_ For a few days after the evening mentioned in the last chapter the
weather was dull. Not in quick, sudden showers did the rain come
down, but in constant drizzle, blotting out all colour from the
surrounding landscape, and filling the air with fine gray mist,
until people breathed more water than air. At such times the
consciousness of the nearness of the vast unseen sea acted as a
dreary depression to the spirits; but besides acting on the nerves
of the excitable, such weather affected the sensitive or ailing in
material ways. Daniel Robson's fit of rheumatism incapacitated him
from stirring abroad; and to a man of his active habits, and
somewhat inactive mind, this was a great hardship. He was not
ill-tempered naturally, but this state of confinement made him more
ill-tempered than he had ever been before in his life. He sat in the
chimney-corner, abusing the weather and doubting the wisdom or
desirableness of all his wife saw fit to do in the usual daily
household matters. The 'chimney-corner' was really a corner at
Haytersbank. There were two projecting walls on each side of the
fire-place, running about six feet into the room, and a stout wooden
settle was placed against one of these, while opposite was the
circular-backed 'master's chair,' the seat of which was composed of
a square piece of wood judiciously hollowed out, and placed with one
corner to the front. Here, in full view of all the operations going
on over the fire, sat Daniel Robson for four live-long days,
advising and directing his wife in all such minor matters as the
boiling of potatoes, the making of porridge, all the work on which
she specially piqued herself, and on which she would have taken
advice--no! not from the most skilled housewife in all the three
Ridings. But, somehow, she managed to keep her tongue quiet from
telling him, as she would have done any woman, and any other man, to
mind his own business, or she would pin a dish-clout to his tail.
She even checked Sylvia when the latter proposed, as much for fun as
for anything else, that his ignorant directions should be followed,
and the consequences brought before his eyes and his nose.
'Na, na!' said Bell, 'th' feyther's feyther, and we mun respect him.
But it's dree work havin' a man i' th' house, nursing th' fire, an'
such weather too, and not a soul coming near us, not even to fall
out wi' him; for thee and me must na' do that, for th' Bible's sake,
dear; and a good stand-up wordy quarrel would do him a power of
good; stir his blood like. I wish Philip would turn up.'
Bell sighed, for in these four days she had experienced somewhat of
Madame de Maintenon's difficulty (and with fewer resources to meet
it) of trying to amuse a man who was not amusable. For Bell, good
and sensible as she was, was not a woman of resources. Sylvia's
plan, undutiful as it was in her mother's eyes, would have done
Daniel more good, even though it might have made him angry, than his
wife's quiet, careful monotony of action, which, however it might
conduce to her husband's comfort when he was absent, did not amuse
him when present.
Sylvia scouted the notion of cousin Philip coming into their
household in the character of an amusing or entertaining person,
till she nearly made her mother angry at her ridicule of the good
steady young fellow, to whom Bell looked up as the pattern of all
that early manhood should be. But the moment Sylvia saw she had been
giving her mother pain, she left off her wilful little jokes, and
kissed her, and told her she would manage all famously, and ran out
of the back-kitchen, in which mother and daughter had been scrubbing
the churn and all the wooden implements of butter-making. Bell
looked at the pretty figure of her little daughter, as, running past
with her apron thrown over her head, she darkened the window beneath
which her mother was doing her work. She paused just for a moment,
and then said, almost unawares to herself, 'Bless thee, lass,'
before resuming her scouring of what already looked almost
snow-white.
Sylvia scampered across the rough farmyard in the wetting, drizzling
rain to the place where she expected to find Kester; but he was not
there, so she had to retrace her steps to the cow-house, and, making
her way up a rough kind of ladder-staircase fixed straight against
the wall, she surprised Kester as he sat in the wool-loft, looking
over the fleeces reserved for the home-spinning, by popping her
bright face, swathed round with her blue woollen apron, up through
the trap-door, and thus, her head the only visible part, she
addressed the farm-servant, who was almost like one of the family.
'Kester, feyther's just tiring hissel' wi' weariness an' vexation,
sitting by t' fireside wi' his hands afore him, an' nought to do.
An' mother and me can't think on aught as 'll rouse him up to a bit
of a laugh, or aught more cheerful than a scolding. Now, Kester,
thou mun just be off, and find Harry Donkin th' tailor, and bring
him here; it's gettin' on for Martinmas, an' he'll be coming his
rounds, and he may as well come here first as last, and feyther's
clothes want a deal o' mending up, and Harry's always full of his
news, and anyhow he'll do for feyther to scold, an' be a new person
too, and that's somewhat for all on us. Now go, like a good old
Kester as yo' are.'
Kester looked at her with loving, faithful admiration. He had set
himself his day's work in his master's absence, and was very
desirous of finishing it, but, somehow, he never dreamed of
resisting Sylvia, so he only stated the case.
'T' 'ool's a vast o' muck in 't, an' a thowt as a'd fettle it, an'
do it up; but a reckon a mun do yo'r biddin'.'
'There's a good old Kester,' said she, smiling, and nodding her
muffled head at him; then she dipped down out of his sight, then
rose up again (he had never taken his slow, mooney eyes from the
spot where she had disappeared) to say--'Now, Kester, be wary and
deep--thou mun tell Harry Donkin not to let on as we've sent for
him, but just to come in as if he were on his round, and took us
first; and he mun ask feyther if there is any work for him to do;
and I'll answer for 't, he'll have a welcome and a half. Now, be
deep and fause, mind thee!'
'A'se deep an' fause enow wi' simple folk; but what can a do i'
Donkin be as fause as me--as happen he may be?'
'Ga way wi' thee! I' Donkin be Solomon, thou mun be t' Queen o'
Sheba; and I'se bound for to say she outwitted him at last!'
Kester laughed so long at the idea of his being the Queen of Sheba,
that Sylvia was back by her mother's side before the cachinnation
ended.
That night, just as Sylvia was preparing to go to bed in her little
closet of a room, she heard some shot rattling at her window. She
opened the little casement, and saw Kester standing below. He
recommenced where he left off, with a laugh--
'He, he, he! A's been t' queen! A'se ta'en Donkin on t' reet side,
an' he'll coom in to-morrow, just permiskus, an' ax for work, like
as if 't were a favour; t' oud felley were a bit cross-grained at
startin', for he were workin' at farmer Crosskey's up at t' other
side o' t' town, wheer they puts a strike an' a half of maut intil
t' beer, when most folk put nobbut a strike, an t' made him ill to
convince: but he'll coom, niver fear!'
The honest fellow never said a word of the shilling he had paid out
of his own pocket to forward Sylvia's wishes, and to persuade the
tailor to leave the good beer. All his anxiety now was to know if he
had been missed, and if it was likely that a scolding awaited him in
the morning.
'T' oud measter didn't set up his back, 'cause a didn't coom in t'
supper?'
'He questioned a bit as to what thou were about, but mother didn't
know, an' I held my peace. Mother carried thy supper in t' loft for
thee.'
'A'll gang after 't, then, for a'm like a pair o' bellowses wi' t'
wind out; just two flat sides wi' nowt betwixt.'
The next morning, Sylvia's face was a little redder than usual when
Harry Donkin's bow-legs were seen circling down the path to the
house door.
'Here's Donkin, for sure!' exclaimed Bell, when she caught sight of
him a minute after her daughter. 'Well, I just call that lucky! for
he'll be company for thee while Sylvia and me has to turn th'
cheeses.'
This was too original a remark for a wife to make in Daniel's
opinion, on this especial morning, when his rheumatism was twinging
him more than usual, so he replied with severity--
'That's all t' women know about it. Wi' them it's "coompany,
coompany, coompany," an' they think a man's no better than
theirsels. A'd have yo' to know a've a vast o' thoughts in myself',
as I'm noane willing to lay out for t' benefit o' every man. A've
niver gotten time for meditation sin' a were married; leastways,
sin' a left t' sea. Aboard ship, wi' niver a woman wi'n leagues o'
hail, and upo' t' masthead, in special, a could.'
'Then I'd better tell Donkin as we've no work for him,' said Sylvia,
instinctively managing her father by agreeing with him, instead of
reasoning with or contradicting him.
'Now, theere you go!' wrenching himself round, for fear Sylvia
should carry her meekly made threat into execution. 'Ugh! ugh!' as
his limb hurt him. 'Come in, Harry, come in, and talk a bit o' sense
to me, for a've been shut up wi' women these four days, and a'm
a'most a nateral by this time. A'se bound for 't, they'll find yo'
some wark, if 't's nought but for to save their own fingers.'
So Harry took off his coat, and seated himself professional-wise on
the hastily-cleared dresser, so that he might have all the light
afforded by the long, low casement window. Then he blew in his
thimble, sucked his finger, so that they might adhere tightly
together, and looked about for a subject for opening conversation,
while Sylvia and her mother might be heard opening and shutting
drawers and box-lids before they could find the articles that needed
repair, or that were required to mend each other.
'Women's well enough i' their way,' said Daniel, in a philosophizing
tone, 'but a man may have too much on 'em. Now there's me, leg-fast
these four days, and a'll make free to say to yo', a'd rather a deal
ha' been loading dung i' t' wettest weather; an' a reckon it's th'
being wi' nought but women as tires me so: they talk so foolish it
gets int' t' bones like. Now thou know'st thou'rt not called much of
a man oather, but bless yo', t' ninth part's summut to be thankful
for, after nought but women. An' yet, yo' seen, they were for
sending yo' away i' their foolishness! Well! missus, and who's to
pay for t' fettling of all them clothes?' as Bell came down with her
arms full. She was going to answer her husband meekly and literally
according to her wont, but Sylvia, already detecting the increased
cheerfulness of his tone, called out from behind her mother--
'I am, feyther. I'm going for to sell my new cloak as I bought
Thursday, for the mending on your old coats and waistcoats.'
'Hearken till her,' said Daniel, chuckling. 'She's a true wench.
Three days sin' noane so full as she o' t' new cloak that now she's
fain t' sell.'
'Ay, Harry. If feyther won't pay yo' for making all these old
clothes as good as new, I'll sell my new red cloak sooner than yo'
shall go unpaid.'
'A reckon it's a bargain,' said Harry, casting sharp, professional
eyes on the heap before him, and singling out the best article as to
texture for examination and comment.
'They're all again these metal buttons,' said he. 'Silk weavers has
been petitioning Ministers t' make a law to favour silk buttons; and
I did hear tell as there were informers goin' about spyin' after
metal buttons, and as how they could haul yo' before a justice for
wearing on 'em.'
'A were wed in 'em, and a'll wear 'em to my dyin' day, or a'll wear
noane at a'. They're for making such a pack o' laws, they'll be for
meddling wi' my fashion o' sleeping next, and taxing me for ivery
snore a give. They've been after t' winders, and after t' vittle,
and after t' very saut to 't; it's dearer by hauf an' more nor it
were when a were a boy: they're a meddlesome set o' folks,
law-makers is, an' a'll niver believe King George has ought t' do
wi' 't. But mark my words; I were wed wi' brass buttons, and brass
buttons a'll wear to my death, an' if they moither me about it, a'll
wear brass buttons i' my coffin!'
By this time Harry had arranged a certain course of action with Mrs
Robson, conducting the consultation and agreement by signs. His
thread was flying fast already, and the mother and daughter felt
more free to pursue their own business than they had done for
several days; for it was a good sign that Daniel had taken his pipe
out of the square hollow in the fireside wall, where he usually kept
it, and was preparing to diversify his remarks with satisfying
interludes of puffing.
'Why, look ye; this very baccy had a run for 't. It came ashore
sewed up neatly enough i' a woman's stays, as was wife to a
fishing-smack down at t' bay yonder. She were a lean thing as iver
you saw, when she went for t' see her husband aboard t' vessel; but
she coom back lustier by a deal, an' wi' many a thing on her, here
and theere, beside baccy. An' that were i' t' face o' coast-guard
and yon tender, an' a'. But she made as though she were tipsy, an'
so they did nought but curse her, an' get out on her way.'
'Speaking of t' tender, there's been a piece o' wark i' Monkshaven
this week wi' t' press-gang,' said Harry.
'Ay! ay! our lass was telling about 't; but, Lord bless ye! there's
no gettin' t' rights on a story out on a woman--though a will say
this for our Sylvie, she's as bright a lass as iver a man looked
at.'
Now the truth was, that Daniel had not liked to demean himself, at
the time when Sylvia came back so full of what she had seen at
Monkshaven, by evincing any curiosity on the subject. He had then
thought that the next day he would find some business that should
take him down to the town, when he could learn all that was to be
learnt, without flattering his womankind by asking questions, as if
anything they might say could interest him. He had a strong notion
of being a kind of domestic Jupiter.
'It's made a deal o' wark i' Monkshaven. Folk had gotten to think
nought o' t' tender, she lay so still, an' t' leftenant paid such a
good price for all he wanted for t' ship. But o' Thursday t'
_Resolution_, first whaler back this season, came in port, and t'
press-gang showed their teeth, and carried off four as good
able-bodied seamen as iver I made trousers for; and t' place were
all up like a nest o' wasps, when yo've set your foot in t' midst.
They were so mad, they were ready for t' fight t' very pavin'
stones.'
'A wish a'd been theere! A just wish a had! A've a score for t'
reckon up wi' t' press-gang!'
And the old man lifted up his right hand--his hand on which the
forefinger and thumb were maimed and useless--partly in
denunciation, and partly as a witness of what he had endured to
escape from the service, abhorred because it was forced. His face
became a totally different countenance with the expression of
settled and unrelenting indignation, which his words called out.
'G'on, man, g'on,' said Daniel, impatient with Donkin for the little
delay occasioned by the necessity of arranging his work more fully.
'Ay! ay! all in good time; for a've a long tale to tell yet; an' a
mun have some 'un to iron me out my seams, and look me out my bits,
for there's none here fit for my purpose.'
'Dang thy bits! Here, Sylvie! Sylvie! come and be tailor's man, and
let t' chap get settled sharp, for a'm fain t' hear his story.'
Sylvia took her directions, and placed her irons in the fire, and
ran upstairs for the bundle which had been put aside by her careful
mother for occasions like the present. It consisted of small pieces
of various coloured cloth, cut out of old coats and waistcoats, and
similar garments, when the whole had become too much worn for use,
yet when part had been good enough to be treasured by a thrifty
housewife. Daniel grew angry before Donkin had selected his patterns
and settled the work to his own mind.
'Well,' said he at last; 'a mought be a young man a-goin' a wooin',
by t' pains thou'st taken for t' match my oud clothes. I don't care
if they're patched wi' scarlet, a tell thee; so as thou'lt work away
at thy tale wi' thy tongue, same time as thou works at thy needle
wi' thy fingers.'
'Then, as a were saying, all Monkshaven were like a nest o' wasps,
flyin' hither and thither, and makin' sich a buzzin' and a talkin'
as niver were; and each wi' his sting out, ready for t' vent his
venom o' rage and revenge. And women cryin' and sobbin' i' t'
streets--when, Lord help us! o' Saturday came a worse time than
iver! for all Friday there had been a kind o' expectation an' dismay
about t' _Good Fortune_, as t' mariners had said was off St Abb's
Head o' Thursday, when t' _Resolution_ came in; and there was wives
and maids wi' husbands an' sweethearts aboard t' _Good Fortune_
ready to throw their eyes out on their heads wi' gazin', gazin'
nor'ards over t'sea, as were all one haze o' blankness wi' t' rain;
and when t' afternoon tide comed in, an' niver a line on her to be
seen, folk were oncertain as t' whether she were holding off for
fear o' t' tender--as were out o' sight, too--or what were her mak'
o' goin' on. An' t' poor wet draggled women folk came up t' town,
some slowly cryin', as if their hearts was sick, an' others just
bent their heads to t' wind, and went straight to their homes,
nother looking nor speaking to ony one; but barred their doors, and
stiffened theirsels up for a night o' waiting. Saturday morn--yo'll
mind Saturday morn, it were stormy and gusty, downreet dirty
weather--theere stood t' folk again by daylight, a watching an' a
straining, and by that tide t' _Good Fortune_ came o'er t' bar. But
t' excisemen had sent back her news by t' boat as took 'em there.
They'd a deal of oil, and a vast o' blubber. But for all that her
flag was drooping i' t' rain, half mast high, for mourning and
sorrow, an' they'd a dead man aboard--a dead man as was living and
strong last sunrise. An' there was another as lay between life an'
death, and there was seven more as should ha' been theere as wasn't,
but was carried off by t' gang. T' frigate as we 'n a' heard tell
on, as lying off Hartlepool, got tidings fra' t' tender as captured
t' seamen o' Thursday: and t' _Aurora_, as they ca'ed her, made off
for t' nor'ard; and nine leagues off St Abb's Head, t' _Resolution_
thinks she were, she see'd t' frigate, and knowed by her build she
were a man-o'-war, and guessed she were bound on king's kidnapping.
I seen t' wounded man mysen wi' my own eyes; and he'll live! he'll
live! Niver a man died yet, wi' such a strong purpose o' vengeance
in him. He could barely speak, for he were badly shot, but his
colour coome and went, as t' master's mate an' t' captain telled me
and some others how t' _Aurora_ fired at 'em, and how t' innocent
whaler hoisted her colours, but afore they were fairly run up,
another shot coome close in t' shrouds, and then t' Greenland ship
being t' windward, bore down on t' frigate; but as they knew she
were an oud fox, and bent on mischief, Kinraid (that's he who lies
a-dying, only he'll noane die, a'se bound), the specksioneer, bade
t' men go down between decks, and fasten t' hatches well, an' he'd
stand guard, he an' captain, and t' oud master's mate, being left
upo' deck for t' give a welcome just skin-deep to t' boat's crew
fra' t' _Aurora_, as they could see coming t'wards them o'er t'
watter, wi' their reg'lar man-o'-war's rowing----'
'Damn 'em!' said Daniel, in soliloquy, and under his breath.
Sylvia stood, poising her iron, and listening eagerly, afraid to
give Donkin the hot iron for fear of interrupting the narrative,
unwilling to put it into the fire again, because that action would
perchance remind him of his work, which now the tailor had
forgotten, so eager was he in telling his story.
'Well! they coome on over t' watters wi' great bounds, and up t'
sides they coome like locusts, all armed men; an' t' captain says he
saw Kinraid hide away his whaling knife under some tarpaulin', and
he knew he meant mischief, an' he would no more ha' stopped him wi'
a word nor he would ha' stopped him fra' killing a whale. And when
t' _Aurora_'s men were aboard, one on 'em runs to t' helm; and at
that t' captain says, he felt as if his wife were kissed afore his
face; but says he, "I bethought me on t' men as were shut up below
hatches, an' I remembered t' folk at Monkshaven as were looking out
for us even then; an' I said to mysel', I would speak fair as long
as I could, more by token o' the whaling-knife, as I could see
glinting bright under t' black tarpaulin." So he spoke quite fair
and civil, though he see'd they was nearing t' _Aurora_, and t'
_Aurora_ was nearing them. Then t' navy captain hailed him thro' t'
trumpet, wi' a great rough blast, and, says he, "Order your men to
come on deck." And t' captain of t' whaler says his men cried up
from under t' hatches as they'd niver be gi'en up wi'out bloodshed,
and he sees Kinraid take out his pistol, and look well to t'
priming; so he says to t' navy captain, "We're protected
Greenland-men, and you have no right t' meddle wi' us." But t' navy
captain only bellows t' more, "Order your men t' come on deck. If
they won't obey you, and you have lost the command of your vessel, I
reckon you're in a state of mutiny, and you may come aboard t'
_Aurora_ and such men as are willing t' follow you, and I'll fire
int' the rest." Yo' see, that were t' depth o' the man: he were for
pretending and pretexting as t' captain could na manage his own
ship, and as he'd help him. But our Greenland captain were noane so
poor-spirited, and says he, "She's full of oil, and I ware you of
consequences if you fire into her. Anyhow, pirate, or no pirate"
(for t' word pirate stuck in his gizzard), "I'm a honest Monkshaven
man, an' I come fra' a land where there's great icebergs and many a
deadly danger, but niver a press-gang, thank God! and that's what
you are, I reckon." Them's the words he told me, but whether he
spoke 'em out so bold at t' time, I'se not so sure; they were in his
mind for t' speak, only maybe prudence got t' better on him, for he
said he prayed i' his heart to bring his cargo safe to t' owners,
come what might. Well, t' _Aurora_'s men aboard t' _Good Fortune_
cried out "might they fire down t' hatches, and bring t' men out
that a way?" and then t' specksioneer, he speaks, an' he says he
stands ower t' hatches, and he has two good pistols, and summut
besides, and he don't care for his life, bein' a bachelor, but all
below are married men, yo' see, and he'll put an end to t' first two
chaps as come near t' hatches. An' they say he picked two off as
made for t' come near, and then, just as he were stooping for t'
whaling knife, an' it's as big as a sickle----'
'Teach folk as don't know a whaling knife,' cried Daniel. 'I were a
Greenland-man mysel'.'
'They shot him through t' side, and dizzied him, and kicked him
aside for dead; and fired down t' hatches, and killed one man, and
disabled two, and then t' rest cried for quarter, for life is sweet,
e'en aboard a king's ship; and t' _Aurora_ carried 'em off, wounded
men, an' able men, an' all: leaving Kinraid for dead, as wasn't
dead, and Darley for dead, as was dead, an' t' captain and master's
mate as were too old for work; and t' captain, as loves Kinraid like
a brother, poured rum down his throat, and bandaged him up, and has
sent for t' first doctor in Monkshaven for to get t' slugs out; for
they say there's niver such a harpooner in a' t' Greenland seas; an'
I can speak fra' my own seeing he's a fine young fellow where he
lies theere, all stark and wan for weakness and loss o' blood. But
Darley's dead as a door-nail; and there's to be such a burying of
him as niver was seen afore i' Monkshaven, come Sunday. And now gi'
us t' iron, wench, and let's lose no more time a-talking.'
'It's noane loss o' time,' said Daniel, moving himself heavily in
his chair, to feel how helpless he was once more. 'If a were as
young as once a were--nay, lad, if a had na these sore rheumatics,
now--a reckon as t' press-gang 'ud find out as t' shouldn't do such
things for nothing. Bless thee, man! it's waur nor i' my youth i'
th' Ameriky war, and then 't were bad enough.'
'And Kinraid?' said Sylvia, drawing a long breath, after the effort
of realizing it all; her cheeks had flushed up, and her eyes had
glittered during the progress of the tale.
'Oh! he'll do. He'll not die. Life's stuff is in him yet.'
'He'll be Molly Corney's cousin, I reckon,' said Sylvia, bethinking
her with a blush of Molly Corney's implication that he was more than
a cousin to her, and immediately longing to go off and see Molly,
and hear all the little details which women do not think it beneath
them to give to women. From that time Sylvia's little heart was bent
on this purpose. But it was not one to be openly avowed even to
herself. She only wanted sadly to see Molly, and she almost believed
herself that it was to consult her about the fashion of her cloak;
which Donkin was to cut out, and which she was to make under his
directions; at any rate, this was the reason she gave to her mother
when the day's work was done, and a fine gleam came out upon the
pale and watery sky towards evening. _