CHAPTER VI
THE SAILOR'S FUNERAL
Moss Brow, the Corney's house, was but a disorderly, comfortlessplace. You had to cross a dirty farmyard, all puddles and dungheaps,on stepping-stones, to get to the door of the house-place. Thatgreat room itself was sure to have clothes hanging to dry at thefire, whatever day of the week it was; some one of the largeirregular family having had what is called in the district a'dab-wash' of a few articles, forgotten on the regular day. Andsometimes these articles lay in their dirty state in the untidykitchen, out of which a room, half parlour, half bedroom, opened onone side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at theopposite. In face of you, as you entered the door, was the entranceto the working-kitchen, or scullery. Still, in spite of disorderlike this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the place; theCorneys were rich in their way, in flocks and herds as well as inchildren; and to them neither dirt nor the perpetual bustle arisingfrom ill-ordered work detracted from comfort. They were all of aneasy, good-tempered nature; Mrs. Corney and her daughters gave everyone a welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would justas soon sit down for a gossip at ten o'clock in the morning, as atfive in the evening, though at the former time the house-place wasfull of work of various kinds which ought to be got out of hand anddone with: while the latter hour was towards the end of the day,when farmers' wives and daughters were usually--'cleaned' was theword then, 'dressed' is that in vogue now. Of course in such ahousehold as this Sylvia was sure to be gladly received. She wasyoung, and pretty, and bright, and brought a fresh breeze ofpleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere. And besides,Bell Robson held her head so high that visits from her daughter wererather esteemed as a favour, for it was not everywhere that Sylviawas allowed to go.
'Sit yo' down, sit yo' down!' cried Dame Corney, dusting a chairwith her apron; 'a reckon Molly 'll be in i' no time. She's nobbutgone int' t' orchard, to see if she can find wind-falls enough fort' make a pie or two for t' lads. They like nowt so weel for supperas apple-pies sweetened wi' treacle, crust stout and leathery, asstands chewing, and we hannot getten in our apples yet.'
'If Molly is in t' orchard, I'll go find her,' said Sylvia.
'Well! yo' lasses will have your conks' (private talks), 'a know;secrets 'bout sweethearts and such like,' said Mrs. Corney, with aknowing look, which made Sylvia hate her for the moment. 'A've notforgotten as a were young mysen. Tak' care; there's a pool o' muckywatter just outside t' back-door.'
But Sylvia was half-way across the back-yard--worse, if possible,than the front as to the condition in which it was kept--and hadpassed through the little gate into the orchard. It was full of oldgnarled apple-trees, their trunks covered with gray lichen, in whichthe cunning chaffinch built her nest in spring-time. The cankeredbranches remained on the trees, and added to the knottedinterweaving overhead, if they did not to the productiveness; thegrass grew in long tufts, and was wet and tangled under foot. Therewas a tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the gray oldtrees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green bosses ofuntrimmed grass. Why the fruit was not gathered, as it was evidentlyripe, would have puzzled any one not acquainted with the Corneyfamily to say; but to them it was always a maxim in practice, if notin precept, 'Do nothing to-day that you can put off till to-morrow,'and accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any little gustof wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the 'lads' wanted asupply 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, lass!' said she, 'who'd ha' thought o' seeing yo' such a dayas it has been?'
'But it's cleared up now beautiful,' said Sylvia, looking up at thesoft evening sky, to be seen through the apple boughs. It was of atender, delicate gray, with the faint warmth of a promising sunsettinging it with a pink atmosphere. 'Rain is over and gone, and Iwanted to know how my cloak is to be made; for Donkin 's working atour house, and I wanted to know all about--the news, yo' know.'
'What news?' asked Molly, for she had heard of the affair betweenthe _Good Fortune_ and the _Aurora_ some days before; and, to tellthe truth, it had rather passed out of her head just at this moment.
'Hannot yo' heard all about t' press-gang and t' whaler, and t'great fight, and Kinraid, as is your cousin, acting so brave andgrand, and lying on his death-bed now?'
'Oh!' said Molly, enlightened as to Sylvia's 'news,' and halfsurprised at the vehemence with which the little creature spoke;'yes; a heerd that days ago. But Charley's noane on his death-bed,he's a deal better; an' mother says as he's to be moved up here nextweek for nursin' and better air nor he gets i' t' town yonder.'
'Oh! I am so glad,' said Sylvia, with all her heart. 'I thought he'dmaybe die, and I should niver see him.'
'A'll promise yo' shall see him; that's t' say if a' goes on well,for he's getten an ugly hurt. Mother says as there's four blue markson his side as'll last him his life, an' t' doctor fears bleeding i'his inside; and then he'll drop down dead when no one looks for 't.'
'But you said he was better,' said Sylvia, blanching a little atthis account.
'Ay, he's better, but life's uncertain, special after gun-shotwounds.'
'He acted very fine,' said Sylvia, meditating.
'A allays knowed he would. Many's the time a've heerd him say"honour bright," and now he's shown how bright his is.'
Molly did not speak sentimentally, but with a kind of proprietorshipin Kinraid's honour, which confirmed Sylvia in her previous idea ofa mutual attachment between her and her cousin. Considering thisnotion, she was a little surprised at Molly's next speech.
'An' about yer cloak, are you for a hood or a cape? a reckon that'sthe question.'
'Oh, I don't care! tell me more about Kinraid. Do yo' really thinkhe'll get better?'
'Dear! how t' lass takes on about him. A'll tell him what a deal ofinterest a young woman taks i' him!'
From that time Sylvia never asked another question about him. In asomewhat 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 't were mine,I'd have a cape cut i' three points, one to tie on each shoulder,and one to dip down handsome behind. But let yo' an' me go toMonkshaven church o' Sunday, and see Measter Fishburn's daughters,as has their things made i' York, and notice a bit how they're made.We needn't do it i' church, but just scan 'em o'er i' t' churchyard,and there'll be no harm done. Besides, there's to be this grandburryin' o' t' man t' press-gang shot, and 't will be like killingtwo birds at once.'
'I should like to go,' said Sylvia. 'I feel so sorry like for thepoor sailors shot down and kidnapped just as they was coming home,as we see'd 'em o' Thursday last. I'll ask mother if she'll let mego.'
'Ay, do. I know my mother 'll let me, if she doesn't go hersen; forit 'll be a sight to see and to speak on for many a long year, afterwhat I've heerd. And Miss Fishburns is sure to be theere, so I'djust get Donkin to cut out cloak itsel', and keep back yer mind fra'fixing o' either cape or hood till Sunday's turn'd.'
'Will yo' set me part o' t' way home?' said Sylvia, seeing the dyingdaylight become more and more crimson through the blackening trees.
'No; I can't. A should like it well enough, but somehow, there's adeal o' work to be done yet, for t' hours slip through one's fingersso as there's no knowing. Mind yo', then, o' Sunday. A'll be at t'stile one o'clock punctual; and we'll go slowly into t' town, andlook about us as we go, and see folk's dresses; and go to t' church,and say wer prayers, and come out and have a look at t' funeral.'
And with this programme of proceedings settled for the followingSunday, the girls whom neighbourhood and parity of age had forcedinto some measure of friendship parted for the time.
Sylvia hastened home, feeling as if she had been absent long; hermother stood on the little knoll at the side of the house watchingfor her, with her hand shading her eyes from the
low rays of thesetting sun: but as soon as she saw her daughter in the distance,she returned to her work, whatever that might be. She was not awoman of many words, or of much demonstration; few observers wouldhave guessed how much she loved her child; but Sylvia, without anyreasoning or observation, instinctively knew that her mother's heartwas bound up in her.
Her father and Donkin were going on much as when she had left them;talking and disputing, the one compelled to be idle, the otherstitching away as fast as he talked. They seemed as if they hadnever missed Sylvia; no more did her mother for that matter, for shewas busy and absorbed in her afternoon dairy-work to all appearance.But Sylvia had noted the watching not three minutes before, and manya time in her after life, when no one cared much for her out-goingsand in-comings, the straight, upright figure of her mother, frontingthe setting sun, but searching through its blinding rays for a sightof her child, rose up like a sudden-seen picture, the remembrance ofwhich smote Sylvia to the heart with a sense of a lost blessing, notduly valued while possessed.
'Well, feyther, and how's a' wi' you?' asked Sylvia, going to theside of his chair, and laying her hand on his shoulder.
'Eh! harkee till this lass o' mine. She thinks as because she's gonegalraverging, I maun ha' missed her and be ailing. Why, lass, Donkinand me has had t' most sensible talk a've had this many a day. A'vegi'en him a vast o' knowledge, and he's done me a power o' good.Please God, to-morrow a'll tak' a start at walking, if t' weatherholds up.'
'Ay!' said Donkin, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice; 'feytherand me has settled many puzzles; it's been a loss to Government asthey hannot been here for profiting by our wisdom. We've done awaywi' taxes and press-gangs, and many a plague, and beaten t'French--i' our own minds, that's to say.'
'It's a wonder t' me as those Lunnon folks can't see things clear,'said Daniel, all in good faith.
Sylvia did not quite understand the state of things as regardedpolitics and taxes--and politics and taxes were all one in her mind,it must be confessed--but she saw that her innocent little scheme ofgiving her father the change of society afforded by Donkin's cominghad answered; and in the gladness of her heart she went out and ranround the corner of the house to find Kester, and obtain from himthat sympathy in her success which she dared not ask from hermother.
'Kester, Kester, lad!' said she, in a loud whisper; but Kester wassuppering the horses, and in the clamp of their feet on the roundstable pavement, he did not hear her at first. She went a littlefarther into the stable. 'Kester! he's a vast better, he'll go outto-morrow; it's all Donkin's doing. I'm beholden to thee forfetching him, and I'll try and spare thee waistcoat fronts out o' t'stuff for my new red cloak. Thou'll like that, Kester, won't ta?'
Kester took the notion in slowly, and weighed it.
'Na, lass,' said he, deliberately, after a pause. 'A could na' bearto see thee wi' thy cloak scrimpit. A like t' see a wench look bonnyand smart, an' a tak' a kind o' pride in thee, an should be a'mostas much hurt i' my mind to see thee i' a pinched cloak as if oldMoll's tail here were docked too short. Na, lass, a'se niver got amirroring glass for t' see mysen in, so what's waistcoats to me?Keep thy stuff to thysen, theere's a good wench; but a'se main andglad about t' measter. Place isn't like itsen when he's shut up andcranky.'
He took up a wisp of straw and began rubbing down the old mare, andhissing over his work as if he wished to consider the conversationas ended. And Sylvia, who had strung herself up in a momentaryfervour of gratitude to make the generous offer, was not sorry tohave it refused, and went back planning what kindness she could showto Kester without its involving so much sacrifice to herself. Forgiving waistcoat fronts to him would deprive her of the pleasantpower of selecting a fashionable pattern in Monkshaven churchyardnext Sunday.
That wished-for day seemed long a-coming, as wished-for days mostfrequently do. Her father got better by slow degrees, and her motherwas pleased by the tailor's good pieces of work; showing theneatly-placed patches with as much pride as many matrons take in newclothes now-a-days. And the weather cleared up into a dim kind ofautumnal fineness, into anything but an Indian summer as far asregarded gorgeousness of colouring, for on that coast the mists andsea fogs early spoil the brilliancy of the foliage. Yet, perhaps,the more did the silvery grays and browns of the inland sceneryconduce to the tranquillity of the time,--the time of peace and restbefore the fierce and stormy winter comes on. It seems a time forgathering up human forces to encounter the coming severity, as wellas of storing up the produce of harvest for the needs of winter. Oldpeople turn out and sun themselves in that calm St. Martin's summer,without fear of 'the heat o' th' sun, or the coming winter's rages,'and we may read in their pensive, dreamy eyes that they are weaningthemselves away from the earth, which probably many may never seedressed in her summer glory again.
Many such old people set out betimes, on the Sunday afternoon towhich Sylvia had been so looking forward, to scale the long flightsof stone steps--worn by the feet of many generations--which led upto the parish church, placed on a height above the town, on a greatgreen area at the summit of the cliff, which was the angle where theriver and the sea met, and so overlooking both the busy crowdedlittle town, the port, the shipping, and the bar on the one hand,and the wide illimitable tranquil sea on the other--types of lifeand eternity. It was a good situation for that church.Homeward-bound sailors caught sight of the tower of St Nicholas, thefirst land object of all. They who went forth upon the great deepmight carry solemn thoughts with them of the words they had heardthere; not conscious thoughts, perhaps--rather a distinct if dimconviction that buying and selling, eating and marrying, even lifeand death, were not all the realities in existence. Nor were thewords that came up to their remembrance words of sermons preachedthere, however impressive. The sailors mostly slept through thesermons; unless, indeed, there were incidents such as were involvedin what were called 'funeral discourses' to be narrated. They didnot recognize their daily faults or temptations under the grandaliases befitting their appearance from a preacher's mouth. But theyknew the old, oft-repeated words praying for deliverance from thefamiliar dangers of lightning and tempest; from battle, murder, andsudden death; and nearly every man was aware that he left behind himsome one who would watch for the prayer for the preservation ofthose who travel by land or by water, and think of him, asGod-protected the more for the earnestness of the response thengiven.
There, too, lay the dead of many generations; for St. Nicholas hadbeen the parish church ever since Monkshaven was a town, and thelarge churchyard was rich in the dead. Masters, mariners,ship-owners, seamen: it seemed strange how few other trades wererepresented in that great plain so full of upright gravestones. Hereand there was a memorial stone, placed by some survivor of a largefamily, most of whom perished at sea:--'Supposed to have perishedin the Greenland seas,' 'Shipwrecked in the Baltic,' 'Drowned offthe coast of Iceland.' There was a strange sensation, as if the coldsea-winds must bring with them the dim phantoms of those lostsailors, who had died far from their homes, and from the hallowedground where their fathers lay.
Each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a small flatspace, on which a wooden seat was placed. On this particular Sunday,all these seats were filled by aged people, breathless with theunusual exertion of climbing. You could see the church stair, as itwas called, from nearly every part of the town, and the figures ofthe numerous climbers, diminished by distance, looked like a busyant-hill, long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service.All who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token ofmourning; it might be very little; an old ribbon, a rusty piece ofcrape; but some sign of mourning was shown by every one down to thelittle child in its mother's arms, that innocently clutched thepiece of rosemary to be thrown into the grave 'for remembrance.'Darley, the seaman shot by the press-gang, nine leagues off St.Abb's Head, was to be buried to-day, at the accustomed time for thefunerals of the poorer classes, directly after evening service, andthere were only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not comeforth to
show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon asmurdered. The crowd of vessels in harbour bore their flags half-masthigh; and the crews were making their way through the High Street.The gentlefolk of Monkshaven, full of indignation at thisinterference with their ships, full of sympathy with the family whohad lost their son and brother almost within sight of his home, camein unusual numbers--no lack of patterns for Sylvia; but herthoughts were far otherwise and more suitably occupied. The unwontedsternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all whom shemet awed and affected her. She did not speak in reply to Molly'sremarks on the dress or appearance of those who struck her. She feltas if these speeches jarred on her, and annoyed her almost toirritation; yet Molly had come all the way to Monkshaven Church inher service, and deserved forbearance accordingly. The two mountedthe steps alongside of many people; few words were exchanged, evenat the breathing places, so often the little centres of gossip.Looking over the sea there was not a sail to be seen; it seemedbared of life, as if to be in serious harmony with what was going oninland.
The church was of old Norman architecture; low and massive outside:inside, of vast space, only a quarter of which was filled onordinary Sundays. The walls were disfigured by numerous tablets ofblack and white marble intermixed, and the usual ornamentation ofthat style of memorial as erected in the last century, of weepingwillows, urns, and drooping figures, with here and there a ship infull sail, or an anchor, where the seafaring idea prevalent throughthe place had launched out into a little originality. There was nowood-work, the church had been stripped of that, most probably whenthe neighbouring monastery had been destroyed. There were largesquare pews, lined with green baize, with the names of the familiesof the most flourishing ship-owners painted white on the doors;there were pews, not so large, and not lined at all, for the farmersand shopkeepers of the parish; and numerous heavy oaken bencheswhich, by the united efforts of several men, might be brought withinearshot of the pulpit. These were being removed into the mostconvenient situations when Molly and Sylvia entered the church, andafter two or three whispered sentences they took their seats on oneof these.
The vicar of Monkshaven was a kindly, peaceable old man, hatingstrife and troubled waters above everything. He was a vehement Toryin theory, as became his cloth in those days. He had two bugbears tofear--the French and the Dissenters. It was difficult to say ofwhich he had the worst opinion and the most intense dread. Perhapshe hated the Dissenters most, because they came nearer in contactwith him than the French; besides, the French had the excuse ofbeing Papists, while the Dissenters might have belonged to theChurch of England if they had not been utterly depraved. Yet inpractice Dr Wilson did not object to dine with Mr. Fishburn, who wasa personal friend and follower of Wesley, but then, as the doctorwould say, 'Wesley was an Oxford man, and that makes him agentleman; and he was an ordained minister of the Church of England,so that grace can never depart from him.' But I do not know whatexcuse he would have alleged for sending broth and vegetables to oldRalph Thompson, a rabid Independent, who had been given to abusingthe Church and the vicar, from a Dissenting pulpit, as long as everhe could mount the stairs. However, that inconsistency between DrWilson's theories and practice was not generally known inMonkshaven, so we have nothing to do with it.
Dr Wilson had had a very difficult part to play, and a still moredifficult sermon to write, during this last week. The Darley who hadbeen killed was the son of the vicar's gardener, and Dr Wilson'ssympathies as a man had been all on the bereaved father's side. Butthen he had received, as the oldest magistrate in the neighbourhood,a letter from the captain of the _Aurora_, explanatory andexculpatory. Darley had been resisting the orders of an officer inhis Majesty's service. What would become of due subordination andloyalty, and the interests of the service, and the chances ofbeating those confounded French, if such conduct as Darley's was tobe encouraged? (Poor Darley! he was past all evil effects of humanencouragement now!)
So the vicar mumbled hastily over a sermon on the text, 'In themidst of life we are in death'; which might have done as well for ababy cut off in a convulsion-fit as for the strong man shot downwith all his eager blood hot within him, by men as hot-blooded ashimself. But once when the old doctor's eye caught the up-turned,straining gaze of the father Darley, seeking with all his soul tofind a grain of holy comfort in the chaff of words, his consciencesmote him. Had he nothing to say that should calm anger and revengewith spiritual power? no breath of the comforter to soothe repininginto resignation? But again the discord between the laws of man andthe laws of Christ stood before him; and he gave up the attempt todo more than he was doing, as beyond his power. Though the hearerswent away as full of anger as they had entered the church, and somewith a dull feeling of disappointment as to what they had got there,yet no one felt anything but kindly towards the old vicar. Hissimple, happy life led amongst them for forty years, and open to allmen in its daily course; his sweet-tempered, cordial ways; hispractical kindness, made him beloved by all; and neither he nor theythought much or cared much for admiration of his talents. Respectfor his office was all the respect he thought of; and that wasconceded to him from old traditional and hereditary association. Inlooking back to the last century, it appears curious to see howlittle our ancestors had the power of putting two things together,and perceiving either the discord or harmony thus produced. Is itbecause we are farther off from those times, and have, consequently,a greater range of vision? Will our descendants have a wonder aboutus, such as we have about the inconsistency of our forefathers, or asurprise at our blindness that we do not perceive that, holding suchand such opinions, our course of action must be so and so, or thatthe logical consequence of particular opinions must be convictionswhich at present we hold in abhorrence? It seems puzzling to lookback on men such as our vicar, who almost held the doctrine that theKing could do no wrong, yet were ever ready to talk of the gloriousRevolution, and to abuse the Stuarts for having entertained the samedoctrine, and tried to put it in practice. But such discrepanciesran through good men's lives in those days. It is well for us thatwe live at the present time, when everybody is logical andconsistent. This little discussion must be taken in place of DrWilson's sermon, of which no one could remember more than the texthalf an hour after it was delivered. Even the doctor himself had therecollection of the words he had uttered swept out of his mind, as,having doffed his gown and donned his surplice, he came out of thedusk of his vestry and went to the church-door, looking into thebroad light which came upon the plain of the church-yard on thecliffs; for the sun had not yet set, and the pale moon was slowlyrising through the silvery mist that obscured the distant moors.There was a thick, dense crowd, all still and silent, looking awayfrom 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 groupsat each landing-place; now lost to sight as a piece of broken,overhanging ground intervened, now emerging suddenly nearer; andoverhead the great church bell, with its mediaeval inscription,familiar to the vicar, if to no one else who heard it, I to thegrave do summon all, kept on its heavy booming monotone, with whichno 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 greata distance seemed only to deepen the stillness. Then there was alittle movement in the crowd; a little pushing from side to side, tomake a path for the corpse and its bearers--an aggregate of thefragments of room.
With bent heads and spent strength, those who carried the coffinmoved on; behind came the poor old gardener, a brown-black funeralcloak thrown over his homely dress, and supporting his wife withsteps scarcely less feeble than her own. He had come to church thatafternoon, with a promise to her that he would return to lead her tothe funeral of her firstborn; for he felt, in his sore perplexedheart, full of indignation and dumb anger, as if he must go and hearsomething which should exorcize the unwonted longing for revengethat d
isturbed his grief, and made him conscious of that great blankof consolation which faithfulness produces. And for the time he wasfaithless. How came God to permit such cruel injustice of man?Permitting it, He could not be good. Then what was life, and whatwas death, but woe and despair? The beautiful solemn words of theritual had done him good, and restored much of his faith. Though hecould not understand why such sorrow had befallen him any more thanbefore, he had come back to something of his childlike trust; hekept saying to himself in a whisper, as he mounted the weary steps,'It is the Lord's doing'; and the repetition soothed himunspeakably. Behind this old couple followed their children, grownmen and women, come from distant place or farmhouse service; theservants at the vicarage, and many a neighbour, anxious to showtheir sympathy, and most of the sailors from the crews of thevessels in port, joined in procession, and followed the dead bodyinto the church.
There was too great a crowd immediately within the door for Sylviaand Molly to go in again, and they accordingly betook themselves tothe place where the deep grave was waiting, wide and hungry, toreceive its dead. There, leaning against the headstones all around,were many standing--looking over the broad and placid sea, andturned to the soft salt air which blew on their hot eyes and rigidfaces; for no one spoke of all that number. They were thinking ofthe violent death of him over whom the solemn words were now beingsaid in the gray old church, scarcely out of their hearing, had notthe sound been broken by the measured lapping of the tide farbeneath.
Suddenly every one looked round towards the path from the churchyardsteps. Two sailors were supporting a ghastly figure that, withfeeble motions, was drawing near the open grave.
'It's t' specksioneer as tried to save him! It's him as was left fordead!' the people murmured round.
'It's Charley Kinraid, as I'm a sinner!' said Molly, startingforward to greet her cousin.
But as he came on, she saw that all his strength was needed for themere action of walking. The sailors, in their strong sympathy, hadyielded to his earnest entreaty, and carried him up the steps, inorder that he might see the last of his messmate. They placed himnear the grave, resting against a stone; and he was hardly therebefore the vicar came forth, and the great crowd poured out of thechurch, following the body to the grave.
Sylvia was so much wrapt up in the solemnity of the occasion, thatshe had no thought to spare at the first moment for the pale andhaggard figure opposite; much less was she aware of her cousinPhilip, who now singling her out for the first time from among thecrowd, pressed to her side, with an intention of companionship andprotection.
As the service went on, ill-checked sobs rose from behind the twogirls, who were among the foremost in the crowd, and by-and-by thecry and the wail became general. Sylvia's tears rained down herface, and her distress became so evident that it attracted theattention of many in that inner circle. Among others who noticed it,the specksioneer's hollow eyes were caught by the sight of theinnocent blooming childlike face opposite to him, and he wondered ifshe were a relation; yet, seeing that she bore no badge of mourning,he rather concluded that she must have been a sweetheart of the deadman.
And now all was over: the rattle of the gravel on the coffin; thelast long, lingering look of friends and lovers; the rosemary sprigshad been cast down by all who were fortunate enough to have broughtthem--and oh! how much Sylvia wished she had remembered this lastact of respect--and slowly the outer rim of the crowd began toslacken and disappear.
Now Philip spoke to Sylvia.
'I never dreamt of seeing you here. I thought my aunt always went toKirk Moorside.'
'I came with Molly Corney,' said Sylvia. 'Mother is staying at homewith feyther.'
'How's his rheumatics?' asked Philip.
But at the same moment Molly took hold of Sylvia's hand, and said--
'A want t' get round and speak to Charley. Mother 'll be main andglad to hear as he's getten out; though, for sure, he looks asthough he'd ha' been better in 's bed. Come, Sylvia.'
And Philip, fain to keep with Sylvia, had to follow the two girlsclose up to the specksioneer, who was preparing for his slowlaborious walk back to his lodgings. He stopped on seeing hiscousin.
'Well, Molly,' said he, faintly, putting out his hand, but his eyepassing her face to look at Sylvia in the background, hertear-stained face full of shy admiration of the nearest approach toa hero she had ever seen.
'Well, Charley, a niver was so taken aback as when a saw yo' theere,like a ghost, a-standin' agin a gravestone. How white and wan yo' dolook!'
'Ay!' said he, wearily, 'wan and weak enough.'
'But I hope you're getting better, sir,' said Sylvia, in a lowvoice, longing to speak to him, and yet wondering at her owntemerity.
'Thank you, my lass. I'm o'er th' worst.'
He sighed heavily.
Philip now spoke.
'We're doing him no kindness a-keeping him standing here i' t'night-fall, and him so tired.' And he made as though he would turnaway. Kinraid's two sailor friends backed up Philip's words withsuch urgency, that, somehow, Sylvia thought they had been to blamein speaking to him, and blushed excessively with the idea.
'Yo'll come and be nursed at Moss Brow, Charley,' said Molly; andSylvia dropped her little maidenly curtsey, and said, 'Good-by;'and went away, wondering how Molly could talk so freely to such ahero; but then, to be sure, he was a cousin, and probably asweetheart, and that would make a great deal of difference, ofcourse.
Meanwhile her own cousin kept close by her side.