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 irreproachable 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-scented-leaved geranium 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 aught he knew, he might be prosecuted for making a will without a licence, 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 would cost me five pounds sterling; and thee canst 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 of 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 art thee doing there?’ asked Alice, suddenly alive to his proceedings.
Without a word he showed her his handiwork.
‘It's a vanity,’ said she, ‘and ‘t may make t' will not stand. Folk may think I were na' in my right mind, if they see such fly-legs and cobwebs a-top. Write, “This is my doing, William Coulson, and none of Alice Rose's, she being in her sound mind.”’
‘I don't think it's needed,’ said William. Nevertheless he wrote down the words.
‘Hast thee put that I'm in my sound mind and seven senses? Then make the sign of the Trinity, and write, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” ’
‘Is that the right way o' beginning a will?’ said Coulson, a little startled.
‘My father, and my father's father, and my husband had it a-top of theirs, and I'm noane going for to cease fra' following after them, for they were godly men, though my husband were o' t' episcopal persuasion.’
‘It's done,’ said William.
‘Hast thee dated it?’ asked Alice.
‘Nay.’
‘Then date it third day, ninth month. Now, art ready?’
Coulson nodded.
‘I, Alice Rose, do leave my furniture (that is, my bed and chest o' drawers, for thy 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 safe for her to have all, is 't not, William?’
‘I think so, too,’ said he, writing on all the time.
‘And thee shalt have t' roller and paste-board, because thee's so fond o' puddings and cakes. It'll serve thy wife after I'm gone, and I trust she'll boil her paste4 long enough, for that's been t' secret o' mine, and thee'll noane be so easy t' please.’
‘I din't reckon on marriage,’ said William.
‘Thee'll marry,’ said Alice. ‘Thee likes to have thy victuals hot and comfortable; and there's noane many but a wife as'll look after that for t' 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 she had put on the better to think about the disposal of her property.
‘Thee art thinking on our Hester,’ said she, plainly out.
He started a little, but looked up at her and met her eye.
‘Hester cares noane for me,’ said he, dejectedly.
‘Bide a 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 hitherto, and I think He'll bring it t' pass. But don't thee let on as thee cares for her so much. I sometimes think she wearies o' thy looks and thy ways. Show up thy manly heart, and make as though thee 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 mend thy pen for a fresh start. I give and bequeath—did thee put “give and bequeath”, at th' beginning?’
‘Nay,’ said William, looking back. ‘Thee didst not tell me “give and bequeath”!’
‘Then it won't be legal, and my bit o' furniture 'll be taken to London, and put into chancery, and Hester will have noane 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. Hast thee done it? Then now start afresh. I give and bequeath my book o' sermons, as is bound in good calfskin, and lies on the third shelf o' corner cupboard at the right hand o' t' fire-place, to Philip Hepburn; for I reckon he's as fond o' reading sermons as thee art o' light, well-boiled paste, and I'd be glad for each on ye to have somewhat ye like for to remember me by. Is that down? There; now for my cousins John and Jeremiah. They are rich i' world's gear, but they'll prize what I leave ‘em if I could only onbethink me what they would like. Hearken! Is na' that our Hester's step? Put it away, quick! I'm noane for grieving her wi' telling her what I've been about. We'll take a turn at t' will next First Day;5 it will serve us for several Sabbaths to come, and maybe I can think on something as will suit cousin John and cousin Jeremiah afore then.’
Hester, 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.
Hester came in briskly, with the little stock of enforced cheerfulness she had stopped at the door to acquire. But it faded away along with the faint flush of colour in her cheeks; and the mother's quick eye immediately noted the wan heavy look of care.
‘I have kept t' pot in t' oven; it'll have a'most got a' t' goodness out of t' tea by now, for it'll be an hour since I made it. Poor lass, thou look'st as if thou needed a good cup o' tea. It were dree work sitting wi' Betsy Darley, were it? And how does she look on her affliction?’
‘She takes it sore to heart,’ said Hester, taking off her hat, and folding and smoothing away her cloak, before putting them in the great oak chest (or ‘ark‘, 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. Then she took a creepie-stool and sate down on the side of the fire-place, 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 of 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 saucers were already set for four, and a lar
ge plate of bread and butter cut. Then they sate round the table, bowed 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 in to 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 aunt's at Haytersbank. I met him at t' top o' t' Brow, with his cousin and Molly Corney.’
‘He's a deal there,’ said William.
‘Yes,’ said Hester. ‘It's likely; him and his aunt come from Carlisle-way, and must needs cling together in these strange parts.’
‘I saw him at the burying of yon Darley,’ said William.
‘It were a vast o' people went past th' entry end,’ said Alice. ‘It were a'most like election time; I were just come back fra' meeting when they were all going up th' church steps. I met yon sailor 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 t' time I was back here and settled to my Bible, t' folk were returning, and it were tramp, tramp, past th' entry end for better nor a quarter of an hour.’
‘They say Kinraid has getten slugs and gun-shot in his side,’ said Hester.
‘He's niver one Charley Kinraid, for sure, as I knowed at Newcastle,’ said William Coulson, roused to sudden and energetic curiosity.
‘I don't know,’ replied Hester; ‘they call him just Kinraid; and Betsy Darley says he's t' most daring specksioneer of all that go off this coast to t' Greenland seas. But he's been in Newcastle, for I mind me she said her poor brother met with him there.’
‘How didst thee come to know him?’ inquired Alice.
‘I cannot abide him if it is Charley,’ said William. ‘He kept company with my poor sister as is dead for better nor two year, and then he left off coming to see her and went wi' another girl, and it just broke her heart.’
‘He don't look now as if he iver could play at that game again,’ said Alice; ‘he has had a warning fra' the Lord. Whether it be a call no one can tell. But to my eyne he looks as if he had been called, and was going.’
‘Then he'll meet my sister,’ said William, solemnly; ‘and I hope the Lord will make it clear to him, then, how he killed her, as sure as he shot down yon sailors; an' if there's a gnashing o' teeth6 for murder i' that other place, I reckon he'll have his share on't. He's a bad man yon.’
‘Betsy said he were such a friend to her brother as niver was; and he's 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 household was nine o'clock, and it was but ten minutes past the hour; but Alice looked displeased and stern.
‘Thee art late, lad,’ said she, shortly.
‘I'm sorry; it's a long way from my uncle's, 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 nought about thy uncle's, but thee art late. Take thy candle, and begone.’
If Alice made any reply to Philip's ‘good-night’, he did not hear it.
CHAPTER VIII
Attraction and Repulsion
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, pared up on the distant moors, and 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 dear in those parts; even for thatching, heather (or rather ling) was used. Then there was meat to salt while it could be had; for, in default of turnips and mangold-wurzel,1 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 in pickle before Martinmas was over. Corn 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 the 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 last autumn cleaning, and was neat and bright from top to bottom, from one end to another. The turf was led;2 the coal carted up from Monkshaven; the wood stored; the corn ground; the pig killed, and the hams and head and hands lying in salt. 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 Haytersbank pantry; and as Bell surveyed it one morning, she said to her husband—
‘I wonder if yon poor sick chap at Moss Brow would fancy some o' my sausages. They're something to crack on,3 for they are made fra' an old Cumberland receipt,4 as is not known i' Yorkshire yet.’
‘Thou's allays so set upo' Cumberland ways!' said her husband, not displeased with the suggestion, however. ‘Still, when folk's sick they han their fancies, and maybe Kinraid 'll be glad o' thy sausages. I ha' known sick folk tak' t' eating 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 offer to accompany her father; but, somehow, she did not like to propose it. Towards dusk 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 yo' want my keys?’ asked Bell.
‘Only just to get out one of t' damask napkins.’
‘The best napkins, as my mother span?’
‘Yes!’ said Sylvia, her colour heightening. ‘I thought as how it would set off t' sausages.’
‘A 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, not to be looked at like a picture-book. She might have wondered still more, if she had seen Sylvia steal round to the little flower border she had persuaded Kester to make under the wall at the sunny side of the house, and gather the two or three Michaelmas daisies, 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 open the cloth inside of 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 (tea was a Sunday treat), he prepared to set out on his walk to Moss Brow; but as he was taking his stick he caught the look on Sylvia's face, and unconsciously interpreted its dumb wistfulness.
‘Missus,’ said he, ‘t' wench has nought more t' do, has she? She may as well put on her cloak and step down wi' me, and see Molly a bit; she'll be company like.’
Bell considered.
‘There's t' yarn for thy stockings as is yet to spin; but she can go, for I'll do a bit at 't mysel', and there's nought else agate.’
‘Put on thy 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 latter, bright and blushing.
‘Thou should'st na' ha' put o
n thy new cloak for a night walk to Moss Brow,’ said Bell, shaking her head.
‘Shall I go take it off, and put on my shawl?’ asked Sylvia, a little dolefully.
‘Na, na, come along! a'm noane goin' for t' wait o' women's chops and changes. Come along; come, Lassie!’ (this last to his dog).
So Sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, that had to be restrained to the sober gait her father chose. The sky above was bright and clear with the light of a thousand stars, the grass was crisping under their feet with the coming hoar frost; 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 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 movement; Lassie's pattering—all lulled Sylvia into a reverie, of which she could not have given herself any definite account. But at length they arrived at Moss Brow, and with a sudden sigh she quitted the subjects of her dreamy 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 after the words of this were spoken, the next rose up equally naturally in the mind of Mrs Corney.
‘And what will ye tak'? Eh! but t' measter 'll be fine and vexed at your comin' when he's away. He's off to Horncastle t' sell some colts, and he'll not be back till to-morrow's neet. But here's Charley Kinraid as we've getten to nurse up a bit, an' t' lads '11 be back fra' Monkshaven in a crack o' no time.’