THE ORDEAL
It was the afternoon of an April day in that same year, and the sky
was blue above, with little sailing white clouds catching the
pleasant sunlight. The earth in that northern country had scarcely
yet put on her robe of green. The few trees grew near brooks running
down from the moors and the higher ground. The air was full of
pleasant sounds prophesying of the coming summer. The rush, and
murmur, and tinkle of the hidden watercourses; the song of the lark
poised high up in the sunny air; the bleat of the lambs calling to
their mothers--everything inanimate was full of hope and gladness.
For the first time for a mournful month the front door of
Haytersbank Farm was open; the warm spring air might enter, and
displace the sad dark gloom, if it could. There was a newly-lighted
fire in the unused grate; and Kester was in the kitchen, with his
clogs off his feet, so as not to dirty the spotless floor, stirring
here and there, and trying in his awkward way to make things look
home-like and cheerful. He had brought in some wild daffodils which
he had been to seek in the dawn, and he placed them in a jug on the
dresser. Dolly Reid, the woman who had come to help Sylvia during
her mother's illness a year ago, was attending to something in the
back-kitchen, making a noise among the milk-cans, and singing a
ballad to herself as she worked; yet every now and then she checked
herself in her singing, as if a sudden recollection came upon her
that this was neither the time nor the place for songs. Once or
twice she took up the funeral psalm which is sung by the bearers of
the body in that country--
Our God, our help in ages past.
But it was of no use: the pleasant April weather out of doors, and
perhaps the natural spring in the body, disposed her nature to
cheerfulness, and insensibly she returned to her old ditty.
Kester was turning over many things in his rude honest mind as he
stood there, giving his finishing touches every now and then to the
aspect of the house-place, in preparation for the return of the
widow and daughter of his old master.
It was a month and more since they had left home; more than a
fortnight since Kester, with three halfpence in his pocket, had set
out after his day's work to go to York--to walk all night long, and
to wish Daniel Robson his last farewell.
Daniel had tried to keep up and had brought out one or two familiar,
thread-bare, well-worn jokes, such as he had made Kester chuckle
over many a time and oft, when the two had been together afield or
in the shippen at the home which he should never more see. But no
'Old Grouse in the gunroom' could make Kester smile, or do anything
except groan in but a heart-broken sort of fashion, and presently
the talk had become more suitable to the occasion, Daniel being up
to the last the more composed of the two; for Kester, when turned
out of the condemned cell, fairly broke down into the heavy sobbing
he had never thought to sob again on earth. He had left Bell and
Sylvia in their lodging at York, under Philip's care; he dared not
go to see them; he could not trust himself; he had sent them his
duty, and bade Philip tell Sylvia that the game-hen had brought out
fifteen chickens at a hatch.
Yet although Kester sent this message through Philip--although he
saw and recognized all that Philip was doing in their behalf, in the
behalf of Daniel Robson, the condemned felon, his honoured master--he
liked Hepburn not a whit better than he had done before all this
sorrow had come upon them.
Philip had, perhaps, shown a want of tact in his conduct to Kester.
Acute with passionate keenness in one direction, he had a sort of
dull straightforwardness in all others. For instance, he had
returned Kester the money which the latter had so gladly advanced
towards the expenses incurred in defending Daniel. Now the money
which Philip gave him back was part of an advance which Foster
Brothers had made on Philip's own account. Philip had thought that
it was hard on Kester to lose his savings in a hopeless cause, and
had made a point of repaying the old man; but Kester would far
rather have felt that the earnings of the sweat of his brow had gone
in the attempt to save his master's life than have had twice ten
times as many golden guineas.
Moreover, it seemed to take his action in lending his hoard out of
the sphere of love, and make it but a leaden common loan, when it
was Philip who brought him the sum, not Sylvia, into whose hands he
had given it.
With these feelings Kester felt his heart shut up as he saw the
long-watched-for two coming down the little path with a third
person; with Philip holding up the failing steps of poor Bell
Robson, as, loaded with her heavy mourning, and feeble from the
illness which had detained her in York ever since the day of her
husband's execution, she came faltering back to her desolate home.
Sylvia was also occupied in attending to her mother; one or twice,
when they paused a little, she and Philip spoke, in the familiar way
in which there is no coyness nor reserve. Kester caught up his
clogs, and went quickly out through the back-kitchen into the
farm-yard, not staying to greet them, as he had meant to do; and yet
it was dull-sighted of him not to have perceived that whatever might
be the relations between Philip and Sylvia, he was sure to have
accompanied them home; for, alas! he was the only male protector of
their blood remaining in the world. Poor Kester, who would fain have
taken that office upon himself, chose to esteem himself cast off,
and went heavily about the farmyard, knowing that he ought to go in
and bid such poor welcome as he had to offer, yet feeling too much
to like to show himself before Philip.
It was long, too, before any one had leisure to come and seek him.
Bell's mind had flashed up for a time, till the fatal day, only to
be reduced by her subsequent illness into complete and hopeless
childishness. It was all Philip and Sylvia could do to manage her in
the first excitement of returning home; her restless inquiry for him
who would never more be present in the familiar scene, her feverish
weariness and uneasiness, all required tender soothing and most
patient endurance of her refusals to be satisfied with what they
said or did.
At length she took some food, and, refreshed by it, and warmed by
the fire, she sank asleep in her chair. Then Philip would fain have
spoken with Sylvia before the hour came at which he must return to
Monkshaven, but she eluded him, and went in search of Kester, whose
presence she had missed.
She had guessed some of the causes which kept him from greeting them
on their first return. But it was not as if she had shaped these
causes into the definite form of words. It is astonishing to look
back and find how differently constituted were the minds of most
people fifty or sixty years ago; they felt, they understood, without
going through reasoning or analytic processes, and if this was the
case among the more educated people, of course it was still more so
in the class to which Sylvia belonged. She knew by some sort of
intuition that if Philip accompanied them home (as, indeed, under
the circumstances, was so natural as to be almost unavoidable), the
old servant and friend of the family would absent himself; and so
she slipped away at the first possible moment to go in search of
him. There he was in the farm-yard, leaning over the gate that
opened into the home-field, apparently watching the poultry that
scratched and pecked at the new-springing grass with the utmost
relish. A little farther off were the ewes with their new-dropped
lambs, beyond that the great old thorn-tree with its round fresh
clusters of buds, again beyond that there was a glimpse of the vast
sunny rippling sea; but Sylvia knew well that Kester was looking at
none of these things. She went up to him and touched his arm. He
started from his reverie, and turned round upon her with his dim
eyes full of unshed tears. When he saw her black dress, her deep
mourning, he had hard work to keep from breaking out, but by dint of
a good brush of his eyes with the back of his hand, and a moment's
pause, he could look at her again with tolerable calmness.
'Why, Kester: why didst niver come to speak to us?' said Sylvia,
finding it necessary to be cheerful if she could.
'A dun know; niver ax me. A say, they'n gi'en Dick Simpson' (whose
evidence had been all material against poor Daniel Robson at the
trial) 'a' t' rotten eggs and fou' things they could o' Saturday,
they did,' continued he, in a tone of satisfaction; 'ay, and they
niver stopped t' see whether t' eggs were rotten or fresh when their
blood was up--nor whether stones was hard or soft,' he added, in a
lower tone, and chuckling a little.
Sylvia was silent. He looked at her now, chuckling still. Her face
was white, her lips tightened, her eyes a-flame. She drew a long
breath.
'I wish I'd been theere! I wish I could do him an ill turn,' sighed
she, with some kind of expression on her face that made Kester quail
a little.
'Nay, lass! he'll get it fra' others. Niver fret thysel' about sich
rubbish. A'n done ill to speak on him.'
'No! thou hasn't. Then as was friends o' father's I'll love for iver
and iver; them as helped for t' hang him' (she shuddered from head
to foot--a sharp irrepressible shudder!) 'I'll niver
forgive--niver!'
'Niver's a long word,' said Kester, musingly. 'A could horsewhip
him, or cast stones at him, or duck him mysel'; but, lass! niver's a
long word!'
'Well! niver heed if it is--it's me as said it, and I'm turned
savage late days. Come in, Kester, and see poor mother.'
'A cannot,' said he, turning his wrinkled puckered face away, that
she might not see the twitchings of emotion on it. 'There's kine to
be fetched up, and what not, and he's theere, isn't he, Sylvie?'
facing round upon her with inquisitiveness. Under his peering eyes
she reddened a little.
'Yes, if it's Philip thou means; he's been all we've had to look to
sin'.' Again the shudder.
'Well, now he'll be seein' after his shop, a reckon?'
Sylvia was calling to the old mare nibbling tufts of early-springing
grass here and there, and half unconsciously coaxing the creature to
come up to the gate to be stroked. But she heard Kester's words well
enough, and so he saw, although she made this excuse not to reply.
But Kester was not to be put off.
'Folks is talkin' about thee and him; thou'll ha' to mind lest thee
and him gets yo'r names coupled together.'
'It's right down cruel on folks, then,' said she, crimsoning from
some emotion. 'As if any man as was a man wouldn't do all he could
for two lone women at such a time--and he a cousin, too! Tell me who
said so,' continued she, firing round at Kester, 'and I'll niver
forgive 'em--that's all.'
'Hoots!' said Kester, a little conscious that he himself was the
principal representative of that name of multitude folk. 'Here's a
pretty lass; she's' got "a'll niver forgi'e" at her tongue's end wi'
a vengeance.'
Sylvia was a little confused.
'Oh, Kester, man,' said she, 'my heart is sore again' every one, for
feyther's sake.'
And at length the natural relief of plentiful tears came; and
Kester, with instinctive wisdom, let her weep undisturbed; indeed,
he cried not a little himself. They were interrupted by Philip's
voice from the back-door.
'Sylvie, your mother's awake, and wants you!'
'Come, Kester, come,' and taking hold of him she drew him with her
into the house.
Bell rose as they came in, holding by the arms of the chair. At
first she received Kester as though he had been a stranger.
'I'm glad to see yo', sir; t' master's out, but he'll be in afore
long. It'll be about t' lambs yo're come, mebbe?'
'Mother!' said Sylvia, 'dunnot yo' see? it's Kester,--Kester, wi'
his Sunday clothes on.'
'Kester! ay, sure it is; my eyes have getten so sore and dim of
late; just as if I'd been greeting. I'm sure, lad, I'm glad to see
thee! It's a long time I've been away, but it were not
pleasure-seeking as took me, it were business o' some mak'--tell
him, Sylvie, what it were, for my head's clean gone. I only know I
wouldn't ha' left home if I could ha' helped it; for I think I
should ha' kept my health better if I'd bided at home wi' my master.
I wonder as he's not comed in for t' bid me welcome? Is he far
afield, think ye, Kester?'
Kester looked at Sylvia, mutely imploring her to help him out in the
dilemma of answering, but she was doing all she could to help
crying. Philip came to the rescue.
'Aunt,' said he, 'the clock has stopped; can you tell me where t'
find t' key, and I'll wind it up.'
'T' key,' said she, hurriedly, 't' key, it's behind th' big Bible on
yon shelf. But I'd rayther thou wouldn't touch it, lad; it's t'
master's work, and he distrusts folk meddling wi' it.'
Day after day there was this constant reference to her dead husband.
In one sense it was a blessing; all the circumstances attendant on
his sad and untimely end were swept out of her mind along with the
recollection of the fact itself. She referred to him as absent, and
had always some plausible way of accounting for it, which satisfied
her own mind; and, accordingly they fell into the habit of humouring
her, and speaking of him as gone to Monkshaven, or afield, or
wearied out, and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led her to
believe for the moment. But this forgetfulness, though happy for
herself, was terrible for her child. It was a constant renewing of
Sylvia's grief, while her mother could give her no sympathy, no
help, or strength in any circumstances that arose out of this grief.
She was driven more and more upon Philip; his advice and his
affection became daily more necessary to her.
Kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly than
Sylvia did herself; and, impotent to hinder what he feared and
disliked, he grew more and more surly every day. Yet he tried to
labour hard and well for the interests of the family, as if they
were bound up in his good management of the cattle and land. He was
out and about by the earliest dawn, working all day long with might
and main. He bought himself a pair of new spectacles, which might,
he fancied, enable him to read the _Farmer's Complete Guide_, his
dead master's _vade-mecum_. But he had never learnt more than his
capital letters, and had forgotten many of them; so the spectacles
did him but little good. Then he would take the book to Sylvia, and
ask her to read to him the instructions he needed; instructions, be
it noted, that he would formerly have despised as mere
book-learning: but his present sense of responsibility had made him
humble.
Sylvia would find the place with all deliberation: and putting her
finger under the line to keep the exact place of the word she was
reading, she would strive in good earnest to read out the directions
given; but when every fourth word had to be spelt, it was rather
hopeless work, especially as all these words were unintelligible to
the open-mouthed listener, however intent he might be. He had
generally to fall back on his own experience; and, guided by that,
things were not doing badly in his estimation, when, one day, Sylvia
said to him, as they were in the hay-field, heaping up the hay into
cocks with Dolly Reid's assistance--
'Kester--I didn't tell thee--there were a letter from Measter Hall,
Lord Malton's steward, that came last night and that Philip read
me.'
She stopped for a moment.
'Ay, lass! Philip read it thee, and whatten might it say?'
'Only that he had an offer for Haytersbank Farm, and would set
mother free to go as soon as t' crops was off t' ground.'
She sighed a little as she said this.
"'Only!" sayst ta? Whatten business has he for to go an' offer to
let t' farm afore iver he were told as yo' wished to leave it?'
observed Kester, in high dudgeon.
'Oh!' replied Sylvia, throwing down her rake, as if weary of life.
'What could we do wi' t' farm and land? If it were all dairy I might
ha' done, but wi' so much on it arable.'
'And if 'tis arable is not I allays to t' fore?'
'Oh, man, dunnot find fault wi' me! I'm just fain to lie down and
die, if it were not for mother.'
'Ay! thy mother will be sore unsettled if thou's for quitting
Haytersbank,' said merciless Kester.
'I cannot help it; I cannot help it! What can I do? It would take
two pair o' men's hands to keep t' land up as Measter Hall likes it;
and beside----'
'Beside what?' said Kester, looking up at her with his sudden odd
look, one eye shut, the other open: there she stood, her two hands
clasped tight together, her eyes filling with tears, her face pale
and sad. 'Beside what?' he asked again, sharply.
'T' answer's sent to Measter Hall--Philip wrote it last night; so
there's no use planning and fretting, it were done for t' best, and
mun be done.' She stooped and picked up her rake, and began tossing
the hay with energy, the tears streaming down her cheeks unheeded.
It was Kester's turn to throw down his rake. She took no notice, he
did not feel sure that she had observed his action. He began to walk
towards the field-gate; this movement did catch her eye, for in a
minute her hand was on his arm, and she was stooping forward to look
into his face. It was working and twitching with emotion. 'Kester!
oh, man! speak out, but dunnot leave me a this-ns. What could I ha'
done? Mother is gone dateless wi' sorrow, and I am but a young lass,
i' years I mean; for I'm old enough wi' weeping.'
'I'd ha' put up for t' farm mysel', sooner than had thee turned
out,' said Kester, in a low voice; then working himself up into a
passion, as a new suspicion crossed his mind, he added, 'An' what
for didn't yo' tell me on t' letter? Yo' were in a mighty hurry to
settle it a', and get rid on t' oud place.'
'Measter Hall had sent a notice to quit on Midsummer day; but Philip
had answered it hisself. Thou knows I'm not good at reading writing,
'special when a letter's full o' long words, and Philip had ta'en it
in hand to answer.'
'Wi'out asking thee?'
Sylvia went on without minding the interruption.
'And Measter Hall makes a good offer, for t' man as is going to come
in will take t' stock and a' t' implements; and if mother--if we--if
I--like, th' furniture and a'----'
'Furniture!' said Kester, in grim surprise. 'What's to come o' t'
missus and thee, that yo'll not need a bed to lie on, or a pot to
boil yo'r vittel in?'
Sylvia reddened, but kept silence.
'Cannot yo' speak?'
'Oh, Kester, I didn't think thou'd turn again' me, and me so
friendless. It's as if I'd been doin' something wrong, and I have so
striven to act as is best; there's mother as well as me to be
thought on.'
'Cannot yo' answer a question?' said Kester, once more. 'Whatten's
up that t' missus and yo'll not need bed and table, pots and pans?'
'I think I'm going to marry Philip,' said Sylvia, in so low a tone,
that if Kester had not suspected what her answer was to be, he could
not have understood it.
After a moment's pause he recommenced his walk towards the
field-gate. But she went after him and held him tight by the arm,
speaking rapidly.
'Kester, what could I do? What can I do? He's my cousin, and mother
knows him, and likes him; and he's been so good to us in a' this
time o' trouble and heavy grief, and he'll keep mother in comfort
all t' rest of her days.'
'Ay, and thee in comfort. There's a deal in a well-filled purse in a
wench's eyes, or one would ha' thought it weren't so easy forgettin'
yon lad as loved thee as t' apple on his eye.'
'Kester, Kester,' she cried, 'I've niver forgotten Charley; I think
on him, I see him ivery night lying drowned at t' bottom o' t' sea.
Forgetten him! Man! it's easy talking!' She was like a wild creature
that sees its young, but is unable to reach it without a deadly
spring, and yet is preparing to take that fatal leap. Kester himself
was almost startled, and yet it was as if he must go on torturing
her.
'An' who telled thee so sure and certain as he were drowned? He
might ha' been carried off by t' press-gang as well as other men.'
'Oh! if I were but dead that I might know all!' cried she, flinging
herself down on the hay.
Kester kept silence. Then she sprang up again, and looking with
eager wistfulness into his face, she said,--
'Tell me t' chances. Tell me quick! Philip's very good, and kind,
and he says he shall die if I will not marry him, and there's no
home for mother and me,--no home for her, for as for me I dunnot
care what becomes on me; but if Charley's alive I cannot marry
Philip--no, not if he dies for want o' me--and as for mother, poor
mother, Kester, it's an awful strait; only first tell me if there's
a chance, just one in a thousand, only one in a hundred thousand, as
Charley were ta'en by t' gang?' She was breathless by this time,
what with her hurried words, and what with the beating of her heart.
Kester took time to answer. He had spoken before too hastily, this
time he weighed his words.
'Kinraid went away from this here place t' join his ship. An' he
niver joined it no more; an' t' captain an' all his friends at
Newcassel as iver were, made search for him, on board t' king's
ships. That's more nor fifteen month ago, an' nought has iver been
heerd on him by any man. That's what's to be said on one side o' t'
matter. Then on t' other there's this as is known. His hat were cast
up by t' sea wi' a ribbon in it, as there's reason t' think as he'd
not ha' parted wi' so quick if he'd had his own will.'
'But yo' said as he might ha' been carried off by t' gang--yo' did,
Kester, tho' now yo're a' for t' other side.'
'My lass, a'd fain have him alive, an' a dunnot fancy Philip for thy
husband; but it's a serious judgment as thou's put me on, an' a'm
trying it fair. There's allays one chance i' a thousand as he's
alive, for no man iver saw him dead. But t' gang were noane about
Monkshaven then: there were niver a tender on t' coast nearer than
Shields, an' those theere were searched.'
He did not say any more, but turned back into the field, and took up
his hay-making again.
Sylvia stood quite still, thinking, and wistfully longing for some
kind of certainty.
Kester came up to her.
'Sylvie, thou knows Philip paid me back my money, and it were eight
pound fifteen and three-pence; and t' hay and stock 'll sell for
summat above t' rent; and a've a sister as is a decent widow-woman,
tho' but badly off, livin' at Dale End; and if thee and thy mother
'll go live wi' her, a'll give thee well on to all a can earn, and
it'll be a matter o' five shilling a week. But dunnot go and marry a
man as thou's noane taken wi', and another as is most like for t' be
dead, but who, mebbe, is alive, havin' a pull on thy heart.'
Sylvia began to cry as if her heart was broken. She had promised
herself more fully to Philip the night before than she had told
Kester; and, with some pains and much patience, her cousin, her
lover, alas! her future husband, had made the fact clear to the
bewildered mind of her poor mother, who had all day long shown that
her mind and heart were full of the subject, and that the
contemplation of it was giving her as much peace as she could ever
know. And now Kester's words came to call up echoes in the poor
girl's heart. Just as she was in this miserable state, wishing that
the grave lay open before her, and that she could lie down, and be
covered up by the soft green turf from all the bitter sorrows and
carking cares and weary bewilderments of this life; wishing that her
father was alive, that Charley was once more here; that she had not
repeated the solemn words by which she had promised herself to
Philip only the very evening before, she heard a soft, low whistle,
and, looking round unconsciously, there was her lover and affianced
husband, leaning on the gate, and gazing into the field with
passionate eyes, devouring the fair face and figure of her, his
future wife.
'Oh, Kester,' said she once more, 'what mun I do? I'm pledged to him
as strong as words can make it, and mother blessed us both wi' more
sense than she's had for weeks. Kester, man, speak! Shall I go and
break it all off?--say.'
'Nay, it's noane for me t' say; m'appen thou's gone too far. Them
above only knows what is best.'
Again that long, cooing whistle. 'Sylvie!'
'He's been very kind to us all,' said Sylvia, laying her rake down
with slow care, 'and I'll try t' make him happy.'