CHAPTER XXXII
RESCUED FROM THE WAVES
Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual; in so quiet and methodicala way, with so even and undisturbed a temper, that she was almostforgotten when everything went well in the shop or household. Shewas a star, the brightness of which was only recognized in times ofdarkness. She herself was almost surprised at her own increasingregard for Sylvia. She had not thought she should ever be able tolove the woman who had been such a laggard in acknowledging Philip'smerits; and from all she had ever heard of Sylvia before she came toknow her, from the angry words with which Sylvia had received herwhen she had first gone to Haytersbank Farm, Hester had intended toremain on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. But her kindness toBell Robson had won both the mother's and daughter's hearts; and inspite of herself, certainly against her own mother's advice, she hadbecome the familiar friend and welcome guest of the household.
Now the very change in Sylvia's whole manner and ways, which grievedand vexed Philip, made his wife the more attractive to Hester.Brought up among Quakers, although not one herself, she admired andrespected the staidness and outward peacefulness common amongst theyoung women of that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to findvolatile, talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as ifshe had been born a Friend: she seemed to have no will of her own;she served her mother and child for love; she obeyed her husband inall things, and never appeared to pine after gaiety or pleasure. Andyet at times Hester thought, or rather a flash came across her mind,as if all things were not as right as they seemed. Philip lookedolder, more care-worn; nay, even Hester was obliged to allow toherself that she had heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrievedtones. Innocent Hester! she could not understand how the veryqualities she so admired in Sylvia were just what were so foreign toher nature that the husband, who had known her from a child, feltwhat an unnatural restraint she was putting upon herself, and wouldhave hailed petulant words or wilful actions with an unspeakablethankfulness for relief.
One day--it was in the spring of 1798--Hester was engaged to stay totea with the Hepburns, in order that after that early meal she mightset to again in helping Philip and Coulson to pack away the wintercloths and flannels, for which there was no longer any use. Thetea-time was half-past four; about four o'clock a heavy April showercame on, the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awakenMrs. Robson from her afternoon's nap. She came down the corkscrewstairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging the tea-things.
Phoebe and Mrs. Robson were better friends than Phoebe and her youngmistress; and so they began to talk a little together in acomfortable, familiar way. Once or twice Philip looked in, as if hewould be glad to see the tea-table in readiness; and then Phoebewould put on a spurt of busy bustle, which ceased almost as soon ashis back was turned, so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Robson'ssympathy in some little dispute that had occurred between her andthe nurse-maid. The latter had misappropriated some hot water,prepared and required by Phoebe, to the washing of the baby'sclothes; it was a long story, and would have tired the patience ofany one in full possession of their senses; but the details werejust within poor Bell's comprehension, and she was listening withthe greatest sympathy. Both the women were unaware of the lapse oftime; but it was of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour wasnot to be begun until after tea, and the daylight hours wereprecious.
At a quarter to five Hester and he came in, and then Phoebe began tohurry. Hester went up to sit by Bell and talk to her. Philip spoketo Phoebe in the familiar words of country-folk. Indeed, until hismarriage, Phoebe had always called him by his Christian name, andhad found it very difficult to change it into 'master.'
'Where's Sylvie?' said he.
'Gone out wi' t' babby,' replied Phoebe.
'Why can't Nancy carry it out?' asked Philip.
It was touching on the old grievance: he was tired, and he spokewith sharp annoyance. Phoebe might easily have told him the realstate of the case; Nancy was busy at her washing, which would havebeen reason enough. But the nursemaid had vexed her, and she did notlike Philip's sharpness, so she only said,--
'It's noane o' my business; it's yo' t' look after yo'r own wife andchild; but yo'r but a lad after a'.'
This was not conciliatory speech, and just put the last stroke toPhilip's fit of ill-temper.
'I'm not for my tea to-night,' said he, to Hester, when all wasready. 'Sylvie's not here, and nothing is nice, or as it should be.I'll go and set to on t' stock-taking. Don't yo' hurry, Hester; stopand chat a bit with th' old lady.'
'Nay, Philip,' said Hester, 'thou's sadly tired; just take this cupo' tea; Sylvia 'll be grieved if yo' haven't something.'
'Sylvia doesn't care whether I'm full or fasting,' replied he,impatiently putting aside the cup. 'If she did she'd ha' taken careto be in, and ha' seen to things being as I like them.'
Now in general Philip was the least particular of men about meals;and to do Sylvia justice, she was scrupulously attentive to everyhousehold duty in which old Phoebe would allow her to meddle, andalways careful to see after her husband's comforts. But Philip wastoo vexed at her absence to perceive the injustice of what he wassaying, nor was he aware how Bell Robson had been attending to whathe said. But she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding justenough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter wasneglectful of those duties which she herself had always regarded asparamount to all others; nor could Hester convince her that Philiphad not meant what he said; neither could she turn the poor oldwoman's thoughts from the words which had caused her distress.
Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although breathlesswith hurry.
'Oh,' said she, taking off her wet shawl, 'we've had to shelter fromsuch a storm of rain, baby and me--but see! she's none the worse forit, as bonny as iver, bless her.'
Hester began some speech of admiration for the child in order toprevent Bell from delivering the lecture she felt sure was comingdown on the unsuspecting Sylvia; but all in vain.
'Philip's been complaining on thee, Sylvie,' said Bell, in the wayin which she had spoken to her daughter when she was a little child;grave and severe in tone and look, more than in words. 'I forgetjustly what about, but he spoke on thy neglecting him continual.It's not right, my lass, it's not right; a woman should--but myhead's very tired, and all I can think on to say is, it's notright.'
'Philip been complaining of me, and to mother!' said Sylvia, readyto burst into tears, so grieved and angry was she.
'No!' said Hester, 'thy mother has taken it a little too strong; hewere vexed like at his tea not being ready.'
Sylvia said no more, but the bright colour faded from her cheek, andthe contraction of care returned to her brow. She occupied herselfwith taking off her baby's walking things. Hester lingered, anxiousto soothe and make peace; she was looking sorrowfully at Sylvia,when she saw tears dropping on the baby's cloak, and then it seemedas if she must speak a word of comfort before going to theshop-work, where she knew she was expected by both Philip andCoulson. She poured out a cup of tea, and coming close up to Sylvia,and kneeling down by her, she whispered,--
'Just take him this into t' ware-room; it'll put all to rights ifthou'll take it to him wi' thy own hands.'
Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw how she had beencrying. She whispered in reply, for fear of disturbing her mother,--
'I don't mind anything but his speaking ill on me to mother. I knowI'm for iver trying and trying to be a good wife to him, an' it'svery dull work; harder than yo' think on, Hester,--an' I would ha'been home for tea to-night only I was afeared of baby getting wetwi' t' storm o' hail as we had down on t' shore; and we shelteredunder a rock. It's a weary coming home to this dark place, and tofind my own mother set against me.'
'Take him his tea, like a good lassie. I'll answer for it he'll beall right. A man takes it hardly when he comes in tired, a-thinkinghis wife 'll be there to cheer him up a bit, to find her off, andniver know nought of t' reason why.'
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p; 'I'm glad enough I've getten a baby,' said Sylvia, 'but for aughtelse I wish I'd niver been married, I do!'
'Hush thee, lass!' said Hester, rising up indignant; 'now that is asin. Eh! if thou only knew the lot o' some folk. But let's talk nomore on that, that cannot be helped; go, take him his tea, for it'sa sad thing to think on him fasting all this time.'
Hester's voice was raised by the simple fact of her change ofposition; and the word fasting caught Mrs. Robson's ear, as she sateat her knitting by the chimney-corner.
'Fasting? he said thou didn't care if he were full or fasting.Lassie! it's not right in thee, I say; go, take him his tea atonce.'
Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been suckling, toNancy, who having done her washing, had come for her charge, to putit to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, making a little moan of sad,passionate tenderness as she did so. Then she took the cup of tea;but she said, rather defiantly, to Hester,--
'I'll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it'll ease hermind.'
Then louder to her mother, she added,--
'Mother, I'll take him his tea, though I couldn't help the beingout.'
If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she wasgoing to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her slowly into theware-room, with intentional delay, thinking that her presence mightbe an obstacle to their mutually understanding one another. Sylviaheld the cup and plate of bread and butter out to Philip, butavoided meeting his eye, and said not a word of explanation, orregret, or self-justification. If she had spoken, though ever socrossly, Philip would have been relieved, and would have preferredit to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, but did notknow how to begin.
'Thou's been out again wandering on that sea-shore!' said he. Shedid not answer him. 'I cannot think what's always taking thee there,when one would ha' thought a walk up to Esdale would be far moresheltered, both for thee and baby in such weather as this. Thou'llbe having that baby ill some of these days.'
At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as though she weregoing to say something. Oh, how he wished she would, that they mightcome to a wholesome quarrel, and a making friends again, and atender kissing, in which he might whisper penitence for all hishasty words, or unreasonable vexation. But she had come resolved notto speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much emotion.Only as she was going away she turned and said,--
'Philip, mother hasn't many more years to live; dunnot grieve her,and set her again' me by finding fault wi' me afore her. Our beingwed were a great mistake; but before t' poor old widow woman let usmake as if we were happy.'
'Sylvie! Sylvie!' he called after her. She must have heard, but shedid not turn. He went after her, and seized her by the arm ratherroughly; she had stung him to the heart with her calm words, whichseemed to reveal a long-formed conviction.
'Sylvie!' said he, almost fiercely, 'what do yo' mean by what you'vesaid? Speak! I will have an answer.'
He almost shook her: she was half frightened by his vehemence ofbehaviour, which she took for pure anger, while it was the outburstof agonized and unrequited love.
'Let me go! Oh, Philip, yo' hurt me!'
Just at this moment Hester came up; Philip was ashamed of hispassionate ways in her serene presence, and loosened his grasp ofhis wife, and she ran away; ran into her mother's empty room, as toa solitary place, and there burst into that sobbing, miserablecrying which we instinctively know is too surely lessening thelength of our days on earth to be indulged in often.
When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak and quiet for atime, she listened in dreading expectation of the sound of hisfootstep coming in search of her to make friends. But he wasdetained below on business, and never came. Instead, her mother cameclambering up the stairs; she was now in the habit of going to bedbetween seven and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even anearlier hour.
Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and made her faceand manner as composed as possible, in order to soothe and comforther mother's last waking hours. She helped her to bed with gentlepatience; the restraint imposed upon her by her tender filial lovewas good for her, though all the time she was longing to be alone tohave another wild outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep,Sylvia went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then shegazed out at the evening sky, high above the tiled roofs of theopposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peacefulheavens took possession of her once more.
'It's my only comfort,' said she to herself; 'and there's no earthlyharm in it. I would ha' been at home to his tea, if I could; butwhen he doesn't want me, and mother doesn't want me, and baby iseither in my arms or asleep; why, I'll go any cry my fill out underyon great quiet sky. I cannot stay in t' house to be choked up wi'my tears, nor yet to have him coming about me either for scolding orpeace-making.'
So she put on her things and went out again; this time along theHigh Street, and up the long flights of steps towards the parishchurch, and there she stood and thought that here she had first metKinraid, at Darley's burying, and she tried to recall the very lookof all the sad, earnest faces round the open grave--the whole scene,in fact; and let herself give way to the miserable regrets she hadso often tried to control. Then she walked on, crying bitterly,almost unawares to herself; on through the high, bleak fields at thesummit of the cliffs; fields bounded by loose stone fences, and farfrom all sight of the habitation of man. But, below, the sea roseand raged; it was high water at the highest tide, and the wind blewgustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves that cameinvincibly up with a roar and an impotent furious dash against thebase of the cliffs below.
Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound of manywaters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the other sound ofthe blustering gusty wind was lulled for an instant. She was morequieted by this tempest of the elements than she would have been hadall nature seemed as still as she had imagined it to be while shewas yet in-doors and only saw a part of the serene sky.
She fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she wouldreach, and then turn back again. It was where the outline of theland curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. Here the field-pathshe had hitherto followed descended somewhat abruptly to a clusterof fishermen's cottages, hardly large enough to be called a village;and then the narrow roadway wound up the rising ground till it againreached the summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast formany and many a mile.
Sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards when she camewithin sight of this cove,--Headlington Cove, they called it. Allthe way along she had met no one since she had left the town, butjust as she had got over the last stile, or ladder ofstepping-stones, into the field from which the path descended, shecame upon a number of people--quite a crowd, in fact; men movingforward in a steady line, hauling at a rope, a chain, or somethingof that kind; boys, children, and women holding babies in theirarms, as if all were fain to come out and partake in some generalinterest.
They kept within a certain distance from the edge of the cliff, andSylvia, advancing a little, now saw the reason why. The great cablethe men held was attached to some part of a smack, which could nowbe seen by her in the waters below, half dismantled, and all but awreck, yet with her deck covered with living men, as far as thewaning light would allow her to see. The vessel strained to get freeof the strong guiding cable; the tide was turning, the wind wasblowing off shore, and Sylvia knew without being told, that almostparallel to this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal tomany a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channelinstead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering instraight for Monkshaven port. And the ships that had been thus losthad been in good plight and order compared to this vessel, whichseemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail.
By this time, the crowd--the fishermen from the hamlet down below,with their wives and children--all had come but the bedridden--hadreached the place where Sylvia stood. The women, in a state of wil
dexcitement, rushed on, encouraging their husbands and sons by words,even while they hindered them by actions; and, from time to time,one of them would run to the edge of the cliff and shout out somebrave words of hope in her shrill voice to the crew on the deckbelow. Whether these latter heard it or not, no one could tell; butit seemed as if all human voice must be lost in the tempestuous stunand tumult of wind and wave. It was generally a woman with a childin her arms who so employed herself. As the strain upon the cablebecame greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven,every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who wereunencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives weredepending. On they came, a long line of human beings, black againstthe ruddy sunset sky. As they came near Sylvia, a woman cried out,--
'Dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi' us; there's many a bonnylife at stake, and many a mother's heart a-hangin' on this bit o'hemp. Tak' houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and God remember theei' thy need.'
Sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in aninstant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemedas though she was holding fire in her bare palms. Never a one ofthem thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was overmany of their hands were raw and bleeding. Some strong, experiencedfishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, givingdirections as to how it should be held according to varyingoccasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough tospeak. The women and children that accompanied them ran on before,breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay orhindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging,explaining. From their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvialearnt that the vessel was supposed to be a Newcastle smack sailingfrom London, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to savetime, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy towithstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermenwho had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she wouldhave been cast upon the rocks before this, and 'all on boardperished'.
'It were dayleet then,' quoth one woman; 'a could see their faces,they were so near. They were as pale as dead men, an' one wasprayin' down on his knees. There was a king's officer aboard, for Isaw t' gowd about him.'
'He'd maybe come from these hom'ard parts, and be comin' to see hisown folk; else it's no common for king's officers to sail in aughtbut king's ships.'
'Eh! but it's gettin' dark! See there's t' leeghts in t' houses int' New Town! T' grass is crispin' wi' t' white frost under out feet.It'll be a hard tug round t' point, and then she'll be gettin' intostill waters.'
One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; thevessel--or what remained of her--was in the harbour, among thelights and cheerful sounds of safety. The fishermen sprang down thecliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they hadsaved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia,however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day:her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that theywere saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before.
She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken hands withthem all round. But instead she must go home, and well would it bewith her if she was in time for her husband's supper, and escapedany notice of her absence. So she separated herself from the groupsof women who sate on the grass in the churchyard, awaiting thereturn of such of their husbands as could resist the fascinations ofthe Monkshaven public houses. As Sylvia went down the church steps,she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow the vesselinto port.
'There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a navy-lieutenantas had comed as passenger. It were a good job as we could manageher. Good-neet to thee, thou'll sleep all t' sounder for havin' lenta hand.'
The street air felt hot and close after the sharp keen atmosphere ofthe heights above; the decent shops and houses had all theirshutters put up, and were preparing for their early bed-time.Already lights shone here and there in the upper chambers, andSylvia scarcely met any one.
She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and in by theprivate door. All was still; the basins of bread and milk that sheand her husband were in the habit of having for supper stood in thefender before the fire, each with a plate upon them. Nancy had goneto bed, Phoebe dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in theware-room, arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, forHester had gone home to her mother.
Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the mannerin which they had parted. All the despondency of her life becamepresent to her again as she sate down within her home. She hadforgotten it in her interest and excitement, but now it came backagain.
Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. She took her basinup, and was eating her supper when she heard a cry of her babyupstairs, and ran away to attend to it. When it had been fed andhushed away to sleep, she went in to see her mother, attracted bysome unusual noise in her room.
She found Mrs. Robson awake, and restless, and ailing; dwelling muchon what Philip had said in his anger against Sylvia. It was reallynecessary for her daughter to remain with her; so Sylvia stole out,and went quickly down-stairs to Philip--now sitting tired and wornout, and eating his supper with little or no appetite--and told himshe meant to pass the night with her mother.
His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or so itseemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of what she haddone or seen that evening, or even dwell upon any details of hermother's indisposition.
As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his half-finishedbasin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face hidden in hisfolded arms. The wick of the candle grew long and black, and fell,and sputtered, and guttered; he sate on, unheeding either it or thepale gray fire that was dying out--dead at last.