As it was, however, the facts to him were simply these. He was going and she was going. The day before, he had hurried off to Haytersbank Farm with a small paper parcel in his pocket—a ribbon with a little briar-rose pattern running upon it for Sylvia. It was the first thing he had ever ventured to give her—the first thing of the kind would, perhaps, be more accurate; for when he had first begun to teach her any lessons, he had given her Mavor's Spelling-book,2 but that he might have done, out of zeal for knowledge, to any dunce of a little girl of his acquaintance. This ribbon was quite a different kind of present; he touched it tenderly, as if he were caressing it, when he thought of her wearing it; the briar-rose (sweetness and thorns) seemed to be the very flower for her; the soft, green ground on which the pink and brown pattern ran, was just the colour to show off her complexion. And she would in a way belong to him: her cousin, her mentor, her chaperon, her lover! While others only admired, he might hope to appropriate; for of late they had been such happy friends! Her mother approved of him, her father liked him. A few months, perhaps only a few weeks more of self-restraint, and then he might go and speak openly of his wishes, and what he had to offer. For he had resolved, with the quiet force of his character, to wait until all was finally settled between him and his masters, before he declared himself to either Sylvia or her parents. The interval was spent in patient, silent endeavours to recommend himself to her.
He had to give his ribbon to his aunt in charge for Sylvia, and that was a disappointment to his fancy, although he tried to reason himself into thinking that it was better so. He had not time to wait for her return from some errand on which she had gone, for he was daily more and more occupied with the affairs of the shop.
Sylvia made many a promise to her mother, and more to herself, that she would not stay late at the party, but she might go as early as she liked; and before the December daylight had faded away, Sylvia presented herself at the Corneys’. She was to come early in order to help to set out the supper, which was arranged in the large old flagged parlour, which served as best bed-room as well. It opened out of the house-place, and was the sacred room of the house, as chambers of a similar description are still considered in retired farmhouses in the north of England. They are used on occasions like the one now described for purposes of hospitality; but in the state bed, overshadowing so large a portion of the floor, the births, and, as far as may be, the deaths, of the household take place. At the Corneys', the united efforts of some former generation of the family had produced patchwork curtains and coverlet; and patchwork was patchwork in those days, before the early Yates and Peels had found out the secret of printing the parsley-leaf. Scraps of costly Indian chintzes and palempours3 were intermixed with commoner black and red calico in minute hexagons; and the variety of patterns served for the useful purpose of promoting conversation as well as the more obvious one of displaying the work-woman's taste. Sylvia, for instance, began at once to her old friend, Molly Brunton, who had accompanied her into this chamber to take off her hat and cloak, with a remark on one of the chintzes. Stooping over the counterpane, with a face into which the flush would come whether or no, she said to Molly,—
‘Dear! I never seed this one afore—this—for all t' world like th' eyes in a peacock's tail.’
‘Thou's seen it many a time and oft, lass. But weren't thou surprised to find Charley here? We picked him up at Shields, quite by surprise like; and when Brunton and me said as we was comin' here, nought would serve him but comin' with us, for t' see t' new year in. It's a pity as your mother's ta'en this time for t' fall ill and want yo' back so early.’
Sylvia had taken off her hat and cloak by this time, and began to help Molly and a younger unmarried sister in laying out the substantial supper.
‘Here,’ continued Mrs Brunton; ‘stick a bit o' holly i' yon pig's mouth, that's the way we do things i' Newcassel; but folks is so behindhand in Monkshaven. It's a fine thing to live in a large town, Sylvia; an' if yo're looking out for a husband, I'd advise yo' to tak' one as lives in a town. I feel as if I were buried alive comin' back here, such an out-o‘-t‘-way place after t' Side, wheere there's many a hundred carts and carriages goes past in a day. I've a great mind for t' tak yo' two lassies back wi' me, and let yo' see a bit o' t' world; may-be, I may yet.’
Her sister Bessy looked much pleased with this plan, but Sylvia was rather inclined to take offence at Molly's patronizing ways, and replied,—
‘I'm none so fond o' noise and bustle; why, yo'll not be able to hear yoursels speak wi' all them carts and carriages. I'd rayther bide at home; let alone that mother can't spare me.’
It was, perhaps, a rather ungracious way of answering Molly Brunton's speech, and so she felt it to be, although her invitation had been none of the most courteously worded. She irritated Sylvia still further by repeating her last words,—
‘ “other can't spare me;” why, mother 'll have to spare thee sometime, when t' time for wedding comes.’
‘I'm none going to be wed,’ said Sylvia; ‘and if I were, I'd niver go far fra' mother.’
‘Eh! what a spoilt darling it is. How Brunton will laugh when I tell him about yo’; Brunton's a rare one for laughin‘. It's a great thing to have got such a merry man for a husband. Why! he has his joke for every one as comes into t' shop; and he'll ha' somethin' funny to say to everything this evenin'.’
Bessy saw that Sylvia was annoyed, and, with more delicacy than her sister, she tried to turn the conversation.
‘That's a pretty ribbon in thy hair, Sylvia; I'd like to have one o' t' same pattern. Feyther likes pickled walnuts stuck about t' round o' beef, Molly.’
‘I know what I'm about,’ replied Mrs Brunton, with a toss of her married head.
Bessy resumed her inquiry.
‘Is there any more to be had wheere that come fra‘, Sylvia?’
‘I don't know,’ replied Sylvia. ‘It come fra' Foster's, and yo' can ask.’
‘What might it cost?’ said Bessy, fingering an end of it to test its quality.
‘I can't tell,’ said Sylvia, ‘it were a present.’
‘Niver mak' ado about t' price,’ said Molly; ‘I'll gi'e thee enough on 't to tie up thy hair, just like Sylvia's. Only thou hastn't such wealth o' curls as she has; it'll niver look t' same i' thy straight locks. And who might it be as give it thee, Sylvia?’ asked the unscrupulous, if good-natured Molly.
‘My cousin Philip, him as is shopman at Foster's,’ said Sylvia, innocently. But it was far too good an opportunity for the exercise of Molly's kind of wit for her to pass over.
‘Oh, oh! our cousin Philip, is it? and he'll not be living so far away from your mother? I've no need be a witch to put two and two together. He's a coming here to-night, isn't he, Bessy?’
‘I wish yo' wouldn't talk so, Molly,’ said Sylvia; ‘me and Philip is good enough friends, but we niver think on each other in that way; leastways, I don't—’
‘(Sweet butter! now that's my mother's old-fashioned way; as if folks must eat sweet butter now-a-days, because her mother did!) That way,’ continued Molly, in the manner that annoyed Sylvia so much, repeating her words as if for the purpose of laughing at them. ‘ “That way?” and pray what is t' way yo're speaking on? I niver said nought about marrying, did I, that yo' need look so red and shamefaced about yo'r cousin Philip? But, as Brunton says, if t' cap fits yo’, put it on. I'm glad he's comin' to-night tho’, for as I'm done makin' love and courtin’, it's next best t' watch other folks; an' yo'r face, Sylvia, has letten me into a secret, as I'd some glimpses on afore I was wed.’
Sylvia secretly determined not to speak a word more to Philip than she could help, and wondered how she could ever have liked Molly at all, much less have made a companion of her. The table was now laid out, and nothing remained but to criticize the arrangement a little.
Bessy was full of admiration.
‘Theere, Molly!’ said she. ‘Yo' niver seed more vittle brought together i' Newcassel, I'll be bound; there'll be above h
alf a hundredweight o' butcher's meat, beside pies and custards. I've eaten no dinner these two days for thinking on ‘t; it's been a weary burden on my mind, but it's off now I see how well it looks. I told mother not to come near it till we'd spread it all out, and now I'll go fetch her.’
Bessy ran off into the house-place.
‘It's well enough in a country kind o' way,’ said Molly, with the faint approbation of condescension. ‘But if I'd thought on, I'd ha' brought ‘em down a beast or two done i' sponge-cake, wi' currants for his eyes to give t' table an air.’
The door was opened, and Bessy came in smiling and blushing with proud pleasure. Her mother followed her on tip-toe, smoothing down her apron, and with her voice subdued to a whisper:—
‘Ay, my lass, it is fine! But dunnot mak' an ado about it, let ‘em think it's just our common way. If any one says aught about how good t' vittle is, tak' it calm, and say we‘n better i' t' house,—it'll mak' ‘em eat wi' a better appetite, and think the more on us. Sylvie, I'm much beholden t' ye for comin' so early, and helpin' t' lasses, but yo' mun come in t' house-place now, t' folks is gatherin‘, an' yo'r cousin's been asking after yo' a'ready.’
Molly gave her a nudge, which made Sylvia's face go all aflame with angry embarrassment. She was conscious that the watching which Molly had threatened her with began directly; for Molly went up to her husband, and whispered something to him which set him off in a chuckling laugh, and Sylvia was aware that his eyes followed her about with knowing looks all the evening. She would hardly speak to Philip, and pretended not to see his outstretched hand, but passed on to the chimney-corner, and tried to shelter herself behind the broad back of farmer Corney, who had no notion of relinquishing his customary place for all the young people who ever came to the house, or for any old people either, for that matter. It was his household throne, and there he sat with no more idea of abdicating in favour of any comer than King George at St James's. But he was glad to see his friends; and had paid them the unwonted compliment of shaving on a week-day, and putting on his Sunday coat. The united efforts of wife and children had failed to persuade him to make any farther change in his attire; to all their arguments on this head he had replied,—
‘Them as doesn't like t' see me i' my work-a-day wescut and breeches may bide away.’
It was the longest sentence he said that day, but he repeated it several times over. He was glad enough to see all the young people, but they were not ‘of his kidney‘, as he expressed it to himself, and he did not feel any call upon himself to entertain them. He left that to his bustling wife, all smartness and smiles, and to his daughters and son-in-law. His efforts at hospitality consisted in sitting still, smoking his pipe; when any one came, he took it out of his mouth for an instant, and nodded his head in a cheerful friendly way, without a word of speech; and then returned to his smoking with the greater relish for the moment's intermission. He thought to himself:—
‘They're a set o' young chaps as thinks more on t' lasses than on baccy;—they'll find out their mistake in time; give ‘em time, give ‘em time.’
And before eight o'clock, he went as quietly as a man of twelve stone can upstairs to bed, having made a previous arrangement with his wife that she should bring him up about two pounds of spiced beef, and a hot tumbler of stiff grog. But at the beginning of the evening he formed a good screen for Sylvia, who was rather a favourite with the old man, for twice he spoke to her.
‘Feyther smokes?’
‘Yes,’ said Sylvia.
‘Reach me t' baccy-box, my lass.’
And that was all the conversation that passed between her and her nearest neighbour for the first quarter of an hour after she came into company.
But, for all her screen, she felt a pair of eyes were fixed upon her with a glow of admiration deepening their honest brightness. Somehow, look in what direction she would, she caught the glance of those eyes before she could see anything else. So she played with her apron-strings, and tried not to feel so conscious. There were another pair of eyes,—not such beautiful, sparkling eyes,—deep-set, earnest, sad, nay, even gloomy, watching her every movement; but of this she was not aware. Philip had not recovered from the rebuff she had given him by refusing his offered hand, and was standing still, in angry silence, when Mrs Corney thrust a young woman just arrived upon his attention.
‘Come, Measter Hepburn, here's Nancy Pratt wi'out ev'n a soul to speak t' her, an' yo' mopin' theere. She says she knows yo' by sight fra' having dealt at Foster's these six year. See if yo' can't find summut t' say t' each other, for I mun go pour out tea. Dixons, an' Walkers, an' Elliotts, an' Smiths is come,’ said she, marking off the families on her fingers, as she looked round and called over their names; ‘an' there's only Will Latham an' his two sisters, and Roger Harbottle, an' Taylor t' come; an' they'll turn up afore tea's ended.’
So she went off to her duty at the one table, which, placed alongside of the dresser, was the only article of furniture left in the middle of the room: all the seats being arranged as close to the four walls as could be managed. The candles of those days gave but a faint light compared to the light of the immense fire, which it was a point of hospitality to keep at the highest roaring, blazing pitch; the young women occupied the seats, with the exception of two or three of the elder ones, who, in an eager desire to show their capability, insisted on helping Mrs Corney in her duties, very much to her annoyance, as there were certain little contrivances for eking out cream, and adjusting the strength of the cups of tea to the worldly position of the intended drinkers, which she did not like every one to see. The young men,—whom tea did not embolden, and who had as yet had no chance of stronger liquor,—clustered in rustic shyness round the door, not speaking even to themselves, except now and then, when one, apparently the wag of the party, made some whispered remark, which set them all off laughing; but in a minute they checked themselves, and passed the back of their hands across their mouths to compose that unlucky feature, and then some would try to fix their eyes on the rafters of the ceiling, in a manner which was decorous if rather abstracted from the business in hand. Most of these were young farmers, with whom Philip had nothing in common, and from whom, in shy reserve, he had withdrawn himself when he first came in. But now he wished himself among them sooner than set to talk to Nancy Pratt, when he had nothing to say. And yet he might have had a companion less to his mind, for she was a decent young woman of a sober age, less inclined to giggle than many of the younger ones. But all the time that he was making commonplace remarks to her he was wondering if he had offended Sylvia, and why she would not shake hands with him, and this pre-occupation of his thoughts did not make him an agreeable companion. Nancy Pratt, who had been engaged for some years to a mate of a whaling-ship, perceived something of his state of mind, and took no offence at it; on the contrary, she tried to give him pleasure by admiring Sylvia.
‘I've often heerd tell on her,’ said she, ‘but I niver thought she'd be so pretty, and so staid and quiet-like too. T'most part o' girls as has looks like hers are always gape-gazing to catch other folks's eyes, and see what is thought on ‘em; but she looks just like a child, a bit flustered wi' comin' into company, and gettin' into as dark a corner and bidin' as still as she can.’
Just then Sylvia lifted up her long, dark lashes, and catching the same glance which she had so often met before—Charley Kinraid was standing talking to Brunton on the opposite side of the fireplace—she started back into the shadow as if she had not expected it, and in so doing spilt her tea all over her gown. She could almost have cried, she felt herself so awkward, and as if everything was going wrong with her; she thought that every one would think she had never been in company before, and did not know how to behave; and while she was thus fluttered and crimson, she saw through her tearful eyes Kinraid on his knees before her, wiping her gown with his silk pocket handkerchief, and heard him speaking through all the buzz of commiserating voices.
‘Your cupboard handle is so much i' th' way,?
??I hurt my elbow against it only this very afternoon.’
So perhaps it was no clumsiness of hers,—as they would all know, now, since he had so skilfully laid the blame somewhere else; and after all it turned out that her accident had been the means of bringing him across to her side, which was much more pleasant than having him opposite, staring at her; for now he began to talk to her, and this was very pleasant, although she was rather embarrassed at their tête-à-tête at first.
‘I did not know you again when I first saw you,’ said he, in a tone which implied a good deal more than was uttered in words.
‘I knowed yo' at once,’ she replied, softly, and then she blushed and played with her apron string, and wondered if she ought to have confessed to the clearness of her recollection.
‘You're grown up into—well, perhaps it's not manners to say what you're grown into—anyhow, I shan't forget yo' again.’