mass, and crushed down boat and fish and all into the deep water, as goes half through the earth in them latitudes. The coal miners, round about Newcastle Way, may come upon our good boat if they mine deep enough, else near another man will see her, and I left as good a classmate in her as ever I clapped eyes on. But what a mercenome man stayed in her, said Belle. Why, Mistress, I reckon we almost die some way, and I'd as soon go down in the deep waters as be choked up with molds. But it must be so cold, said Sylvia, shattering and giving a little poop into the fire to warm her fancy. Cold, said her father. What do ye stay at homes know about cold, I should like to know. If ye had been where we were once, north latitude eighty-one, in such a frosty ye had never known. No, not deep in winter, as it were dune in them seas. In a wailous sight, and we were off in a boat after her, and to ill mannered brute as soon as ye were harpooned, ups with her big, awkward tail, and struck a boat in her stern, and struck me out into the water. That were cold, I can tell thee. First, I smarted all over me, as if my skin were suddenly stripped off me, and next, every bone in my body had gotten too thick. And there were a great roar in my ears, and a dizziness in my eyes, and to boats crew kept throwing out their oars, and it kept clutching at them, but it could not wink out where there was. My eyes dazzled so with cold, and I thought I were bound for kingdom come. And I tried to remember to creed, as it might die a Christian, but all I could think was, What is your name? M or N? Just as I were given up both words and life, they heaved me aboard, but blessed me, they had but one oar, for they had thrown off the others after me. So you may reckon, if for some time before we could reach the ship, and I foretold, I were a precious sight to look on, for my clothes was just hard frozen to me, and my hair almost as big a lump of ice as John Iceberg he was telling us on. They rubbed me as Mrs. There were rubbing into hams yesterday, and gave me brandy, and I've never gotten to frost out of my bones for other roven, and a great deal of brandy as I have taken sin. Talk a cold, little you women know a cold. But there's heat too in some places, Sidkin rate. I was one to voyage in an American, there goes for the most part south, to where you come around to the cold again, and they'll stay there for three year at a time if need be, going into winter harbour, some of the pacific islands. Well we were in the southern seas, a-seeking for good wailing ground, and close on our lower board beam, there were a great wall of ice, as much as 60 feet high, and says our captain, as were a daredevil if ever a man were. They are all being open in young grey wall, and into that opening I'll sail, if I coast along until the day of judgment. But for all our sailing we never seem to come nearer to the opening, the waters were rocking beneath us, and the sky were steady above us, and the ice rose out at 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 upon the deck after his turn in, saw the green grey ice going straight up on our beam. Many on us thought as the ship were bewitched for the captain's words, and we got to speak low, and to say our prayers at night, and a kind of dull silence came to the very air. Our forces did not rightly seem our own, and we sailed on, and we sailed on, and all at once the man as were on watch gave a cry. He saw a break in the ice, and we'd begun to think we're everlasting, and we all gathered toward the bows. And the captain called to the 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 of the long weary rock of ice, and the sides of the cleft were not jagged, but went straight sharp down into the foaming waters. But we took but one look what lay inside for our captain, with a loud cry to God, bade the hellsmen steer norwards away from the mouth of hell. We all saw where our own eyes, inside the fearsome wall of ice, 70 miles long as we could swear to, inside that gray cold ice came leaping flames, all red and yellow, where he is some unearthly kind, are the very waters of the sea, making our eyes dazzle with their scarlet gaze, that shot up as high, nay, higher than the ice surround, yet never so much as the shred onto was melted. They did say that some beside our captain saw the black devil's dart hither and thither quicker than the very flames themselves. Anyhow, we saw them. Nassi knew it were his own daring, as it led them to have that peep of terrors forbidden to any of us before our time. He just dwindled away, and we hadn't taken but one whale before our captain died, and first mate took the command. It were a prosperous voyage, but for all that I'll never sail those seas again, nor ever take wage upon an American again. Ed, dear, but it's awful to think of sitting with a man that's seen the doorway into hell, said Belle, aghast. Sylvia had dropped her work, and that gazing it can raid with fascinated wonder. Daniel was just a little annoyed at the admiration which his own wife and daughter were bestowing on the Spectreneer's wonderful stories, and he said, Aye aye, if I'd been a talker, you'd have thought a deal more on me, nor you've ever done yet. I've seen such things, and done such things. Tell us, Father, said Sylvia, greedy and breathless. Some on them is past telling, he replied, and some is not to be had for to-asking, seeing as how they might bring a man into trouble. But, as I said, if I had a fancy to reveal all is on my mind, I could make to hair on your heads lift up your caps. Well, we'll say an inch at least. Thy mother, Lass, has heard one or two of them. Thou minds the story of my ride on the whale's back, Belle, that all may be we within this young fellow's comprehension of the danger. Thou's hear'd me tell it, hasn't thou? Yes, said Belle, but it's a long time ago, when we was courting. And that affords this young Lass were born, as is a most up to a woman's estate. But, sin those days, I have been or busy to tell stories to my wife, and as all warren she's forgotten it, and as Sylvie here near heard it, if you'll fill up your gas can rain, you shall have the benefit of it. I was special near myself, though after that, a raider directed my talents into smuggling branch of my profession, but I were once whaled and aborted to any whale of Whitby. When we was anchored off the coast of Greenland one season, and we'd gotten a cargo of seven whale, but our captain, he were keen eyed, chapped, never above doing any man's work, and once seen a whale, he throws himself into a boat and goes off to it, making signals to me and another Spictioneer, as we're off for the diversion in the other boat, for to come after him sharp. Well, after we comes alongside, captain had harpoon to fish, and says he, now rubs in already, give in to her again when she comes up to talk, and I stands, right leg foremost, harpoon already, as soon as they're ever caught to sight of with the whale, but never fin could see. For no wonder, sure right below to boat in which we were, and when she wanted to rise, what does to great ugly brute do, but come with her head, as is like cast iron, up banging against a bottom number boat. Are we thrown up into air like a shuttlecock, me and my line and my harpoon up we goes, and many a good piece of timber with us, and many a good fellow too, but I had to look after myself, and I were high up into air before I could say Jack Robinson, and I thought I were safe for another dive into salt water, but instead I comes down, plumping the back of the whale. I, you my Stairmaster, but there I were, and main and slippery at were, only a sticks my harpoon into her and steadies myself. It looks aboard or to bastard waves, and gets seasick in a manner, and puts up a prayer as she main dive, and it were as good a prayer for wishing it might come true, as if her to clergyman and to clerk to put up in a mowsaving church. Well, I reckon it were heard, for all I were in the north gladitudes, she keeps steady, and it does my best to keep steady. Indeed, I was too steady, for I was fast with the harpoon line, all knotted and tangled about me. The captain, he sings out for me to cut it, but it's easy singing out, it's done so easy, fumbling for your knife and to pocket out your drawers, when you have to hold hard with the other hand, onto the back of the whale, swim in fourteen knots an hour. At last, thanks to myself, the king get free to line, and to line is fast to the harpoon, and to harpoon is fast to the whale, and to whale may go down, fathoms deeper, whenever to mag it stirs in her head, and to water's cold and known good for drowning in, and I can't get free to line, and I cannot get my life out to the my breeches pocket, though the captain should caught mutiny to disobey orders, and to line is fast to harpoon. Let's see if to harpoon's fast to the whale. So, a tugged and a lugged, and to whale didn't mistake it for tickling, but she cocks up her tail and throws out showers of water, as were ice, or ivert it touched me, but it pulls on to shank, and I were only a fear she wouldn't keep at the top what is sticking in her, but at last to harpoon broke, and just in time, for I reckoned she was as near tired of me as I were on her, and down she went, and I had hard work to make for to boats, as was near enough to catch me. For what's with to whales being but slippery, and to water being cold, and me being hampered with to line and to piece of harpoon? It's a chance misses, as thou had stopped an old wade. I had dearer me, said Belle, how well I remember you telling me that tale. It were twenty-four years ago come October. I thought I never could think enough on a man that's rode on a whale's back. You may learn to way of win into women, said Daniel, winking at this fictioneer. And King Crate immediately looked at Sylvia. It was no premeditated action. It came as naturally as waking in the morning when his sleep was ended, but Sylvia colored as red as any rose with his sudden glance, colored so deeply that he looked away until he thought she had recovered her composure, and then he sat gazing at her again, but not for long, for Belle suddenly starting up, did all but turn him out from the house. It was late, she said, and her master was tired, and they had a hard day before them next day, and it was keeping Ellen corny up, and they had had enough to drink. More than was good for them, she was sure, if they had both been taking her in with their stories, which she had been foolish enough to believe. No one saw the real motive of all this almost in his biddable haste to dismiss her guest, how the sudden fear had taken possession of her that he and Sylvia were fancying each other. King Crate had said early in the evening that he had come to thank her for her kindness and sending sausages, as he was off to his own home near a new castle in a day or two. But now he said, and replied to Daniel Robson, that he would step in another night before long and hear some more of the old man's yarns. Daniel had just had enough drink to make him very good tempered, or else his wife would not have dared to have acted as she did, and this modlin immobility took the shape of a spittable urgency that King Rage should come as often as he liked to haste her bank, come and make it his home when he was in these parts, stay there all together and so on, till Belle fairly shut the outer door to and locked it before the specter near her head well got out of the shadows of their roof. All night long Sylvia dreamed of burning volcanoes springing out of icy southern seas. But as in the Spectreneer's tale, the flames were peopled with demons, and there was no human interest for her in the wondrous scene in which she was no actor, only a spectator. With daylight came wakening in little homely everyday wonders. Did King Rage mean that he was going away and entirely, or did he not? Was he Molly Corney sweetheart, or was he not? When she had argued herself into certainty on one side, she suddenly wheeled about and was just of the opposite opinion. At length she settled that it could not be settled until she saw Molly again, so by a strong gulping effort, she was outly determined to think no more about him, only about the marvels he had told. She might think a little about them when she sat at night, spinning in silence by the household fire, or when she went out in the gloaming to call the cattle home to be milked and sauntered back behind the patient slogated creatures. And at times on future summer days when, as in the past, she took her knitting out for the sake of the freshness of the fancy breeze and dropping down from ledge to ledge of the rocks that faced the blue ocean, established herself in a perilous nook that had been her hunt ever since her parents had come to haste her bank farm. From thence she had often seen the distant ships pass to and fro with a certain sort of lazy pleasure in watching their swift tranquility of motion, but no thought as to where they were bound to, or what strange places they would penetrate to before they turned again, homeward bound. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Amanda Martins on the Hill Chapter 10 of Sylvia's Lovers This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer. Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Kate Mackenzie Sylvia's Lovers by Elizabeth Gaskell Chapter 10 A Refractory Pupil Sylvia was still full of the spectre near and his stories when Hepburn came up to give her the next lesson. But the prospect of a little sensible commendation for writing a whole page full of flourishing Abednegos had lost all the slight charm it had ever possessed. She was much more inclined to try and elicit some sympathy in her interest in the perils and adventures of the Northern Seas than to bend and control her mind to the right formation of letters. Unwise enough, she endeavoured to repeat one of the narratives that she had heard from Kinraid, and when she found that Hepburn, if indeed he did not look upon the whole as a silly invention, considered it only as an interruption to the real business in hand to which he would try to listen as patiently as he could in the hope of Sylvia's applying herself diligently to her copy book when she had cleared her mind. She contracted her pretty lips as if to check them from making any further appeals for sympathy and set about her writing lesson in a very rebellious frame of mind only restrained by her mother's presence from after all, said she, throwing down her pen and opening and shutting her weary cramped hand, I see no good in tiring myself with learning for it right letters when I's never got one in all my life. What thought should I write answers when there's never a one rights to me? And if I add one, I couldn't read it. It's bad enough where a book of printers I've never seen a four for the sure to be newfangled words in. I'm sure I wish the man were farred who plagued his brains with striking out new words like our folks just have sat on them for good and all. Why, you'll be after using two or three hundred you sell every day as you live silver and yet I must use a great many as you never think on about shop but folks in fields want my asset let alone the I English that Parsons and lawyers speak. Well, it's weary work he's been writing. Can't you learn me something else if we're under lessons? There's sums and geography, said Hepburn slowly and gravely. Geography, said Sylvia Brightening and perhaps not pronouncing the word quite correctly. I'd like you to learn me geography. There's a deal of places I want to hear all about. Well, I'll bring up a book on that next time. But I can tell you something now. There's four quarters in the globe. What's that? asked Sylvia. The globe is the earth the place we live on. Go on. At which quarters Greenland? Greenland is no quarter it is only a part of one. Maybe it's half quarter. No, not so much as that. Half again. No, he replied smiling a little. She thought he was making it into a very small place in order to tease her. So she pouted a little and then said, Greenland is alt geography I want to know. Except perhaps York. I'd like to learn about York because it races and London because King George lives there. But if you learn geography at all you must learn about all places which of them is hot and which is cold and how many inhabitants is in each and what's the rivers and which is the principal towns. I'm sure Sylvia, Philip will learn the all that but be such a sight of knowledge as nearer one at Preston's has been since my great-grandfather lost his property. I should be main proud of thee to seem as if we was Preston's a slave home once more. I'd do a deal to please you, mammy. But where I prefer riches and land if folks that as them is to write Abed-nagles by its core and to get out words in their brains till they work like barmen and with cracking them. This seemed to be Sylvia's last protest against learning for the night and after this she turned docile and really took pains to understand all that Philip could teach her by means of the not unskillful though rude map which he drew for her with a piece of charred wood on his aunt's dresser. He had asked his aunt's leaf before beginning what Sylvia called his dirty work. But by and by even she became a little interested in starting from a great black spot called Monkshaven and in the shaping of land and sea around that one centre. Sylvia held her round chin in the palms of her hands supporting her elbows on the dresser looking down at the progress of the rough drawing in general but now and then glancing up at him with sudden inquiry. All along he was not so much absorbed in his teaching as to be unconscious of her sweet proximity. She was in her best mood towards him neither mutinous nor saucy and he was striving with all his might to retain her interest speaking better than ever he had done before. Such brightness did love call forth. Understanding what she would care to hear and to know when, in the middle of an attempt at explaining the cause of the long polar days of which she had heard from her childhood, he felt that her attention was no longer his that a discord had come in between their minds that she had passed out of his power. This certainty of intuition lasted but for an instant he had no time to wonder or to speculate as to what had affected her so adversely to his wishes before the door opened and Kim Raid came in. Then Hepburn knew that she must have heard his coming footsteps and recognized them. He angrily stiffened himself up into coldness of demeanour. Almost to his surprise Sylvia's greeting to the newcomer was as cold as his own. She stood rather behind him so perhaps she did not see the hand which Kim Raid stretched out towards her for she did not place her own little palm in it as she had done to Philip an hour ago. And she hardly spoke, but began to pour over the rough black map as if seized with strong geographical curiosity or determined to impress Philip's lesson deep on her memory. Still Philip was dismayed by seeing the warm welcome which Kim Raid received from the master of the house who came in from the back premises almost at the same time as the spectioneer entered at the front. Hepburn was uneasy too at finding Kim Raid take his seat by the fireside like one accustomed to the ways of the house. Pipes were soon produced Philip disliked smoking. Possibly Kim Raid did so too but he took a pipe at any rate and lighted it though he hardly used it at all but kept talking to Farmer Robson on sea affairs. He had the conversation pretty much to himself. Philip sat gloomily by Sylvia and his aunt were silent and old Robson smoked his long clay pipe from time to time taking it out of his mouth to spit into the bright copper spittoon and to shake the white ashes out of the bowl. Before he replaced it he would give a short laugh of a relishing interest in Kim Raid's conversation and now and then he put in a remark. Sylvia perched herself sideways on the end of the dresser and made pretence to so but Philip could see how often she paused in her work to listen. By and by his aunt spoke to him and they kept up a little side conversation more because Bell Robson felt that her nephew her own flesh and blood was put out and for any special interest they either of them felt in what they were saying. Perhaps also they neither of them disliked showing that they had no great faith in the stories Kim Raid was telling. Mrs. Robson at any rate knew so little as to be afraid of believing too much. Philip was sitting on that side of the fire which was nearest to the window and to Sylvia and opposite to the spectre near. At length he turned to his cousin and said in a low voice I suppose we can't go on with our spelt geography till that fellow's gone. The colour came into Sylvia's cheek at the words that fellow but she only replied with a careless air well I'm wonderstink enough as as good as a feast and I've had enough of geography this one night and thank you kindly all the same. Philip took refuge in offended silence. He was maliciously pleased when his aunt made so much noise with a preparation for supper as quite to prevent the sound of the sailor's words from reaching Sylvia's ears. She saw that he was glad to perceive that her efforts to reach the remainder of the story were bulked. This netled her and determined not to let him have his malicious triumph and still more to put a stop to any attempt at private conversation. She began to sing to herself as she sat at her work till suddenly seized with a desire to help her mother. She dexterously slipped down from her seat past Hepburn and was on her knees toasting cakes right in front of the fire and just close to her father and Kinraid. And now the noise that Hepburn had so rejoiced improved his foe. He could not hear the little merry speeches that darted backwards and forwards as the speck she neared tried to take the toasting fork out of Sylvia's hand. How comes that sailor chap here? asked Hepburn of his aunt. He's not fit to be where Sylvia is. Nay, I don't know, said she. The ghorn is made as a coin at first and my master is quite a fan of his company. And you like him too, aunt? asked Hepburn almost wistfully. He had followed Mrs. Robson into the dairy and pretends of helping her. I'm non-fonding him. I think he tells us traveller's tales by way of seeing how much we can swallow, but the master and Sylvia think that they never wore such a one. I could show them a score as good as he, down on Keeside. Well, laddie, keep a calm soft. Some folk like some folk and others don't. Wherever I am, they'll always be a welcome for thee. For the good woman thought that he had been hurt by the evident absorption of her husband and daughter with their new friend and wished to make all easy and straight. But do what she would. He did not recover his temper all evening. He was uncomfortable, put out, not enjoying himself, and yet he would not go. He was determined to assert his greater intimacy in that house by outstaying Kinraid. At length the latter got up to go, but before he went he must needs bend over Sylvia and say something to her in so lower tone that Philip could not hear it. And she, seized with a sudden fit of diligence, never looked up from her sewing, only nodded her head by way of reply. At last he took his departure after many a little delay and many a quick return, which to the suspicious Philip seemed only pretenses for taking stolen glances at Sylvia. As soon as he was decidedly gone she folded up her work and declared that she was so much tired that she must go to bed there and then. Her mother, too, had been dozing for the last half hour and was only too glab to see signs that she might but take herself to her natural place of stumber. Take another glass, Philip," said Farmer Robson. But Hepburn refused the offer rather abruptly. He drew near to Sylvia instead. He wanted to make her speak to him and he saw that she wished to avoid it. He took up the readiest pretext. It was an unwise one, as it proved, for it deprived him of his chances of occasionally obtaining her undivided attention. I don't think you care much for learning geography, Sylvia. Not much tonight," said she, making her pretence to yawn, yet looking timidly up at his countenance of displeasure. Nor at any time," said he with growing anger, not for any kind of learning. I did bring some books last time I came, meaning to teach you many a thing. But now I'll just trouble you for my books. I put them on your shelf by the Bible. He had a mind that she should bring them to him, that at any rate he should have the pleasure of receiving them out of her hands. Sylvia did not reply, but went and took down the books with a languid, indifferent air. And so you won't learn any more geography," said Hepburn. Something in his tone struck her, and she looked up in his face. There were marks of stern offence upon his countenance, and yet in it there was also an air of wistful regret and sadness that touched her. You never angry with me, Philip? Sooner them vex you I'll try and learn. Only I'm just stupid, and there won't be such a trouble to you. Hepburn could feign of snatched at this half-reposal that the lessons should be continued, but he was too stubborn and proud to say anything. He turned away from the sweet pleading face without a word, to wrap up his books in a piece of paper. He knew that she was standing quite still by his side, though he made as if he did not perceive her. When he had done, he abruptly wished them all good night, and took his leave. There were tears in Sylvia's eyes, although the feeling in her heart was rather one of relief. She had made a fair offer, and it had been treated with silent contempt. A few days afterwards, her father came in from Munchshaven Market, and dropped out, among other pieces of news, that he had met King Raid, who was bound for his own Roman colour-coats. He had desired his respects to Mrs. Robson and her daughter, and had bid Robson say that he would have come up to hate his bank to wish them good-bye, but that as he was pressed for time he hoped they would excuse him. But Robson did not think it was wild to give this long message of mere politeness. Indeed, as it did not relate to business, and was only sent to women, Robson forgot all about it, pretty nearly as soon as it was uttered. So Sylvia went about fretting herself for one or two days, at her hero's apparent carelessness of those who had at any rate treated him more like a friend than an acquaintance of only a few weeks standing, and then, her anger quenching her incipient regard, she went about her daily business pretty much as though he had never been. He had gone away out of her sight into the thick mist of unseen life from which he had emerged, gone away without a word, and she might never see him again. But still there was a chance of her seeing him when he came to marry Molly Corny. Perhaps she should be bridesmaid, and then what a pleasant merry time the wedding day would be! The Corny's were all such kind people, and in their family there never seemed to be the checks and restraints by which her own mother hedged her round. Then there came an overwhelming self-approaching burst of love for that own mother, a humiliation before her slightest wish as penance for the moments since spoken treason, and thus Sylvia was led to request her cousin Philip to resume his lessons in so meek a manner that he slowly and graciously acceded to a request which he was yearning to fulfil all the time. During the ensuing winter, all went on in monotonous regularity at Hatersbank Farm for many weeks. Hepburn came and went, and thought Sylvia wonderfully improved in docility and sobriety, and perhaps also he noticed the improvement in her appearance. For she was at that age when a girl changes rapidly, and generally for the better. Sylvia shot up into a tall young woman, her eyes deepened in colour, her face increased in expression, and a sort of consciousness of unusual looks gave her a slight tinge of coquettish shyness with a few strangers whom she ever saw. Philip hailed her interest in geography as another sign of improvement. He had brought back his book of maps to the farm, and there he sat on many an evening teaching his cousin, who had strange fancies respecting the places about which she wished to learn, and was coolly indifferent to the very existence of other towns and countries and seas, far more famous in story. She was occasionally willful, and at times very contemptuous as to the superior knowledge of her instructor. But in spite of it all, Philip went regularly on the appointed evenings to haters' bank, through keen black east wind, or driving snow, or slushing thaw. For he liked dearly to sit a little behind her, with his arm on the back of her chair, she stooping over the outspread map with her eyes, could have seen them, a good deal fixed on one spot in the map, not Northumberland, where Kinraid was spending the winter, but those wild northern seas about which he had told them such wonders. One day towards spring, she saw Molly Corny coming towards the farm. The companions had not met for many weeks, for Molly had been from home visiting her relations in the North. Sylvia opened the door, and stood smiling and shivering on the threshold, glad to see her friend again. Molly called out when a few paces off. Why, Sylvie, is that thee? Why? How's that grod to be sure? What a bonny lass though is! Did I talk wrongsons to my lass? said Belle Robson, her spittably leaving a rhyoning and coming to the door. But though the mother tried to look as if she thought it nonsense, she could hardly keep down the smile that shone out of her eyes, as she put her hand on Sylvia's shoulder, with a fond sense of proprietorship in what was being praised. Oh, but she is! persisted Molly. She's grown quite a beauty, senesora, and if I don't tell her so, the men will. Be quiet with thee, said Sylvia, more than half offended, and turning away in a huff at the open, bare-faced admiration. Ah, but they will! persevered Molly. You'll not keep along, Mistress Robson, and as mother says, you'd feel it a deal more to have your daughters left unarmed. Thy mother as many. I have but this one, said Mrs. Robson with severe sadness, for now Molly was getting to talk as she disliked. But Molly's purpose was to bring the conversation round to her own affairs, of which she was very full. Yes, I tell mother that with so many as she has, she ought to be thankful to one as gets off quickest. You, which is it? asked Sylvia a little eagerly, seeing that there was news of a wedding behind the talk. Why, you should it be but me? said Molly, laughing a good deal and reddening a little. I have not gone for own for naught. As picked up by Mr. and me travels least ways one has is to be. Charlie Kinraid, said Sylvia smiling, as she found that now she met reveal Molly's secret, which hitherto she had kept sacred. Charlie Kinraid be young, said Molly with a toss of her head. One got an husband who's at sea half a year. Me master's a canny new castle shopkeeper on side. I reckon I've done pretty well for myself, and I'll wish you as good luck Sylvia, for you see. Turning to Belle Robson who perhaps she thought would more appreciate the substantial advantages of her engagement than Sylvia. Though Mr. Brunson is as near upon 40 if he's a day, yet he turns over a matter of two hundred pound every year, and he's a good looking man of his years too, and a kind good tempered fellow at bargain. He's been married once to be sure, but his children are dead except one, and I don't mislike children either, and I'll feed him well, and I'll get him to bed early, out at road. Mrs. Robson gave her grave good wishes, but Sylvia was silent. She was disappointed. It was a coming down from the romance with a spectre near for its hero. Molly laughed awkwardly, understanding Sylvia's thoughts better than the latter imagined. Sylvia's known so well, pleased. Why, lass, it's a better for thee. There's Charlie to it for now, for which if I had married him, he'd not been, and he said more no once what a pretty lass you'd grow into by and by. Molly's prosperity was giving her an independence and fearlessness of talks such as had seldom appeared hitherto, and certainly never before, Mrs. Robson. Sylvia was annoyed at Molly's whole tone and manner, which were loud, laughing, and boisterous, but to her mother they were positively repugnant, she said, shortly and gravely. Sylvia's none so set upon matrimony. She's content to bide with me and her father, but to be such talking, it's not on me way. Molly was a little subdued, but still her elation at the prospect of being so well married kept cropping out of all the other subjects which were introduced, and, when she went away, Mrs. Robson broke out in an unwanted strain of depreciation. That's the way with some lasses, they're like a cock on her dung hill, when they've teased a silly chap into wedding him. It's cock-a-doodle-doo, I've got your husband. Cock-a-doodle-doo him. I've no patience with such like. I beg Sylvia, thou art not get too thick with Molly. She's not pretty beaved making such an adieu about mankind, as if they were two-headed calves to be run after. But Molly's a good-hearted lass, Molly, only I never dreamt, but what she was trough-plighted with Charlie Kinraid, said Sylvia, meditatively. That wench'll be trough-plighted at first man as all wedder and keeper of plenty, that's all she thinks about, replied Bell scornfully.