Sylvia's Lovers — Complete

  CHAPTER VII

  TETE-A-TETE.--THE WILL

  'And now tell me all about th' folk at home?' said Philip, evidentlypreparing to walk back with the girls. He generally came toHaytersbank every Sunday afternoon, so Sylvia knew what she had toexpect the moment she became aware of his neighbourhood in thechurchyard.

  'My feyther's been sadly troubled with his rheumatics this weekpast; but he's a vast better now, thank you kindly.' Then,addressing herself to Molly, she asked, 'Has your cousin a doctor tolook after him?'

  'Ay, for sure!' said Molly, quickly; for though she knew nothingabout the matter, she was determined to suppose that her cousin hadeverything becoming an invalid as well as a hero. 'He's well-to-do,and can afford everything as he needs,' continued she. 'Hisfeyther's left him money, and he were a farmer out up inNorthumberland, and he's reckoned such a specksioneer as never,never was, and gets what wage he asks for and a share on every whalehe harpoons beside.'

  'I reckon he'll have to make himself scarce on this coast forawhile, at any rate,' said Philip.

  'An' what for should he?' asked Molly, who never liked Philip at thebest of times, and now, if he was going to disparage her cousin inany way, was ready to take up arms and do battle.

  'Why, they do say as he fired the shot as has killed some o' themen-o'-war's men, and, of course, if he has, he'll have to stand histrial if he's caught.'

  'What lies people do say!' exclaimed Molly. 'He niver killed noughtbut whales, a'll be bound; or, if he did, it were all right andproper as he should, when they were for stealing him an' all t'others, and did kill poor Darley as we come fra' seemin' buried. Asuppose, now yo're such a Quaker that, if some one was to breakthrough fra' t' other side o' this dyke and offer for to murderSylvia and me, yo'd look on wi' yo'r hands hanging by yo'r side.'

  'But t' press-gang had law on their side, and were doing nought butwhat they'd warrant for.'

  'Th' tender's gone away, as if she were ashamed o' what she'd done,'said Sylvia, 'and t' flag's down fra' o'er the Randyvowse. There 'llbe no more press-ganging here awhile.'

  'No; feyther says,' continued Molly, 'as they've made t' place toohot t' hold 'em, coming so strong afore people had getten used totheir ways o' catchin' up poor lads just come fra' t' Greenlandseas. T' folks ha' their blood so up they'd think no harm o'fighting 'em i' t' streets--ay, and o' killing 'em, too, if theywere for using fire-arms, as t' _Aurora_'s men did.'

  'Women is so fond o' bloodshed,' said Philip; 'for t' hear you talk,who'd ha' thought you'd just come fra' crying ower the grave of aman who was killed by violence? I should ha' thought you'd seenenough of what sorrow comes o' fighting. Why, them lads o' t'_Aurora_ as they say Kinraid shot down had fathers and mothers,maybe, a looking out for them to come home.'

  'I don't think he could ha' killed them,' said Sylvia; 'he looked sogentle.'

  But Molly did not like this half-and-half view of the case.

  'A dare say he did kill 'em dead; he's not one to do things byhalves. And a think he served 'em reet, that's what a do.'

  'Is na' this Hester, as serves in Foster's shop?' asked Sylvia, in alow voice, as a young woman came through a stile in the stone wallby the roadside, and suddenly appeared before them.

  'Yes,' said Philip. 'Why, Hester, where have you been?' he asked, asthey drew near.

  Hester reddened a little, and then replied, in her slow, quiet way--

  'I've been sitting with Betsy Darley--her that is bed-ridden. Itwere lonesome for her when the others were away at the burying.'

  And she made as though she would have passed; but Sylvia, all hersympathies alive for the relations of the murdered man, wanted toask more questions, and put her hand on Hester's arm to detain her amoment. Hester suddenly drew back a little, reddened still more, andthen replied fully and quietly to all Sylvia asked.

  In the agricultural counties, and among the class to which thesefour persons belonged, there is little analysis of motive orcomparison of characters and actions, even at this present day ofenlightenment. Sixty or seventy years ago there was still less. I donot mean that amongst thoughtful and serious people there was notmuch reading of such books as _Mason_ on _Self-Knowledge_ and _Law'sSerious Call_, or that there were not the experiences of theWesleyans, that were related at class-meeting for the edification ofthe hearers. But, taken as a general ride, it may be said that fewknew what manner of men they were, compared to the numbers now whoare fully conscious of their virtues, qualities, failings, andweaknesses, and who go about comparing others with themselves--notin a spirit of Pharisaism and arrogance, but with a vividself-consciousness that more than anything else deprives charactersof freshness and originality.

  To return to the party we left standing on the high-raised footwaythat ran alongside of the bridle-road to Haytersbank. Sylvia hadleisure in her heart to think 'how good Hester is for sitting withthe poor bed-ridden sister of Darley!' without having a pang ofself-depreciation in the comparison of her own conduct with that shewas capable of so fully appreciating. She had gone to church for theends of vanity, and remained to the funeral for curiosity and thepleasure of the excitement. In this way a modern young lady wouldhave condemned herself, and therefore lost the simple, purifyingpleasure of admiration of another.

  Hester passed onwards, going down the hill towards the town. Theother 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 samehouse wi' her.'

  'Her mother is an old Quakeress, bean't she?' Molly inquired.

  'Alice Rose is a Friend, if that is what you mean,' said Philip.

  'Well, well! some folk's so particular. Is William Coulson a Quaker,by which a mean a Friend?'

  'Yes; they're all on 'em right-down good folk.'

  'Deary me! What a wonder yo' can speak to such sinners as Sylvia andme, after keepin' company with so much goodness,' said Molly, whohad not yet forgiven Philip for doubting Kinraid's power of killingmen. 'Is na' it, Sylvia?'

  But Sylvia was too highly strung for banter. If she had not been oneof those who went to mock, but remained to pray, she had gone tochurch with the thought of the cloak-that-was-to-be uppermost in hermind, and she had come down the long church stair with life anddeath suddenly become real to her mind, the enduring sea and hillsforming a contrasting background to the vanishing away of man. Shewas full of a solemn wonder as to the abiding-place of the souls ofthe dead, and a childlike dread lest the number of the elect shouldbe accomplished before she was included therein. How people couldever be merry again after they had been at a funeral, she could notimagine; so she answered gravely, and slightly beside the question:

  'I wonder if I was a Friend if I should be good?'

  'Gi' me your red cloak, that's all, when yo' turn Quaker; they'llnone let thee wear scarlet, so it 'll be of no use t' thee.'

  'I think thou'rt good enough as thou art,' said Philip, tenderly--atleast as tenderly as he durst, for he knew by experience that it didnot do to alarm her girlish coyness. Either one speech or the othermade Sylvia silent; neither was accordant to her mood of mind; soperhaps both contributed to her quietness.

  'Folk say William Coulson looks sweet on Hester Rose,' said Molly,always up in Monkshaven gossip. It was in the form of an assertion,but was said in the tone of a question, and as such Philip repliedto it.

  'Yes, I think he likes her a good deal; but he's so quiet, I neverfeel sure. John and Jeremiah would like the match, I've a notion.'

  And now they came to the stile which had filled Philip's eye forsome minutes past, though neither of the others had perceived theywere so near it; the stile which led to Moss Brow from the road intothe fields that sloped down to Haystersbank. Here they would leaveMolly, and now would begin the delicious _tete-a-tete_ walk, whichPhilip always tried to make as lingering as possible. To-day he wasanxious to show his sympathy with Sylvia, as far as he could
readwhat was passing in her mind; but how was he to guess the multitudeof tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle? A resolution to begood, if she could, and always to be thinking on death, so that whatseemed to her now as simply impossible, might come true--that shemight 'dread the grave as little as her bed'; a wish that Philipwere not coming home with her; a wonder if the specksioneer reallyhad killed a man, an idea which made her shudder; yet from the awfulfascination about it, her imagination was compelled to dwell on thetall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the wan countenance; a hatredand desire of revenge on the press-gang, so vehement that it sadlymilitated against her intention of trying to be good; all thesenotions, and wonders, and fancies, were whirling about in Sylvia'sbrain, and at one of their promptings she spoke,--

  'How many miles away is t' Greenland seas?--I mean, how long do theytake to reach?'

  'I don't know; ten days or a fortnight, or more, maybe. I'll ask.'

  'Oh! feyther 'll tell me all about it. He's been there many a time.'

  'I say, Sylvie! My aunt said I were to give you lessons this winteri' writing and ciphering. I can begin to come up now, two evenings,maybe, a week. T' shop 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 o' candle-light; mother 'll not like that. I can'tsee to spell wi'out a candle close at my elbow.'

  'Niver mind about candles. I can bring up a candle wi' me, for Ishould be burning one at Alice Rose's.'

  So that excuse would not do. Sylvia beat her brains for another.

  'Writing cramps my hand so, I can't do any sewing for a day after;and feyther wants his shirts very bad.'

  'But, Sylvia, I'll teach you geography, and ever such a vast o' finethings about t' countries, on t' map.'

  'Is t' Arctic seas down on t' map?' she asked, in a tone of greaterinterest.

  'Yes! Arctics, and tropics, and equator, and equinoctial line; we'lltake 'em turn and turn about; we'll do writing and ciphering onenight, and geography t' other.'

  Philip spoke with pleasure at the prospect, but Sylvia relaxed intoindifference.

  'I'm no scholard; it's like throwing away labour to teach me, I'msuch a dunce at my book. Now there's Betsy Corney, third girl, heras is younger than Molly, she'd be a credit to you. There niver wassuch a lass for pottering ower books.'

  If Philip had had his wits about him, he would have pretended tolisten to this proposition of a change of pupils, and then possiblySylvia might have repented making it. But he was too much mortifiedto be diplomatic.

  'My aunt asked me to teach _you_ a bit, not any neighbour's lass.'

  'Well! if I mun be taught, I mun; but I'd rayther be whipped and ha'done with it,' was Sylvia's ungracious reply.

  A moment afterwards, she repented of her little spirit ofunkindness, and thought that she should not like to die that nightwithout making friends. Sudden death was very present in herthoughts since the funeral. So she instinctively chose the bestmethod of making friends again, and slipped her hand into his, as hewalked a little sullenly at her side. She was half afraid, however,when she found it firmly held, and that she could not draw it awayagain without making what she called in her own mind a 'fuss.' So,hand in hand, they slowly and silently came up to the door ofHaytersbank Farm; not unseen by Bell Robson, who sate in thewindow-seat, with her Bible open upon her knee. She had read herchapter aloud to herself, and now she could see no longer, even ifshe had wished to read more; but she gazed out into the darkeningair, and a dim look of contentment came like moonshine over her facewhen she saw the cousins approach.

  'That's my prayer day and night,' said she to herself.

  But there was no unusual aspect of gladness on her face, as shelighted the candle to give them a more cheerful welcome.

  'Wheere's feyther?' said Sylvia, looking round the room for Daniel.

  'He's been to Kirk Moorside Church, for t' see a bit o' th' world,as he ca's it. And sin' then he's gone out to th' cattle; forKester's ta'en his turn of playing hissel', now that father'sbetter.'

  'I've been talking to Sylvia,' said Philip, his head still full ofhis pleasant plan, his hand still tingling from the touch of hers,'about turning schoolmaster, and coming up here two nights a week fort' teach her a bit o' writing and ciphering.'

  'And geography,' put in Sylvia; 'for,' thought she, 'if I'm to learnthem things I don't care a pin about, anyhow I'll learn what I docare to know, if it 'll tell me about t' Greenland seas, and how farthey're off.'

  That same evening, a trio alike in many outward circumstances satein a small neat room in a house opening out of a confined court onthe hilly side of the High Street of Monkshaven--a mother, her onlychild, and the young man who silently loved that daughter, and wasfavoured by Alice Rose, though not by Hester.

  When the latter returned from her afternoon's absence, she stood fora minute or two on the little flight of steep steps, whitened to asnowy whiteness; the aspect of the whole house partook of the samecharacter of irreproachable cleanliness. It was wedged up into aspace which necessitated all sorts of odd projections andirregularities in order to obtain sufficient light for the interior;and if ever the being situated in a dusky, confined corner mighthave been made an excuse for dirt, Alice Rose's house had thatapology. Yet the small diamond panes of glass in the casement windowwere kept so bright and clear that a great sweet-scented-leavedgeranium grew and flourished, though it did not flower profusely.The leaves seemed to fill the air with fragrance as soon as Hestersummoned up energy enough to open the door. Perhaps that was becausethe young Quaker, William Coulson, was crushing one between hisfinger and thumb, while waiting to set down Alice's next words. Forthe old woman, who looked as if many years of life remained in heryet, was solemnly dictating her last will and testament.

  It had been on her mind for many months; for she had something toleave beyond the mere furniture of the house. Something--a fewpounds--in the hands of John and Jeremiah Foster, her cousins: andit was they who had suggested the duty on which she was engaged. Shehad asked William Coulson to write down her wishes, and he hadconsented, though with some fear and trepidation; for he had an ideathat he was infringing on a lawyer's prerogative, and that, foraught he knew, he might be prosecuted for making a will without alicence, just as a man might be punished for selling wine andspirits without going through the preliminary legal forms that givepermission for such a sale. But to his suggestion that Alice shouldemploy a lawyer, she had replied--

  'That would cost me five pounds sterling; and thee canst do it aswell, if thee'll but attend to my words.'

  So he had bought, at her desire, a black-edged sheet of fine-wovepaper, and a couple of good pens, on the previous Saturday; andwhile waiting for her to begin her dictation, and full seriousthought himself, he had almost unconsciously made the grand flourishat the top of the paper which he had learnt at school, and which wasthere called a spread-eagle.

  'What art thee doing there?' asked Alice, suddenly alive to hisproceedings.

  Without a word he showed her his handiwork.

  'It's a vanity,' said she, 'and 't may make t' will not stand. Folkmay think I were na in my right mind, if they see such fly-legs andcob-webs a-top. Write, "This is my doing, William Coulson, and noneof Alice Rose's, she being in her sound mind."'

  'I don't think it's needed,' said William. Nevertheless he wrotedown the words.

  'Hast thee put that I'm in my sound mind and seven senses? Then makethe sign of the Trinity, and write, "In the name of the Father, theSon, and the Holy Ghost."'

  'Is that the right way o' beginning a will?' said Coulson, a littlestartled.

  'My father, and my father's father, and my husband had it a-top oftheirs, and I'm noane going for to cease fra' following after them,for they were godly men, though my husband were o' t' episcopalpersuasion.'

  'It's done,' said William.

  'Hast thee dated it?' asked Alice.

  'Nay.'

&n
bsp; '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 restof my furniture, to my lawful and only daughter, Hester Rose. Ithink 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 sofond o' puddings and cakes. It 'll serve thy wife after I'm gone,and I trust she'll boil her paste 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 hotand comfortable; and there's noane many but a wife as'll look afterthat for t' please thee.'

  'I know who could please me,' sighed forth William, 'but I can'tplease her.'

  Alice looked sharply at him from over her spectacles, which she hadput 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 eyes.

  'Hester cares noane for me,' said he, dejectedly.

  'Bide a while, my lad,' said Alice, kindly. 'Young women don'talways know their own minds. Thee and her would make a marriageafter 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 theecares for her so much. I sometimes think she wearies o' thy looksand thy ways. Show up thy manly heart, and make as though thee hadmuch else to think on, and no leisure for to dawdle after her, andshe'll think a deal more on thee. And now mend thy pen for a freshstart. I give and bequeath--did thee put "give and bequeath," at th'beginning?'

  'Nay,' said William, looking back. 'Thee didst not tell me "give andbequeath!"'

  'Then it won't be legal, and my bit o' furniture 'll be taken toLondon, 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 thoseare my special words. Hast thee done it? Then now start afresh. Igive 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 beglad 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 arerich i' world's gear, but they'll prize what I leave 'em if I couldonly onbethink me what they would like. Hearken! Is na' that ourHester'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 nextFirst Day; it will serve us for several Sabbaths to come, and maybeI can think on something as will suit cousin John and cousinJeremiah afore then.'

  Hester, as was mentioned, paused a minute or two before lifting thelatch of the door. When she entered there was no unusual sign ofwriting about; only Will Coulson looking very red, and crushing andsmelling at the geranium leaf.

  Hester came in briskly, with the little stock of enforcedcheerfulness she had stopped at the door to acquire. But it fadedaway along with the faint flush of colour in her cheeks; and themother'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' goodnessout of t' tea by now, for it'll be an hour since I made it. Poorlass, thou look'st as if thou needed a good cup o' tea. It were dreework sitting wi' Betsy Darley, were it? And how does she look on heraffliction?'

  'She takes it sore to heart,' said Hester, taking off her hat, andfolding and smoothing away her cloak, before putting them in thegreat oak chest (or 'ark,' as it was called), in which they werelaid from Sunday to Sunday.

  As she opened the lid a sweet scent of dried lavender androse-leaves came out. William stepped hastily forwards to hold upthe heavy lid for her. She lifted up her head, looked at him fullwith her serene eyes, and thanked him for his little service. Thenshe took a creepie-stool and sate down on the side of thefire-place, having her back to the window.

  The hearth was of the same spotless whiteness as the steps; all thatwas black about the grate was polished to the utmost extent; allthat was of brass, like the handle of the oven, was burnishedbright. Her mother placed the little black earthenware teapot, inwhich the tea had been stewing, on the table, where cups and saucerswere already set for four, and a large plate of bread and buttercut. Then they sate round the table, bowed their heads, and keptsilence 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 ofheart out of sympathy with her child--

  'Philip would have been in to his tea by now, I reckon, if he'd beencoming.'

  William looked up suddenly at Hester; her mother carefully turnedher 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 fromCarlisle-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. 'Itwere a'most like election time; I were just come back fra' meetingwhen 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 sinsstirring within him, it's not for me to say. And by t' time I wasback here and settled to my Bible, t' folk were returning, and itwere tramp, tramp, past th' entry end for better nor a quarter of anhour.'

  'They say Kinraid has getten slugs and gun-shot in his side,' saidHester.

  'He's niver one Charley Kinraid, for sure, as I knowed atNewcastle,' said William Coulson, roused to sudden and energeticcuriosity.

  'I don't know,' replied Hester; 'they call him just Kinraid; andBetsy Darley says he's t' most daring specksioneer of all that gooff this coast to t' Greenland seas. But he's been in Newcastle, forI 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 keptcompany with my poor sister as is dead for better nor two year, andthen he left off coming to see her and went wi' another girl, and itjust 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 acall no one can tell. But to my eyne he looks as if he had beencalled, and was going.'

  'Then he'll meet my sister,' said William, solemnly; 'and I hope theLord will make it clear to him, then, how he killed her, as sure ashe shot down yon sailors; an' if there's a gnashing o' teeth formurder i' that other place, I reckon he'll have his share on't. He'sa bad man yon.'

  'Betsy said he were such a friend to her brother as niver was; andhe's sent her word and promised to go and see her, first place hegoes 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 toreceive him. The usual bedtime in the household was nine o'clock,and it was but ten minutes past the hour; but Alice lookeddispleased 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 aredifferent,' said he, taking out his watch to compare it with theround moon's face that told the time to Alice.

  'I know nought about thy uncle's, but thee art late. Take thycandle, and begone.'

  If Alice made any reply to Philip's 'good-night,
' he did not hearit.