Tales of the West Riding (2 page)

Sybille saw that her striking Elfride had vexed him, though he did not himself know this as clear as she did.

“Poor Elfride!” she said kindly, smiling through her tears.

“Aye—poor indeed. 'Tis pity for her,” said Richard, untying his horse's rein from the ring in the wall.

He mounted, bowed to Sybille over the saddle-bow and rode away.

Now that he was out of reach she felt no more contempt, but
only longing—to be his wife, to leave the clack of the loom and the smell of wool and her father's pain and her mother's chatter and Elfride's foolish laugh. Across the valley, high up on the hill, the cluster of black and white gables that was the house of Askrode beckoned to her. Dame Joanna was, of course, a hard nut to crack, but Sybille was cleverer than Dame Joanna. Easy to soothe her by small services and gracious subservience—till old Thomas Askrode was dead. And then, rule!

There would be time to change her gown when her father appeared at the foot of the valley, thought Sybille; it was a long hard pull up to Greenwode, and he would probably dismount and walk, leaving Emmott on the pillion seat. Sybille was much perplexed what to wear. Should it be her green velvet or just the murrey wool? Useless to ask her mother, who would agree by turns with everything Sybille suggested. Sybille brushed Elfride's hair and made her dip her face in water, but still hesitated about her own attire. York was a large city, and Emmott would be well versed in all its ways; this remote hillside would no doubt seem barbarous and rude to city eyes. Would it appear vulgar to Emmott to wear velvet on a mere Wednesday afternoon? Or on the other hand would it appear mean to greet a guest in everyday woollen?

Sybille's feelings in general towards the coming of this stranger were as doubtful as her hesitation about her dress. It might be that Emmott would be a true companion and friend to her, someone who would help her in those small manoeuvres necessary to bring a slow suitor to speaking point, someone to whom she could confide all her joys and woes. Or Emmott might be so superior, so refined, so beautiful and courtly, that Sybille's own small efforts towards elegance would be quite eclipsed. Or of course she might be just an ordinary girl, homely in her views, devoted to housewifery, a good help to Sybille's mother, tedious in talk.

But this could hardly be, for the sum to be paid for her board by her relations, whoever they might be, was handsome—Sybille's mother had blabbed this sum to her as they sat sewing, and then covered her mouth quickly with her hand.

“Come, Syb,” called Agnes—Sybille hated to be called Syb—“your father is at the turn of the lane.”

“So near? I did not see him in the valley,” cried Sybille.

“You were dreaming, love,” said her mother fondly, giving a twitch to the murrey wool. “You were dreaming. You often dream. I've often said to your father, how Sybille dreams! You were dreaming, you know, Sybille.”

“I meant to change my gown,” said Sybille, looking about her in a flutter.

“You look lovely in everything, Syb,” said her mother fondly. “Come, let us go out and welcome them. Now, Elfride, you stay quietly by the fire. There is no reason for you to be afraid.”

Sybille's father led the horse into the yard, with Emmott seated on it, as Sybille had known he would; as Emmott slid down into his arms Sybille gave her a long searching look.

Beneath an old grey cloak showed a dark stuff gown with a plain black belt and no ornaments. Since she was still unmarried, she wore her hair loose beneath her hood as Sybille and Elfride did; it appeared brown and thick but was not of any exciting curl or hue. Her eyes were probably the best of her, thought Sybille, large and brown and lustrous, but their lids reddened now as if by weeping. A round face, rather sad and pale now from the fatigue of the journey but usually rosy, Sybille guessed. Her eyebrows were not plucked, her bosom was rather full; her gloves were mended, her shoes patched, she had no fur on gown or hood.

“She is nothing,” said Sybille impatiently, turning away.

Sybille had always rather despised her mother; her foolish good nature, her repetitive prattle, her headdress always slightly awry, did not inspire respect. But of course she had always taken her mother's love for herself for granted. It was irritating now to find Agnes always lavishing praise on Emmott—thank you, dear; yes, that's just what I wanted, Emmott; Emmott's pastry is always light; Emmott's put a footstool for me, how kind; Emmott's mended my gown, Emmott will sew the button on for you, Elfride, so don't cry. That a great many household duties
accordingly slipped from Sybille's shoulders and fell on Emmott's, Sybille observed with sardonic satisfaction, feeling that it served Emmott right; but her pleasure was somewhat marred by the discovery that Emmott also seemed to enjoy the situation. When asked to run up and fetch Agnes's thimble, or sweep the hearth, or help the maid to wash the dishes or put the meat on the spit or season a stew, Emmott gave a quiet smile and went off at once cheerfully about the errand.

“Why do you smile so often, Emmott?” said Sybille, rather peevishly, it must be owned, while Emmott painstakingly set right the heel of a stocking which Elfride had muddled.

Emmott looked startled, but considered gravely.

“I am happy here,” she said at length.

The maddening part of it was that she spoke truly; her mild round face was always bright.

“It is easy to smile when you are always praised,” thought Sybille with resentment.

Elfride too, silly girl, quite doted on Emmott. Elfride had never been able to card wool properly—she always contrived to catch her fingers on the teeth of the cards and tear them, when she would cry. Sybille thought it foolish of her to keep on trying, and answered impatiently when Elfride begged her for some wool. But Emmott, who could not only card well but spin evenly, managed to teach Elfride how to card.

“Put your hands this way, Elfride,” she said, and she guided Elfride's hands and laid wool on the cards for her, and drew the cards slowly back and forth, and when at last Elfride caught the knack of it and produced a fine smooth even tissue ready for spinning, Emmott showed it to William, who smiled and praised Elfride and pinched her cheek playfully, and said quietly to Emmott: “Thank you, my dear.”

A spark of jealousy flashed sharply in Sybille's heart, for if she loved anybody at all beside herself she loved her father. Not wishing to appear meanly before her father, however, she spoke kindly to Emmott, thanking her for teaching Elfride so well.

“I could never get her to learn it,” she said in a meant-to-be generous tone. “But you seem to know everything about wool and cloth, Emmott.”

“My mother earned our living as a weaver,” said Emmott simply.

Sybille coloured with shame for her, for she had never heard of a woman as a weaver, but she noticed that William and Agnes seemed to take it calmly, so she held her tongue.

The next thing was that Emmott began to teach Elfride to make a woollen ball. It was a simple matter really: you cut a circle of wood and pierced a large hole in the centre and then wound wool through the centre and over the edge, round and round, very thick; then you threaded a piece of wool under the threads at the centre, and pulled it tight and tied its ends; and then you cut the wool round the edge of the circle and took out the wood, and the wool threads all sprang together and you had a nice soft ball. Elfride was delighted; and next time William went to market in Hudley he brought back some lengths of different coloured wool yarns that he had begged there from clothiers, friends of his, the lengths being too short to be of any value. Elfride clapped her hands for joy and made a really fine wool ball, the different colours among the white giving it a bright appearance.

As it chanced, the day after this ball was finished—Elfride had hardly ceased to play with it, throwing it up and catching it again—Sybille saw Richard riding up the lane.

“Keep Elfride out of the way, Emmott,” she said hastily. “I do not wish her to annoy our guest.”

Emmott inclined her head and took Elfride upstairs on ome pretended errand, and Sybille smoothed her hair and went out to the gate to meet Richard, hoping for a few words alone with him before she brought him into the house under her mother's eye.

“Not looking for strayed eggs today?” said Richard, smiling as he dismounted.

“Not today,” said Sybille, casting down her eyes. “Are you riding to Hudley, Richard?”

Richard hesitated. “Possibly,” he said.

He said this because he did not like to lie and he was not on his way to Hudley. Sybille perceived this and rejoiced.

“He has come only to see me,” she thought.

She raised her eyes, and smiling at him invited him into the
house to taste her mother's fresh-baked pasty. But just at that moment that tiresome woollen ball came flying through the air from an upper window, straight at Richard. He put out one hand and caught it neatly, and looking to see whence it came, perceived Elfride leaning out of the window and laughing at him.

“Thanks, Elfride,” called Richard, and looking at the wool ball was taken with it, and threw it up and down with some enjoyment, and cried: “Come down and play, Elfride!”

Then of course Elfride came charging down and out into the yard, and ran up to Richard, and they began throwing the ball between them.

“Emmott! Emmott!” cried Sybille impatiently. She had much ado not to stamp her foot, but controlled her impulse, not wishing to show temper in front of Richard. “Come down, Emmott!”

Emmott came out looking flushed and sorry, and touched Elfride on the arm and tried to draw her away, but Elfride would not be drawn; she enjoyed playing with Richard.

“Emmott helped me to make this ball,” she said.

Her speech had improved lately, she slobbered less and spoke in less of a rush; her words could now be heard and understood without too much difficulty. So of course Richard turned towards Emmott, and Sybille had to present her.

“Emmott is living with us now,” she said. “She is the daughter of an old friend of my father's.”

Richard bowed politely. Emmott gave her gentle smile but did not speak to him.

“Come, Elfride,” she said, drawing the girl aside.

Elfride turned round suddenly and handed the ball to Richard.

“For you,” she said.

“What? Is it a gift, Elfrid?” said Richard, laughing kindly.

“Yes—a gift!” shouted Elfride, delighted.

“Be not so foolish, Elfride,” said Sybille impatiently. “What could Richard do with a woollen ball?”

Elfride's mouth turned down at the corners and tears came into her eyes.

“I want Richard to have my ball. He played with me,” she wailed.

“I am honoured, Mistress Elfride,” said Richard quickly in a
serious tone. He bowed. “We shall exchange gifts, shall we not?”

“Yes,” said Elfride, laughing. (She often passed thus in a moment from one emotion to another.) “You will bring me a gift, Richard?”

“Assuredly,” said Richard, buttoning the wool ball into his pouch.

“When? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You are too kind, Richard,” said Sybille.

At last Emmott got Elfride away into the house. Sybille turned to Richard, but he had already turned to his horse.

“Well, I must be off about my business,” he said, mounting.

“And what is your business today, Richard?” said Sybille in a tender tone.

Richard laughed. “To find a gift for Elfride,” he said. “What else?”

He saluted her with his whip and rode away.

In her disappointment Sybille spoke sharply to Emmott as they all sat at meat.

“If you cannot compass such a simple matter as to keep Elfride out of my guest's way,” she said, “It is a pity, Emmott.”

“I am truly sorry, Sybille,” said Emmott, colouring. “I tried my best, I did indeed. Elfride—” she checked herself and bit her lip. “I am sorry.”

Nobody knew better than Sybille how stubborn Elfride could be when she had a mind. Besides, Sybille thought her father's mild grey eyes were fixed on her in some disapproval. So she said: “Well, never mind,” in a tone as kind as she could manage, and felt pleased with herself for her own good temper.

Afterwards, as the two girls sat together at the embroidery frame, Agnes being absent for a moment, an impulse overcame her and she said quietly:

“What do you think of Richard Askrode, Emmott?”

Emmott smiled.

“He hath a very warm heart. You are of good fortune in him, Sybille.”

Just for a moment Sybille's own heart warmed, and it seemed as if she could be truly fond of Emmott. All day they spoke in friendly fashion together, Sybille telling the other about Thomas
de Askrode, and Dame Joanna and her dominion over her husband, and the great Askrode mansion, and Richard's horses and his skill in the saddle, and what he had said at this time and that, to Sybille. (A little exaggeration here, perhaps.) Emmott was a good listener, and her brown eyes were kind and friendly. When they went to bed Sybille was happier than she had been since Emmott's coming.

But next day all this was spoiled. For Richard came in the evening as they were all sitting together round the hearth, and brought a handsome piece of white lace for Elfride, and a black piece for Emmott.

“I thought black for your cousin, as she is in mourning,” he said.

“Emmott is not my cousin. Her mother was a weaver,” shrilled Sybille in a fury, her slight bosom heaving.

Richard looked taken aback.

“Since she helped Elfride to make the wool ball,” he said, “I thought—that was all, Sybille. If I have done wrong—if I should have brought you some lace—I shall be most happy to repair my omission.”

“You speak like a fool, Richard,” stormed Sybille. She held the black lace up to Emmott's shoulder. “It does not suit her,” she said brutally. “Her complexion is too dull for black.”